Date: Sun, 14 Oct 2007 12:30:35 -0400 From: math wreck Subject: Shady Creek Reverie Disclaimers are uncool. anexperimat@gmail.com if you have an opinion to share. "The sweet notes of the creek" I say inside. Jacob brought his guitar along today. It's a sleek black acoustic-electric (although the electric part ain't used too often...). He named it "Window" a month after he got it. The tide is just beginning to go out and we're watching it as he plays Window solemnly. The notes he's hitting...they could be straight out of a Southern Americana novel if you read too much. But not for me. The calming repetition of his plucks and pulls seem to fit perfectly in order with the murky water edging in just above my ankles, and nothing else. The mosquitoes have gladly been quieted by the rain early this morning, so there's little of the typical buzzing and swiping away at the air that's usually done here. Jake is off to my right and a bit behind me as well, sitting on an old stump that was cut a little too high. When I listen closely enough, I can hear his bare heel gently pound the hollowing wood with every beat. The other foot is closer to me and stationed flat on the ground: This one is the sound of a softer tapping with his sole. Between us is the rope swing that's been here since long before we discovered the place. Today ain't a good day for swimming though. The rain always makes the water too cold. I think about asking him to remember this pattern he's improvised for when we get back, but I remember that Jake never likes recording his tunes. He was always a boy that was committed to his mind. Hell, I don't think he's ever even taken a picture, or written down a phone number. Everything to him must be kept temporary, intangible. We talked about this in depth only once. Since, it's just been me pestering him whenever...well...I observe that something significant is occurring somewhere before our eyes. Sitting there on this ledge of mud, toes surely wrinkling in the chilly water, I muse for the hundredth time about our biggest difference. He calls it his memory. But then I think, what would you call my devotion? My memory is the opposite of his. I'm not exactly forgetful...In fact I don't think I ever had the chance to find that out. Writing things down is just my second most natural habit. Except when I'm with him, this practice goes unquestioned. Let me put it this way: When two dudes see, say, a pretty flower, they're gonna regard it in two completely different ways. The first guy is gonna walk up to it, maybe sniff it, revel over its color, maybe touch it and move on. He's going to let the flower be. The second guy, however, is gonna do something a bit different: He's going pull out his camera or his notebook and record it to the most accurate degree possible. For himself, for whoever, he's gonna take it with him in some tangible form. Of course, there are extreme versions of both of these types, I think: The first would not even notice it, the second would pluck it and maybe try to sell it. Regardless, Jacob is guy number one, I am guy number two. As if he was reading my thoughts, Jake mutters, "I'm not gonna record this." I slam my fist down on the shaky dirt next to me. "Why not!? It's perfect! You could call it "Shady Creek Reverie" or..." He continues to play, and in his typical passively mocking tone, he says, "You can record it. Here, I'll tell you the notes. G-" "Damn it Jake you know that's not the point." I interrupt. I'm obviously pissed, glaring ahead for the other side of the water, fist clenched and beginning to grind the dead grass out of the mud below. He snickers from behind. A god damn menace and he knows it. He silences Window then, and I can hear him shifting around. I turn to see what he's up to, but before I know it a notebook is flying across my face. It almost makes it to the water before I dramatically reach out and snatch it from the air with both hands. The creek water splashes undecidedly against my legs when I disturb it. Immediately I feel the warmth of the pages as they're pressed between my hands. "Let's hear some more of them titles." I sigh. This is MY notebook he was sitting on. We understand each other too well.