My Life in Music: Artistic Adolescence (part 11)

This originally appeared here but that blog is no more. In case you missed them, I wanted to share one. There were, as you may have guessed, 11 parts to this series, where I discussed music and my life and the connections to specific albums. If you enjoy this one, let me know.



After being turned down by Carla, I left Idaho in the middle of the night. I made it to Salt Lake City and called Robert, a friend of mine in Edinburg. He answered the phone, almost crying already. We discussed our problems with women and after many tears and sobs, agreed that friendships have to sustain us when women will not. I hung up the phone that night, sitting in a truck stop on the outskirts of the state capital and decided to drive to Edinburg and return to my old life. What I had run from before was unimportant now; friendships, easily lost, outweighed the rest of my troubles.

I slept fitfully in the car that night, unsure of what I was doing. But as the sun broke across the highway, I knew it was time for me to go home. Not to my parents’ home. My home. So south I drove, through Utah, Colorado, New Mexico and the heart of Texas: 1,700 miles. When the wheels finally stopped turning, I sat outside of my old apartment, unsure of what my present held. I had an agreement from my friends to allow me couch surf, but, beyond that, I had no job, no home, and all my belongings were in East Texas with my parents.

I adjusted slowly upon returning. I ended up with a waiting job at Mama Mia’s Pizzeria, which, according to the menu, is home of the best Chicago style pizza outside of the Windy City. Robert was the manager there and vouched for me. So an instant, albeit small, cash flow began, fixing the most pressing problem. However, my need for companionship was only growing worse. I spent many nights on the phone, curled into a ball, crying, trying to talk Carla into changing her mind, holding out hope, deluding myself and her at times. I was lonely, empty, back where I was just days after the divorce.

Relationships are where my self-esteem come from. I don’t doubt that would be looked down upon by most professionals and non-professionals alike. It’s a shitty way to live, counting on another person to make you feel good about yourself. In a solid, compatible, relationship, I am the happiest man you will ever meet. Single, I am hapless and miserable. I need love, or at least someone to pretend to love me. With that desire in mind, I began one of the oddest progressions of my life: going from single to married in 3.5 months.

One day, while browsing in the local bookstore, I ran into an old crush of mine, Miriam. She was smart and funny, though a little too “partying” for my tastes. The last time I had seen her, there had been some attraction on both parts, but, due to her ongoing relationship with her boyfriend, we had agreed to part ways. Today, she was single. We began flirting, smoking together during her breaks from work, discussing whatever was on her mind, and, during that time outside the store, we decided to give dating a try.

My birthday was two days after we started dating. Miriam insisted on a party, of course. She made the guest list, decided who was bringing what, picked the clothes I would wear. I just went along with it all. I hadn’t really celebrated a birthday since my divorce, hadn’t seen the need to.

That night, the guests arrived at the house. I knew one of them. Sissy Williams. She was a girl I used to talk to, some eight years before, during my coffee shop, writing poetry, acting bohemian days. We sat on the steps of the apartment, Sissy and I, and discussed the need for co-dependence in some people. I remember it like a well-shot scene from a movie. The way the light danced in her hair, her eyes sparkling, her voice so serious yet ever willing to laugh, the way she looked at me. I developed a crush on her that night.

Five days later, Miriam broke up with me to return to her ex. That night, Sissy leaned across two cheeseburgers in a Whataburger booth and kissed me. Two weeks later she told me she was going to see someone else. The night after that, we were dating. Two months beyond, lying in her bed, discussing the day over the tops of our books, she asked me to marry her. One second later, I said yes.

Looking back, it all seems like a movie, and maybe it was. I can’t explain the series of events. I don’t understand how it all worked out. It seemed scripted. No doubt, that is why Explosions in the Sky’s album The Earth is not a Cold Dead Place fit so perfectly into that period of my life. We didn’t need music that made us think, we had each other to think about. We needed a soundtrack, that album was it. It has no lyrics, it doesn’t need any. We wrote the lyrics each night, lying in each other's arms. Our lines came easily, unforced, like great actors, without a script.

Explosions in the Sky. The Earth is Not a Cold Dead Place. Temporary Residence Limited, 2003.