So, um, super props to Herr Bendickson for the music.
So I hit the road again, rubber to asphalt, petrol to petrol. Two weeks off due to drainage, one day of cleaning, 13 days of freedom. I consider that an equivalent exchange. There's a certain alchemy to work. 50 weeks of work turns into two weeks of vacation. Still hardly seems fair, but beggars can't be choosers, and I'm certainly not a decider.
But anyways, the trip to Arkansas was mostly uneventful. I hit the driving wall quite early, before Louisville, speedometer set on 75 and my eyes starting to wander across the tarmac. Yet I was doing a no-caffeine haul and 4 hours into the drive I had the clarity of a Buddhist monk who has been meditating for fifteen years in solitude. All the old thoughts, deliberate and uninvited alike came flowing through and kept me occupied until LePanto, AR.
So there's a shortcut, shaves about 30 minutes off of a 14 hour drive time, that takes you down an elevated two lane highway. 60mph + 10% = 66mph and you'll be good to go. Let's take it a lil faster. It's about 5:00 p.m. at this point and I start driving due West.
The drought has hit hard, and the mounds of dirt meant to serve as dykes for the irrigation systems
Excuse the break here, just realized I'm rusty as hell and this is total shit.
Northeastern Arkansas is flatlands. Flatter than Ohio. I'm talking you could fucking rollerskate across the entire northeast portion without breaking a sweat. And it's filled with rice paddys and soybean fields. Each requiring massive amounts of water. You have to flood these fucking fields. And yet as I drove by at speeds that should not be exceeded, I could tell the dirt piled up was not bonded, had not convalesced into water tight barriers, but were simply mounds of dust.
And as I drove West, I headed right into a cumulonimbus, a great thunder cloud of relief. All four windows down, the wind blowing against my face like a banshee's shrill scream, pushing skin and hair aside and rattling my teeth. I looked out the right passenger window and saw a dust storm the likes of which I have never seen. It looked like Baghdad on a calm summer's evening, nothing of the countryside to be seen but a brown smog of dust being blown off the soy's tender green leaves.
Rushing strong against it was the blue-gray haze of precipitation, both fronts colliding above a small brick house which was quickly shrouded by the convergence of dehydration and flooding. It was a sight to see, and even with the camera in the back I did not stop.
There has been a small issue of contradiction which has weighed heavily against me since I've started driving.
Why picture when you can experience?
To save the moment or to savor the moment?
Fuck. I keep driving, wind lapping at my head, giving me phantom feelings of hair flapping at my temples. I reach to smooth it away, yet only stubble yields underneath my fingers.
I drive on, I arrive, I sleep.
I wake, I drink, I sleep.
I see familiar faces and smiles and attitudes.
Nothing truly changes, merely becomes something oddly familiar.
Yet within my friends a comforting beacon remains to the life I used to live.
100 yards with a Mosin Nagant, not pictured, of course, open sights and possibly a bit of hindrance.
"12" left," I say, and begin repeating the mantra; "Fire, fire, fire, fire, fire," Bang.
"6" high," I report. "Fire, fire, fire, fire, fire, fire..."
"Shutup."
"Fuck you, fire, fire, fire, fire." Bang.
15 shots and the only one to hit our target.
I have a friend whop has found peace. Not the kind that the hopeful pray for among mankind, but the kind that one hopes to find in ones own head. A way to deal, a way to see, a way to appreciate what is in one's own life. The children they raise. The family they have. The ability to smile and enjoy a blazing hot afternoon with a beer and a laugh.
I'm grateful for such friends.
Yet my visit is still cut short, in my heart at least. Still too much beer and philosophy and gunpowder to burn through. It's a glass that never is quite full, but I still drain every drop I can find when the opportunity arises.
I drive further south, to see a man whom I've known but never truly seen.
