The Desert: Part 2

New Mexico is a land of equal parts. What does that mean, you ask, but I say no, don't ask. Explaining myself is not the point here. That you remember it is a land of equal parts...that is the point. It means something yes, but what it means is what the story is for.

The day after I arrived, my ex took me to buy an '89 Plymouth Reliant K from some chick she knew in town who was moving the the east coast. Now this is the car that brought Chrysler back from the edge of bankruptcy and extinction in the 1980's. In 2007 however, when I took my first look at it, it didn't seem like much at all and certainly did not have the appearance of a conglomerate-saving car. Even with it's perfectly cared for white exterior and even more perfectly cared for plush wine interior, it still appeared to be nothing more than a boxy grandma's car with a twist of 70's pimpmobile. The Kelly Bluebook price for it in fair condition was $500. The owner tried to talk me into paying $600 or $700 for it, but I wouldn't budge a penny past the Bluebook price, and I'm damn glad for it since I soon found out that the hot hippie chick owner who was moving to Boston with her new FTM boy friend was lying through her pretty little perfectly white teeth (as perfectly white as her car's paint job in fact) about the condition of the car, which actually had a busted radiator and thus was not in fair condition, but in poor condition. Two weeks after I bought it, I had to put three hundred bucks into it to replace the radiator. I had now paid three hundred dollars more than the car was worth. The moral of that story is: never trust hot hippie chicks with perfectly white teeth. The submoral (which is to moral as subplot is to plot) is: never trust the advice of your ex-girlfriend.

Oh, and speaking of the advice of an ex-girlfriend, that reminds me, when I called her up from San Francisco, where I was living at the time, and told her the love of my life had cheated on me and made a complete fool of me and I was not only ready to get outta dodge, but it was imperative that I do so before this love of my life that I could not seem to break up with no matter the damage she caused me succeeded in completely sucking the soul out of my body and leaving me a mass of black twitching tissue on a random concrete San Francisco sidewalk, my ex told me to move to Santa Fe, because, and I quote, “there are tons of hot gay chicks here and you will get laid a lot and you won't have allergies here.” Well, if by 'tons of hot gay chicks' she really meant 'one hot psychotic gay chick that will stalk you after you break up with her', then I suppose I can't call her an outright liar, but since Santa Fe has the highest pollen count in the nation for longer than any other geographic spot in the nation, I can, in fact, call her an outright liar, or I suppose I could give her the benefit of the doubt and just label her a' spoiled vapid harlot who didn't notice anything about the place she lived in'. The moral of this story is, when your ex tells you to move to where she is because you'll get laid a lot, what it really means in secret ex-girlfriend language is: I'm depressed and I need you to solve my problems. And the submoral is: if you have allergies...DO NOT move to Santa Fe, no matter what my ex-girlfriend tells you. And if you find yourself at some point being swayed by her to the contrary, remember, she's either a liar, or a vapid harlot. Just keep saying to yourself in your head, “don't listen to this chick, she's a liar or a vapid harlot...liar or vapid harlot...liar or vapid harlot...” and so on and so forth, until you are safe and sound on the other side and opposite bank of her reason.

I suppose I should give my ex a point right here at this point however or things just wouldn't be fair. So here we are, and here I am, marking one point for her, so that her score is now only -3,476 instead of -3,477. Why? Well, I never once, for even a millisecond, regretted actually purchasing the Reliant. Her exterior and her shape reminded me of a car my mom's mother had when I was a child, so I named her Nana, while the plush wine interior reminded me of that pimp I had when I was a teenager, so I also named her pimpmobile, except that when she was pimpmobile she was a he. Is it a mere coincidence that my first car in Santa Fe had a gender disposition generally similar to my own? Certainly not! For in Santa Fe, there is no coincidence...only sunbleached, wraith-like fate. It certainly had nothing whatsoever to do with my projecting my own ambiguous gender disposition upon my car. No no, definitely not. And I resent you even bringing that up.

My ex's hubby said to me one day, “You should hang lights from the ceiling, like a jalopy.”

- Ew. Why would I do that?

- It would be cool.

- Well but I come from Earth, and on my planet, that is not cool.

- It would be considered cool here.

