Dark Days: A Memoir
Page 49
But that line of magical thinking is useless to pursue, for me and for anyone else who wishes to live their life the best they can. I lived in my head for far too long, and that did both myself and others nothing but harm. Today I am a reality-based man, and reality tells me that I exist in the here and the now—not anywhere else but exactly where I am, not three years ago, not yesterday, not tomorrow, not five minutes from now, but right here, right now. And my heart tells me I must try as hard as I possibly can to live the best I can, in this eternal here and now.
This morning when I woke up, I felt the first chill of fall on the slight wind blowing into my open bedroom window from the ocean. I made a pot of coffee, poured myself a cup, and walked down to the beach. The sun hung low but bright in the sky as I shielded my eyes and looked out at the sea. Its surface was hushed, flat, and glassy. Only the tiniest of waves were breaking, and they crumbled directly onto the shore, wetting the edge of the sand just long enough to hold the sun’s reflection for a second’s time before shapelessly disappearing from whence they came. I thought of how I would finish writing this book today, and I thought about a young man named Daniel, and I felt the sadness pass though me just as it does everyday, as slow and as soft as the breeze flowing all around me from the Atlantic. I thought of how I would go for a swim after the writing was finally done. I stared at the almost perfectly still ocean for a moment, then turned and walked back to the faded wooden porch of my small house by the sea, to sit and write this.
Now the work is done, a thing of the past just like the events that birthed it. The wind is blowing harder now, and I can hear the sound of the ocean waves breaking on the beach a block away much louder than this morning. The surface of the sea is probably no longer calm, and sounds as if it is boiling and white-capped and choppy. The waves may be rough.
No matter. I will still go down to the beach for a swim in just a second; for the ocean is the ocean, vast and uncontrollable. I cannot dictate her fickle moods.
I can only swim in her waters as safely and as strongly as I am able, until the winter comes and it is too cold to do so. To not immerse myself in her majesty while I can as the last bit of summer’s warmth fades away would be a shame.
For she is beautiful, and she is the only one I have.
—D. Randall Blythe
October 1, 2014
Cape Fear, NC
acknowledgements
The following people made this book possible:
Tim Borror for bugging me to talk with Marc Gerald. Marc Gerald for convincing me to write this book and then selling it to Ben Schafer. Ben Schafer at Da Capo Press for buying it and then editing it. You three are the front line. Salute.
Random House for picking up the UK rights. My UK editor, Adja Vucicevic. To Jack Fogg, the Englishman with the greatest name ever—I hope we can work together all the way through a project one day. Kirsten Sprinks for all the help getting the word out in Merry Olde—Roger Brilliant thanks you.
P.R. Brown and Marco Pavia for design and proofs. Sean O’Hern at Commercial Taphouse, 111 N. Robinson St, Richmond, VA for pouring the beer I didn’t drink for the Chapter Four photo—if I could still drink like a normal person, it would be at the Taphouse.
To my friend and editor at www.thetalkhouse.com, Michael Azerrad, for reading with a critical editorial eye. To Greg “Eagle Eyes” Puciato of the almighty Dillinger Escape Plan and The Black Queen for doing the same—if the music thing doesn’t work out, I will get you a gig as a copy editor. To the hometown homie Kevin Powers for advance reading and encouragement from a real writer. Jeff Cohen for proof reading, long walks in Prague, and keeping me out of prison—love ya, bro. Brad Warner for punk rawk, posture correction, and advance reading.
To Pen Rollings, Paul Aneshensel, and Emory Flournoy at Uptown Color in Richmond, VA for coming to my rescue with all the journal scans. Y’all rule—Pen, keep riffing—one day, I will be rich enough to pay for a Breadwinner/Sliang Laos reunion show.
To the fine Gentlemen of the Tuning Room Group for carrying me through the beginning of my new life—I will see y’all on the road. To the S.F.G.’s for constant gratitude, companionship across the globe, and being my lifeline during my long exile on Shaka Brah Island—I love each and every one of you, you are my brothers. To Rabbi Michael “Stick” Shefrin and my father, the Reverend Wayne T. Blythe, for reading my Q&A with God from the first draft of this beast—it’s still there, it just didn’t make it into this book—next time, I will hit ’em with a mazel tov cocktail. Matt Frain for endless talks in the funny voice—I learn from you constantly, and I am proud of the man you have become. Bill Griggs and Stephen McMasters for teaching me the right stuff.
Pete Adams for real talk and fly fishing when I needed it most. Jamey Jasta for being the truth. Vinnie Paul Abbott for being a true friend when the chips were way down. Don Argott for late night Misfits jam sessions and being there for me in Prague. Y’all are good people.
Cory Brennan (let’s go surfing soon), Justin Arcangel, and everyone else at 5B Artist Management for steering the lamb of god ship and helping me out with this book, especially Bob “The Quiet Genius” Johnsen—you rule, bro. Maria Ferrero for loaning me Uncle Vincent’s Rolleiflex and being an all-around bad-ass; kisses.
To anyone who made or sported a “Free Randy” shirt, contributed to my legal defense fund, bought something at our auction, or just spread the word and thought good thoughts for me—I honestly don’t know what would have happened to me if it hadn’t been for you people. This book, to a massive degree, was written for you. Thank you—I am truly humbled. Special thanks to those that wrote me while I was locked up—I needed it.
To all the musicians who spoke up in my defense—there are far too many of you to name. Know that I am honored to walk amongst you men and women. I salute you—see ya on the road.
lamba gawd—Doug Flutie threw the fütball. Flutie threw the fütball, and threw the fütball, and threw the fütball. Flutie was pooped.
To Martin Radvan, Vladimír Jablonsky, Tomá Morysek, Michal Sykora, and, of course, Tomá Grivna for representing me in court. Thank you for helping me to remain a free man. Rudy Leška for superlative translation services and manuscript review.
To the people of Richmond, VA—thank you for all the thoughts and prayers, and the overwhelming and warm welcome home. I’m proud to call RVA home.
This book was written to the rhythm of the ocean tides, so shout outs are in order for my Cape Fear coastal family: T-Roy, Birds, and Shiny Bones—I love y’all. David & Norma Edralin for surfing, sandwiches, and ribs—Team Greensboro will rip forever! Chad Nicoll for having the greatest attitude at any surf session—it’s a pleasure to ride waves with you. Scooter at Surf Unlimited, OI—one day I will start a surf rock band and take you on a coastal-only tour. To head-high glassy hurricane swells and the bottlenose dolphins who ride them with me—you keep me sane. Left is right.
I would like to thank the following bands for writing the songs I sang everyday while I was locked up—you kept my brain from falling to pieces: Bad Brains for “Attitude”, Black Flag for “Rise Above”, and Misfits for “London Dungeon”. You have been the soundtrack to my life since I was a kid.
My family for standing by me and not disowning me, even after all the grief I have put you through. This is never what I wanted my first book to be about, but I think the story needed to be told. I love you so much, and I promise I’ll write a happier book next time.
Salad the cat for keeping me company while I wrote.
Last and most importantly, to my wife, for everything. I love you so much, honey.
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