tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19198726097275353502024-03-18T08:42:20.699+00:00Mad Dog BluesNuno Santoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08673153114550693059noreply@blogger.comBlogger92125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1919872609727535350.post-65733869822462339342023-12-12T19:12:00.000+00:002023-12-12T19:12:45.818+00:00CHICAGO (Union Station)<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBplP-gW5AiqGZFcfJaSrkiNYfh_smEQHww7ECx2fXkPnhMNxUiuWTaJz4VT7brASjQtRVA29bkoDV7iNJmcV4Gl6gN_z1qkyNZs3zsKNRbXgfPAlKY5KVzpC4CXuYMoHRuUiAk4UqpOyH4LCe0pcnIvBA4MHiB9zjHQpr8ONlDnGeDMtFRRGEJpKClw8/s900/Chicago-Union-Station-900x600.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="900" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBplP-gW5AiqGZFcfJaSrkiNYfh_smEQHww7ECx2fXkPnhMNxUiuWTaJz4VT7brASjQtRVA29bkoDV7iNJmcV4Gl6gN_z1qkyNZs3zsKNRbXgfPAlKY5KVzpC4CXuYMoHRuUiAk4UqpOyH4LCe0pcnIvBA4MHiB9zjHQpr8ONlDnGeDMtFRRGEJpKClw8/s320/Chicago-Union-Station-900x600.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /></div><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It’s a chilly Sunday evening in the windy city, in clear contrast to the hot Texas weather that I just came in from. There’s an eight-hour layover before I can catch the Lake Shore Limited train to New York. After an invigorating three-mile walk among the tourist crowd and a few failed attempts to find a decent quiet café to lounge in, I decide to head back to Union Station as night is fast approaching.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Arriving at the Great Hall where I’m supposed to wait for the track announcement of my train, was like being transported a century back. I’m always impressed by the grandeur of the place every time I come through here. Entering from the South Entrance and facing the grand staircase and the twenty-four big chandeliers hanging from the high ceiling puts me back in the spirit of what some call the romance of train travel. In its Beaux-Arts style with two sculptures sitting on opposite sides, one a rooster, representing day, the other an owl, representing night, it’s all I can do to refrain myself from uttering “Wow” loud enough for anyone to hear. Descending the staircase, I stop and look up at the impressive barrel-vaulted skylight hanging 115 feet above the floor, thinking how it was blacked out during WWII to make it less of a target for enemy aircraft.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I sit on one of the many long wooden benches and look around at my surroundings and my fellow travelers. There’s the usual murmur of conversations echoing, sometimes interrupted by the announcement on the PA system of an upcoming departure or information for those who’d like to check out bags. There’s a constant coming and going of travelers coming in or going to the restrooms and the food court area, but there’s also a few others who stay put and almost try to remain incognito among the crowd.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Two Amish couples occupy one long wooden bench while their five young children sit together on the opposite bench playing a game of interlocking fingers that I try to but ultimately cannot understand. An elderly Amish gentleman sits next to them, looking intently at their game and uttering some words to them from time to time, which stops the game momentarily before resuming again. On the other side of the kids’ bench sits a young couple, their son sitting on the marble floor at their feet, playing with a couple of Marcel superhero toys.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A bunch of university students sit next to one of the large Corinthian columns and talk amongst themselves about last week’s blowout party on campus. Their voices sometimes raised above all else and echoing throughout the soaring space but immediately lowered to a hum to distract attention from themselves and the six-pack of beer they’re drinking from. Most are wearing their University of Rochester jackets but all with a diverse and different variety of patches sawn into them. As if to indicate a clear distinction, on the opposite side, facing the big marble walls, sit a handful of businessmen and women, laptops open, typing away between bites of a sandwich or a wrap.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I begin to settle down on my bench, knowing there’s still another ninety minutes to wait before I can board my train. I open up my backpack and take a big bite off the pepperoni stromboli I bought at an Italian eatery on my way to the station. With their backs to me, on the same wooden bench as mine, sit two men which I can only identify by their voices, one seeming to be in his early 50’s and who is driving the conversation, the other a much younger man in his late 20’s/early 30’s, who from time to time offers an “Yes”, “Sure”, “Okay” to the conversation. The older man talks in a syncopated, almost stream of consciousness manner about the past, his younger days back in Wisconsin. There’s a nostalgia about the way he describes his life on the family farm back then, but his voice also carries with it a hint of regret.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I take another bite of the stromboli and save the rest for the train. I look back at the two men as I’m placing it back on my backpack. The young man listens intently, his eyes almost transfigured at the way the older man is talking. Next to him there’s a huge camping-style bag which indicates might be in the midst of a long travel through America, as I soon find out that whenever he speaks, brief as it is, he speaks with a Mediterranean European accent, probably Spanish or Italian.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The older man keeps talking almost uninterrupted, only pausing when he needs to think hard about his next sentence or to try to remember something with the exactitude to which he speaks about. He’s a scruffy skinny man with scattered uneven beard and false upper teeth. Next to him a plastic shopping bag filled with what appears to be his whole possessions in this world, some clothing, bottles of medication, a hairbrush, which seems odd since he has barely any hair to speak of. He keeps talking about Wisconsin and his siblings and how one day he decided to leave the family farm for a trucking job in Cleveland, and how that almost killed his father and drove a wedge between them. He stops and his lips tremble for a few seconds. The young man pats him gently in his shoulder and that makes the trembling stop abruptly and he offers, “That’s how life is, you just get to live with it the best way you can”.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">On the PA system there’s an announcement that the New York bound train will be boarding in 15 minutes. The young man interrupts the silence by saying, “That’s me”. Without missing a beat, the older man carries on like he hasn’t stopped the conversation abruptly and now speaks of the years he spent on the road, taking trains pretty much throughout all of the Midwest searching for any jobs that would have him, after a DUI ended his tenure at the trucking company. There were jobs in steel mills in Pittsburgh, mining in Pennsylvania, track maintenance all over Ohio and Illinois, a sawmill in Minnesota. And he offers advice on what he learned from all his roaming around. “They say you can’t go home again” and pauses for a moment. He punches his heart with his fist, “This is my home”. The young man says “Yes” with vigor, almost yelling it as if trying to convince himself of it more than assure the older man of its validity.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The PA system announces the boarding of the Lake Shore Limited momentarily and asks everyone to proceed to the tracks for boarding. The Great Hall begins to clear out. Some start almost running to the tracks to be in front of the line and take a window seat. The businessmen and women, the Amish and the young couple take their place in line without any fuss while the university students wait until everyone else has left, to pack up their things and follow the crowd. I follow them along with the young man who straps his camping-style backpack to his back and extends his hands to the older man, “Well, it was nice to meet you”. The older man gets up, shakes his hand and says, “Have a nice trip back home”, and punches his heart with his fist. The young man punches his own heart with his fist and joins the line of travelers heading to the tracks.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">As we’re slowly moving away and leaving the Great Hall behind, I can see the older man sitting back, all alone in the expansive space of the station, trembling lips and feeble eyes, but with chin up and clenched hands, looking in the direction of the next place he can call temporarily home.</span></p>Nuno Santoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08673153114550693059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1919872609727535350.post-70644649904278720412023-12-11T21:50:00.001+00:002023-12-11T21:50:09.783+00:00SAN MARCOS, TEXAS (Cheatham Street Warehouse)<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0gjsEBJk5oki61AzJGMsLzjY1uqB0ZUQp25Y02cqKwF-LSnyc4DiPkFCzclvkep3uOIJ8hskSAliTpMTir5ifOkC5pXSGl8s4bF9ZxOD6-PAhrgMOCqElp9BIVdqe88ySRWLmHJ4UJm3YOuZ8YEc65dHpwPesiHPLXnxlJiNer7ANMu4zPiLZl6mTYm8/s4160/IMG_20231011_125415.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3120" data-original-width="4160" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0gjsEBJk5oki61AzJGMsLzjY1uqB0ZUQp25Y02cqKwF-LSnyc4DiPkFCzclvkep3uOIJ8hskSAliTpMTir5ifOkC5pXSGl8s4bF9ZxOD6-PAhrgMOCqElp9BIVdqe88ySRWLmHJ4UJm3YOuZ8YEc65dHpwPesiHPLXnxlJiNer7ANMu4zPiLZl6mTYm8/s320/IMG_20231011_125415.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I come in through the thick metal doors and have to take a slight step back to adjust my eyes from the bright sun outside to the prevailing darkness inside. The smell of beer is the first thing my senses capture in full. I look around and linger on for a few seconds at the one-man band, strumming the guitar, harmonica hanging from its neck holder, guitar case by his feet with a few quarters and a handful of single dollar bills. He’s singing about a love gone wrong, a Country-Blues song set in Mississippi. A man and a woman and a law enforcement man who messes up their love story. A gunshot in the lyrics of the song mirrored by a strong single tap of his hands on the body of the guitar. The song ends with the sound of his harmonica imitating the sound of a prisoner train who takes the jaded lover away for killing the cop. He tips his cowboy hat to me as he finishes the song, acknowledging my effort in trying to not enter fully into the bar until the song is finished.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">There’s a bunch of wooden tables adorning the place, all of them empty. A pool table on the corner being played by four young men in their 30’s, a couple of beers dangling dangerously on the tip of the red felt table. At the bar sit a few young men and women, college types drinking beer and talking loudly about finals and football. They keep going back and forth from the bar to through the back door, like a revolving cast of characters in a sitcom.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I sit at the opposite side of the bar and see the singer sipping from his beer bottle before introducing a new song that seems to be directed at no one in particular but more out of an instinctive ritual. I signal to the bartender for a Lone Star by pointing at the big neon sign hanging above the bar. I move my attention to the singer as he’s now singing in a falsetto voice about working the cotton fields in Alabama and the slaves who found a way to revolt against their master’s cruelty and take a freight train for freedom. He’s now singing only for me it seems, nobody else in the bar seemingly paying any attention to him. But I get the feeling that this is his regular spot and crowd and he’s doing it more for himself than for everyone else.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">At the pool table they’re racking up the balls again and the previous game loser heads to the bar to pick up another round of drinks. The college kids keep swinging from time to time from the bar to the back door, pairs of two always heading out and in from outside. The singer is finishing his song as the slaves jump a train heading west, the strumming of his guitar giving way to his harmonica slowly gaining cadence to imitate the moaning sound of the freight train moving down the tracks. I snap my fingers and raise my beer bottle to him in appreciation and he tips his cowboy hat to me and sips from his beer bottle. I holler for the bartender for another Lone Star, now deep in conversation with the college kids about the best fishing spots around. I head to the restrooms as the singer announces a ten-minute break.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">When I come back from the restrooms the back door opens up again and I finally see what’s all the commotion that’s happening outside. An animated game of corn hole is happening on the back by the railroad tracks. I sit back at the bar, new bottle in hand and notice the singer not in his place. I sip from my beer and grow an interest in the game of corn hole happening outside instead, the door left open this time for two of the kids to take about a dozen beer bottles outside. It seems there’s a bet on the line for the championship between two teams to decide between the Gulf near Galveston or Key West for their next fishing trip around spring break. There’s a debate about the benefits of one over the other from both factions. It’s all conducted in a most civilized manner over beer after beer and the game of corn hole is the decisive factor. Except the level of drunkenness has to be in accordance with the distance to the target. The drunker one is, the farther away from the target one has to be. I cannot help but laugh at some of the proceedings which draws the attention of the college kids sitting at the bar, who challenge me to try one throw. I politely excuse myself from their invitation by proclaiming that I’m still not as drunk as the game requests, which makes them laugh in return as they all head outside to take part in the final of the championship. The door closes behind them and I almost feel tempted to join them outside to watch the proceedings but refrain from doing so. I finish up my beer and leave a $10 bill on the counter and exit, the pool game still to be decided this time.