Necessary memories

Nameless feelings mounted in John’s heart and aspired to overwhelm him. He found it difficult to restrain these perceived sensations that he experienced with a troublesome mind unable to focus. In this mind he tried to reset the limitations on his own thoughts and on his social interactions, lest he‘d control his feelings. John scratched his chin, as he stared into the space of his living room, enjoying this personal narrative about himself. Vaguely he started to recall the past events as his mind sought diversion from those unnamed feelings. He met this typical Irishman called Uls just the week before. Such a strange name, and after careful consideration John decided it was likely to be old Celtic, or Old English, probably meaning something like skilled with spear. They met in a shared cab going back from one of the clubs, the Shelley. That night John saw his prejudices, or the general opinions, once again confirmed as they played really bad music, that was supposed to go for as underground music.

An array of Dublin’s youngest allowed and most arrogant swayed and leaned at the bar. Drunks were harassing young girls chatting on the black dance floor. Mates were slapping each other around being all rowdy dowdy. And the music. John remembered it clearly with a deep sigh: there was certainly light to be spread in this godforsaken place. As a self-declared music lover, he felt it was difficult not to take the ABBA cover blasting through the sweaty rooms from worn out speakers, all too personal. It brought pain to his troubled heart. Looking back from the memory, John still felt that this DJ Paddy should get a neck shot. With a fright he recognised his desperate thoughts, and made an attempt to take it with good will and perseverance. He delved deeper in his mind as he remembered seeing Uls dancing for the first time. The prime thing John noticed was his red hair, not seen as often as one would expect in Ireland. The redhead wore an unkempt hairy beard that still looked good, and his eyes saw further then the walls, as if he was dancing alone among the stars. And he was listening to a walkman, dancing wildly and chaotically on fast beats ― which John guessed to be the drilling version of drum & bass ― as others came together and shuffled their feet slowly in pairs. The ginger guy was a real fire starter, John thought with a smile.

Uls was removed rather quickly by two bouncers, (who were not very good at all in dancing John had noticed) and feeling curious in a certain way, John followed him to his faith. Outside, John asked this strange Irishman as he brushed himself off:

    ‘Hey. What are you listening?’

    With a heavy voice, Uls answered: ‘Now? White Room from Eric Clapton.’

    John tilted his head and nodded with a smile. Uls grinned.

    ‘Do you think Sunshine of your Love was better done by Jimi Hendrix?’ Uls asked in a blurry tone. He sounded thirsty.

    John wanted to ask why Uls brought a walkman to a dance club, but thought he knew the answer already. And what had Uls been listening before? They talked about music as they walked the crawling Dublin streets, first in search for any open pub which they couldn’t find, then for a cab. Too quickly they came to a cab stand, with lots of people waiting, and as their ways home overlapped, they would share.

The cab they shared was brimming with at least seven people, sharing not only the ride but also each others odours, breath, talk and the small seats.

    ‘The cab is black!’ someone shouted.

    ‘So is our driver!’ another said, eyeing the coloured driver who gave a weak smile and nodded.

    ‘A real oil rigger behind the wheels!’ the other said and they both sniggered.

    Uls gave John a dizzy look that begged for reason and pulled his shoulders.

    Someone said: ‘Ya big flutes shut your gobs!’

    ‘I will in me arse!’ the first replied quickly.

    The other went on nevertheless: ‘You talking to me or chewing a brick? Either way you’re going to end up in a dentist chair! Listen lads: we Irish used to be the niggers of Europe ourselves so fuck off and give our good driver a break before he gives you one and kicks ye out head down.’ He gave John a short blink. They all ridiculed him!

    John tried not to watch but the words repeated themselves in his ears involuntarily. Without much effort he attempted to disappear in the side of the cab. Never before had he been so close to this terrible behaviour and John felt it restraining. Uls started talking to him, while the others in the cab continued their blathering, as one asked the other: ‘What are you gawking at?’

    ‘Don’t know,’ he answered, ‘but it looks like a double pair of banjaxed pox bottles if you ask me. Would you like ye eye dyed?’

    Acutely John was inclined to ignore the drunken Irishmen, and Uls altogether with them. The memory of that moment wavered as John looked at his psychedelic wallpaper, and it shamed him to think back on how he felt that night. Afraid. In the cab he fought with his own mind, made it rattle and shake with fear. His heart beat wildly, beating his body into a sweaty frenzy, sweeping him up, tightening his muscles. He felt a lurking fear.

    ‘Ye know I do think politics and music should stay separated, although as a listener ye should be well aware of the background in which the music was made. Take Wagner for instance. The racist fucker promoted the inequality of races, but can’t you still just love his Meistersinger?’

John’s hands turned from moist to slippery as he fidgeted with them. His eyes searched the cab. At least three others in the cab looked at him and apparently found this conversation interesting. The others in the cab fell silent and all waited for John to respond, giving him their full attention. A strangling knob tightened around his heart.

