Solo
Page 7
You think so?
The Creator has a master plan. Y’all were meant to be,
you’ll be. Can’t nobody stop that.
. . . .
That’s a whopper of some news about your birth parents.
I feel for ya. I do know this, though. There’s a lot of love
around you, but if you don’t see it, it’s not there. Go climb
your mountain, see things from the top. Find out the
answers you need, seek what’s really important.
Chapel. She’s what’s important.
If she’s meant to shine in your life, so be it, he says,
hugging me, then handing me a guitar from out of
nowhere, like we’re saying goodbye, and he’s been
expecting this all along.
Let’s play one for the road, Youngblood.
I’ve known the rules
since I could smell
the vodka
on his breath
drown in its rancor.
I know, when it hits the fan, to:
Avoid all stores
with newsstands.
Don’t watch any
entertainment shows,
and stay away
from social media
because
your family
is a trending topic
and the world laughs.
So I drive
the Sunset Strip
in search of a guitar shop
to buy a new strap
and try to clear my head.
But there with a camera
pointed like a gun
to my face
is a paparazzo
shouting,
How does it feel
to know
you’re not the heir
to rock and roll royalty?
It feels
like countless mirrors
crashing around me
in an empty space
where there’s
no way in
and no way out.
Day 1
I will never leave
this bedroom again.
I stare at the walls.
The ugly, empty space
imprisons me.
There is nothing
left for me
if she’s gone.
A bare, unspoken
language that has
no words, no gestures—
a song
of sinking silence.
I’ve texted her
thirteen times.
All the Songs That Make Me Think of You
For What It’s Worth
Gold Dust Woman
You Shook Me All Night Long
Tangled Up in Blue
Dreams I’ll Never See
The Story in Your Eyes
Oh! Darling
Wish You Were Here
Where the Streets Have No Name
The Sky Is Falling
While My Guitar Gently Weeps
Who’ll Stop the Rain?
Day 2
What is this blood
coursing through my veins?
It’s not Morrison.
It’s a red river
of who the hell am I.
Yesterday I was the son
of a narcissist,
but at least I knew . . .
Today it could be anyone
of the seven-plus billion
freaks and strangers
who could give
two craps about me.
Why am I even here?
Eat your food.
Freakin’ A, Storm! COULD YOU PLEASE LEAVE ME
ALONE!
You must eat, she says, from the other side of the door.
. . . .
Your life may seem like a mystery right now, but you’re still
here.
MYSTERY? TRY MISERY. I’M NOT FEEDING
THAT MONSTER.
Day 3
I open the door.
Grab the tray
of bread and pasta
pushed against the wall.
The smell of goodness
offends me.
Probably takeout,
’cause Storm can’t cook.
I remember Mom
taking me to
our favorite diner
in Thousand Oaks
for their homemade rolls and honey.
She called me her sweet boy,
her precious one.
If she were here . . .
I could ask her why
she used to say,
You can’t live on bread
and love alone.
But the real question is
how can I possibly live without her?
How can any of us?
Dream Variation: Soul on Fire
The dining room
is a field
of fire
and I dash
and thrash
my way
through the flames
with a big, red spider
with a dreadful face
on my heels.
(It looks familiar, but I can’t tell.)
Run, Mom whispers.
So I do
I run
I run away
I run away, fast,
I run away, fast, toward
I run away, fast, toward the end.
There’s an end.
And there’s my mother.
And If I can get to her
everything will make sense.
I can breathe.
I’ll be saved.
But I never get to her,
and right before
my soul catches
on fire
I wake up.
Funny
how your questions
never get answered
in dreams
like you’re a ghost
floating
and trapped
in your own mind.
Day 4
Who are they?
Why didn’t I matter enough
or at all?
How do you give up
on your own
flesh,
your own blood,
the bones you made?
How?
Storm knocks
like she’s pounding a drum.
You alive? Unlock the door.
I walk over to my dresser.
Blade? I’ll start singing if you don’t open up.