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Outside the big thick metal doors it has turned dark and cold. I flip up my coat’s collar and a voice announces “You gotta be careful with the weather around here. It gets real cold all of a sudden”. I look in the direction of the voice at the singer who is standing in the dark, smoking a cigarette. I acknowledge him by saying how much I love his old-time singing and playing style. He thanks me politely by tipping his cowboy hat to me and I’m more than surprised to learn that his songs are all original compositions when I tell him they sound like some of the classic Country-Blues songs from the 20’s and 30’s. He takes that as a compliment and asks me to come back on the weekend when the place will be packed and he will be performing with a full band. I say I will, but counter that I enjoyed the place just as it is.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I cross the railroad tracks and walk north, heading home. In the distance I hear the sound of a moaning freight train. I smile and wonder if maybe the singer is back in his favorite place and singing another song about trains.</span></p>Nuno Santoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08673153114550693059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1919872609727535350.post-33778494009908761462023-11-15T23:11:00.003+00:002023-11-17T18:31:55.556+00:00ILLINOIS (Texas Eagle)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk3OwulWReeNfZ9hY25j18uTvY6bRTnrrkE93OqBeZJ7tK815U9YG8PPTEKirgz-U1BhlxME2j9s6RZ9T29lRjaDHjwsSEdEqBD0AfQfFhr4Tpq5xGmYXFN26Cxnp6makuV_TBDhzpImAFpDSTxU1IaSMwng9QatFNE-3-S2aRIs7lfkveOvEXaAT1CDg/s1440/395279967_10232353484804118_6299535457831975748_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk3OwulWReeNfZ9hY25j18uTvY6bRTnrrkE93OqBeZJ7tK815U9YG8PPTEKirgz-U1BhlxME2j9s6RZ9T29lRjaDHjwsSEdEqBD0AfQfFhr4Tpq5xGmYXFN26Cxnp6makuV_TBDhzpImAFpDSTxU1IaSMwng9QatFNE-3-S2aRIs7lfkveOvEXaAT1CDg/s320/395279967_10232353484804118_6299535457831975748_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">For hours there was nothing but darkness. As the train crossed Arkansas and Missouri in the night, glimpses of faraway streetlights flickering as we sped by, were the only discerning forms of life one could see from this part of the country. Waking up as the train was departing St. Louis station, I kept my eyes fixed on the horizon. Soon we’re crossing into Illinois which was covered with a thick rolling fog. It was daybreak on the plains but it all seemed to be asleep still on that Sunday morning. The train kept pushing on, the conductor honking its horn at every railroad crossing. It didn’t seem to bother any soul except for a sudden soaring Red-tailed hawk taking flight from the top of an elm tree or the occasional dog howling in protest for disturbing the peace. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">As the fog began to slowly dissipate as if making way for the passing train, the sun was still hiding and hanging low on the horizon. A few sleepy small towns began to appear, one after another. The train passed so close to these single homes that one could almost peek inside their windows. A few houses with their porch lights on, others completely in the dark still, a few others with a kitchen light suddenly turned on, as if the passing train meant the start of day. A few cars up the road began to appear on the two-lane narrow country road, frost still on their windows. From inside the comfort of the train one could almost feel the balmy midwestern weather. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">As if watching a movie from the window of a moving train, I began to bear witness on how the locals spend their time when work has been dealt with. From their driveways and backyards, rusty old pontoon boats, RV trailers sitting on cinder blocks, inflatable swimming pools of different shapes and sizes, barbeque grills and wooden tool sheds, swings hanging from oak trees, gardening tools scattered on lawns among mini-trampolines and mini-slides, mountain bikes and ATVs. It’s as if proof were needed to demonstrate that play is as important as work around these parts. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Plain fields began to take over the landscape after a while, the small towns more scattered and the houses farther away from the train tracks. The sun still struggling to rise up as the fog had completely rolled away. Outside Carlinville, a Walmart with a nearly empty parking lot, isolated shopping carts surpassing the cars in numbers. A billboard under two big lights advertising a big sale on Home, Furniture and Appliances. A garbage truck crossing the parking lot in the direction of the dumpsters. A John Deere dealership next to Walmart, with pristine farming equipment of all sorts, protected by electrified barbwire, all in their shinning Phthalo green. Leaving town, loads of semi-truck trailers resting on the loading docks of the big “Prairie Farms Milk Factory”. The train tracks expanded to lead to big silos that stood tall above everything else to the horizon. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">We kept pushing north, following the trail of old Route 66, passing through picture-perfect small towns, with their water towers with the town’s namesake printed on them with big letters. Life seemed to be in full bloom in these one-light towns, where it doesn’t take much to be stuck in a traffic jam but where they are welcomed as an opportunity to catch up on each other’s week and local news and gossip. Signage from old Route 66 adorns the streets of these towns, nostalgia being a big reason for people and business in trying to return to the glory days of old. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">As we left old Route 66 behind and towns began to get more scattered between them, we started following State Route 53. It didn’t take long for the corn fields to start appearing on either side of the train tracks. From time to time, a pickup could be seen only by the plum of dust that trailed behind it. Farms with small silos, red barns and rusty tractors barely seen at the end of another gravel road cutting through the fields. The sun had now risen in full, hanging high above all else. The train kept pushing on, blowing its horn at the approaching railroad crossings, only a few pickups waiting to cross. Church bells in the distance ringing their believers in, as the sun shined bright over the huge corn fields bathing them in gold colors. I was fixated by their transfigured power. It seemed they could go on forever.</span></p>Nuno Santoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08673153114550693059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1919872609727535350.post-40122247561220974012023-11-14T17:39:00.008+00:002023-11-16T16:15:17.837+00:00MINEOLA, TEXAS (Texas Eagle)<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-LY8UUh7l7jWB8BaDp9GPXaWVxX_Cb8z8tg2mxo_nB01FZ45gx5QNMxk1RJnjoAon5TsorHnHySANDs6Kc0Vw6XfgCCcN5UGbR-NhUzgZCOGCFT0lx8I5lJXX2FwN-49O3tmF6kRKKuMaBfmTCgSOiXoN28tnySb4StMFzUkRN1oMvJWeOqrSKAHw6kk/s1024/mineola.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="681" data-original-width="1024" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-LY8UUh7l7jWB8BaDp9GPXaWVxX_Cb8z8tg2mxo_nB01FZ45gx5QNMxk1RJnjoAon5TsorHnHySANDs6Kc0Vw6XfgCCcN5UGbR-NhUzgZCOGCFT0lx8I5lJXX2FwN-49O3tmF6kRKKuMaBfmTCgSOiXoN28tnySb4StMFzUkRN1oMvJWeOqrSKAHw6kk/s320/mineola.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">About an hour outside Dallas, as the train keeps heading east, we begin to enter Wood County, named for an early Texas governor but that could be misconstrued for its origins as an important timber center in its inception. It´s not too long before to begin our approach to Mineola, the first stop after Dallas. The train stops just outside the station, waiting for it to get lined up to the station. From outside the window, we are face to face with the Iron Horse Square Park, a novelty train-themed kid´s attraction that includes a mini-train replica of a steam locomotive. It is packed to the to the rafters this Saturday afternoon with kids riding the mini-train and toddlers waving goodbye as the mini-train passes them by, from their parent’s safe hold.</span></div><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A phone rings on the seat behind me, and a woman in her mid-30´s, who I remember boarding the train with me in Austin, answers it with an enthusiastic “Hya Pete”. She is dressed casually but impeccably tailored with just enough makeup and a professional-looking hairdo, to peg her as a typical city girl. After some quick exchanges, from which I gather that her brother is on the other side of the line, she begins to direct him to where she is sitting on the train. She has located him easily enough, waiting at the edge of the depot, and is now giving him clear directions to proceed near the mini-train ride. I see him walking towards us but unable to see inside the train. She tells him that she can see him right in front of her and counts the windows back to the end of our lounge car to indicate to him where she is sitting. She waves at him and asks: “Can you see me?... I’m waving at you”. He is still in the dark, but waves briefly in the general direction of her window.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">They keep talking on the phone, the sister saying that he looks good, that he must have lost a lot of weight since they last saw each other. They probably haven’t seen each other for a long while and their sparsely phone conversations probably didn´t venture that much further into too many personal details about their lives. Nonetheless, I can sense in her voice, a kind of a nostalgic longing for othet times, which I gather were happy ones between them. The brother keeps looking intently, trying to locate her sister. He is a bulky, bald-headed man in his early 40´s, with a genuine smile on his face, that he tries to extend as long as he can while talking on the phone.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It dawns on me, by the way he moves, slowly and painfully it seems, that the weight loss must have been due to some serious health problem. The sister asks him about their parents and it’s all he can do to divert his eyes from the train, lose his smile and look down as he speaks. I can sense by the silence on this side of the line, that it must have been a serious concern in the past. She asks abruptly if he has moved out of the house again, followed by a swift reply saying, “Mom should have left him years ago... I always knew it would come to this”. I can feel the restrained anger in her voice in trying to stop saying any more of it.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The brother stops talking briefly but then offers he some advice on how to deal with their father, making her promise him to not to stir the pot too much, for their mom’s sake. I can sense a mixture of disappointment and resolve in her decisive voice as she proclaims, “Something needs to be done. He can’t just leave when he wants, leaving </span><span style="font-size: medium;">Mom all alone, while he’s out somewhere, on another drinking binge with his hunting pals. He’s in his seventies, for chrissake”, her voice suddenly raised and echoing through the lounge car.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The train starts finally moving into the depot and the brother can finally see his sister on the train and waves enthusiastically at her, like her outburst was something to be put firmly behind. The sister gets up, gathers her belongings and moves down the lounge car towards the exit as the brother starts walking towards the depot. The train stops and he hangs up the phone and waits anxiously, puppy-like eyes on his face, for her sister to exit the train. He hurriedly tries his best to run towards her and gives her an embrace so strong that she has to drop her two heavy bags to the floor to commit to it with the same vigor and being surprised by her own sudden emotions.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">He smiles broadly as they keep the embrace, trying to hide the tears in his eyes. She smiles back at him and pats him gently on the shoulder, ending their embrace. He tries to pick up the two big bags, but she takes them from his slightly swollen fingers. He smiles innocently at her as they start walking in the direction of the parking lot. They disappear from view as the train begins its slow departure.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I look back at the Square Park and every kid stops whatever they were doing to wave goodbye to the train. As we leave the station behind, there’s a long line of cars waiting at the Railroad Crossing. A few, with kids, have their doors open to let them wave goodbye at the train. A few cars behind I spot the sister and the brother in their car, a smile as big as heaven in the brother’s face as he looks at his sister, and apprehensive but determined look in her face.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I try to see beyond her thin veil of contrasting needs and promises made to herself but see a definite resolve in her eyes to come to terms with coming back home as if she never had a choice in the matter but becomes her only possible choice. She looks at her brother, who’s now looking straight ahead at the train leaving, but still talking in his quiet manner. She smiles at him, a genuine happiness exuding from him. She diverts her eyes briefly and catches the tail end of the train as it’s leaving the town behind, tries her best to keep smiling, and seems to join everybody else in waving the train goodbye.</span></p>Nuno Santoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08673153114550693059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1919872609727535350.post-70565379338635758702023-11-13T19:59:00.002+00:002023-11-13T21:10:27.262+00:00SAN MARCOS, TEXAS (Cafe on the Square)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAlf9yRGT1xBF018nDkVqTlvoCcCe8O7Oa9pwh4EtODoRYlqMjsg9xWHE2bpoAFb9SuG8swTYQCJVAkiY9TJr5W6ogT4C_3nPM2GemW0-7PZQe4Tnz6R-4hRp8wQ61JKy1yjLov_hON0TpIu34knaSrMRY52CvoaxbbUN9Odjhm2Ov_fP0xNB7PbuloRo/s1200/venuePhotos_4b4eed15-b638-4b61-9f6d-b5437c2ee72b_original_1200x1200.jpg.