Boggy Bayou Blues

“No trespassing?” Well that’s too damn bad.

Yes, I’m going to usurp your half broken swinging bench. Yes, I’m going to admire your beautiful view of the bayou. No, I’m not going to respect your private property sign. If you let a sign tell you what to do, you’re cooked. Just go ahead and ask ChatGPT if you should obey the sign or not and do whatever it tells you. I don’t even care anymore. Let food coloring and vaccine induced ADD and autism claim their victims. Let them not be able to solve any sort of critical thinking issue or have opinions of their own. Let AI do the thinking. Work smarter, not harder, right? Only the strong will survive. I’m okay with that.

Today couldn’t have been much better. I had my first kiss today. From Autumn. She brought a gift basket of cool breezes, light rain, and the smell of bonfire stories. She knows just what I like, that sweet girl.

I was on a mission to the next town over. It’s a 30 minute drive, but I took my time, with the windows down smoking expensive cigarettes.

It’s always better to take the scenic route. Cruising down the historic streets that line Boggy Bayou, I try my best to take it all in. It’s simply overwhelming. The tasteful chill of early fall was so distracting I almost hit that chick on the moped. Maybe that could’ve been the start of our love story. Eh, who knows. Guess it wasn’t meant to be. I have places to be anyways.

I’m on the way to an estate sale. I saw they had a really dope vintage Lacoste jacket and some rare Tommy Hilfiger longsleeves. There were some bookshelves in the previews, but I got there to find out that it was all random methodist Christian stuff. How to be like Jesus, Daily Prayers, Life of a Disciple, all that stuff.

Those books are a dime a dozen around here. Nothing peaked my interest, and turns out the vintage clothes I went for sold the first day. People are all over that shit now. Even a few years ago, you could find the craziest vintage clothes just chillin on the rack. People are hip to it now though. You can still get lucky sometimes.

The estate sale turned out to be a bust, but who gives a fuck. I’m surrounded by century old oak trees, draped in Spanish moss hanging more elegantly than a Swarovski crystal chandelier. The rain has continued to fall, as I try to not track too much mud into my 22 year old truck. I have places to be.

Any excuse I can find to go to Niceville, I will take. One of my favorite lunch spots is up there. That was my next stop. Taking the back roads once more, I light up another cigarette and roll the windows down even further. The smell of someone’s backyard fire pit wafts through the entire neighborhood, and sends chills down my spine. I can’t help the tears falling down my cheeks. This is the happiest I’ve been in a while. I have a good book to read, food to eat, and nothing else to do in the world.

I’m fully embracing my freedom right now, because in a few weeks I will begin my forest work, 40 hours a week on the reservation. Planting native species, working fire prevention, learning how to use a chainsaw, taking environmental samples, and other maintenance work to keep the forest pristine.

Reminded of this, I drive even slower. The pitter patter of the rain drops sends me into a trance like state. Holy shit there’s the moped chick again. I think I should intentionally hit her this time.

Back into town now. Still on the old road with the oak trees. Almost timed too perfectly, Early Autumn by The Four Freshmen comes on. God what a beautiful song.

If you were to go through life unaware, unreceptive, or simply blind, these mundane moments of a dreary day in a small town with nothing to do, this would seem like a drag. But oh, it is simply the opposite.

After a short drive I found the perfect spot to get out. There’s maybe five no trespassing signs, but the siren song of the old swing bench underneath the giant oak tree is too strong for me to resist.

The rain sings a song
that only the bayou 
understands

Can you imagine a much better place to sit down and read? I’ve never been here before. I feel like a child again, running around town looking for shenanigans with nothing else to do, breaking a few laws here and there.

The rain is falling a little harder now, tempting me with a challenge. The book in my hand is not waterproof, and the wetness is staring me down. No worries. Book tucked into my waistband like a concealed carry, my flannel provides coverage. I make a run for the swinging bench, which is missing a few boards, naturally, successfully claiming my own private island overlooking the old town marina.

The book I found at the thrift store couldn’t have been much better. It’s Ray Bradbury’s “Something Wicked This Way Comes.” I’ve been wanting to read this for a while now, and I have acquired it, so it takes priority over the other 4 books I’m actively reading.

6 chapters later, I’m ready to move on. Us Americans have a very hard time relaxing. It’s part of the great replacement. They want us to be uncomfortable in our natural state. I try as often as I can to be okay simply existing. After all, we are human beings, not human doings.

I need more flannels. Goodwill is just down the road, and the old money folks around here always donate some good shit. I ended up robbing that store blind, walking out with a sack full of goodies. In reality it’s just a few shirts, but they fit me like a glove, like they were tailored to the contours and crevices of my physique. Real style is not found in expensive retail stores. It’s found in the mundane. In the clothes that have already told a story, and are awaiting their next victim.

I think the moped chick is stalking me now. She was at the goodwill. Or maybe she’s not even real.

Thank you for reading.

G.W.