The Branching

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June 1, 2005

Bon Scott vs. Curtis Mayfield: An Imaginary Showdown

Had a rough morning this morning, but coming out of work I was feeling okay, dare I say, good…ish. Venturing back into a sense of real world (how I hate that phrase) productivity…

{RW, as opposed to Crackworld Productivity, which is a) real [just different], and b) a productivity I very much value, which is one of the reasons why livng crack-free is/will be difficult;:I get stuff done when I’m on crack that I never get done otherwise, and for the most part it’s done well, and furthermore, those things that get done are often the things I value most, and the things that far too often get pushed aside or to the bottom of the list. And, all of this—this parenthetical tangent here—speaks to one of my aims in this little goofball crack project: to give people a broader more complex view of crack, drugs, the world. Yes, crack’s bad and we should all live without it, but not admitting or dealing with it’s positive aspects is a denial like any other and will not help us get there. ‘Nuff said.}

…and on the heels of that recognition came rushing a feeling of danger. When I’m feeling good phnysically and mentally, and a little bit accomplished in turning my back on my vices, having put a little (how ever little) distance between them and myself, and confident that the distance will grow and their hold over me further disintegrated, that’s when it all gets shot to hell again, and I go and I do. That’s when I go and hurtle myself off the wagon, ejecting myself from the hayride of life. And so, in a sort of maniacal nod to that pattern, I sang to myself, walking down 23rd street mind you, AC/DC’s “I’m On a Highway to Hell.” (I should point out here that my mother’s making me return the Back In Black 8-track I bought as a youngster did not protect me from the evils of AC/DC.)

I got what has turned, of late, into an afterwork tradition: a “nutty cone” from the Mister Softee truck parked by the entrance to the F train and I descended, another kind of delicious white vice in hand.

On the other side of that ride I came out of the train on the platform and was about to ascend the stairs when my selection came on my iPod: Curtis Mayfield’s “Move On Up.” What a great song (though I must admit that I first listened to The Jam’s version of it, back in 1984). Well, the song hit me like a metaphor, as songs are wont to do, especially to me, their easy target, their willing victim. I believe there’s plenty of evidence of that right here on OFF and over there on ON as well. Suddenly, with a little grin grunting through my grim lips, I was feeling not on a grind to grayskull, but, well, that I was moving on up toward an as-yet uncertain destination of sane and sober creativity, and that my peoples will eventually understand (this?). Here’s the head-to-head:

Posted by peligrito at June 1, 2005 8:26 PM

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