Page 18 of Ambiguous
Sand. More sand. If I write about rough sand, though, I risk sounding likeStar Wars: Episode II. Better not go so literal.
Not like I’m writing anything right now, anyway.
Mary had a little lamb.
Once upon a midnight dreary.
There once was a man from Nantucket.
I sigh. When I was with my old band, we collaborated on our songs, messing around in the studio for weeks on end until we came up with lyrics and music we all liked. Now I’m on my own—my current band members are great musicians, but they’re not songwriters—and I’m not really in touch with the other Paradise boys.
I dial my best friend, James Winterthorn. He’s known me since before everything and now lives in California, too, although he’s up the coast a bit.
“Mate,” I say, “what do you know about writing songs?”
“Not a thing.”
“Hmm.” I scratch the back of my neck. “You’re no help.”
“What’s going on?”
I sigh and stare at the water. “I’m a bloke on the beach being forced to write.”
“Sounds like a rough life.”
I deserve that remark. “Sod off. Wanker.”
He chuckles. “You could start there.”
“With a wank?”
He sputters. “No! Well, I dunno, maybe that would be a good idea. But I meant, start with complaining about being forced to write.”
I tilt my head and think about it. “That sounds annoying.”
“So don’t whinge on about it. Just say what it feels like. That you’re more than a tool to make other people money. That you wish they’d treat you like an individual and not a commodity.” I can hear his shrug over the phone. “It’d be a ‘fuck you’ to the label.”
My head starts nodding before my voice can catch up. “You’re brilliant.”
“I know.”
“I have a thought. Oh my god,” I say in a rush. “Sorry, James. I want to capture this idea before it evaporates.”
“Fine,” he says. “I understand. Anything else I can help you with?”
“Not now,” I say. “I think you’ve given me something. I’ll call you later, okay?”
“Glad to be of service.”
We hang up, and I begin pacing and talking into the recorder, lyrics and ideas about selling myself to the machine that just wants to monetize me. I don’t know how long I’m out on the beach. By the time I head back to my house, I have the outline of something that might work.
I linger outside, thinking of Sam and his backbone and kindness.
Then I reread his texts, starting with the first from the other day.
Sam: I received your text, Julian.
Five words. So amusing.
