"Mamas, don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys
Don't let them pick guitars and drive big old trucks
Make them be doctors and lawyers and such.
Mammas don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys
They'll never stay home and they're always alone
Even with someone they love."
has been in my head all week, and right now i am wrapping up the sterling lone star buckel for perez' graduation gift. ( Lone Star belt buckles and old faded Levis And each night begins a new day....)
but more importantly i would like to make a few notes for myslef on the true purpose of my trip to the lone star state. because, like everything else i do, it quickly becomes faded and blured into what i did just and what i am about to do.
first things first. being emplyed as a photographer for an event such as a southtexas wedding, you (at least i) was in a postion to truley apprecieate the chracter of a place that still has character. at teh reception, as i sat beside patrick, the ordained man of god who presided over the union of my friends, picking at pile of barbecue on my plate, i watched the cowboy boots two-step across the pavillion dance floor like the bouncing dot across the lyrics to a kareokee machine. and these lyrics were to the tune of weylon jennings. patrick was the only man of color at the wedding, and to my knowledge the only black man in the state of texas.
we had some good conversation between bites of beef brisket and shiner boch, mostly of how much the wedding liscnese cost and how much people make such a big deal out of weddings. but i never really sat down for too long, becasue as the photgrapher for the evening, i was required to get all the essentails: the cuting of the cake: the boquet toss: the first dance: and the like.
the ceremony was outside along the onion creek about 10 miles from wimberly, the home towns of brandon and lydia. "this is hill country" one of the guests told me. "its not like west texas, or like it is over by dallas."
and it was beautiful: rolling hills of cedar and some sort of oak with their low crowns and spreading arms that creeped low over the road and the cactus and tall grass. i imagined myself to be in some small geographic pocket of the country, until i realized that both west texas and dallas were both still in same area of the state but several hundred miles of this hill country sat between them.
after the F350 duely-limo took brandon and lydia down the road under the oaks and into the night; my job was over. and before the 1995 boneville took me north into austin. i took a deep breath, admired the cowboys pissing behind their trucks, and their cowgirls sitting on the tailgates in their dresses, and smiled. it makes me happy to know that while not everbody there was of the same texas style walk of life, there were those who still look and dress and talk and, i hope live a somewhat unique style of life.
{during this time, i chose to ignore the guy in his (brand new) black truck with his black cowboy talking in his cell phone giving directions.."y'all gonna pass the mcdonalds and take a left at the home depot....."}
god bless my version of texas.
I was spread eagle on my back, and completly naked.
And why not? 8:00 AM alone in my very own kingsize bed in my very own hotel room in the Austin-Omni hotel.
She must have knocked reaal quietly because i never heard her coming. My first morning in Austin and the first thing i see is a short round maid looking at me.
"aye carumba/ senor senor / ĄSoy muy arrepentido! "
Hello Texas.
The previous night was spent in the back seat of a 1995 boneville careening through east Autsin's culde-sac's and changing lanes on I-35 and Ben White about as smoothly as the Pat Green cd was skipping in the stereo.
Aside from the entire city under heavy road constructuion, making me 45 minutes late to the wedding i was there to photograph, i have come to learn someting new.
Austin texas is the new Eden of audio.
At least during the South by southwest music festival.
After my wake-up call saturday morning i was picked up by the 1995 boneville and it's driver, Jana -- one of the many very nice texans i met this weekend. We met ryan (another very nice texan i met this weekend) for some tex-mex and then hit congress ave. I left my fate soley up to these two Austin Natives and got a very good tour.
I, if nothing else am very aware that i am a commidity. And the more i see in this life i am reminded of that. but even knowing that, i have fun in austin saturday. the grass was green the sky was bright and the sun was shining. and every one in town was the next big thing. Ryan Adams was talking to Sheryl Crow on every corner. Every one was hip. and there was music everywhere. there was even good music being made at the used car lot/car loan office with the rt. 66-esqe rusted neon sign.
In chicago, the women wear kate spade purses under their arms.
In columbus women carry Wendy's fast food sacks.
In Austin women wear gutiars on their backs.
15,000 bands were in town. yes, someone actually counted them. Ben Harper happend to show up to play at the Waterloo record store. Liz Phiar played at the starbucks (though that doesn't narrow down the venue very much) willlie rolled in. Jay farrar was strumming. the jayhawks were there. so was chris mills and vic chesnutt. along with the 14,990 some other bands, almost all of which i have never heard of, and mostly, i am told, unsigned and waiting to be found.
