Dayvan Cowboy

The cluster of radio towers in Westlake. You know, the ones studded with red flashing lights. The ones that always conjure my Grandma's lamp, oil dripping down the circular arrangement of guitar strings, a figurine in the center, slowly. The one that we drove around for hours to find the provenance of that night; we hopped the fence, we stared the 'radiation' warning signs in the figurative face, and copped a defiant squat. We weren't high, but felt so in that misty, unearthly, undulating red light.


The feeling I get when I see them, from any point in Austin, a huddle of giants in the hills.


Looking out over the ocean, at night, lights from the string of hotels and resorts blighting the beach shining behind my head, and the sea is that much darker. It is black as pitch. There is no moon. It is infinite, and I am so small. I am so very small. That is magic.


Falling back into a swimming pool, sinking to the bottom, weightless and nearly drowning as my air escapes, elevates, in a plume of a billion bubbles. Looking up. The sun. The quiet. And that would be a good way to die.


The sun setting from an airplane window, vivid on the curved horizon.


That song. What is that strange chord it strikes in me? The undeniable one I can't identify. I feel so 'mortal.' I feel....