Memory Motel: A Rock And Roll Fantasy 4- The Stones Crashes

Written by | August 2, 2017 4:31 | one response

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Part One:The Crash

Chapter One: Mick Jagger (continued)

Well, it depends really: on the time of day, the color of the moon, the mood of my swing. I feel like fucking them again but I don’t want to get up. I want to remain so aloof it drips off me, I want to reveal nothing: I want them to go back and say “Yeah, I fucked Mick but he didn’t know I was alive”

It could be a blues sort of cool, desire, intense desire, tempered by intense distaste, like giving into my wildness while my intellect, that stuff that I use to do the things that gets her here, that remains elsewhere. Like being on stage a little.

It’s so hot, so hot and the crowd are so loud, is this any way for a 55 year old man to make a living? I walk to the side of the stage and throw up, I wipe my mouth, swig some water more water, more water, and I am back and nobody has heard or seen anything, as though the entire world is an exciting blast of nostalgia and more. “Hoooooonky tonk…” My mind never strays but it never fully enters the moment, it is like an instinct but an instinct I can control, a reflex I can master, like lucid dreaming where the control and the lack of self-control are happening at the same time.

I don’t know the woman and I don’t know why she is screaming at me throwing herself at me, it isn’t sexy or attractive just strange and scary. I can see something in her eyes as she tries to rip at me and then, somehow she gets through the mountain of police and she is on me and down I go. She is scratching at me and then there are more and more girls and they are surrounding and jumping and pounding and shredding me, they want to rip me apart. I am too scared to be scared.

I’m so scared, they tell me to relax. it won’t stand in a court of law. They say I’ll be out soon, tomorrow, the next day. Not to worry, no worries, nice, very nice. Nicely. But I can feel the years weighing on me, and I am dragged down. I’ve tilted at the entire English society and this is the only way they can stop me and nothing will stop them from stopping. The Ruling powers don’t like revolutionaries in their midst especially revolutionaries who are richer, younger sexier than they are: who are fucking their wives and daughters and we are more than able to do it, we are more than able to embrace a different world and so they come after us for drugs.

I don’t want to be here, I don’t want to spend the rest of my life in jail for complete bullshit but you would think somebody would do something about it but nobody will do anything. I’ll be famous for rotting to death, buggered in a prison, hidden from the public where I can do no more harm.

Oh the fear of night life.

Where is he? “Darling, he will be here soon, relax, he will be here.”

“Where is he, Mick? I need it, you know I need it.”

The tree is crumbling right in front of me.

I love to dance to this, I’m thinking. I’ve been watching World War Two jitterbuggers, and blues guys, and movers from all over the world and right now, I can feel the zone of practicing and practicing as I move across the stage, hips swaying, body moving, dreaming of space and sound, always waiting on the beat, moving my feet in a one part soft shoe one part tap dance, zone out, like Fred Astaire, I feel just like Fred Astaire and I have never been happier.

It is so late and the world is asleep and there is just me and my granddaughter and I am rocking her to sleep and I whisper to her, “One day there will only be you to tell the world about me, my darling. Only you to say you’ve seen me with the mask down, seen the real me.”

“There is nothing else, Carol. Nothing.” Another night and this girl is so young and all she wants is for me to give her more but she doesn’t understand there is nothing under this. There is no Michael under the Michael.

“I will never forget this fucking bus,” I whisper under my breath. This is touring? Where is the glamor in this?” It has been the third day on the road and there is months to go and already I am tired of this mobile hot sheets motel. What sort of life is this for a grown man? What does it prove? I just want to go home, I miss my Mum and I am tired and I know they hate us. They think we’re homos.

“I’m so proud of you son” Daddy says, I’ve just walked off the stage with my first in class award. The audience has been clapping and I’ve been beaming and happy. I studied so hard and the reward, I guess the reward was more than just dad and the people and my friends but this deep feeling that whatever it takes to succeed, well that’s something I have deep in my soul and it is something I will never lose or misplace. Whoever Michael is, whatever it means to be me is the boy on that stage just now, the cheers, the yells, the headmaster’s warm handshake and my parents and brother just beaming up at me. I know what I want out of life, I want my Mummy’s hug and my daddy’s smile, I want Chris to look up to me and I want to be seen as that person always capable of being he who wins, always winning. Always adored, on a pedestal of life, I am the Michael, the young boy who is loved. I love to be loved.

This, not thoughts but experiences have happened outside time, time had stopped and my entire life like a lateral wave, came simultaneously to take me through it all one last time before the end. Now everything is happening very quickly and very slowly. 30 seconds and it is over. Screams, a dog howling, sheer terror in Ron’s eyes, the entire world is spinning and spinning. No doubt now, I have no doubt I am dying and I feel my body go into shock but I wave it off, I want to be conscious till the end. I want to be there when the lights go out. I find myself intoning “Our Father who art in heaven…” but stop myself: right this second isn’t the time to ask for bread. And suddenly another idea hits me, I’ve spent my entire life at the top and now I am, in a best case scenario, down to zero again. I mean, being Mick Jagger has sure helped out a lot, and now it means nothing again. Now I’m just another person, soul, whatever if ever I can be. It isn’t really fair, now is it? What if I suck at afterlife? What if the Aftermath is terrible?

Still conscious, my seat has been torn out of the socket and I can feel my body break, legs broken, something has just cut off my arms, and now there is heat, intense hear and I can smell burning flesh, my flesh. I am nearly done now, Mick Jagger is nearly gone in a howl of agony, engulfed in smoke and flames and fire, is there a hell? God, I hope I don’t have to explain this life? I wanted to be loved and I wanted to dance and I was loved and I danced.

-End Of Chapter One-

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