So as we rolled down congress ave., due south of the unions' largest state captiol building, (leave it to texas) my new friends helped me look for the perfect thrift store-shirt souviner, even though i am quite sure they weren't as interested as i was in the search. and there were some fine gene-autry style cowboy shirts to be had.
but the best was wandering around among the scene. 50's hot rods, harley's and tatoos were all on parade. cowboy boots and chuck taylor's stood side by side. cowboy hats and roy orbison glasses conversed. and all sported slim fitting vintage wardrobes, being cool in the hot texas sun.
i am a commodity.
i ate. and bought. but hell, so did the rock n' roll stars.
This is being written on the inside of a vomit bag on and MD-80 at 33,000' over the fine state of Tennessee. Normally i would cram these thoughts in the empty spaces of my mind, and purge them every so often into this contraption. But right now, i can't bear to let myself see the wretched situation i am trapped in. I need a distraction.
So instead of reading the Skymall or the pictorial step by step instructions for surviving an airplane crash over open water (for the third time), here i write.
I have to keep my head down and keep writing. I can't look up. If i dare do, i know what i will see. Since take-off, there has been a guy 5 rows up who keeps picking at a scab right square on top of the bald patch on his head. It is horribly agonizing for me to watch. But i can't help but to notice. I am quite sure i am the only one here that sees this. and right now it is the only thing that i can think about in this entire universe. It is not so much that is downright disgusting, but more because of the whole anticipation of him reaching up and feeling around for it and scraping his skull once his fumbling fingers find it. I am sitting here finding my ownself countng down from 60. Because i know it is coming. Every minuite almost to the second since we have left houston, he futily tries to fool himself that he is just going to nonchalantly reach up and flatten what is left of his hair. Then he starts put his arm down. But he is not fooling me. Because then, like clockwork, he goes back for his true target.
Fumble. Find. Scratch. Pick.
I can feel his obsession. I know if his hand isn't up there digging into his exposed cranium, he is wanting to. and now somehow, sickenly, i am wanting him to too. I don't know what is worse: watching him pick that wretched scab; or not, and knowing he wants to. I can't see his face. But if i could i know i would see a desparate man. All this man is to me is an anoyomous bald scalp. and a scab. with a hand. that pops up every minute on the minute.
Fumbles. Finds. Scratches. Picks.
And i hate it.
i have nothing else to say. but i have to keep writing. have to keep my head down. I know, with every ounce of certainty in my bones, that if i look up that hand will be picking at that scab. or worse. it won't be. and will have to wait until it does. jesus christ this must be hell. or at least purgatory.
i want this to stop. i wish this airbus would plummet from the sky and crash. but over water. because i know just what to do when it does.
sam was sitting in the back seat talking. i was talking back into the windshield like sam was my invisible conscious.
[i am finding that driving is another oppurtuntiy to show proof of the volitivity of an idle mind ]
We were returning from a class documentary project where we interveiwed a couple who had both had cancer. I was thinking about one thing the wife said in particular. "The most important part of living is the relationships you have with people important to you."
We also talked about hitchhiking. Sam told me of his travels to Washington DC by way of his thumb. And i told him of the best day i ever had: My 23rd birthday when stephey i and woke up on top of the contiental U.S. and ended with hitchhiking from Leadville to Brekenridge with a whitewater rafter named steve who was listening to John Denver and headed to the steamboat bluegrass festival, while my jeep sat in a snowfield at 13,000' on mosquito pass, until we returned the following morning and spent our 4th of july almost 3 miles high digging my ride out of the snow (which had, and still has, a partially torn off bumper from the mountian man trying to pull it out). I told sam how good it is to truly live adventures and how great it is to live them with friends.
"The most important part of living is the relationships you have with people important to you."
We talked about the mountians and snowboarding. " i would like to go snowboarding with you sometime." Sam said. "When i came to denver last year we never ended up getting together on the mountian."
i remember the call. 5:00 am 2 winter's ago. the yellow curtain is what i remember most about that bedroom on 32nd ave. in denver. It was what i was staring at as sam talked to me through the phone. " We are on our way to Keystone. Meet us there later."
2 years later driving down a windy road in vinton county ohio that same voice was talking to me in the back seat.
i will never remember what i did that day instead of meeting sam to snowboard. All I can remember that as i hung up the phone that moring i was sure that what i was going to do instead was a worthy way to spend a sunday.
i suddenly realized that i will never know where my life will take me. I never imagined that i would be here. that sam would be in the back seat. i suddenly realized that shared memories trascend time. and space. i suddenly realized that how much more that day would have meant to both of us if i had met him to snowboard together, and how much it would still mean today driving down a curvy road in vinton county ohio. i suddenly realized memories are all i have. And that they will continue to be food for an interesting life long after they are made.
