Following this cheeky romp of a post, an even more explicit sex scene plays out in the mind and imagination of our fall-prone cowboy. We’ll let the lyrics and links speak for themselves – I’m just enjoying the way traditional country-western motifs are given new life with a same-sex twist. Artists like Chris Housman, Brooke Eden, Adam Mac, Justin Green, Brian Falduto, and Orville Peck have turned their work into deliciously subversive musical statements – and that only works when the music is good and the song is sound. Case in point is this Dixon Dallas ditty, which is the rare sort of country song that uses the word ‘bussy’ and means it that way.
There’s something ’bout the way you look in my eyes Like a starry night, you light up my skies You lean in closer and my heart starts to pound I heard you sigh, you know I love that sound
He’s bouncing off my booty cheeks, I love the way he rides I can hardly breathe when he’s pumping deep inside I kiss him on his neck and then he kisses on my bussy Call him “Daddy” while I holler, man, that boy’s so damn good looking
We made love and then he kissed me, I don’t want it to end Every day we spend together, I fall more into him That boy he takes my breath away, I can’t find the words to say So I wrote this little note, kiss it, seal it, so you know
I’ve got some time, if you’ve got some time too You’ve been on my mind baby, let me remind you while I lay you down I can’t get enough, I’m stuck in your love That’s fine with me, nowhere else I wanna be
He’s bouncing off my booty cheeks, I love the way he rides I can hardly breathe when he’s pumping deep inside I kiss him on his neck and then he kisses on my bussy Call him “Daddy” while I holler, man, that boy’s so damn good looking
When Mondays and Wednesdays and rainy days hit a little harder than usual in the fall, a bluesy song like this one is the only thing that will do. The words don’t even matter – it’s the music, it’s the atmosphere, it’s the vibe. It’s getting through the shitty days with the best of friends, commiserating and finding solace in the common drudge of it all. We’re all in this together, you know?
A cowboy gets the blues as much as anybody else – sometimes a bit more because they live and love just a little bit harder than everybody. They thrash and burn and buck and bruise and if they’re lucky they live to see another day to do it all over again.
Lord, have mercy Lord, have mercy on me Lord, have mercy Lord, have mercy on me Though I’m tryin’ and tryin’ to find my baby Won’t someone please send her home to me
And because the original above is done much too soon when you really need to feel it, here’s an extended version by the great B.B. King.
Lest anyone be too quick to think/hope we have already given up the cowboy ghost, we have only just begun this latest era (sorry Emi, who indicated she wanted to know when the cowboy guise would be done, as if this were mere passing fancy!) A little catch-up and check-in with our cowboy stories – at least all that have come after this link-filled collection. Tomorrow, we ride on, so get some shut-eye, and peruse the following if you’re having trouble:
All right, all you buckaroos Time to rope ‘em up Ease on in to the ride…
Cowboys can be notoriously cocky because it takes a certain cockiness to become a cowboy. You have to believe that in some way you are different than most everybody else to take such a twisted and physically-tortured path. Not that you are necessarily better (though let’s be frank that that’s really what we’re saying, even if we never actually say it) – mostly that you are just built and made differently than most, because a cowboy’s life is not an easy one. They have to believe with all their heart that cowboying is the best choice for them – that it’s the only choice.
Sun’s a-goin’ down?on?this cattle town Leave?your boots under the chair And play?me a song on the steel guitar In nothing but your underwear We’ll have a couple of beers and look up at the stars While the old white porch swing sways Then come inside and I’ll give you a ride At the end of your honkytonk day
A cowboy has to be ready to die for their work, their way of life, and this is not a life for the hesitant or weak. There are far too many risks for this to be a passing pose. It requires commitment and dogged determination, and a desire for the freedom and way of life only a cowboy’s existence affords.
Ride me, cowboy Ride me good (Won’t you ride, won’t you ride me good?) Show me what you got goin’ on under that hood Ride me, cowboy ‘Til the cows a-come home (‘Til the cows, ’til the cows come home) Look deep in my eyes, put your hands on my thighs And ride, ride, ride
Nobody exemplifies the mantra of ‘work hard, play hard’ as well as the cowboy. Back-breaking days of cattle wrangling and bone-crunching dangers of steers and bulls and horns just waiting to impale make for nights of release that might astound the most practiced prostitute. Cowboys know how to use their bodies, skillfully throwing their heft and muscle around to successfully handle animals and beasts five times their weight. Couple that with the need for pleasure and release to offset the hard work, and you have the combustible legend of the cowboy as the ultimate love-maker. Bottom line: cowboys know how to have fun, and largely in a very physical sense.
