Walking and Falling

You’re walking…and then you’re falling…you extend your hand out into the darkness, but nothing’s there…you never land anywhere, except the soft cloud. Maybe it’s purple, something other than the usual blues of the landscape. Maybe it’s not you, but maybe it’s someone else like you, and they’re walking on the street and they see what looks like a hundred dollars in the gutter.

Then there are those mysterious pines on the border. Or cypresses, rather. Three of them. It’s one of those places where day and night never end, when it’s too light to be evening but dark enough to be night…where stars always lit little paths in the heavens and a fresh south wind blows, like Friday nights in summer. Wood chimes. You see those three pines again. Scaling the long side of the cliff you can see out into the sea. Maybe this is where the world ends.

Maybe it’s one of those sick, sad depraved things like consciousness and outward movement.

Bed. Sheets undone, something like 2:30 and I’m ready for bed. I close my eyes and fall into the nice feather down mattress, I feel the big puffy pillows against my beard and clean showered skin. Midnight light from a night table. Let that be the sole comforting thing at the end, the lamp with its warm light that beckons like so many fires in fresh forgotten fields.

You’re walking, and you’re falling…but you don’t know where you’re falling to…if there is a place to fall to…you’re walking, and it doesn’t help to think that you’re walking, only the memory of walking. After all, music is made up of small memory structures. Rhythm, harmony, duration, dynamics…what you remember is correct, never what you hear. You can see only the darkness before you, a shifting mass of little colors all mixed into one, waves and pulses of seeping darkness, eyelid over eyelid, the memory of the summer.

I am in a stange, beautiful place. Pointed mountains all around, the hazy summer light of the midafternoon with its promises of sweet air and crystal starshine. Maybe it doesn’t matter what you’ve been taught after all, but what you feel, and maybe even beyond that, where you can find me.

You’re walking, and you’re falling. You’re walking…and…you’re falling. You’re…walking…and…you’re…falling. Walking and falling. Walking. Falling. Walking…falling. You put one foot over the other, and you take your first step, breathing in. You take the other. You swing out one full leg so that it goes before the other, and you shift your weight down to the other foot. And you don’t care that all you see around you is the shimmering, soft blackness of sleep and the afterbirth of a dream. Maybe it’s not you, maybe it’s someone else taking the first step.

You’re not sure what to believe. What’s so easy about walking? Well, for one, it’s a simple process. A series of repeated steps. A fall is a break in the process. So you let yourself shift weight the other way, trip yourself over. And now you’re tumbling through the cool, violet darkness. Your heart pounds. Your mind overreacts. You’re falling, and trying to resist the fall, but to no avail. You can feel the eddies of wind rush all around you. Somewhere the first shifts of cloth can be felt under your skin. You know you’re lying down, but you’re flying, too

It exists beyond the hinterland of houses. X, the unknown place. Past the uniformed streets and highways and other controllable substances, man’s suburban pill. …The city shining on the hill. What did you initially expect? One of the finest and largest structures known to you or any other magazine subscriber.

You pull away from gravity, and you don’t know how fast you’re going, but at least you know the light before you is the endpoint. See how it rims the hillsides with its brilliant motions, its auroral colors, verdant greens and acid reds, electric blues and phosphorescent violets. The television of the heavens. Soon the color fills all around you. Your feet touch down on the freshly packed snow.

I don’t know what to think sometimes. Three o’ clock, and the same car parks in the same spot, and it’s always after lunch. You would think that some people would learn. There is an array of papers on the formica table. Look at that little splotch in the right-hand corner. Weird. I never noticed anything like that before.

Coffee. Beyond the buildings in town, baking in the afternoon heat. See how the land grows perceptively less and less gray in the distance? All that haze can’t be good for the lungs.

Looking around the other side of where you touched down, you see that same ridge of mountains from the last night, except now they’re covered in snowdrifts. No trees, but only the electric underpinnings of noctilucent clouds blazing in the twilight. You have no convicitions now: you are in a foreign place, with no knowledge of walking or falling. And you do not know where you are walking to, either.

