stream of consciousness, vol 2

i heard on a movie once that the pacific has no memory. i wonder if that's true. the last time i saw the face of that blue water, i was in another country, and two months out from losing my father. i saw his face in the sunset and the sailboats every night, and drank away his voice at the bar when the sun was gone from the sky. i hope the pacific i see this go around is a little more on the peaceful side.

spring is here. i can smell it in the air...the pregnant smell of freshly turned soil and the faint taste of salt from the sea that seems to be wafting up from the coast. i read a book about horses this week and i harkened back to my childhood...to the way fields would roll past the car window and i would day dream the whole way to where ever we were going...about who i would become...who i would marry...what i would be when i grew up.

if we went north, i knew i would see terraces, shallow and full of hay or wheat or cows at the snodgrass dairy just outside of town, my grandmother would point out shortcuts to the farms where she lived as a child. my grandfather would talk about the doodlebug train that ran from here to there and could be boarded at the depot, which i only ever knew as an art gallery. and the toilet factory and the smell of tape as we crested the hill into the metropolis seemed to promise new school clothes or a roller skating adventure or a movie and later, it meant i was on a date.
if we went west, i knew the land would flatten, flatten flatten and maize would give way to cotton would give way to maize would give way to cotton and in the middle of nowhere every 20 or 30 minutes out of the flat distance would spring the iron and rust of the oil pumper, going like some beast from the past or the future, making money out of light sweet crude or something. i kenw we were going to the doctor or shopping or that i was going to have to run some crazy distance to see if i could actually make it. i knew that road like the back of my hand, and soon the curves didn't mean anything in the road because they just tasted like tears. and they smelled like cigarettes and anger and that adrenaline smell you get in your nose when you fall down and aren't sure if you're ok or not. and the only good thing about that road was the rest stop 26 miles exactly outside of town, because i made out there with a boy i loved once. i still have a fond place in my heart for rest stops, just because of that. it was a catharsis...i hurt so badly that day, and was so angry and so so so sad that kisses seemed to be the only thing that could even come close to being any kind of a balm. that being said, i still hate it when he visits my sleep, which he did last week, and which i am still angry over. that town, those memories, most of them are just another word for hell. someplace i don't ever want to go again.

if we went south, the hills would roll roll roll and surely a thunderhead would loom just out of mason and i would watch the rain come on over the hills and be amazed that i could see so far and live in such a magical land. and sometimes, instead of reading about harriet tubman or anne frank or singing along to the beach boys, my mother would tell stories about jackalopes or indians and i would be right back in the 1840's. and we would drive by cherry springs, where the last comanche captive owned a dance hall and aunt sarah and uncle billy saw elvis and jerry lee lewis on a double bill one night. going that way meant camp, or the alamo, or the riverwalk, or friends or the beach or the lbj ranch or fredricksburg, which always meant that i woud hear stories.

we almost never went north, unless we were going someplace else entirely in a different state. the fields and trees and small towns gave way to rolling prairie and interstates and soon i could drive, but didn't much want to because i wanted to sleep and read my very important books and think my very important thougths and be so sure that no one understood me at all. the road to dallas feels 15 to me. like i want to cry and laugh and take over the world. and it means the mississippi river, too.

elton john is on my mind. i am a very small child, and i am hearing "rocket man". or james taylor or jim croce or jesus christ superstar, and i can hear the lines on the records and now i miss those noises when i listen to them on my cds. the snap and the crackle and the way a pipe smells and because it's spring, i'm a little happy and a little sad, and mostly i miss my daddy and my poppa. i still have so many questions. not the least of which are about the fields and the crackels and how to buy the right air filter and not get hosed buying tires and if this all makes sense one day. that's all. i hope the pacific has a merciful memory...deep, but not painful.

dona nobis pacem.

mil besos--rmg