Moon’s a-shinin’ bright on this desert night Back in town they’re all in bed But here in the country we’re wide awake The blood is rushing to our heads Your hands on my chest and our clothes in a pile As you press your lips to mine We can sweat it all out, holler and shout As the tumbleweeds roll by
They work hard, they play harder, and they fuck hardest. They take their examples from the very animals they are tasked with mounting and mastering – a bit of beast-like wildness lies barely latent until they find some sort of inspiration or willing outlet in a lass or lad who pricks up notice at the slightest inclination. Then the game is on.
Ride me, cowboy Ride me good (Won’t you ride, won’t you ride me good?) Show me what you got goin’ on under that hood Ride me, cowboy ‘Til the cows a-come home (‘Til the cows, ’til the cows come home) Look deep in my eyes, put your hands on my thighs And ride, ride, ride
Historically, not many cowboys identified as gay – though a number of them fucked and fooled around with other cowboys – they simply didn’t label it as gay. Perhaps they’re still way ahead of their time – existing and fornicating without label or designation – a hole being a hole being a hole. And love finding no word for love – not even love, because how could it ever be contained in a single word?
Ride me, cowboy ‘Til the cows a-come home (‘Til the cows, ’til the cows come home) Look deep in my eyes, put your hands on my thighs And ride, ride, ride Look deep in my eyes, put your hands on my thighs And ride, ride, ride
But this post isn’t about love – at least nothing so explicitly said or conveyed – it’s about a cheeky romp of fun and casual good sex – the kind extolled in this cheeky song about some pre-dinner romp and gleefully delivered by Paisley Fields. The kind a cowboy does best.
Hustle up now We’re almost there Don’t stop now Use both hands Not too fast, you don’t wanna make it home too soon Supper’s waitin’ Mmm, I can smell it right now, ah…
Our day of ‘Rodeo’ inspired music comes to a gentle close with this rendition of the old cowboy tune ‘Goodbye Old Paint’, which Copland reportedly used as part of his ‘Rodeo’ ballet cycle. On a Friday night in this Fall of the Cowboy, after a day of rain and rumination, I’m feeling a touch more contemplative than I typically do at the start of a weekend. Time for a story song to take us out of our own heads and worries…
When I take my saddle Down from the wall Put it on my pony Lead him from the stall Tie my bones to his back Turn our faces to the West We’ll ride the prairies we love the best
A cowboy carries a certain sadness in their countenance. Whether it’s been beaten into them after one too many falls from the saddle, or whether they’ve beaten it into themselves – cowboys being their own harshest abusers – the tears of a cowboy run like little rivers through the dirty canyons of their hollow cheeks. True cowboys don’t get to indulge in the weekend either – animals requiring constant and daily care outside the societal limitations of human time. Friday night is as Sunday morning is as Wednesday afternoon and so on and so forth. A cowboy’s days are not often his own, and we haven’t gotten into a cowboy’s nights just yet… but we will.
It was my first time playing with an orchestra, and even though it was the Empire State Repertory Orchestra, I was still way out of my league. Not helping matters in the least was the fact that somehow we were late for this first rehearsal, throwing someone with severe social anxiety way off his game. As I sheepishly stepped through the orchestra already making its wild way through Copland’s ‘Hoe-Down’ movement of his ‘Rodeo’ ballet, I dodged the string-player’s elbows and squeezed into the second oboe’s spot near the front and center of the whole group. From that day forward, the conductor did not like me very much.
Looking back, I cannot blame him – and even at that time, I knew most of the blame fell on me – for not being good enough, not having the first clue about orchestra etiquette or decorum, and definitely not being prepared enough for the sort of talent that the ESYO family sought and sustained. My chosen instrument – the impossibly difficult oboe – was the only thing that got me into such a vaunted space; no one wanted to attempt a tackle and taming of that dreaded double-reeded monstrosity. I had only picked it because a girl I liked in grade school had selected that as her chosen instrument. Somehow, I’d made it into mine in the ensuing years of blood, sweat and tears – and all of them would be elicited from those rehearsals and practice sessions and weekly private lessons.
