Rider's Block

He was sitting in the dark staring at a blinking cursor on a screen. It was far too late, or early, at this point for falling asleep. Then sun would be rising soon though the darkness that prevailed in that moment suggested otherwise. By the light of the screen he could see that which was in reach. The keyboard with which he’d hoped to translate his thoughts to words lay idle in front of him. It’s sidekick the mouse waited at the ready to the right. Next to it, a little further to the right, a coffee mug sat empty for the second time since he’d given up on sleep. To the left a stack of papers took credit for his insomnia. They were ticking time bombs of unpaid bills eager to punish him for giving them life. He was lost, adrift in a sea of financial uncertainty.

Despite their insistence, it wasn’t the bills that had him sipping coffee at a time when he should be catching z’s but rather worry. While it was true the bills were coming due faster than the income required to pay them was coming in they weren’t the primary source of his anxiety. They weren’t the main cause of the sleeplessness that plagued him. It was the worry. It wasn’t debilitating just yet but it was affecting his ability to get meaningful rest. For that reason he’d chosen to write in an attempt to clear his mind of the thoughts and feelings which were fueling his restless nights.

An endless river of thoughts wound it’s way through his mind. This was typical of his brain, constantly and forever thinking. Even in the best of times this could be a problem. It can be difficult to navigate life with a never-ending stream of thought weighing on one’s mind. He’d grown accustomed to it and largely managed to navigate this river well enough in ordinary times but there was nothing usual about these times. He himself had gone through a series of life-changing events seemingly meant to punish him for some reason or perhaps destroy him for pure pleasure. Either way he was burdened with a wide range of emotionally driven thoughts all smothering his hope like a blanket of freshly spilt crude oil. A fitting analogy perhaps considering his place of residence was in a dying oil town. Beyond his own struggles, human technological advancement was far outpacing the average person’s ability to adapt to the changes and global politics were taking a hard right turn, ushering in a period of severe societal dysfunction.

“What’s the point,” he asked out loud. “I’ve got nothing to write.” He reached for his empty coffee mug and headed to the back room where the coffee was brewed for a refill. He never expected an answer. He didn’t ask thinking the point might reveal itself. He didn’t even really know why he asked. Perhaps it was merely frustration. On a deeper level, he may very well have been trying to prove that no one was listening, that no one cared. After all, not getting an answer to a question tossed out into the darkness of an empty house at a time when most people are still asleep would most certainly be undeniable proof.

His coffee maker was one of those single-serve machines that utilized the little, disposable pods. He’d originally gone this route partially to simplify his morning routine but also to reduce his amount of caffeine intake. After all, if he made an entire pot of coffee he’d inevitably drink it all. Not even a week before however, he’d purchased some reusable, stainless coffee pods and coffee grounds. Thanks to the hard right turn in politics, a 50% tariff had recently been placed on products coming from the country that supplies most of the coffee on the store shelves. Conventional wisdom said this would only cause the barely justifiable expense of coffee to become even more so. Maybe he needed to quit but he didn’t want to so he pivoted to a slightly less expensive option. His two or three cups of coffee in the morning may or may not be healthy but he didn’t have much else in life, he enjoyed them, and intended to continue enjoying them as long as possible.

“I hate this town,” he thought to himself as he pulled open the curtain covering the window of the deteriorating yet somehow still hanging “vintage” door that served as the back way in and out of the hundred plus year old house he took refuge in. “I hate this godforsaken state,” he proclaimed out loud as his eyes surveyed the landscape beyond the glass. The view wasn’t much different than what it might be if looking through any other window in his world. Overgrown, poorly maintained lawns had become the standard by which most lived. The sidewalks and streets were buckling and cracking from years of neglect despite the small town government blowing through nearly $20 million annually. The houses, many being centenarians, struggled to stand upright. Churches and other religious structures dotted the cityscape like a bad case of small pox.

On the counter to his left the coffee maker maker let out a gurgle as the last of the fresh brew made its way into the waiting mug. He never heard the sound. He was preoccupied with the undesirability of that which his eyes saw. It also could have been that the sound of the truck idling across the alleyway had drowned out the sound of the coffee machine. It was one of those big truck small penis models that had become prevalent in modern times. It wasn’t occupied. It showed no signs of ever having served it’s purpose as a truck. It simply sat there arrogantly domineering the moment. It was lifted up well past not only it’s manufactured height but it’s legal height. The wheels and tires it sat upon were better suited for some kind of alcohol fueled redneck activity than use on public streets. Through the bed, up the back of the cab ran a chrome tube large enough to lose a small child in out of which black smoke bellowed. The truck just sat there, unoccupied, seemingly only existing to pollute the beauty of the natural world with it’s gaudy appearance and smog attitude.

Ironically, he’d grown up in this Bible Belt state and at one point even embraced the ways of the locals. He was a local. As a teenager, after having dropped out of high school on the heels of his family disintegrating, he’d given his days to menial blue collar work and the rest of his time to beer drinkin’, back roadin’, and dirt track racin’. It was the way of the peasants though, at the time, he thought it was the way of life. He believed the ways of the people he lived amongst were not only the right ways but the ways that led to a good life. The words of the religious said so. Put your head down, follow those who claim to be leaders, work hard, be good and all the blessings of life will be bestowed upon you. Fifty years in it had become painfully obvious the ways of the locals lead nowhere but down. By just about every measure that relates to quality of life, this place had gotten worse and worse with every passing year as attested by it’s most recent claim to fame as the most poorly educated population in the entire country.

As he made his way back to the still flashing cursor, a misfit painting on the wall near the front exit caught his attention. It was a beautiful framed print of native American artist Dana Whites’ painting They Ride Into the Light; an abstract painting of four native American women riding horses. He’d hung it up there a few weeks back after receiving it as gift from a wonderful lady who had been instrumental in keeping him off the streets not even two years before. He considered the painting a misfit as it was far to elegant and luxurious to be hanging in such a place. He almost chose not to hang it up for that very fact. He’d ultimately elected to though one day when the voice in his head that speaks his truth stood strong against the soul crushing forces of the world outside. That voice had made a strong argument the painting was in fact not out of place but rather belonged as it was a compass of sorts, a portal into another world, the only representation of a better life in an otherwise undesirable existence.

Back at his desk, as the sun was ushering in a new day, he sat down with a small burst of hope. Much like Jack Sparrow’s compass, that painting on the wall pointed to what he most wanted, a way out of the darkness and into the light. It didn’t represent the light. It didn’t provide a blueprint to follow. It simply provided the most basic instruction in both it’s title and imagery… saddle up and ride into the light. He didn’t have a specific destination other than this abstract idea of a better life. He didn’t have a horse but he did have a desk, a computer, and a chair. He didn’t have a saddle but he had words, lots and lots of words and that gave him hope. “This must be the way,” he thought, “write your way into the light.”

There in that chair, rather there on the back of a beautiful, grulla colored Mustang, he would become a pioneer headed out west; following the light to his nirvana. The ride promised to be eventful. As a feral animal, this majestic creature offered transportation across the unknown under the conditions that it could not be broken and it could not be controlled. This would not be a journey of the rider’s choice but rather the writer’s faith. Ride the horse. Write the words. Trust the process. This is how he would make the journey out west in pursuit of the light. This is how he would explore new worlds. This is how he would break free of the worry; the poverty; the oppression. Out there, into the light, on the back of wild words was his manifest destiny of the mind.

Hi-Yo, Silver! Away!

Right...

into...

the waiting ambush of that blanking cursor.