That we are in the dark.
What was heard is seen.
The tune of always.
Fight the rain and the wind.
Still enough to see.
Still some glow.
Like it when you rock.
Like a earthquake and its aftershocks.
--Like it when you rock.
Love it when you roll.
When you lose your self control.
--Love it when you roll.
Think I got a breakthrough.
Explanation for my brain's loose screw.
--Think I got a breakthrough.
Guess we oughta try.
Let the day go, embrace the night.
--Guess we oughta try.
The shambles of my game are smoldering in a pit of glowing coals and lava. Steam lifts as the sweats of anger evaporate. My earlier explosion caused the blaze--that and an unforgiving opponent. My tennis education continues.
During the 11th game of the 15 game mahut, after being up 40-love in the previous service game and losing to make it 5-5, I'd decided to quit tennis. My opponent went on to hold serve and win the 11th game, and then the abuse began. A crash into the fench, a smash to the hardcourt, even a hard chunk across the net, konking the bench, and careening to my opponent's feet. A classy moment. A fit. Like it was the racquet's fault, and further, the racquet must be punished. In an abusive and cold manner. Lunacy. The eventual loss of 7-8 was tainted with shame. Asked for forgiveness at the closing net shake. For stealing my opponent's tennis joy. And worse, attempting to steal his tennis glory.
Good mahut for me really, a better result than the previous week, where my pathetic mental game helped produce a 2-8 loss. Summed up in this note describing the mahut...
The humbling began early, my opponent taking advantage of my chronic mental weakness. His wounded shoulder in my mind. Sympathy is such a pathetic and useless emotion in sports. It can motivate those receiving it unwantingly. And so it did, 8-2. Sure, serves came to me with no pop, but the spins were wild, my feet were bumbling, my strokes were incomplete, my tennis anger turned into despair, then defeat. My opponent taught me a lesson today. I will take note, I will learn from it. Seeing him and his red brake covers, hearing the roar of his exhaust, squinting at the shine of his convertible camero, I could only marvel. I could only wonder. Has anyone actually seen this MRI indicating a torn rotater cuff?. Doctor priviledge, I guess, but think of it. Brilliant. Surely not, that would be too brilliant. To fake an injury to ruin the mental game of your opponents. I will learn from this, yes, I will learn from this mahut. Mahut!
Physically, everything is good, despite the extra few lbs being lugged around. Joints, muscles, tendons, ligaments, and back. The eyes are weakening and the glasses fog, but still strong on the court, the tennis elbow of two years ago defeated. Plantar fascia troubles no longer. The mental weakness, however, can lead to a motivational crisis. And this is where I stood in the 12th and 13th games of my morning's crumbling mahut. Quit tennis until the Thursday morning Houston mahut, traditionally played before attending the day session of the U.S. Clay Court Championships. A three week layoff would do me well I thought, all the while aimlessly firing forehands and backhands out, in the net, to the fences. At least I wasn't screaming profanities and abusing my racquet.....any longer.
Came back and won a couple, but only after ruining the tennis peace of the entire complex. The Indians were polite, as always. Maybe it was Green Day, the morning's musical selection. Perhaps punk rock should be for other venues. But the morning was jamming, til the emotions in my mind let me down. The quitting idea has already been abandoned, it is rarely the best option. Perhaps prayer, yes, prayer. Prayer is always the answer. God's Will. Amen. Mahut!
...these are rural Parker County fish, rarely disturbed, rarely excited, just fish. Big, well fed black bass. Swimming around in the big Sagecrest Farms lake in schools. Separated from the small Sagecrest Farms pond by a narrow but sturdy dam, which also serves as the only road down to the cleared out river bank area. The Brazos waters flowing southeast to the Gulf of Mexico. These rural Parker County fish were massacred by the Tokie Indian Tribe of North Texas. Scalped and scaled, marinaded and grilled. Burned on the edges to get a crispy bite. Pictures flooded glowphones, social media went wild. These massive bass being held up by the youngters of the tribe while the chief smiled proudly, blood on his hands. Put em on hooks, suffocated them of water, prolly took several shots. Those big fish, surely counting on the catch and release culture they had grown accoustomed to, were shocked. Under the surface, far from the ability of the Tokies to see, meetings were called. The elders spoke. The lazy catfish no-showed, of course. Even the minnows sent representatives. A few had been abducted. The Tokie chief ate one raw. Evidently, he was making good on a wager of some sort. Had to do with push-ups, both girl children able to do twice as many and even the small boy doing many more. The young, always in the process of growing and maturing. The old are different. The elder fish called for level 3 caution. The dumb fish got hooked regardless. The cocky. The desperate...
