Tired Cliche Continues

Author At Work

I'm not bored of the vagabond life because it does present challenges every day and excitement but because it's more like a marathon of problems and obstacles and police harassment there is never a moment to relax and enjoy any of the small successes. That part is draining. Here I am in a makeshift art studio finishing my latest belt buckle project. You can't see the number of bugs flying into my face but it forced me to close up shop early. I'm also using red nail polish for paint because it was cheaper.

You can see the tornado that's going to destroy your house for two hours before it hits

I'm adrift in the world again with a current goal of playing Western Swing guitar for 8 hours a day for one month to see if that helps my approach. I've come to West Texas because I didn't get the memo that Baptist churches are more plentiful here than hair on a hippie. Traditionalists, as I like to think of them, don't like my kind but I don't mind them. I see traditionalists as important to the culture, even if it's a culture that's in decay.
I could go on and transcribe the conversations I have about gun control and politics with myself in the demon-infested van, where it is 110 degrees and my body leaves an imprint of my wasting skeleton in sweat on the sun faded sheets. Every song reminds me of a broken heart and I feel more like Gordon Lightfoot every day. But it's no longer punishment for my trespasses and sins, it is a cleansing of the burger king finger foods that poisoned me when I was working in the oil field. I saw my old coworkers and of course they all got a raise when I quit. But their lives are 72 hours of pipe and wire a week. They have their responsibilities and I have my narcissistic crafts.

Big Bend was wonderful right up to the point I started a band called Oggy and the Reckless Romantics. Our first gig was at Heartbreak Hotel and we got stiffed by the promoter. It's fate that I pack up my belongings and drive on a long road to nothing with wind and storms on the horizon and a broken dream bouncing to oblivion in my rear view mirror.

Sure, nail polish was a good idea.