I had some fiction going for today but it got a bit beyond me and we're a little swamped here in North Austin. Here are some tracks that I have been rejuvenated with for the weekend; see yall on the dance floor. Rufus Wainwright - Go Or Go Ahead (Kaskade Mix) *give this one some breathing room
Robert stood before the mirror in his seersucker blues and leather blacks. He admired his parted hair and kempt eyebrows with his usual narcissism. Where have all the cowboys gone, he joked to himself under his breath. The time spent in the Ivy League had transformed him from the son of a Southwestern rancher in to a sophisticated man of the educated elite. He walked over to the balcony of his 2nd story flat and looked down at the river below. The afternoon had been cool and crisp, with the night quickly approaching. The river moved with quiet grace, rippling with small pools in different pockets of the stream. It reminded him of days past on his father’s land, fly-fishing the North Fork of the White River. He used to wade in to the shallows and work the cast to and fro, East to West. A different time, he thought. The moment was gone. He lit a cigarette and checked his Cartier for the time. He needed to be out the door soon. There weren’t going to be many more nights like the one ahead. Graduation was to be within the month, and his internship in Massachusetts was to begin the following week. He trotted down the steps and out the front door of the flat on to Rosemary Avenue, where the street lamps were beginning to flicker with life. He had grown accustomed to making the walk several blocks north during the early evening hours, conjuring up his first jokes for when he would make his various entrances on nights like these. As he turned the corner, he could hear the laughter coming from the house. He strode in to the front door and was handed a garnished brandy, along with a cigar. He loved this feeling. The night ahead, a drink in hand, camaraderie all around.
Newt hiked along the caliche road wishing the rains would fall, for it already was getting on to be late in the month. This time one year ago the dams were merely overflowing and the cows were happy. Even the marsh at the south end of the property was ripe with tadpoles propelling themselves along directionless in the shallows. But now the cows were ill and had to be watered through a horse trough that had been improvised using cast iron from the barn at the west end of the property. And there weren't any fish to catch or bullfrogs to spear down by the dam near the main cabin. It was just too dry. He thought about the flood some ten years back and pulling out automobiles by the water crossing using the diesel green tractor’s wench. The crops had prospered for several years after that, as a result of the water table being heavily saturated by that June flood. But these were different times. As Newt walked along, the dust picked up and caked his hands, intensifying his desire for the rains to grace the lands again. He turned toward home once he reached the fence line so that he would be in time to catch the falling of the sun. He knew that the summer ahead might be one of the driest in the history of Caldwell County. His Grandfather had experienced the pains of drought half a century earlier and had essentially quit the cotton game. The back forty had been the first to go when his Grandfather worked the land and the plots behind it went shortly after. But Newt’s attempts at cropping and farming had proved successful since he had permanently relocated there fifteen years earlier. He had brought a youthful zeal to the enterprise of farming, inspiring the ranch hands to move forward with him in his pursuit of raising olive trees. There had even been an attempt at farming Christmas trees, which had resulted in a windfall for the better part of his first three years. As the sun set behind Gambrell Hill, Newt turned for the back porch of the stone house, being reminded of the drought as he felt the crusted dirt between his toes. All he could think of was the drought. It pained him to no end, but he knew that he had to keep going forward with his efforts. If only the rains would fall again. He was afraid of the heat lightning that could crack a whip of flame at any moment during a scorching summer night. He remembered when he was younger how the heat lightning had kept him awake in a hot sweat all night, as it bolted and clashed on the horizon, setting aflame a courthouse in a neighboring county. He strode in through the door and in to the kitchen, where he poured himself a cup of black coffee, sprucing it with a touch of homegrown bourbon. There wasn’t much else he could do for anyone or anything that day, including himself. He moved to the front of the house and sat upon the blue rocking chair his mother had found years ago at a market in the hill country. The day had been long and hot and dry and he dozed on the rocking chair, even with the spiked coffee buzzing through his system. Some four hours later, Newt awoke in a flash of terror; the skies alight with thunderous clashes of power and chaos. The cup of coffee that had been resting on his chest fell down the steps of the porch and broke. But Newt cared nothing for the broken glass because he could smell it and he could feel it. The sky threw thunder in the heavens and lightning toward the ground, illuminating the heavy drops of rain as they sunk in to the rejoicing earth.
When it comes to love and passions, books, music, film, sports and the outdoors are all fighting with one another for first place. But lately, books have saddled up and ridden "15 miles" ahead of the rest. I can't get enough reading time. I was at home this past weekend and talked with Bill about books. We were discussing the Civil War, Ken Kesey and then we lulled in to Tom Clancy, a guy who is famous for his fictional war novels. But did you know that Tom Clancy is just an insurance agent? You wouldn't guess that if you read Rainbow Six or The Sum of All Fears, both of which are really entertaining by the way. I am not trying to advocate anyone reading those type of books, because in truth - they are so empty and void of soul *and I speculate that they are also the work of ghostwriters. But, the best books are the ones that leave you thinking about them 2 days later, rethinking the ending time and again. In many ways, it's like the best films you see - they leave you thinking about them. Moreover, it seems as though the best books are written by the men & women who experienced what goes down in the book (i.e. Herman Wouk novels - fought in WWII). Bill is a big reader. Our library at home is 3 walls of hardcover books filled with authors like Larry McMurtry, Will & Ariel Durant and Gore Vidal. I just picked up PT-109 from Bill's Library; I remember loving that movie as a kid and the story of JFK's pre-presidential heroics. I am also just beginning on 100 Years of Solitude.
There are many things I do not understand, but what I do know is that life is short and books are the finest way to learn things about this world (only slightly in front of travel). I already feel behind in terms of reading things because there is so much to read and so little time to do it. As of today I am 23, and the clock is ticking. I have got to read, read, read, read, read. And so should you. God Bless.
Contributed post - via South America - by way of Argentinian interwebs 4/18/11
After graduating from college last May, I realized I hadn't been maximizing my creative oppurtunities as much as I should be. Stuck in a bit of a rut, I looked forward to EdBaum joining me in both Deerfield, a limbo between San Antonio and the Hill Country, as well as post grad life, a slightly more metaphorical limbo between college and job. After a swanky graduation party( to which I wasn't actually invited), a few hard drinking sessions at stonestreet, one Negro Modelo feuled jam session, and a game of basketball, EdBaum's perpetually burning flame of creativity started to get me moving again. Shortly thereafter, I moved to Buenos Aires.
Throwing myself out of America and into a much more uncomfortable situation only further propelled that creative ball that had long been collecting dust, and had only recently begun to start rolling again somewhere on Heubner and 1604. Without the comforts/distractions of home, I found myself wanting to write/jam/read/explore all the time. I realized how incredibly lucky I am to live in a time where I have instant access to billions of pieces of culture and I've tried to take advantage of it.
When EdBaum asked me to make some guest posts on orcas, I got pumped. Really pumped. Reebok pumped. I was ready to actually do something. Kind of nervous since this is my first time as a participating member of the internet, I took my time and crafted a slightly deeper piece on the relationship between energy and creativity. I think there's some thermodynamics in there as well. And a Henry Rollins quote. However, that doesn't really matter because it will have to wait for another day. EdBaum told me to write what comes. This is what I came. So, I wrote it. Here's some music.