The Resurrection and the Life

On his arrival, Jesus found that Lazarus had already been in the tomb for four days. Bethany was less than two miles from Jerusalem, and many Jews had come to Martha and Mary to comfort them in the loss of their brother. When Martha heard that Jesus was coming, she went out to meet him, but Mary stayed at home.

“Lord,” Martha said to Jesus, “if you had been here, my brother would not have died. But I know that even now God will give you whatever you ask.”

Jesus said to her, “Your brother will rise again.”

Martha answered, “I know he will rise again in the resurrection at the last day.”

Jesus said to her, “I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in me will live, even though he dies; and whoever lives and believes in me will never die. Do you believe this?”

“Yes, Lord,” she told him, “I believe that you are the Christ, the Son of God, who was to come into the world.”

–John 11:17-27b

A trip to the mountains

March is one of those months that pass by so quickly, but leave so many lovely memories in its wake. The whole of the month was a learning experience. I have had to work for so many things–to travail against everything and everyone I love and respect–to get what I want, and I got it.

I finally went on vacation.

It was for about a week, and I used the credit card I applied for (even though I had no job to speak of) to finance it. And even though I’m in debt now, I feel like it was something necessary and good, as if it solved or put a resolution in sight of a lot of problems that had been plaguing me for a really long time. Now, I think I am ready to take care of things at hand, to control my emotions and mind and to put the two at a balance, and to move on full steam ahead for the other obstacles present in my life.

I spent about a week with Ryan. I had saved up initially for it, asking money from people like Duane and Peter; but at last it came to me while I was dining with my cousin Letty. She said it would be a great idea if I used that money on the card to go on a trip, and that night I ordered tickets. I waited a week (it was agonizing) for them to come in the mail.

For some time now I’ve been having to deal with the problems associated with a severe reoccurence of borderline personality disorder, so severe this time that I fear that my personalities have finally split up into self-multiplicating entities with their own sets of emotions, thoughts, and feelings. I’ve noticed as well that if I feel like I’m being starved of emotional attention, part of me rebels, fills up with a horrible, bitter anger inside and reacts violently to it; never have I ever had to deal with something that destructive. What’s more is that I feel like I have had the need to destroy good things with people–either by cutting them off for no apparent reason–or doing things to them that would serve as some sort of repellent. I don’t know why I do it. I guess it’s something I will have to face and take care with proper medication or even institutionalization. I talked to Peter about it on Saturday and he said to take care of it immediately. I need to be on medication. I need to be healthy and stable and productive. I need to fight off this thing that’s killing me gradually, and stealing the precious sanity that I have.

Anyway, I spent a week with Ryan…counting the day I left, a Wednesday, to the Tuesday after that, last Tuesday. It was a week spent in awe of that natural landscape, a harsh, barren desert basin filled with lifeless things, and the fervency of a relationship that I knew was falling to pieces in my own hands. I was already frustrated with the nuances of everyday life when I arrived there, but I never thought that the same tendencies would follow me all the way out there, to where nothing can exist or survive, except the little things. Presidio is a desolate, hollow place, on a ford of the Rio Grande, in a small basin. Across the river is the larger and more bustling city of Ojinaga, Chihuahua, which boasts a fine Colonial church and a spacious town square full of native people. The first night–the night I rode into town–was windy, cool, and somewhere wafted the fragrant breeze of chamiso and the rain. I said to myself, “The Lord God is angry with me, for I walked by the waters of strife.” I arrived at a small restaurant in the middle of town; by Ryan’s reckoning it was 11:30 or so, and lighting was in the mountains and in Mexico. I had no conscious idea of where we were. As I passed through the mountains I espied a few lights, these (as I was told) were the ruins of Shafter, a mining community that had thrived in the late 19th century but eroded away by the late 1970s. I know now that very few people live there. It seems to me that Shafter served as a bookend to the entire trip, for it was Shafter I saw when I arrived, and I saw Shafter when I left town.

