Notations/Mr. Whittaker

I know it is unusual to speak of politics in this written account, but I have one thing to write of, concerning this woman, Shirley Phelps-Roper of the Westboro Baptist Church.

There is no use in giving credence to her outlandish, wholly anti-Christian beliefs, which belong entirely to a period of prejudicial Christianity and their most profound proponents. Giving her and her group a voice in the arena of public discourse would be the same as giving the same space to an Islamic terrorist who, aside from directing unwanted religious propaganda, states invective against Israel, the freedom of women, the freedom of ideas and free trade.

This sort of invective is laced with the same murderous intent that fueled the Holocaust, that drove planes into buildings on September 11th, 2001, and inspired countless madmen and false prophets to murderous abominations that has claimed the lives of millions, all in the name of G-d.

Anyone who is not clearly educated enough to even carry on a civil conversation does not warrant the attention of the media. So many of the so-called “pundits” that confuse discourse with insult and shrill paranoia with constructive criticism are guilty of the same crime.

As we would do with undesireable people we encounter in everyday activity, we have the choice of simply refusing to give into their negativities or reporting them to the proper authorities for assessment.

We ought to do the same with these people. They have their right to invoke G-d and condemn the nation, but they must be reminded that with free speech comes the necessity to use it responsibly–just as we would demand the same sort of temperance and moderation with all the other protected rights–no matter how much they themselves protest it, and say it is a violation of their rights. After all, this is America–we have to live with people who may not share some of the same beliefs we do. This does not mean we should either condone their irresponsible behavior or over-expose it.

Simply said: while it is good to expose social evils, we must not dwell on them, expecting them to go away under the harsh light of scrutiny. The only way we can neutralize an evil, such as this, is by covertly removing its very presence from our sphere of interaction, by nullifying it with positive action, so that it may never rear its ugly head ever again.

Here at the house things have been recovering from Paul’s arrest. I was sick for two days with worry, and slipped into a low state, which I am recovering from now. I have gained as counsel Mr. Lennard Whittaker, a lawyer friend of mine I have spoken somewhat infrequently for some two years. He viewed this particular contingency as being an interesting case, though quite difficult, since Paul has already incriminated himself on several occasions. He warned me in his usually frank way that the potentiality of this case might ruin our friendship. I do like his company very much, as he is very intelligent and sociable, although I am always confused by his sense of humor and the depth of it. I confess I am too serious, but when things like this happen to you, Dear G-d, what else can you be?

I am worried sick about my mother. She has recovered from a nasty fall encountered last Monday night, while going out to secure her automobile, and then the subsequent trauma of the arrest and its financial implications for our household. I weep for her, and for my little brother. She is a sweet and frail woman, whom everyone loves, even Mr. Whittaker.

I recently realized how isolated I am from most of my friends, who are too busy with the ephemera in their lives, and whom very little come now to the house to visit, or to call; except for those with whom I am on warm relations, but live outside of the area. Mr. Whittaker was one of them. He is attractive, and he knows it, and I suspect in his professional way he is naturally skeptical of my provenance and experiences. But that I leave to his overall assessment of my situation and I will say nothing to convince him otherwise.

It only makes me want to be someone more professional, to go back to school and “be somebody”, someone who can make differences, like Mr. Whittaker can. Unfortunately, with the life choices I have made, it seems like one can’t do very much in the field of art, or music. Therefore I have decided, quite reluctantly, to become a teacher, since I love to share the passion for learning and above-all open-mindedness with those who aren’t aware of it. Mr. Whittaker was particularly enthusiastic about recounting stories of college concerts of a certain college professor at his alma mater, a noted scholar of Bach, who fused the atonal motivic freely with elements of Classical music. I told him about Gruppen, of which I have a great interest now (Stockhausen is dead), and he laughed. I felt good talking to him, the first time I have actually done so, and sadly under the circumstances which warranted his coming to my residence.

I can’t think straight. I haven’t eaten all day. My mind is sick with worry and my heart is full of sadness. 

Paul has been arrested on suspicion of rape! What a disappointment. I am glad to have him home, but I hope he has learned a lesson.

On Thee, O Lord, I rely. This is the most significant thing to happen to me in awhile and I do not know what to do. I can only trust that You will guide me and my family through this period of strife and uncertainty. 

