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      From: Gregg Yows [gyows@austin.rr.com]
      Sent: Tuesday, March 28, 2000 9:47 PM
      To: theclaymores@onelist.com
      Subject: [theclaymores] All the labor...

      From: "Gregg Yows" <gyows@austin.rr.com>

      ...that went into the Claymores has shifted. Like a white man lagging
      behind in a Tai-bo session with the U.T. women's basketball team.
      Momentum runs and runs out. I tried to post this on
      www.coldsmoke.com, but dammit, Alan, there ain't no place for
      contributing writers you pompous son-of-a-bitch.

      I'm gonna listen to "All the Labor" by the Gourds while I write this.
      Over and over. That's how the song goes and that's what they want you
      to do, so got-dammit...it's my calling.

      Hmmmmmm...what can I ramble about this evening. A need to spill is my
      meal ticket. And spill I will. I spill for thrills. And it's just
      gravy, I'd do it anyway. Alright, enough.

      Yea, I would like to meet my friend Britt at the Showdown this
      eve'nin' for a cold one, but I think his wife is havin' a baby. Well,
      maybe tomorrow night.

      I just broke up my old band...yea, the band that you guys are on this
      mailing list for...the Claymores. It was wierd. We'd been together
      for a couple of years, you know? Well, anyway, shit happens and you
      can only look back if you are headin' in that direction. Sean and I
      have hooked up with some great folks here in town and are still bros.
      You know, the kind who slap high-five all the damn time-even if there
      is an opera or some shit going on in the background. Damn, that's

      All-right, so...I had a fewwwwbrereeeeerrsss. Can't you just gimme an
      idio-syncrosy credit? All your drunken dilusions make you feel like
      you can write like Jimmy Gourd. That ain't his real last name, but
      all of us call our band friends by their first name and the last name
      of their band 'cause it's funny as hell and they look at you like a
      crooked pool cue.

      So I'm 4-5 paragraphs in and still ain't writ no content. Well, maybe
      that's the point. Maybe that's the excercise. I'll see how long I can
      write without writing a damn thing. Shucks, Opey, don't be like that.
      Think 'bout swimmin in the pool of backwater in the Blanco. You was
      nineteen. Shit, that girl was pretty. But it's allot easier to drink
      this jug wine, don't you think? When it floods, the sky gets grey and
      dark. Lighntin starts at Lampassas and blinks our lights fifty miles
      out. We click on the doppler and listen to the computer tell us that

      Kick back and lite up to these words, I say. Nothin' like gettin'
      high while a thunderstorm is coming through. Nothin makes me sadder
      than to see the blue sky beyond the dry-line. In case you are
      wondering, "All the Labor" is still playing.

      Anyone can write about floatin' down a river, but what about getting
      lost on that river? And I ain't talkin' about lost like you don't
      know where you are...I'm talkin' lost. Like you find a new home in
      the mulberry tree that you are a-passin. You decorate yourself with
      the clay that makes up the bottom of the stream. The damn fox ain't
      even scared when he comes to the creek for a drink. That's what I
      mean by lost. Or found?



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