Once again the car was loaded with the possessions that hadn’t gone in the garage sale. Two book boxes, a clothes-stuffed external frame backpack, my Canon, a portfolio, and Gigi- the dancing schnauzer.
The lights of Austin shriveled into the dense morning fog as I headed down the high way towards the grand city of Houston.
I was heading to my grandmother’s to deposit most my things into her attic. I decided against leaving Gigi in the attic. I’d leave her with my friend June. Abandon might be a better word. I wasn’t planning on returning for her. It didn’t seem fair to the girl or the dog after as much time as I knew would pass.
I was going back on the road. Heading to Chicago for a bit of bar work and photography. Then to New York to pay my respects to the Brave New World? Dublin to see the Wawi gang? Then sell kilims in Istanbul? Then Jerusalem for some Islamic studies? What do I know? I would love to have taken Gigi with me but I didn’t need the extra 17 pounds of weight in my backpack and she wouldn’t fit into my camera bag.
My journey was supposed to start this morning. I had said my goodbyes, had my going away parties. Yesterday, I had called June to arrange a drop off time for Gigi. She wasn’t home, so I left a message and lay down to take a nap, sharing the pillow with my Gigi.
I awoke when June called back some moments later. Her name flashed on the caller i.d. if my telephone. I watched it ring, until it finally stopped. In those moments, while it rained against the empty apartment's window, I decided to take Gigi with me to Houston. I’d be there for a week anyway. There was not any reason I just could not take her with me, and then bring her to June just before I flew out. My parents were never particularly thrilled with having the dog around. They had no reason to be. They already had seven grandchildren that don't bark at strangers. But, hey, I could impose; it’s only a few days, right? I lay back down with Gigi. Mine for another week.
Now it was just me and the road, the dog and the dawn. The big horizon pressed my foot into the gas and I was in perfect peace. I had concerns in Austin and cares in Houston, but I was no where in between, and that is a very peaceful place in deed. It was not until the bright lights of a small town traffic cop filled my rearview mirror that I returned to this three-dimensioned time-space configuration.
To some people getting pulled over by the police is simply a matter of inconvenience, simply a waste of 75 dollars, fifteen minutes, and higher insurance rates. But more some people, a face to face encounter with the law can be a bit more serious. They might have a few warrants in Comal County, and few in Travis County. They might not have been wearing their seat belt in protest of government’s interference in the private lives of men. They might have a registration sticker from a particular 1970 fast back that was totaled a couple a years back performing a messy U-turn. They might have opted to pay their light bill instead of their insurance. That’s not to mention the 800 dollars in unpaid parking tickets, which would surely get your car a boot if it were impounded with your arrest. Gigi would fall into the hands of the state until I raised my bail which could be God know when. I wouldn’t even be able to sit quietly in jail until time served paid off my social debts because Mammaw was expecting and would worry sick until she found me. Maybe all this helps explain why I don’t like cops very much.
As I pulled onto the shoulder, I tore off the registration sticker and pretended to unbuckle the safety belt I wasn’t actually wearing. While I dug through my trunk pretending to look for my insurance and registration the officer played with Gigi who was leaning out the passenger side window, wagging her tail, waiting anxiously to see what would happen next.
When the officer finally went to his car to run my numbers and I continued to rifle through the bags that stuffed my trunk I began to pray. God, please help me. I am almost out. Please let this pass. God please. I don’t want to go to jail again. Not now. This is the worst possible time. If you want to deal with me then deal with me I am waiting but please do not let me go to jail. I just want to leave town…”
The officer gave me a couple of warnings, rubbed Gigi’s head and sent me on my way.
I drove away raising my voice over the radio, to God in the heavens for his boundless mercy and infinite grace. As hockey as that might sound, I firmly believe if you’re going to beseech the creator of the universe to act on your behalf, the least you can do is offer thanks when it seems to occur. It’s only polite.
As I neared Houston the highway suddenly became clogged with brake lights. I was running smack into the worst hour of Houston traffic. I wasn’t in the middle of rush hour, but rather in the middle of the morning and the evening rush when the two overlap.
I decided to turn around and head back to the toll road. I made a U-turn going about 2 miles per hour, following closely behind an old blue hair who was closer to parking than driving. As soon as the turn around began to straightened out I gave the car some gas and began passing the old Buick one the right. Suddenly the lady cut over into my lane. I slammed the brakes on and turned my car sharp to the right, hearing my horn she did the same. As car slid towards the Buick I cut back to the left and my passenger door flew open. Keeping my eyes on the road as I navigated around the bumper, I leaned over and grabbed the door, shouting profanities at the offensive driving I was forced to endure.
I reached over to comfort Gigi, but she was not there beside me. I glanced over expecting to see her safely in the floor board but this was not the case. I turned and looked in the back seat wondering how she could have squeezed back there with the bags.
She was not there. I slammed on the brakes, looking in my rearview mirror, hoping I did not see Gigi being hit by a car, hoping I’d see her sitting on the side of the road looking bewildered and slightly mussed. I saw nothing. I put the hazards on and ran to the intersection.
I didn’t see Gigi anywhere. The moment of chaos was only for me to endure. There were no bystanders. No business women honking their horns, giving me help through charades as they waited for their light to turn green. It was as though nobody had seen anything.
Under the adjacent overpass, a tow truck driver waited. I ran to his window, and he looked from his map, startled, oblivious and of no help. Some city maintenance workers, hunched over their weed eaters, didn’t know anything ‘bout no dog. I scurried about the weeds again and again, jogged through a nearby neighborhood calling out to Gigi. The rain had become a little heavier. And the idea of my little dog flung from a moving car only to endure the cold polluted Houston rain. Then I noticed some giant yellow construction vehicles near the intersection that I hadn’t seen before.
I ran over to them, knelt down and looked under the massive machines. Nothing.
I went and looked closely behind the massive tires, peering into the tall weeds that pressed against them. No Gigi. The rain against my face masked the tears from the traffic passing ignorantly along. I ran to nearby businesses. No one had seen Gigi.
It was like some sort of doggie rapture. I went back and stood in the grassy median, calling and calling, to earth, to heaven until there was nothing left to do but return to my car, to the road, alone.

