Radiating pain again and again with each gentle stroke. Down, and down. Till each thought found their sad comfort nesting place deep within my center. How long have I tried? Twelve? Maybe thirteen years? How many songs had I written? How many albums had I paid for? Written, recorded, designed, then presented hopeful, complete, bold. Then watch them dissipate into pointless. How many times had I re-formed the band only to re-form, again? Then again. How many times had I broken my hands? Both of them. Blind with despair and rage. Three times? Four? Against stud and plaster. Floor and door jambs. Broken enough times that Lynette no-longer came to comfort. Now, she only turns to leave. Stupid for spending all this money! Stupid for dragging Lynette along! Stupid to think I could make this all work again. Fucking, fucking, stupid! And my thoughts cycle. And I look up. And I see the stars. And the stars made me stop. "Lynn! Look! The stars, I don't recognize anything!" They crowded the sky. She looks at me. I continue, "Nothing! No 'Big Dipper,' no um... What's that guy with the belt?" "Orion." Lynette says, now looking up. "Yeah, Orion. Nothing. It's all different." "It's because we're in the southern hemisphere, honey." 13
PRØOF Magazine's third issue explores the relationships that exist between music, art, and literature.