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Tejas....
by chris brecht....
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Even the nights are too hot to breathe....
the
air sticks and hangs around the edges of the door frames....
coming through the cracks like a fog or some horror movie
disease ....
that attacks your skin, face and lungs.. ....
....
I wake up in the middle of the
night, humming tune. I sleep hard few drinks. But with no drinks, I’m fertile
and awake often by thoughts that are not subconscious. And there is stress too. You know the
think air of stress. But you can’t
worry too much these days about being behind in your bills. It’s not really
your fault. and me, I just pretend like I don’t have any. But we don’t eat very
much. The kitchen is bare. The refrigerator drips condensation onto the floor.
The seal is broken. The light flickers when I look inside to the
emptiness. No condiments.. just a
couple sticks of butter, some red pepper sauce, a bag of coffee.
Song.
....
I spilled this one the other day. … when the colors of a man they just bleed away….even the
crow has got nothing to say.. don’t matter how hard it was for me to get here..
I’m with you. I’m with you. I’m with you now. ....
....
It
is Sunday morning.. I just saw a car accident on Highway 35.. a block from my
house on the central eastside.. A highway that is full of cars. The accident
must have backed up traffic from here to san Antonio.. Big black dodge pickup
hit a minivan. The minivan hit a red Toyota sedan.
I think, because it is Sunday,
sunny and only about 92 degrees, no one is agitated. People stand around like pioneers. migrating north. More concerned is the police car. The accident front to rear on about 3
cars didn’t hurt anyone, but it looked bad enough to scare the piss out of
them.. and probably anyone else who saw it close up.. There is a coffee shop on
that corner. It isn’t open. Owl Roast Coffee. They started this remodel of an
old gas station, which at one point was also a Scuba shop.. but it has now been
well over a year and they haven’t sold a single cup of coffee, far as I can
tell. So unless this is some front to a business, or some fine folks with a
good idea and not enough money,, I think all they got now is front row seats to
a very congested highway.. I drink my coffee black.
I
drink my coffee black. I wake up and I write. the hot air from tejas, a state
that I don’t understand, clings at my windows. I am open about tejas. It is
open to me. we have a relationship… probably pretty similar to Jesus and the
Devil. Except we don’t know who is
who. I can say this… The inferno
is not of my creation.. The inferno is very clear about it’s intentions, trust,
and passersby.. Clearly.. tejas is a borderland.. a spirit as much as a
territory.. a land before destination.
I am here… Finding peace it its swimming holes only rarely. The green branches and vines that reach
over the ivy and trails..
College girls run. Women run. Dogs Run. Fat men walk. Homeless sit.. That is the timing of
trails.. Hour hand. Second
hand. Culture exists here. More
than most places in America. Mostly because of the mix of influences. People
come to tejas. Tejas does not go to people. It staples its stamp on everything.
Cars, Trucks, License Plates. Businesses. There is a culture wanting here.
There is a working culture. Labor workers. There are business men who will
build over a piece of creek, garden or an old home in a blink because they see
$$. There are people who will buy despite this injustice to “tejas” even though
they are proud to be here. Proud to cultivate. Proud to invest. Proud to share.
Proud to drink local coffee. Proud to buy local vegetables. Proud to walk in
the parks. Proud to drink beer in their front yards. Proud to garden. Proud to
compost. Proud to sleep.. Proud to
tear down and build up again. I
saw 50 three hundred year old oak trees cut down to build a condo. The locals
complain. They turn in their stomachs. They bitch. They drink coffee and get
tattoos. We all bitch about things here. Sometimes it’s too hot to live.
A mural along 5th
streets back alleys by the rail road tracks reminds me of Austin’s Mexican culture.
It stretches a full city block.. Bright reds and greens and yellows on the
faces of people and their clothes. The air between me and the mural swelters
like the air above a fire.. All the images dance in stillness through the air.
Remember me and don’t forget me. It
says. It’s the middle of the night
when the train passes on the tracks that are covered by the long grass. A man
comes up to me selling jumper cables. I don’t want any. I have my own. This makes him angry. And I laugh and get into my truck.
Time will tell me
why I’m here
and you tell me
what you’re needing to hear.
I’m back.. Wherever I came from.
Music is up and down. I sing songs.
I have busked for extra dollars. I
have travel to Conroe, San Antonio, Amarillo, Lubbock, Denton. Towns where
people love you and you don’t know why. But they don’t wait. They don’t
whisper. People in Tejas whisper and dust falls from their lips. They cry and mud forms on their cheeks. They laugh and their skin shines in the
sun. I travel north.. Towns like Durango, Telluride, Ouray, Ft Collins.
