This Moves It

...For the long haul...

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I haven’t posted in awhile as I haven’t been traveling much lately, but I felt the need to keep up.  I had this dream last night about an old girlfriend.  It was odd, and being a dream, it doesn’t totally make sense (why was she at prom?) but in trying to keep up with writing, I thought I’d make a story out of it as close to the dream as I could.  Enjoy!
Since Then
Across the river, in a gravel parking lot, the limousines pulled up.  I stood watching from another gravel parking lot on opposite of them as the doors open and smiling couple after smiling couple exited.  The boys in their black tuxes with white shirts and shined shoes, the girls in their dresses with hair done up and corsages pinned to the shoulder straps of their gowns all glowing for the night that every highschooler waits for: the prom.
Her date was a boy about her height, with short red hair, glasses, and neatly kempt beard and mustache.  Between their gravel parking lot and my gravel parking lot, between us, the river flowed on, not raging, not sleeping, but working along, agitated, frustrated in an irritated movement, holding back, bottling up, and just trying to continue on.
I felt under dressed for the occasion, though I wasn’t a part of it, in my black shirt and shoes, jeans and a green zip up hoodie.  I felt like I needed to be dressed better, looking more done up, or dressed down to make a separation between myself and her date.  I had my workbooks in my trunk and my old red flannel shirt, the one I can’t part with and opted to change.  I walked back to the car and kicked off my nice shoes and tied up my dirty, oil and grease stained Wolverines, but kept the green hoodie on.  Dickies and Wolverines with Levi jeans.  I looked like a construction worker.  
The prom kids made their way across the bridge, over the rolling river and the thick green shrubs and trees that make their homes on the steep banks.  It was an old railroad bridge that has been converted into a walking trail and bike path, but it was left as much as possible as its former self still with railroad ties and rusted beams and girders.  I wanted to meet her at the right moment, so I started across the parking lot, kicking up dust and gravel, running past the concrete support for the bridge and underneath its oil soaked wooden ties.  I made it to the other side and ran up the stairs, but just missed her.  The prom procession moved on and off to a great dance hall where they could hold each other, laugh, kiss, stand as wallflowers, or dance the night away as friends.
 The town had romance in the air and was playing into it for the teenagers. 
“Comfort me”/said she,/ “with your conversation. / With the cocktails /and the candlelight in your eyes”* filled the night, echoing from some distant speakers, slow and lovingly for the couples walking hand in hand in their nice clothes, sparkling gowns, and expensive jewelry.  I watched them as I made my way to the peak of the bridge.  Not the walking path part, but the observation point at the top that one can climb a set of stairs to reach.  There I could get a full view, above the tree tops, church steeples, and historic homes, and overlook the town, the postcard perfect image that it is.
 I stayed up there for awhile and listened to the music that kept playing from out of nowhere.
Well the last time I remember the train stopping at the depot/ was when me and my aunt Veta/ came a-ridin’ back from Waco*
The sunlight faded and electric lights came on, the streets and walking path lit brilliantly like the small town of my childhood at Christmas. As the night crawled along, I stayed where I was until the dance was over and until the dance hall opened its massive doors and the kids made their way out, heading to the backseat of cars, to parties, or to home to sleep alone.  I spotted her walking by herself, her date not anywhere in sight and now changed out of her gown.  She was wearing jeans, a plain tank top and a light green jacket, but with her hair still done up and her makeup on and her earrings dancing as she moved. 
Counting the days/ the sun shone golden on her head/ lyin’ on the banks of a bayou’s edge/ kickin’ up some southeast Texas sand*
I waited for her to get closer to the bridge before I ran down the stairs so I could meet her there, so she’d see me.  So she’d know I was still around.
I hurried down and stopped at the bottom step, still divided by the steel frame of the bridge, it’s beams crisscrossing between us and she stopped and looked up from the ground, and looked at me, eye level and with blank expression, turned and walked away, against the flow of the crowd, and on back toward the dance hall.
I ran around the beams and after her, but lost her in the masses of prom goers, adults, and strangers.
 I’m her lover/, not a man bent on revenge/ hanging out here on the fringe/ of my native border land*
 
 
 
(*indicates lines from “The Ballad of the Snow Leopard and the Tanqueray Cowboy” by David Rodriguez and “Texas Trilogy: Train Ride” by Steven Fromholz.  Both songs were playing during the dream and both versions are from Lyle Lovett’s Step Inside This House album.  The photo used was one I took on Bourbon St in New Orleans this summer.  It was just blurry enough to be ambiguous.)
 

