Western Swing & Texas (and Other Punchy Thoughts) - VIII.
VIII.
My weekend has been in solitude but even with no one to speak to I keep myself company with the sound of my own voice. Commenting on curiosities, walking through areas of dense flora and speaking to the trees, attempting to replicate chirps and cackles of their inhabitants. To larger rodents, a similar approach to that of crossing a lonely child. Nothing too foreign, the jackrabbits are lean and the skunks are squatty both meandering about over the crunch of deadfall. A repetitive cycle of finding branches and cracking off their shoots, whipping the ground in front of me as I walk, a threat to snakes, only to come across a more suitable stick for the job. I peel bark, break it down, study its aroma. I pick up rocks and fill my pockets, most excited by quartz but not passing the chance to force my strength on shale, breaking it up like the tree bark and powdering my hands. My gaze is fixed on my path adding to a collection to later skip across the river, the more symmetrical the stone the harder the decision to ignore it. I frequently cease my travels and spend an hour at a time, cross-legged on a small boulder or straddling a sycamore limb pulling out my book or dismantling my identity. Every now and again, a quick shot of adrenaline wondering if I will be able to locate my vehicle, yet every time I do, trusting my instinct and finding remnants of my roaming; a stone in a tree, a stick in the ground.
A regular practice while criss-crossing the continent is the used book scavenger hunt, always purchasing difficult finds, specific editions, multiple copies. A few days in Oberlin, Ohio revealed both The Phenomenon of Man and The Future of Man by Pierre Teilhard De Chardin, a Jesuit priest whose writing was condemned by the Catholic Church. Leaving the latter at home, I brought The Phenomenon with me as one of four other books - giving myself reading options to best fit my headspace. It’s weighty with nearly every paragraph demanding a return to it, difficult and slow. Challenging the dogma of his vocation Teilhard De Chardin imposes his scientific mind on the concept of a universal consciousness and its evolution. Substituting “God” for The Omega Point in which everything came and all shall return, he offers a substitute in which few are obligated to venture. Where the church would impose literal interpretations on creation he formulates theologically through science, never abandoning his Christianity but strengthening it through his Darwinian argument. As I read, I feel his sense of awe dissecting divergences on the tree of life and the complexity and wonder as to why.
I counter my cerebral time with the physical and create routine tasks to give my eyes and brain a break. Yet to wash any clothes, I do an inventory of stock while allowing the contents of my duffle bag to air. I intentionally travel with garments that won’t wrinkle, still I stretch them out and drape them one by one over the walls of the truck box. T-shirts made of cotton threaded with spandex, form-fitting. Three new pairs of Wranglers from an interstate outlet store, one raw canvas denim and the other two bleach washed. Four snap shirts, a silk neckerchief, flannel pajama bottoms, undergarments, belt and a new trucker hat compliments of Jake - a red silk-screened harmonica with matching text: Jake Groves Blows.
Without a cooler, I rough it with dried goods and risk the luxury of Oaxaca cheese, starting the truck engine every now and again to re-cool by placing it directly on the dash’s air conditioning vent. Paired with triscuits, nuts and oranges, I eat slowly and thankfully as my family celebrates Canadian Thanksgiving back at home. I throw a peel into the bush over my shoulder and as I hear it hit the dry leaves, the rustle seems to continue as if it sprouted legs and made for the woods. I spin around, not surprised to see I am still alone but questioning my sanity as to what I heard. I eat my peeled orange like one would conventionally eat an apple and hear, yet again, movement shuffling feet away. I’m not alone. I crouch in the direction of the sound with the remaining half segment of my meal dripping onto the ground and gently toss it into the bush - it lands. Nothing. I return to my Thanksgiving meal and book. A much more hesitant rustle returns now from yards away and in a completely new direction seeing its movement in my periphery. It’s small and docile. I take the time to not react but allow the strange movement to wander around the fringes of my site unable to come to any conclusion as to what it might be. Neither of us are afraid, I reach for a triscuit and slowly turn in its vicinity.
