The Evening Of Redness In The West
Never sure where to begin on such matters, I drove as fast as I could for The Border. My companion asleep with long black hair loosing from it’s bun was jarred by the twisting canyons. I traced the the U.S. Mexico Border drunk off Cormac McCarthy’s Blood Meridian and wicked old scratchy western music. There are few answers in The Big Empty, only the questions with which you arrive, and little to measure them up against…for confirmation…or an answer. Feeling the desperation of these times in which we live, seemed alright with how blurry The Border has always been. A few miles off in any direction has been know to drive a man to the unspeakable. I was sickened by The Fear as she woke.
“Where The hell are we!”
“This doesn’t look like San Diego!”
“It’s not, shut up…I promised something you’ve never seen.”
Her frustration of promise with no promises boiled over. She screwed of the top of her tequila in one movement, and choked it down with the second. Fists clinching in rage over so much excess with little opportunity.
It’s simple really, we are in the of land coyotes, negotiation, and lack. On the horizon there is nothing…just the abject reminder that without familiar markers, self identification becomes impossible. No amount of distraction can suffice. So we chase it, we chase the horizon for meaning, in the hope that a time of such cruel miracles shall not pass.
- El Chacal