Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

The miles melt. Centerline fever sets in, and I start to lose the picture. It's foolish to race space, so I turn off beside a dry lake and stop for a tailgate lunch: soggy cheese and mayo on bread. I notice two mustangs watching me from the next rise, and they lend astonishing color and scale to the bleached badlands. How to explain their majestic presence in this land of scarcity? They are old spirits, motionless as rock until a flick of tail.
....I've met wild horses before, but never so utterly still. They live to be in motion. I met eight of them one time on a trail to Delamar. They ambled ahead and moved with ease on the trail's twisted ruts, and turned to watch me at times, amused by my machine's struggle and whine, until at last they trotted off across ravines and rocks with miraculous agility. But how is that possible? How could they move like that, unshod?
....The two mustangs stand in heat and glare, as old warriors, or a manifestation, a paranormal fluke. Maybe this is an old battleground, a place where many psyches suddenly saw their last flash of life, where even the lowest dirt for a brief moment took on irrational gravity in the intensity set to great light, its energy released in a flash between dimensions that lingers, where proud ghosts touch off dust with a flick on desperate slopes. Or maybe not pride, but flashes of vestigal terror. But it's hard to imagine any one place as haunted out here, where even star fields are vividly accessible. Too much to go explore.
....Yet Arizona was haunted. It felt different. Watchful cactus beings followed me into hills of skeletal juniper, and I crested high plateaus of creaking ponderosa in roaring gale that fell again to dusty plains shot through with crazy mesas, some with fortified ruins on top, centuries old, watching the horizon . . . a deceptive land of windswept peace, waylaid by sudden violence at times. You might not return if you strayed, and invaders came if you stayed. The West was never easy; it was full of hardship and gut-level grit. Each place had its extremes of brutality, but they converged more often in Arizona.
....Arizona had the ghosts. Americans fought Mexico and the Indians, and all three savaged the other two and themselves. Promises and spirits were broken. Land was taken. People were taken-- as slaves by southern raiding parties, and herded on a death trails across frigid plains. The Indian Wars swept up even those who sought peace into a grim vortex, in part because good land was contested, in a sense of both everyday sustenance and wider cosmic belief, also in part because contractors in Tucson had interests in continued war.
....It was the latest chapter in crazy mesa land. Natives fought various Apache for centuries, then the Spanish clad in glittering metal who came with their gold lust and crosses, then the Apache again, and then the Americans who finally closed the deal, lawless enough to bring law and serious enough about possession, who even slaughtered hundreds of thousands of themselves to make sure they were united. And after that war was over, hardened killers, drifters, misfits and tycoons went west to carve out their own spoils on their own terms.
....I came the other way, east to a desert haunted by saguaro silhouettes, a feeling that lingered as I climbed ambush passes into what's left of range land. This was a last-chance desert for violent outlaws of all stripes, including lawmen; an expanse of claustrophobic human darkness populated by icy murderers, raiders, slavers, thieves, crooked politicians, hired guns, renegades and vigilantes. It was a land of invasion, massacre, cattle rustling, ruthless and sadistic blood feuds, corruption, deception, betrayal, mob justice and grisly remains on trails.
....Arizona had the ghosts. Some people swear the place is full of them, but how is that possible out in open space? Go listen, they say, to the shuffling footsteps of murdered prostitutes in abandoned halls of Tombstone hotels, or blunted sounds of warriors engaged in battle on windless nights at Canyon de Chelly. Maybe the ghosts are imagined, or maybe they're overcome by noise. Maybe that's why no one can afford silence. Maybe people who hear them are more attuned; I don't know. Arizona was a different vibration. It's darker past seemed to mirror its starker, dramatic landscape, though the two are unrelated.

