Rock Star Hour

Do you think he'd come, if I swore I'd leave him some really excellent cookies?

It's snowing. My hands are frozen. I was just outside, and it's difficult to type. But I wanted to say something. I wanted to say something about Christmas.

I woke up this morning in a cheap motel room. The one I've been staying at this week off of 45. And I wanted to cry, but I didn't. I had to smoke two bidis just to get out of bed.

But the day hasn't been so bad.

I stopped by Liquid to pick up some smokes. And all the sudden I had this feeling, right before I got out of my car. I wanted to be seven, asleep in a warm bed, with a Chicago window up above me, snow falling down that I could play in when I woke up.

I almost want to be a parent some day just so I could give my kid a good Christmas. It is never the same when you grow up. Almost nothing is.

But the time keeps passing. And with each minute I can feel my childhood slipping away ...

I wrote about 2004 once. Prematurely, a couple weeks ago, I wrote about it. I took the post down about an hour after I wrote it.

All I can say is that this year has been the best and worst year of my life. I can't even to begin to list the reasons why.

I keep wanting to wake up from something, but I'm already awake. And then I keep wanting to just go to sleep and wake up in some other time, but it's usually when I'm driving so that wouldn't work.

And I keep waiting for some kind of savior. And it's ridiculous. Like I am going to fall asleep. And I am going to wake up somewhere different. At least in a bed that is my own.

I want the simplest things now. I want a home with a door that has a key with my name on it. That feeling that comes along with having a home. The ones you take for granted, like when you go out with friends, and you know that eventually you are going to go home and go to sleep in a warm bed.

I don't know how many times I came home, and sighed, and dropped down my things.

I keep thinking about my couch. It's in storage. I really want my couch. When I think about it I remember lying on it in Trevor's arms, listening to music and talking. Allowing six albums to pass through us.

I want that feeling of home too. It's just another one of those things you can't wish for. You can't go buy it in the store like something you could put in your microwave and eat a few minutes later.

I was talking to my friend Andy about it the other night. We were talking about what we look for in a person. I said, I don't know. I guess I just want somebody to feel like home.

And then I remembered Ellen wrote that one time. She wrote about how it didn't matter where she was because she was home. At home with herself and in the arms of her lover.

This feels all wrong. The year has snuck up on me and gone. Well, it's almost over. So I'm just going to pack my bag full of lessons, painful and good, and take it with me. And hope it isn't too heavy along the way. Because I'm too tired to carry too much anymore.

Well, I'm not sure this is about Christmas at all, but it's about something. It has to be. If you're reading this, have a merry Christmas. Love to you.