I am waiting for the bus to leave the station. It’s on to the Drag that perimeters the university. It is a fun, smelly plate, teeming with taut-faced students slightly confused as to what they should do immediately post high school, and speckled with some coasts’ runaways and what not and so and on.

With every failure we lower the standard? I certainly hope not. For years I have wrestled with the things of this world, wrestled their unchecked effects. For the better part of year I imbibed at a reasonable pace, fewer hairy scotches. Not for self-will, mind you, but circumstance and economics.

Will the cleaner burning me keep his legs. I wallow in a thin pool of pleasure, holding my head beneath the surface then recovering it alternatively.

I remember a sign from the men’s dorm of a fundamentalist college:

You can lead a horse to water, and if he doesn’t drink, then submerge his head beneath the surface until it stops squirming.

So now I must decide which way to go, or rather I must decide to believe in strength to go, to not fall once again into the endless rut
that eternally grooves
at the weathered end of a gospel record.

No more crashing. No more burning. No more poisoned flights.

Besides, if I fall again there will be no rail of sentiment
with which to pull myself up.

I just had my first shot of wheatgrass chased
by the juice of an orange wedge.
I went for a pint of coffee at a hip all day and night coffee shop
here on the Drag. The baristas knew I was not one of the Kool Kids.
I asked for a regular coffee.
I don’t know what I was thinking. Of course want caffeine, that’d be like going to a bar and asking for an alcoholic beer.

Or going to a gas station and requesting “leaded”. Or maybe the exact opposite or whatever.

Jamie Schmidt turned to me, holding the yellow crayon in her hand, “Here, shove it up your butt.” Never in my life had such a proposition been presented me, not even had such an idea ever occurred to me. Stick the crayon into my butt? It was not until the end of the day while I waited in line with the other bus riders that the seriousness of it all sunk in.
Indignant, I dropped my backpack, marking my place in the single-file line.
“Ms. Criswell”, I said, my head craned back to meet her shoe leather P.E. teacher face, “Jamie told me to stick a crayon into my b-u-t-t.”
“Excuse me?”
“Jamie told me to stick a crayon into my b-u-t-t.”
“She did? Jamie’s not even here, Johnny”
Indeed, she had left with the other Kool kid bike riders/ walkers.
“She told me in music class.”
“That was four hours ago.”
The girl I love told me to stick a thick, from-the-eight-pack crayon in my butt and all I get is a lecture on timely tattling?
Ms. Criswell promised to talk to her about it, but I never really believed she would or did. I suspected Ms. Criswell party to the deep conspiracy against my well-being ever since she made my permanent square dance partner Michelle Kraft, who furiously picked her nose when she thought nobody was looking.
As I resumed my place in line for the long bus ride home, I resolved to not get bothered by all of this. I could turn the other cheek. After all, I was an anointed man of God, and had been for nearly a month.

