| | Driving home from work these last few nights, caught sight of a big yellow moon hanging low over Dallas. Remnants of a soft prairie wind wound through the skyscrapers and through the windows of my Dodge, tugging lightly at the trusty Resistol perched on my tired head. Ghost whispers pulled me back ten years or so to a lonely stretch of blacktop in the West Texas desert, a place where the spirits tell stories you know but don't remember and the magic of the night can save your soul. It was springtime, somewhere around March I think, and I'd left Dallas behind hours ago. Ahead of me was adventure and mystery, old Indian legends and modern science with battle lines drawn in the sand. Marfa, Texas. 'Bout a thousand miles south of Odessa, where if you ask the locals they'll just chew their Red Man a while and then offer, if they like you, "Go on down yonder to Monahans, hang a left on Highway 18, and keep drivin'." After a while Highway 18 hits Fort Stockton, and if you don't pay attention you'll plumb miss Highway 67, which takes you through God's own countryside on the way to Alpine, which is your last chance for something cold (and if you're smart, some gasoline) before heading on to Marfa and the fabled Lights. I hit that part of the trail about sunset, and pardner, if you ain't seen a West Texas sunset, you ain't lived. Back in Dallas sunsets are pretty. Tourists remark on them as they head to the high tone restaurants and fancy hotels, and think they've seen Texas. On 67, to call a sunset "pretty" would be no different than stepping to the Almighty's throne and spittin' a plug in His lap. The great Masters of the Renaissance knew a thing or two about colors, or so the world then thought. But those brush strokes in the Sistine Chapel are a candle compared to the fire in that desert sky. Colors explode across the vast expanse, and dance the merrier for the fact that there are no hills to hide their beauty. The sky itself is alive, and stretches as far as you can see, and in its splendor simply demands you stop, get out of your truck, and watch. Don't talk, just watch. The brightness and contrasts of the reds and oranges taking over from the afternoon's clear blue are startling in their violence, but somehow still soft and almost aware of their own power. They dance like old lovers, reunited after years on the sawdust floor where they once courted, not missing a step as they glide effortlessly to an old song you can't quite hear but are pretty sure Hank is still singing. In time to shades of green you've never seen before, and fade to a purple majesty whose stillness takes your very breath. Your mind still blazes with the images the sky so recently shared with you, while your soul reaches out to the silence and the power of the land around you. The sound and fury gone, a deep introspection comes over you and you begin to think of things that truly matter. I drove on into Alpine that evening, and checked into a small motel on the east side of town. Across the way and not more than a mile off rose one of the largest of the foothills branching out from the Davis Mountains, and as the moon rose I knew without a doubt that I could not stay indoors this night. Ten o'clock found me atop that hill, listening with one ear for the rattlers that might not appreciate my presence and listening with the rest of my being for the hoofbeats of ghost riders in the sky. The moon rose in a silent, timeless arc, its pure blue light washing the desert in an eerie glow that had once seen the Comanche and the proud Apache as they hunted. The stillness was a living, breathing thing, and its presence was like the embrace of phantom arms still pulsing with the warmth of life. The stars came out, one by one at first, then galaxy by constellation, like a dance hall filling with a crowd eager to catch the very first chords from the band. And then the dance began. Where the sunset's glory had been rapid and vital and full of power, the night's dance was a slow shuffle--full of nothing but grace. And undeniable beauty. Transfixed, I was taken to that place you know if you've been quiet long enough to see it. The place where the earth, the wind and the Texas sky are one living thing, and they bring you into their realm, and they whisper the old stories of heroes gone before and dreams unfulfilled. Where Travis still stands on the battlements of the Alamo, and Geronimo still sits tall astride his paint. That place where the city, and science, and all the rest just fade away, and all that matters is the sky and the wind and the earth below. The hours passed like minutes, and soon the sun began to brighten the eastern sky as the last of the star dancers made their way off the floor to leave the Almighty's own honky tonk for another day. I slowly made my way down to town, where the ghosts of the night in my mind commanded me to remember them even as the first cup of coffee arrived. I promised them I would, and in return they offered peace as my plate of chorizo con juevos appeared on the arm of a waitress whose eyes told me she knew what I'd seen--I didn't have to say a word, just nodded, and she understood. Whatever the Marfa lights were, I knew they couldn't begin to touch my soul like Texas had this night, and when I returned to the motel I slept the sleep of a truly contented man. The Lights would have to wait. You can contact Tailgunner Dave Pilot at: tailgunner-at-rockzilla.net Click here to read other "Ruminations" from Tailgunner Dave | |
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