Terlingua, Tex. 03.2008

this is igneous rock (it is not), "plate tectonics turn me on"
mountain of dirt, slide down, sunset
so quiet our ears buzz
drinking while driving
there is no one to see
roads to nowhere, somewhere
left, right, impossible to remember
dust
Doran the waitress at the Starlight from Sewanee, who knows Marie's friends
petting the dog named Sister, so sweet, so buzzed, sitting on the ground, talking to her bearded owner who is looking through old dusted paperbacks
driving in the dark, so dark, so fast, in and out of sleep
Kiva, the bar underground
dancing
tequila shots, the bronze buzzard
local girls in tight jeans and tank tops, rodeo belt buckles
the blonde-haired guitarist, the bongo drummer
the puppy, the puppy! it ate my hair, so soft, gnawed our fingers
out in the field, the music behind me, lying in the west desert sand, facing the stars
around the curve of the hill, alone, naked under the moon, my arms white in the light
party in the desert we're told, towards the Mexican border, can't miss it, we didn't go
leaving the firewood behind, we went so far to get it, leaving it for when we come back
will we?
we were too sleepy, too drunk to make the fire.

Marfa, March 2008

Donald Judd concrete boxes, grey in the pale field
the Food Shark truck, best falafels we've had in this country, maybe even better than the place in the Marais
old painted store fronts, worn away, mismatched with what's inside
it's so cold! sun warms but not enough
sad to see my poncho go for warmer wear
Marfa book store, only good books, bought a mug, only $4.50
peed at the Exxon station, bought lifesavers because I felt bad
streets dotted with broken buildings and art galleries
Chinati foundation, the beautiful sculptress, tall and thin, with long brown hair was our guide
pink green yellow blue pink green yellow blue
so cold
cats scattered around, sleeping in hay
guest house, internet access, gas fireplace, haven from the cold
margaritas at the Paisano Hotel, where Giant was filmed
the Thunderbird Hotel lounge, the bartender who didn't know anything, "I'm only filling in," the portraits of locals on the walls, the concrete benches
Maiya's, so fancy, red lights, hot waiter, despair at missing the Big Bend Coffee owners, delicious pork and caprese, lovely meal
feels like 17 degrees in Ft. Davis, camping, hell no!
drinking, the fire, Elliott Smith, I left the graham cracker on the fridge
breakfast at the Brown Recluse
organic fair trade coffee, eggs and pancakes and Anna Karenina
Judd's titanium boxes in the hangar, the 10AM lights, the scrub, the reflection and the reflected
soft hot sharp bent clean harsh light mirage
eerie Soviet school, controlled decay
the nervous pretentious tour guide Miguel
Chamberlain cars, the foam sculpture, softest bed yet, lie down, roll around
the Pizza Foundation, no mushrooms!, ok, half mushrooms
our faces are falling off, one wind-burned flake at a time

Micanopy, Fla. 11.23.09

Spanish moss
mourning
the old bones
Lillian Eulalie
C.S.A.
generations
asleep together.
the family Thrasher
in moldering stone
but also
in town,
in faded paint
Thrasher & Bros.
on the side
of an old wooden warehouse
scrubbed away,
Coca Cola
beneath.
old town
selling old things.
pairs of children
walk with dollars clenched
to buy
their afternoon scoop
sit on a swing
tease the dog
dribble pink cream
on their fists.

top 10 things I miss about Calistoga

10. folks from home asking you about California wine, and having nothing to say, because locals never go wine-tasting. and because your roommate works for an importer, so all you drink is French wine anyway.

9. biking 3 miles and almost fainting (when you could bike 13 in Houston and not blink)

8. dreadlocked 20- and 30-somethings far outnumbering all other minority groups

7. "Old Faithful," the unreliable geyser, Calistoga's natural wonder of the world

6. the only place to go out in Calistoga is the Inn, which closes at 12am. after that, you go to Suzie's. but chances are, if you're going to Suzie's, you should actually be going home.

5. even the dinkiest gas stations sell American Spirits

4. 75% of the conversations you overhear are about growing a) grapes or b) pot

3. not dying while driving home drunk 3+ times a week on what has to be America's most dangerous road (barely 2 lanes, precipice on either side, steep, slick, hairpin curves spanning two valleys...)

2. potato bugs

1. gallon-sized ziploc bags full of pot. for free. because they like you. and because, you know, it grows on trees there.

Harpersville, AL

Scrub grass and grey pines and a field of horses, three white and two brown. Sinking into creek bank mud to push off the kayak. We drift imperceptibly slow, cut the water sometimes, with oars inexpertly arced, to examine the wet walls of the creek, holed out by innocent currents, perhaps, or crafty, unseen creatures. The rising blades drip water on our arms, on our legs. An arm of the river unbends and upon an outcropping of stump and mud and stick there is an animal, a beast, thick of tail and neck, with claws and sharp lips, a turtle whose shell no longer houses it. It is immune to our curiosity, our interference. We are awed; we are frightened. It is mightier than we.