The Presidio region of West Texas is the oldest inhabited place in the contiguous US–it has been inhabited in layer upon layer, for some 2000-3000 years. The natives were an Uto-Aztecan people, under various names, and the Millington Site, where I surmise Ryan’s house to be, is the main place of the dwellings, hanging right along the ford of the River. Spanish missionaries came in the 17th century to inhabit the place and spread the Gospel, they set many small visitas around the area, which later on became centers for moradas, some of which still exist. I saw these various structures in an around town, and was very much fascinated that they could have existed here, in what would seem like a very inhospitable place.

Ryan himself is very very much different from when I last saw him. He is much more stockier, less hairier, and positively overbuilt with muscle. It was surprising to see how much weight he lost, and he said the same thing to me when he first saw me. We drove on to his house, which is down the street, going east, and is several hundred yards away in the teacher’s quarters near the high school. I remember the high school from the picture I saw of it online; it is small and not very noteworthy, except that its vista is of a large mountain in Mexico, so profound that it nearly swallows the whole thing up. Ryan told me once that a demon inhabits the mountain, prohibiting those from entering its environs. On closer inspection it is covered in low brush and brimming with spiders–daddy-long-legs, to be exact, who move about in clusters and fall as shorn hair from the ceiling of certain small fissures in this mountain.

Since I was obviously too exhausted for any sort of conversation, Ryan instead decided to hug me and kiss me a kiss, the quality thereof having changed for the better in so many ways. And then he made me dinner: it was tilapia with chicken-flavored rice; it was cold since he had made it earlier, but it was good to have, since he honestly took time to cook it. It was satisfying. We spent the night in bed trying to figure out who was to hold whom, for he said he wanted to spoon with me. Instead I got hit in the face as he clambored in his sleep, and I slept on the couch.

The next day he had work and I decided to help him out (to his kind protestations) by cleaning up the house, since he had not had the time to do so himself. I assembled for him a piano stand, swept, and did the dishes. He was very appreciative of it, and decided to be glad of it when he came home. That night we went out to Ojinaga and had dinner at a very good a la carte restaurant named Lobby’s OK, and the food, I initially expected, was beyond my expectations. However, my defintion of Mexican food was very much different from the proprietors of the restaurant: I have never had food that hot or that spicy before. My stomach paid dearly for it when I got back to the apartment.

The apartment itself is a small building, part of a triplex, if there is such a word, that contains other instructors who go to school. Ryan walks about 300 yards to work, his shortest commute ever. He has a planning period of about two hours, lunch, and then school again. I decided to go and explore the town, taking in the sights and looking around. People did something that I did not experience in the big city or even in my own town: they said hello. After an exhausting afternoon walking in flip-flops on stone, I went back to the apartment and sat in silence until he got back home.

One thing that I did alot of was snoop. So much of a person’s life is contained in the ephemera they have with them–old ID cards, pictures of their family, things that were important to them that are no longer important to them anymore. I saw what Ryan looked like years ago, and to my utter shock I discovered what I had been sore longing to see for so long. In an old wallet in a drawer he had somewhere, I found some old pictures, including one of his graduation from high school, way back in Ellicott City. He was much thinner, with no facial hair whatsoever. His eyes were still there–for I know them–but his hair was longer, and it was shoulder-length and his features were serene and almost elf-like, very much like the character of Legolas in The Lord of the Rings, if I can be so bold. It created in me a sense of loss, for not having known Ryan earlier, and now, to never know that Ryan, and to only know the Ryan I know now.

By Friday I noticed my feelings were beginning to change–like something had mutated out of me and I no longer could believe the things I taught myself to believe–that Ryan was miserable out here, that he had no friends or no outlets, and that he longed for me. But that was so wrong–in retrospect I think I applied my own emotions and fears to that end, when I believed the opposite to be clearly true. In one last ditch effort, I went to look for work in town. When I told Ryan he was repulsed by the idea, and he said he had no room for me. What was more, he began to talk about other guys he was interested in, and then saying to me that he wasn’t sure of what he wanted. We had an argument in which I expressed my desperation, saying that I wanted to stay with him. He resolutely said it wasn’t possible, saying that he actually wanted to live by himself. For me, I felt that this would be the last time I would ever be that close to him, and my heart began to close itself to the possibility of a life with him.

