The Eve's of Our Life

This will be my final post of 2008. The new year sort of snuck up on me. Even when one is unwrapping presents on Christmas morning, that next year still always seems a year away. I suppose it's just in the human mentality to not "count on tomorrow" and "just live for today," as Mr. Shaver sung.

It's always a little mind boggling to look back on a year. In terms of unexpectedness, really on any system of scale, this has been a unique year. Last year I was in a castle on the northwest coast of France. Three days after landing in Paris I was driving three Parisians (none of whom knew how to drive) in a rented Citroen down the A-11 towards Bretagne. Though quite frankly it was a bit awkward in the castle, it was one hell of an experience. When one looks at these sorts of things, perspective is always important. I know a lot of people that haven't even seen a castle much less spent an evening in one.

This year, despite possessing the requisite champagne, I'm far from Bretagne and far from any castles. It seems as if this New Years Eve will be a relatively quiet one, comparatively speaking of course. Given the stature of the "holiday," this seems almost sacrilege to many.

Ironically, only three former New Year's Eve really stick out in my mind over the last eight years. These were all memorable for who they were spent with as much as anything else. That said, distinct events happened in each that makes them stand out. There were the massive fireworks courtesy of H in 2001-2002. Drunken tears and screaming always stand out no matter the night. Then of course 2003-2004 provided no end to drama. Getting left at a house party by my girlfriend, trying to pick a fight with a kid I poured beer on the previous summer, walking home in the rain, and then the requisite happy Hollywood ending with Kash, temporary as it was. 2006-2007 brought the inaugural Roost New Year's Eve party. There wasn't much going on there beyond general Roostness, questionable decisions in search of female companionship, and of course the bad/good? decision to put a roast in a the crock pot at 2AM so it would be ready for consumption when we awoke (These great ideas always seem to end up biting you in the ass, metaphorically speaking of course). All of which brings us back to the castle, which beyond the horrible music granted an unforgettable experience, one I was able to share with someone special.

I saw a lot in this intervening year. I'm not sure I'll ever figure out how I got from France to Fort Smith, from a life of somewhat hedonistic gallivanting to static pragmatism but here I am. Tonight, like much of our existence on this earth, should be a somewhat staid affair. Some dinner at home, some effervescent wine, and a party at a good friend's new Fay Jones designed home. Though we might forget them, it is often the quiet nights with close friends that are most affirming for our spirits.

Chocolate and Ice

Every year around this time I began to obsessively listen to a small set of "holiday" songs. My use of quotations is perhaps perplexing. Most assume a song is either a Christmas tune or not. Gray areas don't really exist with quotations. Until I first heard My Morning Jacket's 2000 EP, My Morning Jacket Does Xmas Fiasco Style, I saw holiday songs in black and white.

When one speaks of anything regarding taste or personal preference, there is always an attempt to draw a correlation with something else. A comparison is required so one can adequately and descriptively give an idea as to what one might expect (Dick in High Fidelity grants us a classic example of this pursuit: "She's kind of Sheryl Crow-ish crossed with a post-Partridge Family pre-L.A. Law Susan Dey kind of thing, but, you know, uh, black").

Despite my adoration for My Morning Jacket, I've always struggled in my attempts to relate their sound. As luck would have it, I struck on something close to an apt description for the experience of listening to this particular EP. It is reminiscent of a rebellious Gregorian Monk starting an expansive rock band.

Though there are only six songs (including the bonus track), the record clocks in just shy of thirty-five minutes. What sets it apart--and keeps me interested each year--is the edgy nature inherent in the EP. In the opening track, Xmas Curtain, Jim James tells us about reluctant shoplifters and salacious hypocrites--"hey! The Christmas curtain falls on lawbreakers that pave the way for thoughtless folks like me and J who'd pay, but cant afford the finer things in life so we heist them all..."

This catchy (yet ironically bleak in content) tune is followed with I Just Wanted To Say. It's elegantly stark--"I just wanted to say, happy holidays, today. I just wanted to be just a little part of your cheer. There comes a time in everyone's life when everything shines like a star that falls from the sky"

Utilizing their unique vocal talents, the band follows this with something a bit more traditional--Christmas Time Is Here Again--a song extolling the positively regenerative possibilities of the season. Reminding us that--"Christmas Time is here again. All this joy for girls and boys, life was bad but now is good. All is right, I think we should bring out the joy, light up the tree. Though time moves fast it's not too late, it's only Christmas Eve."

Not to get too engrossed in a traditional spirit, the band opts for Nick Cave's New Morning. They adorn this post-apocalyptic proto eutopian song with lightly elegant instrumentation. In their hands it is transformed into a hopeful statement of the possibilities of our own future--"Thank you for giving this bright new morning, so steeped seemed the evening in darkness and blood. Let there be no sadness, no sorrow, Let there be no road too narrow. There'll be a new day, yes it's today, it's forever."

For good measure a cover of Elvis' "Santa Claus is Back in Town" wraps up the EP (though it is technically followed by a hidden track). This is naturally a rocker, with Jim James sounding a bit fuller than on any other track.

I read recently in the WSJ that we become bored with Christmas carols because the novelty has worn off. We know what will come next. The assertion was that a song must "balance predictability with surprise, familiarity with novelty." Irrationally I fear that fate for Fiasco Style. Fingers crossed, I hope to make it through at least one more season with the soaring vocals, teardrop lyrics, and expressive licks of My Morning Jacket Does Xmas Fiasco Style.

Youth and Young Manhood

Invariably when one sets out on a household clean up project or redecoration, some remembrance of times past rears its head. Though it perhaps should not be, it is usually an unexpected encounter. We cordon off our lives and expect our past to respect the boundaries. Our expectation is for the past to stand politely in the wings and appear only when expressly conjured.

This is out of practical necessity as much as anything else. What could be accomplished if one was to constantly mope over yesterday? Our mind creates these boundaries for self-survival. I think it is because of this that we are always so surprised at the strength of those innocent emotions that can blindside us at the drop of a hat.

Thus it was recently while I was straightening up my room that I came across a particular picture. It was one I've seen countless times without a second thought. Taken the day of my graduation ceremony at the University of Texas in May, 2005, I am standing in cap and gown with my arm around a dear friend (if it's possible, that might even be an understatement). Smiles on our faces, we stare into the camera. Confidence and security seems to emanate from us both.

It is ironic how innocent this all seems in retrospect. Everything undoubtedly seems to have been easier then. This is a false recollection. Our worries then seem minuscule only because we are privy to their resolution. However, I was struck by the ferocity of the emotions that overtook me--a yearning to live again those years of "youth," a desperate guilt at decisions and indecision, and finally a resigned smirk at the circumstances of the day (getting yelled at by the women in my life for wanting to wear shorts under my gown, realizing that I had "outgrown" the slacks I had, having to rush to Old Navy with Kasia for new pants, and finally, tearing down Red River at 60MPH to get to the ceremony).

People use phrases like a "misspent youth" from time to time. Youth is simply spent. Unfortunately, we spend it in a confused haze of vacillation. It is only upon a second look that we confuse the situation and see it as misspent instead.

Hidden Inside

Films are a magical thing. There is no end to the possibilities, no cessation to their delights. Most movies are enjoyed for their ability to mesmerize. Through melodrama, comedy, or action, we are given a chance to forget our reality and embrace an alternative experience wholeheartedly. On lucky occasions that experience will leave indelible marks on those who view them.

