Give It Away

The sky broods. Grey clouds scud across it, vagabonds joining
together, creating a group of like-minded individuals - separate
personalities swallowed into the whole.

Minority becoming the majority.

The black clothed stand outside the record shop, cut-outs in the
landscape, a body darkness swallowing the light, a void of thought and
interest. Each one in regulation nu-metal emblazoned, hooded tops -
underground swallowed by the corporate - flaming skulls and kool
sloganed skateboards tucked under arms. Each one thinking they are
individual not knowing they are uniformed.

Boys' baby-faces crowned with spikes.

Girls' angelic looks haloed with multi-coloured hues.

They try to stare hatefully - look how I am abused, my life is wasted,
there is no point - at those who wander past. Profanities at the ready
to shock anyone who is older. Muted conversations about sexual
conquests and substances abused. Trying to shock themselves and those
around.

A few nod heads. Headphones clamped to heads, loud guitars informing
them of their anguish - mainly boredom; disease of the middle classes.
Thoughts clamouring to find their own personalities, revelling in being
bored, hanging out on street corners to be bored, to complain about
being bored.
Too young to drink, too nervous to abuse. Staying within the law not
through obedience but through self-regulated fear.

He notices them as he walks past. Many stare at him - barely disguised
snears - look at the grown-up infiltrating, invading, OUR space. He
does not feel grown-up. He is heading towards the record shop where the
children meet outside. Day in, day out. No thought. Automatons on
automatic. Thinking they are new and original, not realising the person
walking past them has thought, felt and seen the same as them.
Individuals by taste and clothing not by thought.

Perhaps it was easier at that age, no worries, no concerns. Looking
back now it seemed easier. A nostalgic reaction, but, back then it
didn't seem easy. Nothing seemed easy. You still had fears and worries
that seemed important. The only thing you didn't think about was
mortality; you could, and would, live forever, time moved slowly like
the sun on a, nostalgic, summer's day. You weren't worried about
sharing your life with someone because you shared your life with
everyone. You went out with girls for sex not companionship - that's
what friends were for.
Now friend could be lover.

~

Ten years was a long time to be friends. To keep in contact, not seeing
each other every day, separated by a few hundred miles of fields and
motorways. Only contact a couple of times a year - see each other less.
He always felt he was holding a candle. Every time he saw her. Spoke to
her. Thought about her. It was right. He knew it.

~

The shop enveloped him in lounge-core-jazz. Inside was the antithesis
to the Kafka figures haunting the streets. You couldn't be darkly
serious in here - there should've been a sign on the door - 'No Angst'
/ 'No Existentialism'. He understood why those in black stayed outside,
this was not their place. They were too young, too inexperienced to set
foot inside. This was a place for dreamers. For those in love. This was
not a place to go just because you liked your music to reflect your
life - this was your life. Everywhere you looked was a sound you should
own. Even the background, browsing, music wouldn't have been out of
place on your stereo, it sounded good in here - it was the sound of how
your life should be. All smoky caf?s, endless days drinking strong,
black coffee and European beers watching, and waiting, for the world to
go by. You didn't need to be a part of it. You were content to allow it
to pass you by. You didn't work. You didn't worry about not working.
All that was important was watching the people rushing around outside
of your hermetically sealed, bubbled, world. You were living inside a
movie - 'Swingers', 'Reservoir Dogs', 'The Big Sleep', 'Betty Blue'.
Conversation was the action. Character was the plot. A well-turned
phrase was, almost, more important than a well-turned suit.

A life captured on film, in music - living inside a Saint Etienne song
- you were here to buy into a lifestyle. The music you bought was
unimportant, it wouldn't sound the same once you took it home. It
sounded right, here, now. This was the time. In here and with her. When
you played the albums later - some new, some nostalgic - it spoke to
you, hinted at the life you could have, felt you needed, should be
living. When you took those same albums home they sounded flat, the
reality had seeped into them. A life of solitude and isolation could
not be held at bay by the music.

He knew she would like the background sounds. Would want to buy it. He
knew he would expound on the selection of music on offer once she
arrived. Be excited, excitable, a small boy again, wanting to spend all
his money on objects which would only bring momentary happiness. She
would understand his excitement. She would feel excited herself. They
could share the excitement, try to urge each other to buy more and
more. They didn't need what they bought, just wanted it. He wanted to
share with her, for her to ask his advice, he didn't want to leave, he
wanted to buy as much as he could. Satisfaction through commerciality,
buying into the dream.

Buy. Feel happy.

Consume. Be happy.

Later he would feel disappointment when she didn't like her purchase.
It wasn't what she had been in the mood for. She wanted something light
and happy, she'd purchased something edged, tinged, with sadness. It
would go back tomorrow. He was going back tomorrow. The last day was
turning into her purchase. A day lived through shopping. A day defined
by the small plastic bag containing the CD. Captured. Tomorrow it would
go back, be put back on the shelf, wait for someone else to pick it up,
to enjoy it. He wanted to stay captured within the plastic bag, going
back should not be an option.

Why did he want to stay - was it the place or the person?

~

When you are in the middle of the storm everything seems calm. The
whole world whirls around you, blurring, making you forget what you are
seeing. You notice nothing. Details are lost, conversations are never
heard, your mind becomes blank, just filled with the present and no
thought to the future or past. You want it to go on and to never stop,
never to drop back down, for the storm to stop. You do not want to
return to the peace, the quiet, of your normal life.
You want this to last and hope they feel the same.