I was 17 or 18. It was a beginning to something good. I had an apartment within walking distance to everything. My roommate, N., had an extensive record collection, filled with eclectic stuff I hadn’t ever heard before. N. decorated our apartment. Her grand
her made amazing collages, using old medical books and line drawings, he would work them in together, creating something entirely new. I used to stare at them and discover something new every time. I used to wonder why he wasn’t famous.
N. had friends too. And they were as exciting as her vinyl. L. painted pictures, crazy intricate, troublesome pictures and I often wondered what darkness she might be hiding from everyone. R. took photographs, wonderful, black and white photographs and I looked inside each and every one of them every time I visited.
I don’t remember how I met V. V. was emotional and unbelievably fascinating. She was also a painter. Her boyfriend, K., once showed up at our place crying. He had blood on his clothing and told us that during her attempt to stab him, she cut herself in the leg. She was in the hospital. And he was afraid to go back to the house. Later, after V. became my roommate, she managed to surprise me over and over again.
M. was a guy in a band called “Heart of Darkness.” He played the drums and wrote poetry. His limbs would flail around as if detached from his body, trying to take on everything all at once but still keep some kind of rhythm. And I found out the hard way that his libido acted in very much the same way. T. was M.’s brother. T. was a big goofy, towering mess of a man. He had long hair and huge feet. He had a girlfriend named L. and I used to hold my ears while they were fucking in the bedroom next door. Later, the band packed everything up and headed west in search of an unattainable, rock ‘n roll fame. I read about their travels on the back of unoriginal, mass-produced postcards. (Oh, the horror).
And there were others. J. was confused and gave too much worth to random numbers. L2. was tall and skinny and reminded me of an antelope. J2., a pale, big breasted woman, had dark hair and pixie-like features. All the boys loved her. She was adopted. She often told us that she believed one of her blood parents was, in fact, asian. (Though I was never too sure). S., a beautiful girl with lovely lips, had an affinity for stories about dying. S. died one night after falling down a flight of stairs. (That was a dark, and very sad day). C. was obsessed with poetry and M. She later settled on marrying T. (Which I still find disturbing, even to this day). K. had sex with everyone from A. to Z. (In every small town you’ll find an old faithful). B. let H. take pictures of her naked. Later, H. printed one out onto t-shirts and people would buy them and wear them around. B. was an ex of M’s.
Life in a college town can prove itself to be more interesting than that of the city due to high boredom levels alone. And, like long division, you can pretty much divide everything and everyone into one another. It’s incestual that way. In spite of all that, I think I knew back then that I’d look back and remember it all fondly, even if, at the time I wished I were someplace else, someplace bigger, someplace indivisible.
Ah well, with all these abbreviations and half-placed memories I have gone and annoyed myself as I’m sure I’ve done to you as well. And I haven’t ever been one for doing math. So here is the snapshot I heard today which reminded me of it all. Shudder to Think. Red House. (4 mgs) (Probably one of the greatest songs ever written).