I recently watched Cedric Klapisch's sequel to the wonderful and sublime L'Auberge Espagnol (The Spanish Apartment). Though Russian Dolls, is ostensibly a sequel, I must admittedly disagree with Stephen Holden of the New York Times that it "has not much on its mind beyond updating the lives of the characters in his 2002 comedy L'Auberge Espagnole."

There is so much more on the mind. It attempts to explain the vagaries of love through the experience of the main character, Xavier. Though the film is indeed visually delightful, it was a piece of monologue by Xavier that really stuck with me. I hesitate to summarize so I'll just quote:

"If I think about all the girls I've known or slept with or just desired, they're like a bunch of Russian dolls. We spend our lives playing the game dying to know who'll be the last, the teeny-tiny one hidden inside all the others. You can't just get to her right away. You have to follow the progression. You have to open them one by one wondering, 'Is she the last one?'"

I can't add any more to that sentiment. The depth of those seemingly innocent words are, to me at least, a perfect summary of the human experience.

Fruits of Fantasy

The clementines are here. My preference to fresh fruit has been a relatively recent phenomenon. It began with a few apples here, a handful of oranges there. Soon enough I was delicately handling kiwi, discussing the relative merits of johnagolds, and generally craving tangelos.

Looking back this all seems to be rather pedestrian. Though the produce was always around, it wasn't until my time in France that I begun to really see the merits of fruits outside the flowering trinity of apples, bananas, and oranges. My idea of branching out had been buying a handful of kiwi or a carton of blackberries to supplement my pulsing desire for summer strawberries.

Litchis opened my eyes. The second night I was in Paris, a bowl was set out and filled to the brim with brittle, scaly little pale ovals. I was honestly surprised to find that these oddities were commonplace. Though I was apprehensive, those feelings dissipated after I peeled the outer shell and plucked the translucently pinkish fruit into my mouth. At the center of the fruit is an inedible seed. Both the appearance of the fruit as well as that inner seed reminded me of a peach, though the litchi was much sweeter and less dense than a peach. Before the evening ended I had consumed at least a dozen or more. I was officially a fan of litchis.

Though they were my gateway, litchis would not remain my fruit of choice while abroad. That station was won by the mango. My revelatory experience with the mango came early in my travels as well. Though I do not recall the exact circumstances of the evening, I believe I was walking in the Marais with my girlfriend and her friend. It was well after 10PM when we stepped into a Japanese restaurant for something to eat. Because of the late hour I was not interested in eating much more than a few pieces of sushi while the girls had full meals. For dessert Morgane ordered fresh mango (I must admit that I found humor in this. Beyond the fact that one would actually choose to have fruit for dessert, why on earth would one expect there to be fresh mango of all things? Evidently most Asian restaurants there serve mango for dessert).

When I first bit into the cubed fruit my derisiveness dissipated. I've been lucky enough to eat quite a few mangoes since that night in the Marais but none could reach the perfection of that first mango. For some reason the produce across the ocean seemed so much more fresh, it seemed to enliven my mouth. Now, every watery out of season clementine, each mealy mango just makes me shake my head in disgust and wish for the produce at the fruit stand on Avenue Pasteur in Courbevoie.

Perhaps it is unfair to constantly compare the fruit of my present to that of my past. Though these comparisons never live up to the imagined past, it seems ingrained in human nature to examine their correlation. With fruits or otherwise, we always catch ourselves doubting our present.

Taking Hold of the Scene

I must admit that I have been struggling to write this particular post for quite some time. This has been a result of circumstance as much as anything else. Life has seemed to speed up a bit over the past weeks. Since I am fond of ease and leisure this "speed" would seem to be something I might bemoan. However, it has been largely a result of positive life events occurring rather than tedious responsibility.

As I've mentioned before, I am certainly cognizant of my tastes. I find pleasure in the simplicity and (perceived) purity of an older generation of musicians. I feel as if I'm more critical of the "moderns" than I am older artists. Perhaps it's easier for me to excuse the blemishes of a different era.

There are some who are lucky enough to work in an environment or industry that keeps them abreast of the changing music scene. But for most, myself included, the task of staying current is impossible--between the cost of legally purchasing new music, to the amount of new material out there, it's like a second job. As a result the number of modern artists I consider integral to my existence pales in comparison to those of an older generation.

In reality, it is no small wonder to connect to a new band. This was certainly my own experience with Okkervil River. Though I rarely listened to them, Okkervil River had been on my radar for quite some time. This wasn't out of distaste but out of negligence. They were given a short and half-interested initial listen and largely forgotten. At some point in the past two years they were granted more attention.

Since I love words--their interaction, how they sound, their subtleties--it was the intricate lyrics of front man Will Sheff that first began to attract me. Songs like "Listening to Otis Redding at Home During Christmas" and "A Stone" contained not only a well of emotion but a poignancy rarely accomplished in any medium smaller than the modern novel. Out of that, the majesty and grandeur of songs like "The War Criminal Rises and Speaks" and "Our Life" hit me in a new way. Further and further the flames of my fan-hood spread as I saw the arc of their body of work--the flashes of genius that were coalesced into their two most recent records.

Of course writing about this is a somewhat futile exercise. Those who enjoy Okkervil River already do so in their own private way. Each experience of music is unique to oneself. It might pique the interest of one who hadn't yet been privy to the joys of the band. But, until the body of work is consumed, my words exist only as an empty approximation of my feelings.

The Curse of Memory

A month ago I had the realization that September was ending. Now I've had that same realization about October. I suppose my wonder at the passing of time either belies a touch of inner boredom or the creeping effects of age.

"Now the days go by so fast"

The passing of time is a subject laden with trite expressions and worn out sentiments, neither of which truly obtain an exact perspective on the subject. Our collective inability to truly pierce the heart of the matter doesn't prohibit us in any way, in fact it seems to cause more attempts--each trying to get their horseshoe closer to the stake.

An argument can be made that photographs (and recording technology in general) have invariably weakened our memories; however, I'm not sure where I would be without them. It is somewhat unbearable to think that there are occurrences in our life whose only chance of "survival" relies on our own mental capacities. As unreliable as we are as humans, it helps to have an aid. I am, therefore, quite thankful to have so many photographs from all stages of my life (these usually bring back a rush of emotions and memories when I see them).

Despite this I have been known to scoff at certain types of picture takers, especially those who replace the experience by way of lens. This tendency is most notable in tourists (the best example being those who take pictures of pictures, i.e. hanging works of art). I am overly self-conscious and as a result I unfortunately tend to behave the opposite. Because of this I often neglect to take pictures of certain things or have my own picture taken by others. It is regrettable ridiculousness on my part.

"I can't remember all the times I tried to tell my myself to hold on to these moments as they pass"

My own goal in life is to simply remember well. It seems at times to be an impossible task. Each passing day grants new experiences that serve to block out the more dated memories. As these new memories crowd the edges of your mind, the older ones meld together and form a jumbled mess. Hazy uncertainty reigns in place of clarity. Despite the hazy uncertainty of memory, the over all feeling is usually retained. These are most often summarized in basic emotions--a smile, an exclamation of discord, or even a sense of general ambivalence. And then there are also those exceptional memories that are so ingrained, so real despite the passing of time, they remain tangible. It is unfortunate but those seem to be the exception and not the rule.

Often we are filled with longing to relive moments, to reconnect with people or places. This ability to remember certain things in the face of the present is the curse of memory. As such it seems to me that the oddity of our existence is in fact the present. Invariably, like the above quote attests, we lament our inability to derive the appropriate sense of fulfillment out of the moments we live. In a sense we are not truly living our life but living the memories to come and are thus forced to derive most our joy retroactively.