Aaron Copland – the brilliant, and gay, composer with ties to Brandeis University, where I eventually ended up matriculating – would bracket my years in the Repertory Orchestra and the Empire State Youth Orchestra. On this first night, his sixteenth notes gave my tongue a run for its barely-teenaged money, and my mind reeled at the speed and power with which the orchestra charged through the sheet music; like some wildly uncontrollable bucking bronc, it grabbed me by the jodhpurs and did its best to throw me off.
It succeeded a number of times that first rehearsal. I lost my place, couldn’t catch up with the rest of the players, and felt terribly like I did not in any way belong there. Like any good cowboy, however, some bit of fire inside of me refused to let me give up. Well, a bit of fire coupled with my parents’ insistence on not dropping out – not that I even proposed such a thing, even though I was in over my head. Over the next two years, I would focus on my practice, work with my teacher, and more or less master the oboe well enough to get me into the actual Youth Orchestra. It still wasn’t where I belonged, but my innate tenacity insisted on asserting itself despite grave social anxiety, crippling self-doubt, and all sorts of imposter syndrome set-backs.
On that first evening trying to capture Copland’s mad genius, I couldn’t hear the message he was trying to get across from all the stress I felt – and I wouldn’t hear his real music until my very last concert with the orchestra the following year. That much I regret about the experience – the competition, the five-hour double rehearsals, and the rustic weekend at Frost Valley stressed me out so much that any appreciation in music that I should have been developing was made impossible until I was at the end of my time there.
The supposedly-macho and often-misogynistic history of country-western music is being turned on its antiquated head as we repurpose and reformulate readings of cowboy lore for this Fall of the Cowboy. As a gay cowboy in-the-hopeful-making, my own pose is one of retro-amusement – and while some may be quick to dismiss this as nothing more than a pose, there are deeper things at work here, such as the distillation of the essence of a cowboy and his primal make-up. Far more than the boots or the animal-caretaking actions, a cowboy is unbridled chaos and passion barely contained within the confines of his denim and rope. He carries the weight of a history almost obsolete and a tradition worth preserving in his dusty back pocket, surviving on a vision and the will of a heart still bound to this earth and all its physical machinations, purposes and pleasures.
The highway, she’s hotter than nine kinds of hell The rides, they’re as scarce as the rain When you’re down to your last shuck with nothing to sell And too far away from the trains Been a good month of Sundays and a guitar ago Had a tall drink of yesterday’s wine Left a long string of friends, some sheets in the wind And some satisfied women behind
They’d ride me down easy, Lord, ride me on down Leave word in the dust where I lay Say I’m easy come, easy go And easy to love when I stay
A restless spirit is part of many a cowboy’s operation in this life. A desire to be free and entirely unfettered, at odds with all the rope they require, adds to their allure. We mostly want all that we can’t have, and a cowboy carries that power with only the merest understanding of his pull. It doesn’t completely exonerate him from blame, but it lends a charm that makes some of it forgivable, or at least tolerable for those with a decent amount of patience. I’ve only encountered a few spiritual cowboys over the years, and I’m afraid I didn’t treat them well or with the respect they deserved – this was after a bad break-up in which I didn’t exhibit much good behavior. One day soon I’ll tell you about some of them – one of those spiritual cowboys who came into my life as a lesson, which I promptly failed and fucked up, then watched it all play out in the dim hurt of his eyes.
Put snow on the mountain, raise hell on the hill I locked horns with the devil himself Been a rodeo bum, a son of a gun And a hobo with stars in his crown
In my own way, I was a love ’em and leave ’em type of cowboy at the time – unable to process my actions while wading through such a pool of hurt and heartbreak, I lashed out and ruined and destroyed with willful abandon, giving and accepting sex as a weapon and currency – those brief spurts of satisfaction attempting to become something more, and me refusing at every turn, then turning to another. I remember one sweet gentleman waiting at my door with a carved wooden rose in his hand – I came downstairs, opened the door, accepted the gift, then said something so cruel he never bothered coming in. The worst of it is that I no longer even remember what I said, and maybe that’s for the best. I’m haunted by enough of what I’ve done, and the more forgotten, the better I might sleep at night.