Peter is no longer speaking to me, which compounds things. I have no ill will to him, but I am naturally hurt and confused.

Lord, I am not sure what to make of this situation but all I can do is rely on Your infinite wisdom and leadership. 

From the Adon Olam:

And He is my G-d, my living G-d. 
to Him I flee in time of grief,
and He is my miracle and my refuge,
who answers the day I shall call. 

To Him I commit my spirit,
in the time of sleep and awakening,
even if my spirit leaves,
G-d is with me, I shall not fear.

Vacation, Conclusion

On the way into Presidio, I managed to play on my beloved iPod (which kept me sane most of the trip) a piece by The Dead Texan, a Europe-based audiovisual duo that makes beautiful ambient music. The first song is a study in light and stone, pretty appropriate to the sun-bathed environment to which I came practically running. And that piece, I think, can sum up everything I experienced here.

The Fall 2007 issue of the state park’s seasonal brochure about the area, El Solitario, had a recommendation which I found particularly meaningful among the whirl of things I found myself in when I came to the Big Bend. The rule simply stated: leave things as they are. The stipulation stems from the typical habit of nostalgia-minded tourists, pig-headed treasure hunters, or dead-eyed poachers to disturb the flora, fauna, and humana of the region (I once heard of a man who died after looking for pyrite in an old mercury shaft, 100 years after the lode had been explored through). An old molcahete, kneading stones, mortar-and-pestles, red hands in a waterfall cave that I never saw–all of these are at risk of being filched. The animals are wild–mountain lions, bears, snakes, big hairy tarantulas in burrows. I don’t think anyone would want to try to capture those.

In the Big Bend everything predates written history. Ancient mountains piled atop ancient mountains. Tall weathered peaks the color of red wine, blood, sunset, mustard, sulfur, leather, or brown skin. Faces in profile against buttermilk skies. Write your name in the dust; the adiabiatic wind that comes from the river will sweep it away. Build a house, watch it bake and wither in the West Texas sun and wind. Yes, indeed, the only thing that lasts out there is time itself–not even the stone, in its constant weathering, can find rest. And everywhere, God and eternity are sometimes the only two companions you have. 

The Big Bend is perpetually silent, save the occasional wide eyed traveler or biker adventurous enough to sojourn the treacherous road, or the song of songbirds, a vulture from Mexico scavenging for prey, or the ever-present babbling of the pristine (here, only) Rio Grande River. It is quieter than cemetery or church quiet. The silence there is the silence of eternity and God Himself, holding court in the desert, His mighty throne a vast Pre-Cambrian world of peaks, valleys, ridges, mounds and hills. That kind of spirituality I have only discovered once–it was in New Mexico, in a similar setting. O Lord, it is my turn.

I will never forget this trip, so long as I live. I made important, life changing steps by coming out here. I accomplished things I never thought I would be able to do. I now have closure. I thought coming here would be something sorrowful, but instead, I have interpreted from above the divine relation of love. For that, really, is what binds my life together. I love this state, the whole of it. I have lived all over it and seen most of it (and, God willing, will hope to see more of it soon), and every single time I have been somewhere in this state, I can’t marvel enough at the beauty and the transcendency of this place. It is a beauty that is beyond other descriptions, something that can’t be rendered in the mere declamations of someone like me. 

With Ryan, it was easy to expect what might happen, but even that changed. We’re no longer in a relationship. I don’t know if we ever were, frankly. And I realized here, as soon as it was gone, that Ryan was the first person I had ever loved truly, that I would have died for gladly, and that love still exists, no longer in the mutable romantic form, but now an eternal bond, a real connection. It is a terrible, tragic love, a love of compensation, a love born from loss. But now I think things will always be good for us. I have nothing to fear.

This trip has now concluded. There will be many other trips for me, but I think this one was the happiest, and the most meaningful.

Vacation, Day XII

Friday was my penultimate day in West Texas. Feeling some sort of agonizing need to get things done, to move on and get ready for the depressing realities of home and South Texas again–I felt it necessary to wash my clothes, which took all night. Under my little blue laundry bag I found a tiny member of the genus Solifugae, sheltering itself from the oppressive flourescent light. Ryan told me that he often finds “wind scorpions” in his teaching laboratory, and often has to despose of them (and their unsightly meals) in the coolness of the morning.