Under My Thumb

My presence here in Arkansas seems an oddity to many. Though it has been explored countless times already in this medium, I always seem to find myself returning to it. I would venture to guess that it stems from the confusion of life. It's natural to reach out for something known in times of unknown, like a favorite pub or a particular bench in the park. Your life isn't exactly centered around it but you feel centered while you're there.

When I left France I jumped from what had become home back to what was once home. It is perhaps confusing and a bit complicated to phrase it thus but I felt adrift. As such I did derive a sense of comfort out of my familiar surroundings. After Clint's death and my separation from M. it was perhaps the best thing for me. Admittedly though there seemed to be an undercurrent of doubt, one that perhaps mentally tagged on "for now" to my response when asked if I was "back." I'm not sure why, but even after being off in the world, I seemed to associate a slight sense of failure with being back home. It is absurd, I know.

The reaction to my "return" depends largely on the person I might be talking to. There seems to be a duality of opinion here, one that is undoubtedly the case in many towns across America. There are those that see the place as the center of something larger, a destination of perfection. Lying opposite to this are those that only know the place by a negative moniker that keeps the "Fort" but replaces the "Smith" with something my sister referred to as the "S word" when we were younger. Both camps express disbelief at my return. For the former my return is natural but they can't believe that I took so long to come to my senses.

While many see the town as a pleasant comfort, the other half seems to view the town as a mother's thumb--something that binds and chafes, something to escape. With this set there is usually a touch of envy at my fortune, envy that I had gotten out. Theirs is an incredulous disbelief that I would even contemplate a return.

So here I am, ironically stuck between the two halves. Squarely under that comfortingly oppressive thumb, I am once again seeking answers to questions that can't really be answered, only lived.

The Tragedy of Circumstance

Each time I begin a relationship it always seems there will never be an end. Despite all contrary evidence that I've experienced, I always get lost in the beauty of love and coupling in its early stages.

It's only later that the cracks begin to show--your defense of certain glaring incompatibilities weakens, you cease to ignore certain characteristics. The time frame for this negative evolution always depends on those involved (I seem to be quite adept at ignoring reality in a multitude of situations). Given the nature of relationships it would be easy for one to think that the innocence and exciting unknowns of new relationships were the peak. It would be easy to think that it simply doesn't get much better. But it is only after those early bursts of emotion have passed that the nature of a love is revealed and allowed room to truly grow.

Thus the tragedy isn't that a relationship fails to grow but that it isn't allowed the room to grow. Whether it was Romeo or Tristan, Beatrice or Ilsa--without the right circumstances love is circumvented. It can never truly take flight, wings can never be completely formed.

So it is once again that circumstance thwarts a short but brilliant flame in my life. In the billowing remnants of that flame I am left only with memories of moments shared and a longing to replace the emptiness...I've never been good at being alone.

The North Side of Despair

Another year has come and gone for the boys in Cubbie blue. It has proved hard to admit. Now that I'm almost a full week removed from their third loss to the Dodgers I've accepted the fact that it is over, really and truly over.

This day and age doesn't really seem as suited for baseball as it is other sports. Thus there are countless people 35 and under who just don't "get" baseball. Most of my friends are more in tune with the NBA and the NFL than they are the dynamics of the MLB. There are too many games, not enough action, any number of excuses are spit out as reasons behind their dislike of the game.

Most of these reasons I can live with. Everyone has different tastes. I do, however, find it ironic when friends who "love" soccer list game pace or "lack of action" as a reason for their inability to derive pleasure from watching baseball. It escapes me how one can truly appreciate the tactical vagaries of soccer but not baseball. Obviously in many circles it's "hip" for one to "love" soccer but I think it's as much about personality as it is the changing face of the world.

"It's no wonder some people find the game dull, especially in an age of Sports Center and instant gratification. A lot of baseball's appeal is in the Scheherazadian nature of the game--the narrative develops slowly. Clock drive football compresses and distills, while baseball invites discursive rumination. It's an archaic style that attracts a different fan." -Phillip Martin, 9-21-08 Arkansas Democrat-Gazette

Since that compression is missing from baseball there is more buildup. Once that aspiration is deflated at season's end, it stings. As a Cubs fan you become somewhat immune to the many pitfalls and let downs within a season. You're calloused and accustomed to that sting of defeat. It's when you ease your inner guard and allow the light of hope to burn within you that you leave yourself vulnerable as a Cubs fan. My own light clicked on early this year and continued to flicker the entire season. Even after the Cubs dropped the first two in Chicago, deep inside me a miraculous curse breaking ember was smoldering.

It wasn't to be. Once again, in a miraculous fashion, the season ended for the Cubs. It's easy to lament one's circumstances but excoriating one's fate is of no use. Instead we dry our eyes and cast our gaze ahead to next year--to find new hope in a new spring. We, as Cub fans, live in the quiet hopes of tomorrow and the joyous possibilities it holds.

Wishes and Wants

For some reason I've always had a predilection for literature from the early 20th century. Most noticeably this preference is for works that take place in the interwar years from 1920-1940. I'm not so sure I can truly put my finger on the reason why. It seems that there is hardly ever a direct causal relationship between reason and preference. There are vaguely descriptive reasons I can give--the level of decadence that seemed to pervade life, the manners, the suppressed simplicity of the worldview. I think, in truth, it perversely seems almost idyllic in my mind. An era seemingly caught between modernity and the Victorian era, the exact point of society before we spilled over into the chaos of "modernity."

With my fear of planes I suppose I've always felt as if I was born in the wrong era, that I was more suited for the leisurely travel norms of that time. Perhaps I'm kidding myself to entertain such notions but I've raced through Forster, Maugham, Greene, and Waugh and continually feel drawn to their world.

Naturally it was not without a sense of irony that I realized the other day that, in a way, I've been living in a new manifestation of that time period. Perhaps this realization should have occurred to me already with the gloom and doom of another depression splashed across the news each day (Unfortunately I tend to be tragically oblivious. For as observant as I feel I can be, this streak of blindness can be somewhat surprising).

It can be quite easy to find parallels between historical eras if one sets out to do so. I imagine it's almost as easy as finding behavioral or moral justifications in the bible. Everything is found for those who care to undertake the search. For my own comparison it's easy to picture the fracturing of a societal naivete, a la the WWI, in the events of 9/11, the roaring 20s in the freewheeling banking practices of the early 2000s, and our own recession as the depression. What is left but a war to bookend the period?

Obviously the time periods of these "parallel" events don't mesh. The later events occur compressed--a naivete that took four years to crack was shattered in only a day. As we were drowning in the forgetfulness of prosperity the world continued to move on around us.

My good friend in California, Matt, made a very valid point during our discussion of the dualities between responsibility and happiness. It serves very nicely has an ending point for this particular post. Matt compared the current state of much of the financial sector with that of our peers. I'm taking the liberty to quote him directly (courtesy of the wondrous gmail)--

"A lot of our generation has been blessed with many great opportunities and not often have we seen the possible negative consequences of the risks we have taken. So we keep on taking the risks, keep on pushing it."

