Western Swing & Texas (and Other Punchy Thoughts) - VII.

VII.

Chickens are the closest living relative to Tyrannosaurus Rex, in fact, by manipulating the genetic make-up of a chicken embryo, scientists have hatched versions of the bird with snouts resembling those of their prehistoric ancestors. Now, 68 million years after the age of the T. Rex, its cousins are crowding my space as I sit waiting for my breakfast in the Helotes Old Town Center. I stomp my foot beside one with milk chocolate feathers, it reacts with a jump upwards yet not further movement away from me, cocking her head in the opposite direction and rolling an eyeball backwards to see if I’m to threaten her again. Psssst, I snap. She takes a step towards me and flutters upon a second chair, challenging my patience. Standing still, reaching her head with twitches and quirks. Who are you? What are you writing? Why are you in Helotes?

I’m not in Helotes for long. I plan to make a pit stop in San Antonio and then get lost in rural Texas for a couple days. I’m brought a breakfast bowl by a gentleman, bald with a white beard, a couple hens tracking his steps only to follow him around the back of his restaurant. As he returns with silverware he asks where I’m from and if it’s a nice place to visit. I offer my pitch and it keeps his attention for a few minutes before his next check-in on my meal. Interested in the twisting trees throughout the courtyard, he further indulges me on the legalities of their preservation in the area. I pick up a few oaknuts and put them in the front pocket of my jean jacket.

Writing as much as I have on this trip feels like its purpose but what keeps presenting itself is a sporadic purge of point form. One bullet after the next of what needs to get done and who it needs to be done with. As the list grows it feels less inspiring than it does anxiety and I’m realizing after months consumed, the lesson is to not be working. I wrap my journal in its leather binding and make for my truck, giving the hens one last foot stomp to send them each two inches into the air.

For the first time in a week the sun isn’t frying whatever is exposed and a cool front has me starting up the engine and engaging the heat. With the driver’s seat still reclined, I lean back with my hands extended and my iPhone in the air to type in directions to Misión San Antonio de Valero or as Google Maps recognizes it: The Alamo. I’ve been pretty selective with how I invest my tourist dollars and my decision to see the grounds of the battle for Texas is multi-factored, predominantly my Dad’s reminder that if I’m ever near San Antonio I have to see it. That, and the frequent request that “if I’m ever anywhere cool on my travels that I bring home something touristy” for a friend that accesses the methadone clinic by my apartment complex back in Regina. “How about from The Alamo?” I told him one afternoon - he couldn’t contain his excitement.

I fire up the Stillness is the Key audiobook and pull my rental out of Helotes hoping to combat the touch of agitation I feel - possibly better described as homesick. The tease of hardly walking in my door at home after being away for months, only to pack a bag and leave again is having its effects. I feel a resentment towards my truck seat, of all things, wanting nothing more than to stretch out in my own bed. The audiobook is helping:

“How you journal is much less important than why you are doing it: To get something off your chest. To have quiet time with your thoughts. To clarify those thoughts. To separate the harmful from the insightful.”

While on the road with my wife and our band, stillness seems to only come when the time is carved out for it. She is much better at setting those boundaries than I am but with the weekend ahead of me and frankly nowhere to go, I work at seeing the period by myself as something I’m going to need to lean into. As I park my truck down the street from The Alamo and find my way into a line-up of a few hundred people, I begin my practice. Moving an inch at a time and being as present as I can be while making jot notes on my surroundings in a separate small hard-covered notebook able to fit in the back pocket of my jeans.

I’m interrupted by voice over a megaphone moving in our direction from down the street.

“The Indigenous people are asking for no more Columbus Day” it echoes upon us.

A small protest escorted by police moves towards the Alamo Cenotaph as I’m willing to sacrifice my spot in line to get a better view. A banner reading WE ARE INDIGENOUS PEOPLE, NOT ILLEGALS is held by a young man and woman alongside an elder with the megaphone. A dozen or so with a mighty message are immediately subjected to the arrogance of disgusting behaviour. The presence of the protest elicits jeers. I find myself alongside a group of onlookers, middle-aged and emboldened by the collective scoffs and outbursts.

“Go Home,” an older man in cargo shorts and a polo shirt nervously adds to the fevered reactions.

“Man - shut the fuck up,” I physically square myself. “Go Home?” I repeat.

Not only the ignorance but the irony of his comment yanked me into an extreme mood. “Shut your mouth,” I continue, turning my head back towards the movement on the street. He does an uncomfortable weight transfer without anything to say.

I feel zero remorse for his embarrassment in front of the group but it does me no good either, my heart is pounding in my chest and pushing my desire to scrap even further. As the protest passes so does the confrontation. I make my way back to the Alamo line-up, wait another hour to get in, read the plaques, digest the truths, and buy an Alamo postcard for my friend back in Regina puzzled as to any complexities, he too being First Nations.

***

I’ve been laying on my back for an hour with my spinal cord secured between two ridges in the box of my truck. My duffle bag holding my head at a comfortable incline as I stare over my boots onto the horizon as unfamiliar constellations begin to show themselves. Flickerings of satellites rip across the square of my toe at 7000 miles per hour yet appear the speed of a brisk walk. Something which I hadn’t done for a few days until pulling into Guadalupe River State Park and setting forth to maunder my way to the river. Its namesake; The Holy Virgin Mary. Her mystery with which I have a profound connection, convinced I’ve been in her presence.

Even this morning, between waking up in the driver’s seat and having breakfast with chickens I found my way around the backside of the Our Lady of Guadalupe Catholic Church up the street from Floores Country Store in search of iconography. Finding a statue of Juan Diego, the first Saint indigenous to the Americas on his knees with his tilma filled with roses. The Holy Virgin having appeared to him, her brown complexion illuminated by light. A long sit with their companionship to begin my day.

As the sky continues to darken, I’ve yet to fully let go of my clash from earlier with the mere thought triggering a tightness in my chest. The day’s overcasted sky finally becomes more brockled and backlit by the full moon. I fill my lungs to capacity and release the tension with an exhale, my eyes fixed on a robust glowing cloud. A sensation of prickles wash over my body and as the cloud breaks up, I close my eyes and slip under fully exposed to the south Texas night sky.