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| Wide
awake, sitting bolt upright in bed, completely at a loss to explain my
surroundings. Plastic furniture, unexplorable landscapes on the wall,
overstuffed pillows on the bed. Recognition dawns–a motel in Memphis,
Tennessee. A faint recollection of the surly look on the otherwise empty
face of the guy at the reception desk at 2 a.m., taking my 33 dollars
in wadded bills, shoving a key and some change across the counter. The
theme from a lost road movie plays endlessly in my head; it’s the
sound of love and sex, joy, despair, the western highway, the moment just
before the first touch, all the days following the last kiss, the sad,
sweet dream of believing in nothing, and everything...
The key turns in the ignition, the engine comes back to life, one more time. Resurrection. Off again in pursuit of the unattainable, an angel, fallen to earth, struggling to recall what it was, exactly, that appeared so utterly tantalizing from above. After a certain point, even the question of turning back seemed ludicrous, almost like the concept of returning to the womb. The idea had gradually become an obsession, the obsession inevitably became a quest, and the quest itself became the point–you and your personal demons thundering down the road together, overshadowing the grail, answering to no god, lost to the world. I let go of the wheel. And then I closed my eyes. Dennis Watts was born and raised in southern West Virginia. He came to Memphis in 1999 to start a band. Like many others... Click here for his page. |
©2005 Kindness of Strangers