Songs From the Phenomenal Nothing by Steven Luna

Author:Steven Luna [Luna, Steven]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Booktrope
Published: 2013-08-09T00:00:00+00:00

TWENTY-SIX

HARLAN

IT SEEMS LIKE the four hundred miles I drove in the past eight hours is nothing compared to the next fifteen minutes. I think the difference is that I came all this way not knowing if I really would even find him in the place where I thought he’d be, where the website said he was. The chance was always slim that he’d have remained in the same situation for all this time. I took a shot.

It seems like it’s going to pay off.

I’ve had a lot of time to process the details, and now that I have a fact or two, I’ve put together a slightly different image. A man who made big things happen for himself in music, found another calling right in the middle of it all and decided to step away to explore his spirituality instead. If I were reading it from the outside, I would think it was a rock and roll cliché. But somehow in light of who this person is to me now, it sounds noble, almost admirable. And this surprises me.

I’m usually much more sensible than this.

I’m sure I want him to be something so far beyond what I’ve known as a father, something much closer to what I am, as a proving point for the connection.

To justify me, as much as to explain him.

I just want to know where the link is.

Music is an obvious, a huge overlap. I’m listening to his songs again now, at top volume. My father’s music.

Over and over and over.

I know it’s not good for me to be building him up so much. Not yet, anyway.

I try to dial it down a bit.

I’m convincing myself that his time on the commune was great, but he opted for a more real-world life. Not as real-world as the one Tom has, grounded in heavy metal pieces and motor oil. But a small-town, rural life. Take the peace you’ve created with your own two hands and give it back to the world in ways they’ll understand.

Another song line, maybe.

I wonder now if he’s still creative, if maybe he plays in small places, only for a handful of people at a time. Maybe he goes by another name to keep the attention down. Or maybe he doesn’t need to, because maybe if you give it enough time and distance, eventually everyone forgets who you were, who you used to be. No matter how still alive you actually are.

I think of my mother. If it’s so easy to forget someone who’s still in the world, how easy must it be to forget someone who’s left it completely?

I promise myself—and her—that I’ll never forget her.

I have her journal now. I have the truth.

I have my father.

Almost, anyway.

I find the town, I find the street the pot farmer had me feed into my phone, I find the address. It’s an apartment building. Beyond run-down. It’s practically falling apart. I imagine now that he’s here because he does some kind of outreach, that he

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