Marfa
The following is an old piece written on or around 7.2.2019
I didn’t think I would cry this time. I hopped in my car after dark wondering if tonight might be an occasion for late lights. It didn't matter. This was not a proper visit—not the one that would go on the books. It was an impulse-outing driven by boredom, or more accurately, fear of boredom to come. There is one long road to the viewing station—the same road whether you are coming from Alpine or Marfa herself. And the road, when you are on it, is obvious as a metaphor. Wide-open spaces in every direction, amber desert mountain dust meeting faintest blue heaven at the near-far horizon. The driver on this lonely road cuts through the expanse, moving in isolation toward and away, to and from love, and labor, and of course, light, which is to say God, who on any given occasion may or may not appear.
I had done all this before, though—the driving, the sitting, the waiting. I knew the solitude and the solace-soaked molecules that seemed to hold this part of the world together. I knew the magic of fantastic orbs glimmering in and out of existence before eager eyes. What was there to move me this time, I wondered, as I parked behind a long line of vehicles left there by earlier pilgrims. But, as I stepped out onto the ground and breathed this rare air, I caught a glimpse of my companions for the night. A group of college girls sat circled up under the covered porch of the watching station, just a few feet away, a little boy sat crisscross, hands folded, eyes up. In front of him, a row of assorted adults stood behind the station’s tall binoculars—and I remembered then, that sometimes it isn’t the lights that move me, but the hope held in human bodies who may or may not have good reason to believe.
So, I cried after all—licked the salt off my lips as I approached the familiar adobe porch, and found a seat with my back against one of the smooth, cold walls. In my earbuds, a friend’s voice traveled across time and space, “Do not dwell on what has passed away or what is yet to be.” This is a challenge for me most days, but there is a nowness to this place that makes it easier than usual. I take one bud out to hear the voices around me. It seems like maybe they’ve already had an encounter earlier this evening and now they are just seeing it through to the end. Or, perhaps, we are waiting for a second coming. I notice a few vague shimmers in the distance, but I’m not counting them. They may or may not be the real thing. I remember the lights pushing through the cracks from another dimension, appearing like superheroes, or saints—mighty to save. I remember the lights being undeniable. So, I’ll come back tomorrow, just in case.
Try again.