I haven’t posted in awhile as I haven’t been traveling much lately, but I felt the need to keep up.  I had this dream last night about an old girlfriend.  It was odd, and being a dream, it doesn’t totally make sense (why was she at prom?) but in trying to keep up with writing, I thought I’d make a story out of it as close to the dream as I could.  Enjoy!

Since Then

Across the river, in a gravel parking lot, the limousines pulled up.  I stood watching from another gravel parking lot on opposite of them as the doors open and smiling couple after smiling couple exited.  The boys in their black tuxes with white shirts and shined shoes, the girls in their dresses with hair done up and corsages pinned to the shoulder straps of their gowns all glowing for the night that every highschooler waits for: the prom.

Her date was a boy about her height, with short red hair, glasses, and neatly kempt beard and mustache.  Between their gravel parking lot and my gravel parking lot, between us, the river flowed on, not raging, not sleeping, but working along, agitated, frustrated in an irritated movement, holding back, bottling up, and just trying to continue on.

I felt under dressed for the occasion, though I wasn’t a part of it, in my black shirt and shoes, jeans and a green zip up hoodie.  I felt like I needed to be dressed better, looking more done up, or dressed down to make a separation between myself and her date.  I had my workbooks in my trunk and my old red flannel shirt, the one I can’t part with and opted to change.  I walked back to the car and kicked off my nice shoes and tied up my dirty, oil and grease stained Wolverines, but kept the green hoodie on.  Dickies and Wolverines with Levi jeans.  I looked like a construction worker. 

The prom kids made their way across the bridge, over the rolling river and the thick green shrubs and trees that make their homes on the steep banks.  It was an old railroad bridge that has been converted into a walking trail and bike path, but it was left as much as possible as its former self still with railroad ties and rusted beams and girders.  I wanted to meet her at the right moment, so I started across the parking lot, kicking up dust and gravel, running past the concrete support for the bridge and underneath its oil soaked wooden ties.  I made it to the other side and ran up the stairs, but just missed her.  The prom procession moved on and off to a great dance hall where they could hold each other, laugh, kiss, stand as wallflowers, or dance the night away as friends.

 The town had romance in the air and was playing into it for the teenagers. 

“Comfort me”/said she,/ “with your conversation. / With the cocktails /and the candlelight in your eyes”* filled the night, echoing from some distant speakers, slow and lovingly for the couples walking hand in hand in their nice clothes, sparkling gowns, and expensive jewelry.  I watched them as I made my way to the peak of the bridge.  Not the walking path part, but the observation point at the top that one can climb a set of stairs to reach.  There I could get a full view, above the tree tops, church steeples, and historic homes, and overlook the town, the postcard perfect image that it is.

 I stayed up there for awhile and listened to the music that kept playing from out of nowhere.

Well the last time I remember the train stopping at the depot/ was when me and my aunt Veta/ came a-ridin’ back from Waco*

The sunlight faded and electric lights came on, the streets and walking path lit brilliantly like the small town of my childhood at Christmas. As the night crawled along, I stayed where I was until the dance was over and until the dance hall opened its massive doors and the kids made their way out, heading to the backseat of cars, to parties, or to home to sleep alone.  I spotted her walking by herself, her date not anywhere in sight and now changed out of her gown.  She was wearing jeans, a plain tank top and a light green jacket, but with her hair still done up and her makeup on and her earrings dancing as she moved. 

Counting the days/ the sun shone golden on her head/ lyin’ on the banks of a bayou’s edge/ kickin’ up some southeast Texas sand*

I waited for her to get closer to the bridge before I ran down the stairs so I could meet her there, so she’d see me.  So she’d know I was still around.

I hurried down and stopped at the bottom step, still divided by the steel frame of the bridge, it’s beams crisscrossing between us and she stopped and looked up from the ground, and looked at me, eye level and with blank expression, turned and walked away, against the flow of the crowd, and on back toward the dance hall.

I ran around the beams and after her, but lost her in the masses of prom goers, adults, and strangers.

 I’m her lover/, not a man bent on revenge/ hanging out here on the fringe/ of my native border land*

 

 

 

(*indicates lines from “The Ballad of the Snow Leopard and the Tanqueray Cowboy” by David Rodriguez and “Texas Trilogy: Train Ride” by Steven Fromholz.  Both songs were playing during the dream and both versions are from Lyle Lovett’s Step Inside This House album.  The photo used was one I took on Bourbon St in New Orleans this summer.  It was just blurry enough to be ambiguous.)