So ride me down easy, Lord, ride me on down Leave word in the dust where I lay Say I’m easy come, easy go And easy to love when I stay Ride me down easy, Lord, ride me on down…
Sunday night before a holiday is the best sort of night there is, taking away some of those Sunday scaries and giving us one last chance to party. Who better than to see us into this night of ridiculous revelry than The Cowgays and their giddy ‘Good Hoedown’ song and video? Let’s get into it. (Also, peep the now-poignant Dolly Parton reference at the start – aww…)
So I call my rowdy friends, tell ’em meet me in the sticks There ain’t a bad day that tonight can’t fix I’m one, two-stepping my troubles away Three drinks in, in a purple haze I’m on a hell of a roll, there ain’t no stopping me now Can’t keep a good ho down at a good hoedown
While the only sort of lit I’m getting these days is whatever happens beside a candle, I still know how to throw it down, light it up, and kick those bad days to the curb. There’s an underlying resilience and defiance to this song that belies its catchy trappings, and if you can gain some strength while shaking your booty, there’s no better way to live. So step to living and join me in my merry band of hoes – let’s get down!
Call my rowdy friends, tell ’em meet me in the sticks There ain’t a bad day that tonight can’t fix I’m one, two-stepping my troubles away Three drinks in, in a purple haze I’m on a hell of a roll, there ain’t no stopping me now Can’t keep a good ho down at a good hoedown
It was April 2nd when the Cowboy first ambled by the store that my great grandfather opened so many years ago. That much I know is true, since it was the first time I was tasked with signing off on the day’s receipts by myself – an unwanted bit of independence and the natural progression toward taking over that my parents had in mind for me. It was also the first hot day of spring that year, following a rare stretch of rain; Ma told me to watch for the ocotillo leaves – a remnant of childhood affection, something that depended less on the season and more on the weather, and the welcome arrival of rain. Ma always tied such things to God somehow, which led to my growing disenchantment with both mother and God. If some omnipotent figure such as God was in fact in control and power, and he or she was good and kind of heart, why not provide enough rain to keep the ocotillo green and pretty year round? Why is anyone suffering at all for that matter? Years ago I learned not to ask those things out loud, especially not at the dinner table with Ma and Pa after a long day at the store.
Years ago I also understood that my dream to become a cowboy would have to be kept a secret, much like my questions about God and morality. Now, at the age of twenty, it might be time to put that cowboy plan into the initial stages of motion. On this first warm day of the season, I’m feeling the restlessness of boyhood clashing with adulthood.
Working at the family store, where I’d worked since the age of thirteen, was the trajectory that my life was expected to take. When a kid understands this, they either embrace it and run toward it, or they rebel defiantly, running as fast as they can in the opposite direction. Neither of these choices seemed prudent or desirable to me, so I made a long term plan: I would secretly stash and save money while at the same time surreptitiously learn the cowboy ways every season they’d come to town.
I knew from experience, even at this young age, that to show want or desire towards something was the surest way of being denied it, so I acted as aloof and distant as possible when it came to all talk of cowboys. Had I shown the least bit of interest, both of my parents would have ensured that I didn’t see or talk to a cowboy until I was teaching my own offspring how to care for the store. The vilest parts of human nature don’t skip certain people just because those people are your parents – we only think they do. We only want to believe that, and the rest of our adult life is spent figuring out how to reconcile all of it.
I should probably explain my love of the cowboy life, since it wasn’t only my parents who were against it. From the outside, it might appear that the cowboys our town briefly employed – because they never lasted beyond a spring or summer, and if they did it was only a year or two further, never more – were vagabonds and drifters and not good for much more than quick heavy spurts of manual labor to get the ranches on track or the animals in order, or take care of the heavier lifting that the spring and summer required. But I saw the cowboy life as a way out of the shittiest little town, where nothing ever happened and I was already doomed to follow in the stultifying footsteps of Ma and Pa.