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1200" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAlf9yRGT1xBF018nDkVqTlvoCcCe8O7Oa9pwh4EtODoRYlqMjsg9xWHE2bpoAFb9SuG8swTYQCJVAkiY9TJr5W6ogT4C_3nPM2GemW0-7PZQe4Tnz6R-4hRp8wQ61JKy1yjLov_hON0TpIu34knaSrMRY52CvoaxbbUN9Odjhm2Ov_fP0xNB7PbuloRo/s320/venuePhotos_4b4eed15-b638-4b61-9f6d-b5437c2ee72b_original_1200x1200.jpg.webp" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="text-align: left;">The late lunch rush is finally over and it takes a while for me to adjust from the rumble of overlapping loud conversations and the constant clinking of plates and cutlery to the low hum of the waitresses’ gossip while on their smartphones. The sudden barrage of sounds coming from the mounted television seems to be the prevailing sound above all others now. Local sport commentators seem to be trying to outsmart one another and out talk each other with their best options for the local Bobcats team upcoming game this weekend. As if I need more reminders that this is a college football town, a couple of students come in wearing their best Bobcats gear and sit way on the back of the cafe. I finish my grilled cheese and onion rings, push the plate away and finally lean back in my chair, sipping the last of my coffee and look around the place. </span></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="text-align: left;">About a dozen Formica tables adorn the long but narrow space and it seems to make it a lot bigger than what one would expect from the outside looking in. A long service area counter with Diner style seating occupies most of one side of the </span><span style="text-align: left;">cafe. The sounds coming from the kitchen contrast with the sudden quietness of the place as the TV sound is adjusted. Jet streams of water and clinking of dishes and machines whirling full blast almost drowning the sound of the commentators on TV who are soon interrupted by a commercial break. A sale of mattresses this coming weekend with promises of slashing prices up to 80%. A scintillating man wearing a Viking outfit is slashing mattresses left and right on a parking lot with a nine-foot long shinning sword, as if the spoken promises isn’t enough to entice costumers. </span></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="text-align: left;">I open up my notebook and look briefly at the empty page before turning my attention to what’s going on outside the window overlooking the square, as if looking for inspiration. My waitress Rose, a young woman in her early 20’s, comes by with coffee pot in hand and asks if she can take the plate away for me in her most adorable West Texas accent. She smiles as she juggles the plate in one hand, and looking at my almost empty coffee cup, fills it up with the other </span><span style="text-align: left;">hand saying, “Let me top that off for you”. She looks at my empty notebook and asks what I’m writing. I say, “Nothing particular, I just like to look for interesting stories to write about whenever I’m traveling”. She asks if any of them turn out to be love stories, her favorites. I say “Sometimes but they’re hard to come by these days for me.” She ponders and offers an “Hmm” as she leaves, her voice lagging on as she says to let her know when I’m ready for the check, but offers that I’m welcome to stay and enjoy, while looking at my open notebook. </span></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="text-align: left;">A middle age couple comes in and sit at a corner table overlooking the square. They seem to know each other only slightly and their awkwardness is evident by the way they keep trying to avoid looking at each other’s eyes for too long. It’s safe to assume that they are probably on a first date as they soon resort to small talk about the weather to try to patch up pauses in their conversation. I sip from my coffee cup, take out my pen and sit back watching the steam off my coffee rise up and </span><span style="text-align: left;">disappear. I look around for inspiration, for some sort story to present itself to me, but instead notice the big display case behind me with the biggest, most delicious-looking desserts. I call out for Rose and ask her to bring me what she thinks it’s her favorite dessert since I can’t seem to make up my mind. She smiles widely and, in her own words, accepts the challenge. </span></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="text-align: left;">On TV the commentators are at it again. It seems the opponent’s team quarterback is coming back from a knee injury and so the consensus among all of them is to take advantage of that in the defensive plays. That seems to have left the moderator without any other questions for the commentators and it’s the best he can do to fumble through his attempt at calling out for a quick commercial break. Even the Bobcat wearing young men, who had up until then pay little attention to the commentators, stop talking and look in disbelief at the TV and the few seconds of dead air. Rose comes back with an enormous slice of raspberry cheesecake. She places it in front of me and asks if I want her to top off my coffee cup again. I nod and she proceeds to do so and says, “Hope you’ll like our cheesecake. It’s made right here in our cafe everyday”. I smile as I take a big bite of off it and hurriedly give her a thumbs up as my mouth is filled with more cheese cake than I should have had in one bite. She laughs as she leaves saying “Enjoy it.”. </span></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="text-align: left;">Outside, </span><span style="text-align: left;">afternoon is leading up to evening and foot traffic is picking up around the square. A group of students come running down as they cross the street, all in their game T-shirts, and go in into a sports bar. Streetlights are being turned on around the square, giving a more respectable view of the majestic Hays County Courthouse in all its glory. There’s a few Band-tailed pigeons sitting atop Jack Hays statue, that take off together when a dog on a leash stops and barks at then. Three women in their early 40’s come into the cafe, laughing hysterically at something that has happened earlier in the week in their office party. They stop laughing as they look around the cafe and pick up the mood of the place. One of them offers a silent “sorry” with her hands and nods to me as a way of apologizing and I smile my understanding back at her. The couple at the corner table are now holding hands on the table, whispering something between each other that is surely making both happy by their wide smiles. </span></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="text-align: left;">On TV the programming has changed to the local news and the upcoming local elections for the council. The women have finally settled down on a table to sit and are now looking at the huge menu. The woman who offered an apology in </span><span style="text-align: left;">my direction looks at me and waits as I finish the last of the cheesecake to ask me if that was as good as it looked. I say “Even better”. She thanks me and calls out for Rose to </span><span style="text-align: left;">bring three slices of the delicious cheesecake along with a pot of herbal tea for the table. I smile and raise my coffee cup at her and sip from it. The Viking mattress sale commercial is back on and it’s all I can do not to be lost again in such a poor executed but still engaging spectacle. I smile at the screen and the insanity of it all that ends with a group of Vikings sailing on the North Sea on the way to their land, their dragon-carved shallow and narrow boat filled with mattresses as the they celebrate another kind of victory. The women are indulging themselves on their cheesecakes and resume their earlier conversation about their office party but now use a lower, almost whisper of a voice, to detail some sordid details about some of their colleagues. </span></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="text-align: left;">I finish my coffee, close my notebook and just sit and relax for a moment. The sun outside is setting fast, with orange hues sprawled across the horizon. The dark of night is fast approaching but the town seems to be coming alive all of a sudden. The middle age couple are now </span><span style="text-align: left;">exchanging stolen kisses from one another and giggling like a pair of teenagers. I smile as I look at Rose stealing looks at them while pretending to be on her smartphone, daydreaming of the day the love story will be hers. On TV, the local weather is predicting clear skies and sunshine for the Bobcats game day. I linger awhile longer not to disrupt Rose’s daydreaming and look at the women’s table where the cheesecake is gone but the talk and the tea keeps happily flowing. When Rose comes in to their table I finally ask her for the check. When she comes back, she places it on the table and says, “Whenever you’re ready”. I thank her and she asks me, “How was everything?” I pause and look around the cafe before my eyes land back on her looking at me. “Did you get what you needed?” she asks, with a smile on her face. When I don’t answer immediately she offers, “Hope everything was alright”. I smile and say “Everything’s perfect, just as it should be”.</span></span></p>Nuno Santoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08673153114550693059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1919872609727535350.post-29219572228208481732017-04-30T00:31:00.000+01:002017-04-30T03:19:13.763+01:00Philipsburg, Montana<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAdQBlUwacNPY5Po7Wl4xkSIT_C80vnCJyFO4HMfp4CPHPSUQFKf0DcMlmko-ZdQa4aePmZDaY1oo6e7ZZtOVmiHa72i3bXZohECSVPq8lbVkX2KLwkr53TOEWT4MWbflXwpTIt1jJbDs/s1600/3131508108_434390d480_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAdQBlUwacNPY5Po7Wl4xkSIT_C80vnCJyFO4HMfp4CPHPSUQFKf0DcMlmko-ZdQa4aePmZDaY1oo6e7ZZtOVmiHa72i3bXZohECSVPq8lbVkX2KLwkr53TOEWT4MWbflXwpTIt1jJbDs/s320/3131508108_434390d480_b.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I park in front of an unassuming bar on Broadway, with
its red brick facade and neat blue paneled window frames. I step off the car
and I’m greeted by the bar watchdog, a greyhound by the name of Jessie, who
looks more like a mini antelope. I punch open the swinging art deco chrome
doors, under the blinking neon sign. I’m met by the noisy and bustling scene
inside and by the smell of wholesome home-cooking which wafts around the
spacious, fluorescent-lit joint. It’s impossible to escape the incredible potpourri
of sports memorabilia scattered around the bar’s green paneled walls. I sit at
the end of the long wooden bar which bends into a small formica lunch-counter.
Local Duck Dynasty lookalikes, on their umpteenth drink, wear their long hair
under baseball caps and sport goatee beards as tasteless as their T-shirts. At
one corner, some are trying their luck in the Keno and Poker video gambling
machines. Others are drowning their sorrows at the bar. These larger than life
characters all look like they just walked out of a casting for a new art-house
movie. I get the impression that they all might as well have spent the last
month here. Stuck to a barstool with a beer in one hand and a chaser in the
other. Their aim to look as neglected as possible and to say as little as
possible. The waitress can hardly keep up, rushing back and forth clanking her
heels on the wooden plank floor. In one poor-lit corner of the bar is the
“Hall of Fame”, a collection of pictures of old timers who have
passed. I hop off my chair and head to take a closer look. There must be close
to one hundred pictures hanging in the wall, each one with a small inscription
or saying beneath the picture. “It’s not how fast you run or how strong you
are, but how well you bounce”, it reads in one of the pictures. “When you get
to the end of your rope, tie a knot and hang on”, reads another. “The measure
of a man is when he does the right thing even if no one is watching.” I cannot
smile in approval at this tribute to those who have gone. At the top of the
“Hall of Fame” is the picture of a tall and lanky old man with azure blue eyes.
A white shock of hair flattened beneath an Irish cloth cap and a mischievous grin
on his face. I take a closer look at the inscription underneath. “The car that
brought me here doesn’t run anymore”. I cannot help but laugh at the use of a
line, slightly changed, from “Degrees of Gray in Philipsburg” as a kind of
epitaph. Looking around the bar, the atmosphere becomes contagious and the
laughter is infectious. I might as well be stuck inside a Richard Hugo poem for
all I care, so I linger for awhile. The car that brought me here still running
for all I know. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Nuno Santoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08673153114550693059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1919872609727535350.post-11648208379593520722017-04-28T00:02:00.001+01:002017-04-28T10:51:00.730+01:00Dillon, Montana<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvXw4ScDQS5_P5kB71gwNFF8phN-RMjIWZatCimkvOvw3HcvFbizSeOCBV5E9zoIDKkvs1LRc3-lEe-8kBjWaZjXqOXdGKPN1okb42ypzn3xY6GELf0ETI6iFvoZ8-s-_j7ALhRyHCdhk/s1600/db93474bb67ebb64c4cd4afa02eb2bf5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvXw4ScDQS5_P5kB71gwNFF8phN-RMjIWZatCimkvOvw3HcvFbizSeOCBV5E9zoIDKkvs1LRc3-lEe-8kBjWaZjXqOXdGKPN1okb42ypzn3xY6GELf0ETI6iFvoZ8-s-_j7ALhRyHCdhk/s320/db93474bb67ebb64c4cd4afa02eb2bf5.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I’m driving south on Interstate 15. Butte’s famous Mile-High
hill slowly disappears from view. The highway cleaves across Deer Lodge
National Forest. Only the tops of the black skeletal mining gallows can be made
out now. The vertiginous granite walls of the Rocky Mountains suddenly retreat
into the horizon. New broad valleys and a flat landscape replace the
snow-capped peaks. Farmlands scattered with copper-colored prairies. Lush
mountain meadows line the highway’s boundaries. Herds of Black Angus and Hereford
cattle graze on yellow sagebrush. Snow-fed mountain streams flow into the main
rivers. The deserted highway trails its way deeper into the open countryside.
Ranches and homesteads of all shapes and hues now come into view. Time appears
to have stood still for these Western prairie dwellers. The Union Pacific
Railroad runs a train, transporting fattened steer down its tracks. This is the
only sound of life in a landscape otherwise completely engulfed in silence. I
drive into a wide valley traversed by the Beaverhead River, filled with old
ranches and brimming with trout, and arrive in the authentic old train town of
Dillon. I park in front of The Metlen Hotel Bar & Café and step into the bar.