 

Filed under Lyle Lovett Texas Steven Fromholz David Rodriquez Lost Romance Missing Dreams Ballad of the Snow Leopard and the Tanqueray Cowboy Texas Trilogy

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This Moves It. 
And now it moves north towards home.
Someone once said to me “Thanks for making me feel safe”.
I don’t think I said anything back.  I think I just smiled.
I’ll keep moving until I have that back again.
That moves “This” and I am “It”.

This Moves It. 

And now it moves north towards home.

Someone once said to me “Thanks for making me feel safe”.

I don’t think I said anything back.  I think I just smiled.

I’ll keep moving until I have that back again.

That moves “This” and I am “It”.

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This pretty much sums up New Orleans.  I met this girl as I was out on Bourbon St. tonight, weaving between the crowds on my Trek and taking pictures at the same time while trying not to crash.  NOLA has been a trip, for sure.  I’ve been at the India House hostel for the past few days and decided tonight, my last night, to grab the camera and see what I could find.  I didn’t have to go far.  Brides-to-be with dildos, drunks, frat boys, rich girls, homeless men, homeless women, fellas looking to fight, fellas looking to fuck, fellas looking to love, zombies, voodoo, strippers, hookers, junkies, travellers, carnival barkers, and folks like you and I all make up the French Quarter down here on a Saturday night, all ready to have their picture taken, whether they know it or not. Everyone I’ve met here has a story to tell and sometimes that story is set to music.
NOLA is my kind of town.  It’s rundown, but it moves.  It jumps and humps and jives from every piece of brass that blows to every piece of ass that shakes.  It burns of the sex that’s sold from its clubs and bars, oozing through the streets like the cum that’s pumped out in the alleys, just around the corner and out of sight, into the cunts and mouths of whoever wants it.  It carries the weight of slavery, poverty, hurricanes, blame, failure, frustration, redemption on it’s back for every tourist and curious mind to see and its not ashamed. It’s dirty here and the cockroaches are the size of my head and everywhere I go, I’m told that’s a part of town that I “don’t want to be in”, like its the worst place on Earth and, maybe, somedays it is, but New Orleans is a city that prides itself on saints and like most saints, this town has more than once met a brutal, mutilating, horrible end, only to beatified, only to be reborn.
I’d say this face is a good mash up of all of it.  There were more zombie folk than just this girl, but this was the best photo I got.  Maybe its makeup or maybe its voodoo.  I don’t know, but I ought to beware as the one thing multiplying faster than them down here are Australians.  It’s only a matter of time before Aussie Zombies (Auzbies?) over take this city, but by then I’ll have long since split, moved on to another town and hopefully no one will notice that I’ve been speaking with a slight Aussie accent.


This pretty much sums up New Orleans.  I met this girl as I was out on Bourbon St. tonight, weaving between the crowds on my Trek and taking pictures at the same time while trying not to crash.  NOLA has been a trip, for sure.  I’ve been at the India House hostel for the past few days and decided tonight, my last night, to grab the camera and see what I could find.  I didn’t have to go far.  Brides-to-be with dildos, drunks, frat boys, rich girls, homeless men, homeless women, fellas looking to fight, fellas looking to fuck, fellas looking to love, zombies, voodoo, strippers, hookers, junkies, travellers, carnival barkers, and folks like you and I all make up the French Quarter down here on a Saturday night, all ready to have their picture taken, whether they know it or not. Everyone I’ve met here has a story to tell and sometimes that story is set to music.

NOLA is my kind of town.  It’s rundown, but it moves.  It jumps and humps and jives from every piece of brass that blows to every piece of ass that shakes.  It burns of the sex that’s sold from its clubs and bars, oozing through the streets like the cum that’s pumped out in the alleys, just around the corner and out of sight, into the cunts and mouths of whoever wants it.  It carries the weight of slavery, poverty, hurricanes, blame, failure, frustration, redemption on it’s back for every tourist and curious mind to see and its not ashamed. It’s dirty here and the cockroaches are the size of my head and everywhere I go, I’m told that’s a part of town that I “don’t want to be in”, like its the worst place on Earth and, maybe, somedays it is, but New Orleans is a city that prides itself on saints and like most saints, this town has more than once met a brutal, mutilating, horrible end, only to beatified, only to be reborn.

I’d say this face is a good mash up of all of it.  There were more zombie folk than just this girl, but this was the best photo I got.  Maybe its makeup or maybe its voodoo.  I don’t know, but I ought to beware as the one thing multiplying faster than them down here are Australians.  It’s only a matter of time before Aussie Zombies (Auzbies?) over take this city, but by then I’ll have long since split, moved on to another town and hopefully no one will notice that I’ve been speaking with a slight Aussie accent.

