I put a bid in for 1000 acres in Marfa. It’s on the edge of town, up against haunted mountains, blue and orange sky at sunset, and blackest night against the Milky Way; but it’s scrub within range of water, sewer, and rabbit ear fields, where roadrunners, mockingbirds, and black vultures find comfort. Is it a last refuge or one more Das Kapital delusion? I’ll put one of those modern prefabs on it with all the works, like post-yuppie dreams of well water and solar panels, a telescope, and maybe garden of beans and peppers, chickens, goats, and a horse or burro. I don’t believe you can own land. You can steward it, mold or scar it, but ownership implies more than a transitory range of being.
There is that moment in life when you realize that you are not going to be “the one;” whatever that means with all of its kite strings. That revolution you started ended years ago, even before you came along. It’s easier to snip the line, leap off The Gate, and disappear out of the way of those who’ve always known better and always will. You’ve missed the date when all possibility laid at your feet. You choose to be responsible and dull; and in spite of efforts shallow, handshakes, and random conversation, you can’t be random.
You can laugh at your own jokes, or with force of will, spread perverse sublimation and emotional arm-twisting, at how urbane you’ve become, but the truth is that you are dull, boring, and slow of emotional wit. Topics of which you speak are silly, prefab, pretexts at intelligence. You’ve overstayed your welcome; you’ve run it into aspiration, desperation; and all those in the queue behind you think a foothold will lead them past. Ha, ha, the jokes on you. It’s another blind alley in a corn maze, a trap set just for you, by you. You can throw down the torch and burn your way out of this post-harvest, anemic and dry-brown field, but it only leads to the past, to the start again. It would be better to set yourself on fire, and when the pain subsides, and you can’t smell or see your last breath, at least the ash will feed this cul-de-sac.
Turn and walk away at the site of you in the mirror. Hang a new drape over what you saw there, and stack it as empty bottles with interesting shapes, like a blank phone solicitation (non-commit) or credit card application in the post to the current resident. Thin synaptic pathways will entomb it in a history in invisible ink.
I think it’s a bitter symptom worse than bland fruit that’s been over fertilized and groomed to be beautiful. I knew it was a risk and naïveté. I knew I could handle the consequence. I knew a lot, some say too much; I say it’s a wet paper sack. A plastic bodega bag stuck in barbwire flapping against tumbleweeds has more depth of content and longevity then this childish wank.
One thousand acres in the dessert are as close to dust as you can achieve, and find forgetfulness, quiet meditation on the null, emotions at sunrise in season, and all thoughts collapse into one. It was never about me.