But I'm drifting again. History can ruin places, and so what? It was always that way, monotonous and full of savagery even at its high points. I didn't come here to argue with those ghosts; I argue with my own. Was it a sort of spiritual desolation that led me to isolation? Some failure of belief? And why can't I touch this space? Why can't I just leave my truck and walk to the top of the next ridge? Yes, on foot for godssake. It's only two miles, or maybe six. Why don't I personally try to put a dimension to this land that lacks scale?
....I stare into far temples of isolation and feel at home, like I've always felt in the big, bright empty of Nevada. I can't explain it because no good explanation exists for the desert's pull, though a few grizzled vets have tried. Like Ed Abbey. He knew the desert well, not from behind a wheel, but on foot, or horseback, or even on his belly where he could watch mating rituals of snakes. He was always the undeterred voice of conscience, the poetic rebel champion of wilderness who inveighed against stripping it or paving over its heart.
....Ed had a theory about ocean, mountain and desert, the untouched open spaces that call us into their midst to explore. It went something like this: Ocean pulls most strongly at its shore, but falls to a medium of tedium beyond. And mountain high beckons strongly at its base as well, but the climb tends to be rushed and weather often bad at the summit, and there's nowhere to go but down. But the desert runs forever and lures you on, to the next canyon or distant prospect, and it promises journey and destination at each view . . . Well, it promises something. Or maybe Ed just liked horses. They're useful out here, but not so much on a blue ocean or a steep mountainside.
....Wild burros live out here too. They are the descendants of old prospector pack animals, and seem a better fit for this sparse land, less dramatic than horses. They don't stand out; they blend in. Their low, gray frame is built for a steady plod, not theatrics, and they have an uncanny way of appearing like frontier ghosts out of nowhere when I'm preoccupied with changing faces of rock and sky.
....I look back to the haunted rise, and the mustangs are gone. So I close the tailgate and grind toward the far side, but in a few hours I glimpse the highway again. I see the junction and the snaking boxes on eighteen wheels. I hear their faint, shifting, lumbering whir as truckers gear down for the grade. And I still have time to turn back; I risk motion mania again. But I need that road. A long ramp lies on the next ridge, and there's a trail to the top.
....So at pavement I look both ways, then gun it. In that precarious zone between Point A to B, let the truckers pass; I seek only the trail . . . But mile markers start to pass, and where is the trail? They are easy to miss at this speed. I peer and squint, and at last I see it, a thin scrawl into its own vacant logic. And then a U-turn, and I drop from paved grade . . . And what a departure, from numbing velocity through space, into space itself.
....I start across a yucca flat toward a new outer rim, and it's hard to describe that feeling of new freedom. The snaking boxes recede and move more slowly until they never existed. The slope steepens, but my inner coordinates simply rotate on the arc. I hardly notice the climb until ridges flow out in lustrous waves. There is no reference point, only boundlessness compressed to a point of now. Yes, I know. In reality even the longest spans may be crossed by armies fitted with doctrine, but for now the rock is boundless.

loved it- you are eloquent

Oh man, you still got it baby... Loved reading every single word, love the same spaces and characters, love that you are still jackaloping around!

So nice to hear your voice last night... I know Cecil B. needed you to call, to share whatever you men share. Thank you and know that mi casa es su...

Awesome ride

Mark... I believe this to be some of the finest, if not *the* finest writing you've done to date. So many wonderful sentences that tell their own stories within this singular tale of travel you've unwound from experience.

When will that look-overdue book of yours splash onto the scene for those who wait for good writing, my friend..?

Thanks so much, creativesoul, Sooz and Cec. Yeah, I added to my (relatively short) musings on horses from writings of a few years back-- inspired by a book I read this summer, Cities of Gold by Doug Preston-- the tale of a long journey by two greenhorns on horseback through Arizona and New Mexico, following Spanish explorer Coronado's route taken when he searched for the (mythical) "Lost Cities of Gold." Really good book, and much much history retold as the author progressed, related to each place he passed through...

I'm not sure where I got the "ghost horses" part, but I think it's pretty good...

Yep... Of course, I love the subject... but I think it's pretty good too! History inspires quite a few authors, it seems, that and the landscapes. You had me at the first sentence.

My summer reading has been a book by Terry Duke (a local friend) about the so called crash of the alien ship at Roswell, NM in the forties Pendragon, and what would have happened if an alien had survived and lived with a local ranching family. Great premise, huh?

[Problem is, since I know Terry (he does not actually believe in aliens or that purported crash) I can't help but be super critical as I read, editing in my head... Hah! I talked with him about it, saying I saw some minor mistakes and he was gracious and asked me to write in the margins or highlight them. "In my book? The one you signed to me!?" Even tho he promised me another, I was reluctant since my head literally had been in my original copy (does that make sense? It does to me...) But, I also realize good editing and perhaps another viewpoint makes a difference in the result, i.e. the book.]

If you wander this way...or call. It may be fodder for a discussion, heh? At any rate, I am pleased to see you are still writing, and doing "a pretty good job!"

Cool, Sooz. Yes, by all means . . . I would hope, if I'm full of shit (or less correct than I usually am!) in any of my descriptions about some aspect(s) of places I've passed through, that someone would help set me straight.

I've never been too fired up about alien space ships (maybe because I've been such a consistent inner city dweller for so long). But at the placer gold mine in the desert that I watched over for awhile, the prospector/miner who lived there for forty years swore that a saucer once came down to visit himself and two other miners who had stopped by to play cards. It must have really happened if three guys all saw it, right?...

I regret that I didn't have (or make) more time the last couple of times I made it to Texas, to go see those strange Marfa lights that you talked about a few years back. I'm still curious about those. Maybe some day ...

I have to say that I saw some very strange things in the sky (around Area 51) when I was on the road back from San Fran. in the early 70's. Lights in the sky (dozens) doing things no planes could do. Plus, I have some childhood memories that are still very disturbing but that is a discussion for face to face (or phone time...) Cecil knows about these episodes in my life. There are lots and lots of stories like those of the miner you met out there but who knows???

Terry's book is very well done, especially the science part and the research but the premise is kinda creepy to me, perhaps because of those childhood memories... Plus, I tend to read books late at night, before sleep which may be the problem

The Marfa Lights were first notated by my Dad's grandfather on a cattle drive in his diary (he was a journal keeper too) and I have a copy of that. This is from the Texas State Historical Assn:

The first historical record of them recalls that in 1883 a young cowhand, Robert Reed Ellison, saw a flickering light while he was driving cattle through Paisano Pass and wondered if it was the campfire of Apache Indians. He was told by other settlers that they often saw the lights, but when they investigated they found no ashes or other evidence of a campsite.