More than that, I saw in the cowboys that I met a thread of peace and serenity. Yes, they could be wild, and they could be destructive, and they could do the best day’s worth of work only to disappear that night never to return, but there was something intrinsically serene and calm about them – they had this inner-sense of peace and surety, no matter how wicked or wayward they might act out. And I loved that no one else saw or sensed this. It made me believe that in my heart I might have been born a cowboy, and was simply misplaced or set on the wrong track.
It’s tough for a boy to feel so out of place, and that’s all I’m going to say on that. My plan to become a cowboy depended on a careful reserve – the secret and silent machinations that would see me safely out of Levi’s General Store and off into the world until I could make my own way and find my own inner peace. I already knew then that it would never be in my parents’ place. I would come to have other reasons as well, but at this point I couldn’t know that – I only understood that my cowboy experience had to be gained quickly and quietly, and under the nose of a town that seemed hellbent on defining who I was before I knew myself.
In those days, cowboys were notoriously cagey about some of their ways, and such secrecy was partly what drew me to them; I didn’t much like sharing my business with the world either. I think I’m happiest when alone, and I have yet to find anyone’s company preferable to my own. Ma never liked that kind of talk. According to her, God didn’t like it either. She was always trying to get me to socialize more with people in town, encouraging me to go out more and hang out with the other kids. She put my time at the store second to any social events or opportunities that came along, even when the cowboys were involved. She and Pa had a certain level of status in town thanks to the store, and as a boy I wondered if they cared more about that than about what their only child wanted to do with his life. That sounds more maudlin than I mean for it to be. It’s just my way of explaining how I got away with being out of the store so much, hanging with the cowboys, and the few friends I mustered.
When the Cowboy came into town and moved in at Mr. and Mrs. Beasley’s ranch, Ma sized him up as trouble, but rather than keep me from him, she pushed me right into his path, reasoning in her mind that seeing such a problematic lifestyle would put me back onto the path she wanted me to take. Parents sometimes forget their own youth, their own dreams, their own hopes for something more, and they play it safe to keep their children safe, and I suppose there is love in that. When the Cowboy appeared at the store for the first time a few days after his arrival, Ma introduced herself, quietly judging his disarming smile and bushy beard, as well as the reddish-brown hair that hung just a little too low under his cowboy hat.
“Mr. Marnas gives a cheap but good haircut and shave out back on weekends here,” she said, accustomed to her words being taken as orders and executed as such. She told us later that the Cowboy only smiled and nodded without committing. “And someday soon we’ll have you for dinner – just me and Pa and my boy Leve, who can show you around town.” The Cowboy picked up his items – she said he only asked for soap and some leather oil – then left.
In bed that night I tried to picture him. I remembered the dust that was flecking his beard and hat, and his saunter, like he already knew where he was and where he was going, even if it was his first time here. He had the surety of a cowboy, that intrinsic bit of self-possession that some people called Zen and others condemned as flaky, and that very essence was precisely what I wanted myself.
Cameron Hawthorn gives a poignant and quietly powerful take on ‘Cowboy Take Me Away’ originally performed by the Dixie Chicks. A few pronoun switches and this is a gloriously-gay anthem and love song, a lovely little accompaniment to the burgeoning gay romance of our cowboy story just starting to unfurl here. Wistfulness is a key component of many a cowboy’s character. A certain sort of unrequited longing is part of it too.
I said, I wanna touch the earth I wanna break it in my hands I wanna grow something wild and unruly I wanna sleep on the hard ground in the comfort of your arms On a pillow of blue bonnets in a blanket made of stars Oh, it sounds good to me
As much as a cowboy might believe in the solitude and independence of his lifestyle, there are those cowboys who want nothing more than to fall in love and make another person a part of their lives. Does it go against any tried and true cowboy code? No – at least nothing that’s written down. A cowboy doesn’t like to put anything in writing (and that’s a big fork in my cowboy path). Today’s cowboys aren’t bound to such old-world traditions, which largely established themselves due to the transitory and challenging life of cowboys of the past. Love and marriage are more possible now than way back then, and are in fact fostered by society’s questionable pushing of such traditions.
