West Texas
You may not think this intense craving for Lay's potato chips and Prosecco could be conjured by the desert-driven thirst of West Texas. I'd maintain that the comestible combo is a perfect and symbiotic relationship. One that reflects the essence of minimalist-inspired art kids stomping the back streets of Marfa. Here, statues of vintage muscle cars stand all tattered and betwixt prickly pear and tumbleweed.
Pour yourself a glass.
Towering spires and incense. Temple bells and dancing votive flames.
'Tis not the blessed or sacred space that is required for contemplation.
Clanking of rocking, swaying boat masts. Warm breath of grassy fields.
'Tis neither foreign nor familiar place that is required for meditation.
We need not panoply and religiosity, not even a stone labyrinth leafed in gold.
'Tis any new or worn journey or even standing still that induces reverie.
A sunken, broken toy lies alone. The vast terrain of a chlorine-infused ocean serves as home. There is no place more quiet. There is no place more still. Float.
One heartbeat then another. The rise and fall of each beat and breath gives bounce between two worlds. The weightless, cold envelope is broken open for a moment. Inhale the blinding, blazing sun and giant roar of cicadas. Exhale to the depths of origin.
No louder roar than that of a tumbleweed. Hipsters drawn like moths to a kerosene lamp. It takes three visits to Marfa before one can fully appreciate the quiet convergence of creative force and independent spirit.
Nestled in the sprawling and desolate land of West Texas, is a gem named Terlingua. It takes awhile to understand it. Some folks never do. In this town, the postman is your bartender. The musician is a school teacher by day. And, the few dozen residents that live here are respected for their reclusiveness and eccentricity. The high desert land is marked by ruins of the old Chisos mining company as well as shells of old, rusty cars and buses.
