“Just write anything,” I was told.

It was an unusually cold Friday night in the heart of down town Austin. It was three days before Halloween, I had shown up to a free concert being held by a mutual friend and promoter. “Free Food, Free Music” was how it was promoted two weeks before the actual event and much to the promoter’s expectations; the gimmick had worked… for the most part. For previous events the pitch of “Free Beer” had generated more of a turn out before tonight’s big show, but for an all day bill featuring all local bands, a costume contest promising a $300 first place prize, and of course, “Free Food” the turn out was respectable.

I had shown up an hour late to the show; I would like to be able blame the bus scheduling or the unusually high bus clientele (for it being Halloween weekend and a Friday, I guess it’s not as “unusual” as it might seem)… but really the blame landed totally on me and my need to finish a mission on a video game that I had played numerous times before this Friday. I wasn’t learning anything I already hadn’t with the games storyline, nothing new was going to come out of playing it this time than it had previously. I wasn’t gaining anything, except level completion. I don’t know why it is that I can get sucked into a virtual game like that; take the elevator down to the mining level with my team, armed to the teeth with the highest level gear I could acquire (this being my third time replaying this particular game). Elevator doors open up and to my immediate right are two low level troops accompanied by heavy weapons specialist; my four shots are to the heavy weapons holder while my team takes down Trooper 1 and 2. The fire fight lasts for approximately four seconds, I gain a weapon and armor upgrade for my swiftness. Fire the mining laser, sneak in and rescue the hostage, elevator up, and CUTSCENE. Even though the mine is collapsing around us, due to my firing of the laser to save the hostage, I’m greeted by the level’s boss who makes it known: “Either she comes with me, or we all die here!” The fight and following cutscene takes up five minutes, more time that I could have spent sitting on the bus earlier. Maybe if instead of playing that level, which I had just owned… again… I could have avoided the people on Stop 16, 17, 19, and 23, and the exits on Stops 16, 17, 18, 19, 21, 23, and 25. …But that damsel was in distress, and in no condition to save herself.

I had finally walked up to the venue and in on a band mid-set. An all instrumental band, there was a microphone but no one was utilizing it. The band had a fusion jazz sound mixed with a small taste of funk, and punk if only to answer for the intensity of the bassist and rhythm guitarist playing. The band was made up of a keyboardist who filled out the background, bassist, drummer, rhythm and lead guitarist. The lead guitarist didn’t look like he fit with the band at all, he was older by a few years, focused more on his playing, rather than banging his head like his guitar and bassist companions, and spent most of his time staring at his band while either in the middle of a song or his own lead guitar parts. You almost got the since that he was watching his band, purely, for timing purposes. His guitar parts, all though somewhat structured, felt more like they were improvised to what his backing band was laying down. The energy was loose, free and open, and fun between them, and you could feel it in every song the performed. It really was magical, and like all magical experiences, it was short lived for me; damn my timing. I met up with my friend who had dressed up for the occasion: Mullet wig, tank-top, denim shorts, flip-flops, and a beer in hand for authenticity. We made small talk and he asked what I had dressed up as for the night: Black thermal long sleeve, pants, and my custom orange shoes... I was “a guy who used to live in Kansas.” He laughed and looked at himself “Well I’m a guy…” he paused and looked at himself, I finished, “…who still lives in Kansas.”

The night progressed on, more bands played, more people showed up. It was finally after 9p that another friend I had just met showed up with a friend of hers. They we paired up in a Roger and Jessica Rabbit outfit. ‘Roger’ couldn’t have been more dead on, he had obviously paid for the suit that came with the red overalls, gloves, funny shoes, bunny ears head piece and the small patch of greenish hair to top the look. ‘Jessica’ (coincidentally her real name) rocked the red dress and gloves that stretched up to her elbows, and was smoking a cigarette in the dated extended holder. A lot of time and planning went into making this get up work for the both of them.

Much time had gone by but plenty of bands still had their sets coming. I was sitting off to the side and away from most of the action just relaxing and getting some blood flow back to the balls of my feet. While I sat there, ‘Roger’ (not his real name) came and sat with me. We started talking about how we had known each other but never really knew each other until tonight, (which makes me not remembering his name now kind of horrible to admit). “Are you a writer?” he asked in his comically appealing sweat and make-up filled face. “I write but I really wouldn’t call myself a writer. I’m a musician and I write quite a bit for that as well.” “Ah,” replied, “you look like a writer.” He went on to explain how he aspired to be a comedian, “I’ve also have acting experience as well and have taken some theater schooling, but really I’d like to do comedy.” “Ah, okay, right on.” My typical responses to someone who either is talking more in the conversation than I am, in which I’m acknowledging that ‘I’m still there’ listening, or to someone inebriated rambling on, in which case I throw those in there so our conversation can wrap up sooner and not get caught up in “you don’t really care about what I’m saying!” In those situations I tend to exhibit a bit of honesty with a “yeah, not really, but it’s good that you care about what you’re saying!” ‘Roger’ was a bit of both, so I was about half in, maybe a quarter if you take into account that, initially, “he’s talking more in the conversation than I was.” “You know, if you have stuff that you’ve written, hit me up. I know plenty of people who can take whatever you have and produce into something.” “Right on, (I’m in the conversation here), well I have some stuff that probably isn’t developmental, and I’m in a bit of a ‘writing dry spell’ right now. I want to write but I just end up sitting and staring at my monitor for a while until my A.D.D. kicks in.” At this point in the conversation my mind immediately leapt back to my next mission to come in the video game back home. “That happens a lot to everybody, you shouldn’t worry about that,” he reassured me. “The best thing to do in that situation is just pull up Word, or whatever, and just write about what on your mind at that point in time: ‘I can’t write, I’m uncreative right now and this is me expressing just how uncreative I am. This page is white, I can’t write.’ Just write anything,” I was told. I was 100% in the conversation at that point.

I’m not a religious in a since that I follow any set or organized religion, but I am spiritual in life. I believe that if you put yourself out there in a way to recognize the simple little nuances that are out there that you can find all the answers you seek; it’s all about keeping yourself open to the vibrations that life has to offer. Life is as alive and thoughtful as we are, and if you keep yourself clear and available it will respond and work with you. Life heard me say “I’m in a writing dry spell,” and it responded through a vessel that may or may not remember talking to me that night.

It’s now 3:57a on a Tuesday, the first day of November. In my kitchen/office I’m sitting, staring at my monitor while my curser looks back at me blinking. Next to me sitting on my laptop is a deck of cards and a picture that still needs to be hung on the wall somewhere. The white on the monitor is blindingly intimidating. I shuffle the deck of cards a few times, never once really getting all the cards to fall in. After a few more attempts to shuffle a perfect set I drop my cards back on the laptop. Cars are still as active now as they are at 3:57p, the reality of living in a big city. I can hear some neighbor somewhere talking either to himself or his cell phone; it’s amusing to think it’s to himself, so passionate. I think back to that Friday night and Roger Rabbit giving me the advice at what to do at this point:

“Just write anything,” I was told.