AnCatKatie
Rock n' Roll Doggie ALL ACCESS
This is a short one, based on an interesting quote from Niall Stokes' "Into The Heart" that Gavin Friday said about Bono hanging out just to be around someone's mom, since his was dead.
***
They told him he hung around the house too much. His father, and his brother. Gave him his aggression, but wouldn't let it be bound by the walls of his home. In the silver-plated shadows of night, the trees reaching down to snatch his soul away, he climbed the silver spokes and whirred on wheels past his street, past the little patches of cobblestones peeking out from worn pavement, past the lights blinking like pressed fists behind his eyes. The wind tore at his hair vertically. Passing headlights shone into his eyes.
He didn't look at the walls, the white-walled brick-sided things with graffiti scrawled darkly all over them. They were tame in comparison to the fences, and to the concrete in the city, but still drew too many dark strings into his thoughts; he wanted his mind to be his own words, his own thoughts. Rather, he laughed with the others—they called out his name—and joked about ordinary things.
From the same headlights, light came that reflected on other eyes. She leaned out her window and wondered, undifferentiated as yet into light. She wondered about many of them, but he—he was the one with expression.
Cleaner walls inside the house. Not his house. His stomach ached sharply, panged not with hunger but—loss—at the warm, full smell of something baking. The red door banged sharply on its hinges and the mother scolded Fionán: "behave!" From the back, her child looked the same as the Hewson boy, who turned with wide eyes.
She said something about bread being out of the oven. Something made Paul grab Fionán's hand sharply—bird bones, boy arm—when his friend rolled his eyes and headed for his room. They stayed in the kitchen, Fionán—"My name's Gavin," he muttered to his mother—with narrowed eyes but a kind soul, unquestioning.
Paul fell asleep on the couch, well before afternoon, something in the way he lay, and his features, more open than they normally were. How many boys have a stage act, Mrs Hanvey wondered, already knowing. It tears them in two, even if it's necessary. But she knew that wasn't all that tore Paul in two—and mostly, he was whole. Mostly. But the jagged edges of his voice or the guitar reverberated downstairs; she closed her eyes on the clear edge of a soapy dish while the water poured on unimpeded.
"Gavin Friday" let Paul come over more often, though he never asked. They joked like normal boys, Paul wavering between quiet disassociation, deepness, and rebellion. There were always the lyrics behind his eyes, pounding joyfully, slipping quietly through—with that edge of silence and sadness sometimes visible through the open window a girl stared down from.
***
They told him he hung around the house too much. His father, and his brother. Gave him his aggression, but wouldn't let it be bound by the walls of his home. In the silver-plated shadows of night, the trees reaching down to snatch his soul away, he climbed the silver spokes and whirred on wheels past his street, past the little patches of cobblestones peeking out from worn pavement, past the lights blinking like pressed fists behind his eyes. The wind tore at his hair vertically. Passing headlights shone into his eyes.
He didn't look at the walls, the white-walled brick-sided things with graffiti scrawled darkly all over them. They were tame in comparison to the fences, and to the concrete in the city, but still drew too many dark strings into his thoughts; he wanted his mind to be his own words, his own thoughts. Rather, he laughed with the others—they called out his name—and joked about ordinary things.
From the same headlights, light came that reflected on other eyes. She leaned out her window and wondered, undifferentiated as yet into light. She wondered about many of them, but he—he was the one with expression.
Cleaner walls inside the house. Not his house. His stomach ached sharply, panged not with hunger but—loss—at the warm, full smell of something baking. The red door banged sharply on its hinges and the mother scolded Fionán: "behave!" From the back, her child looked the same as the Hewson boy, who turned with wide eyes.
She said something about bread being out of the oven. Something made Paul grab Fionán's hand sharply—bird bones, boy arm—when his friend rolled his eyes and headed for his room. They stayed in the kitchen, Fionán—"My name's Gavin," he muttered to his mother—with narrowed eyes but a kind soul, unquestioning.
Paul fell asleep on the couch, well before afternoon, something in the way he lay, and his features, more open than they normally were. How many boys have a stage act, Mrs Hanvey wondered, already knowing. It tears them in two, even if it's necessary. But she knew that wasn't all that tore Paul in two—and mostly, he was whole. Mostly. But the jagged edges of his voice or the guitar reverberated downstairs; she closed her eyes on the clear edge of a soapy dish while the water poured on unimpeded.
"Gavin Friday" let Paul come over more often, though he never asked. They joked like normal boys, Paul wavering between quiet disassociation, deepness, and rebellion. There were always the lyrics behind his eyes, pounding joyfully, slipping quietly through—with that edge of silence and sadness sometimes visible through the open window a girl stared down from.