I put on my headphones, stare
at the painting
of Mom
that I painted
when I was just three
and believed
she was my world.
I take it down
and throw it in the closet.
I grab the torn teddy bear that’s wearing
a Detroit Rocks T-shirt
that Rutherford gave me
after one of his sold-out concerts
and toss it in the trash.
These things that
felt like security
a long time ago
were a lie.
A big lie.
The sadness
is even in the rain;
it hits the window
like a sledgehammer,
the hurt
banging away
at my nothingness.
So I do the only
thing that soothes
the only thing that fills
the void.
I write.
I Miss You
Rain rolls down my window
Reminding me of you
Feel so uneasy
’Cause I’m still crying here for you
Tell me again, why did you leave?
Don’t you know without you, I cannot breathe?
I give everything, everything to feel your touch
You’ll never know how much
I
miss you
Don’t wanna say it
Just wanna play it
’Cause I miss you!
I wish it weren’t but it’s true
I miss you
You had my heart, you had my soul
You had the love my heart could hold
And you simply walked away
You just walked away
I miss you
Don’t wanna say it
Just wanna play it
’Cause I miss you!
I’m such a fool
And, I miss you
© BLADE MORRISON
Day 5
A piece of paper clipped
to an envelope
slides beneath my door.
To Blade:
This is what I have.
I’m still sorry.
—Rutherford
I stare at the envelope
and chills
like an army
of fear
march up
the left side
and down
the right.
There’s no one
to hold
my hand.
No one
to encourage me
to stop me
from leaving
the stage.
No drum roll.
No lead guitar
firing up the crowd.
Simply—
A manila envelope
with a Post-It
note
affixed
that reads:
Lucy Pearl November, Hammond, Louisiana.
And inside
another envelope,
sealed,
with a note
on the front:
To Blade, our son,
in the event
you should want
to know more.
Love,
Mom
Day 6
I have the name
of the woman
who gave me life
and then took it away.
But
I can’t see
unsealing
envelope #2
right now,
if ever.
I’m going to
shower off this pain
eat real food
empty out this sorrow
on my guitar
take this name
on the front
of this envelope
and climb.
I search
her name
and find pictures
of a young Lucy November
teaching in a preschool
in Louisiana,
but also an older Lucy November
building a school
in Ghana.
Phone Conversation
Good morning. Ark Day School.
(My heart pounds. Come on, Blade . . . speak. Just get it
out.)
Hi, I’m looking for a teacher by the name of Lucy
November. I believe she’s in the pre—
Lucy November?
(My head is spinning.)
Yeah. Yes. Sorry, is this the wrong school?
Honey, it’s the right school, just the wrong decade. Lucy
Pearl hasn’t worked here in a long time. Can I help you
with something?
(My breath slowly gets lost.)
No, I just needed to speak to Lucy. It’s important.
Well, I’m sorry, sweetie. As I said, she’s not here anymore.
But I can put you in touch with her mother.
Her mother? Grandmother.
No, her mother, baby.
Right. No, I know. I’m just, ugh—
(Everything pounds. Everything’s real. Too real.)
You okay, sir?
I’m okay.
Her mother is Minnie. She’s in the phone book. Willie and
Minnie November.
Thank you, ma’am.
The Call
I push the numbers
like I’m entering a code
that’s going to unlock
a firewall
and every detail
and secret
will rush out
and burn me.
Each time I go
to hit the last number
I push the red button
to end the call
to stop the knowing
right in its tracks.
I can’t seem to
make myself
get to the point
where there’s
no turning back.
I do this
for an hour
before I call.
Conversation
Hel-lo.
Hi.
Hi. Who is this?
Ma’am, my name is Blade—
I don’t need nothing else around here, young man. No
more thingamajigs and whatchamacallits, so save your
breath.
No, ma’am, I’m not selling anything.
If you’re calling about Willie’s boat, he’s sold it already. For
sale sign been in the yard for months, and you just calling.