...dot those eyes.
with green green green.
...blink and wink.
a Queen needs a King.
...go with a few.
pick the one you love.
...walk to the end.
regardless how tough.
cause love will move the mountains.
love is real as it can be.
love's what made the valleys.
and love is what set us free.
...cross those knees.
class is not an option.
...modest and calm.
proceed with caution.
they waste your time.
just jealous minds.
Started in with the red wine and bread.
Had a restless mind, alot of trash in my head.
Thought I might forget you for awhile.
Everywhere I look I see my babies eyes.
Ohhhh, so bright.
And I fall inside.
Ohhhh, so bright.
Your flame still burns.
Discussions about why we do what we do.
Bout why we laugh, why we cry, why we get the blues.
Guess it all comes back to the order of things.
Forget the cars, forget the cash, forget the diamond ring.
Tell you of sin and temptations within.
Imaginations run wild and the schemes begin.
The seasons continue to leave and return.
Like light in the darkness, Your flame still burns.
Late seventies in Lubbock, Arabs drove prices high, started drilling holes in the land of the big red sky.
Honkeytonk bouncers, where action could be found, knew all the banditos, the baddest gang around.
Flew in during the night, dropped the entire load, from South American valleys, the wild columbian gold.
Tamed all the roughneck oilmen, tamed the rednecks too, hippies on the caprock, nobody had a clue.
Was a new deal.
The way it made em feel.
There's a party in West Texas.
Booze and grass and pills.
Streets were going crazy, the hook had done its thing, desperate for their fixes, the druggies changed the game.
Catch Slide going north, til you hit the loop, go round and round, circle the town, speed was on the loose.
Cops weren't on his mind til they showed up at the door. A secret operation, they slammed him on the floor.
Thrown to the wolves, to fulfill the drug demand, like a dust storm from the horizon, Red, he was the man.
...A permit malfuction, causing panic with the Caprock Canyon park ranger, as the trip back to the Rio Blanco was just getting started. Chance to use the lights and siren. Tore around the shoulder, passing several cars, skidding to a stop behind my black japanese sedan. The glow of finishing the level 5 hike was forgotten, the refreshing ice cold coors was gone. Interrogated of address, rationale, previous visits, and travel plans. Passed over my ID. Sniffed and scanned.
"Do not remove the permit from the inside of the windshield until you leave the park boundry."
That's what the scotch tape was for, we now figured. We got the message, the glare of Okra The Indian from the passanger seat, the cool ease of El Camino in the back, and my crisp answers to questions, quicky convincing the officer to move along. Nothing here. Never took the car out of drive, had the foot on the brake. Was ready to hit it if I had to, the Canyonball Run was on!...
The competition was nothing short
of a healthy hatred. For a time, wishing woe on others. Until the end of the game, washered out. The rum making its way, in healthy doses, to the mind. Finding everything funny and stumbling. Weary from the road, but well fed on pickled okra and cheese. With crackers. Ritz, the good kind.
The Whitmore Museum of Natural History, famous for the first land dweller, when seas dried up. The Seymouria Baylorensis, named for the nearby town of Seymour, in the early 1900s, when they were first discovered. 250 million years ago. 70 million years before the big dinosaurs. The T-Rex had feathers for sure. Dr. Bakker, the famous Bavarian Paleontologist, insisted for years. Vindication is so tasty. Huge animals of all kinds. Bobcats stalking turkeys and pulling them out if the sky. The lab, where Glenn and Sandy told us of their passion for these old dirty skeletons, of how it took 2 hours to chip and clean an inch long piece of ancient bone. The puzzle of the structure. A fine museum. They knew of Heard in McKinney. Legitimate. Even a replica of the first creature to hear sound, the Diadectus. What did noise sound like before hearing? The forest knows.
The ribs are ready. Slaw and bread. Everything is green in West Texas. The early heat growing the grass in late winter. The cattle will be plump, but the wildfires could be bad.