Friday was a gorgeous day in Presidio. The mountains and distant hills could be seen very clearly without the need to squint. In Mexico a great deal of smoke was observed coming presumably from cars or car accidents, or perhaps one of the many house fires that are visible from the upper valley of Presidio.

That evening we watched part of Gods and Generals, a picture glorifying the racist Confederacy and its defeat in the Civil War, and in a most peculiar sort of way, the romance of War–in the inflammatory speeches, references to God, and so on. I will contend, however, it was a very entertaining movie, in the scope of its historical authenticity and recreative effects.

I spent the majority of the day trying to absorb the positive energies of the desert. They now reside in me in a way that is now indelible.

Vacation, Day XI

Mountains, mountains, and more mountains. After a long, listless day, we traveled up from Presidio to Redford, passing by the quaint Fort Leaton, then up to Lajitas (a gorgeous, desolate old resort for aging millionaires). Then we stopped, after an eternity passing on the main river road through a state and national park (Big Bend), the tiny, practically non-existent town of Terlingua, a haven for hippies and lonesome aging bikers.

We left Presidio at close to four or five thirty. Traveled for about forty miles, bypassing a main road to drive on a dusty high one that overlooked the Presidio junta, and three old railroad towns no one lives in anymore (Casa Piedra, La Plata, Redford). The buttes rise elegantly like dark waves along the dusty sea of the old flat. And somewhere, in the middle of nowhere, in what appears to be a clearing of some sort, is a residence with two cupolas that look like they either house a rainwater filtration system or telescopes (stargazing is popular out here). Then back down the main road, onto the highway, brushing past the shallow banks of the reed filled Rio Grande, not so grand as rivers go but still able to strike fear in the heart of a Border Patrolman.

Curves in asphalt and yellow paint, familiarly reversed on the signs that alert the driver to their presence. At a certain ford of the river, one can see large, flat stones that interrupt (or overrun) the intended course of the river. Stepping stones for illegal immigrants. Cows: red ones, mottled ones, nary a brown one with some sort of distinguishing mark on it, but the smell is unmistakable (and now for me, unremarkable). Gorgeous flares of ocotillo, red penile flowers that look pretty but smell horrible. The devil’s-walking-stick. Ruby cacti–the actual pads, not the blooms–probably bearing the first fruits of the seasons. A blasting of hot dust in the air, and suddenly a gentle breeze and moisture from the river.

Curving beige hills and dirty hillocks become increasingly tall mesas and peaks. What looks like a volcano in the back brings me to mind of the end of the agricultural society of Medieval Europe. St. Joseph’s Catholic Parish in Redford, Texas, facing the benign Rio Grande river and a few meek outcroppings of dusty homes filled with local flora. A series of flea bitten horses in a half-submerged corral on the side of the road. An orange sign warning of damages to the rails ahead. A series of lighter colored cattle and the furtive glances of the young farmhand attending them. Endless wildernesses, strictly American in composition but reminiscent of the Negev or prophetic Sinai. Cool winds again. Distant mountains get closer and closer, until suddenly they are in Mexico, astride the river, forming canyons of elegantly formed rock which rises into calm uplands where snow might reside in the deep winter. Yucca, where long-legged black tarantulas reside awaiting their offspring or their next meal. Suddenly the landscape becomes intermittent. Hills no longer seem hillish, but rather moundish, with the ancient ruins of some impossibly old adobe building on the side of the road. Christmas Mountains, which look nothing like the trees, but are red in the vicious desert sunset like some old Paella Western. Contrabando, a fictitious town on the border (quite literally) where the New Mexican architecture (nativist adobe walls and Spanish period door fixtures) are anachronistically placed in a solidly Texan environment. A never consecrated church, partially burnt. A round well that holds nothing but dirt. The only bathroom for miles, in a smelly shack on the side of the river, which murmurs over stones and down stream, its cool luscious water inviting for an illegal stroll into the Republic of Mexico. Sunset. In second gear, the 4×4 ascends, at a snail’s pace, over a steep hill we were warned about 37 miles back, 15% grade. The house of a dead millionaire. And, for some strange, illogical reason, Plains Indians tepees made of corrugated steel and iron–a picnic/camping site, with Algonquin origins and Iroquois architecture, mocking us on the way to the City of Flat Stones. Great vistas–gran vista, chula vista–back beyond, Loma Pelona, what, is that a boot hill? Miles and miles of nothing but tall mountains, in various formations, in various colors, that defy expectation and totally satisfy the reality. Lowering sun. The hot milky blue of the sky becomes little more than a powder, then a gorgeous pastel lavender.