I don’t want a boat either, ma’am. I’m just looking for
someone.
Are you the police?
I’m a, I’m a, uh, former student of Lucy November, and I
just wanted to get in touch with her.
Lucy Pearl was your teacher at the Ark Day School?
Yes, ma’am.
She was a good teacher.
Yes, ma’am.
. . . .
. . . .
. . . .
Is there a chance I could speak to her, ma’am?
I reckon there is, if you were in Africa.
I don’t understand.
Lucy’s been in Africa for over ten years. Girl said she
wanted to change the world. Determined, she was. Always
talking about hope and love and Oprah.
Is she in Ghana?
Is that where they make the chocolate? At Christmas, she
brings me the best chocolate I’ve ever tasted. I can’t eat but
a piece a week, ’cause it’s just too sweet, you understand.
Yes, ma’am.
You’re a polite young man. I guess she did a good job with
you, ’cause you turned out nice.
So, is there an address or phone number?
They don’t have street addresses in Ghana, she tells me.
So, no mail can get to her. Plus, she’s in the country part,
not the city part.
Oh.
I do think I have the number to the organization she’s
with. They’ll know where she is. Don’t you young folks . . .
Doogle this stuff?
Google. Yes, thank you, ma’am.
You know, you sound familiar. Have we ever met?
I don’t know. It’s possible.
Well, you keep doing good for yourself, young man, and
if you ever get in touch with Lucy, tell her to bring extra
chocolate next time. My church group always likes to meet
here, and they eat up everything sweet.
I will do. Thank you for your time.
Track 4: I Was Young When I Left Home
ROCKER: BOB DYLAN: VOCALS, ACOUSTIC GUITAR / ALBUM: THE BOOTLEG SERIES VOLUME 7: NO DIRECTION HOME / LABEL: COLUMBIA RECORDS / RECORDING DATE: DECEMBER 22, 1961 / STUDIO: THE MINNEAPOLIS APARTMENT OF HIS FRIEND, TWILIGHT ZONE ACTRESS BONNIE BEECHER
A sad, sad song
that Dylan
wrote
on a train
about a son
leaving
his family
in search
of closure
and salvation
that he never
finds.
Hmmm.
Day 7
I finally brush
my teeth,
wondering what life
will look like
one week,
six months,
or even a year
from now.
It’s time
to find my mother,
to start
at the beginning.
I’ve decided
to climb the mountain
and I’m not sure what
route I’ll take
or how
I’ll get to the top.
But I’ll start
in Ghana.
Texts to Chapel
7:39 pm
Chapel, I miss you
so much
the pain feels
7:39 pm
like a million
heart attacks.
It’s time for us
7:39 pm
to jet. Together.
The world is waiting.
Let’s run. Far. Fast.
7:40 pm
I’ll be at the park.
Tomorrow, 7:30 pm.
Meet me, babe.
Conversation
AFRICA?!
Yup.
Long way to go to, little brother, to find some woman who
threw you away.
It’s what I have to do.
Halfway around the world, and you’re not even sure if she’s
there.
She’s with an organization that does work in Ghana. I
found all the info online.
Yeah, trust the Internets, why don’t you?
Hey, if she’s not there, I’ll just go on safari.
Safari’s in East Africa, Blade.
Oh, well, it’ll be a vacation before I go off to college.
I’m worried about you, Blade.
Really? Well, if you're so “worried” about me, then why
didn’t you tell me sooner that I was adopted? How come
you knew before me? That’s just not cool.
Ugh. I feel terrible. I overheard Dad and Uncle Stevie
talking one night, a coupla years ago, about a special
letter Mom had written for you. I asked him why she
hadn't written one for me. I wanted to tell you, swear, but
he made me promise to keep it a secret, that he was saving
the letter for . . .
Whatever. Save your breath. I don’t want you to cry.
Everyone’s been worried.
Too late for that.
We love you, you know?
. . . .
Isn’t it cliché to go looking for your birth parents?
That’s real sensitive, Storm.