It's no secret I heart Texas. No secret it is, outside of Massachusetts and Maine, my favorite state in the Union. While my devotion to this state I have now visited only twice is a je nais c'est qua of sentiment, one of those beliefs best felt rather than examined, indulge me for another moment to wax sentimental on my latest experience.
I hyberbolically (and jokingly!) surmised that when Americans fight in wars, they fight for places like Texas. That they do not fight for states like Iowa or Idaho or Ohio or even Delaware -- although it is the nation's first state -- not for the beaches of Malibu or the rain and clouds of Washington state. No. They fight for Texas.
She stretches out for miles like a grandfather reclined on a decaying porch in the sunset. She is old and dusty. Rough, scratchy and faded. Such scenes lead one to believe in experience, that Texas is then an experienced state free of mistakes. Yet she is not. Texas is not the veteran, not the wise sage whom we seek for solace and answers. Texas has the feel of never quite being able to get comfortable, remaining on edge. A place most human. Most imperfect. Most the compilation of all that goes into living every day for a lifetime. And the more she stretches to relax, the more she inclines to be reclined-- like the grandfather on the porch -- the more she creaks at the joints with a deep pain welded by a story or a decision or a mistake or joy from long ago.
It is here that I am most quiet. Most relaxed. Most uncluttered. Like a little boy listening at his grandfathers knees with one ear pressed to his story and the other pressed to the evidence in his knees. My mind stretches as far as the horizon. Through the plain and colorless oceans of fields. Over the hiccups of hills. The watering holes and windmills. Past the animals, who in their youth even seem older than time. There are fences but no one and no thing is fenced in. Natural beauty seems to be the one thing lacking, the one thing that keeps it from competing with the Maines, Wyomings and West Virginias, there is beauty here. Much, much beauty.
To each and everything thing in Texas there is ascribed some story. It is the song that reminds me of Texas: Not Dark Yet by Bob Dylan. I listened to it yesterday as the plane left Dallas. Dylan writes about how "...behind every beautiful thing/there's been some kind of pain." Not to vault Dylan higher than he ought, but we can posit from this that pain leads to beauty.
Texas, that old grandfather with the sore joints in the sunset, is a beautiful state. Texas is a state that has lived and endured a lifetime. And as you drive through, it may look like you're moving merely around difficult overpasses and off-ramps, but you are trekking across the aged plains of Texas, and you are only standing still.
And time is running away.
I hyberbolically (and jokingly!) surmised that when Americans fight in wars, they fight for places like Texas. That they do not fight for states like Iowa or Idaho or Ohio or even Delaware -- although it is the nation's first state -- not for the beaches of Malibu or the rain and clouds of Washington state. No. They fight for Texas.
She stretches out for miles like a grandfather reclined on a decaying porch in the sunset. She is old and dusty. Rough, scratchy and faded. Such scenes lead one to believe in experience, that Texas is then an experienced state free of mistakes. Yet she is not. Texas is not the veteran, not the wise sage whom we seek for solace and answers. Texas has the feel of never quite being able to get comfortable, remaining on edge. A place most human. Most imperfect. Most the compilation of all that goes into living every day for a lifetime. And the more she stretches to relax, the more she inclines to be reclined-- like the grandfather on the porch -- the more she creaks at the joints with a deep pain welded by a story or a decision or a mistake or joy from long ago.
It is here that I am most quiet. Most relaxed. Most uncluttered. Like a little boy listening at his grandfathers knees with one ear pressed to his story and the other pressed to the evidence in his knees. My mind stretches as far as the horizon. Through the plain and colorless oceans of fields. Over the hiccups of hills. The watering holes and windmills. Past the animals, who in their youth even seem older than time. There are fences but no one and no thing is fenced in. Natural beauty seems to be the one thing lacking, the one thing that keeps it from competing with the Maines, Wyomings and West Virginias, there is beauty here. Much, much beauty.
To each and everything thing in Texas there is ascribed some story. It is the song that reminds me of Texas: Not Dark Yet by Bob Dylan. I listened to it yesterday as the plane left Dallas. Dylan writes about how "...behind every beautiful thing/there's been some kind of pain." Not to vault Dylan higher than he ought, but we can posit from this that pain leads to beauty.
Texas, that old grandfather with the sore joints in the sunset, is a beautiful state. Texas is a state that has lived and endured a lifetime. And as you drive through, it may look like you're moving merely around difficult overpasses and off-ramps, but you are trekking across the aged plains of Texas, and you are only standing still.
And time is running away.
4 comments:
Aaron,
We greatly enjoyed having you, Jenny, and Isaac come visit here in Texas. Lots of fun! However, as a resident of the state (though not by birth) I am inclined to disagree with much of your sentimentality about this state. Rather than using the analogy of an old grandfather, I think a closer analogy would be that of the high school jock who thinks too much of himself, constantly talks about how great he is, and if he were to open his eyes to the rest of the world, he would realize just how little he really is. Though he may be a decent high-school athelete, he is going to ride the bench in college because he's not all he's cracked up to be. When I compare Texas to many other places in the US and outside the US, Texas is just "ok".
Sorry if I've offended anyone.
Rather than get into an analogy war -- okay let's. Seeing as how all analogies break down upon inspection, I must venture down a different path to make my point: Texas fully realizes it's stature in lieu of the rest of the world.
Texas boasts not of itself outside of what can be considered state pride. For that reason I find your analogy misplaced. It is a proud state; it is not an arrogant jock (aka me). The state is more like the ballboy on the team. The guy who thinks if he's just given a shot, he can prove himself. Texas, ironically, is the little guy. It has not the urban appeal of New York or Miami -- the size of cities and requisite cultures to compete. It has not the ball-handling skills of a mountainous West Virginia or Washington or Alaska. Heck, it can't even hold a candle to the wizened coach and his Washington, D.C./Philadelphia/Boston sense of history and knowledge. No, Texas is the ball boy in this sense. Small and outmatched. But it knows it can play the game. It just needs the chance.
So we can't judge Texas by comparison. We can only judge it by what it is. By it's heart. And it's there, creaking at the joints. Hoisting up ill-advised three pointers with it's Dallas' and Houstons. Committing terrible fouls in its highway system and overall hugeness of barren wasteland. But it plays its own game nonetheless. While it might not be good by comparison, I'm not so sure that's what it's about. It has a sense of humor in its comparison abilities. And a sense of pride at its uniqueness. It's just out there to have fun and play the game.
This is Texas!
And we too had a fantastic time.
Thank you both for such wonderful analogies of a state I have traveled through once [end to end], visited twice, and...well, that's it. Using a sport's analogy, it's like watching curling, bowling or tennis...nothing spectacular but OK, if I had no other place to visit.
Texas? Really?
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