Lajitas, city of flat stones and sleepy town for sleepy retirees. Home to Old Lajitas (a historical district at the ford of the Rio Grande), now absorbed into the trash-and-stash of pseudo-elegant country homes for cowboy wannabes and sad old hipsters. The center of the square is an empty Westworld, complete with a saloon where real people perpetuate unreal historical events, with fistfights and photo opportunities. The old cemetary, at the base of a hill, at the start of an RV park that flanks an almost mythical mesa; a wonderful resting place. No Country For Old Men: No Dining Faciilites for Young Men–at least open at the time. Various signs of dubious Spanish provenance, appealing to the relative lack of interest or knowledge of Hispanic culture that the average lecherous visitor to Lajitas employs: Mesa Vista, Comanche Hill, Las Montanas–without the tilde, of course. Onward and outward. Lajitas International Airport–a small outcropping of buildings in the cool dusk of the evening, meant for the “average” traveler to Lajitas: the kind with lots of money and something to compensate for. Curves, much more rational now, but now swerving into long shoulders of open gravel, to invite the literary traveler with the delights of rather unimportant historical events in the life of the area.

BIG BEND. Larger-than-life ridges of mysterious mountains, in fields and mesas, hills and hillocks, where no one resides except creatures exotic or perfectly predictable. Long silences as we travel through the mystical headlands of the national park. At the end is Terlingua, with its lesser, somewhat more forgotten companion Study Butte, two lavishly abandoned quicksilver mining towns in Deepest Big Bend. The most famous ghost town in all the world. Three languages: not Spanish, English and Apache, but it might as well be West Texan, Spanish, and Austinite, since the majority of the people that still reside here are of that provenance. Abandoned adobe hideaways, most certainly haunted. Bikers on their way to the golden West, with its promise of free motor oil changes every 10,000 miles. The Trading Post, a series of long, porched-in offices that now serve as shitty art gallery and shitty tourist store. An illuminated tree in blue Christmas lights. Dinner at dusk, at the Starlight Theatre, no longer a theatre at all, but somehow a venue for expatriates from urbane cities and dwellings. Strange, countryish music more suitable for racist cafes than a restaurant. Steep stairs lead into an doorless opening. An old, bored, shaggy dog asleep on the pavement. It is Mexican without the Mexico, a series of colorful murals and cheap kitschy trash slung in a dimly lit, airy room with signs of decrepitude and immense age. Long, tall, young things smoking ridiculously long, tall cigarettes. Dinner under the open, carved eyes of Our Lady of Guadalupe, St. Michael, and an unrecognizable Franciscan ascetic saint. College students (presumably) at table, quietly discussing matters of absolute unimportance, while a vicious looking guitarist and a bassist play out old, tired ballads of despair and woe. My first bowl of Terlingua chili–served in a small, unhappy ceramic bowl, topped with diced onions–good! A real Margarita, not some iced Spring Break affair with too much sugar and not enough salt. And then–chicken in a cream sauce with oyster mushrooms–yes they have them here too–with a vegetable medley and garlicky Parmesan potatoes–all $14.95, for the both of us. A fifty dollar dinner in a fifty cent town, with two dollar drinks and two bit musicians. Some tall, lanky, bearded man (cave-dwelling, no doubt), singing about the trials and tribulations of a tarantula on the highway, to scattered applause. Lesbian music. Finally, a star-pocked night and the fresh mountain air, all covered up in the wooly darkness of the West Texas night. “It’s as black as a Rothko!” I exclaim to the college students on the dingy terrace. Two photographers from the Land of Enchantment overhear my expectations, stargazing-wise, for the evening. On the road back, skyglow and finally, with a silvery daze, the aurora borealis–here!–climbs up and over the mountains and briefly pulses to and fro, accompanying us on the road. At the same pass we had gone through earlier, a white woman veiled from top to bottom contemplates suicide forever: Lot’s wife. Once or twice we turn off the lights, let our eyes adjust to the gorgeous darkness around us, and let in millennia of sky bear down upon us. The sky is so dark one can see, just by the starlight, the impression of fingers against the greater darknesses, the brush, and the edges of the hills and mountains. Gradually it all fades away, until the only thing seen is the faint impression of amber lights in the distance, and home, and sleep, and the warm beds which had eluded us all evening.

