dawn

I got a text from stepdad today, and like, we don’t talk.

For a lot of reasons.

So when I saw his name pop up, there was a split second of various emotions.

“Maybe this is it, maybe we can talk and bury some shit. Maybe he feels something”

Ah.

He wants something.

The Spector is a bass and a very special bass. They only made this Exact model for a few years, neck through, plays like a guitar.

Really special bass.

Maybe a decade ago, he wanted to upgrade so he started shopping around for buyers.

I had always lusted after this bass, translucent red finish, superior craftsmanship…

“Hey man, that’s the best bass I’ve ever played.. you can’t sell that bass”

It was right around tax-time, so he decided to strike a deal with me.

Two thousand.

I paid two thousand for this rare bass and an amp.

I understand that people can piss two thousand, but for me, it was a good chunk of money.

Working all year and at least getting a little something to show for it.

Two grand..

Now he wants it back.

He didn’t want to talk, or to check in and see if I was doing alright, he didn’t want to be encouraging or curious or anything.

He wanted something.

He wanted something that I had.

Something I already paid for,years ago.

He didn’t fuckin miss me, he missed his bass.

There’s a little part of me that wants to set it on fire now….

But it’s a really special bass.

ANd destroying something special feels the same as burning a book to me.

There’s something wrong about it.

Something sick.

That flavor of crazy I like to play with, it’s the real thing.

You can’t destroy special things.

Lose the sentimental and you lose your heart.You lose your entire will if you have nothing to love.

Even it is merely wood and wires.

(But what it represents..)

It represents creation, infinity, the community of playing in Kevin’s band, the costumes, the laughs and the smiles, the band practices.

Being around other creatives and feeling like I fit in, for once in my god damn life,, like I was good at some shit.

Good enough to stand shoulder to shoulder with anyone around.

Good enough to move past “competition”

“Hey,,you’re really good at that”

Having that sentence land on your ears felt different than every drug I knew..

To play.

ANd to have an Excalibur level instrument.

Something special…

I’d give it back to him.

I still might.

Not because I love him, but because of what the instrument represents..

(Happiness)

My lacking understanding of the word..

My mountains of failure.

My scars and wounds..

All that disappears when you hold the instrument.

All that bullshit.

All your sense of “self”,

All the shortcomings.

(Say it…)

Ugh….

(Saaaaayyyy it)

I wish he would have called to ask how I was doing.

Not to ask for something.

But it’s who he is, who he always was.

“Transactional”

Like there’s no fucking point in doing something,,,unless you gain from it.

Unless you acquire “more”.

(Like you can’t just be)

Yep….

Other people are looking at you, you better be special and have stuff.B

Cause that’s what it means to be alive..