Post by kezza on Jul 30, 2007 0:11:23 GMT -5
In late 1978, the winter winds howling outside the basement windows of my best friend's house as the snow swirled about, I discovered Queen through A Night At The Opera. I'd heard them in my brother's room, through the door, back in the mid-Seventies, but not really known it until later, the sounds of his attempts to get laid coming through the door and that funny-smelling smoke distracting me from anything but that.
My best friend and I, we spent that winter afternoon frantically exploring one another with naive hands and mouths, my last day of innocence gone with the sounds of a band we all love and adore. There is nothing quite like making out, hot and heavy, to the strains of "I'm In Love With My Car" when it's heard for the first time, that sensuous growling, yowling voice heating up your "carburetor" in the heat of young love and lust.
I had to look and see which band member it was that had done that song, and Lord help me, it was that blond one. The only blond in the band. I'd never cared for blonds, preferring the dark haired studs of the time--Scott Baio, Donny Osmond, Paul McCartney, etc. What was it that made this blond so different?
I never quite knew.
Years passed. My best friend eventually left my life as well. Like Jackie Paper and everyone else in the world, I grew up. While Scott, Donny, Paul and their ilk eventually faded from my life, along with all the Tiger Beats they lived in, Roger and Queen never did.
They got me through so many terrible phases of my life. Abuses and terrors so intimately personal that I can't even describe them now without falling apart (which is why I'm not going to list them here). The seven and a half years of my mother's struggle with bone cancer, and the many years I grieved her afterward. The loss of a child and the resultant grief.
And my savior through the hurt was this image I had of a blond haired angel, taking me into his arms and protecting me from all harm. To some, this might seem psychotic or less than normal, but people in prison camps and such places have done this for centuries, envisioned a loved one when going through tumultous pain.
The music kept me propelled forward, gave me strength to reach many, many personal goals that are minor to others, immense to me. Sometimes I was angry that he was so far away, unable to know what I was going through or even care about it, but the love never completely faded away.
For a time recently, I thought I'd lost my golden angel, as I'd lost the world went grey and music stopped touching me. Life was a flat, barren existence of nothing but nightmares and pain. But there is a flicker in there, deep inside, that reminds me the flame has not died. I am tending to that fire as I heal within, knowing that someday, it will again burn brightly and I will feel the love completely once more.
Almost twenty-nine years and there has been no looking back.
And now that I've put you all to sleep, wake up and have a nice day.
My best friend and I, we spent that winter afternoon frantically exploring one another with naive hands and mouths, my last day of innocence gone with the sounds of a band we all love and adore. There is nothing quite like making out, hot and heavy, to the strains of "I'm In Love With My Car" when it's heard for the first time, that sensuous growling, yowling voice heating up your "carburetor" in the heat of young love and lust.
I had to look and see which band member it was that had done that song, and Lord help me, it was that blond one. The only blond in the band. I'd never cared for blonds, preferring the dark haired studs of the time--Scott Baio, Donny Osmond, Paul McCartney, etc. What was it that made this blond so different?
I never quite knew.
Years passed. My best friend eventually left my life as well. Like Jackie Paper and everyone else in the world, I grew up. While Scott, Donny, Paul and their ilk eventually faded from my life, along with all the Tiger Beats they lived in, Roger and Queen never did.
They got me through so many terrible phases of my life. Abuses and terrors so intimately personal that I can't even describe them now without falling apart (which is why I'm not going to list them here). The seven and a half years of my mother's struggle with bone cancer, and the many years I grieved her afterward. The loss of a child and the resultant grief.
And my savior through the hurt was this image I had of a blond haired angel, taking me into his arms and protecting me from all harm. To some, this might seem psychotic or less than normal, but people in prison camps and such places have done this for centuries, envisioned a loved one when going through tumultous pain.
The music kept me propelled forward, gave me strength to reach many, many personal goals that are minor to others, immense to me. Sometimes I was angry that he was so far away, unable to know what I was going through or even care about it, but the love never completely faded away.
For a time recently, I thought I'd lost my golden angel, as I'd lost the world went grey and music stopped touching me. Life was a flat, barren existence of nothing but nightmares and pain. But there is a flicker in there, deep inside, that reminds me the flame has not died. I am tending to that fire as I heal within, knowing that someday, it will again burn brightly and I will feel the love completely once more.
Almost twenty-nine years and there has been no looking back.
And now that I've put you all to sleep, wake up and have a nice day.