Vacation, Days IX & X

Yesterday was the first of April, and all we did, after a very long afternoon of thinking and relatively staying quiet (I am trying to keep the kitchen clean) was drive out to Fort Leaton to inquire about passes to Big Bend State Park (a cheaper, definitely better alternative than the National Park). Fort Leaton is one of the oldest forts in America–established 1683, the sign says, and its distinctive adobe architecture is more reminiscent of Old Alta California than the shady desert outpost of the New World.

We then took dinner at Escondido’s again–this time in the milky, Masada-like dust of a northeasterly gale, bringing cool air from the distant coast. I had enchiladas in red sauce, refried beans, and rice; still the same old salad, with a buttermilk ranch sauce on top. I then took a picture, which ended up severely damaging my self-esteem, when I discovered how much weight I have gained in the last couple of months. Then to home, and an evening of watching a DVD about topical humor directed at the Latino majority (Hot and Fluffy). 

Today I slept in (I had strange visions of someone touching my toes and moving around in the room)–the red light from outside gave the room a feeling of a film noir picture set in the ninth circle of Hell, or Amsterdam.  I cleaned up last night’s dishes and decided to “go out for a walk”, but decided against it, preferring to sit and command correspondences. These last couple of days have been depressing as my departure date becomes more and more close. I have realized so much in the last couple of days than I have endeavored to do so in some months. I am not sure what will happen next. If and when I do leave, I will take with me the memories of the only true vacation I have ever undertaken in my life. I hope I have more of them soon.

Vacation, Days VII & VIII

On Sunday I awoke to go to Church with my host, and spent a tedious hour and a half singing in the choir my hosts partakes in, partly made up a group of devout Filipino expatriates. Their director, a tall pretty woman of the Uma Thurman type with deft hands, complimented me on my skilled harmonization skills. We sang, as the overenthusiastic, liturgy-minded pastor had directed, in a rickety choir loft seen in the various sacred architecture of the surrounding hills and valleys–unsure, squeaky, seemingly made of clapboard. The ascent was easy–a simple climb around a tightly wound, elegant-looking spiral stepcase, but the descent was painful and embarrassing, with me practically sliding down, instead of going in reverse. Needless to say it was a fairly brief second Sunday of the Easter Period.

Then came a trip to Baeza’s grocery for an overpriced excursion for lunch victuals, as I have spent most of the time here eating, thinking and walking.

The evening was bolstered by conversation, and a drive out to the small town of Redford, just for the hell of it. Charming, derelict edicifice there are confronted by prosaic mounds of dirt, brush and the Rio Grande. In the parking clearing of the small Catholic mission there, just before the Chisos range (synonymous with venomous creatures and mercury poisoning) I turned around and drove back, being quite liberal on some very graded turns. Near the bend of the Rio Grande River I espied what appeared to be the ruined foundations of a settlement; I was told by my host that these were “probably an old farm”. Water. The poplar trees were surprisingly green and strong, unlike practically everything in this arid climate.

Dinner consisted of spare ribs, with onions, tomatoes, brown sugar and rice, as a bed. It was washed down with fruit juice and I did the dishes. Our entertainment was a terrible mess of a comedy, The Radioland Murders, which you have to have ADD to fully comprehend. Then to bed and a most wonderful sleep.

Monday was briefer. I went back to Editbody for an hour, meeting a trio of Spanish-speaking women complaining about machismo, which may be the most intellectual subject I have heard discussed in that language down here. Then walked home, and found my host home, to which we talked for a great deal. When he came back from his place of employment I made Hong Kong Chicken Spam, my very own recipe, with some oyster sauce and soy sauce. I also made ambrosia of fresh fruits and whipped topping with flax seed. I walked at eventide for a while and then came back, to bolster myself against boredom, and writing this entry.