Filed under Hostel India House New Orleans The ZBBC Zombies Louisiana NOLA

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Texas.
What a state.  A wasteland on the western side that produces nothing but cattle and broken towns and a humid sweat stain in the middle.  I love it here, though.  This state has produced as many heroes as it has villians and given just the size of the territory, its no wonder why so many have come out of here.  More area to claim people is my guess.
Townes Van Zandt, Buck Owens, Pantera, ZZ Top, Rodney Crowell, Stevie Ray Vaughan, Willie Nelson, Kinky Friedman, Guy Clark, Lyle Lovett, Blaze Foley, and countless other greats have emerged from here and plenty of stellar songs about this place, as well.  “Waltz Across Texas”, “San Antonio Girl”, “El Paso” “Does Fort Worth Ever Cross Your Mind?” “Amarillo by Morning” “Galveston” “Letter to Laredo” “Yellow Rose of Texas” and anything that appears on Lyle Lovett’s Step Inside This House album made up most of my day driving.
I’ll leave the complaints off.  Whatever nonsense comes out of here can be made up by some fine musicians.
Texas and I have a love/hate relationship, but let’s remember the good times, baby.

Texas.

What a state.  A wasteland on the western side that produces nothing but cattle and broken towns and a humid sweat stain in the middle.  I love it here, though.  This state has produced as many heroes as it has villians and given just the size of the territory, its no wonder why so many have come out of here.  More area to claim people is my guess.

Townes Van Zandt, Buck Owens, Pantera, ZZ Top, Rodney Crowell, Stevie Ray Vaughan, Willie Nelson, Kinky Friedman, Guy Clark, Lyle Lovett, Blaze Foley, and countless other greats have emerged from here and plenty of stellar songs about this place, as well.  “Waltz Across Texas”, “San Antonio Girl”, “El Paso” “Does Fort Worth Ever Cross Your Mind?” “Amarillo by Morning” “Galveston” “Letter to Laredo” “Yellow Rose of Texas” and anything that appears on Lyle Lovett’s Step Inside This House album made up most of my day driving.

I’ll leave the complaints off.  Whatever nonsense comes out of here can be made up by some fine musicians.

Texas and I have a love/hate relationship, but let’s remember the good times, baby.

Filed under lyle lovett texas guy clark townes van zandt

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An old Trek road bike and I hit the Taos Plateau just off of 285 in New Mexico.  Susan was delievered to her traveling geology group in one piece as promised and I headed south and now the road is a little more quiet.  Without conversation or even silence mixed with the presence of another human being, I was back to moving solo and figured I should make the best of it.  The dirt trail is made for high-clearance vehicals which is not the type of vehical I own.  The Ford Taurus has been a reliable mode of transport, but it was not built for this.  My Trek was not built for this either, but in the sun and heat, I figure it was best to try a faster route than on foot, even if I blew a tire out, I would have still saved time and energy as opposed to walking in the high temperatures and burning rays. 
The bike bounced and banged along the path slowly.  I tried to keep an eye ahead on the road and an eye cast over for any wild life I might be encountering.  This is rattlesnake turf, but the arid landscape was empty of that threat for the day, as far as I could see.  Locusts dove for cover from my wheels and cicadas sang from the shrubs.  Green and brown made up the colors with an occasional cactus bloom, red and bright, giving blood to the dying plantlife. 
The trail went from rocky/road-like to dirt to virtually non-existant.  Just faint outlines of where trucks, Jeeps, and 4-wheelers pounded down the earth over and over again as it headed between two hills and a small hump in the land.  I made it between the hills and over the hump to see the empty terrain spread out before me.  There was nothing there.  Empty for a few miles until it rose up, becoming the Sangre de Cristo mountains, but that was to far ahead to be part of what I witnessed.  The wind whipped around me and I stood for a minute and took out the camera.  I snapped a few photos that in no way can represent what I was just a part of. 
I felt small.  I felt in awe.  The vastness of nothing invites everything to belong.  I felt like I belonged, though the snakes and coyotes might disagree.  Instead, knowing I couldn’t stay, I hopped on the bicycle and made slow ride back to the car, a few miles behind and continued on.  I probably won’t ever go back there, either.  Sometimes going back will take away from the scene and the original moment will no longer hold its value.  No.  I won’t ever go back there.  Sometimes the memory is better than the reality.