Charles Marion Russell reproductions and stuffed trout adorn the green walls,
weathered by decades of use. A sign at
the bar reads, “Work is the curse of the drinking class!”. The place is filled with locals, cowboys and your regular part-time professional
barflies. In the back of the bar a silver disco ball eerily spins round, for no
one, flashing its hypnotic light over the dance floor and the dark leather
furniture dating from the 60’s. With the dull green lights hanging over two blue
pool tables and the walls behind the counter crammed with fierce looking wild
beasts it’s difficult not to compare the bar to the décor and ambience of a
David Lynch film. A cowboy dressed in a fancy blue shirt, authentic cowboy boots and beaver felt hat talks with a colorful character sporting a ZZ Top beard and
tattered hat about the best time in spring to wean calves from their mothers. An
old timer with twinkling blue movie star eyes, hidden under a rather worn out cowboy
hat taps his dirty knuckles against the bar counter to a Bob Wills song on the
jukebox. Two young cowboys flirt with a much older heavily made-up waitress,
inundated with breakfast orders, before putting their goatskin work gloves on and
heading out the door. An extraordinary mix of characters that seems to reflect perfectly
the kind of Anytown of the modern American West. That rugged
self-reliant hard working can do attitude. I get a hot coffee, served with a
dash of something a little stronger, at the recommendation of the bartender. It’s
what everybody drinks in these parts to start the day and get ready for another’s
day work. It’s called “an eye-opener”, he tells me. On my way out the door a
sign reads “As long as there’s a sunset, there will always be a West…”. I fill
the car up at the local gas station and get back on the road. I
drive through acre upon acre of prairie as broad as it is flat, covered with
sagebrush and longhorn cattle. Further into the farmlands ranch hands are leveling
the ground and seeding. As I cross the Idaho/Utah border I keep my eyes fixed
on the slowly setting sun on the far horizon out west. It seems to go on
forever.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Nuno Santoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08673153114550693059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1919872609727535350.post-38450911374890504462017-04-05T23:30:00.001+01:002023-01-18T16:11:21.640+00:00Sidney, Montana<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4ozbw2bWLdTCud2u2Yz4FsjuDYGe4-wBV0IJ_MDlXwQPgtOqIZ2UaeYbUUUuKzPgn5UCNJ4YJ_ZAOtEolw62F11_SshyQsrBu8QYEzRU0_h1Q-bSB4XvjLi9EGXkfI1mygnQiLL6yiTg/s1600/391866312.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4ozbw2bWLdTCud2u2Yz4FsjuDYGe4-wBV0IJ_MDlXwQPgtOqIZ2UaeYbUUUuKzPgn5UCNJ4YJ_ZAOtEolw62F11_SshyQsrBu8QYEzRU0_h1Q-bSB4XvjLi9EGXkfI1mygnQiLL6yiTg/s320/391866312.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She woke up to the sound of the maid's cart wheels against the pavement outside her door. She opened her eyes and looked at the digital alarm clock on the nightstand.
For a moment she couldn’t tell if it was 7 a.m. or 7 p.m. The sunshine peeking
through the closed drape curtains gave her a clue. She lay there, looking at
the strange shadows the sun was making on the walls, trying to guess which
animal they resembled the most. She listened as a couple of young kids, maybe
between 6 to 8-years old, she thought, were playing jump-rope outside. The
alarm clock went off and the sound of Classic Country AM radio invaded the
room. She leaped out of bed and into the bathroom and splashed cold water on
her face. Patsy Cline was singing “I Fall to Pieces” on the radio. Her voice full
of aching bravado and emotional drenched intensity. She looked in the mirror
trying to convey the song into her life. She walked to the door and opened it
letting the wind hit her face. The kids were now playing hide and seek. The boy
was trying his best to hide behind an old oak tree and failing miserably. He motioned
to her with his index finger not to divulge his hiding place to his older
sister. She repeated the gesture and smiled playfully at him. The farm report
replaced Patsy Cline on the alarm clock radio. The talk about future commodities
and a significant drop on the prices of soybean and corn made her hungry. She
dressed up and went straight into the coffee-shop, the glass door swinging shut
behind her. The smell of greasy bacon and hot coffee was not strong enough to
overtake the crude oil-stenched coveralls and the dirt-filled work boots smell.
She found a corner booth at the end of the counter and sat down facing a young
couple who were silently counting single dollar bills under the table. The
waitress threw a menu on the table and poured some coffee and disappeared into
the kitchen. She took a sip from her coffee cup and looked outside. The young
siblings had stopped playing hide and seek and now the girl was lecturing the
boy about something that brought tears to his eyes. The girl took the boy’s
hand and led him to the coffee-shop. On TV, a group of four panelists were
discussing the oil boom and how it was ready to bust out at the seams. That got
the attention of the three oilfield workers sitting at the counter, each
providing a different opinion on the subject. The young kids came running into
the coffee-shop in the direction of the young couple who sprung to their feet in
their direction when they saw the boy crying. They hugged the little boy as the
little girl explained that he was almost hit by a car when he crossed the
parking lot trying to find a good hiding place. The waitress placed an order of
pancakes and a bottle of Aunt Jemima syrup on her table and left the bill
underneath the coffee cup. Outside, in the parking lot, the young couple and
their kids were getting into their rusty Ford Taurus Station Wagon. The young
boy holding a lollipop in one hand, her sister’s hand on the other. They drove
off, a big trunk strapped to the hood of their station wagon. She finished her
pancakes and cleared the tears off her cheeks as the waitress came back to
refill her coffee cup. She stopped her by asking instead if they were hiring.
The waitress took a long glance at her as if trying to understand if she had ever
worked as a waitress. The oilfield workers left in a ruckus leaving a trail of
dirt on the floor and oil stains on the counter. The waitress grinned at them and
then gave them a broad smile when she saw the generous tip they had left her.
On TV, two of the panelists agreed with the moderator that there were reasons
to believe the boom was here to stay while the other two disagreed. The
waitress came back from clearing the counter to ask if she knew how to use a
broom. That night, back in her motel room, after a first day’s work, she began
to unpack and fill the motel room with her mementos. Her favorite pair or
earrings, a family heirloom. A worn-out paperback copy of Willa Cather’s “My
Ántonia”. A small stuffed Teddy Bear. A framed picture of her 6-year old son on
the nightstand. She sat on the recliner in silence facing the dark and empty
parking lot. She closed her eyes and could still hear the two young kids
playing outside. She decided to give herself the same chances of succeeding in
this new town as the panelists on TV had given to the oil boom. Fifty-Fifty.
That was good enough for her. She allowed herself to smile again. If ever so
slightly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Nuno Santoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08673153114550693059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1919872609727535350.post-88307166392689227842017-04-04T00:25:00.001+01:002023-01-18T16:26:11.538+00:00Terry, Montana<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWeqyBeyPmQgAhiIq7LfQaVEZy0pTcboY2RcMi9OwMgso3FdLtlPYvOJQ3F1MiSb1LnlRrq1h6ChrvjHZIwvIEKH3Lzlwj_oXKpuIbjRKqpThJOhTiRfhyphenhyphenSPpezsfXL2gKruZRHwU92nI/s1600/02-645T-608.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWeqyBeyPmQgAhiIq7LfQaVEZy0pTcboY2RcMi9OwMgso3FdLtlPYvOJQ3F1MiSb1LnlRrq1h6ChrvjHZIwvIEKH3Lzlwj_oXKpuIbjRKqpThJOhTiRfhyphenhyphenSPpezsfXL2gKruZRHwU92nI/s320/02-645T-608.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He parked his beat-up pick-up truck in the stall
directly in front of room 102. The sun was setting down on the prairie. A
McDonald’s hamburger wrapper blew past his front window. Two teenage boys with
ripped up Eminem T-shirts and khaki shorts were skating on the emptied
disused swimming pool. He cut the engine off and got out into the parking lot.
He stretched his back by holding his hands tightly together way over his head.
He couldn’t believe he had been driving almost non-stop since early morning. He
unloaded the bags off his black Ford and walked to the door of the motel room
and opened it with the keycard. He stepped in and stood in silence in the
doorframe without moving for a few moments. His eyes scanning the length of the
room. Another bland middle of nowhere motel room. He started to hear her voice
again. That kind of pinched upper-nasal sound. The high tension in her angry voice.
He tried to put the last painful memory of them behind by bringing to mind her
soft brown fuzzy hair and her icy-blue eyes. He remembered how it felt to be
lost in those eyes. It shocked him that he could still feel that way about her,
but now he couldn’t act on it. He felt wiped out, dizzy. He questioned his
motives for driving half way across the country to get as far away from her as
possible if the memories followed wherever he went. He decided he needed a
drink. He threw his bags recklessly inside the room, closed the door behind him
and got back in his pick-up. Her voice was still going on inside his head. The kind
of breathless tone she uses to get her point across without being interrupted.
The thought occurred to him that he was never able to get a word in edgewise
when she got like this. It drained him emotionally to the point where he just
forfeit these battles and let her have her way. He drove into a gravel parking
lot full of rusty old pick-ups in front of a place
called “Standing Rock Saloon & Casino” and turned off his engine. He just sat
there and watched the approaching storm lights. Sitting behind the wheel. Trying to get her high-pitched angry voice out
off his head. Looking past the dark horizon. He got out of his Ford, and went inside the bar as it threatened to start raining. The bar
was nearly full with an assortment of cowboys and farmhands trying to bring
some kind of excitement to the end of another workday. He kept one ear tuned to
the news on TV as he hunted up and down for a place to sit. A video poker
machine was blinking in one corner of the bar near the bathroom. An old cowboy
kept trying his luck until the money ran out. He stepped up to the far
end of the bar and found an empty seat. The news had switched to the weather. He
ordered a Jim Beam and looked around trying to adjust himself with the
group of strangers that filled the bar in order to feel like he belonged. The two cowboys who
sat next to him turned from their conversation about steers and cattle weaning to acknowledge his presence with a tip of their cowboy hats and then
returned to their drinks. He sipped on his drink and starred over the rim of
his glass at the many autographed framed pictures hanging on the walls. And
there she was. Holding a Martin guitar, all dressed up in her best Patsy
Montana outfit. Maybe eighteen-years old. It all came back to him and he
realized he was in her hometown. In the exact same spot where she started
singing. The small prairie town she had left behind for good more than twenty
years ago and that she promised to never return to again. The irony didn’t
escape him. He had driven this far away, from her memory, to be standing consciously
or unconsciously where her discarded memories of what she used to be were. He
paused and swirled the melting ice in his bourbon. Without warning the thought that he had been
reduced to nothing as far as she was concerned, a flicker of her imagination,
just another sad song on her repertoire, flooded his mind. He smiled briefly. He paid for his bourbon and stumbled out the door. Outside, in the
parking lot, he looked at the dark fields under a patchy
drizzle. There wasn't a sound to be heard except the wind in the prairie. A freight train in the distance. The definite silence of her voice echoing loudly in all directions. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Nuno Santoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08673153114550693059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1919872609727535350.post-68322931801377143292017-03-06T23:15:00.001+00:002023-01-18T16:41:29.923+00:00Montana Motel Blues #4<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgurFkEhyExYDphFhkO7Pms5bqxameipiSyfOmtSgXmu7SYCA7wxrkcFAORfUuiOJCOuc7yEAIL5YuhgtYd9kURCAzS5z30I-AKHsYVenuO0WoQJMN45_fqfvdcZRrGnfcepQJR54JurM4/s1600/mo1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgurFkEhyExYDphFhkO7Pms5bqxameipiSyfOmtSgXmu7SYCA7wxrkcFAORfUuiOJCOuc7yEAIL5YuhgtYd9kURCAzS5z30I-AKHsYVenuO0WoQJMN45_fqfvdcZRrGnfcepQJR54JurM4/s320/mo1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She got into the motel a few minutes past midnight.