    ‘I just wish for another drink.’ John said in his terrible English accent.

The whole cab trembled with the hearty laughing and agreeing. It lightened John’s heart in a miraculous instant. He talked with Uls through the rest of the cab ride and they agreed to meet again in what Uls described as a grand restaurant. And afterwards, John saw his foolish projection of his own shadow on the Irish bleach away in their light. Life was easy when you knew how to live it.

Hazy thoughts brought him back again to the here and now of the apartment. The mixed feelings drifted further ahead, leaving space for happier thoughts. So the cab ride must have been the night before last, John filled in. Why was he living in the past? A further memory intruded on him. Somewhere half way down Dame Street, in a street that stretched out to the Liffey, he met with Uls in a Belgium restaurant, where he enjoyed a terrific meal with mussels and beers brewed out of any fruit imaginable. They talked about the greater things in life, and Uls seemed to John as a bloke without faith or hope for a better future, but with the mindset of making it a bloody good time while he was at it. Shimmering aside his presence, John noticed something in Uls that was difficult to see, as if he wasn’t fully himself. John couldn’t even remember what time and how he got home again when next morning he woke up too late for work and with a splitting headache. One that really hurt. After a horrible day at work he came home again and lovingly embraced his bed. That was… Yesterday?

It was only some hours later when Uls came knocking on his door fit as a fiddle and ready to party again. Yes that was yesterday.

    ‘K’mon! It’s Saturday night! A perfectly good time for drinking in Ireland!’ Uls explained.

    Laughing John let him in. ‘How did last night ended?’ he asked.

    ‘Can’t remember.’ Uls said with an amazing grin.

    John suggested eating some space cake instead of more drinking, and to listen and enjoy some quality music, to satisfy and feed their lust for finer tunes. Uls passed for the cake but asked for the smokeable version. John vaguely remembered building him a medium sized joint, which Uls smoked silently outside referring to the heavens above, gesturing to the stars as if they were old companions long gone. Smiling John noticed: Uls wasn’t accustomed to this kind of cannabis and he quickly fell into a stonedness that seemed to be both enjoyable and blissful. As for John himself, he didn’t change his composure; he just slowly faded far astray into the abyss. Softly smiling and talking they both fell asleep in the living room while Pete Namlook threw sand in their eyes and put stars in the sky as his ambient tones set out in deep space.

Zombie like, John stared into the infinite space of the living room and at the Irishman still snoring on the green couch.

    Then suddenly with a shout that made John startle, Uls awoke. His head buzzed. He found that the house he entered as a pig’s hole was transformed into neatness again. Which music was playing now? A ruddy picture hung hungry for imbalance. In front of him stood a glass of orange juice comforted by a pack of crisps on the side. His head felt dizzy and he couldn’t remember what he had dreamed and if he actually had dreamed. John waited for him to say “I Dreamed of the Dragon!” and stood expectantly at the window like watching the movie, his eyes brimming with aspiration. Uls gripped his head and moaned in general. With a sharp eye he looked up again at the Indian music lover who gave him such a burly smile, that Uls for a brief moment questioned himself if he had done something again the night before he wouldn’t like to be reminded off. Or just never at all. He rubbed his eyes.

    ‘He man, how you doing? Maybe you shouldn’t have smoked so much yesterday, but I guessed you needed the sleep.’ John said.

    Uls still felt uncomfortable at this awakening.

    ‘Err… Yeah. Err… Say, what time…’ Uls said and coughed.

    ‘It’s Sunday.’ John said.

    ‘Fuck me, did I miss Saturday night then?...!’ Gulping down the orange juice and pocketing the packet of crisps in his jacket, he thanked John for a spiffy good night and said he would indeed come by for the party. John answered with a non-understanding look and was immediately reminded by Uls to a promise he’d made to arrange a party night with music. To let people hear some quality music. John took it all in as the red Irishman sped off towards an ill forgotten appointment. The front door of the house banged shut downstairs. Quietness stretched out again in John’s world.

    Moments later John looked out of his window again in to the dirty streets of Ol’ Dublin. He told himself to clean the windows. A quick look to the plate on his side informed him that there wasn’t any space cake left. What colour did it have? He chuckled to himself. Arranging a party. John wasn’t used to actively engaging people into communication ― they just responded to him ― especially not for something as arranging a party. He took out a black marker and smelled it for a moment. On a piece of white paper he wrote down in thick letters MUSIC PARTY. After some mindnumbing he continued with DATE UNKNOWN and PLACE UNKNOWN. From the back of his head he wrote down DJ LINE UP. With loud streaking he marked out the title and wrote with bold letters above it Approved by John Bodhi. After some minutes it occurred to him to call somebody and get things rolling and the violins starting.