I wanna walk and not run I wanna skip and not fall I wanna look at the horizon and not see a building standing tall I wanna be the only one for miles and miles Except for maybe you and your simple smile Oh, it sounds good to me Yes, it sounds so good to me
This winsome song sweetly describes a young man’s search for love, which he seeks in the form of a cowboy who might sweep him off his feet. Ahh, youth and romance and the idealistic dreams of anyone who’s ever fallen in love in this mad world. In the beginning there is frenzied, tormented hope and promise, ever in danger of not being more than a passing moment, and if the object of one’s affection doesn’t quite feel the same, well, that hurts in a way most of us of a certain age have all but forgotten.
Cowboy take me away Fly this boy as high as you can into the wild blue Set me free, oh, I pray Closer to heaven above and closer to you Closer to you Closer to you
I said, I wanna touch the earth I wanna break it in my hands I wanna grow something wild and unruly
Some cowboys never forget, though – and I’m in that camp. Love has bruised and scarred in ways I don’t want to forget. Every bit of hurt and heartache was proof that the moment mattered – even when it was all in my head, it still mattered, it still felt like love, it still changed my life as if the love was real – and in that way, it was.
Cowboy take me away Fly this boy as high as you can into the wild blue Set me free, oh, I pray Closer to heaven above and closer to you Closer to you
Living in today’s world of madness, where nuance and subtlety and shading are lost in favor of strictly-tribalized labels and designations, one might be tempted to decry my seemingly-sudden turn into a wannabe-cowboy, but that’s missing the point of this journey, this fall, this project, and pretty much this entire website and blog. We are never just one thing: we change, we evolve, we shift, we bend, we grow – and to simply put on a pair of boots and a hat and proclaim oneself a cowboy is tragically foolhardy. Most of the people in my life get that, but sometimes even I lose myself in the guise of the moment, and maybe that’s been a bit more intentional at this juncture of season.
Inhabiting a new style and persona from time to time is vital to figuring out who you are inside – at least, it’s been helpful for me. Getting too inside my head, overthinking and overanalyzing and overdoing the quest for absolute perfection (even if I’d long ago given up that particular quest) were the pratfalls of the first few decades of my life – it’s been a bit of a corrective journey these last few years, and this cowboy guise is enough of a remove, while also staying true to the essential essence of my character.
Telling word, that.
Character.
What exactly does it mean here? Is it just another term for a specific persona – a device of dramatic machination as in a play or movie? Or is it the deeper meaning of the idea of one’s ‘character’ as the essential make-up of who they are internally as a person? That’s a delicious question, one I’d rather leave dangling in the air for a while – for my own rumination and contemplation rather than any performatively-mysterious cowboy stance.
Come on (whoo!) go ahead, and sing along (hey!) because everyone has done their cunty-cuntry turn – witness Madonna and Lady Gaga and now Beyonce (and we aren’t going to compare because comparison is the thief of joy). There’s enough room for all of us cowboys and cowgirls and cowpeeps – why destroy or attempt to diminish anyone else’s idea of fun? Temporary guise or permanent personality trait finally revealed after years of hiding it away? Keep ’em guessing (whoo!) keep ’em asking (hey!) and keep ’em coming back for more until we’ve peeled away all the layers and all the costumes and you finally get your full-frontal bare-naked body spilling out all of its creative juice…
Some have expressed surprise and wary disbelief that I could actually be turning a country corner, but then they haven’t been paying much attention – the only one true constant thing I’ve ever been is surprising, unpredictable, and slippery as quicksilver. My tastes change too much, my interests shift with the slightest wind, and my own sense of self is constantly evolving and transforming, ever on the hunt for something to inspire and entice. Besides, most people look better in a pair of cowboy boots and Wrangler jeans. Try it and see for yourself, you may be surprised too.
Even at the age of 51, there are still twists and turns in this thing called life waiting to be taken and navigated. And at such an age, I find myself craving just a little bit of whiplash, a little unsettling toss and tumble to remind me I’m still alive, still able to be interested and interesting, still getting back on the horse no matter how many times or how horrendously he might have bucked me off in the past.
Feeling a little reckless, a little restless, and a little feckless – because who the fuck needs a feck anyway?
“If you wanna make it country, baby, that’s ok, cause I was born, I was born, I was born this way.”
