Cliche'd
As he talks the cigar smoke swirls from his lips. His head blocks the light of a porch lamp, the only light in the summer night. It makes for that effect where his head is covered in a silhoutte of beaming yellow light, but I can't see his face.
"The perfect cliche momment right now," he says.
We're all sitting outside, in the summer night, and he plays "Wonderwall" by Oasis on his guitar and we all listen.
"The perfect song, though."
"Wonderwall" can debatably be the quintessential song of our generation; that perfect song that everyone knows and everyone knows the words to and everyone wants to hear at a moment like this, and that any able guitar player will play at a momment like this. The song touches everyone. Has that special feeling for everyone. Maybe it saves everyone. Makes them all think about their wonderwall.
I don't believe anybody in the entire world feels the way we do, here, right now. That's what the song does to you.
He puffs on his cigar and tells me about his upcoming trip to California. I was born in California, haven't been back since. Does that mean I'm from California, I think? But I don't say it because I'm not in the mood for back porch philosophies on just who I am.
Wonderwall is kept strung in the air, with a chorus of cricketts to go along with it.
Nobody really talks, they just jabber. I don't really talk, I just listen and watch as his cigar smoke spirals and is swallowed up by the moonlight. I'm quiet. I feel peaceful.
As he plays I begin to sing the second verse, "All the roads we have to walk are winding...," and I think about another time I sat and sang this song, in Mexico, two years ago.
Needed to get away then, find some sort of wonderwall, I remember. That was a winding road, a blinding light. Mexico was a wonderwall.
I remember there were four of us: my Colombian friend and two Swedish girls we met at a bar the night before and me one warm night. We were walking down one of the allies in the quaint little tourist town of Playa Del Camren. Near the end of the Cobblestone road was a bar and we walked in and after I walked in I noticed that I was the only blonde-haired, fair-skinned person in a room full of 20 or 30 Mexicans. The two Swedes were burnette and both had a very defined sun tan. I've never been a minority.
We sat down and eyes followed me to the table. The owner of the bar, short and grey-haired who spoke good English, came over. He had a guitar in his hand.
"Those guys," he pointed to a table of Mexicans looking at me, "want you to play."
I've never played a guitar in my life. I wanted to tell him, but didn't know how on account I only speak German and English. My Colombian friend chatted him up and smiled after a few jokes that a lot of other people laughed at but where I only sat and listened and faked a grin because I had no idea what was going on. My friend took the guitar and began stringing Wonderwall, the only song anybody really would play in the middle of a Mexican bar, of course, and I sang the lyrics because everyone in the whole entire world born in my generation knows those lyrics - even the Mexicans - and as I sang everyone in the room listen and smiled, but didn't talk because, when you hear wonderwall, especially the acoustic version, you don't talk and only think and smile and remember that time you found your wonderwall. Even in Mexico you just listen.
Like tonight, on the porch.
Everyone on the porch was now smoking and talking and I leaned back in my chair and undid the wrapper of a piece of chewing gum. Gum has become my cigarette. I didn't talk.
There are a lot of things I think I'd like to say, but don't know how.
Like in Mexico.
I began singing again, as my friend played.
"And there are many things that I'd like to say to you, but I don't know how...."
"The perfect cliche momment right now," he says.
We're all sitting outside, in the summer night, and he plays "Wonderwall" by Oasis on his guitar and we all listen.
"The perfect song, though."
"Wonderwall" can debatably be the quintessential song of our generation; that perfect song that everyone knows and everyone knows the words to and everyone wants to hear at a moment like this, and that any able guitar player will play at a momment like this. The song touches everyone. Has that special feeling for everyone. Maybe it saves everyone. Makes them all think about their wonderwall.
I don't believe anybody in the entire world feels the way we do, here, right now. That's what the song does to you.
He puffs on his cigar and tells me about his upcoming trip to California. I was born in California, haven't been back since. Does that mean I'm from California, I think? But I don't say it because I'm not in the mood for back porch philosophies on just who I am.
Wonderwall is kept strung in the air, with a chorus of cricketts to go along with it.
Nobody really talks, they just jabber. I don't really talk, I just listen and watch as his cigar smoke spirals and is swallowed up by the moonlight. I'm quiet. I feel peaceful.
As he plays I begin to sing the second verse, "All the roads we have to walk are winding...," and I think about another time I sat and sang this song, in Mexico, two years ago.
Needed to get away then, find some sort of wonderwall, I remember. That was a winding road, a blinding light. Mexico was a wonderwall.
I remember there were four of us: my Colombian friend and two Swedish girls we met at a bar the night before and me one warm night. We were walking down one of the allies in the quaint little tourist town of Playa Del Camren. Near the end of the Cobblestone road was a bar and we walked in and after I walked in I noticed that I was the only blonde-haired, fair-skinned person in a room full of 20 or 30 Mexicans. The two Swedes were burnette and both had a very defined sun tan. I've never been a minority.
We sat down and eyes followed me to the table. The owner of the bar, short and grey-haired who spoke good English, came over. He had a guitar in his hand.
"Those guys," he pointed to a table of Mexicans looking at me, "want you to play."
I've never played a guitar in my life. I wanted to tell him, but didn't know how on account I only speak German and English. My Colombian friend chatted him up and smiled after a few jokes that a lot of other people laughed at but where I only sat and listened and faked a grin because I had no idea what was going on. My friend took the guitar and began stringing Wonderwall, the only song anybody really would play in the middle of a Mexican bar, of course, and I sang the lyrics because everyone in the whole entire world born in my generation knows those lyrics - even the Mexicans - and as I sang everyone in the room listen and smiled, but didn't talk because, when you hear wonderwall, especially the acoustic version, you don't talk and only think and smile and remember that time you found your wonderwall. Even in Mexico you just listen.
Like tonight, on the porch.
Everyone on the porch was now smoking and talking and I leaned back in my chair and undid the wrapper of a piece of chewing gum. Gum has become my cigarette. I didn't talk.
There are a lot of things I think I'd like to say, but don't know how.
Like in Mexico.
I began singing again, as my friend played.
"And there are many things that I'd like to say to you, but I don't know how...."
posted by Chris Miles at 10:55 PM
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