If there is a better analogy that describes the majority of young American adults and their personal struggles between "reality" and the easy almost hedonistic lifestyle they had grown accustomed to, I have yet to see it. Matt's assessment of the situation nails the crux of the issue, for our own age or for the 1920s. In both eras we became tangled up in the illusion of prosperity...so fooled by the hopeful smokescreen of flourishing affluence that we lost sight of reality. We are now stuck with the outcome of our own orgulous Ostrich act. Perhaps it's too ominous and perhaps too obvious to close with a warning, but as they say, "be careful what you wish for." Even if it is as absurd a literary lark as wishing to live through the ups and downs of the interwar period.

The Perks of Petrovice

As a history lover I've always wished I had a more tangible heritage. For some reason I've always felt a weird sort of identity gap. I've always felt that I perhaps lacked something that might separate me or grant a unique distinction in my life.

When my grandfather first began researching our genealogy I latched on to the famous "relatives" as if they were a feather to stick in my cap. But it all felt so very removed from reality--too distant. And with the immigration coming so long ago and in my mind from a "generic" place like the British Isles, it lacked luster to my young eyes. It all seemed too normal.

Identity had to be found in other places instead. Growing up in Arkansas it seems that I latched onto the affiliations that wuold separate instead of include. I rooted for the Cubs in the land of Cardinal fans, the Longhorns in the land of Razorbacks. Most avidly though, I clutched onto my maternal roots as a Texan. It is hard to conjure an apt metaphor to illustrate the....uncouthness of this particular stance as an Arkansan. Texas and Texans it seems are always hated or loved. There is no middle ground. Arkansas seemingly suffered in the shadow of Texas much like a little brother might (for most I think this was largely a result of many years of Southwest Conference football games).

This path of separation continued into my years living in Texas as I began to trumpet my Arkansan roots. Though never a hater, it was as a resident of Texas that I first realized how to appreciate the land I called home. I suppose I was wishing so badly to have an identity--wishing I came from somewhere--that I never realized I had always had one.

My own desire for an identity led me to be jealous of those I knew that had, as I saw it, tangible roots. So it was with some excitement that I found out for the first time that my grandfather knew the exact town, even the exact street address of the house in which my great great grandfather lived in Petrovice, a small town in the southwestern corner of the Czech Republic (though my Czech is nonexistent, I'm fairly certain that, irony of ironies, Petrovice is translated as "Peter Ville"). For the first time in my life I felt an attachment to a place, that those "tangible roots" were for the first time indeed tangible.

Though the world is vast, though there are many things I want to see, and though there are many places left to explore, for the time being they must take a back seat to my pilgrimage to Petrovice. It is perhaps premature to speak of this since it will be many months before this idea blooms into reality. The actual difference this discovery makes in my overall personality is most likely negligible, it is within the scope of possibilities that the biggest difference is made. I'm still the person who somewhat inexplicably roots for the Cubs and Longhorns but I've been granted an additional genealogical anchor that paradoxically opens up the world a little bit wider for me. And that, in my eyes clouded with the love of place and history, is a wonderfully uplifting gift.

Low and High II

After receiving varied feedback it became evident that a more thorough exploration of the topic was required. My aim, beyond the obvious self-satisfying benefits of keeping a blog, is to be thought provoking, perhaps even somewhat insightful. I suppose the topic has been on my mind quite a bit of late. So I have decided to take the thread and forge forward into the dark woods. The thread really begins with my very good friend Tank and his comment to my previous post that I think is worth noting. He spoke of the necessity to live in the here and now, to let the adventures come when they come. Sage advice, albeit somewhat difficult to always follow.

Life is a shifting shape. It's like a water tube (I believe they may also be known as "slippery snakes"), those somewhat slimy plastic cylinders that are impossible to grasp. The trick, it seems, is in not grasping at all. Each time you try to squeeze it, the tube pops out of your hand. One might be able to grab it for a second before it squirts away again but that second is all one will ever be able to hold on to.

And so it is with life. We flail around in space, grabbing onto things and people, hoping they can provide the contentment we seek. We grasp onto fleeting glimpses of a happiness thinking it might last. It isn't until we are placid that the impossible toy is caught. Never through grasping are we to find our contentment but only with the open hands of calm patience.

Somewhere along the way I learned to accept life's gifts as they come--to give love, to accept love, and to live honestly--with others but especially with myself. My own potential for these things is not always met but I strive. Given the statements in the previous paragraph, striving might seem counterintuitive to patience. In my mind, striving for oneself, or attempting to reach a certain goal is definable and takes true patience. It is happiness that is mercurial. How do you strive after an elusive and incorporeal idea?

Perhaps it is too expansive and/or trite to summarize happiness in this way but it is as thus that I find myself. I still seek to experience the world on its own terms, I still dream dreams, I still breathe the oxygen of potentialities. The world of possibility, however, is something separate. The greatest of possibilities spring from true happiness and are not born of discomfiture.

Low and High

Having been out into the world, I often find myself restless here in my piece of America. From big dreams of a life of ease and happiness to smaller short term aspirations, I continually seek something greater. This is not necessarily because of my situation here. I believe I've always been this way. Though I do wonder if perhaps living in a smaller town creates bigger escapist fantasies, a sort of mental counteraction to fate's circumstances.

There's a person I work with whose own aspirations seem limited to a few drinks each night, a good meal, football video games, and a warm spot in bed next to his girl. His own scope, seemingly, is limited more to the here and now. Excepting the video games, his aspirations are as old as time. There are often times when I envy that, wishing I could be contented so easily. Looking back into my life I wonder if being abroad created greater horizons in my mind and thus destroyed any hope for that idealized notion of simplicity from my life.

"Focusing on nowhere/Investigating miles/I'm a seeker/I'm a really desperate man."

Just as I know those who seek solid and simple pleasures, I know many more who seek to explore, to know, to experience. We all dream of something more for our lives but paradoxically it is with those seekers that I, the inveterate homebody, find more common ground with. At times it seems a curse that my contentment isn't fated to last for long but I wonder if it's not actually a blessing.

Rebel in the Night

The other night I was jolted from my peaceful sleep by a piercing noise. My first thought was that it was already 6AM and my alarm was going off. Frantically I mashed every single button as I tried to turn it off. Instead of eradicating the noise I ended up with two books, a lamp, and a cell phone on the floor. Standing there, confused and frantic, I realized that the noise was coming from my phone. Though the ring tone is ostensibly a melody, it seemed like a torturous siren. It made my ears throb.

Late night phone calls, though not a regular event, are far from a novelty for those in my demographic. As such, I presume many can probably sympathize with my state of utter confusion. Discounting the occasion that I almost punched a female “friend” who caught a ride home with a roommate after a night of drinking and decided to wake me up at 3AM, my late night wake ups are generally calm (explanation: the punch was almost thrown not because I disliked the person but because being woken up at 3AM when you aren't really expecting to is kind of freaky, especially when that person is more a stranger than a friend). As I lay back down to sleep that night, I was more than slightly dismayed at my crazed reaction to the midnight phone call.

My dismay was rooted in memories of my father. No matter the circumstances of the event or the time of night, whenever my siblings or I woke up my father, his reaction was always the same. In a state of confused alert he would bolt upright out of bed and frantically scan his surroundings trying to figure out what was happening. I saw my father in my reaction to the ringing phone.

For most of us, life is spent as an active pursuit of separation from our parents. This isn't necessarily born out of a distaste for those that brought us into this world but instead it is a quest for a unique identity. Unfortunately, it seems that the truth behind actions of separation and personal growth aren't always grasped by parent or child. It took me a long time to realize that. Though I seek to become known as my own person, I feel that I am finally coming to terms with all those traits I share with my parents. From my mother's emotionalism to my father's easily startled nature at night, I am a mess of quirks and idiosyncrasies. Paradoxically it seems that acceptance is the truer form of rebellion.