Texas: Sail: "Call David at 325 388 4521 or email davidluc@earthlink.net to reserve your sailing adventure."

Texas: Sail: "Call David at 325 388 4521 or email davidluc@earthlink.net to reserve your sailing adventure."

The New York Times > International > Middle East >The New York Times begins the long process of explaining their atrocious march-to-war coverage. There were so many discrepcancies between the official Iraq line and numerous solid sources, a casual reader of foreign newspapers could have told you that the NYT should exchange their black ink for some brown, as 99 percernt of their front page coverage was but d.c.p.r.b.s.

"But we have found a number of instances of coverage that was not as rigorous as it should have been. In some cases, information that was controversial then, and seems questionable now, was insufficiently qualified or allowed to stand unchallenged. Looking back, we wish we had been more aggressive in re-examining the claims as new evidence emerged- or failed to emerge"

Note to Times: Yes, you must corraborate government sources. I know it makes your job a little more difficult, and your operation a little more expensive, but, hey, that's the price of writing history.

Alvin, Texas
The Lewis Residence
Thursday, February 3, 1983

Having just gone to bed around 9:30 p.m., the Sharon and I were beginning to read when John came running into our room saying he had seen a vision of Jesus. We, his two older sisters included, were all stirred about this. We spent some time asking questions about the vision. After a period of time we all returned to our beds. A short time later we began to hear him crying again. We waited in the hallway for him to come out of his room, and when he did he said he had seen another vision of Jesus. This time Jesus was not a normal size, but rather so large only his face could fill the room.
I recalled the scriptures of I Samuel 3, where the lord was calling Samuel and each time he heard the voice of the Lord he would run to Eli and ask what was needed. Finally Eli realized it must the Lord calling to Samuel. Eli told Samuel that if he heard the voice again to ask the Lord what he wanted of him.
After the excitement died down and the girls quit their chatter, we once again returned to our beds. Things looked like they might return to normal.
Then John starts wailing and beating his bed. It’s a good thing we live I the country atmosphere without neighbors being very close because I know they would think we were beating our children.
John stops crying and comes running out of his room, throwing his arms around my waist. Jesus had appeared again. When John asked what he wanted of him, the Lord said he wanted him in the ministry and he also wanted him to heal people.
We put him bed with us this time, I went to sleep and John was still awake as was his mother. His mother asked him why he was staring at his hands. In a calm voice he replied, “Mom, the Lord told me he was putting healing in my hands.” He held up his hands, showing his mother the one red palm and the other having red splotches. He said his palms tingled but the splotches tingled more.
Once again John stayed home from school because it was late when all of this was over.

the gods of the mesquite trees:


the mesquite trees, huddled and crouched in the frosted scum
that surrounds the pond,
wishing to escape winter,
trapped behind barb wire fences,
throwing prayers at the telephone poles free to run along
the back country roads.

Often on these pages I have praised Patrick Buchanan for his critique of Neocons and of Globalization. So, I am compelled to castigate the WASP on his latest piece. Rather than celebrating the birth of the codification of "seperate is not equal", Buchanan seizes the anniversary of Brown V. The Board of Education as occassion to grieve the death of traditional America by a "liberal, secularist" Supreme Court.

He maintains that B. v. E. established the precedent of an activist judicial branch usurping the laws set down by elected representatives Buchanan says the Supreme Court rulings following desegration- abolition of organized prayer, Bible readings, the Ten Commandments, Easter pageants, and so on- are evidence of the Court's on going mission to de-Christianize public schools.

It seems pretty damn sad that a man as wise as Buchanan can come from a place so spiritually inept that he thinks a classroom whose door is locked to negros, yet filled with cleanly pressed white boys and white girls reciting morning prayers beneath a shiny cross is in anyway Christian. I pitythese old white men who cling to their symbols of Christianity when they have long lost its substance.

Note to Patrick Buchanan: A burning cross is not a symbol of Christianity.

Balkinization
This will be my last politcal post. When I started this blog, I needed an outlet in our march to war. There is nothing I can say that is not being articulated by better writers with more informed blogs. Some are linked to the right. Even the nightly news has finally moved beyond their euphoria of grief and seem to be covering the chasm between reality and the White House p.r.b.s. Of course, Koppel and Co. are 15 months and 15,000 dead Iraqiis too late.
So, in short, I will not stay the course.

The Infinite Cat Project
Kitty, kitty

God Bless America

For Dave