He still looks nice and fratty in person. Yet he shows me a city that holds much marvel for me. Built around a single narrow space of water, not straying far but holding so much life. A river which is clear as anything I've found in Arkansas, yet as populated as anything I've seen West, North, or East. A lifeline and source of relaxation right in front of an institution of frustration, stress, and general uneasiness.
I get a bit too drunk, but we've got a driver and that's ok. I could see myself in San Marcos, TX, living in the river and wasting away my lazy afternooons sipping beer and dangling my toes in the spring fed water.
Yet he shows me more, and we head to Austin, where every bar has a rooftop, whether it be with swimming pools, projector screens, or patio furniture. You can clearly see the skyline from 6th street, and the cops below corralling the overly drunk masses into the crosswalks. Nowhere else have I seen such a nightlife, available for viewing and yet not available for scrutiny. We go to bars with shitty tequila and some lady getting a tantric massage in the corner by some skeevy fucker with no sense of shame. The wubwubwubwubwubwubwub of the subs makes it all the more surreal. Later we head down to a bar who has guillotined books for the sake of decoration. 3" of a novel makes for a very showy backspace.
"Maybe yours will be up there some day," the bartender says.
"Oh, sure, cut up my work," I retort.
She was kinda cute, it was ok.
And I leave, yet again too soon, but still fulfilled and grateful for the couch and the environment, and for the chance to meet a great friend who, while still a smug fucking bastard *coughbrandocough* is one I will visit often as I get the chance.
I outrun the hurricane, I see the lines of electric trucks making a mass exodus west to Louisiana.
I outrun the traffic around Atlanta, holy shit fuck that place in the ear.
I outrun the exist signs that point me elsewhere.
What the fuck am I doing it's like my fingers don't even know the keyboard anymore. This is just spewing shit and it's fucking aggrivating. Look at that shit. Red squigglies and everything! It's like my mind has literally forsaken the language that has given it such an outlet. klajsdf;iahsdfiuahsdfliuhasdfiuhasf
And I arrive at the beach, and see envious things. Floating out in the distance, beyond the reach of my balance or my lens.
And I arrive at the fort of my forefathers.
I stop at the light in front of Camp Geiger. "Pardon Our Noise" the sign reads. I begin the trek over the river as "Highway to Hell" floods out of the windows of my pimpin lil Fit, too large of a man in the front seat for such a small car. As I pass over the river, I see whirlybirds running maneuvers over the river, blades slicing through the air as the downdraft pushes small spurts of water up into the atmosphere.
I look around for the cameras. Surely Kubrick has come back as a zombie and I'm the unlucky and unwilling Joker.
I pull into my designated LZ, and kick off my shoes too late. I'm such a rude bastard and it pains my heart. I'm reunited with an old friend and his wife, and welcomed warmly as I could ever hope for. Except for the cat.
Like, the entire time I was there, this cat was like..."Fuck this guy" for four days straight. S'aight though. I made it out alive. Spending time at the beach, hearing of moves to Australia, upcoming events, past occurrences, and deeds of greatness performed by all.
A bit jealous, but that's the way it goes. I still managed to stand on the board, and see love unfold before me.
And for the long trip home, I began to realize what my purpose actually was among my friends, family, and various miscreants of whom I have become acquainted with.
Yes, I am boring.
No, I am not a stellar person.
No, I am not inspiring.
No, I am not amazingly intelligent.
No, I do not stir feelings of grandeur and accomplishment when I introduce myself to others.
No, I am not the bad boy.
No, I am not all that interesting.
Yes, I am the guy in the corner of the bar, observing, noting, calculating.
But it doesn't matter.
I have amazing fucking friends.
And you judge people by the company they keep.
Although my company is far flung and tough to visit, it's still my fucking company. And I love them for allowing me to be in their lives. Kudos to you all. You're all my catalysts. My motivators. My loves.
Keep rocking.
Keep loving.
Keep drinking.
Keep me in mind.
You're fucking stuck with me.