After we made up, I began to think about my alternatives. Perhaps, I thought, I was more desperate to stay with him–to extend the fantasy for a couple of more days before returning back to home and my life there. In alot of ways I guess it was all a put-on, a false relationship, something that hypothetical and just that, so completely without basis that there seemed no rational purpose to it, other than to aggravate sexual emotions, only to have them confused as emotional ones later on. This realization did something to me so profound that by Saturday I made my peace with it, and in my heart I said to myself, “This is the last time I will ever come to see this person again. I can’t bear this heartache anymore.”

And of course I forgot about it. On Saturday we decided to check out the Chinati hot springs, which was up in the Chinati mountains, out in the wilderness, and to all our knowledges, a no-man’s land. We made the trip early in the morning. I saw a cartoon DVD that Ryan had rented called Mr. Wong, which, despite all its racist overtones and bawdy humor, was thoroughly enjoyable to watch.

The ride up was proffered by a trip out to San Francisco de los Julimes, a small set of ruins which comprised a graveyard, some miles outside of Presidio. This mission was probably a visita, then a mission, and very little of the structure remains except for its foundations and perhaps a few artifacts, for the place was raided by the Jumano people, or some aboriginal outsiders (perhaps the Apaches?), and the clerics there brutally martyred. There is only a small, white graveyard now, possibly owned by a family in town. Across the road is a small visita, Santa Maria de los Angeles de Porciuncula de Acayá, very much beloved by the local population; though it exists on (apparently) private land, its ruins are accessible from the road. 20 miles on the road we arrived in the ghost town of Candelaria, so named either because of the native plant used in chandlery or because of a small moradilla, now nonexistant, dedicated to the Purification of the Blessed Virgin (La Candelaria). A guide told me before I left of a certain trail acessible from Presidio that leads all the way up to El Paso through various mountain trails, it is on this trail that many visitas and missions existed, beginning at the unnamed mission at Presidio, and ending somewhere in El Paso, or even New Mexico.

This trail consists of several stops, leading from Presidio, onto Candelaria, then through Ruidosa, and then through the very deserted town of Porvenir, which was the site of certain atrocities committed upon the population about the time of the Mexican Revolution by the white landowners of Presidio County. We bypassed this road in order to access the dirt road into the Pinto Canyon Ranch, where the hot springs were. We took the road at Ruidosa–in the center of town, or what seemed to be it, anyway, for its ruined church, San Juan del Valle Ruidoso, is a poor milestone. Beyond that lay endless miles of verdant desert, refreshed by recent rains. It was a fresh afternoon in the mountains.

As an endnote to all of this I must add that Candelaria and Ruidosa were both founded in the mid 19th century as primitive penal colonies for convicts; to my knowledge there is a remnant of this, present as a rusty steel cage left on the side of the road. The guide told me that much of Candelaria and Ruidosa are haunted by malevolent spirits who are known to openly attack cars and appear out of nowhere.

When we arrived at the hot springs, some 20 miles later, we were greeted by a most felicitous sight: a group of small houses out in the middle of nowhere, among green trees and bushes full of ocotillo, with their bright red flowers on top. We inquired about a tour and were promptly shown the place, which to me resembled the baths at Lourdes, with their tubs deep-set into the ground. The spring itself is about 110 degrees at the source, I am told; tasting its waters I was most refreshed to find that they were pleasing and sweet, and healthful besides. The proprietor informed me that it has a gracious level of lithium, which is beneficial of course to those suffering from mental illness, such as myself. I collected a bottle of water, but Ryan said that we had to get to Marfa if we wanted to see Fort Davis, and the McDonald Observatory. We did so promptly, taking the Pinto Canyon road through some very difficult mountainous terrain, and almost killing ourselves at a treacherous pass through some old fortifications. Much of the land we passed through belongs to the Benavides family. I remember that there were some very interesting ruins along the way; besides the usual fare, we saw the very deserted ruins of what appeared to be an old town, very possibly the ruins of Old Gomez, or Dodge City, Texas, which served as an outpost/fort for cattle herders from Mexico on their way to the Goodnight Trail. Other postulations I came to also included the town of San José de Uluá, a Jumano town dating from about the 18th century that was decimated by invading Apaches circa 1825. What is sure is there are a numerous amount of creeks running liberally throughout the region, making small towns very much a possibility in this very remote land.

