You Can Never Go Home, If You’re Lost, Que No?

Okay, now what?

Okay, now what?

They say you can’t, but I’m going home.  Back to Santa Fe, the place of my rebirth, death, rebirth, death, and rebirth.  Those are special places.  Places where a lot of shit went down.  Places with fertile fields to sow madness and mirth.  And rocky soil to pull plow through.  Places to choke yourself out in the yoke of toil.  To sweat out Dark Eyes vodka while a jack hammer batters your Juarez dental work loose.

Magic places.  Places to make all your dreams come true.

Santa Fe was one of those places.  Except for the making all my dreams come true part.  Some dreams are just too insane.  Even for New Mexico.

And New Mexico is one weird-ass state.  Totally, Marius Seal of Approval, weird.  I think by now, you’ll understand the magnitude of what my certification means.   This is not some corn-fed, roll-her-eyes-at-Adult Swim, mid-western housewife’s idea of weird.  No.

It’s my version.

So yeah.

New Mexico is weird.  In the best way.  I think it’s the people.  I swear to God, there isn’t a person in that state that isn’t some sort of character.  Funny, crazy, dangerous, dumb, brilliant, beautiful, bizarre, annoying, and delightful.  Name it.  We got ’em all in old New Mex.  The psychos I worked construction with.  The artists I’ve gotten criminally drunk with.  The madmen I fought in bars and parking lots.  The silver spray paint huffing vagrants I learned to ballroom dance in the arroyo with.  The decent cops that showed me leniency.  The friends.  The freaks.  The ladies that taught me to love…

Then there’s the place itself.

The landscape that taught me about God.  And showed me His more artsy side.  The sky actually talks to you out there.  Not always what you want to hear.  But the signal comes in pretty clear.  It’s the wideness.  TV signal doesn’t scramble it’s messages as bad.  Trees, rocks, water, dirt, plants.  All alive.  Also having something to say about it all.  Happy sun.  Stormy clouds.  Celestial snow.  Stars that stare back at you with wonder.

My big regret is that I spent so much of that time drunk.  Sometimes way too.  Certainly to appreciate some of it’s more subtle charms.

Like with a few women too, I guess.  I wish I was more present.   But you can’t be present when you’re deeply involved in shooting holes through furniture.  And trading karate chops with a buddy whose round house kick sends you crashing into a fish aquarium.  So yeah, I chose my career over having any stable romantic relationships.  Didn’t have the capital to invest enough of the emotional currency required to fund one.

What can I say?  I was a driven and ambitious young man.

I wanted to run amok.  As amok as amokably possible.  I needed a place to wait out my exile from the human race.  A desert inhabited by aliens seemed like good place.  To set up my own Area 51.  Run my own test flights.  A little elbow room to get my crazy dance on.

Under the moon.  While the hounds howled.  And a fire illuminated the madness in my eyes.  Grind the edge, until I drop off the rail, and plunge into The Abyss.  Then see what’s left after everything is destroyed.

Alright.  Did that.  Check mark that box.  What’s next?  Probably rehab.  And a slow descent to Earth’s orbit.

Very slow.  No rush there.

But I had to leave.  Hated to.  But had to.

I thought I could wash my sins away in the Pacific Ocean.  But the waters were already saturated.  And working at a strip club wasn’t exactly dry-cleaning my soul.  Should’ve gotten rid of all the guns, too.  I guess I had one more death left in me.

So I tried a different way of living.  One so jack bland, only the most desperate would even attempt to embrace it.  But it was all I had left.  And it turned out to be a lot better than I thought.  As my friend Mad Dog would say, “Ain’t that a kick for sore balls!”

And that’s what sometimes hurts about going home.  The ball-kicking realization of how much I missed out on. And now miss.  Being there and wishing I could have done it all sober.  Seen it all through clearer eyeballs.  But then we’d have nothing to laugh about, would we?  No mischievous hi-jinx to recall.  And if this blogula even existed, it would be insufferably boring.  Recipes for good mulch.  Illustrated core and balance exercises.

Pictures of people standing around in nature.

I shudder to think.

You should too.  You see,  I did it all for you, dear reader.  And it’s okay.  You guys are worth it.

Anyway, it will be good to see my sister and Keller.  Good to see Marko.  And whoever else I’m supposed to see.  Sunday afternoon I’ll be making speed-amends at a table at the Cowgirl Hall of Fame.  Come by if you feel I owe you one.  I’ll try to guess what it’s about.  If I can’t remember, you can remind me, while I gnash my teeth with regret, and embarrass you with an overly dramatic public display of contrition.  And anything else to make things right.  Between us.

Buy you a beer?  You name it.  Even an import.

Because I want things to be good.  Between me and you.  And between me and New Mexico.  I want it to be a good homecoming.  I want to be able to go home.  Just to see if all those fuckers were wrong.

I’ll keep you posted.

Okay, now what?

Okay, now what?

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15 responses to “You Can Never Go Home, If You’re Lost, Que No?