The armoured and dutiful with their pointy pink nose hot on the trail of a scent. Each exterior plate overlapping in intricate perfection with accordion-like spacing, segments tight together in through the midsection of their body with larger shells over their shoulders and rump. Fine rings of protection encompassing its swinging tail moving in sync with each step. As I near it, its texture looks pebbled with its forehead resembling a raw skin yet hard scaled hybrid, erect horse-shaped ears and half closed eyes the size of my smallest fingernail. It is light on its front feet with fine fleshy nails and a raised back talon to appear as if their front end is tip-toeing while rear feet are flat to the ground with three sturdy dinosaur-like claws. Completely scaled with the exception of eye-balls, inner-ear and nostrils. What would Teilhard de Chardin say for this wondrous creature?
The armadillo climbs onto the perimeter of my fire pit and transforms into a ball upon landing. I throw it some cheese and they nibble it up. I’ve never seen such a delicate and somber animal, the personality of a stoned friend as I satiate their munchies tossing one small chunk of cheese in their direction and stepping closer with every toss. I reach out to touch them and they bark as if pinched.
“My - you’re protective of your territory, little buddy.”
His call sounds for a scatter of shuffling from beyond. All seemingly on their own journeys, the curious little army duck in and out of the underbrush on a mission for Thanksgiving meals of their own. I share mine with the collective and begin to clean up my surroundings, folding clothes and placing them back in my duffle. The company is welcome, each of us making the others aware of our own spaces and keeping diligent with the tasks at hand. Thematic to the holiday I spend a couple hours expanding on gratitude, enamoured by oddities, and inspired by the steady pitter-patter of the armadillos. I write into the evening before retiring to my truck box.
***
After another morning reading I’m back on the road headed a couple hours east to meet back up with Colter and Beau as they camp out with Beau’s cattle herd before a final few days at Yellow Dog. The property has a new structure since I’ve last been here, a lean-to open-air kitchen and cooking pit complete with bartop, decor, appliances and flatscreen. Everything but walls, I’ve never seen anything like it. Given direction to hang out as Colter and Beau are out checking cattle I pick up an orange lariat, build a loop and throw it around. A plastic steer head fixed to a square hay bale makes for the roping dummy it is intended to be - I pull the head out, flip the bale on its side for a little added height and spend an hour throwing the rope. My family’s version of “throwing the ball around”; Dad coached technique, my brother won an amateur national title and I wear his belt buckle. Every miss stirs and old wound and every catch encourages pride. I make a streak of seven hits, beaming.
Colter and Beau drive in around the bush and signal for me to join them in continuing their tour. Slow moving across pasture land and fuelled by Coors Banquets. Puzzled with the disappearance of a heifer we set forth in search all squeeze together on the bench seat. I jump out to grab the gates. Marty Robbins blares from the cab windows as Beau drives through. Sandy laneways and overgrown bush paths reveal a few deadends, added chores to include a chain-saw, and no cow.
“Well sombitch, I have no idea where she would be.” Beau takes a pull off his Coors and tosses it into the box of the truck.
Colter’s his genuine smiley self, sitting between us, commenting on the music, drinking beer. His good nature extends to making us supper. We return to their camp, cook up some hamburgers and get talking Westerns. We sit at the bar top under the lean-to and turn on flat screen, Beau finds The Rounders in his DVD collection and precedes to quote Henry Fonda and Glenn Ford, back and forth to himself as he takes the disc from the case, laughing at each bit. The movie is as great as it’s talked up to be, the era of scripting impossible not to appreciate, both lead actors, cast for mature sex-appeal. Beth makes it back for a luke-warm supper, still working days in Austin. We all hang around an evening fire, as we have routinely done. Colter will catch a ride back to Yellow Dog Studios on Beth’s way into work in the morning. I’ll ultimately find my way back in that direction as well. Conscious to not overstay my welcome, I’ll get at least another night’s sleep in the box of my truck before a good rest at Yellow Dog and a flight home.
The cattle moan as I eat an orange on my tailgate. The cargo lamp gives off enough light to write and I slowly shift back into The Phenomenon of Man:
“Is evolution a theory, a system or a hypothesis? It is much more: it is a general condition to which all theories, all hypotheses, all systems must bow and which they must satisfy henceforward if they are to be thinkable and true. Evolution is a light illuminating all facts, a curve that all lines must follow.”
I miss those armadillos.