Urban Disillusionment

Is life actually any different between one city and another?  Do we merely imagine the differences to make our lives seem richer based on the uniqueness of locale?

When I lived in Los Angeles, I had a two-bedroom apartment.  I drove three miles up a highway through shitty traffic to get to school.  The grocery store was a Ralphs a couple blocks away.

I live in Austin.  I have a two-bedroom apartment.  I drive three miles up a highway through shitty traffic to get to school.  The grocery store is an HEB a couple blocks away.

My life consists of school, sleep, food, and internet.  It’s been that way for the last fourteen years.  In the Bay Area.  In Los Angeles.  In Austin.

“What’s good about Los Angeles?”
“It’s got the beach.”  I went to the beach about three times in six years.  “It’s got skiing nearby.”  I went to Bear Mountain once.  “It’s got diverse food options.”  Two Ethiopian joints to choose from instead of one.

“What’s good about Austin?”
“Music festivals.”  I’ve never been to one.  “Downtown nightlife.”  Quickly outgrown.  “Hill country.”  I drive through it on my way elsewhere.

My annual highlight reel is filled with experiences that hardly describe my daily reality, which is of a different sort.  Every day, I’m stuck on I-35 through Downtown Austin, passing by skid row, condemned houses decaying on hillsides, graffiti, being surrounded by cars and trucks, pissed off, anxious, restless, litter everywhere, scattered about the freewayscape.  I did it today.  I’ll do it again tomorrow.  This is my life.

Austinites like to joke about how they don’t live in Texas.  They live in Austin.  Living in Austin is fine, but every so often I have to remind myself that I live in Texas.  Austin is a city.  It’s a t-shirt, “Keep Austin Weird.”  It’s a selling point.  A commute.  Texas is a spirit.  It’s an ethos.  An open road.

When I first moved to Texas, I came by car.  My father, a country music aficionado, made a mix CD of Texas country music with instructions: “Start CD at border.”  I first crossed the border at Texico, NM.  It was a dump.  I threw on the CD.  The first song was “What I Like About Texas” by Gary P. Nunn.

“You ask me what I like about Texas.
I tell you it’s the wide open spaces.
It’s everything between the Sabine and the Rio Grande.
It’s the Llano Estacado.
It’s the Brazos and the Colorado.
It’s the spirit of the people who share this Land.”

I listened to this while driving through the vast Llano Estacado, looking across the vast open landscape to the horizon.  I was happy.

The Llano Estacado.

The Llano Estacado.

Driving down I-35 through the slummy side of Austin, I threw on this song to remind me that my present location, Texas, goes beyond Austin.  It extends to the Rio Grande and to the Llano Estacado.  It encompasses the whole breadth of romanticized desert, coast, plains, forests that make up what we know as the State of Texas.  Sometimes I forget that.

In my more jaded and disillusioned moments, when I stand on my front lawn, surrounded by litter and dog shit, I have to remember that my little plot of dirt connects to another plot of dirt, and that plot of dirt connects to yet another, and eventually the ground on which my feet rest makes its way to the banks of the Rio Grande, to the cliffs of Big Bend, to the brilliant starry sky and the sound of coyotes yelping at the moon.  Outside of my little town, there exists a beautiful world, and I am a part of that.

Texas culture, for all its grating arrogance and over-the-top pride, is pretty good at reminding people that we, today, are connected to a land and a history, and this awareness, even if I only make it to Big Bend once in my life, provides a richness of life and an appreciation for my location.  But memory and delusion can only go so far, lest we drown ourselves in an endless existence of concrete banalities.

The Rio Grande.

The Rio Grande.

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About Doctor Quack

Just another bonehead with an internet connection.
This entry was posted in Editorial and tagged , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

7 Responses to Urban Disillusionment

  1. Pink Ninjabi says:

    Love this post, especially moving city to city, you’ re totally right!

  2. cinderski says:

    As someone who’s just visited Austin and who’s about to move there in the next few months, I really enjoyed this post. It also made me wonder just how much I might transplant Sydney-life to Austin-life, with very little change in between…

    • Doctor Quack says:

      Don’t get me wrong, Austin is a very livable city, and I’ve enjoyed my time here. You just have to get out of the city once in a while and experience what Texas has to offer.

  3. lee says:

    Great post! “Passing by skid row, condemned houses decaying on hillsides, graffiti, being surrounded by cars and trucks, pissed off, anxious, restless, litter everywhere, scattered about the freewayscape” sounds just like the downtown on the other end of I-35, and other cities I have driven through. Love the part about the piece of land you stand on connects to another, which connects to another, and so on, all the way to a piece where life is calmer, the air is cleaner, and the stars much bigger and brighter. Awesome sliver of moon in the sky this morning.

  4. Can I just say that you are a great writer. I’ve certainly said it before, but it’s worth repeating. You had me laughing (OUT LOUD!) with the opening regurgitation, word-for-word, about Austin. It just got better after that 🙂 Maybe I can relate all too much? I was living in SF valley of north L.A. til I just recently moved further west into the hills. I can head to the valley for work, but there’s nothing quite like coming back to the hills each evening. It’s a 1-bedroom flat but I’d live here if it were a single room. It’s worth the condensed form of living space to be more in touch with the open spaces outside my door.

    Great post! Keep on keeping on. 🙂

    • Doctor Quack says:

      Hi “Swimming In The Mud.” Thanks for the kind words. Laughter is my goal, so it’s good to know that readers react accordingly.

      I lived in West LA down 405 for six years, and while we had an excellent view of the Santa Monica Mountains, I yearned for nothing more than to actually wake up from within them. It’s good to know at least one of us is living the dream.

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