Well there was bound to be a let down, how could there not be? It was the best summer of your life, after all.
Oh Austin... wretched whore. Once you were so young, so pretty, so thrilling to behold. I remember being beckoned into your dim chamber, drunk with possibilities. I recall being tied and bound, at your mercy, made so much sweeter by its rarity. It took discipline, but eventually you let me delight. I appreciated you like few did. You made me think I was the only one.
But I went away, and now I'm back, and though it feels like I've aged innumerable years, it's you who looks older. Used up. Predictable. Lifeless.
Okay, okay, I'm being hyperbolic. I guess what I'm trying to say is: being back in Austin ain't easy! It felt like I was making so much progress this summer, and now here I am and it feels like I've gone backwards. Like I've completed a difficult level in Mario Brothers, only to be deposited two levels prior! Like I'm forced to wear the clothes I dropped off at Goodwill six months ago! Like I'm a freshly aged bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon poured into an old wineskin (for you alcoholics and purveyors of religious metaphors)!
I dunno, it just seems like resuming my prior job, living in the same old house, walking these familiar streets... it's already happened! I want something more. I chose to live on a farm this summer in part because I wanted to see if I meshed with a rural lifestyle. Turns out I do! I love it! Especially when it's in a beautiful, unique, counterculture community like Takilma, Oregon! Oh Takilma, I miss you!
It could just be the tyrannical heat talking (it was 103 degrees today, 85% humidity), but I don't think that's it. Austin has taught me so much, but it feels like it's almost time to move on. Even after my widespread travels, she remains the city closest to my tastes and to my heart - but I'm afraid the country has woo'ed me away. Someday.
So this is my last post on this blog. I hope y'all have enjoyed reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing it. One thing this blog has made me realize is: I really enjoy creative writing! So much so that I intend on starting another blog solely for the purpose of exploring it further. If you'd like to continue on this journey with me, please check back at my website, dallion.com, for the latest in written and drawn stimuli. Until then!
- Farmer Dal
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Straight from the Sketchbook
Drawings, freshly harvested from the farm...
(yes, I misspelled mountain)
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
The Long Drive
Sometimes you marvel at your fortune, and muse at how perhaps all the time alone has somehow paid for these few glorious moments of togetherness. You wonder how much love you've earned, when it will expire, and when it will be time to pay again. These are the type of thoughts you have as you drive the midnight highways, the dark roads, the well traveled tracks of your thoughts. You want her to wake up, to distract you from yourself, to maybe take a turn at driving. You are almost home.
With effort, you return your thoughts to sunny meadows, to sideways smiles, to effortless conversations of understandings. Yes, she understands you, and you her, and it seems like a miracle on the order of loaves and fishes.
With no shame, you consider how you stole the "loaves and fishes" line from Kurt Vonnegut, plucked from the same collection of short stories she found for you at a used bookstore in Montana. Vonnegut is your favorite author, and hers.
You begin building your case, ready and willing to prove to anyone that you're perfect together, eager to demonstrate how even your flaws are exactly in tune. Your demons of fear, insecurity, loneliness, and anxiety are mirrored in her eyes - yet instead of procreating, they find sympathetic ears and keep busy talking. Yes, it's all perfect, the stars have aligned, and the signs are as numerous as the billboards which litter the Texas highways. Just look at the uncanny amount of consonants and vowels your names share, and it all becomes clear: you were made for each other.
But something about perfection bothers you, and often you desire the world go up in flames, even if it engulfs yourself and your loved ones.
You glance at your peacefully sleeping passenger, scanning her for flaws, any kind of behavioral abscess.
Eureka! Sometimes she'll play the music she loves repeatedly, draining it of it's mystery, it's spontaneity, it's charm, and getting it hopelessly lodged in your brain. You consider this a moment, and decide you would use this against her if it wasn't so damn cute.
You scan her again, scalpel in hand, but a glowing green sign interrupts: Rest Area - 2 Miles.
She wakes and smiles at you, and you can't help feeling guilty. Together, you search the dark car for blankets and crawl into the short grass, trying to balance the distance between smelly restrooms and noisy semi-trucks. You curl up indecently beneath an oak and sleep.
The morning light brings new clarity and as you pack the truck she glances over at you, unbathed, having never worn make-up a day in her life, glorious in her natural beauty. You see love in her eyes, and don't know what you've done to deserve it. Perhaps you've paid for it somewhere down the line. Perhaps you'll pay again. But right now, perfection don't seem all that bad, and all she wants is a cup of coffee, and you are eager to oblige.
With effort, you return your thoughts to sunny meadows, to sideways smiles, to effortless conversations of understandings. Yes, she understands you, and you her, and it seems like a miracle on the order of loaves and fishes.
With no shame, you consider how you stole the "loaves and fishes" line from Kurt Vonnegut, plucked from the same collection of short stories she found for you at a used bookstore in Montana. Vonnegut is your favorite author, and hers.
You begin building your case, ready and willing to prove to anyone that you're perfect together, eager to demonstrate how even your flaws are exactly in tune. Your demons of fear, insecurity, loneliness, and anxiety are mirrored in her eyes - yet instead of procreating, they find sympathetic ears and keep busy talking. Yes, it's all perfect, the stars have aligned, and the signs are as numerous as the billboards which litter the Texas highways. Just look at the uncanny amount of consonants and vowels your names share, and it all becomes clear: you were made for each other.
But something about perfection bothers you, and often you desire the world go up in flames, even if it engulfs yourself and your loved ones.
You glance at your peacefully sleeping passenger, scanning her for flaws, any kind of behavioral abscess.
Eureka! Sometimes she'll play the music she loves repeatedly, draining it of it's mystery, it's spontaneity, it's charm, and getting it hopelessly lodged in your brain. You consider this a moment, and decide you would use this against her if it wasn't so damn cute.
You scan her again, scalpel in hand, but a glowing green sign interrupts: Rest Area - 2 Miles.
She wakes and smiles at you, and you can't help feeling guilty. Together, you search the dark car for blankets and crawl into the short grass, trying to balance the distance between smelly restrooms and noisy semi-trucks. You curl up indecently beneath an oak and sleep.
The morning light brings new clarity and as you pack the truck she glances over at you, unbathed, having never worn make-up a day in her life, glorious in her natural beauty. You see love in her eyes, and don't know what you've done to deserve it. Perhaps you've paid for it somewhere down the line. Perhaps you'll pay again. But right now, perfection don't seem all that bad, and all she wants is a cup of coffee, and you are eager to oblige.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