Rambling Post That Doesn't Necessarily Make Sense

Games that require clapping and saying something about oneself in front of strangers is my least favorite thing in the world. For those that might know me, this is rarefied company. I don't handle forced socialization very well. There is something about it that I loathe. Somewhere amongst the fake smiles and the feigned interest there is something ___. For as long as I can recall it has been this way for me. I hated camp as a child and dreaded the required functions parents press upon their offspring. By the time I finished high school I naively felt that I finally escaped the onus of forced socialization.

This naivety was shattered by Camp Longhorn. I was gently forced by my mother into attending this camp just before beginning my freshman year of college. Though orientation with its required meetings and info sessions wasn't entirely bad, I despised the camp. It was everything I hated about camp as a child, even the clapping games, but transplanted onto incoming freshman.

Now that I've entered adulthood, this social dread that has survived my childhood and my adolescence continues to exist. The only change has been my own outlook. It seems I have finally realized that forced socialization is one of the inevitabilities of life. It's not exactly death and taxes but it's damn close. This weekend was proof.

My presence was required this past weekend at a lodge atop a beautiful mountain for my step brother's wedding. To say that I was less than excited about this is perhaps an understatement (my attendance this weekend came at the cost of seeing MMJ in Dallas). As gauche and egocentric as it might be to admit this, it's the truth. Of course my problem isn't with weddings themselves but with these sort of pseudo family wedding where you know virtually no one—immediate family excluded—and are expected to carry on with fellow attendees as if you do know them.

Perhaps I am just a true contrarian, always in rebellion with what is expected. From petulant refusals to go to Sixth Street in college to my own youthful adoration of teams I wasn't supposed to like, a line of contrary behavior can be found in my life. This streak seems to have taken on a life of its own at times—a preternatural instinct almost. What other explanation can be reached for my fits of temper, silence, despair or my unfair humor even in the face of people for whom I deeply care? Or is it just the easy one?

Lions in the Bush

For those who may not know it, I've been seeing a girl quite frequently of late. I'm not an overly effusive man so I won't be surprised if this wasn't widely known. Though it is anyone's guess, I would like to think it is out of a sense of privacy or demarcation that causes me to shy away from writing about women in my life.

When one is involved in a relationship there is no shortage of nervousness, self-doubt, hopefulness, or joy. Though a relationship takes shape within the wider world it is truly a smaller world of its own. As a relationship progresses reality narrows slightly and the periphery occurrences become a slight blur. Eventually the relationship blossoms and blends back into the wider world. It becomes a part of the day to day reality...you exist again as a part of the world.

Though there has been plenty of hopefulness and joy, thus far there has also been no shortage of self-doubt and nervousness. These feelings haven't necessarily been linked to Sara, the girl I've been dating, as much as they have been linked to the larger situation of dating.

Despite intermittent experiences with children as a teenager, I've never been exposed to them too much. I grew up without cousins, none of my siblings or step-siblings have thus far produced any offspring. I've lived a baby free existence for the most part. When you add this to the general uncertainty that surrounds any burgeoning relationship, it would be safe to say that I was fairly nervous about being around Sara's daughter, Gabby.

My ignorance of children knew no bounds. I was unsure how to behave, how to interact, what to say...But, like any new experience, whether it's your first year of high school or moving to a new city, it's never as bad as you might fear. The adaptability of human nature always proves itself worthy of the knee shaking task. Occasionally my tongue gets the better of me and out slips a "hell" or a "damn." As I continue to moderate my language (a true task for me)my fondness for her and her mother have grown.

My relationship with these two ladies has come at a price though. Often as I sit and watch Gabby I'm overcome with an incredibly paralyzing fit of thought. There is a level of innocence and purity associated with young children that I've never really experienced before first hand and it floors me. I've almost come to tears...Answers as to why are beyond me. Perhaps I feel that I'll never become a part of that world...that I'm removed and can never experience it for myself. Perhaps it is that the innocence will eventually be ruined...the passing of time will mar the beauty of a child. Perhaps I sense the inherent tragedy in life...? Whatever it is that sends me against the wall, whatever it is that brings me to the point of tears...I both want and dislike it. I enjoy the overbearing sense of wonderment and thought it brings to me but I also fear the power and profundity that patiently wait on the edge of my thought process, like lions in the bush.

We are thrown together in this world and we enjoy it while we can. We hide our souls and only timidly do we let our nature out. As time passes and trust is gained, bit by bit the truth of who we are is shown. Whether life will take us anywhere is still unknown.

The Spectacle of Cinema

As a rule I try to stay calm and collected. This convention of control was breached the other day. After a couple years of cajoling my friend, Kiran, finally watched the inimitable Paul Newman in "The Hustler." A back and forth of messages ensued where I began a rant against the current state of cinema.

I'm not a fetishist for a supposed "golden age" of film. There have been countless productions in recent years that I love just as much as anything else produced in any other era. Despite this, I have a feeling that there's been an overall slide in quality.

The stimulus for this rant was both a remark Kiran made about "Pirates of the Caribbean II" (henceforth: POTCII) and my own recent viewing of "Step Brothers" with Will Ferrell and John C. Reilly. They play middle-aged men who still live with their parents. Despite the obviousness of the plot vehicle (parents marry, move in with child, fights and hijinks ensue) the movie's potential greatness lay within the satirization of the ever lengthening span of modern childhood. While this aping of the prorogation of adulthood has it's own comedic value, the bulk of the humor rested in the audience's ability to imagine the crass petulance of Ferrell and Reilly being acted out by actual children.

Perhaps it's obvious to note that the general plot and story arc were both formulaic. That, in and of itself, wasn't the spark of my rant. What I found in "Step Brothers"
was the continuing trend of Ferrell's absurdist brand of (crass) humor. A branch of comedy that no longer seems to place much importance on timing or wit. Instead it relies on the ability to say the most off the wall thing that pops into one's head. Though absurdism has its place, though I laughed quite a bit during the movie, I left with a feeling that I was perhaps perpetuating some larger problem in America by contributing to the success of that film.

The other side of this cinematic equation are spectacle films, like POTCII, Tristan & Isolde, National Treasure, or even Kingdom of Heaven. These movies place a priority on attention grabbing stunts as well as contrived romances and story lines. While there have certainly always been "spectacle" films, it seems that they've begun to dominate the entire action genre.

Throughout history there has always been a human urge for a spectacle. There are of course the obvious spectacles of past (gladiators) and present (modern sports) but what strikes me is the overall rise of the "spectacle" in our everyday life--from obsessive coverage of stars like Brittney Spears or Brett Favre to the rise of reality television and the explosion of movies like POTCII. This of course leads me down a dangerous thought path. It all makes me wonder if there is any correlation with the death, so to speak, of the "traditional" spectacles like traveling fairs. Or, could it be more about our own voyeuristic appetites? As the world continues to evolve, as it continues to shrink, as the ability of science grows, does our own craving for a spectacle apart from us expand?

In all likelihood the explanation can be simplified along lines of taste more than anything. Perhaps my own personality is reflected in my film tastes. Perhaps one's taste in movies is just a perverted manifestation of narcissism. I'm one for words and subtlety, thus I reject films that severely lack both. My lament to Kiran was that the popularity of these movies filled with spectacle and empty lines have come at a cost of finding movies like "The Hustler," ones that present a structured plot, intelligent dialogue, and well formed characters. These carefully crafted movies still exist. Being back home I quickly realized the unfortunate impossibility of ever seeing them in the theater. Put it down as another casualty of life in a smaller town. Put it down as another reason to be thankful for my Netflix subscription.