Here is the link: https://tshaonline.org/handbook/online/articles/lxm01

You must visit that part of West Texas and the Presidio. Lots of my family history is there plus the McDonald Observatory which is worth a visit as well. You, I'm sure would find lots of stories to tell...city slicker. hah!

As I was reading the first part I was thinking of Edward Abbey, as he appeared in the story...
I've always liked McMurtry as well, maybe because the only books I ever saw my dad read were Zane Grey's.......great descriptions of the vast beauty that can be intimidating to some...you create the appropriate wanderlust eloquently.....

Sooz... Wow, so you're dad's grandfather was the first person to make note of these lights (beyond word of mouth)? Interesting... Back in '99 I drove through W. Texas-- Fort Stockton, Alpine, Terlingua, Presidio, and yes, Marfa too. But it was near the end of a long trip, so I "just passed through" and unfortunately, didn't do enough exploring. Some day ...

I added a few paragraphs-- to fit in before the final section above. The "roots rhythms" part refers back to, and builds on, earlier chapters describing the music I listened to at times in the desert-- mostly early on in the wandering; less so later on:

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....The two Mustangs stand and watch, frozen on shimmering heat out of whatever dimension they came from, waiting for me to move. It reminds me of that antelope near Twin Buttes in the Oregon sage. I came around a hill and he was sixty yards off. We stopped to watch each other. Never blinked. I swore he was an apparition that would fade to rock at any time; the antelope spirit stared me down
.... Could I ever slow myself enough to approach? To see shape? To pick up for an instant the hum of stars in rock? . . . I remember the cactus wren when I got to Arizona, perched on a grandfather saguaro next to a terrible, bone-limbed ocotillo like a giant upside-down mutant spider. I crept slowly toward the bird, each soft step much too loud, and he flew, predictably. But he wasn't done; he came back, and I inched closer. The tiny bird flitted, but held his perch. I got within eight feet, but at first eye contact he flew. Away from his advancing, menacing giant.
.... In this rock and fire I remember when the weather turned. Advancing clouds were torched when I got to Arizona's postcard sky, that raging fire ocean on the arms of saguaro soldiers. I recall horses too, the sheen of sorrel and bay against pale desert, rich colors of earth monarchs, their fluid powerful motion for so long in servitude, to haul two-legged schemers headlong into head-bound glory, all sublime, insane and blessed.
.... I have the horses; I have their still, eerie majesty. I have roots rhythms from the dash, and dubrock at times, all riding a deep earth bass that powers a rise and fall of rock echoes out to distant smoke, but the tune flowing now is not smoke; it's undulating, bright jazz, dipping, cresting like a sun-dazed roll on the dunes. No, it's lusher than that, the reggae river itself, immersed in cool liquid light, diving, touching logs and fish, a rolling sound so heavily phased that it dips and surfaces in my old summer river until drifting off again to ethereal echo, out of nowhere to nowhere and the big soul river between.
.... The river is mostly echo out here, out of the ruins, or those residual reverberations that fade from your skull until it's your breath against parched wind on planetary horizons where rock seems to be getting somewhere, spinning through heat and speckled black, only turning circles. You think about time out here and how it used to pass slowly, but then compressed and accelerated as you became aware of it, and how Christmas once took forever to get here. I turn off the music to face a silent crush. Echo fades.
.... The river is a swelling stream, murmuring scream. There was no room for echo in the city, only onrushing whoosh. I tasted its currents and floated downstream, but the river was prone to flooding when I first woke to a deluge of war; its rushing torrents began to undermine the underpinnings. But those were heady days with the Button of Fire and government fliers on how to survive H-bomb war in your parents' basement. We had the weapons and drugs, and music was incredible; it rammed through walls, jammed and curved space, carved out space for echo from the flood.
....When did the first vibrations occur? Or the first counter-vibrations? Science might crack the mystery, but can it solve history? I recall how everything turned on a random event because history is the blinding, shifting desert of time, the mob that snuffs witnesses. You have no chance against it; you sleep to its lullabys and march to its designs, and that's how it's always been, and impossible stars burn through blackness every night, unconcerned, gradually converging on their own solution.
....Sometimes silence only intensifies my inner reverb; I shed my motion mania, so why can't I slow my mind?

Thanks saw. Abbey was truly my first (literary) inspiration re: desert roaming. In addition to being a brilliant writer, he was a true activist for wilderness, and much more of a naturalist than I'll probably ever be (I've pretty much just been a wandering bum in a pickup truck so far). Other writers have inspired me too: John McPhee, Hunter S, Kerouac, Mary Austin, Doug Preston and Reg Saner come to mind (I even talked to Reg on the phone).

One thing to keep in mind about the above mind-ramble is that this stretch of my wander was fairly early on, taking place in late '01 and early '02, under the long shadow cast by 9/11/01 . . . which I suppose seeps into cracks of the text here and there.

Anyway, I'm glad to hear that people are picking up on my "desert vibe" as I experienced it-- not the easiest thing(s) to express... Appreciate it.