I stopped by a local corner store and picked up a
six-pack of Modelos that was near the supposed show. I pulled up to the address
of the place and peaked through the windows of the orange brute grumbling on
the corner. There were trees covering the view and honestly the brute was so
Goddamn loud that I had to turn it off in order to potentially hear any music
being played. The flyer said that the show had started half an hour ago, but I
remembered that time was more or less infinite down here in the lush sun and
heat, it just revolved until someone let it know to start or stop again. I
waited another ten minutes for noise to start, or to see people coming and
going but nothing happened. For the most part on this trip and life in general
I have attempted to keep a whimsical spirit when it came to experiences. Especially
if those experiences include music, potentially free music within a city known
for its musical streets and dingy alleyways of melodic nirvana. I placed a
cigarette in my mouth and opened the door of the orange brute. I put my left
boot on the cooling pavement, while my right leg was propped on the external
footboard. I waited some more, at this point I just wanted to hear at least a
string of notes, I started to feel bad for the guys potentially inside that
house that I would never meet. I propped my entire self on the footboard attempting
to get a better view through the thick surrounding bush for any form of life.
The only real sound was the rustling of the birds going back to their high and
arching trees and quivering the leaves with every ridiculous hop. Then I heard
the kick drum or a subtle strum of the guitar.
I couldn’t go, this wasn’t the experience needed
right then and there; the day was fading, the sun was clocking out, and a road
had to be driven. Seguin is where I knew I had to be to end this trip in the
right way, the true way, and I have comfort that I’ll walk and exist in
Austin’s sweet streets again.
Soon enough the road was rumbling under the
spinning, jagged, rubber dragoons of the orange brute pointed somewhat in the
direction of Seguin. I thought there for a second how many times I had chose
the wrong experience throughout my life and missed out on possibly greener grass.
Admittedly, it is juvenile to think that there had been a wrong choice and that
I am not a mindless bug roaming named and numbered left and right turns, but
that somewhere in some high cloud the strings are being pulled between right
and wrong. Because how can any swinging dick make sense between the rudimentary
and the scaffolding of what makes a wrong experience between the right. When is
someone supposed to know that they are wasting their lives every rise and dawn,
or even wrap their eggshell minds around the conception that there isn’t
anything to waste or any hill to climb? I guess what it all drums up to be is
happiness and finding that between the billows of music, people, love, and
whatever else. I just couldn’t get it out of my head that I had potentially
chose the right way right then and there outside that random man’s house. Obviously,
I think for the most part historically I have chosen the wrong road, which is
nothing spectacular because unfortunately I believe the masses are with me in
the realm of that opinion. Although, as time goes on and I barely learn, what I
have luckily been able to figure out is that waiting for at least the right
timing can be better than jumping at the throat of the wrong one.
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