We arrived in Marfa and had lunch at a Dairy Queen in the middle of the afternoon, before deciding to take the high road up to Fort Davis, where, as Ryan told me, was “where the real mountains are”. All along we had a long and lively discussion touching upon everything.

Marfa is one of Ryan’s favorite places, not only because of its picturesque nature, but also because of its place in his favorite movie, Giant. Marfa served as a principal shooting locale for this movie, and he showed me the various places the film was shot, including the very posh hotel in the center of town, very close to the lovely pink courthouse in the town squre. It still has a small-town ring to it, despite its obvious leanings towards the modern-art scene–this place, after all, is where Donald Judd’s famous boxes are located.

We arrived in Fort Davis around five o’clock, and saw the gleaming silver domes of the observatory as soon as we left Mitchell Flat, and headed straight into the gorgeous mountains that comprise the area. Fort Davis is nestled quite serenely in the mountains, heading more into New Mexico than anywhere else. The observatory was closed unfortunately while we were there, but the drive home was quite lovely and we partook some sights, most notably Elephant Rock and the Profile of Lincoln in the Chinatis, these by far were somet of the loveliest things I have ever seen in my life. Home, then finally we watched Queer Duck, one of Ryan’s favorite movies and one he loves to quote from.

By the time Sunday came around Ryan had practically everything planned out. I was dreading Monday, for I knew that I would having to be going back home at that time. However Ryan seemed to make things better, as he was planning to introduce me at church that morning, which he did. I protested that I would not sing in a Catholic church, which vexed him greatly, but I was only kidding. I sang “Simple Gifts”, the old Shaker hymn, in addition to a couple of other hymns. The parishoners were astounded by my singing quality, asking Ryan to bring me over again. Ryan looked at me and said, “You’re a star now.” We consummated ourselves on the floor of his bedroom afterwards, which was a delight to me, and something I had been looking forward to with relish for some time.

Afterwards, we took a stroll up the hill to Lucy Rede Franco Middle School, talking and in the meantime noticing a very large thunderstorm approaching us from the west. As time progressed it gradually became very dark. I had managed to stall some time to inquire about tickets back home; by dinnertime it was squally. We walked outside and noticed the sky was very low and threatening. We noticed that several funnels were forming, and that it was twister weather. It began to hail and rain. It was refreshing for about an hour, and then all was done. The weekend was over.

Monday passed by without fault. I spent one last day in town taking things in and trying to get things settled. I didn’t feel much until we got to Tuesday, and I was all packed up. Since Ryan was going to have to travel to Alpine on business, he dropped me off at a nearby gas station, and filled up. I tried not to cry, but I couldn’t help it. As soon as he left I burst into tears. It wasn’t until I got to San Antonio that I stopped crying, though I never told anyone that. I felt in alot of ways I had accomplished something, and felt refreshed because of it; I knew in my heart I would never see Ryan ever again, and never return to it.

Just before I left Ryan took me to see the ruins of Shafter. The town dates from about the late 19th century and very few standing structures remain; only a few people live there and it is rough living. It is also very much a haunted place. I felt like I had rounded out the trip well, and this I do know: whatever good times me and Ryan had, it was that–good times–and you know what? if we never see one another again, I will be happy knowing that I formed a happy part of his life.

When I got back home last Wednesday, I was surprised to find out from Ryan that he cried just as much as I did for my departure. I think he knew in his own special way, exactly how significant my departure meant. I feel now like I have bowed gracefully to fate, and have taken my yoke, and I must not question The Lord for it.