Drove over two thousand miles, I went all through the Hook Of Texas: Alpine, Marfa, Ft. Davis, Valentine, Van Horn, Presidio, Terlingua, Lajitas, Marathon. Through and in between, around and over, it was all fabulous. In the last piece of Texas, which is the edge of America, I encountered peace and quiet and beauty. Alive and well, there for the trip. The dunes of Monahans, the water of the Rio Grande, and Judd's visions at Chinati.
Drive the Davis Mountains at night, visit Prada Marfa near Valentine, moonroof it, avoid the thorns. I was never hassled, never bugged, only encountered, only welcomed. The cultural vibe seemed acceptance and solitude; embrace the isolation and space; use it. Leaving was as natural as arriving, it was time to go. I packed up and headed east.
The Talking Heads blared in my earbuds. New wave music took over til Brady, the geographical center of Texas: Sparks, The Replacements, Yaz, Pretenders, Echo & The Bunnymen, Tom Tom Club. Stayed a night in the Bonnie And Clyde Room at the historic, and partially renovated, Brady Hotel. It was loud, the people were rowdy, the room was cold, the bathroom was in the hallway, I was gone at dawn, took back roads to home. Clyde should've known better, could've hid out in the Hook Of Texas, made a good life with Bonnie, might've seen the Lights Of Marfa, might've found some gold.