She’d been driving for the better part of the day and she felt as much tired as
excited for making it to Billings to start her new life. Her feet were pumping
under the red nylon trainers as she got off the car. As soon as she opened the
door to room 22 she could smell the strong odor of detergent in the air trying to disguise the
distinct odor of vomit mixed with mildew and tobacco smoke. She wheeled her bag
inside, closed the door behind her and stretched her back. She took
off her trainers and went into the bathroom. She turned the cold water faucet
in the bathtub and sat on the edge of the tub running cold water on her
swelling feet. She closed her eyes but she could still hear the hiss and roar
of the interstate traffic in her head. She tilted her head back and flexed her
muscular thighs and went into a trance. For a moment she thought she was
falling with no one there to catch her. She opened her eyes and took a glance
at her reflection in the mirror and that broke the
spell. She dried her feet with a small towel and sat down on a bed and turned
on the TV. She went through the channels without knowing what she was looking
for. With no intent of watching TV she left a rerun of “The Dukes of Hazzard”
on. She set the bag on top of a bed. The Western-themed bedspread released some
dust into the air making her cough repeatedly. She paced the room impatiently,
looking everywhere around her but with no particular target in sight. She
reached into her hand bag and pulled out her cell phone. She checked for new
messages and then started dialing. She peeked through the drawn curtains at the
pitch black night and waited. When no one picked up she threw the phone at one
of the beds. It bounced on the bedspread and fell swiftly to the carpeted
floor. She didn’t bother picking it up. Instead she sat on the edge of a bed
and opened her bag, digging around the small inside pocket until she found the small black box with the diamond
ring. She opened the box and took the ring out which he had given her as a
promise of his commitment. She walked over to the mirror and looked
at the image of herself wearing the ring. She smiled briefly then began to
panic. She took the ring off and looked at it and at its reflection in the
mirror. She got angry for letting herself fall for a married man living almost
600 miles away and letting things get to this point. It took this long for him
to make a decision that she wasn’t certain he would abide to without some
struggle. In the meantime, in the last six years, her life stalled, waiting for
him. She sat on the bed and started to play with her long curly hair and tapping
her bare feet on the carpeted floor repeatedly. She felt her heart skipping.
Was she really gonna do this? Break up a family? Was it all worth it? She
reflected back on the six years since they met in Colorado at the Realtors
Conference. She couldn’t find any reason to reaffirm her life to strangers, let
alone to her frayed friendships and distant relatives in that period of her
life. She felt that for them it was like she had ceased to exist. She felt
powerless and more alone because of it. She threw herself on one of the beds
with her arms stretched out above her head. She lay there flat and stiff staring
up at the ceiling. She squeezed her eyelids tight together, trying to see
herself with him, but couldn’t. Without opening her eyes she could sense her
aloneness. She kept her eyes shut tight and pictured the life she missed these
past six years. She leaped out of bed and put the ring in the box and caught a
glance of herself in the mirror. She didn’t like the person that she had become
and that it was staring back at her in the mirror. She threw the box at the
mirror, shattering it to pieces on the carpet.
She took her time cleaning up all the little pieces of the broken glass off the
carpet fabric with a wet towel. After it was done, she took a deep breath and
sat on the floor with her legs curled up and stared at the diamond ring on the
floor for a while. “The Dukes of Hazzard” was still on the TV. She began to pack. Her cell phone rang in the middle of it but she
kicked it under the bed. She knew it was him. She left it there for the maid to
find it in the morning. She left the diamond ring next to the TV remote, with a
note underneath, to pay up for the broken mirror. Outside, the moon was hanging low and orange on the horizon. The lights were out in all of the rooms. The motel
neon sign was switched off and from inside the office only a glimmer of light was coming from behind the desk. She got in the car, turned on
the engine, and drove off in a hurry, leaving a trail of gravel dust behind
her. She had six years to make up for and the road was wide open in front of
her. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Nuno Santoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08673153114550693059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1919872609727535350.post-2627440750065464562017-03-03T00:04:00.001+00:002017-03-04T01:50:31.322+00:00Montana Motel Blues #3<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzWUcZNSxHEpYNdvMIVJG4oRdp5Jk4uAOZyDcx3Ughqno9b1UYrdJIie8s0zWK8NU1oclhgs5U9M0fANU8tzOwHvkZGA3NNq7OXzdz6yBvwhioKU1KM9c4p_XPZii_NKRqIzJ0-zje8fY/s1600/cactus+inn+mclean+texas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="257" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzWUcZNSxHEpYNdvMIVJG4oRdp5Jk4uAOZyDcx3Ughqno9b1UYrdJIie8s0zWK8NU1oclhgs5U9M0fANU8tzOwHvkZGA3NNq7OXzdz6yBvwhioKU1KM9c4p_XPZii_NKRqIzJ0-zje8fY/s320/cactus+inn+mclean+texas.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He was out the door of room 121 before the crack of
dawn. The fluorescent lights of the lamp posts still reflecting their red and
yellowish color on the wet asphalt of the parking lot. He noticed that the “M”
from the motel neon sign was unlit and wondered if he hadn’t noticed it last
night when he came in or if it just went out during the night. He made a mental
note to tell the motel owners about it on check out. He headed to his 1999 GMC
Sierra pick up with Wyoming license plates featuring the Grand Tetons on the
background. He walked with an accentuated limp on his right leg. He took a pack
of loose tobacco and rolling paper from the ashtray cup holder and took his
time to slowly roll a near perfect roll-your-own American Spirit cigarette. He
placed the cigarette in the left corner of his mouth, hanging by a thread and
looked for matches in the breast pockets of his black cow suede vest. When he
didn’t find any he didn’t bother to look elsewhere. He kept the cigarette
dangling from his lips and took a pair of coyote gear gloves from the glove
compartment. He proceeded by cleaning up the bed of his pick-up truck. He
unstrapped the bungee cords from the hard plastic containers and took a
cleaning cloth from one of the containers. With such precision that you would
believe his life depended on it, he began to, systematically and methodically,
clean the dirt off his tack and rodeo gear. He started with the roping reins
and the harness, followed by the noseband with buckle, ending with the leather
saddle bag. When he was done he took a brush from the other container and with
the same precision he had applied to his tack and rodeo gear, he shined his
Tony Lamas until they itself were shinning and reflecting the rising sun over
the underpass. He did the same with his Ken Dixon hand engraved sterling silver
belt buckle. At the end of it he found himself breathing heavily and panting
for air. Little drops of sweat rolling down into his forehead protruding from
his Resistol Cattleman Silver Belly Cowboy hat. As he took a step back, feeling the
pain in his limpy right leg he felt the need to lay down ever so briefly. He
abstained from it and instead rubbed his right knee with such abrasiveness that
the pain slowly started to subside. He took his gloves off and found his
stainless steel coffee cup on the coffee cup holder and headed for the motel office
as the motel neon sign and the fluorescent lights on the parking lot were being
turned off one by one. The sun was already rising over the interstate to the
east. The soft wind flapping the tiny triangle-shaped flags strapped to the
parking lot lamp posts advertising the annual Miles City Bucking Horse Sale. A
few lights turned on from inside some of the rooms as he stood outside the
motel office door feeling the wind hit his cheeks for a moment. The distant
sound of a TV set in the room adjacent to the office coming on, tuned to the local
news channel. He looked at his reflection in the glass door. All dressed up in
his Cowboy get-up. The thought he had been avoiding since the sale and that he
had been able to put in the back burner until this moment staring straight at
him. He had suddenly become a 47-year old Cowboy with no horse to ride. He
shifted his hand-rolled cigarette from the left corner of his mouth to the
right with a touch of his lips. He straightened up his Gold and Silver Eagle
bolo tie and got in the door and only lingered enough time to drop his room key
and fill up his stainless steel coffee cup with freshly brewed hot coffee from
the breakfast buffet table being set. He limped his way back to his pick-up
truck, placed the cup on the roof of the cab and secured the hard plastic
containers with the bungee cords. He circled the pick-up to strap them from one
side to the other but stopped midway in pain, crouching and holding his right
leg. He was face to face with one of the bumper stickers in the back fender of
his pick-up. “This Ain’t My First Rodeo” it read. He remembered the occasion
where he bought it more than thirty years ago at the Cody Nite Rodeo. He
straightened himself up and grinned at the futility of that bumper sticker now.
He stood motionless for a moment feeling the wind in his face. That seemed to
rejuvenate him. He held his right leg straight up with both his hands and got
in his pick-up. He turned on the engine and rolled down his window. He took his
cowboy hat and placed it on the passenger’s seat. He wiped the sweat from his
forehead with a red bandana he found in his coin tray. He looked straight ahead
at the traffic starting to clutter the frontage road parallel to the
interstate. The sun was hiding behind a big cluster of clouds and the wind was
picking up. He wondered what would he do from now on. How he would make a
living. Was it too late for a 47-year old has-been third-tier rodeo cowboy to
start a new life? He spit the hand-rolled cigarette out the window and drove on
out of the motel parking lot. At the intersection of I-94 he looked at the
interstate signs like he’s done so many times before. I-94 West leading back
home to Wyoming. I-94 East leading to places unknown. But this time he looked
with intent at them like he didn’t know where each was leading to. He pondered
that his life couldn’t be more uncertain as it was at that moment either way.
He stretched his left hand outside his window and followed wherever the wind
blew.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Nuno Santoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08673153114550693059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1919872609727535350.post-25591128209059063412017-02-15T18:25:00.000+00:002017-03-02T23:22:34.502+00:00Montana Motel Blues #2<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6Ht28WPnTlOVKKBax5Gq2jQErJWHdlk1oeHtHCwVoP6-NDawWK7-_tNtUzGbINn7ya1fUZUsB45gecKJ5SSoz7y1H8NGF5C5jrxDBbMXjYutlqsyVrQAnf6TQhnYH_pCv-leKmcM4MSs/s1600/PC270001-X2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6Ht28WPnTlOVKKBax5Gq2jQErJWHdlk1oeHtHCwVoP6-NDawWK7-_tNtUzGbINn7ya1fUZUsB45gecKJ5SSoz7y1H8NGF5C5jrxDBbMXjYutlqsyVrQAnf6TQhnYH_pCv-leKmcM4MSs/s320/PC270001-X2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She awoke in the middle of the night in panic.
Startled by something she couldn’t exactly pinpoint at that moment. Her heart
beating fast. Like it was about to jump out of her chest. She sat down in the
bed. Her head resting on the fake mahogany headboard. She placed the sweaty palm
of her right hand firmly over her chest. That seemed to calm her down a little.
She was sweating as much from whatever had suddenly awoken her from her sleep
as from the A/C she had left turned on to medium hot before going to bed. She
pulled back the cheap fabric comforter and sat in silence looking at her
chipped red toenails. She thought to herself, how can her head be of a sound
mind if she doesn’t take care of her body first. She had a notion of painting her
toenails a different bright shade of red but decided she was too jumpy to
attempt such a task. She stood up from the bed and took a deep breath, curling
her toenails in the Scottish plaid carpet. She looked at the drawn caramel
pinstriped drapes and at the subtle sign of neon light emanating from the motel
sign outside her room by the small gap between the two drapes. She went to the
powder room adjacent to the bathroom and turned the cold water faucet on. She
listened to the sound of the running water hitting the marble sink and looked
closely in the mirror at herself. “What are you doing here”, she asked herself out
loud in a heavy mid-western accent and starred at herself in the mirror looking
for an answer from the other side of the mirror. She poured a splash of cold
water in her face saying “Wake up” to herself in the mirror. She went and switched
off the A/C completely and sat in the brown leather recliner curling her legs
in a lotus position. She looked at the sun-bleached color photos of some
tropical beach mounted above the double bed. She wondered what was the idea behind
having those photos framed in a motel room in the middle of winter in Montana.
She became intrigued by it. Maybe they were vacation souvenirs from the motel
owners. But then she remembered the owners being a family from India. Or maybe
they just bought the motel from some wholesome American old couple who had
decided to retire from their family business and sell the motel. Maybe they had
no other family heirs or their kids didn’t want any part of the business anyway.
