The Ballad of Rust Cohle

One night, in 2002, I was on assignment in Norfolk, standing between five men who’d made hip-hop hits that I considered timeless. One of them, muscled, gangsta, a thug sex symbol, stood to my left. One of my beat-making heroes was in the VIP booth behind me.

A swirl struck that hot and cramped space. A pistol was raised less then ten feet away. Maybe three men stood between me and the loaded barrel. The trigger got pulled. One man went down.

A voice that was not my own told me to kick out the emergency exit, which I did. The faded star to the left followed my lead and we raced down the alley. For some reason the gunman continued to fire behind us outside the club (or at least it seemed that way). Panic ensued. We ran in five different directions until a phone call opened the sliding door that led us to safety.

I was supposed to cover that tour for a few more days. But something told me to go home, that I wasn’t safe where I was, that I didn’t belong there. So I left. In a way that changed everything for me.

But that wasn’t the truth. The truth was that the Divine had been testing me. If I hadn’t listened, if hadn’t moved, then that was my time to go. But that wasn’t the choice I made.

Some of us belong here, and others there, a counter-clockwise cycle that never ends for the light of old and heavies ready to get brand new at a moment’s notice. In the great chain of being we end up playing all the parts, both light and dark. Winter is almost Spring. New doors are opening and closing at the center of a spinning circle. #TrueDetective