 She was not easily broken. Tears weren't something she often allowed...anger on the other hand, was a defense that came quickly, and naturally. Realizing that every person must choose the paths of their own life, she still couldn't shake the thought of how he'd dismissed her so easily; as if to be rid of her was his only option. They'd been friends for a long time. Close friends, she once thought. They'd had their ups and downs, but always seemed to somehow meet back in the middle...happy to have that little corner they somehow created all for themselves. No matter what. He wasn't hers to control, nor did she want to. She felt nothing romantic deep in her heart; only the pull of someone with a similar soul. But he was stubborn, and no matter how much she might argue to save their friendship, she was dismissed, her feelings swept away with a wave of his hand. She believed the ties of true friendship couldn't, and wouldn't be broken...time and distance making no difference. Had she been wrong? Had she been tricked into believing a fallacious idea, a lie? Maybe it wasn't true friendship after all. Maybe it was a disheartening illusion making her believe that they shared some higher level of acceptance in each other without judgment, with feelings of kinship, and that little click of camaraderie. Perhaps it had been a false notion all along. She was sad, wounded, and not too proud to admit it. But she was also angry at herself for not realizing that some people never remove their masks, and the ultimate price for her innocent belief was a crushing blow as he brushed her to the side...quite easily it seemed. She was bitter, but she would live. She would eventually forget what she thought their friendship meant to him. She realized now that apparently, she'd been horribly mistaken. But even hurt, she would wait. Maybe he might change his mind. "Friendship is not a shared, singular object. At any given point, the fate of friendship lies in the hands of only one-half of what would appear to some to be a whole entity."
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 If you've never stood in a field with this exact view thinking, "Damn, only 450 bales to go," you're not really 'country'.
I sometimes chuckle to myself when I see people who claim they are 'country'. Small town USA doesn't make you 'country' any more than owning a pair of cowboy boots, cowboy hat, and listening to George Strait makes you 'country'. 'Country' isn't about how you decide to dress one day, or the fact you went four-wheeling in the mud last weekend. I guess maybe my idea of 'country' is more extreme than most. 'Country' is when you can walk outside in your underwear (and have the audacity to do so) without a second thought because there are ACRES to separate you from your neighbors, not merely FEET. (Thank goodness, right? No one needs to see that!) 'Country' is having a big stock tank as a kid for your swimming pool and thinking it feels like heaven after a hot summer day of push mowing the lawn. 'Country' is when in rain, sun, snow, or sleet, you pull on your muck boots to feed the cattle because they still have to eat regardless of the weather. (No matter how bad it sucks...they don't care about you) 'Country' is hurling bales of hay onto a moving vehicle in the middle of a blazing hot field with no shade, and then stopping to throw up because it's a hundred degrees out there. (Sweet, sweet memories) 'Country' is getting up at 1:30 in the morning to check on a heifer whose about to have her very first calf, and then wrestling around to get some rope around the calf's front feet to help pull the slimy little fella into the world. (Ultimately, you end up with some of that 'slime' all over you and your clothes, sometimes on your face, and if you're really lucky, in your mouth) 'Country' is having your own pet cemetery in a designated corner of your property where you dug the graves yourself, put your best pals to rest, and then cried as you covered them with dirt. (You also knew you had to pile rocks on top or something would dig up your furry friends) 'Country' is riding a horse and it suddenly decides to break in half for no apparent reason, but you manage to hang on anyway. 'Country' is growing up and never having to ask where babies came from because you already knew. (Animals are great teachers.) 'Country' is flipping over cow patties to find worms for fishing and then piercing the wriggling creature (while they squirt poop all over you) onto a sharp hook. Once you catch a fish, you take it off the hook, scale it, and gut it...and all of this by your little lonesome. 'Country' is being chased around a barn lot by an eighteen hundred pound Simbrah bull named Austin, who just wants to 'play'. 'Country' is riding your dirt bike back in the field to the blackberry patch to pick enough berries for your mom to make you a pie. (Love my Momma!) You see, I could go on forever with this. Claiming to be 'country' and actually being 'country' are two very different things. Until you've had unmentionable animal secretions flung on you, enjoyed a cow chip fight (hopefully dry ones), sought the quiet solitude of the woods when you were upset, or suffered a groundhog bite while trying to save the critter from the snapping jaws of your dog, you can't really call yourself 'country'.  In the past couple of years, I have discovered something new in myself I never realized existed.
