No. 209 - Sam Shepard and the Geography of Discontent

discontent {noun} — lack of satisfaction with one’s possessions, status, or situation.

This is how I’m feeling — discontent, but by only one third of the definition.

Possessions — I’m fine in this department. I have an old Jeep, broken-in loafers, and a stack of good books. Would I like a Jaeger-LeCoultre Reverso or a membership at the Racquet and Tennis Club? Of course. But I’m OK as far as possessions go.

Status — I’m not entirely sure what this means, but I think I’m fine here too. I’m not looking for an ambassadorship to Switzerland (though I’d accept it) or a board seat at National Golf Links (I’d accept that too).

Situation — here’s the culprit.

I am not content with my situation.

Allow me to explain.

First of all, I am in no position to complain. I am building a business in Texas and have been fortunate enough to stay in a friend’s 1840s farmhouse. Actually, it’s more than that.

The historic farmhouse overlooks a vineyard and faces west — where I smoke my evening cigar as the sun sets. Connected to it is another structure that resembles a barn, both worthy of a spread in Architectural Digest.

A breezeway joins them, complete with a restored smokehouse-bar, plaid furniture, and a television usually tuned to the Golf Channel.

My Shangri-La includes a side-by-side I take on afternoon drives around the farm — with, you may have guessed, a cigar. There’s a ridge I particularly enjoy, where the Hill Country stretches wide over the vineyard below.

The kitchen has a French stove and a coffee bar that rivals an actual café. My bathroom holds a copper bathtub. Upstairs, a hallway of oil paintings leads to a ladder and a cozy reading nook with a small library — one I am curating.

If that weren’t enough, this farm sits less than three miles from downtown Fredericksburg — about as charming a town as Texas can produce. Ninety minutes from Austin, it rests squarely in the most beautiful part of the state: the Hill Country.

So yes, I could be stuck in a drab hotel room.

I am not.

I’m writing this from a leather couch with the Dutch doors half open.

And yet — I am discontent.

A few nights ago I watched a documentary on playwright Sam Shepard.

Shepard was a drifter. He once said, “I feel rootless, I do, but I don’t mind feeling that way.” He described himself as peripatetic:

peripatetic {adjective} — traveling from place to place, working or based in various locations for relatively short periods.

When I heard that, I felt strangely accepted. As if at least one other person in this world — even a dead playwright — understood me.

This business I’m building, if you can call it that, keeps me constantly on the road.

Last year I crossed sixteen states and countless cities — New York to New Orleans, Austin to Aspen, Santa Fe to St. Simons Island, Taos to Telluride.

This never-ending desire to drift is a flywheel of chaos and excitement.

Which is to say, a recipe for discontent.

I’m in Texas today.

I eat brisket and tamales.
I wear jeans and a cowboy hat.

I’ve been to M.L. Leddy’s in Fort Worth, slept on the beach in Galveston, and walked the hallowed planks at Gruene Hall.

I’ve been to the Rothko Chapel in Houston, seen Dale Watson at The Continental, and eaten a burger at the Dixie Chicken in College Station.

I’ve been to LBJ’s childhood home in Johnson City, stood where Slacker was filmed in Austin, and looked for George Strait in Amarillo.

I’ve fallen head over heels in love with Texas.

But I am discontent.

I want to book a ticket to Boston, play squash at my club, and drift through New England. I have a friend on the Connecticut shore I’d like to see — maybe take a dip in Fishers Island Sound in the dead of winter.

Then I want to take the train to New York, have lunch with Holland in Tribeca, and sit fireside at the Explorers Club with a vagabond poet. I need to walk through the Upper East Side, Greenwich Village, and Central Park.

Then I want to take the train to D.C., stay at the Cosmos Club, and meander through Georgetown at my own pace — alone.

*Composed, Edited, and Published at Whatley Wines in Fredericksburg, TX