Marooned Trucks

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Pickup Truck - New Mexico

One of my favorite personalities of New Mexico is desolation.

 

I tingle at its tableaux, especially pickup trucks parked randomly – slantwise on farm roads overgrown with buffalo grass. Parked on dust ravaged, ghostly earth. Earth that crawls continually toward the gaunt hills of a frontier desert, across a basin bottom that fillets before them, across those boundless flounder-flat plains.

 

This is also a portrait of my heart, I realize – a montage of rusty and hollowing. A still life of my red-clay heart sinking into fields of somber silt. Left behind by the thoughtlessness of time.

What attracts me to inertia is its potential. The power, love and wisdom that can flow through once the current is turned on.

I love the stillness of potential:

The hour just before dawn

The heart just before it loves

The marooned truck just before its engine ignites

The moments after death before the soul transitions

It’s all so scintillating.

Prairie Schooner Cartoonery by jayni

I look at my heart like a crazy cartoon outlined in black and I color it with ridiculously intense colors, trying to resuscitate it. Inflate it. Give it a second birth. Just as I do with marooned trucks that I adopt roadside.

 

Sometimes my heart feels like a sordid red satin curtsying cowgirl at the close of the fair. Waiting for her night shift to end. For night to run away, chased on its heels by dawn’s bloody fingertips.

 

I both fear and crave abandonment. I’m afraid of being totally unloved, yet, I want the world to leave me alone – to cast me into a field of decaying carnival rides. I want the corpse of the barker to kiss me goodnight on the boardwalk at midnight.

I’m a Jersey girl by birth, and, that birthmark can erupt like a wounded tattoo and go bankrupt without warning. I need my hood-love sometimes to tether my bilingual life to a knot in sea-beaten, sun-bleached wood.

 

It’s a moment after twilight and I’m angry.

The anger is born from me not knowing how to operate the instrument panel of my vehicle. The owner’s manual burned when my father died and no one has edited a new reference book.

 

I sense that if I have the keys and can read the dials and shift the gears, that I can save myself. That I can drive my forlorn prairie schooner out of the desert’s talcum powder dust, and into the merger of life’s crossroads.

 

In the quest for meaning, I know that many walks, or drives, through the lion’s den are required.

 

But right now, I’m still angry. Or, I’m angrier still because my dearest friend died last autumn. The last of the true friends.

 

Now I only face faux friends who charge me an exchange rate for likes and favorites and follows and comments and hashtags and stats that exceed the galaxy.

 

I hate bartering for friendship, for love.

 

I hate haggling in the brothel of Wall Street relationships, waiting for the bell to ring; waiting for the net to connect; waiting for inane conversation to begin only to bring shine to the ego of another and shadow to the heart of my vacant vehicle – dying little by little.

 

Yeah. I’ve been on the road all my life . . . out there running just to be on the run.

 

I need a little off-roading time for quiet, detailed contemplation.

 

I need to bury my burdens like a velveteen rabbit and learn to drive my own vehicle of soul back to the original destination from which I departed eons ago.

 

I’m just a traveling soul stripped of her colors. Trying to paint over my anger and reupholster my spirit. And rejoin my tribe.  Pickup Truck - Rusted Trio

 

8 responses »

  1. Ah… sigh. I want one of these trucks and all that comes (or doesn’t come) with it. I want to get in this dusty heap, start him up, shift the rusty gears, and drive off across the desert. I want to feel the wind in my hair again, to feel the trickle of sweat down my spine. I want him to accompany me to the beach where the icy blue waters will satiate us again.

    We joined in happy union a lifetime ago on a farm in Illinois when I was 2, and he was 20, and Dad was 26. On our way to Newberry’s Co-Op Feed and Seed, I stood on the truck seat, and leaned into Daddy’s shoulder. As Daddy shifted the gears, they ground in a scary resistance. The softness of Dad’s white t-shirt against his muscular, sun-browned arms comforted me. I was a big girl, alone with my dad. From the truck bed behind us, sprinkles of sweet timothy hay seed swirled in through the windows and wafted up from the floorboards. A lifetime ago. Is the one. I want to live in again. Right now.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Jayni, I’m so sorry about your friend passing. And I also hate the business of bartering for “friendship”, “likes”, “follows” and whatnot. On the other hand, I do often feel a strong bond with internet friends, as we log our journeys, joys, and hardships on this crazy web. Love and light to you. xo

    Liked by 1 person

    • Thank you, Mary, for your extraordinarily kind and compassionate words. They are profoundly appreciated!
      Someday I’ll adjust to the whole business of internet friendship. I feel its positive effects expanding in my life, however, I’m still rather old-school/old-fashioned: I love deep, heart-to-heart, face-to-face relationships with tangible people!!

      Like

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