Maybe the old couple decided it was time to start living after giving so much
of their life to keep the motel running. Maybe they took the money from the
motel sale without telling their kids and moved to some tropical paradise for
their twilight years. She began to picture this old couple, grey hairs, sitting
on beach lounge chairs, sipping Mai Tais, watching the sunset together. Maybe
the photos were a way for them to leave their imprint on this place. They
worked so hard for this dream of theirs. Maybe they thought it would also serve
as an inspiration for somebody one day at the end of their rope in the middle of another Montana winter. She began to cry. But she would not let the tears roll
down her face. She jumped off the recliner and began to pack. The sun had begun
to peek just slightly through the drapes. She opened them up to let the rising
sun start filling the room. Outside, the Mexican cleaning ladies were ready to
start another workday. Each with their own cleaning cart full of cleaning supplies,
toilet paper, clean towels, mint sugar drops for the pillows. The kidney-shaped
swimming pool was still covered with the polyethylene winter pool cover. She
exited the room carrying a black 4-wheeled travel bag, her skirt hiked up, wearing
high heeled sandals showing her toenails freshly painted with a bright red nail
polish. She put her bag in the trunk of her red 2006 Chevy Monte Carlo parked
outside, closed the trunk and went inside the room. She came out of the room
with a black cloth Walton duffle bag and carrying a picture frame under her
left arm. She left the duffle bag on top of the custom logo welcome mat outside
the motel room door and got into her car. Leaving the motel parking lot her
mood started shifting. She stopped just before leaving the motel behind. She
looked at one of the framed photos from the motel room resting in the passenger
seat. She looked in the rear view and saw the Mexican cleaning ladies fake modeling
some of the clothes they found in the duffle bag for one another and sharing
them amongst themselves. She began to smile. She looked right and left before
leaving the motel. The road was clear. She pressed on the gas. And never looked
back. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Nuno Santoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08673153114550693059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1919872609727535350.post-20759255665212628712017-02-14T17:18:00.001+00:002017-03-02T23:22:14.028+00:00Montana Motel Blues #1<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5cD4V7h3LptXqko3RWP3mJjhyid9e6C6tHq8ctr_YidhOu0yBWCr3PjJxfyHkiUv8MuKzWhNRJN1Yw1C_B7ttM4XPYXXpu9JI9VFMCWBYZZ_ZEbKkef80ucZhStTwsHXdk56SQbdC4JY/s1600/81b56c85f6e364deb71232392921d1b1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5cD4V7h3LptXqko3RWP3mJjhyid9e6C6tHq8ctr_YidhOu0yBWCr3PjJxfyHkiUv8MuKzWhNRJN1Yw1C_B7ttM4XPYXXpu9JI9VFMCWBYZZ_ZEbKkef80ucZhStTwsHXdk56SQbdC4JY/s320/81b56c85f6e364deb71232392921d1b1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He arrived late at night under a hailing rainstorm. He parked his beat-up pickup truck on the
motel gravel parking lot. He stood there waiting for the rainstorm to wither.
Listening to the song on the radio. Waiting for it to finish. Windshield
wipers still at maximum speed. For a
moment he forgot what exactly he was doing there. Got so enthralled in listening to the heavy metallic sound of
the rain falling on the roof of his cab. He watched as the icy rain fell and
how the windshield wipers moved back and forth with such precision and purpose.
He wondered if his life at that moment had a purpose as definite as that. He
remembered another time when that same question had come up. How she had
questioned him on that exact subject. He cut off the engine stopping the
windshield wipers completely. He lowered the driver’s side sun visor to reveal
a photo of her. He looked at the photo for what it seemed to him for a long
time. He suddenly remembered what he was there for. He wondered if that had become
the sole purpose of his life. If that was a good enough reason to give up so
much for so… He regretted that thought as soon as he realized what would be at
the end of it. I will not be deterred, he half mumbled to himself.
The rain had quiet down, only a few scattered drops here and there. He turned
off the radio, looked at the photo one more time and closed the sun visor. He
picked up the duffle bag from the passenger’s side floorboard and headed to
room 212. The lights were off but he knew she was inside. He could almost feel
her breathing through the solid core wood door. He could smell her lavender and
pomegranate scented perfume. He closed his eyes and tried to picture her
wearing the one-piece Victoria’s Secret negligee he got her for last
Valentine’s day. He was about to knock on the door when her startled voice
calling out “Honey?!” made him open his eyes in panic. He stood there in
silence frozen by his own self-doubt. He heard a commotion from inside the
room. Somebody had knocked down a lamp. The lights went up from inside the
room. A loud ring from the motel room telephone. Two more rings and then it
stopped. Silence after that. And a deeper silence when the rain stopped falling
altogether. Like in a heartbeat he was gone. Back on the cab of his truck. Back
on the road. Driving for the sake of driving. Trying to numb the pain. In the
morning she found the duffle bag outside her motel room door. All her
possessions inside. Their memories together reduced to a black cloth Walton
duffle bag. The morning sun had chased down the rain. Pushing to try to find
something, a reason, he kept on driving. At a stop sign on a country road he
turned on the blinkers to signal a left turn. By accident he turned on the
windshield wipers. He kept them on as he waited for another pickup truck to
pass him going on the opposite direction. He kept looking at the windshield
wipers. Even after the truck had passed. Marveling at their fascinating
precision. And how they had lost all their purpose without the rain to wipe from the window. He stood
in silence as the sun shined bright directly into his eyes blinding him
temporarily. He lowered the driver’s side sun visor to block the sun. The photo
of her confronting him. Windshield wipers still on. He stood there. Apparently
undisturbed. Waiting for the rain. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Nuno Santoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08673153114550693059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1919872609727535350.post-25785441157354994892017-02-13T22:59:00.000+00:002017-02-13T22:59:34.955+00:00Livingston Dream Book #6<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6FQuYd4eu5ZIseBhVzT1VIFlpZrHJvUaG1fDW0kBg-jfouQ-fY7LA94q6kCvSlww36wMwXW7Qei9jxRgkJo5SQC5gcL2_LIws8loO1mDGYCBS0R73Tpv0TL9b3i7BGWC_8Wg0X_jW1yA/s1600/387488_288282197882591_1300495059_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6FQuYd4eu5ZIseBhVzT1VIFlpZrHJvUaG1fDW0kBg-jfouQ-fY7LA94q6kCvSlww36wMwXW7Qei9jxRgkJo5SQC5gcL2_LIws8loO1mDGYCBS0R73Tpv0TL9b3i7BGWC_8Wg0X_jW1yA/s320/387488_288282197882591_1300495059_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">On the north side of town, past the railroad tracks
you can still feel the pulse of old Livingston, railroad town. The Northern
Pacific Railroad shops are a statement to that as are the 100-year old
vernacular styled cottages and unadorned homes. The old school which was built
out of concrete block was converted not long ago into a community museum. This
is where I meet Robert, a 90-year old railroad aficionado as he’s leaving the
building. Wearing overalls and a brakeman’s hat, he sports a wide and generous
grin to anyone who crosses his path. He’s here to teach anyone who wants to
hear it, about how Livingston was once a thriving railroad town. With a
railroad pocket watch that he keeps looking at impulsively and then putting it away every time he hears
a distant freight train moan, he tells me he arrived
here in the late 1940’s after serving in World War II. He worked as a drummer
for awhile before settling in here. Images of a slicked back haired Gene Kupra
comes to mind. But he explains he was a different kind of drummer. They were
traveling businessmen, who were constantly riding the rails, stopping in towns
large and small, to drum up business for their companies, hence the name
“drummer”. His liquored-up eyes shine when he starts telling me the tales of
yesteryear. How he found a job working for the railroad as a watchman. How he
fell in love in the spring of 1955 to a first grade teacher that taught in the
old school since turned museum for which he volunteers. His wrinkled face
saddens and his hands start trembling as he mentions his wife’s passing in
1999. He looks at his railroad pocket watch again for a few seconds and takes a
deep breath before putting the pocket watch in his overall’s pocket. We start
walking south in the direction of the tracks. The smell of burnt rubber, coal
fire and diesel becomes more prominent. He takes to the top of a hill near the
Northern Pacific Railroad shops and in silence directs me to look straight
ahead. From where we stand we can see the Mountains capped with snow, the
Yellowstone river flowing south, the outline of town with the railroad that
built this town from the ground and we almost can hear the sound of semis
whining by on the interstate. The sun is setting just to the west of the mountains
and it gives the sky a blue and orange hue. A freight train moans in the
distance. Robert looks at his railroad pocket watch one more time. From my
vantage point next to him I can see why he keeps looking at the watch. A
picture of his wife is engraved in the watch’s dial. This time he holds the
watch in his hands. I don’t need more than this to know that this must be his
daily end-of-the day ritual for a long time now. He squints his eyes at the
Mountains, still holding the pocket watch in his right hand, almost squeezing
it for dear life and I swear I can notice a glimpse of a single tear rolling
down his right eye. Or maybe that’s just me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Nuno Santoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08673153114550693059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1919872609727535350.post-83481604936050870262017-02-12T19:59:00.000+00:002017-02-12T20:28:37.382+00:00Livingston Dream Book #5<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1NK4XxKhxdwsx56xKkjs_EQFbPowbP4AgumdPI5hsxwtwVtmE-Uk5NiYADbCRnICWWNe782nSoL8wd_ceRckwOxANhXCpcLYVuqZfRD2Ljnq_Ns2WatrVn9DQIMiFYTGkomsN2MDkyIs/s1600/o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1NK4XxKhxdwsx56xKkjs_EQFbPowbP4AgumdPI5hsxwtwVtmE-Uk5NiYADbCRnICWWNe782nSoL8wd_ceRckwOxANhXCpcLYVuqZfRD2Ljnq_Ns2WatrVn9DQIMiFYTGkomsN2MDkyIs/s320/o.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">A Sunday morning drive south on US-89. An early
morning fog hovering just above the Absarokas. Leaving Livingston and crossing
the abandoned railroad tracks, the usual Sunday RV Yellowstone bound traffic has
yet to clog the road. The fishing locals gather in the parking lot of Hatch
Finders Fly Shop. Further down a small crowd of worshippers congregate outside
the Adventist Church. I roll the windows down and take in the chilly winter air
in my face and the sound of the sidewinding Yellowstone River which follows
US-89 all the way to the north entrance of Yellowstone Park in Gardiner. The
smell of breakfast food coming from the cluster of fast food joints reminds me
that I only had coffee and a blueberry muffin on the way out of the hotel this
morning. I roll the windows up and turn on the radio to KXLB out of Bozeman. I
ride to the sound of Tom T.Hall’s “The Year Clayton Delaney Died” and start
feeling comfortable in my skin again. Behind the wheel. The open road ahead. No
other thoughts or worries in my mind other than to keep on driving. Or until I
find a good enough reason to stop. Thirty minutes in, I catch a glimpse of the “Old
Saloon” in a wide-spot off the road in Emigrant. A step back to another time.
