Monday, October 27, 2008

Derision will not stop the Pink Cowboy

The Pink Cowboy will not settle for stability at the cost of stagnation. My credo is quite what you must do for your soul. Do not judge me. I too have my very own freedoms. I quit my job a month ago to look for a better life elsewhere. Texas was my open door. I took it to heart to start anew. My soul needed space, it also needed the longing from afar. It needed to exile itself from the Caribbean conundrum of the past 9 years. Thus spake the Pink Cowboy like an euphoric Nietzschian warrior. I was looking for a higher form of supplication. Tired of praying for the commonplace to occur I decided to fly away and place myself out of the carcass of oblivion. I do not to wish to become an entity that spits solipsisms and lays back satisfied at his eloquence. I am boiling mad and I want you to know it. The cowboy is pink not because he is girly or tender or soft. The cowboy is pink like a medium rare steak is pink and bloody before it becomes welldone. I have constricted my poetic nature in order to not sound deranged, maladjusted or unfit. But indeed, I am burning inside like the proverbial candle lighted at both ends. The sheer panic of being known as a problematic depressed sensitive man sent me down in to a hell pit of conformity and isolation. I am taking off my clothes and burning them. If you are insensitive to my daimon go away, do not talk to me. Do not dare to pull me away from my nature, my gods, my love. Thus spake the Pink Cowboy and it all came to be true.

The Restless Man Decelerates

A little bit over a month ago I quit my job as a photography editor and moved with my brother in the Dallas suburb of Irving. Having suffered from chronic unemployment and labor malaise all my life it seems that I bring trouble onto myself by simply quitting when a job gets tedious and unrewarding. That's my freedom. The Pink Cowboy has desires like anyone else, and many of those do cost money. Then again that's my freedom. What I do is not for the fainthearted, it takes guts to live with very little money and to start looking for a job again. I will easily settle for stability but never for stagnation. Once my beloved mother passed away in Puerto Rico I need it to get away from it all. You see I am a native Puerto Rican who never felt at home in that rather chaotic society. My life had become torpid and purposeless. I did not know exactly the remedy for my angst but I knew instictively that I had to leave the island. So Texas is providing me for a space much needed to nurture my nature. That's my freedom. My ever ironic freedom. I see beautiful men in the horizon chanting in unison...some interesting population I plan to civilize.....thus spake the Pink Cowboy.

Sunday, October 19, 2008

Beautiful and Slow...Way Slow

The Pink Cowboy does not intend to contemplate the secret life of snails (their hangout bars, erotic massage parlors et. al.) but rather analyze the daily motions of the homo sapiens in a suburban mall. This little adventure in people watching has taken me to the rather small city of Frisco, about 20 miles north of Dallas. Watching the swinging people walk to the rhythms of rush shopping with fast bouncing full throttled legs was truly a sight to behold. The sexy cowboys strutting around with widespread leg distance, their fluffy ladies right behind tiptoeing their way through faux marble floors. I sat a bit disconnected at a sitting area in front of Macy's. Budding Mexican maids stepping out of bounds. Bending down to pick up the garbage from art deco bins. It was a kinetic revelation. Movement announced social positioning. The African American yonder quickly stepped in and out of the mall main entrance in tandem. Lazy kids from North Lake College slided into Barnes and Noble wearing t-shirts in nouveau faded colors. The nerd sociopath hovered over like a disoriented hornet. I sat still, watching the dance of hours rushing like demons. Running amok into some perceived void.

The Pink Cowboy has overloaded his circuits. In days like this I wish for a slow brotherhood of fellow pink cowboys. Breathing the big sky into oblivion.

Friday, October 17, 2008

Daffodils in the wind: Returning to May Sarton

The Pink Cowboy has found his way back to the Princess of Solace and Flowers, the ever perceptive poet and writer May Sarton. The Belgian American had the uncanny talent to look at her life with the serenity and wisdom of a Zen monk. When I read May Sarton's diaries I feel suspended in time, contemplating life in a multicolored English garden. Her loneliness is for some strange reason a delight of the senses. She is the original constant gardener. May rubbed elbows with the most extrordinary authors of the 20th century including Virginia Woolfe. The Pink Cowboy is not only impressed but touched by her candor. Her losses in life are akin to mine. Love unfulfilled, disdain for injustice. At the moment The Pink Cowboy is indulging in one of her most savory journals May Sarton at 70. These journals remind me no to cut myself off from the literary jouney. I have been highly critical of my own work to the point of verbal paralysis. Journals have the innate capacity to convert the commonplace daily routine into a flowing excercise in writing. I have been
keeping journals on and off for the past 20 years. I hate the fact that I have to carry them around (they are numerous and heavy) every time I move. But those words imbedded in them are the blood of my soul, bled durin times of duress and confussion. Sanctified, somehow, by hope of a better day when my dreams will turn into my reality. May Sarton infuses the mind with words that provoke gentle and profound reflexion. She articulates loniliness in such a way it ceases to be dire and abysmal. May Sarton's loniliness is redeeming, dignified, necessary to understand the ebb and flow of life. Solitude is a crown wore by the anointed human being that has passion in his heart and fire in his belly. The Pink Cowboy celebrates her embracing arms of poetry and flowers.

Tuesday, October 14, 2008

Elm Street Incident

So thrilling to visit the eternal site of conspiracy
theories. So shocking to relive the event. The Pink Cowboy has turned sad and pensive. The whole scenario seems smaller than previously thought. The Grassy Knoll is uneventful these days. People pass by slightly amused. Two crosses in the street mark the first and seciond impact of the bullet. Ever the polite person, The Pink Cowboy took a photo of two rather bubbly young women that wished to prove their Dallas trip by being photographed with the Reunion Tower as landscape. The have heard of JFK. They were dressed like Hooters babes giggling
and puffing smoke. Hey!, it could be a lot of fun for bimbos of every kind to laugh it up at this historical site. The Pink Cowboy felt displaced. Here I was, finally seen it with my own bluesy eyes. This anthological piece of history. I was 1 year old when Kennedy was slained. He was revered by my family. The Camelot couple were of my parents age, so they saw an example of the accomplishments of a new generation. I remember all the Look and Life magazines, newspaper clippings and memorial booklets kept in a small traveling trunk at my grandmother's house. Being a Pink Cowboy, I was fascinated by the advertisements featuring beautiful women with red hot lipstick and gorgeous cropped hair guys in their cabana suits gently walking the beach of the Bahamas.
Lee Harvey Oswald was 24 years of age when he shot the President. At 24, I was working in the Front Desk of a Caribbean hotel. Desperately wishing for fellow pink cowboys to appear in my life. The Pink Cowboy thought on his way home, the Grassy Knoll desperately needs good landscaping.

Finding my way through the Big D

The Pink Cowboy has landed. A strange SimCity he has found. I have never seen so much waste of space in the form of freeways, connecting loops and never-ending rows of retail megastores. I'm mortified by the sheer size of this concrete jungle. My mission to find solace in this monstrous concrete slab called Dallas. Of course those are only my first impressions of this landlocked city. I am on a spiritual mission. I must find friendship, love and a decent livelhood. Well, in all fairness people are friendly. I left my home and job in the Caribbean to move with my siblings living in Northern Texas. My beloved Mother passed away unexpectanly seven months ago. This has been the most profound and perplexing event of my existence. So Dallas it is. Open, big as Barney the purple dinosaur, cars running at 1000mph. We shall see, I suspect there are hidden gems buried in the cracks of the lonesome state turnpikes. In the meantime or rather in the nowabouts, or the landingpad I must write, my life depends on it.