Country

"I think by the time you're grown you're as happy as you're goin to be. You'll have good times and bad times, but in the end you'll be about as happy as you was before. Or as unhappy. I've knowed people that just never did get the hang of it."

-- The Old Man in Cormac McCarthy's No Country for Old Men

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An interesting article worth reading (if you care about economics or the presidential election):

http://www.ldsmag.com/ideas/081017light.html.

In related news, during this horrible economic crisis, I paid $2.39 per gallon of gas today. That's down a full dollar since the summer. And I still have my job, and I'm in the arts. Just sayin.

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That last (having a job in the arts) is a privilege. I wonder sometimes how many people wish they had a job whose sole purpose was itself, a process of creating and celebrating a craft.

Ironic, isn't it, that so many people in the arts complain so much about it. As if the world is a mass of babysitters for the grown. As if talent is a get-out-of-work-free card. It's not hard, folks, whatever you may want to convince yourselves of to the opposite. You provide a vital but not entirely helpful service to a society whose people operate and survive on a daily basis without your contributions. Only occasionally do your lofty ideas about lessons, rebellion and change have any effect upon the actual bump and grind of your work.

And in the case of live performers, most people now wonder why you persist in the unrecordable when a CD and DVD can do just as much for a lot less. Unrecordable does not mean irreplaceable, either. Get it, keep it.

As OK Go sings, "Get get get get get over it." Do your job, and try to remember how glad you are to have it.

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Just returned from a four-day stretch on the road. Interesting tracks. Some, muddy, murky, mildewy. A hike through a forest, not a stroll on the beach.

Had a long conversation with a hotel manager (Neshnabeck) from India. Old man, fascinating white hair on his ears. We were watching the news in the lobby,

(an old woman in blue ash, oh, stole a neighborhood boy's football after it landed one too many times in her lawn and refused to give it back so the police arrested her on charges of theft; charges have been dropped, thank god; a woman asks what has happened to respect of elders and who cares about a stupid football anyway; wheaties might ask this old hag to do a photo shoot for their cereal boxes... and apparently a big chunk of cincinnati voters are actually fraudulent liberals from new york who "moved" to the swing state, registered, voted early, and returned to new york, where they registered and voted again...)

and he kept glancing at me and grinning. Finally, he spoke. He wondered whether we were working for Obama, and I laughed. "Not exactly," I said. "We're in children's theatre."

"Oh. I thought you young people loved Barack. McCain's so old."

"I don't know how the others feel."

"You do shows, eh?"

"Lots. We had two today, two more tomorrow."

He frowned. "What else do you do?"

"Sorry?"

"I mean, for your real job."

"This is our real job."

"Really?"

"Really-really."

"Oh. No wonder you like Barack."

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(A bit north of Cinci there's a road called Chaucer Road. It looks pleasant.)

We did our show for a house of challenged children. Amid the whoops and hollers there were keen and willing eyes, ears tucked forward like mice listening for hunters, minds straining to understand. We did the show for them as well as the whoopers and hollerers. Perhaps even for the teachers, thankful for a breather.

Lots of walks lately, and the late nights are cold. Stars are brightest in the cold. Everywhere, it seems. The cold keeps me up some nights, blocks my sleep. I've got that space-heater heating up my space, swiveling slowly from bed to desk to bed again, like a spotlight watching my movements. Or a robot, awaiting instruction. Or a bored, silent pet. Morning walks to the meeting point are uphill halfway and will soon be icy. There was frost in a Sprinfield cornfield on Tuesday morning. The harvest is here for the late corn crop. Rows of stalks disappear in the wake of machines. There is nothing but crispness in the air these days, along with the promise of big changes, the churning seasons like a fierce tide, a surf of wonders.