Buried way down deep, concealed beneath a thick layer of reality, parts of my brain have awakened and will no longer stay silent. It's true what they say, a writer finds the possibility of a story everywhere. I've now noticed once the seed is planted, it grows until I am forced to let it out - by writing it down. If I don't, it's all consuming, occupying my mind at every waking moment, drifting into my dreams, waking me in the early morning hours while the world still sleeps, demanding an outlet. I still function, but in a hazy, dreamy sort of way while images play out in the back of my mind like a muted theater screen. It won't be ignored, and I don't have the power to make it be still. Once upon a time, I was too preoccupied to allow this imaginative side to emerge. I haven't yet figured out if it's a blessing or a curse. I love a story, I love the characters, and I love the very aspect of creating fictitious lives and situations from nothing. But, when the story is finished, and an empty gap exists in the span of time before another idea solidifies, it is then my brain feels lost. It starts searching, determined to fill that vacant space with something. This is when I feel it is the most true that writers must be a little 'mad', a tad bit 'bent', or a smidgen on the 'loopy' side. It's as if my brain demands a background program be running at all times. You know, the kind that won't allow you to shut down until it's finished? That's me. Is it passion, or pure craziness? I haven't yet decided. A quote from Charles Bukowski - Don't do it. Unless it comes out of you like a rocket, unless being still would drive you to madness or suicide or murder. Don't do it. Unless the sun inside you is burning your gut. Don't do it. When it is truly time and if you have been chosen, it will do it by itself and it will keep doing it until you die or it dies in you -there is no other way, and there never was.  It was pitch black when she woke, her eyes searching the surrounding darkness for any sign of movement. She was dressed in the red dress again, the silky material smooth against her bare skin. She shivered just thinking about how he must have undressed her, his eyes roving over her bare body. Swallowing her fear, she sat up and squinted into the unknown, but it was impossible to see anything. The cold stone floor felt damp beneath her bare feet.
"You are a fetching creature," a man's raspy voice came through the darkness, "and you smell," he inhaled, "divine." Desperately cringing against the wall behind her, Erin expected that at any second, hands would grab her from the darkness, dragging her kicking and screaming into something terrifying and beyond her control. "Don't worry, there are bars to separate us. He wouldn't want your life at risk until he's finished with you." Shuddering, she pulled her feet up and wrapped her arms around her knees. "You're cold," he paused, "Reach directly to your left. He at least left a blanket." Erin felt around beside her until her fingers sank into the plush material. She pulled it around her bare arms. She couldn't see her hand in front of her face. How could this guy see anything? "Who are you?" she asked softly, her voice quivering. "Everyone asks that question," he responded. "Why does the human mind waste time considering such irrelevant information?" "Everyone?" "You're not the first to occupy that cell," he answered wryly. "And I'm doubting you're the last." The panic came again and she fought back the tears.  Alone for decades after the death of his wife, Larkin Pearce chooses to mourn her loss in solitude. Closing himself away from the world and only venturing from the safe walls of the plantation home when he can no longer deny his thirst, he yearns for the finality of death that the curse of immortality will not allow.
On a rainy summer night, a car accident brings Erin Reynolds to his door. With his visitor bearing a striking resemblance to his beloved, Larkin soon begins to hear his wife's haunting voice, urging him to fulfill the promise he made to her nearly a century before.  Wouldn't it be the most fantastic thing if you could consciously block your thoughts? Possess the ability to turn them off with the flip of a switch, leaving nothing but empty dark space up there?
The power of the mind...it can make you, or break you. Our minds can build possibility from improbability, devise intriguing scenarios, transport us to different places and times, reconstruct the past, and imagine the possibilities of the future. There is no end to the list of things we can accomplish in our mind. Yet for all of the joy the mind can bring, sometimes we're plagued with thoughts we don't understand, thoughts beyond our control. You have to wonder why the mind allots important time and energy to something unexplainable, something unattainable, something keeping you awake at night, and something drifting into your thoughts during the day no matter how often, or how hard you try to beat them down. Could it be that all of those unexplainable and illogical things are being forced to the front of our minds by our all-knowing subconscious? Does it understand our deepest desires when our conscious mind won't allow it because it doesn't make sense to our rational brain? "The subconscious mind is a composite of everything one sees, hears and any information the mind collects that it cannot otherwise consciously process to make meaningful sense." Maybe the explanation doesn't exist, maybe not everything has to make perfect sense. It's impossible not to wonder.  I am me.
There is no one on this earth like me. I am unique...my body, my thoughts, and my beliefs. What I do, I do for me. I don't do it to impress you, compete with you, or to be like you. When I feel or believe a certain way, I won't be swayed by your opinion, although I will be respectful of yours. (Unless YOU are disrespectful, and then it's GAME ON) I will remain true to myself no matter the people or opinions around me. I will not do anything that doesn't conform to MY own standards....not yours. I will not judge you unless your acts directly affect me or those I love. (And then it's not so much judging as it is retribution) I am thoughtful, caring, and loving, but fiercely protective of those who've touched my heart. I don't hold grudges. I believe in Karma. I am me. Who are you? |
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