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Thomas is spilling out all over the place again. Found bits of him in a PDF of some sap’s dissertation. Boy, speak of a guy who’s gotten himself into a pickle! Don’t know how to fully explain this to Henry and the other kids, as it’s more than a little strange the ways I’m understanding it, so I’ll leave it up to the collegiate himself. Anyways, today Henry asked me about my favorite food. It’s curious, really, I suppose I was never one for picky eating. No strong feelings on the subject, one way or another.
I might begin keeping these kinds of things to myself. Logging them on here's been nice, but seeing old Tom scooping his innards up reminds me this kinda thing can get a little dicey.
Henry says he liked exploring old buildings. Boy, that’s a thrill, isn’t it? Houses and churches and whatnot folks hadn’t gotten around to tearing down, I suppose. He says they get covered in graffiti and kids go there to smoke et cetera. Usually’s got a big “No Trespassing” sign plastered near the front, he says, and that’s when you know it’s the good stuff. Says he got the coppers called on him one time and had to lay flat on his stomach in the dirt for an hour ’til they left. Says another time, he nicked one of them signs to hang on his bedroom door. I don’t know if I’d have the know-how or athleticizin’ capabilities for exploring the way Henry does but he says if we ever got the chance he’d show me.
Today, Henry asked me about my favorite song. His reasoning is as proceeds: what, with me speaking to him from them airwaves and such, ergo I should be knowing a lot of music. I don’t know nearly as many tunes as he does. Practically lives off of them. I know my songs, what I sang — rags and the like — I know swing, jazz, and the blues — I know rock and roll. Sure, I’ve heard songs after that, but they don’t really live in me the same way, you know? Henry’s showing me all these songs from his home, and I can hear it and tap my toe to it in the moment — though they ain’t really toe-tappers — but after it kinda just slips from my mind. Oh, the lad got a good chuckle outta that one. Guess I’ll just have to keep singing them, he said.
Today, Henry told me about “hiking”. Don’t think I’d ever gone on a hike before, though I’ve certainly been told to take one! I’m not really a fella with one of those proclivities for hard exercise. Don’t think I’ve really worn anything but a suit in my life. Must have, at some point. What do I sleep in? But a guy can’t scale a boulder in high-grade patent coltskin button boots, even if their heels are “military”!
Number five of logs. Henry told me about a memory again. Some night when he was rustling about a little abandoned church on a hill and came outside and the sun had just set. And he sat on the grass cross legged and unwrapped a ham sandwich he’d packed from home. And he says in the kinda big valley expanse below, little twinkling lights started rising from the grass. Lightning bugs, he says they are. Like a fly with a little light bulb strapped to its rear end. I can find photos of them now, sure, and I can imagine the kinda effect these things would have if you had a whole lot of them. And he says tons of these little things just started appearing, as the sky got real dark and the grass didn’t look like grass anymore, just real murky-like with these little specks of light swimming around in it.
And he says after he finished his sandwich he laid down on the grass and looked at the sky. Every single star had popped out. I know stars. I’ve seen a lot of them. Most of what I remember seeing, matter of fact, I think. Henry knows the constellations, which I don’t. And I ain’t ever seen a lightning bug in the flesh. But Henry says the stars in the sky were exactly like the lightning bugs in the valley. Which kinda helps me imagine.
I don’t think I’ve sat in the grass before. Or laid down in it. I can’t really remember a ton about grass. Henry says it smells nice. Especially in the nighttime, or the early morning.
Told Henry about another memory. A bedroom, olive-green and candlelit. I’m watching two men copulate. The big one’s real handsome, I think. They kiss like they’ll lose all the air in their lungs if they don’t.
Henry kinda clammed up after my story. Maybe I’m one of those boys who’s a bit crass in indulging those kindsa ideas — ain’t had the luck to experience anything of the sort for myself, but boy! I did dream of it. For a scary second I was worried Henry was made of finer stuff, that I might’ve offended his tastes a little. Then he told me about a memory he had. A first kiss. Was dared to kiss a boy by some kid at his summer camp. Laughed it off with the rest of them in the moment but afterwards gave it a think that lasted a long goddamn time.
Henry’s asking about my oldest memory. Now that one I recall, loud and clear. I’m a young man, seventeen or so, tickling the Ivories in the recording room. Singing. Back then we’d have to sing in front of this big horn, real big-like, I ain’t really ever grasped the concept of that thing but I assume it was capturing the sound somehow. I know they connect it to the stylus for the wax, and it etches as we go. That was before the handy dandy microphone, so things were a bit, ah, acoustical. I’m not a very machine-minded guy, I was just there to give them the tunes, so I just gave them the tunes, and left that kinda doohickey managing to the big boys. Nice memory. Air filling in my lungs and then out like a bullet. Sharp and dense enough to knock a guy dead. Don’t remember singing that proudly any other time in my life. My music kept falling off the piano as I practiced.
Second day of these memory logs. Today, Henry asked me my favorite memory. And I said I’m at this dance hall in Harlem, right? Maybe mid-twenties. Maybe the night of January 7th 1925. It’s hard to really cast my mind back that far, you know? It’s all some kinda mishmash, memories existing at the same time. Or maybe I’ve just got a real crappy memory. Well, I’m standing in a corner — must not be a huge one for parties, or maybe I knew I was a bit queer — and I remember everything glowing all golden-like. High ceilings, all decked out. It’s a gas. Dancers all crowding the floor, a man spinning his sweetheart past me as he fixes his tie with the other hand. A woman laughing to my right. The smell of booze. And that music. That swing. I feel the music surrounding me in my bones, shaking me from the inside out, just like it’s shaking everyone else in this joint. Just coasting along to the vibrations.
And then — fewer people this time. The night’s winding down, fellas are going home with their dolls. We’re giving one last hurrah for the couples still knocking it out on the dance floor. These kids are a bit more sauced now, swaying and laughing and bumping into each other. They dimmed the lights some. I’m still sticking around in my corner. Nobody by my side now. And that music. Still loud as hell, ringing out the night, shaking me from the inside out. And that’s kinda it, I told him. Great night.
Henry’s having memory talks with me. Talking about things we recall from life before. Like journaling, I suppose. Thinks it’ll be helpful. Whatever you say, good-looking.
My speculating’s telling me I gotta write all this kinda stuff down. Even if me doing a think with Henry just poofs it into existence and means it’s written it down somewhere, you know? You can never be too sure, I tell you.