Life & Time on the River

It seems I might have missed the event of the summer here. Over the past few weeks I had been hearing gushing praise for a band due to play Friday & Saturday nights at a venue downtown. The tone of the praise could be described as a mix of reverence and excitement.

My own reception of this praise was a mix of embarrassment and surprise. I couldn't believe that The Klocks were an unknown entity to me yet all of Fort Smith seemed to be agog. Generally, even if I don't know their music, the band's name will at least strike a resonant chord somewhere in the recess of my head. A name like "The Klocks" seems to hold a faint residue of hipsterdom so I was naturally surprised (and relieved) to find out they were just a party band, which is to say a cover band. For some reason I'm filled with the Seinfeldian urge to tack on a "not that there's anything wrong with that" anytime I refer to someone as a "cover band."

The hidden embarrassment and subsequent relief I experienced upon finding out that The Klocks were a cover band rests largely in my perception of myself. My thought process ran somewhat close to "how could these people, my fellow Fort Smithians, know a band that I, former resident of Austin and music lover, not know about?" I'm not entirely sure what's more embarrassing, the possibility of not knowing a band or the arrogance it requires to be embarrassed about it. An additional and unfortunate subtext is the quiet slight I gave this band by being relieved they were a cover band. Evidently it's acceptable to not know them as such.

Mixed within this is the unintentional irony of altered expectations. Austinites, like many dwellers of urban areas, are spoiled by the plethora and availability of acts and venues. One expects to be able to hear a class act on any night of the week. These expectations are wholly justified. Compare this situation to Fort Smith and one might think a depression would settle over me. While at times I miss being able to run down to the Hole in the Wall on a random Wednesday night, my own expectations shifted with my move home.

Life in a smaller town, with its slower pace, serves to intensify whatever minor events occur. When someone comes to town, even a popping covers act, it warrants the attention of the masses. Due to illness I unfortunately still do not have a first hand experience of The Klocks but even this unexperienced experience illustrates the ever changing landscape of my adaption to life here in the river city.

The Community of Music

Aside from casual references I generally avoid writing about music. It's not for any lack of interest in music itself but as a result of aversion towards propagating my own tastes. For some reason I feel it smacks of elitism. There is no real logic behind this since I have never been too shy to promote my affection for a film (this stance is as illogical as my distaste for blogs before creating An Arkansan Abroad) ). I've always been slightly amused with elitist inclinations, especially when it comes to something like music. This, I think, is mainly due to my own preponderance for these tendencies. Despite this, I think that I've shied away from sharing my own tastes here out of self-consciousness and not out of elitist parsimony.

As a music lover I've always been somewhat of an outcast among the majority of my friends. Of the set who actually like music, my tastes might be deemed too old fashioned. For those that don't have an interest in music (at the risk of being elitist myself I should say, "taste in music") my tastes are too out there, too avant garde. This paradox is possible not out of fact but thanks to each sets particular interests, of which the latter ingests a semi-steady diet of popular radio tunes and the former a steady diet of independent and cutting edge artists.

Ironically it seems that everyone, myself included, deems their particular taste in music superior in some way to others. This is self-evident in those who like to pride themselves on "discovering" artists or bands. Getting in on the ground floor, so to speak, grants the person a sense of cultural hipness they are unable to find in listening to more established acts. Ancillary to this, and another manifestation of elitist tendency within music lovers, is the inclination for some to stop liking an artist once they become "mainstream." Though I openly accept my guilt for multiple hypocritical elitist stances over the years, I think this is one character flaw of which I'm largely free. Sure, I might bemoan the large concerts and pine for the intimate shows of the past but I try not to begrudge an act for "making it." The confluence of music and "elitism" is a paradox. Music, like food, is a communal expression, one that is best loved with others. And preferably those "others" will be loving it with you.

Perhaps I am alone in this sentiment but all of my favorite concerts were just as influenced by the people I was with as much as the particular artist or band. That communal experience, the exchange of knowing smiles as the guitarist hits a certain note or swaying along with your girlfriend as the vocalist croons your song, always makes the event worthwhile. Whether it was screaming along to My Morning Jacket with Kasia and the Dove or watching Cookies twisting across the front of the stage at Lambert's, it has always been those closest to me who push a musical experience over the top.

Helios & Me

Something inside me has changed over the last year. Since my travels took me to locales spread over three continents this might seem to be an obvious and somewhat understated comment. Change is of course the essence of travel, as it broadens horizons and educates.

Though I was fortunate to experience things I never dreamed I would, the change I've felt is not one of outlook. For lack of a better word, it's a "chemical" change. Something in my body has been thrown off kilter. I'm not ill, just off balance.

In the past I've been accused of having tendencies that were somewhat akin to a toddler. These have ranged from the way I walk to irritable behavior when I'm hungry. Even though I could become cranky when hungry, that reaction paled in comparison to my cantankerous nature when hot. I would become borderline dysfunctional. The fact that I was hot was all that I could think about. I was like a kitten with yarn, my focus was singular.

So you might have a better idea of what I'm trying to flesh out I should give some parameters. First, I love sports. I'm a competitor. I never shy away from athletic endeavors because of the heat. Sweat was okay when I was active. My problem was when I was inactive. When I was idle I expected a certain level of comfort and the warm temperature prevented this.

This has all changed somehow. To my own dismay I now enjoy the heat. Even though I'm blond and fair skinned, I find myself craving the sun. I drop the car windows in the summer when I would always pump the air conditioning. I sit outside to read when I once would lay on my bed under a fan.

Despite the fact that I like this "chemical" change, even though I like this "new" version of me, I'm at a loss to explain it. There are any number of scenarios that could be cast as an answer--the influence of a lover, my decision to replace my car with a bike last summer, or the act of travel itself. There is also the possibility that it is some sort of genetic or hormonal shift.

For the first time in my life I experienced what I would call an actual winter. Granted, Paris, France is a far cry from Fairbanks, Alaska but it is still a lot more of a winter than I ever saw growing up in Arkansas. There was of course the occasional snow or ice storm but I also have many memories of wearing shorts in January. The past six or seven years I spent in Austin were even warmer (a song by Brian Keane sums Austin winter up: "where the winter lasts from five to seven days"). As a result, I think that my body was not prepared for winter in Paris. It's not that it was that cold but it was constantly cold. Growing up in the south one expects a day to day variation of weather, most especially in the winter months. My own neurotic theory is that my body was sent into some sort of shock, a heat deprived trauma that induced a genetic need for the sun's warmth.

Since I will never truly know the exact origins of what sparked the changes within me, I choose to see it as one large amalgamation of influence, in other words: life. I suppose in a larger sense it doesn't matter much how a change is effected, just that personal stagnation is kept at bay. Once again I'm going to run the risk of seeming trite but my life this past year was without parallel. It had its ups and downs like ever other year but the experience was so visceral, so eidetic. Which, if you get down to it, that experience of truly living is really what I love about life. Perhaps it might even be the hidden reason for why I crave the heat now: the sensation reminds me I'm still here in this world.

The Dream Routine

Anyone that knows me also knows how routine oriented I am. This is readily apparent in my life. No matter the situation I will seek to create a pattern.