But i didn't go. and instead of a memory that we could haved shared today, I have nothing. What did i do that day? go buy something. go to work. do something i thought was important. but i didn't do anything that i will ever remember. so all i could say to sam was: " we'll get together next time."
"The most important part of living is the relationships you have with people important to you."
i can remember every breath of every minute of that day with stephey. Even the breaths that we had to work hard to get. I remember the sunrise through the tent and it's reflection in twin lakes. I remeber the guy who worked at the leadville cycle shop we met at the top of mt. elbert, and him unlocking the back door the that cycle shop later that day to let us use the phone. I remember every bump in the road and every story told riding back down the pass in the mountian man's orange izusu trooper. I remeber the mosquitos in the aspen trees, the blood on my knees, and the taste of the beer at the boomtown brewpub. I remember, and still have, the paper placemat from quincy's steak house stephey used to make a sign he held up along rt. 24 that reads "TO BRECK"....
and i remember nothing of the day i didn't meet up with sam. and it took 2 years and many hundred miles to understand the difference between them.
"The most important part of living is the relationships you have with people important to you."
It is very hard for me to enjoy the moment. I wish i didn't think so much about things. That makes it hard for me to let go and enjoy feelings instead of thoughts. Like my wet dog in the back seat, the glimpse of spring that was blowing in through my window, the good music i was hearing , the low sun in my eyes, or even the girl sitting beside me. Sure it was a great day, well is was a fun day. --going to marietta to drop off midterm grades to the college seemed like a fitting excuse to drive in the sunny weather and see what we could find.
And what we found were 50 cent mesh back hats, an invitaion to the marietta blues festival, some gutiar strings, a lite-bright, the largest pile of backwater-rivertrash (which was so thick prada thought was it was solid ground and tried to walk across it, hence her moist stench in the back) 5' bungee cords-2 for 2 dollars, an education and invitation to the parkersburg W.Va genealogy society, a harley davison belt buckle, and a (6$) diamond ring.
I can remember the feelings that come from surreal wandering. The feelings that come without thought. Today was one of those days. Only when i was not very much youger these days seemed to to mean so much more, almost like they were magic. Maybe what was magic was my ability to only feel what was in front of me, to not think about all the invisible issues, and to just be happy with where i was, and what i am.
I wish i had a switch. Then today i would turn off the newspaper-stand headlines i can't help but read. I would turn off the credit card statements. I would turn off the storage warning on my email account. I would turn off the deadlines for school, I would turn off my concern for the lack of digits to left of the decimal point in my bank account. I would turn off the commitments i make that make me committed to everyone but myslef.
And i would enjoy the mesh back hats, my wet dog, the girl, this secret spring day, and let myself feel the world i lived in today.
i would like to comment further on one happening this past weekend. and it has nothing to do with booze, girls, or scandelous behavior. in fact it happened during the daylight, in relative sobriety, and while doing constructive, physical labor.
well, strike that one comment, it does have to do with a girl...
my dad stayed at our cabin friday night, over a sirlion dinner at jack's steak house in logan, woody and i agreed to come to the cabin to help him cut firewood the next moring. woody is a good friend, and has always helped me and my family. i think he is also my friend because he finds enjoymnet and solice in things like working outdoors, using his hands, chiansaws, four-wheel drive, ropes, chains and sleds, and would likley do it even it it were not for the benefit of others. so after a solid night of debachery which left little room for sleep, he, perez (you can fill in the same thoughts for he as woody here) me, prada and his dog kiaya went to the cabin to cut some wood.
after pulling several sleds full of cut logs across the lake from 2 fallen red oaks up on the east hillside, we all decided that our time would be better spent if we could fall an old dead tree that had lived just off the bank of the lake much closer to the cabin. it was smaller around and was still standing, so it was drier and could feasilby be cut to fall out onto the ice where handling it would be much easier. while it was smaller, it was still easily 80 feet tall and well over a foot in diameter at it's base. it was leaning up hill so dad had to notch is severly to get it to fall over the lake rather than up the bank. in addition, perez, mike and i had to tie my old climbing rope around the tree as high as we could and, standing some 100 feet out on the lake, dug in our heels and pulled like hell. eventually pulling changed to repated tugs as the tree began to bounce back and forth. dad had notched the tree just short or falling, and as we timed our pulls with the giant moaning and swaying of the dead oak, it started to crack and scream it's last dignity as a standing tree.
