My dream denim jacket is one I can wear open. There are buttons down the middle -no snaps, just buttons, metal – and a patch of Captain Janeway on the back – the entire back. It’s one of those badass season one promo photos of her, with the bun. She is smirking at the camera, like she knows how smart and cool she is. The denim is washed out slightly, but not too much. It pulls off a nice light blue and is not dark. I would wear that jacket every day of my life. There is something about the rough terrain of something so plain and using it like a canvas to make your art, to post your own signifiers onto it like a bulletin of board of Self. To scream, “Hey this is me!” at each and every turn, so you would repel those who don’t get it and attract those who do. It is porcupine skin. It is a tattooed second skin.
The tug from the sides, fitted on the sleeves – not too loose, not too tight. I want it to fit my body like a glove. I want it to look cool when I take it off and lie it down, folded on the couch in a green room of a venue where I will someday play. I will refuse to wash it. It will be my good luck charm. I will wear it to my wedding. It will smell like a dirty beer can, or a microphone SM58 in any nondescript venue. It will come down to my hips, past my waist.
The one I have now is good. I enjoy it and have enjoyed it. But the zipper is to the side, it is baggy up top and stretchy all over. The pockets are non satisfying, not function. They are strangely decorative, uneven, and not big enough. But I still hold on to it, still wear it. It is my practice canvas. My jacket in-training. Something I wear when the November chill comes around. Something to wear to shows that is an extra layer but won’t make me perspire or pay for coat check when I go to shows. Visions of a future I cannot see anymore.
When I put myself back into these memories, I taste the bitterness of a high percentage IPA while I adjust my earplugs and listen to the opening band play. I can be by myself and it is fine because when I go with others, the music is so loud and we can’t talk anyway. It’s even a chore to speak in between sets and before I know it, my voice is hoarse and ragged. And the next day I am hungover and not eager about speaking for awhile.
I want the cuffs of my sleeves to come right to the wrist.