I was sitting in the front of a Guero’s on south Congress street. A parade of interesting people were steadily passing me by. All around me was the humming and buzzing of communication. Everyone seemed so completely alive. Though perhaps it was more my own reflection. Internally I’d never felt so much conviction, so much passion, and so much energy generated around the idea of place. No, not Guero’s itself, but the sphere it occupied. Affirmations of my life were surrounding me, here. People, thinking independently, coming to similar conclusions on what to fill the mess of their lives with. Records, used and rare books, vintage clothing, the bow tie store down the street – all these things were flying through my mind.
It was in that moment that I began to think that I had found the meaning of an often spoken word. Home. Something about this place was different then all the others. I couldn’t put my finger on just what. I suspect it permeates beyond the physical. Something beyond the delights of records and clothing. There was something almost spiritual about the passion I was feeling. Whatever the cause, be it rolling Texas hills, or the constant hum of amplifiers, I could consider for a moment the possibility of leaving my work and enjoying the silent reprieve of this total and consuming place.
It was only a moment.
Still, with regret I would climb back into the car and drive myself away. With deep and ever deeper longing do I miss the times I never spent in my new found homeland. I will return, perhaps to settle, but it cannot be today. So I continue marching on into a world always worth exploring and celebrating, to seek other spaces, other people, and other phenomenon that may themselves still strike the chords written on my heart with the same precision and depth of beauty as this one has and will.