Boulder. I know them. They are
covered with trees.. and Microbreweries. People drink early. They go to be
early. Filled with plump beer.. Those towns are fun. They don’t spit. They
don’t burn. I have not yet been to Terlingua. I’m looking at October like it is a friend I will meet. That
is the charm of keeping a calendar.
White Stone. White Stone. White
Stone.
The man who lives across the street
from me died. He was old. His dog
was older. They were partners. He would sit in his pickup all night and drink
beer. The back of his pickup was filled with at least 500 empty cans of
Icehouse. He would sit. And stare down the road. The dog sat on the grass
outside the door to his pickup.. Rusted brown dog. Rusted blue truck. He died. And now a no trespassing sign
hangs on the gate acting more like an invitation to an empty house. The fence
is tilted, worn gray, and broken slats tilt into one another. The man was charming because he was as
reliable as an oak tree or a neighborhood stray cat that sits on the roof of
cars. His ghost is still there…with an Icehouse in hand.
Dead grass. Dead Leaves. Dead
Flowers.
Tejas … a Dead Flower Motel...
a place.. for being everywhere
....
For Rent… I now have a band in Taos.. The music is much
different from the full torque alt-country music that my band makes in
Austin. We formed without
planning, and more like a poker game.
I know of a gig. You know of a gig. Let’s play the gig. Now we
have a game. Let’s go to Durango. ....
It was February. Hard rain all over the adobe surface of
City. I was in Santa Fe, lost in a
mess of hard rain, bad directions and traffic. In the Safeway grocery store parking lot, a girl young in
her twenties, wearing skins and a coon skin hat, asks me for a smile. I give it
to her. gladly.
Taos is just up the hill. Follow
the road yer on. Rain turned to snow, and
snow fell hard. Like a million birds swooping from the sky. Not like heavy deep and quiet mountain
snow, but New Mexico frozen rain that turned white and lightning continued to
flash behind the curtain of lace snowfall.. Lightning out of the snow clouds. A
complete white out on my windshield.
Cars pulled off the road. Traffic moved at walking speed. Light. Dark.
Water. Road. White line. Hills. Casino lights. Gas Stations. This stretch of highway is just an
accomplice to an outlawed memory of travel.
Up hills. Highway splits.. Cuts the
adobe. And turns down into the valley. Pass the river. 6 inches have fallen
since Santa Fe.
Up a mountain. Down a mountain.
Welcome to Taos.
In a gas station, the indigenous
laborers are inside buying coffee, sodas,
cupcakes and cigarettes.
The work day is done. I need a few more dollars of gas to finish the
trip.
The world is beautiful as white is
movement. People are cult. Culture
is art. Think heavy banks of white snow line the road. Traffic lights flash
yellow. Red at times. Pick up truck slips out the gas station. I buy gas. And
stand in the slush water of gas station rainbows at my feet. My boots soak. My
jeans soak to the shins.
Welcome. 6pm. 35 degrees. I need
an extra layer of skin.....
The Adobe Bar at the Taos Inn.
Firelight. Margarita. Adobe walls. Native Art. 2 feet of snow. And tortilla
soup. Where am I not? This music is still as a chicken coup. Frozen like water
in a gutter. Skilled. Like snow decorating the sky over an empty sidewalk. I see pavement. Cactus in desert.
Yellow glow. Turn table. Travelers drink. Rich ones. Poor Ones. Tourists in Taos
stick out like bright pink and white flags. Mothers and daughters wear matching
snowsuits. Locals locale. Our three piece siloouettes the crow. Lapsteel and
Mandolin.
....
Black light is the shadows twin.
One more drink..
Midnight comes quickly.
We load gear in the alley. Flashers on.
Snow 6 inches high on the roof top.
Hope the
stars see this. Foxtrot lives forever. Black Rodeo.
Streetlight yellow against snow.
Midnight. Empty streets.
Midnight. Broken fence.
Frozen Puddle Midnight. Ice is quick here.
Midnight.
....
Let’s get a drink at the bar in
town. After that, follow me, I have a sofa for you to sleep on. It’s at my friend Sarah’s house. She’s
cool. We’re going to ski in the morning. You can sleep late…
I don’t sleep that much. The morning is bright as the sun reflecting
on snow.
Snow covers the town. I have to leave. Gotta get back to
Santa Fe. Snow becomes slush. Dirt roads become mud. I remember you.
Morning is for lovers and
travelers. Today, I am the latter.
Going out. Going out. Going out.