As a traveler this habit was often muted somewhat or, in brief intervals, completely lost. Even in those instances of travel I sought to create a sense of order out of chaos by making lists of things to do or see. While living in France I settled into a sort of routine on most days that was largely based around my writing. Self-fulfilling activities are easy to prioritize when you have minimal responsibility. An ocean away from my reality and with nothing in way of true responsibility in front of me, finding time to write was easy. At times, it was too easy. Because I knew I had so much time I was more apt to put off a larger task I had set for myself.

Back in Arkansas, back in reality, time with a pen is harder to find. Even though I've instinctively sought to create a routine, one with time to write and read, it is still hard to accomplish. It's so easy to get lost in our day to day world that we lose sight of a larger purpose or an overriding goal. My own aim is to advance myself as a writer. Perhaps this might be easier without a job, a Netflix subscription, errands to run, or grapes to wash but it wouldn't be reality.

I've never tried to hide from the world, only to live in it in my own way, no matter the cost. Returning from France I was at the end of a line and unsure where my next cast would fall. Through fate I've stumbled upon a new line to run down, replete with its own tasks and challenges. For the time being, my own aspirations and goals come at the cost of a life resembling many others. Though I hope I can work in enough time with a pen to justify this existence, I fear that unless these aspirations come to fruition, my efforts at staving off a life of routine and reality will have been in vain.

These Days

As a returned resident there are often moments where I find myself running into an old friend. This was a fairly frequent occasion while I was still in college. Once I was out of college I visited less. Without the leisure of long breaks between classes during the winter or summer, the trip home became more of a hassle. As my visits diminished they took on a different quality. I began to feel isolated in my hometown.

The holidays bring home the disparate sons and daughters of a city. As a student home during this period you make to the bars like everyone else your age. You always try to pass those "boring" nights in your hometown with beer and old faces. On certain nights during the year a place that might be half empty on any other Wednesday is transformed into high school (or at least some sort of surreal reunion). The only things missing are pretensions and awkwardness. Though the spirits might be said to cure both I like to attribute it to the intervening time between us and what we once were. Though it's hard to see past the person we once were and into the one we are today, time, like alcohol, has a way of softening the edges of our perceptions.

Admittedly I don't always like running into people I knew as a younger person. This doesn't stem from dislike. Unfortunately time hasn't cured my awkwardness and I often find myself unsure of what to say about myself. Once it was natural, easy, and true to say "Yeah, things are good. I'm still in school at Texas." Now, I'm now hesitant, stuck between utter veracity and half-true glibness.

My indecisiveness rests as much in the person whom I'm speaking with as it does with me. I find the difficulty of these responses directly increases in proportion to how close I once was with the person I've encountered. My heart wants to reach out while my mind is unsure--one sees the person while the other sees the empty years between us. Perhaps my mind knows how much I've changed in the intervening years and assumes those I once knew have as well.

Though my move here was purportedly a return home, in many ways it is just the opposite. As I navigate my way through the days, I see the town and the people within it. While I might think I know them both, after seven years away, we have a lot of catching up to do.

Día del Padre

Last week I got to talking with a former coach about the past. Nestled within the conversation was a recollection about my father which stuck with me. Apparently in all of his years coaching my father was the only parent present at every practice. "He'd bring his work with him but he was there."

My father and I haven't always had an easy relationship. Though I don't remember a whole lot from my childhood I think my conception of him as a father, like so many other children, was one akin to Superman. I can still remember the day he became human, the day my parents separated. Though I believe every child struggles to come to terms with their father's humanity, my own experience seemed to be heightened due to the event coinciding with my teenage years and thus perhaps magnifying my disenfranchisement.

Over the next four or five years we had our ups and downs, butting heads over a myriad of things. I struggled to come to terms with my emotions and my anger while he struggled to figure me out. It seems that distance was the magical salve we needed. When I went away for college it seemed that our problems thawed somewhat. I suppose living eight hours away allows for a sense of perspective, and no doubt I was slowly maturing. Distance hasn't cured everything and from time to time we still have our arguments. These all seemed to stem from my silence, which itself arose out of my fear of disappointing the one person whose approval I sought more than anything else.

The lucky among us know parental love and dotage. We perhaps know it so well that we've come to expect it in our lives and thus devalue it because it is expected, the natural order.

As age and experience continue to soften the edges of my relationships with everyone, I more easily see how lucky I was and how lucky I continue to be. Perhaps this exploration is trite but through it all, through my obstinacy and anger, my father has always been there looking out for me. He's always done his job as a parent--wanting what's best for his children. My father strove to provide my siblings and me with a life, through his own time and through the means his job provided. That juxtaposition, working while attending my practice, though not romantic and not necessarily poignant, is my father. It sums up not only his dedication at being in my life but truly providing for it as well.

In one way or another I am my father, just as he was his. Without his library, without his curve balls, and without his protection I would be a shell of the "man" I am today. My eternal regret is never really knowing how to thank him.

A Searching Sunday

I went to see Sex and the City today. I prefer to be completely upfront with it. In the same vein, I'd also prefer to not waste space posturing about my manhood. Nor will I make excuses about seeing it. I wasn't dragged there, it wasn't for a date. I saw the movie of my own volition. And though it dragged on a bit, even at two hours plus I found it enjoyable.

Although it's not always readily seen, I've always been an emotional person. For many years my folly was trying to suppress it. I still get in my own way from time to time but in general I like to think that I'm honest with myself and with my emotions. In the past I was quite a bit more cavalier--not only with myself but in my relations with others. Reasons for this change are difficult to pinpoint (If I were a middle age woman I might be able to lay this heightened emotional evolution on menopause). Despite all of this and my own security with it, I am still reticent to admit that Sex and the City struck a chord with me.

It always seemed to me that Sex and the City's appeal to women lay with the alternate universe it opened to them--a tangible dream life for young women to strive towards and a brave youthfulness older women could pine for. We all internalize the stories we read, the shows we watch, and the lyrics we hear. We need to identify with the characters, that identification drives our enjoyment. It grounds the material in something we know or wish to know.

What gets lost among the handbags and the fancy lunch spots are the existential questions posed and the fluid conclusions each character reaches in response. That is what first made the show evolve from bearable to enjoyable for me--from something to share with my little sister to something I could watch on my own. It is also, I think, what I identified with the most in the movie. Of course there were all the natural Hollywood moments geared towards the demographic--overblown melodrama, metered humor, and plenty of dresses--but essentially the movie, like the show, was a chronicle of the inseparable nature of life and love. Within that spectrum was its greatness. It had the confusion, the hope, the despair, and the clarity of life and love. To any who have been there, to any who have experienced love, these attributes are easily identifiable. And it was that which truly spoke to me--the lonely soul reaching out into the world searching for that most human of all connections

Something About Summer

There is much that is said about the supernatural tendencies of women. There is the uncanny display of foresight involved in women's "intuition." There is also the tick-tock of the famous "maternal clock," the internal timepiece that sends young women into gray hair inducing fits.

As far as I can tell, I'm not a woman. I do, however, have my own internal clock system. Unlike the female baby clock, mine is tied to the seasons, particularly summer. Each year around April or May I begin to have an itch for a certain type of music--songs that befit the changing weather, tunes that shift my mind forward into the realm of sunshine, music that puts a smile on my face. I itch for a little Jimmy Buffett.

There are many who knowingly or not reject Mr. Buffett. People only see him as the purveyor of catchy over played pool party hits--Cheeseburger in Paradise, Margaritaville, Let's Get Drunk. You can't erase those songs nor can you detach him from them. They, the songs and the writer, have both become a slice of America. Unfortunately, to most he seems to be nothing more than an entertainer and a mass market commodity. What is lost behind this glossy surface of success is his real and unmistakable talent as a songwriter and storyteller.