An old Trek road bike and I hit the Taos Plateau just off of 285 in New Mexico.  Susan was delievered to her traveling geology group in one piece as promised and I headed south and now the road is a little more quiet.  Without conversation or even silence mixed with the presence of another human being, I was back to moving solo and figured I should make the best of it.  The dirt trail is made for high-clearance vehicals which is not the type of vehical I own.  The Ford Taurus has been a reliable mode of transport, but it was not built for this.  My Trek was not built for this either, but in the sun and heat, I figure it was best to try a faster route than on foot, even if I blew a tire out, I would have still saved time and energy as opposed to walking in the high temperatures and burning rays. 

The bike bounced and banged along the path slowly.  I tried to keep an eye ahead on the road and an eye cast over for any wild life I might be encountering.  This is rattlesnake turf, but the arid landscape was empty of that threat for the day, as far as I could see.  Locusts dove for cover from my wheels and cicadas sang from the shrubs.  Green and brown made up the colors with an occasional cactus bloom, red and bright, giving blood to the dying plantlife. 

The trail went from rocky/road-like to dirt to virtually non-existant.  Just faint outlines of where trucks, Jeeps, and 4-wheelers pounded down the earth over and over again as it headed between two hills and a small hump in the land.  I made it between the hills and over the hump to see the empty terrain spread out before me.  There was nothing there.  Empty for a few miles until it rose up, becoming the Sangre de Cristo mountains, but that was to far ahead to be part of what I witnessed.  The wind whipped around me and I stood for a minute and took out the camera.  I snapped a few photos that in no way can represent what I was just a part of. 

I felt small.  I felt in awe.  The vastness of nothing invites everything to belong.  I felt like I belonged, though the snakes and coyotes might disagree.  Instead, knowing I couldn’t stay, I hopped on the bicycle and made slow ride back to the car, a few miles behind and continued on.  I probably won’t ever go back there, either.  Sometimes going back will take away from the scene and the original moment will no longer hold its value.  No.  I won’t ever go back there.  Sometimes the memory is better than the reality.

Filed under Taos New Mexico Solitary Trek Bike Plateau Heat Alone Nature

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Bad Brakes and Good Friends

The rear brake line, the one that runs from rear right side brake system to the left side brake system, blew out on me in a parking lot down in Denver.  I called up a friend of mine in town to see if he could recommend a mechanic, which he did, but first he dropped everything, grabbed his tools, and drove out to meet us.  He helped remove the shot line, ran me up to the parts store, bought line, put us up, bought dinner, and when I try to give him money he told me to “Shut up”. 

The next morning we ran up to his mechanic, Paul, who flared out the lines and attached the original fittings, he also would not accept payment as he felt he owed Richard one.  Susan, the Ford, and I were back up and running by early afternoon after Rich and I reattached the line. 

I can’t tell you how humbling it is to have friends like this.  I’m a lucky guy and I also owe a few kidneys if need. 

Shout out to Chris and Zala as well for putting us up, making dinner, and being super cool kids while we were in the city.  Y’all rock my socks.

Filed under luck

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I walked up to a Red Rocks employee and asked if my Nikon D5000 would be allowed in. 
Employee:  Hmmm.  Probably not.  Small cameras are alright, but this probably falls under the ‘professional’ category.
Me:  It’s not ‘professional’ though.  Its a hobby.
Him:  True.  Bob?  What do you think?
Bob:  Hmmm.  Probably not.
Me:  No problem.  Thought I’d ask to save myself the extra hike from running back from the gate to my car.

I walk inside and within 5 minutes see Nikons, Canons, and various other DSLRs that look a helluva lot like mine.  Frustrating.
I wish I had a great set of photos or videos to share, but I don’t.  All’s I can say is I was there and you weren’t, but maybe someday you will be and hopefully it will be as mind blowing as this was.

I walked up to a Red Rocks employee and asked if my Nikon D5000 would be allowed in. 

Employee:  Hmmm.  Probably not.  Small cameras are alright, but this probably falls under the ‘professional’ category.

Me:  It’s not ‘professional’ though.  Its a hobby.

Him:  True.  Bob?  What do you think?

Bob:  Hmmm.  Probably not.

Me:  No problem.  Thought I’d ask to save myself the extra hike from running back from the gate to my car.

I walk inside and within 5 minutes see Nikons, Canons, and various other DSLRs that look a helluva lot like mine.  Frustrating.

I wish I had a great set of photos or videos to share, but I don’t.  All’s I can say is I was there and you weren’t, but maybe someday you will be and hopefully it will be as mind blowing as this was.

Filed under Bon Iver Feist The Staves Mountain Man Awesomeness of love