I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the way a place can be worn. The way a person can remember the asphalt union of a childhood street and a bike. The way an old dive bar in Minneapolis smells like first taste of freedom. The adolescent cigarettes, the cheap beers and Nag champa filled apartments. The way New York City summer heat can jolt a mind out of, or into existential crisis. A geographic layer can speak about what we are made of, where we are going, and who we will be.
The layers of places attach to the bones. I wonder if everyone feels this way about their senses. I wonder about all of the unspoken nostalgia.
I wore Oregon like a pair of jeans that I finally chose myself. Anonymous, rugged, beautiful, and raw.
I wore Colorado with the giddy coolness, slight discomfort and excited unease of never quite being mine, but always serving it’s rocky mountain beauty and purpose of being real.
I wore California coastlines like tight black leather. Appealing, balmy, impractical, alive, and recklessly wild.
Texas eased into me like the close humidity drips down a silk blouse. It welcomed my humble mosaic of midwest and uprooted limbs with the ease of singing with the jukebox after mezcal shots. The slow, warm nights and slow moving food hugged me when I needed them, and inspired the dirt to stay on my new long fingernails once again.
This high southwest desert feels as if it has been waiting. Waiting for it’s chapter. For this new and ancient layer. As if the graceful solid rock of this land seeps into the people, the way the sage and chamisa palette seeps into the patience of things, and of knowing times yet to come.
Here in New Mexico. Hearts and bones,