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.
a good Skwowlow feel to this piece.
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 are an awesome soul who is now realizing that you are. Love you my Friend.
Those weird-open spaces are still in you, bro.
You have New-Mexico flow.
In the heart and veins.
Balls and brains.
State remains.
Forever.
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.
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.
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.
Wow, VERY interesting, & such a journey. Wow.
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.