Welcome to the latest edition of the Fog Chaser newsletter—sharing a new original instrumental song + photos every month. (previous issue: shadow of a cloud)
For the Dezso family.
Hazy desert nights, soft with the dissipating heat. Creosote, wood smoke, and orange blossom float out across the wide desert basin. Late night drives through dark open spaces, a rush of unexpected cool air through the window as you dip into the interrupted path of a death-dry creek bed, staring out into headlighted horizons underneath a canopy of stars. Looming mountains like islands in the sky. Expanse. Only expanse.
A couple of weeks ago I found out that an old friend of mine was in the hospital and that the prognosis wasn’t good.
It had probably been 20 years since I had last spoken with John; I didn’t even have his number. I got it from another friend and texted him. He called me immediately. The gap fell away.
There was a pivotal time in both of our lives when we were inseparable, bound together by a love of music, weed, and a general post-high school malaise that we really didn’t understand but were navigating together. Jobs, responsibilities, ambitions, aspirations, confusions, frustrations, fears, failures.
We spoke briefly on the phone, he animatedly from his hospital bed, telling me he felt great. I didn’t know what was wrong with him — I still don’t know what ailed him. We didn’t get into it. We reminisced. “Remember the time we crashed right into the back of that car?” Of course, I said.
He told me how many of our old friends had been reaching out to him, visiting him, and how happy he was to hear from so many people. I was glad, but it also broke my heart. Where had we all gone? Scattered to the wind like dandelion seeds. The call was short. He had to go, the doctor had come.
I didn’t hear from John again after we spoke. He passed away just two weeks later. He was 41 years old.
Even though John and I had lost touch over the years, as happens, I often wondered how he was; did he ever get out of the fog and dark that shrouded us those years we spent wandering, aimless, stumbling through Tucson, lost. Stoned. Alone, but together. We turned inward, each of us for different reasons, but we knew the other was right there. Our paths ran parallel at this crucial time, until they veered and took us our different ways.
John was hilarious, smart. He was such a good hang. He loved music, especially hip hop, was a good rapper himself, and we’d spend hours listening to rap together. Mind you, this was the era of Eminem’s rise, which, for a white kid from nowhere who was also an aspiring rapper as he was, was a promising time. John loved Slim Shady, and he loved diving into the lyrical gymnastics of the great rappers of that era. He appreciated a smart turn of phrase, a witty remark, a razor-sharp dis. I also remember him having an absurdly extensive DVD collection. He was enthusiastic, always up for an adventure. He helped get me one of my first jobs as a dishwasher at an assisted living place where he was a cook. A lot of our friends worked there as servers, but I chose to work in the back washing dishes because I could have a radio and be left alone. No one bothered the dishwasher.
There was a stretch of time where I started referring to him as the “Boss” — he just had this way about him. We all sort of orbited around his aura, his charisma. John had a way of making you feel good about who you were; he made you feel like your jokes were funny, your insights deep.
For a time, he and our friend Addam had a house together, which, since we were all just out of high school, gave us a lot of freedom we had previously lacked. I think we spent more time in that house than anywhere else. Fittingly, their house was on a street called Pastime; it certainly became mine. Those days are a bit of a blur now, but I can easily cast my mind’s eye back to those long desert nights that felt like they’d never end; the endless parade of all my favorite people circulating through that house: Damon, Tyndall, Mikey, Thanh, Noah, Griff, Nate, Brian, Jon, Evan, Jenna, Chelsea, Jamie, Shelby, Jodi, Crystal. So many others, pulled into this orbit. Too many to name. It was a revolving door. A party on what seemed like almost every night. Memory is so unreliable — was this a summer? A whole year? I may have been in a dark place personally, but those people kept me going. Especially John.
🎵 This month’s piece is in D major.1
I wrote this one for JDeezy and for what he gave me all those years ago: friendship, companionship, a shoulder to lean on, someone to look up to. In some ways, I miss those days. From here I can see that it was only a moment in time, a fragment, and we can’t go back. None of us can. But lately I find myself dipping into these memories like that road through the creek bed, feeling the temperature change ever so slightly.
John, I hope you like this little groove and, wherever you are, get to lay down a little flow. RIP my friend.
📷 This month’s photo was taken at dusk in the Sonoran Desert.2
I invite you to sit with this month’s song, photo, and poem and make them a small part of your day, whether that’s your morning ritual, afternoon break, or your evening wind-down.
As always, if you feel like it, let me know what you think in the comments. I’d love to hear from you.
Thank you for being here.
blessing the boats
by Lucille Clifton
(at St. Mary’s)
may the tide
that is entering even now
the lip of our understanding
carry you out
beyond the face of fear
may you kiss
the wind then turn from it
certain that it will
love your back may you
open your eyes to water
water waving forever
and may you in your innocence
sail through this to that
🔒 For paid subscribers:
Wed., August 27: the wellspring, a monthly round-up of my inspirations (check out last month’s issue)
Maybe another video at some point
Until then, I’ll see you in the comments.
night sketch / Written, performed, and produced by Fog Chaser.
As a reminder: while some of my songs are eventually released on streaming platforms, others are not. Either way, all of my songs are shared here with you first.
Shot on Sony a6700 / Saguaro National Park, Arizona, USA.