it's mass was emmese. i am not good at math but since this expierence i have looked into just how much weight fell that day. i think the answer can be found here if i ever become so inclined to find out. we weren't exaclty sure if the ice was thick enough not break on impact when the beast fell, or if the tree were to fall on the ice at all. but given all of our attitudes that morning and the events leading us to be pulling on a tree with a rope towards us while standing on ice in the middle of the woods, no one seemed to care much. finally the momentum cracked the base and our rope fell slack. everything became silent as gravity took over. we all stood in awe as that relic of the landscape came falling out onto the frozen lake.
as we watched it's descent we all suddenly had a feeling of sickening terror catch the corner of our eye. kiaya had walked out onto the white frozen field of ice to see what all of our yelling and straining was for.
sometimes i feel like things happen that are so close to having very different outcomes that they must be deliberate. like they must serve some purpose. sort of like when i was younger and played mercy with my freinds. there was always something about being taken to the brink of pure pain that kept you feeling real.
"kiaya" woody called out... she looked at him innocently. she was just standing there. not even facing us. she was facing the tree and just standing still. she never moved.
100,000 variables made that tree fall on that day. 100,000 more made it fall where it did, and an infinite amout beyond that said a young golden retiever would be standing right where it was to fall. was it how dad cut the notch? was it how we were pulling just so on the rope? was it a hardened spot in the grain from some beaver's teeth at the beggining of the last century?
no matter what, it fell where it did. my stomach throbbed with a nausous gasp. the tree pummelled into the ice with a thunderous explosion that made 6 acres of ice cringe below us. and there was kiaya. she never moved.
i dont think i blinked. but maybe my body made me. all i know is that when i could see again she was standing there. the battered tree was entombed in a deep gash in the upper half foot of snow and ice that lay 6 inches to her right.
for a moment no one moved. not even her. suddenly she wimpered away as the echo roared through the valley. her foot prints were less that a hands width from the last 10 feet of the tree that fell out onto the lake. i dont know alot about physics, but i do know the the top of the tree fell with expontially more velocity than the base, and even at the very top the tree was still easily a half foot in diameter. and i do know that all of us felt complelty helpless as the giant tree fell right towards the little dog.
sometimes life comes so close to changing in big ways. next time when i just miss on the lottery, or just lose out on my next big break, i will remember that near misses are often much better than they are bad, and i will call it even.
This morning i woke up. There was no one else in my bed, or on the floor or anywhere else in the house, all lights were off, the door was closed and the stereo was not left on, skipping my 'elvis sings country' CD all night. I understand that waking up, or being awake in general, is a realative term dependent on your prior state of conciousness. and i am far from being truely awake. especially after the last 72 hours.
again and again i find that the most satisfying things in my life are both very temporary and contradictory. i am not happy if i am not feeling some vain sense of accomplishment via my work. i also dont feel alive if not riding out some ill-fated adventure. The latter of which took me from an unexpected knock on my office door thursday eve and lasted until about lunch at bagel street deli sometime sunday...
Woody shows up at my office with a box of outdated film he picked up for me and a sack of wendy's hamburgers thursday. i finished grading papers and hearing of woody's recent excursions over his double cheesburger while his dog chewed on power cords to the computers in the graduate computer lab in which my office resides. then we went to pawpurrs where the inguene tends bar and recived some free stroh's. that is about where the real world took a three day vacation.
since then, my life has been like a really badly written movie. characters appear, have a nice dialoug, show their potential in the plot, then vanish. several long lost yet very good friends ['old heads'] came in for 'little sibs weekend'; the revenue-generating ploy by the university that make all the resturaunts happy and all the bars secretly smile. actually i think the 'little' has been dropped and now it is just 'sibs weekend', or it will be after this weekend. so to make a real long story real short my house became an outpost of backed up toilets, slow shower drains and sleeping bags and there are at least 2 less bottles of dickel in athens, several new pick up lines made known to me, and one unclassified ( at the union walking backwards girl said to me: all the girls like you and all the boys hate you. [?]), 5 less sirloins at jack's steak house, one more near death expeirence for woody's dog, a lot of open mouthed kissing (at least for woody), old girlfriends crying, chris south's break dancing sessions, brian duesler's cameo apperance, two new friends from chicago for stokes to call, the latest booty call to every happen in athens, two polaroids i missed for my wall of gregory and maurice who gave perez and i a ride home instead of going to hook up with women in RiverPark towers, and the longest and worst freestlye jam session of 'steal my kisses' of all time.
it will take me several days to wash all the ink off my right hand from all the bar stamps and forever to figure out how to have some balance between my desires and find some sort of permanence and happiness in my life.