there is no time for mud pie

"If we consider the unblushing promises of reward and the staggering nature of the rewards promised in the Gospels, it would seem that Our Lord finds our desires not too strong, but too weak. We are half-hearted creatures, fooling about with drink and sex and ambition when infinite joy is offered to us, like an ignorant child who wants to go on making mud pies in a slum because he cannot imagine what is meant by the offer of a holiday at the sea. We are far too easily pleased." -C.S. Lewis

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Every time I travel back into Nashville from all those places, I play the same thing on the car stereo - right about the time my tires roll onto I-440. It's the only time I am even remotely tempted to smoke a cigarette.

When you're back in your old neighborhood,
The cigarettes taste so good,
But you're so misunderstood-
You're so misunderstood

I don't know if I'm misunderstood, but Jeff Tweedy seems to think so. Of course, that's assuming that the song is about me.
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I had a friend tell me recently to not fear being a broken record. I've feared being a broken record all my life. Perhaps that is why I am one.

He told me that riding a horse requires that you fall. The whole question about it is what you do when you're lying face-down with dirt in your eyes. Grass stains. Perhaps lacerations here and there. Normally, I tend to find some twisted sense of relief after a fall. Within seconds, I begin baking. Mud pies are riding down the factory line. That's right, I already built a factory. It's easy when I am wallowing in the mud. But who can blame me when they are flying off the bakery shelves? People are passing up holidays on the beach to eat a piece of this shit. I mean, mud. Pies.

It takes a while, but I will eventually realize what I am eating, and I will slowly, very slowly, saddle-up again.

But then I make a mistake that will later have me eating pies till I pop: I tell myself that I will never fall out of the saddle again if I can hold on tight enough. And with knuckles clenched white on the reins, I kick. Here we go again.
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In college, we had a poster of Bruce Lee hanging over our kitchen sink. He was ever present above our culinary endeavors, but more importantly, he kept a watchful eye over the dirty dishes. Someone, in a moment of pure civility, stuck a post-it note next to Lee's mouth that read: DO YOUR DISHES!

If I had small enough hands and my elbows were double-jointed, I would tack that very poster up inside my brain. Only, this time the post-it note would read: THERE IS NO TIME FOR MUD PIE!