Tuesday, February 17, 2009

John Frusciante: A music review

I lay face down, collapsing the parachute comforter with my body and only move for the satisfaction of crushing more blanket and the idea of movement. The light comes in through the skylight and warms my bare back, and I naturally dig and drag my fingers through the blankets like sand. I turned to see his face and my life made sense. He spoke in a wilting, tired voice, but he carried his words with strength and confidence as he told me about what he learned when he died, when his heart left him for heroine. He learned nothing about death but absence. He had more to say about life, and his lessons couldn't be expressed in words, so we spoke through touch and song. Death is cold and still, so we embraced warmth and movement. Death was a societal cliche, filled with repetitive motions that didn't make sense, yet the familiar motion fools everyone into thinking they understand. He rejected this by filling his song with several continuous genius moments that sequenced each other like a seamless piece of silk. My soul was hidden deep in the grooves of a track headed to a place--boring because it was known--and he picked up my soul by the heart and set it into the printless desert. Every step I take is my own.

I saw the light expose her, highlighting her lace which projected thin and playful tanning legs. I rubbed her warm back in large circles, grazing over the divot that protected her spine. She turned over and looked at me and smiled with tears in her eyes. In this moment, she realized that her life of imperfections brought her to this moment. The light reminded her of the beach. She told me that I inspired her to live a deviant life. We had each other to rely on and that was enough. Her torn lace expressed that nothing was stronger than what we had. My tongue slipped through with ease, and her long legs shuttered behind me, tapping my ribs. I reached her, and she understood me. I make her happy.