It may come as a shock but Jimmy Buffett is a fixture in my storyteller Top-5 (w/Billy Joe Shaver, John Prine, Guy Clark, and TVZ). He is for all intents and purposes past his prime in this regard. With the hubbub of life crowding in around the edges, it is easy to lose the spark that once drove you. That, however, shouldn't cast a pall over his songwriting gems of the past. He created labors of love, testaments to craftsmanship. He was honest and wrote what he knew. And never has anyone so poignantly captured youth, travel, and a longing for something beyond oneself as he did in the early years of his career.

"All of the faces and all of the places, wonderin' where they all disappeared."

The Certainty of Change

My whirlwind weekend tour of Austin has come to a close. After considerable deliberation I decided on Thursday that I would drive down to Austin once I got off work on Friday. My life (and belongings) have been scattered across the globe these past months and I'm slowly trying to reclaim them. Getting down to Austin to try and gather up as much of my stuff as I could was the first step.

(I hadn't really told anyone about my impending visit. I thought it would be more fun as a surprise. This is very ironic given that I'm such a regimented person. Inexplicably I love bestowing and receiving surprises. Perhaps it is my soul rebellion against my head.)

Having been away for just over five months, it was somewhat unexpected to see how much hadn't changed--there were still dishes piled up at the Roost, friends were still drinking too much at parties, the same crowds were at the same places. And strikingly enough those changes I did find seemed mostly small and somewhat inconsequential. Austin is still Austin. It continues to grow and evolve yet it retains its own anima and identity, the one that sets it apart from the rest of Texas and the world--hot and hip, frustrating and amazing--an eternal paradox for me.

Generally, when change occurs, those who see it from a distance view the change as perhaps minor and obvious. Like anything in life it is those affected by change (or an event) that easily feel the enormity of it. Since I'm once again a resident of Arkansas and continue to be separated from the life in Austin, I found it hard to feel the changes.

Changes are made because they are thought to be a positive move. It's rare for anyone to make a change in the hopes of it being negative. It is thus that we go through life. Groping along in the dark we hope that the changes we make will turn out how we want them to. More often than not our changes fall into a gray area somewhere between the two edges of success and failure. We have an amazing ability to convince ourselves that things will work out like they're supposed to, even if they truly do not. Despite the eternal let downs we somehow roll with the changing tides of time. We adapt our mind to fit the circumstances of our current reality.

And so it was with me. As I drove northward from Austin the eternal debate raged on inside my head. Though I'll always miss Austin and my many friends there, I once again felt sure of myself and my decision to live in Arkansas. The question now becomes whether that certainty will last.

Crooked Stickers

My personal skill set has never included arts and crafts. I am a proud person and do not like to readily admit my own shortcomings but there is no way around it. I can't draw, I can cut straight lines, and when I try to paste something I inevitably smear too much on and the glue squirts out the sides. This past February as part of my Valentines Day present to Morgane I tried to cut pieces of paper into heart shapes. They all ended up looking like jagged arrowheads instead of the perfect rounded hearts of my imagination. Honestly I am not entirely sure how I ever passed arts and crafts in elementary school. Arts and crafts isn't generally a subject they hold kids back in though they probably came close to making an exception for me.

What all of this is building up to is that as inept as I am with straight lines, I should never make fun of someone else in the same boat. The lone exception to this rule is bumper stickers.

I try to always abide by the "if you can't get it on there straight don't put it on" rule as my guide for bumper stickers. Since I have problems with those sort of things, this rule has largely served to keep my cars sticker free. We don't even have to get into the nature of car stickers--just keep them straight if you're sticking one on your car.

The impetus for all of this was a car I saw driving down Rogers Avenue today. The car had a crooked, "Please Don't Drink and Drive" highway patrol sticker on the rear panel. Crooked might be an under statement. It was severely askew. So askew that it occurred to me that the people who put it there had to have been drinking at the time of application. My imagination quickly took it one step further. I could easily picture the applicants thinking that putting that particular sticker there would keep the "fuzz" off their tails when they were out carousing.

Of course if I was a patrolman, crooked stickers promoting designated drivers would be my first tipoff that something other than the sticker might be askew, namely the owner.

Busch Cans and Beech Trees

There are those in the world who see everything as black or white. Most are generally dismayed at those who see the world differently or those who perhaps allow for shades of gray to creep in around the edges. While there are certain things that are cut and dry, seeing the world as such makes for a divisive place—what side of the fence are you on?

It often seems that the chasm between two opposing sides can only continue to grow. The path to minimize the gap becomes lost and the builders forget how to construct their bridges. Intractable situations abound and are easy to find for those who look. There are divisions everywhere—the American party system, the Democratic party itself, Palestine, the sectarian split of Iraq are just a few of the more recognizable. Amidst all the divisiveness, common ground seems to be a hard thing to find.

If one were to pick out two dissimilar people, could you get much further apart than your average Busch drinker and say a member of the Sierra Club? (Granted, I'm delving into the crass realm of gross stereotyping but it serves as a positive illustration in this instance). One would not think it, but Busch drinkers are big recyclers. On first glance one would probably doubt the veracity but after my first two weeks at a scrap yard, I can assure you that they are. Bag after bag was brought in with cans of Busch tumbling down into our aluminum baler. For those bringing in recyclable materials, Busch stands out among all others as the beverage of choice. Though recycling seems to be done mainly for financial gain (or I guess as a subsidy) and not out of a moral obligation that a member of the Sierra Club might have, it is still recycling. It is still a building block.

Unfortunately the scrap yards of the world can't fix all of our problems nor can they fix the outlook of those who inhabit this planet. The have however opened my eyes to the coming and going of products and people, from one place to the next and back again. More and more I realize how interconnected we all are here. You can fault me for being trite, you can fault me for being naive, but there is common ground between the most disparate of folks, sometimes it just takes the right incentive to discover it—even if it's just a penny or two a can.

The Commencement

When I began the Arkansan Abroad blog I wasn't prepared for the path my life would take. Over the past year I have somehow been able to hold back the tides of reality and live my own upside down version of the “Summer of George.” Though silent for several months, when I resurrected it at the tail end of December it became my outlet and obsession while in France. Once again on my return to the states this blog has fallen silent—partly out of confusion at my new and “normal” life and partly from my qualms with running a travel blog while no longer abroad.

To remedy this (and to satisfy all five of my “readers”) I've decided to start an “Arkansan at Home” blog. The purpose is largely to satisfy myself—retaining the outlet and obsession while at home. Since reality has burst the levies of my life the frequency with which I'll be able to post shall be limited. I'm still trying to figure out how to balance my life...how to balance “reality” but my aim is once a week.

While the Arkansan Abroad had an overarching theme it never had a day to day thread connecting each post other than what was in my head. Warm Evenings will be roughly the same with minor tweaks. Unfortunately Arkansas might prove to be a harder sell than Paris (instead of a post about visiting the Louvre you'll get one about visiting the snow cone stand).

I selected the title from a Gram Parsons song of the same name and my personal favorite Parsons tune. For me the phrase itself also hearkens back to innocent summers, a place in the haze of memory. Perhaps it's just my own fancy but since I'm back in the place of my birth and since summer is now upon us I figured it worked. I can't promise what will come but I can promise the honesty of the words that will follow. Hopefully the header quote from Walker Percy proves itself true for me.