Serving Outlaws and Cowgirls since 1902 proclaims their motto. I cut off the
engine and park in front of the horse rails. I step out of the car and turn on
the alarm to the amusement of an old timer with tobacco stuffed cheeks sitting
in a rocking chair and wearing a wide brimmed cowboy hat covered in dust. “There’s
no need of that in here, pardner” and laughs at the notion adding: “You want me
to water that here horse of yours?” and almost falls off the rocking chair
laughing. Inside it looks like an old west saloon mixed with a small town dive
bar atmosphere. A great pool table and a nice looking jukebox that’s playing
Alan Jackson’s “Here In The Real World”. Two local cowboys are sitting at the
bar talking, a Border Collie nestled at their feet. I sit at a table and look at the breakfast
menu as the bartender acknowledges me with a slight tip of his well-worn “Montana
Grizzlies” baseball hat. An older couple is playing slot machines each in turn
pulling each other’s lever. I order the Huevos Rancheros on the recommendation of
the bartender with just a spike of extra green chile sauce and extra pico de
gallo. A huge amount of stuffed animal heads adorn the walls. I rejoice in a
most welcome taste bud enhancing authentic rural farming breakfast. As I finish
eating I can’t help but overhear the conversation between the two cowboys about
the upcoming Custer Ranch Rodeo and an indecision about a bank loan to buy a
new goose neck trailer. I stand up to
leave and pay for my breakfast, leaving a five dollar tip under the coffee cup
and tipping my baseball hat to the bartender and the two cowboys. Outside, the
fog on the Absarokas has cleared and the sun is trying to peak through the emerging clouds. I turn the engine on and as I’m about to leave I take a glimpse of the
old timer in the back yard playing corn hole with other old timers. He yells
out to me: “Come back up again, pardner, and I will tend to your motorized
horse again” and starts smiling. I tip my baseball hat at him and drive off
north on US-89 back to Livingston. The southbound Yellowstone traffic has
picked up. Drops of rain start falling smudging the windows. I roll my window down
and smell the rain and the black dirt. In
my rear view the “Old Saloon” is getting smaller. But I think I can still hear
and see the old timer laughing and smiling. I keep driving and smile back at
him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Nuno Santoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08673153114550693059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1919872609727535350.post-18611132350505470152017-02-11T22:48:00.000+00:002017-02-11T22:48:47.490+00:00Livingston Dream Book #4<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiggcuCQdKGVdfJhClDKTZeeNWVDD8tgN6DNh80qKWbz3zM85cK9Px8iFMDNtjXiB7hEs2WqZ92pZTqalV-Dfs9WEUQH08vKnYolkk2yg2p2ZbD4Zsu2qawGhLeBNPyz7z-dNK9jckrz1c/s1600/watercolors.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiggcuCQdKGVdfJhClDKTZeeNWVDD8tgN6DNh80qKWbz3zM85cK9Px8iFMDNtjXiB7hEs2WqZ92pZTqalV-Dfs9WEUQH08vKnYolkk2yg2p2ZbD4Zsu2qawGhLeBNPyz7z-dNK9jckrz1c/s320/watercolors.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">LIVINGSTON IN
THE RAIN<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Dreams begin where memories end<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I must be dreaming for way too long<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The memories are starting to blend<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Into the dreams I thought long gone<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">And I go back out to the same old streets<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">And I find myself daydreaming again<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">There’s nothing like the early morning mist<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">And the sound of Livingston in the rain<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Chorus<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">And it’s Livingston in the rain<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">One more day until my work is done<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">And if I can’t get through the pain<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">It's back to Livingston in the rain<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">That’s where one day my dreams came true<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">And that’s where I take my memories to die<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Someday I’ll find there’s nothing else left to do<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">But to bid those dreams and memories goodbye<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">But until then I’ll keep writing these dreams down<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">And finding new ways to walk off the shame<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">For I know one day you’ll come back around<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Yes, I’ll keep going back to Livingston in the rain<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Chorus<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">And it’s Livingston in the rain<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">One more night to do the best I can<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">And I’ll be looking for you again</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Back to Livingston in the rain</span></div>
Nuno Santoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08673153114550693059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1919872609727535350.post-13357709675729848772017-02-10T17:52:00.000+00:002017-02-10T19:44:56.921+00:00Livingston Dream Book #3<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN3wIcxrCyr0spxhpugCHI9cI1eVub_eksJ8Oz-t7YiGjVLgqw53kV2odAuR-GZ3FRvyrt0yhjFszdeYVXUni0w7Q7xHpi9bW3HGXcIfhVOeF3nc7rLl1RUgh2k6sKnyi-3Q-LKQTaWcM/s1600/WWcalamity2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN3wIcxrCyr0spxhpugCHI9cI1eVub_eksJ8Oz-t7YiGjVLgqw53kV2odAuR-GZ3FRvyrt0yhjFszdeYVXUni0w7Q7xHpi9bW3HGXcIfhVOeF3nc7rLl1RUgh2k6sKnyi-3Q-LKQTaWcM/s1600/WWcalamity2.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Down Main between W. Lewis and W. Clark Streets stands
an unassuming one-story brick building that now holds the Livingston chapter of
the Loyal Order of the Moose and an antiques store that might hold the record
for the most Barbie dolls assembled in the same room. Supposedly in the original location of
Calamity Jane’s cabin it might be the only visible trace today of the time the
legendary frontierswoman has spent in this town. The story goes that Martha Cannary
a.k.a Calamity Jane had arrived in Livingston in May of 1901 after a stint at
the Gallatin County poorhouse in Bozeman due to illness and other ailments
related to her alcoholism and malnutrition. As she settled in town, after
Buffalo Bill Cody had helped her financially to “escape” the poorhouse, she rented
a room above a saloon and immediately proceeded in going to town and into one
of her now legendary drinking binges, so bad in fact that it made her forget
where she was staying and even losing her room keys. It was also the last time
in Livingston before she was invited to travel to Buffalo, New York to take
part in a humiliating experience at the Buffalo Exposition, and eventually
drinking herself to death traveling back west for the following two years.
There seems to be an evidently lack of any signs of her several visits to a
town that she visited often and even had a small part in proclaiming it as a serious
drinking town of the West. No commemorative plaques or prominent photos in the
walls of the many bars in town today. An old porter at The Murray Hotel tells
me a story about the time he was tending bar sometime in the 1940’s. Somebody
had concocted a drink and named it “The Calamity Jane”. It was so strong, according
to him, that it conjured visions of Calamity Jane herself to whoever drank it.
The story, or the legend, goes that when you would go out the door after
several “Calamity Janes”, she would appear and call out to you: “Hey Short
Pants, can you show me the way home?”. Nobody really knows why or exactly when
they stopped serving “Calamity Janes” in town but the old porter believes, in
all probability, that it was because she had finally found a poor soul to take
her home. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Nuno Santoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08673153114550693059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1919872609727535350.post-25313119168528497622017-02-09T17:29:00.000+00:002017-02-09T17:29:04.181+00:00Livingston Dream Book #2<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgJTaUMyN8zlvSs0PL1DfUslPyixUvPdFIAdUTOaxq0iGBSorZ1Tg_yKabGdwu0kjR-pJCHTmUXK42M6Z7AM27Ejszvk-969trTvzH_YhHbz8VhrmwafQxt_YD1GNNVdxObcRrixyJ2hw/s1600/2014-10-06-IMG_0010.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgJTaUMyN8zlvSs0PL1DfUslPyixUvPdFIAdUTOaxq0iGBSorZ1Tg_yKabGdwu0kjR-pJCHTmUXK42M6Z7AM27Ejszvk-969trTvzH_YhHbz8VhrmwafQxt_YD1GNNVdxObcRrixyJ2hw/s320/2014-10-06-IMG_0010.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">INTERIOR –
BAR – NIGHT<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She: So, you think we can make it work this time?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He: I don’t know, we’ve been through this before.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She: Not like this we didn’t…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He: What are you talking about?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She: Faith…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He: Faith…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She: A leap of faith.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He: Is that what’s needed?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She: That’s a start.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He: What about them?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She: What about them?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He: Should we tell ‘em?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She: If you want.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He: So it’s up to me?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She: What is?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He: Everything.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She: Not everything. I’ll be a part of it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He: I don’t think we should try this again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She: There’s no harm.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He: What about them?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She: You wanna tell ‘em.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He: If we’re gonna do this.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She: Yes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He: We should tell ‘em.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She: OK.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He: You wanna…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She: No! I think you should be the one to tell ‘em.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He: OK.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She: So, here we are. How do you wanna proceed?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He: I think we should start by putting it in writing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She: Right. So we know what’s at stake.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He: And what’s at stake?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She: Happiness.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He: Happiness.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She: Our happiness.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He: And theirs?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She: Of course.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He: I’m not sure.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She: What?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He: Is this the right thing to do at this point.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She: If not now, when?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He: I don’t think they’ll be happy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She: Like last time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He: Exactly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She: That was a fluke. We know better now.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He: We do?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She: Of course we do.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He: How?... How do we know better?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She: Experience.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He: Experience.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She: Yes, we know better by experience… what not to
do.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He: And what is that… we know not to do.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She: Last time we never even made it out of town.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He: That wasn’t my fault.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She: I’m not saying it was.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He: What are you saying?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She: We learn from experience… like never lead by
example only be default.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He: That doesn’t make sense.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She: Look, it’s all taken care of this time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He: What is?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She: Everything.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He: Everything?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She: I knew you’d try to back out of it… again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He: There it is.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She: What?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He: You’re laying blame.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She: That’s not what I’m doing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He: What are you doing exactly?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She: It’s ready. Everything’s in place.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He: It is?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She: You just have to say the word.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He: What about them?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She: It’s all taken care of.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He: How? What did you do?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She: What we always planned we would do.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He: You didn’t…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She: Sure did.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He: Beyond my back.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She: For us.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He: I don’t know if we should do this.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She: I knew you would get cold feet, so I took take of
everything for you.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He: I don’t like this.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She: Look at me. Look me in the eyes… Do you trust me?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He: I guess.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She: Don’t guess. Be truthful. Do. You. Trust. Me? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He: I do!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She: Do you believe this is the best thing for us to
do?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He: I guess… I do!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She: So say it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He: What?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She: Just say the word and we’ll toast to new beginnings.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He: New beginnings. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She: Yes!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He: What about them?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She: Forget about them. It’s all taken care off.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He: Tell me what you did.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She: Ok. Here it is. In the morning they’ll wake to
find us gone. A goodbye letter over pancakes at the breakfast table. They will
know we’re gone… but not forever… for better…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He: For better…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She: To chase our dreams. To enact our forbidden love.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He: Your parents will kill my parents for this. They’ll
think this was all my idea. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She: No they won’t. If anything they’ll grow close
together in their mutual loss. Forget
all about the constant bickering.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He: They will?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She: They’ll find a common cataclysm to talk about…
Besides the farm.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He: Yeah.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She: Look, in the morning we’ll be long gone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He: Gone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She: You just have to say the word.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He: How?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Train whistle
blows.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She: It’s time… Freight train will be picking up speed
soon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He: I’m not sure…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She: It’s now or never.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He: Ok, ok, ok.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She: Just say the word.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Train whistle
blows.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He: I love you!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She kisses
him. They run out the door. </span></i></div>
Nuno Santoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08673153114550693059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1919872609727535350.post-39576688016689923402017-02-08T22:40:00.000+00:002017-02-09T00:14:36.054+00:00Livingston Dream Book #1<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR1qPUVCH4zWV6r5v3LVThXlz3Uu9s5tlvRy2t9rUlt-Bc2Is9KWBRdX5QFyNl3N388Oyo_D-IgORUwrNUKNN-LWzw1oC1nyx8ixhMCSTLwI_9w4KJSSFxU_UOeWmLGwCmQPSudS3uAhk/s1600/9571458_G.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="177" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR1qPUVCH4zWV6r5v3LVThXlz3Uu9s5tlvRy2t9rUlt-Bc2Is9KWBRdX5QFyNl3N388Oyo_D-IgORUwrNUKNN-LWzw1oC1nyx8ixhMCSTLwI_9w4KJSSFxU_UOeWmLGwCmQPSudS3uAhk/s320/9571458_G.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">It’s the kind of town you’ve been dreaming about. Barking
dogs in the neighborhood echoing down Main Street at sundown. The wind carrying
the sounds and the scent of crackling wood fireplaces. Yesterday’s classifieds
covering snowy patches on park benches. Distant train whistles muffling the
neon plastered rendezvous secrets. Twilight dreamers and used to be’s finding
shelter on used bookstores and cheapjack bodegas. Bible students and flask enthusiasts
lining up for end-of-the-day last service salvation. Grain elevator dust ups
and water tower freeze downs. KPRK AM radio on old pick up trucks and snowplower
grinning stare downs. Smoke rising on an
edge-of-town lonely out-of-season fishing cabin. Sidewalk Ariat boots and
Resistol hats by a marquee sign. Cowboy saloon at the end-of-another-workday
welcome mat swinging door. Napkin kisses
and wedding ring flesh marks on a waitress’ long nailed polished finger. Slight
foreign accent on a blonde-eyed jukebox junkie belching Jessi Colter’s songs.
