Fearless Vista Porn

Flag Mountain near Questa, NM

Forty-five minutes from town

June 2, 2019. This road is steeper than it looks. In wet times it turns into chocolate slop and dries to polished stone. The ruts are deep enough you keep away. Can’t send her out on a road like this, she’d have to learn to drive my truck. On the other hand there might be bears. Running on vapor but we’re running. Holy vapor of the sky. You feel the air and what the hell do we do now. Breathe it, that’s what. Part of you is coming home.

Farr family portrait

Yes, I’m wearing braces. Me and the two youngest are the only ones alive today.

That’s how I had to answer the phone when Dad was still on active duty in the Air Force. Even my mother did. For his part, when I entered the house in Tucson the night before he died, all he could manage from the bed was a softly croaked “Johnny…” and that was all I heard him say before he heaved and gasped himself to death on the potty seat the next morning. A lot of people go that way. That last little effort to move, you know. The last few molecules of oxygen.

A year or two before, we’d been visiting in Tucson and no one knew about the cancer. But as usual the tension was horrific. I borrowed a bike to get out of the house that night and he asked if he could come. Drunk by then and close to tears, he followed closely as I pedaled through the darkened streets and sobbed out when we slowed to turn around, “Johnny, no one knows what hell it is to be living with that woman…” I didn’t say a word. What son would or could?

No deathbed promises, then. No whispered benedictions or professions of love. The old man wanted to pee, we got him onto the seat beside the bed, and ninety seconds later the last bubble of drool between his lips refused to pop and he was gone. After I broke down screaming “No, no, no!” and pounding the pillow with my fist, my brother Bill and I and Alvaro (my sister Mary’s first husband) wrestled the lifeless sack of jello back onto the bed. It didn’t even look like him. I closed his eyes, surprised they stayed that way. Half an hour later, the funeral home attendants zipped him into a dark green body bag and wheeled him on a gurney down the street in full broad daylight to the ambulance parked discreetly half a block away. I peered out through the blinds knowing this was it, as close as I would ever get, and watched until they drove away, braking at the corner before turning left and vanishing forever.

The gaps in this man’s fathering of me were deep and wide. At critical moments in my upbringing, he set time bombs that all but killed me decades later, over and over again. He never said he loved me though I have to think he did. He never really touched me, either, not one time an arm around my shoulder while he told me I could do it, just get in there and be brave. When I couldn’t catch a ball or ride a bike at first, he turned away. My straight A’s in high school didn’t seem to matter. I never heard him say that he was proud of me and learned to distrust happy paths that didn’t fit the mold.

And yet he was a man and father in his way. He worked hard and provided for his family. He loved to fly and I was proud of that. He had a soft side, too, appreciated comedy, played ukulele, some guitar, and learned accordion in Germany. I know that he looked out for me at times and never told me. He taught me how to bait a hook and clean a fish, which way to turn a screw, and how to make a whistle from a willow branch. One time in Abilene, Texas, after a rare late night winter storm, he rousted me from bed to take us out on the deserted streets to show me how to drive on snow. To this day I remember several times a week his admonition to never back up more than absolutely necessary… These things may sound banal but they are golden. There are probably grown men and women alive today because I didn’t run them over in a parking lot when they were young.

My wife says all the time how much she misses her mother and father. In my case I can’t say I ever do, aside from honoring the elemental nature of relationships that formed me. The rage is mostly gone, at least. There has to be a reason for my karma and what I came into this world to learn. I’m self-aware enough at this point that I could almost be a father, too—won’t happen now, though, will it?—but I can say, “I love you, Dad,” and mean it, here, today.

Questa Ridgeline

Questa ridgeline

Did you know you can buy any photo posted at this website? Just hit the “Photos” link in the menu above.

Nothing much to say at the moment but check out this telephoto shot. The fire responsible for that burn scar started from someone burning trash in 1996 before we came. A number of homes were lost in Lama. The green patches you see are scrub oaks, often the first plants to fill in after the flames.

David on My Mind

Llano Quemado scene

May 12 this year looking out across the Talpa valley

The last time I saw David Ashworth, he’d come up to Chestertown (MD) from Texas unannounced to drop in on old friends. I hadn’t seen him since he divorced Joanie, shut down his pottery studio, and returned to the land of his birth at least ten years before. This time he’d fallen in love for real, gotten married again, then lost her in a car crash coming home from work. I heard tales of drinking, bar fights, and the like. The word I had was he was working as a roughneck down near Houston, but here he was on a clean spring afternoon with an alcoholic’s belly and a dirty thrift store coat, driving a battered 20-year-old sedan that would have had room to sleep in if he hadn’t been so tall. From the looks of things, he’d certainly tried.

I was embarrassed to be doing so well by comparison. My wife and I had bought a farmhouse in the country a mile and a half from the beach. I had a studio, a sports car in the garage, and 2.57 lush green acres for a playground. My wife was happy teaching at the local college. We had tons of friends and everyone was young enough that no one near and dear had died. He stayed about half an hour, then went down the road never to be seen again.

[continue reading…]

Lighten Up

cholla with Indian paintbrushes

So many flowers in the terrible high desert this year

What if it’s all nonsense?
What if there’s nothing to be afraid of?
What if the past doesn’t matter?
What if it doesn’t exist (how could it)?
What if everything is conjured?
What if you don’t have to do anything?
What if it’s all emotional?
What if there isn’t a “right way”?
What if anything can happen?
What if it doesn’t matter?
What if I’ve driven her crazy?
What if I give love instead of pain?
What if you can do whatever you want?
What if it’s all malleable?
What if everything’s okay?
What if nobody really dies?
What if you died and never knew?
What if it’s all right to laugh?
What if you found a million dollars?
What if you leave your mother’s ashes in the storage unit?
What if the cat can think?
What if it was only you who made it hurt?
What if you got stoned and forgot?
What if the bad stuff was comedy?
What if I made it all up?
What if you had no regrets?
What if you needed no plan?
What if you turned up the music?
What if you made some?
What if you didn’t mind anything?
What if nothing was ever too late?


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High Desert Temps


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