Alcibiades 11

I often listen to C-SPAN’s Washington Journal in the morning as I eat breakfast and attempt to edit my own crude journals of poetry and memories. Media criticizing medium–very human: the self-critical. War in Iraq and whatever else leaning into our mind view from every side and angle. The nation is divided in a strange way that I cannot really grasp. Is this the way alienation felt right before WWII, Anasocrates? Is this alienation or something else?

I am a Texan, born in Abilene and raised in Waxahachie. I do not see myself only as a Texan. Nevertheless, I am much more a child of the Lonestar than any other kind of name I could use (Irish, German, English, Blackfoot, etc). I have a pride in this state that surprises even me at times, and certainly surprised you who never found a place that you would claim.

Mostly I just love my home; I am unable to comprehend why I should not love my home. I expect that other people in other places love their home so I will not give my place any less viability than do they. Does that mean I accept everything done here? Or that I find no fault with anyone from here? Please, that would be stupid.

Would I choose to live somewhere else? I have lived in Puerto Rico and Mexico and taken long stays in Colorado, Maryland, and New York. I really liked each for its own thing. One of them might have become a new home if I really applied myself. But I came back home and I dwell now in Denton. I really like where I live, a crossroads of diverse cultures and world views without all the imperial pomp of New York/London/Paris or the academic pretense of Boston/Berkley/Oxford.

I lovingly refer to this locale as the NULL ZONE, the crossroads where out and in, above and below cancel each other long enough to let the singular person present him/herself for the impossible exchange with another.

The neighborhood I live in was originally built when there was a missile plant here decades ago. But the Town North division is quiet, especially in the morning, after the sun is just up.

A small amount of noise, drifiting on the wind from the highway, always reminds me of my youngest days in Forreston, on Rural Route 5 about 8 miles out of Waxahachie. The sound of big trucks on I-35E going under the overpass that linked our dirt road up with the sleepy almost no-town of Forreston. The distance of cotton field in between adding to the mutedness of cars, trucks, and even Greyhound buses in their going right on by me. Very early, the train might moan a signal, slowly chugging past what was left of the little township, over there.

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