Small talk and big white lies on a small town date night. Another bartender
blues tale over another TV news fueled conversation. Hunting lodge memories and
melancholic half smiles from a middle-aged couple on the mend. Forcefully open
eyes and casting shadows from a corner booth troubled mind. Bourbon stained Jerry Jeff Walker sing-alongs
and last call love pledges. Distant I-90 traffic hiss and lonesome 18-wheeler’s
moans and snow tire screeching. Another night falling on dark and colder
streets. Silent dogs in the neighborhood echoing as you find yourself alone
again. Town’s asleep now. But you’re wide awake. Waiting. Reminiscing. Dreaming. Again. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Nuno Santoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08673153114550693059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1919872609727535350.post-23027596132799144742014-11-05T19:34:00.000+00:002014-11-05T19:34:08.640+00:00Sam Shepard On Playwriting<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV8TyWKgc1ek3ULjY87pnKgAyUt5I_z4Vl536UDvV6LPCwqL-uOz0onGcOdfNiHX8cPdtrd4HgzIPR9j7YCGYDSBjq6EXtrHxnxt9c6EFHZeEkxbV39C6cBC73vwPd4jXCsDCO5yrrrwg/s1600/540100_10201111840662540_356708417_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV8TyWKgc1ek3ULjY87pnKgAyUt5I_z4Vl536UDvV6LPCwqL-uOz0onGcOdfNiHX8cPdtrd4HgzIPR9j7YCGYDSBjq6EXtrHxnxt9c6EFHZeEkxbV39C6cBC73vwPd4jXCsDCO5yrrrwg/s1600/540100_10201111840662540_356708417_n.jpg" height="400" width="266" /></a></div>
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I think for me, every play has its own force, its own momentum, its own rhythm and tempo. That’s the fascination of it. It’s like people who hear music in their heads, or in the air, or wherever. They attract it in a certain way and it begins to speak to them . . . . I think a play is like that. What you’re trying to do, in a way, is have a meeting. You’re trying to have a meeting with this thing that’s already taking place. So, I can’t really say that I have a beginning, middle and end every time I sit down to write a play. Every moment of the play is a beginning, a middle and an end . . . . A play’s like music — ephemeral, elusive, appearing and disappearing all the time. You never reach a final point with it.</div>
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It (myth) means a lot to me. One thing it means is a lie. Another thing it means is an ancient formula that is expressed as a means of handing down a very specific knowledge . . . . . The thing that’s powerful about a myth is that it’s the communication of emotions, at the same time ancient and for all time . . . . Well, hopefully in writing a play, you can snare emotions that aren’t just personal emotions, not just catharsis, not just psychological emotions that you’re getting off your chest, but emotions and feelings that are connected with everybody . . . . If you’re only interested in taking a couple of characters, however many, and having them clash for a while, and then resolve their problems, then why not go to group therapy or something?</div>
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Catharsis is getting rid of something. I’m not looking to get rid of it; I’m looking to find it. I’m not doing this in order to vent demons. I want to shake hands with them.</div>
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I think it’s more like music. If you play an instrument and you meet somebody else who plays and instrument, and the two of you sit down and start to play music, it’s really interesting to see where that music goes between two musicians. It might not go anywhere you thought it would go; it might go in directions that you never even thought of before. You see what I mean? So you take two characters and you set them in motion. It’s very interesting to follow this thing that they’re on. It’s a great adventure — it’s like getting on a wild horse.</div>
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If there’s no relationship on stage, there’s not going to be any in the theatre. But that has to be answered first in the writing. If you and I sit down on stage as two actors, and we don’t have a relationship, what’s the point? A relationship’s both invisible and tangible at the same time, and you can see it between actors. You can also see the absence of it. If it’s there, the audience is related immediately.</div>
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Well, I’ve always had a problem with endings . . . . But you have to stop at some point just to let people out of the theatre . . . . So True West doesn’t really have an ending; it has a confrontation. A resolution isn’t an ending; it’s a strangulation.</div>
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There’s a way of just improvising a play, as an actor would improvise a scene, and I’ve discovered how to do that. I have tons of stuff that I just haven’t shown ‘cause now the values have changed. Along the road, that improvisation has to come to terms with something and make it cognizant. And that something is not explainable. For instance, if we start juggling glasses we could juggle glasses and carry on and we could juggle glasses all day long, but then what, then what’s going on underneath?</div>
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The picture is moving in the mind and being allowed to move more and more freely as you follow it. The following is the writing part. In other words, I’m taking notes in as much detail as possible on an event that’s happening somewhere inside me. The extent to which I can actually follow the picture and not intervene with my own two cents’ worth is where inspiration and craftsmanship hold their real meaning. If I find myself pushing the character in a certain direction, it’s almost always a sure sign that I’ve fallen back on technique and lost the real thread of the thing.</div>
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You can only face so much, and then you turn away. Writers are very adept at covering that up; they cover it up in all kinds of disguises. But when it comes right down to it, what you’re really listening to in a writer is that: his ability to face himself.</div>
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Why should we be anchored to these notions of Eugene O’Neill and all this burden of having your character be believable from the outside in terms of the artist saying, well, he really is in a living room serving tea to his mother. And he’s really talking the way he would be talking in real life. What the hell is that? Why doesn’t he pour the tea on her head and start screaming and carrying on, climbing walls, and then come back and sit down and . . . You know what I mean? . . . . And I think a lot back then had to do with incredible frustration, the straitjacket of that kind of theater that we had been told was great theater.</div>
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I don’t think character really has anything to do with personality. I think character and personality are two entirely different animals . . . . character is something that can’t be helped . . . like destiny. And maybe it includes personality, but personality is something so frivolous compared with character they’re not even in the same ballpark. . . . . Character is an essential tendency. It can be covered up, it can be messed with, it can be screwed around with, but it can’t be ultimately changed. It’s like the structure of our bones, the blood that runs through our veins.</div>
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The ancient meaning of myth is that it served a purpose in our life. The purpose had to do with being able to trace ourselves back through time and follow our emotional self. Myth served as a story in which people could connect themselves in time to the past. And thereby connect themselves to the present and the future. Because they were hooked up with the lineage of myth. It was so powerful and so strong that it acted as a thread in culture. And that’s been destroyed. Myth in its truest form has been demolished. It doesn’t exist anymore. All we have is fantasies about it. Or ideas that just speak to some lame notions about the past. But they don’t connect with anything. We’ve lost touch with the essence of myth.</div>
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I’m interested in exploring the writing of plays through attitudes derived from other forms such as music, painting, sculpture, film, etc., all the time keeping in mind that I’m writing for the theater. I consider theater and writing to be a home where I bring the adventures of my life and sort them out, making sense or non-sense out of mysterious impressions. I like to start with as little information about where I’m going as possible. A nearly empty space which is the stage where a picture, a sound, a color sneaks in and tells a certain kind of story. I feel that language is a veil hiding demons and angles which the characters are always out of touch with. Their quest in the play is the same as ours in life-to find those forces, to meet them face to face and end the mystery. I’m pulled towards images that shine in the middle of junk. Like cracked headlights shining on a deer’s eyes. I’ve been influenced by Jackson Pollock, Little Richard, Cajun fiddles, and the Southwest.</div>
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All good writing comes out of aloneness. And you’re not too likely to be interrupted driving along an Interstate. You have to do it on an open highway. You wouldn’t want to do it in New York City. But on Highway 40 West or some of those big open highways, you can hold the wheel with one hand and write with the other. It’s good discipline, because sometimes you can only write two or three words at a time before you have to look back at the road, so those three words have to count. The problem is whether you can read the damn thing by the time you reach your destination.</div>
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I think most writers, in a sense, have a desire to disappear, to be absolutely anonymous, to be removed in some way: that comes out of the need to be a writer.</div>
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Nuno Santoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08673153114550693059noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1919872609727535350.post-77874880357769461902014-10-27T11:44:00.007+00:002014-10-27T11:44:59.755+00:00Roadtrip Redux, Texas to Nashville <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8_Cljm2HyzBJv6YxmF_PmTXPAOtx5aSAJRMLo34Pn_0Od_H6o3KlOWcBK_ZnC1cDyQacc01dZxnsJnQh4KWjbo4NYOVyncmccQaAc9lPDm6I166mM_CeGnp0R9oO70NogyBOPoXV_Lvs/s1600/HPIM3228.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8_Cljm2HyzBJv6YxmF_PmTXPAOtx5aSAJRMLo34Pn_0Od_H6o3KlOWcBK_ZnC1cDyQacc01dZxnsJnQh4KWjbo4NYOVyncmccQaAc9lPDm6I166mM_CeGnp0R9oO70NogyBOPoXV_Lvs/s1600/HPIM3228.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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Texas State Highway 25 South</div>
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Texas State Highway 25 South</div>
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Texas State Highway 25 South</div>
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Texas State Highway 25 South</div>
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Texas State Highway 25 South</div>
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Texas State Highway 25 South</div>
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Union Station, Nashville, Tennessee</div>
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Nashville, Tennessee</div>
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Nashville, Tennessee</div>
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Nashville, Tennessee</div>
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Nashville, Tennessee</div>
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Nashville, Tennessee</div>
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Nashville, Tennessee</div>
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The Ryman Auditorium, Nashville, Tennessee</div>
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Ernest Tubb Record Shop, Nashville, Tennessee</div>
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Pete Drake Steel Guitar, Ernest Tubb Record Shop, Nashville, Tennessee</div>
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Nashville, Tennessee</div>
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Owen Bradley Statue, Music Row, Nashville, Tennessee</div>
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Music Row, Nashville, Tennessee</div>
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RCA Studio B, Nashville, Tennessee</div>
Nuno Santoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08673153114550693059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1919872609727535350.post-87342525248371169452014-10-12T00:09:00.006+01:002014-10-12T00:09:48.990+01:00Hill Country, Texas<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Gruene, Texas</div>
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Gruene, Texas</div>
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Gruene, Texas</div>
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New Braunfels, Texas</div>
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New Braunfels, Texas</div>
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Bandera, Texas</div>
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Bandera, Texas</div>
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Bandera, Texas</div>
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Kerrville, Texas</div>
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Guadalupe River, Kerrville, Texas</div>
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Guadalupe River, Kerrville, Texas</div>
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Fredericksburg, Texas</div>
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Fredericksburg, Texas</div>
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Luckenbach, Texas</div>
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Luckenbach, Texas</div>
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Luckenbach, Texas</div>
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Luckenbach, Texas</div>
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Johnson City, Texas</div>
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Johnson City, Texas</div>
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Johnson City, Texas</div>
Nuno Santoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08673153114550693059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1919872609727535350.post-87482776268041072642014-10-06T18:15:00.002+01:002014-10-06T18:15:10.853+01:00Archer City, Texas<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Nuno Santoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08673153114550693059noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1919872609727535350.post-47960514361445746492014-10-04T00:53:00.000+01:002015-03-13T17:48:41.505+00:00Ogallala, Nebraska to Amarillo, Texas<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Selden, Kansas</div>
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Oakley, Kansas</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
Oakley, Kansas</div>
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Oakley, Kansas</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
"Old" Dodge City, Kansas</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
"Old" Dodge City, Kansas</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
"Old" Dodge City, Kansas</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
"Old" Dodge City, Kansas</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
"Old" Dodge City, Kansas</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
"Old" Dodge City, Kansas</div>
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Dodge City, Kansas</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
Dodge City, Kansas</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
Dodge City, Kansas</div>
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Dodge City, Kansas</div>
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Dodge City, Kansas</div>
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Dodge City, Kansas</div>
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Dalton Gang Hideout, Meade, Kansas</div>
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Dalton Gang Hideout, Meade, Kansas</div>
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Dalton Gang Hideout, Meade, Kansas</div>
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Dalton Gang Hideout, Meade, Kansas</div>
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Dalton Gang Hideout, Meade, Kansas</div>
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Dalton Gang Hideout, Meade, Kansas</div>
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Meade, Kansas</div>
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Cadillac Ranch, Amarillo, Texas</div>
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Cadillac Ranch, Amarillo, Texas</div>
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Cadillac Ranch, Amarillo, Texas</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
Cadillac Ranch, Amarillo, Texas</div>
Nuno Santoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08673153114550693059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1919872609727535350.post-65778388188631871092014-10-02T02:32:00.000+01:002014-10-02T02:32:52.742+01:00Western Nebraska<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Harrison, Nebraska</div>
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Harrison, Nebraska</div>
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Harrison, Nebraska</div>
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Harrison, Nebraska</div>
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Harrison, Nebraska</div>
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Harrison, Nebraska</div>
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Harrison, Nebraska</div>
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Harrison, Nebraska</div>
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Harrison, Nebraska</div>
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US Route 20, Nebraska</div>
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<span aria-live="polite" class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption">On US Route 20, Nebraska</span></span></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span aria-live="polite" class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption">On US Route 20, Nebraska</span></span></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
Crawford, Nebraska</div>
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Chadron, Nebraska</div>
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Chadron, Nebraska</div>
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Chadron, Nebraska</div>
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Nebraska Highway 87</div>
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On Nebraska Highway 87</div>
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Carhenge, Nebraska Highway 87</div>
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Carhenge, Nebraska Highway 87</div>
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On Nebraska Highway 87</div>
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Alliance, Nebraska</div>
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Alliance, Nebraska</div>
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On US Route 385, Nebraska</div>
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On US Route 26, Nebraska</div>
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On US Route 26, Nebraska</div>
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US Route 26, Nebraska</div>
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On US Route 26, Nebraska</div>
Nuno Santoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08673153114550693059noreply@blogger.com1