Back in Vermont again. My parents are chugging down to Florida, so I once again have the place to myself for another lonely fall and winter. Just me, my .45, and Ken, my old Gibson, surrounded by the deep, dark forest.
Anyway, the seclusion allows me to play some raunchy acoustic. It got me thinking about a song from my youth:
This used to be my own personal theme song—I practically thought it was written for me. Or maybe even by me unknowingly. But now I see the absurdity of that statement. My childhood was neither chaotic or disorganized. My parents were shockingly normal and nurturing, so any teenage angst on my part must have been fleeting and certainly unfounded. Well, there you have it: I’m a fraud.
‘Ken’, my garage sale Gibson, has been my faithful companion since I was 12—but not so much anymore, now that I have Carey and Eli. I no longer require the comfort held in its crackled patina. Ken went with me everywhere for about 10 years straight. I used to play “Swallowed” by Bush on a boardwalk in New Jersey for cocaine. Actually, that’s not true. But for a brief period in college, I was drawn by nomadic energy and fantasies of life on the road. But, in the end I was discouraged by the possibility of struggle—and I’d make a terrible almsman.
I did learn an Indigo Girls song for a girlfriend in high school. Yea, cool, I know.