Our cowboy foray into the country-western vibe finds some pop culture resonance in this countrified version of Lady Gaga’s ‘Born This Way’. I remember when this came out initially as part of the track’s original release – at the time I was puzzled by it, but I didn’t hate it. All these years later, I’m finding even greater appreciation for it, particularly during this fall of the cowboy. It’s also a fun excursion from the more serious expositions that may be in store – when you have a moment for fun and enjoyment, you better be damn well take it. Especially on a Friday.
Driving, windows wide open, music fighting with wind, shadows fighting with sunlight – the day recalls the summer, the way some warm and humid fall days keep you guessing which way time is traveling: a mirror of spring, with the staleness of decay in the air the only tip-off as to which end of the seasonal year we might be nearest.
A cowboy’s journey is based largely on seasons, flying on the wind and the weather, seeking the sun and warmth, seeking some bit of hospitable land and atmosphere – it’s a journey of the moment – the journey of a Friday afternoon with the bulk of the weekend still and always ahead of him. He follows his own path – sometimes it leads to comfort, sometimes it leads to hell – always it leads to wherever he finds himself at the moment. There is not much in the way of planning or preparation, or so it seems. A cowboy is always more prepared than he likes to let on, and often less. The cowboy’s conundrum, with no resolution in sight or desire.
And every time a cowboy seems about to let loose on a Friday, there’s always a sliver of seriousness to his abandon – riding a little too close to the edge, ever-ready to fall even in the midst of all the fun. He burns and kicks and thrashes, not unlike the horse on which he rode into the sunset and away from the day. There will be time to rest later…
Not all the way away, just not as intensely and directly as the summer had us believing it might last. We always want to believe, even when we know better. Sometimes the smallest chills are the most upsetting, the way that they hint at atrocities rather than bluntly revealing them all at once. Dread is a most potent enforcer of fear.
Still, one finds it difficult to feel anything other than emboldened in the golden glow of fall’s sunlight, no matter how quickly it runs out. The heat feels just as lovely as it did in the summer… and it will come back in the spring, like it always does.
Loneliness is a funny thing for a cowboy. Funny as in strange and mysterious, not mirthful or merry. In my admittedly-limited and stereotypical broadly-stroked fantasy of this character, a cowboy both cherishes solitude, yet struggles with the loneliness such a stance often ends up yielding. A certain lonesomeness is part of many a cowboy – in the wistful restlessness that often leads someone to becoming a cowboy.
River of love, you carved your canyon Carries me out, from the place I’m hidin Will tonight prove, what I’ve known for so long Don’t let me go on alone
A heart is a fickle thing you can hear it but you just can’t find it Scavenging for your love through bones of what’s been left behind To the stars and the moon, I’m howling for you But an echo is the only reply Tonight, the coyote ain’t the only one crying
This marks one of the darker turns of the cowboy’s journey, one that comes as the first fall nights turn cold. We forget how much night will come to dominate these next few months until it’s here and all turns dark so early. As much as I welcome the fall – and these days I largely do – it’s still shocking when it happens. The first hard frost is somewhere soon, like some foreboding promise lingering in the back of your mind, not letting you enjoy yourself fully until it happens, until the worry is done – and even then, it will have already become such a habit that it won’t depart so quickly.
A heart is a fickle thing you can hear it but you just can’t find it Scavenging for your love through bones of what’s been left behind To the stars and the moon, I’m howling for you But an echo is the only reply Tonight, the coyote ain’t the only one crying
For this Hump Night of Wednesday, when the work-week is over halfway done, here’s a bluesy bit of music to see us through to the weekend. Heartbreak doesn’t allow itself to be bound or limited by arbitrary timeframes. A weekday or a weekend is all the same to sorrow. Duration matters only slightly less, and some would argue not at all. Sadness will persist as long as it wants, and as long as we allow it. Sometimes there is no choice.
Once you’ve tasted blood, then you’d understand it Denying myself, would leave me out here stranded A heart is a fickle thing you can hear it but you just can’t find it Scavenging for your love through bones of what’s been left behind To the stars and the moon, I’m howling for you But an echo is the only reply Tonight, the coyote ain’t the only one crying
PS – As we told our favorite Uncle to try to get him to stop smoking, ‘Smoking is rat poison!‘ We repeat it here despite the featured photo, which is only a pose. All of life is a pose, sometimes a dark pose, and sometimes a pose in the darkness.
