Jason & Phil (Repetition Makes the Sea Strong)

Jason Molina died on March 16th 2013, in Indianapolis, Indiana
He was 39 years old
Phil Hoffman died on February 2nd 2014, in a Greenwich Village apartment,
New York City
He was 46 years old
I love you Jason, I love you Phil, What’s left to do?
I love you Jason, I love you Phil, What’s left to do?
What they were chasing was chasing them
The alcohol and the heroin
Fight fire with fire
But fire will win in the end
Jason Molina was born on December 16th 1973
Did the North Star say, «Kid, you’re so lost even I can’t bring you home.»?
A bit weird but a good guy, a goofball, laughed a lot, hid a lot
How human you wanted to be. What’s up, Jason? Stubborn and smart
With your lens wide open. Too much living. Too much thinking
And you died all alone with nothing but a cell phone in your pocket
And the only number on it was that of your grandmother
You were 39 years old
Phil Hoffman was born on July 23 rd 1967
When you give too much, when you act it all out, what’s left?
When you dive too deep, turn yourself outside in, what’s left?
When you divine the flaws, make unhappiness into art, what’s left?
When you’re drawn to edges, can’t find peace in-between, what’s left?
When the addict in you is stronger than you, what’s left?
Soft spoken and kind, you died with a needle in your arm
You were 46 years old
I love you Jason, I love you Phil, I love you Lou
I love you Jason, I love you Phil. There’s more to do
What they were chasing was chasing them
The alcohol and the heroin
Fight fire with fire
But fire will win in the end
Fight fire with fire
But fire will win in the end
Fight fire with fire
But fire will win in the end
Commotion. Devotion. Rotating spirals of purple delicious meteors.
Savage godliness
Treks a path of loneliness across a gun-barrelled desert, while hunchback hags
hang
From black trees, choked by their candle-stained rosary beads
Sold out but not swayed by the eventuality of the crisis. I pick up an
eleventh-hour
Salvation. (The hairs on my chest curl in disgust.) I walk along and empty
strand, my
Mind wandering to new beginnings. Platitudes. Always fucking platitudes
The waves, opening their foamy mouths, yawn at the monotonous boredom of
Existence. (Repetition makes the sea strong.) Hurricane anxieties. And her?
It was too strong, too fertile. I can cope with banality. Heroin addiction.
All of us
Mainliners of one sort or another
Too many people, that’s the problem. The world has too many fucking people. Too
Many views, too many good guys, bad boys, sad women, mad preachers. They divine
Truth with bulldozers and bibles. Born into an illusion and drown in its stink.
Build me a
Castle
Not alone now. Alone but not alone now. She walks like a soldier.
Out for a walk and
She walks like a fucking soldier. Seriously. Maybe an invasion planned.
An invasion of
My privacy. How dare she! This is my beach. Proves my point. Too many people.
She
Was gracious though. Who? Oh, yes, her. Well, she’s gone. Elegant though.
Did have
Style. Elegant indeed. Passing thoughts. The waves are still there. Waiting.
I should
Have told her something. Anything. Something
What this! A seagull hovering over my head. Don’t shit on me, gull.
Happened once. Not a
Very pleasant experience, I can tell you. Seagull shit or any shit for that
matter. Terrible smell
Unthinkable. How can food turn out that way? What must happen to the other
stuff we take
In? What? A thought? Explosive. Frightening. Our mind is a shithouse.
First class. No doubt
Way ahead of our arse. No competition. Unequal. You’d think they’d go out to
sea. No
Manners. Look at us humans. We’re civilized. Educated. We build our own
shithouses. They
Don’t even use jacks paper. Animals. Who?
Probably the god of seagulls sent this one. I mean, there must be an organizer,
a boss of
Some sorts. Fifty seagulls out to Howth, sixty five to Rush, two hundred to the
city centre. And
You, you stupid gull, out to the North Star. Next time you’ll know better to
fly off without telling
Me. Off now. Go on! And don’t show your measly, miserable, scrawny,
horrible beak around
Here before 7.15 p.m. Did you hear me? Speak up, gull. Then off! Off!
Off you stupid git
Birdwit, birdbrain, birdhole, forthebirds. What a day. Always trouble.
Where’s my dinner?
What a life. Eternity. Who planned this? I never wanted to be god.
Was pushed into it. My father. Too many problems. Too many headaches.
That’s it. Too many seagulls. The world
Has too many fucking seagulls. Where’s my record book? Lonely life being god
Help! Drowning. Swim. Can’t. Paddle. Help! Who? You! Me? Yes, you! Why?
Drowning help. Why? Jesus Christ, help me! I’m not him. Please, please save me!
What’s it worth? Anything, anything. Your life? Water-under-breathe. Yes, yes
Anything. Can’t. Why not?! Stop shouting. Sorry. But please help me. Can’t.
Water-
Drowning-blue-sun-salt-ahhh. Black-black-air-no air-air-no air. Help!
Under-black. Help
Can’t breathe. Help can’t think. Help can’t love. Help can’t live.
Help is hopeless help
He’s laughing at me. He’s laughing at me. He’s laughing at me. Clouds stay away
Stay away. Do you hear me? Do you hear me? Do you hear me?