Austin

An out-door bar
Is packed

With blonde girls
Wearing high heels and pearls
Looking better prepared
For Marsha Brady’s 17th birthday party
Than a concert

With dark haired boys
Sipping tall cans
Through maintained mustaches
Wiping spills from stubble beards

With the openers lead guitarist
Waving off would-be groupies
With his wedding ring
As his bassist
Takes pictures
Of himself with his I-Phone

With the first sip of a new beer
You make your way through the crowd
Through the plaid shirts
The hopefully stylish fedoras
Colorful tattoos on necks and arms and backs
The gossip of pre-thirties girls
And post-teen boys
Through the hipster scene
You see her
Tapping her feet
Nodding her head
Lost in the moment
Just before
She turns
And smiles
At you

Sal, Meli and I

The road is endless
Snaking along the red sand cliffs
And dirty yellow bush
In the burning summer sun
Dancing dangerously before deep ravines
Strolling through rolling hills
Bordered by the shadows of thunderclouds
Dark and menacing
Ominous
Just plain mean
As their lighting bolts flash
Too quickly for the cameras of children
On the roof of their parent’s van

Towns appear quickly
And vanish as soon as they have come
Unless a weary traveler is in need
Of gas
A stretch
Or ice coffee

The radio dials between
Country
Static
Christian Talk
Christian Rock
And Country with static

But the road stays steady

As wheels roll over worn asphalt
As trucks whiz by
As the navigator sleeps
As rain beats a dirty windshield
As wipers squeak happily in their work
As clouds clear
As the smell of wet clay invades the air-conditioner
As the sun begins to set

The travelers will rest
This day is done
They will sleep
While yellow lines
And green signs
Reflect anonymous headlights
Under the smiling silver light of the moon

Nieve (Snow)

As the train leaves the tunnel
Gasps come from the passengers
Small white flakes cover palm trees and football pitches
Wide brown Spanish eyes snap pictures with mobile phones
“Que guay!” (“How cool!”)
“Que guapa!” (“How pretty!”)
Young girls smile as old men giggle
A woman draws a face on the condensation

Exiting the train at Montgat Nord
Salt water waves mixes with snow-white beaches
Shoes get soaked crossing the street
Wet feet slip up the long stairway
A cold face sees

Little children throwing snowballs on la rambla turo
Parents building snowmen outside the bakery
Grandmothers smiling at screaming grandchildren from the balconies
Already bad Spanish drivers
Crawl along the autopista
In Fiats and Seats and Fords

On entering the school
A teacher remarks
“If I wanted snow,
I would have stayed in England”

Let it snow

Let it snow

Let is snow

Gracia

Plastic grating wand
Water bottle flowers
Block out the muted stars
Paper monsters and drinking straw women
Beer drinking boys and sangria swilling girls
Old women play cards with friends and wine
Pre-teens sneak sips under parent’s noses
On a make-shift stage
The guitarist calls up two friends
They embrace without spilling paper cups
The band begins to play
And the street

Erupts

Into…
Foreign words and foreign dance
Happy eyes and sweaty hands
Quick moving feet and slow moving hips
Wide Spanish smiles and wine stained lips
The young people dance, old women tap feet
Pre-teens take gulps as parents leave seats

The music ends
The crowd applauds
Your friend mouths the words
“Time to move on”

So you leave
Lost in the crowd
Lost in a moment
Too great for words

An Introduction

I had never had a beard until I went to Spain. I always hated shaving, but I was forced to because of all the crappy jobs I had. No dress code meant complete facial hair freedom. So, I grew a beard. And, as things go, I became inspired. I started to read a lot. The first book I read in Spain was Fiesta (better known as The Sun Also Rises) by Ernest Hemingway. If you have not read it, you should. It is the story of a Jake Barnes, a man trying to experience happiness while the whole world falls apart around him. I could not really associate with Jake, but Ernest really got to me.

His direct and descriptive style of writing moved me so that I wanted to try it myself. My attempt at becoming a writer I considered to be my Hemingway Beard. With my own facial hair I tried to re-invent myself, as both a person and a writer. On this blog I want to share some of my writing with whomever wants to read it. I hope that you enjoy it.

Thanks,

Joe Schmidt