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May 04, 2005
center point
the effort to catch up continues...
saturday, 4/30/05, 1:23a.m.
thank god for the iPod.
i wavered, wobbled, away from center point, into kerrville, ahmet's headlights following close behind me.
there have been five towns named "center point" in texas, and one named "centerpoint." all but one are relics, marked only by cemeteries and churches, barely discernable agglomerations of rural homes.
the surviving center point, the site of morgan and amanda's wedding, sits in the hill country some two hours from austin. initially called "zanzenburg," the town boasted an estimated population of 800 in 1984, which dropped to 623 in 1990. i can't find any modern-day estimates, but i'm not sure that either residents or outsiders really care about the numbers.
about 10 miles out, the highway pierces the modern world again - an explosion of gas stations and holiday inns and cracker barrels shock and awe the eye that had grown accustomed to rural darkness.
still, it's all relative.
we pulled into the econolodge, which ahmet suggests we call pronounce "eck-oh-no," the pseudoeuronunciation providing the barest of defense against the stark realities of the seemingly ancient motel. on the other hand, pronouncing it "free" helps a lot, too.
past the bus and the eighteen-wheelers idling in the parking lot, we glide silently, ahmet splits off to take a different course to the back of the building. i park in front, decide to walk first to the glowing gas station megaplex next door.
no sidewalks, so i step onto the highway's small shoulder. tractor-trailer rigs blow past. all around in this little valley, lights beckon to weary drivers, but they're short-lived, dying quickly into the emptiness. the emptiness is the kind you feel, that you hear like the hum of mechanically reproduced silence.
America. this is it - it's as much about the spaces between and their waypoints as the metropolitan endpoints, as much about these center points as about los angeles or new york, or even austin.
i feel U2 in my head, feel like i'm there with them on black and white film, sitting with four irish guys on a hillside in mississippi, awed by the realization of scale and scope.
"into the arms of america."
i realize that i don't travel on my own much because my loneliness travels with me, turns the potential of out there into something overwhelming, a looming emptiness.
snacks in hand, i head to my room. i pull away the covers of one of the beds, both of which are concave, hollowed-out in their middles, as if still bearing the weight of all the nights, all the lives that stopped there.
i catch myself in the mirror, and i see ugliness, unflattering truth in unflattering light.
i've one friend that is particularly, preternaturally beautiful. the other night, she showed me the pictures stored on her digital camera, including some self-portraits. the camera captured a good deal of the beauty, but then she showed me two or three shots in which she didn't even look like herself. she looked sallow, haggard, hopeless. no doubt tricks of the lens and of light, catching her at the wrong angle, distorting the truth. but maybe, just maybe, it was the camera catching a glimpse of her self-perception in that moment, a self-portrait in a moment of doubt and despair, dorian gray rendered in real-time.
i think of her, and those pictures, about what my own heart and mind project, versus what the true reflection of light reveals, versus what the kind and understanding eye might see in me.
i feel the need to affirm this, to act on the small victory of positivity. i change clothes, leave the room at 1:00am, and walk to the nightclub that i had noticed clumsily appended to the motel. i go forth with wavering conviction in my poor intentions.
the thump grows exponentially as i pull open the door to the "Solid Gold Nite Club and Taqueria Jalisco." there's no one at the small stool and table directly in front of the door, but as i turn right into the club, i'm startled by a very short, but yet imposing, slightly older black man with an earpiece, his body language clearly set to "obstruct by any means necessary."
"five dollars."
I look over his head at the dance floor, populated entirely by a tremendous woman working a smaller guy like a bathtowel. i hear voices, but can't see anyone.
i want to laugh, or at least raise an eyebrow in amusement, but i'm too tired for conflict, and the troll could very well kick my ass.
back in my room. it's all for the best. i write. the cell phone vibrates atop it's kleenex ook barrier on the nightstand. it's the mysterious waco caller - i think it's the same number i've gotten late-night text messages from: "i love you;" "i fucking hate you."
this time i get a voice. she's drunk, there are other people around her.
"what are you doing?"
"chillin' at the hotel. you?"
she hangs up. wherever she is, i feel, or imagine, that she's in her own lonely place, alone in a group of people, or at home in her room.
i think of this, i write this line, shut off the iPod and light, and go to sleep.
Posted by Rob at May 4, 2005 04:27 PM