Readers should note that as I write this, a cup of soda pop sits on the same exact desk.
Dear Isaac,
The time has come to address a question posed in our friendship from early on in its founding -- which is this: Besides that beautiful postmodern symphony that we have shared vocally, and mentally, and drunkenly, even religiously.. Who, or what, is Cowboy Dan? So arriving at this question, here now I make a menial attempt to do some grabbing at an answer. Here it comes-- our first documented attempt to turn the proverbial engine over.
I think it is safe to say that though the anatomy & primitive functions of the body have remained unchanged for quite some time, society’s technobabble is rapidly growing louder with the days. Personally I am none too pleased with this; but, with human instinct being survival, I have utmost faith that in spite of the industrial matrimony between man and machine, we shall forever wear the pants in the family. Regardless, some folks will hop aboard the coattails of said mechanical expansion, and others must be left in her dust. Those that are left behind are bound to drink too much and beat the shit out of something. The point?
Cowboy Dan is the remainder in your idea of a never ending math equation.
Cowboy Dan is this tragedy. Cowboy Dan is doomed.
He is a man cornered by present day society - there is no escape from the city, full-grown into its own organism, its own life-force.
Whether or not this manifests itself in his thoughts, I do not know. But I know he feels it. The treacherous city moves in on his pastures, his home, his sense of freedom. It creeps in through his roads by way of billboards & tar; an intruder climbs in his home through a television set. Who wouldn't be terrified by this monster, a beast which needs to feed, a machine which will be fueled & never stopped. Like it is fate. Like it's scripted. Like he's an actor in the cowboy scene.
But poor Daniel did not ask for this part, had no choice in his role. It's only natural that this man wants more than what he's given: a life of crudity. Such a man can only prepare for the impending battle as best he knows how -- with anger, alcohol, & a loaded gun. And though these three are all for naught in the war he starts, the most pathetic of all the weapons: a penny-fed pickup truck that won't take him anywhere at all. One can be prone to believe he indeed does drive to the desert. I don't buy it. And since he doesn't move it the least (c'mon, he can't even get the engine turned over) his final attempt to flee the city is all the more pathetic -- filled with fear he puts the pedal to the floor anyway. For nothing.
So here is the tragedy, & here is the heroism. As the human mind has a breaking point Cowboy Dan gets out of the truck, the victim of an out of control society, a product of his environment, & chooses to fight a war impossible to win.
We are at last given the lasting image of a drunk hillbilly firing bullets aimlessly into the sky he cannot grasp, something unmanageable to such a simplistic man. Call it fate. He calls it God. And he tries to kill it. Because he wants more. He wants betterment. But it will not allow him to move forward in any way. The only knowledge he has -- oxygen needed to breathe. Yet what is most daunting -- God does respond. And he verifies the Cowboy's #1 fear.
TALKING IS LESS THAN YOU THINK OF IT. Words will never speak louder than words. MOVING & LOOKING AS WELL. In other-words, God tells him that his life is worth an infinite amount less than what he's believed his entire life before this moment. How many times you've made me cry at this point, I could never say. That's like asking someone how many bananas they've eaten since they day they were born.
As lovely an emotional indulgence the Cowboy Dan in us is, we must only utilize him in the appropriate circumstances. Otherwise, our rifles positioned toward the heavens shall be pointed to the backs of our skulls in less than an instant.
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