In my mind I play something of a Mitchum role. I don't fall for much, having been 'round the block this many times. That one dame, though...
You know the script.
Turns out the reality has been one of those Don Knotts' pictures that run late at night or early on a weekend morning on TCM. Or maybe a Mr. Bean epic.
Let's face it, that one dame, in real life, is no Rita Hayworth and she's ready for a walk.
Suddenly I'm almost overcome with joy. Everything ahead of me is bright, perfect. This happens to me from time to time. Nothing changes. I just get a better view. Maybe it came, this time, from reading some of Marilyn Monroe's poetry. Arthur Miller said she had the instinct and reflexes of a poet but that she lacked the control.
Fuck control. She was Marilyn Monroe.
Most folks don't know what the bottom looks like. Never will.
Me? Imperfect pitch and a lousy disposition. I don't have the instinct, the reflexes or the control. You can quote me. Try to make it rhyme.
You believe in the magic or you don't. If you're lucky the ghosts come around. Me? I guess I'm about the luckiest. Not much of convention has stood between me the real adventures of life. I've never bungee jumped, climbed a mountain or been to an orgy. There are taller roller coasters than the ones I've ridden.
Heck, I've only ridden a motorcycle once in my life. My cousin, George, had two dirt bikes. We took them out in the woods and rode all day. He knew what he was doing. I didn't. I rode as fast as he did. Went over the same hills and through the same mud. He probably fell fifteen or twenty times during the day. I never fell. Not once. I willed myself not to. The very idea terrified me. Still does.
Sometimes I worry that I've lived my life the same way. Oh, I've fallen. Further than most. More often than most.
I've never given anything "my all." I don't even know what that is. I've not fought for "my share." I've always had more than I needed. Yeah, I know all about love. I learned it at the Palma Ceia Theater and not in the back row.
Finally I am a finished piece. Critics frequently referred to me as a cult artist. That's kind. Polite. At least they usually liked it. My cult dissipated. Cults do that.
I'm pretty sure that all I've ever wanted was to love in a way that left only ashes. I'm afraid that only happened on that tiny little screen in that little bitty theater.
My life and my art are one and the same. That's another way of describing myself as lazy. At least I never had to practice scales or stretch canvases. Goodness knows I never suffered for anything.
Don't take any of it seriously, whatever "it" is. Wasn't it Mose Allison who sang, "I don't worry about a thing 'cause nothing's gonna be alright?"
Maybe I was twenty years old. I was in a car just blocks from the home I had grown up in. To really make matters worse I was with my girlfriend. Suddenly I was sobbing uncontrollably. I had to pull the car over.
The memory is as clear as if it had all happened yesterday.
Now I've bragged here before that I'll tell anybody anything. I would tell you what I was crying about if I knew. I've got theories of course.
Childhood was over. Well, it should have been. There are women out there who will argue that that wasn't it.
Therapists that I have shared time and money with over the years will tell you that I've never come to terms with the absence of a father in my life. I thought I did okay with Father Knows Best, The Adventures of Ozzie and Harriett and Leave It To Beaver.
At this point in my life I had only been a vegetarian for a couple of years. I can tell you with a straight face that I've never gotten over a single stray dog or cat that I've passed on the road. Sinclair Lewis' The Jungle rattled me to my core. I've always known in my heart that I'm responsible for the well being of all creatures. All of them. Me.
Oh, I could rattle on. I suppose my point, if, again, I have a point, is that I'm not a particularly well adjusted adult. That's alright. I will always believe that we have a lot to learn from the children.
"The Rose Tattoo." I probably sat through it seven or eight times. I had no idea what was going on. It's still over my head. The Palma Ceia Theater was a block away, though, and I was captivated by anything up on that screen. It's not there anymore.
The Cuban Club in Ybor City was a social hub in Tampa. On Friday nights The Rockers would play for white teenagers. On Saturday night, though- Great Googly Moogly- The Skyliners would play for an older crowd. I would have my mom drop me off. I was always the youngest one there. Usually the only white face in the crowd. When those guys spun their magic all of my dreams were on that little bandshell in the open air. It's not there anymore.
The only day I ever skipped school was to see President Kennedy. He gave a speech at Al Lopez Field in Tampa four days before his assassination. It's not there anymore.
When I turned seventeen I found a hope and a joy in my soul that I had been searching for all of my life.
My money and I are soon parted. That's okay. I have very few memories of anything that I've ever bought that had any real value. Oh, along the way I've successfully invested several times in schemes that made me more money.
Let's see here- I risked some green paper in hopes of getting even more green paper? If you're thinking that I've wasted my time, you'll get no defense from me.
On the other hand I have no regrets about love. Oh, there are memories of street people that I walked right by and strays that I should have picked up. Maybe I should have loved harder, freer, with less reserve. Sometimes I have felt as though there was a governor limiting my love.
Everything positive in my life has come from love. Giving and receiving. When I play music for an audience it is the ultimate holy experience for me. What would my life have been without the rock'n'roll? I'll never know.
Did my mom push me there or did she just let it happen? She surely did love. She surely did.
I just read the article. Ran across the link on Facebook. Nailed 'em all. My inclination was to go point by point and explain myself. How it's different with me. I'm reasonably sure this would be number eleven if the article had been longer.
So if I have annoyed you recently, and you certainly know who you are, I apologize again.
Whatever happened to "two sides to every story?" Turns out there are apparently two side to most stories.
To tell you the truth, my friend, Rebekah, has tried to help. She has explained that there are things that you just don't say to other folks. Not at first, anyway.
Fortunately or unfortunately I don't have lackeys and sycophants rushing to my defense insisting that we just "let Elliott be Elliott."
