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retreat, punta gorda
2012-04-30 - 11:17 p.m.

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I spent hours yesterday and today on the back patio, on the living room sofa, on my back on the guest bedroom (which is mine for the time being I guess), wandering back and forth through the hallway repeating the same melody over two chords. Car and golf-cart rides, sitting in bars listening to awful versions of 'All Along The Watchtower' and Band covers that would make Levon Helm roll over in his new grave, during all of this I'm playing the music internally.

Four strong lines came to me two days ago, and a melody that straddled ripping off a Bright Eyes tune and having just enough innovation and attitude to call it my own. And after that it just turned off.

The verse is a hook enough, but no b-section was dooming it.

My father takes me out to the various dives he frequents here. He orders white wine at each one because he thinks I still don't like beer. And after one glass on an empty stomach I start to feel it, and I start saying things I wouldn't say if I hadn't had any alcohol. Asking questions, commenting on our surroundings, food, my career.

I start to feel what I've read, things start to seem a little clearer. And I have this idea that I'm just going to get drunk this week, to controllable level, and that's how I'll finish this song.

And then I start to worry about where this could lead. I'm not the first to resort to this. I'm a control freak, yes, but stronger men than me have succumbed to...something.

My father takes me to an Irish pub (in Florida...?) and we get beers. On top of our last glass of wine, I feel very comfortable. I keep wanting to pick up a tab when we go out, but then I remember that all of our conversations revolve around how little money I'm making right now. I'm going to by the end of the trip. The man's given me everything, I need to pay for his dinner at least once.

He starts to get up to go, sees I still have a quarter-pint of beer left and sits back down. Says he's sorry if he made me feel like I needed to get a beer, and I don't have to finish mine. I give him a weird look, smile and down what's left before he finishes his sentence. This obviously doesn't make him proud or anything, nor does it make me feel like a better son, but it's funny to me and he looks kind of surprised as I stand up to leave.

We drive home listening a mix I made him four years ago for Father's Day. The Kinks, Beatles, Joe Cocker, everything in my library that he wouldn't hate. Found it buried in his small CD drawer, loaded it into his car stereo when I got here. His new car has the most incredible sound system I've ever heard in an automobile. I wanted to listen to every album I own in it.

He's trying to teach me how to drive standard, even though I already know. He makes a big point of downshifting when he's slowing down.

We get home and I crash on the couch. He goes to the mailbox, comes back and sees me lying there staring into space--the melody, the two chords. He asks if I'm okay, I say yes. I'm coming down off of the buzz at this point. I turn on the TV, we watch two episodes of that shitshow The Pitch in between jumping toRattle and Hum.

I have a dull headache when I get up from the couch. I get water, do the dishes and retreat to my temporary bedroom. I walk through the door and look at my open notepad on the bed.

Then I sang the b-section. I wrote the next verse.

Tomorrow I'll do more. Then maybe one more before I leave this place. Maybe get some sun. Finish a new book. I started doing that again, finishing books. It's nice.

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