OLD COUNTRY FEELING By Greg Evans

OLD COUNTRY FEELING
By Greg Evans

The heavy clouds hung low over the mountains. The air was warm and thick. A whitish mist hung over the valleys and the hot coffee seemed out of place as the sweat formed on the brow. The sound of chirping birds erupts from the still and stagnant air. Then a draft waifs through a break in the pines. On it the scent of a tomato patch nearby. Everything moves slower in the countryside. The way the language is spoke and the pace of the horses with their buggies. Breakfast is consumed slower as is the service. There is little rush in places that time has seemingly forgot.

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SIMPLICITY - POEM - By Greg Evans (Originally published on Poetrysoup.com)

Simplicity
By Greg Evans (American Writer)

A strong drink sits idle in my glass. Two doves sit on the porch and watch me. They warble with great enthusiasm, puffy sirens of the hills. Their language hides the meaning of their words, like the elegant attire worn by common folk. They have everything they need, each other and a nest. A perfect wordless marriage. Communication only through song, and songs for all of nature to enjoy. The grandest love story ever told. 

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GETTING MENTALLY READY TO PLAY

GETTING MENTALLY READY TO PLAY

The sun is barely up over the horizon and early morning mist still lingers as one to four players stand at the first tee, stretching, sipping coffee, each in their own thoughts, ready to conquer the world. Golf is the most difficult game that was ever invented, but at the same time it is divine. And it is important for you to remember that when you feel the brash need to throw your clubs into the nearby lake, the whole point of lugging the heavy thing down to the course was to have fun was it not? You almost made that stroke out of the rough like a pro…almost. Amateur golf is a different game than the one the pros play on T.V. But the objective is the same, and that is to make the ball go into the hole with a reasonable amount of strokes. But how you accomplish this feat is different than a PGA Tour professional. It is crucial for you to understand that if you are intending on becoming a steady amateur golfer shooting regularly in the 90s, you have to play your game, not theirs, but you can learn a great deal from watching them, discounting the fact that they were born with exceptional hand-eye coordination and God given talent that he forgot to give to you. Now that your blood pressure has gone up a few notches let’s continue.

         For me over the years I have found that the worst of my woes that inevitably turned out scores so horrific I can’t mention them here, happened right on the first tee where my confidence was shredded so ferociously that I couldn’t recover and by the end of the round, despite the use of “the mulligan,” I was above the 99 mark, hanging my head and feeling like a drunk who just fell off the wagon. It was no laughing matter. You get back home and the question is asked, “So how was the golf?”

         “I had some decent shots,” you respond. The person nods or grunts.

         “You stunk it up didn’t you?” They say, but by the crazy distant look in your hollow eyes, they leave it at that. There is no need to press the situation, test the waters to see if there are any sharks swimming. There is a certain understanding between golfers and even the spouses of golfers who have learned over the years when to let the conversation drop.

         “I have some laundry to fold, or I’m heading out to get the car washed,” they’ll say to slip away.

         Now that you have been prepped it’s time to dive into the details and begin rebuilding our mental attitude as amateur golfers to become one of the top ten percent in the world and score regularly in the 90s.

-Greg Evans (American Writer)

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A MOMENT OF UNCONVENTIONAL CLARITY - WORDLESS INTERVIEW WITH GONZO

Back in early 2000 I had traveled out to Colorado to interview the Gonzo journalist one of literature’s great moralists. I was in search of a quote. A small pearl of Gonzo wisdom, that received in person, would be of priceless value to me personally. It was early winter evening and a contact informed me that he we was eating breakfast at a tavern a few miles outside Aspen. It was snowing so hard it was nearly only accessible by mule. The place resembled a barn and was lit with strings of Christmas lights. Three men sat at a table in the back. One was Hunter, one was Raoul Duke, who I’d run into once before in Los Angeles, and the other was a fat Samoan. Leaning up against the wall was a cattle prod and a nickel-plated handgun rested on the table beside what appeared to be a Bloody Mary. I took a deep breath and slowly approached the table. I didn’t know whether this would be my last few moments on earth, but I came all the way out and decided it was worth a shot.  I reached the table and the first to look up was the Samoan. He was wearing a grey suit and had a crazed sharp look in his eye, like a recently used hatchet. I barely made pleasantries before being assaulted by Duke after sticking out my hand and saying, “Hi, good to see you again Raoul.” He moved like a leopard. I remember next lying on my side on the floor and the smell of beer. It was cold and wet from the snow. As I was being dragged out of the place I noticed a few patrons sitting at the bar had turned around and were laughing. Some people clapped. Hunter never looked up from his meal.

-Greg Evans (American Writer)

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