Escape from Paradise

May 15, 2016

 

 

 

 

The most recent interrogation of myself led to the following quandary. How has my long and winding road - across the bridge over troubled water - through the valley of the shadow of death- over the creek that did not rise – perilously close to a Hell that is frozen - onto the New York Island - within view of the lap of luxury - skirting the town without pity - on the banks of the river of discontent - along the Lost Highway - past Route 66 - up Wolverton Mountain - into The Village of the Damned - straight past the Land of Milk and Honey - far, far away from Odessa, Austin, Hollywood, and Venice placed me home, home on the range? Yes, dear friends and neutral strangers, Lynn and I seem to have done the impossible. We have gotten off of those L.A. Freeways without getting killed or caught. We have checked out of Hotel California.

 

 

But why this place? This place called Silver City, New Mexico? This place in the Land of Enchantment? This place where Billy the Kid was arrested while wearing women’s clothing? This place where “Geronimo” was once much more than a word screamed by paratroopers when their sergeants kicked them out into space? This place where the desert collides with the forest spewing forth galleries of art, bunches of bikers, festivals of blues, feelers of the Bern, trumpeters of the Trump, servers of culinary delights and a Coffee Shop called Javalina? This place south of Pie Town, west of the atomic bomb’s birth site, north of Baldy Russell’s grave and slightly east of nowhere? This place. This placed called Silver City. Why? Why?

 

 

I’ll get back to you on that question after considerably more pondering.

 

 

Illustration / Dan Hubig © 2016

 

 

 

I have all the qualifications of a long time journalist. By that I mean, every publication I have worked for has either gone out of business, or is no longer recognizable to me. Not all of those closings and changes were completely my fault. 

 

 

So I continue to ask who, what, where, why, when and how. I continue to ponder. Pondering is what I do best. Finding answers is what I do worst.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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