nights it'd be cool & dry & i'd set out from my parents in southern las cruces and walk until i'd come to some wild open desert, where the mesquite would grow out of the pure sand and there'd be cacti springing up as you walked out into it. one night i headed out toward what is called "a" mountain, but out there there were gravel trucks coming and going at a fast clip and it wasn't until i'd got out past the farm and ranch museum, before the sky opened up, i saw some stars, and the rumbe of the gravel trucks faded into the distance. another night took don roser, only as it goes south, and i might have the name wrong here, but it cuts south out of las cruces right at university there and follows down along the interstate, interstate 25, until you can cut off toward the desert there and there are a few houses out there, but you can climb up again and see the whole valley, and once again the stars relax a little and show themselves, once you're out of the city lights. and the last night it was across the interstate, and down into a wild little field across from the university, and then back again across the interstate, it took half an hour it seemed just to cross the interstate because it was so wide and busy. but it was here that i really remembered my days on the road, because it was cool and dry, the rumble of trucks below, and a van with old blue california tags filled up with gas and you could see, folks are out driving the wild west, and waiting til it cools down at night to get out and actually do stuff. and that's how i'd become, since the days were hot, and my parents weren't too mobile, and so once it got cool at night i was really ready to get out and breathe the high desert air. on the road back to el paso i started asking quesitons again and sure enough the driver was from lubbock, knew a little about texas and el paso, and knew some of why things were the way they were out here in the wild west. turns out the gravel trucks were probably hauling gravel out so that they could redo interstates 25 & 10; they have to keep working on these interstates. we took the back roads over the mountain to avoid this very construction. on the trip out, i peered out the plane at tiny texas towns scattered all over the plain, a little town down there in the middle of a wide dark field and it would have maybe one or two roads lit up in the middle, not much else, and i had trouble imagining what it'd be like growing up in wild west texas in the smallest towns. now, on the shuttle, i could see some of them, and the sun blazed down on the shuttle and on the light-colored houses that basically had no trees, but might have a cactus or mesquite bush here or there. i'd miss the midwest, for sure; i'd live for the nights; i'd get thirsty a lot. aside from that, people live their lives here more or less like they do everywhere. except there seems to be a little more money.

the story of the wild west is that of these guys coming up from mexico, a bunch of other guys moving across the continent from the north, eventually a few women coming around, and finally the technology that made it possible for people to live comfortably. it still amazes me: the sun blazes down; there's no shade, no natural water to speak of, the air absorbs the water right out of your mouth as you walk. yet they've made all the public places airconditioned, and the only time you're hot is when you walk somewhere, and nobody else does that, it seems, besides me; there aren't a whole lot of bipeds out there on the street. lots of nice cars, fast cars, folks going from here to there, but no bicycles, or pedestrians to speak of.

the culture of the original indians, the mimbres, appears on cups and signs and logos, but we talk about this at my parents' house; they aren't sure about these original inhabitants, since they didn't leave behind much evidence. this could also happen to the digital generation, which is leaving all its comments on little bytes depp inside our phones. we, the in between generations, left a lot of stuff in books and such, but that's pretty much doomed too; i have a house full of books and will very likely have a hard time finding anyone to take them, and will end up contributing them all to the prisons, just because i don't want to throw them away. the university will pay thousands to move it all down to texas but my feeling is, we're going to the desert, it's time to pack light, and only replace it as we need it, and leave the rest up in the depressed river valley, where work is hard to come by and they need to share stuff and keep passing it around. the prisons have their obvious advantage too, once you go there you can at least eat, and always have something to read. i'm just hoping to have stuff to live for a while longer. books aren't really doing it for me, though who knows, if i really retire, that could change.