Choosing a washed out photo seems most appropriate considering my personality is washed out. My colours are faded. I am not distressed. I am just fatigued. Historically, Ruidoso brought relief from the searing cultural dearth of West Texas. How an artistic, progressive community grew up there still amazes me.
I’m happy to be surprised. My opinion of the good ol’ USA sank so low during all my time in Europe that it may be found cerca de la torre enterrada in Del Aire al Aire by Pablo Neruda. So, when an oasis is found in this artificially scarred land, I am pleased.
My mother perpetually prods me with a sort of emotional blackmail. She needs me to live near. They are getting old, you see. You better believe it, I see. Age ripens to a delicate point, and then rot ensues. She blurts time and time again that she’ll even find a place for me to live in Ruidoso. Three and a half hours by car away from Seminole is not far enough.
Still, an allure remains. Accessing my faded imagination, I see myself in a small apartment somewhere near Sudderth Drive, whiling the hours and days away at a tiny desk. I’d write. I’d program. I’d read. I’d probably drink. I’d stay away from the casino - that is for certain. Well, except for playing blackjack or three card poker.
As a failed romantic, I still find allure.
Café seats would hold me firm to the wooden floor. Coffee, wine and beer would accompany as I scribbed in a leather-bound tome I found in some curio shop. My hair would always be uncombed, falling unevenly across my forehead and into my eyes. My clothes would be mismatched and weathered. I’d become a village staple - a known but unknown introvert who drifts in and out of cafés and casinos, bars and diners. I’d be seen on trails webbing the hillocks and miniature mountains encasing the valley. My tent would be pitched occasionally in remote clearings. I’d have a ferret. Most likely two.
I fade further. My skin dries and cracks. My dusty trail boots sit in the corner, uncleaned, for weeks at a time.
The cards call me and I am there daily. Perhaps I am tipsy. Still I play. There is a horror lurking in the future. Bleakness is my shroud. Yet, I am still not dead.
Some days I win. Most I lose. I put back enough to purchase booze, victuals and enough petrol to get to and from the casino. I assume by this time, my rent is not an issue, nor is internet. Hey - it’s the future, after all.
I look at reality before me as if through slats.
By now, I have finished my two novels. I have sent them to publishers. One is rejected. One sells moderate amounts. Money trickles in. Money is sieved away. When I read through parts of the books, I don’t ponder on the meaning of what I wrote, but on the situations around me when the words splattered from my fingers onto the page. Id est, I submerge into nostalgia. Those visions torment me. I write in my blog / journal / diary about them. They are now part of this.
I recall writing about the future I am now living and search back through my blog / journal / diary and find this entry. It burns as I swallow. I drive out to buy vodka. I return and write about what I wrote.
I am a shadow.