On land again we regard the goats, twisted horns, rectangular pupils, beguiling docility. "Do you think she's pregnant? Feel her belly. She feels fat. Are you going to have kittens, Lola? You're a scrappy cat, Lola, my kind of cat."

British football fans

The metro ride home from school was unusually packed that evening, due solely to the near-majority presence of throngs of red and white-clad Liverpool F.C. fans in town for the big game against Barca.

One balding, thick man had what I assume was the team's shield tattooed prominently on a robust, hairy forearm--the same one that was casually holding a 24-can tray of beers. He offered one to the Spanish business man sitting nearby (the Spaniard did not partake).

Beside him was a woman about four times my age, nodding along to the team songs that the group was singing through at least five stops. I say "songs" and not "cheers" because these were no mere cheers. No, "go team go," for these fellows. Oh no. These were full-out songs, with verses and choruses and I can tell you that in that half-hour long ride I did not hear them sing the same ballad twice.

I have no idea who won, but even if that train load comprised all the fans Liverpool brought with them, they surely had no lack of spirited support.

a princess a long way from home

We hear about a little festival going on in Manresa, a town maybe an hour way from Barcelona on the commuter line. Knowing nothing but our destination, we get off at what we hope is the right stop and wander in what seems like the right direction, stepping into our adventure in the Catalonian countryside.

We stumble upon the Catalan version of a Renaissance fair. It is the "Fira de L'Aixada"...or "Feste de La Llum;" I see both and their translations, "Fair of the Hoe" and "Feast of the Light" don't seem to coincide, thought I was relatively certain there was only one festival occurring that day in the tiny town. Despite the confusion, the booths of freshly cooked meats and breads, the falconry tent, acrobats, and random people in inexplicable medieval dress required no definitions.

After a few cups of barrel-ladled red wine, I ask a local (in Spanish) for directions to one of the squares we had been before. I receive a lengthy reply and feel as if I'm having trouble following him. I recognize a couple words and jump at my first chance to end the conversation and "follow" his advice. As we wander in what seems to have been the indicated route, I feel troubled that I so misunderstood him. My Spanish is better than that. Did that wine go to my head without my noticing? Only later did I realize he was speaking in Catalan. The Catalonian town was so small that its locals didn't even speak Spanish--or refused to. Though this fact was no more reassuring to my state of mind, since not noticing a language change is a decidedly worse mistake.

Walking through the narrow cobbled streets, we run into a small plaza with a milling crowd. We join the fringes and watch a troupe of costumed dancers perform a group routine. The music ends, the dancers disperse, and a man dressed as a jester takes up a mic and begins to speak (it is now obviously a language we do not understand). It becomes apparent that he is picking people from the crowd to some costumed purpose; a crowned king and queen have already been chosen. A helper jester circuits the crowd and then there he is. Right in front of me. His hand is on my wrist and I am being pulled--firmly--forward. I dig in my heels--firmly. No way, no how. I have always dreaded being in front of crowds, let alone ones whose language I do not understand, and certainly let alone ones who desire to costume me and, in all likelihood, make a giant ass out of me.

Which is indeed exactly what happened after my so-called friends gave me a big push from behind and made me stumble forward into the jester's eager clutches.

Let me say as a side note that I do not so much blend into a Spanish crowd, per se. To be explicit, I am close to six feet tall and have white blonde hair. No one needed to see the first look of disturbed confusion to cross my face to realize I had no idea what they were talking about. I suspect this had something to do with my selection.

So, I am pulled through the crowd and exit to the unfriendly vacuum of the empty plaza. I am placed next to the king and queen and then--oh yes--a cone princess hat, veil attached, is strapped securely to my head. It's not terribly necessary to go in depth on the utter mortification I felt at that moment, and for fifteen or so minutes that followed.

What followed was pretty much one constant stream of ridicule. The jester narrated and the characters (of which I was, apparently, the princess), were led to run around the plaza and pantomime certain scenes with the help of a few props and some creative charades on the part of the helper jesters. After a few explosions of laughter from the crowd, I caught on that I had missed my cue to do or say something. Hard as I tried to comprehend, though, I could never anticipate when I would be called and was thus, expectedly, publicly ridiculed several more times; notably, once when the jester looked at me significantly and repeated himself several times, and then finally said, "di 'bop,'" which I finally understand as meaning, say "bop." Which I then did, with a sigh of relief that was greeted by an exponential rise in general hilarity. Too late I realized that something along the lines of, "Say -blank-. No? Come on. Say it. You can't? Well, then just say 'bop'."--had just occurred. Lovely.

It is difficult to emphasize how long this actually went on. The dumb foreigner joke just did not get old with that crowd. Finally though, the play seemed to come to some sort of climax, ending with me hand in hand with my short and sweaty-palmed prince. And then, something I finally did understand, as the characters were held up for applause: "y la princesa rosa, guapa pero tonta."

"...and the blonde princess, pretty but stupid."

Lovely.