    • Yeah, did a lot of that. Especially after the mineral springs. Lot’s skwowlow. Just sitting and staring at stuff. Really nice, actually. Once you really let go and go with it. Dude, I wish you were up with me on that airplane when it started to shake and dip. We could have scrawled out our last will and testaments on cocktail napkins. I could see you trying to finish your book with some last-minutes accounts. “Regrets, I’ve had a few, but then again…”

    • You’re too kind, old boy. I’d only be flattering myself to agree. So I’ll do it very secretly, in the dark of night. I’ve been away from all computerage so I have much of your reading to catch up on. Looking forward to it. Anyway, I pour off some of this diet ginger ale in honor of my homies that couldn’t make it, and the balls and brains that couldn’t make it here. Mine included. At least large parts of both. God Save The Foof. Long Live The Foof.

  1. Two words. Oh Fuck Yeah Dude. Go forth. Rebirth again. Send me the really fucked up Polaroids that you won’t post on the internets. Be intoxicated as fuck without the intoxicants. Lose the cloud of self doubt and the voluntary immolatory tendency that has plagued you of late.
    And hook me up with that dentist in Juarez. I could use some work. My shit is getting all John Lydon these days.

  2. It’s literally a snow and ice storm we’ve been having the last two days, so reading this, I need that heat and grit and waves of mojo coming my way. So the Prodigal Son returneth, but sort of in reverse, eh? No doubt your transgressions and Jack-induced mayhem would make a memoir a living breathing thing, something to hand out at the local vomitoriums or plug away at on The View. Sign me up for a signed copy. You have some wonderful hand-crafted tomfoolery, and some wonderful hand-crafted writing. You put the two together like PB and J and it’s a tasty finish, crusts on and all.

    Wicked stuff, once again, Herr G.

    Paul

    • Greetings, my good neighbor from the great white north. I just returned from my journey. At least part of a greater one. I was pretty much unplugged. Apart from sporadic cell phone coverage and some late-coming e-mail I didn’t want to answer via thumbs. It’s an age thing. I’m not like these kids today able to text War and Peace from phone keyboard. Anyway, apologies for the tardy response. I tried to stay as unplugged as possible, if you don’t count calling, texting, and posting a Facebook picture of me kissing a girl. One that wasn’t my girlfriend. (She took the picture) Other than that I disconnected. Part of my magical retirement, if you will. A time to unplug and do a little soul-searching. Luckily for me, that’s a quick job. Not a lot to go through.
      There was a little tomfoolery on this trip, but a much milder version. Lots of laughs with my sister and Keller, and a few old friends. Everyone will be pleased and relieved that Marko is alive and doing well. Healthy as an ox these days. Still Bat Chain, though. Which is awesome.
      You know what? I think the turbulence from the flight is finally catching up with me. I suddenly feel very tired. Drained. I better scuffle up to bed and catch some winkage before I start to babble here. I think soaking in all that mineral water did something to me too. Very sleeeeeeeeeepy. In a deelicious sort of way. I’ll catch you on the flip, Paul. Thanks for the nice writing of things with words that are good for me reading and…KNAAARRRRK! wheeze KNNAAAAARRRRRKKK! wheeze

  3. You can take me to Cowgirl and TRY to make amenda (just try! I dare you!). I recall that they make a nice aioli. But you can’t buy me a beer. You can add me to your column of people who have given up the sauce. My bottom was pretty high, but I got sick of being a bottom-feeder. Onward to a great Bosu ball routine and a clearer look at the world.

    • Nothing wrong with a girl with a high bottom. Low or high. A bottom is a bottom. They’re all basically a little different is all. But they do the job. I’m talking about recovery, by the way. Great to hear you’re giving up the grape though. Call me before you take that next drink. Tell my voice mail everything that’s bothering you. Then pray. Maybe just pray. But call anyway, to chat. Actually, I owe YOU a call. So begin dreading it now.
      Keep on dreading,
      Marius, an old boyfriend.

      • I am so, so close to giving it up but seem to blindly find myself buying it. I think ‘better drink it then’ and know, just know how it’s killing my life. I am so so almost over it – but then I buy. God knows why, when I so consciously know how it destroys me.

      • Boy, I can relate to that quandary. If it makes you feel any better, just about everybody I know that’s quit has gone through exactly the same baffling behavior. Hey, it takes what it takes. I heard a guy put it best when he said, “It’s got to get so bad, that an alcoholic wants to stop drinking.” So yeah, that has to be pretty bad…since…well…we really like to drink. In my case, more than anything else I could think of. So it took a sustained conspiracy of events before I started to even entertain the thought of quitting, and then more brutal hammers before I ever tried, then more horror and torture before I finally did. An tragic opera in three acts.
        Now, not everyone has to be beaten to an inch of their life before they throw in the towel. I just somehow either don’t know, or hang out with those types. But I do believe they exist.
        Anyway, don’t beat yourself up for not being able to quit. It doesn’t make you a bad person. You certainly won’t be getting any shit from me for it. I’m on your team. Thanks for reading,
        Marius

      • Marius, thank you so much for your time in that considered response. I deeply do appreciate that you understand, know, and are a succeeder of your own will. I admire you.

        Thank you for levelling me that I’m not a bad person for it. Thank you sincerely. N’n.

    • Thank you very much. Glad to have you on board. I’m sorry, but we’ve run out of air-sickness bags so you’ll have to improvise. Camera bag, purse, or laptop case will do in a pinch. Thank you for flying Terror Air.

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