- You've been in New Mexico too long

- I'm from here.

- Oh.

I didn't hang lights from the ceiling of the Pimpmobile.  

the desert: part 1

when i first moved to santa fe, i didn't give a shit about anything or anyone. i'd already lost the two most important things that would ever come into my life. there was no point in being nice. there was no point in being sane. there was no point in asking for anything, i'd already lost the two most important...did i already say that? i did didn't i? damn it, i'm repeating myself. fuck it...things that would ever come into my life. i erroneously thought there was no getting them back. 


i was half right, but i was also half wrong, and that is going to be the important part of the story.

i arrived in albuquerque shaking and nauseous and feeling like every nerve ending had been set on fire and was slowly disintegrating like the way incense does as it burns. the doctors had been telling me for years there was nothing wrong with me. i guess it's normal to feel shaky and nauseous and like every nerve ending has been set on fire and is slowly disintegrating like the way incense does as it burns. that's what they say anyway, which means, you, yeah you, reading this right now, you must be shaky and nauseous and feeling like every nerve ending has been set on fire and is slowly disintegrating like the way incense does as it burns, because you are just a normal person reading what is clearly a normal piece of writing, so don't worry about it...it's all. perfectly. normal. doctors, with important pieces of paper that say they know everything and can never be wrong, they say you are fine. either that or your mind is having a mental problem and making you think you're shaky and nauseous and feeling like every nerve ending had been set on fire and was slowly disintegrating like the way incense does as it burns, when really...you're just mental. but if you're mental, it's not that big a deal. they just send you home. 

so i'm glad i got that out of the way and clear. we all here in this room, you, who are really sitting there, and me, via these words on these pages...we are all mental. don't forget. keep it in mind. it could be important at some point.

anyway, back to the story. i arrived in the desert. i was shaking. i was nauseous. my nerves hurt. the air was dry and the airport was ugly. i was picked up by my ex-girlfriend, a small very white girl with red freckles and red hair, who likes to smile and laugh and avoid life's normal pains at all costs. was it a coincidence that i was moving the the land of turquoise and my ex drove up in a turquiose colored car? i think not. it was fate. the kind of fate too deep and complex to understand the details of, but that is just to blatantly obvious on a very vague and meaningless level to ignore. i got into her turquoise car.

on the freeway, i looked out the window. albuquerque. 

- it's really ugly. why did you tell me to move here? 

- santa fe is not ugly.

- i really hope not.

then i a semi with holes all over it cruised up.

- why are there holes in that semi?

but before she could say anything, there was a cow nose, poking through one of the holes. it was a semi full of cows. it was a moment of clarity for me...i am very far away from my home.

so i sat in that passenger seat looking out the window at the faded colors of the landscape and some dry bushes i thought were ugly and eventually found out are called Chamisa and smell like rancid cat pee in spring. i thought about my fate in this place and what color it would be and if maybe it was going to be turquoise.

i hadn't been around long enough to know the desert sun yet and how it bleaches the color out of all our fates. it doesn't mean we don't have fates, it just means they are like ghosts. now listen, that's an important metaphor...because ghosts...they haunt.

number number what

We are driving

And my girlfriend

She used to live down that street

It's an acceleration

You'll understand one day

When you get there

From Color to Dust

When we rise up into yesterday like a mistake

When we throw new color to the canvas so as
to survive, to see the flock of birds and the one feather
fall, to wear in our hair and around our neck
life's lost love as a decoration

What hurts most is to be
forgotten, so we dab a bit of blue
into her dress, the color of our eyes
so she cannot escape our haunting
and if what we must do is haunt
we are already dead, but maybe it is too late

Maybe into a coffin it is we were born

Maybe everywhere but now is our duty
the fiery sun on the horizon casting purple and pink
where our souls have always been headed

Maybe she painted us from the chambers of
dust in her heart, dabbing the tip
of her brush in pains so old

Maybe there is a flap at her chest that she lifts
when she creates, with a hole beneath and the color she intends
hides in her will, until on the tip of her brush
our colors she brings, and our fates

If we could hear what her dry lips whisper
"You began when I was young, in the scratch
of a nail across perfect skin"