Rainy Night in Georgia
Sometimes when I contemplate and really get honest about dreaming. You know really selfish dreaming...I cut through all the shit. I think about what would honestly make me happy. I have a lot of uncertainty on whether anything would really ever make me happy for very long (call me Heisenberg). Or at the very least, what makes me happy now, may not next week. I am a selfish, uncomfortable, anxiety riddled shell of a person. If the call of responsibility did not beckon so loudly, there are a few things I would do for happiness.
One, I would move to New York City. I would rent a shit hole apartment, hang out at a local dive bar, sleep all day, and stay up all night writing. I would do this for five years. I would jump smack dab in the middle f every ounce of debauchery that I could ascertain. At the end, I would leave the city for a farm in the middle of nowhere, grow my own food, leave the electronics and phones behind (except for Coltrane, Steely Dan, Pink Floyd albums), and write, write, write. After another five years, compare the writings, figure out which was better, then take up permanent residence at the winner's locale.
Two, I would love to follow a carnival crew around for a few summers; traveling the country as a carnie. I am sure it's much more work than I romanticize it. I keep getting flashes of old Andy Griffith episodes and how cool the carnies seemed when I was a kid in the early eighties.
Three, drive out to Vegas, sell the car, shack up at the Sarah, and play craps and Blackjack until I had a decent roll or I was bust. Do Vegas the right way....live or die.
Four, I would love to pull a "Rainy Night in Georgia"; made famous by Brook benton and penned by Tony Joe White. I never wanted to spend a rainy night in a box car, reeling over a lost love, until I heard Brook sing that song. His rendition gives me the reassurance to feel that it is "raining all over the world"; sometimes it really is or at least it is to me.