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Subject: {ASSM} From TxM6 Texas Summer 1959
Date: Sat, 22 Jul 2000 23:10:08 -0400
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From TxM6 Taxi Murders Sextet Hyperfiction Novel
http://www.taximurders.com/enfer
TxM6 is entirely a work of fiction for adults only.
Copyright (c) 2000 Sean Farragher
0932xTexas02371959.htm
JHW: Walkabouts
Tyler, Texas
Sunday, July 12, 1959
La Guardia Air Port to Tyler, Texas is more than the sum of
its air miles.
When I was twelve and a rising eighth grader living in
Paramus, NJ, I spent an "innocent" summer with my grandmother
on my father's side in Tyler, Texas.
Riding the crop duster DC-3 from Dallas, I remembered hot
rusty hematite reds and lush golf course greens that swept
long side the 100 mile glide between runways. I was truly
innocent on that flight not just about sex but how life
stretched you faster than you could grow.
Years later, I would compare the memory to the topography of
Vietnam that ran through the tree line and below the
canopy. When you fly with death, dreams are not fatuous.
Tyler Texas
East Texas in 1959 was an ordinary place with people not too
different from Bergen County, NJ where I had lived. Living in
Edgewater and Paramus we were good white folks living on a
beach facing a great city island. One bridge joined us, and
that same bridge stopped us from knowing the other side of
the creek.
Like many war babies I was bound by accidental roots and
dishonest assumptions about race.
I lived in a town called wild turkey in Algonquin that prided
itself on not having any gooks or niggers as residents. I
played on little league baseball teams that had no Jackie
Robinson and no one, not matter what their pretensions, that
would become a star athlete.
Down town in east Texas was different than today. Brick and
mortar two story buildings mixed with some post war brick and
glass. I am sure there was that famous architectural
landmark, a Sears building, but I don't remember it.
Stepping up and into the heat the sidewalks and macadam
streets held the heat. Every step burned your feet.
To escape the heat I sat endlessly in family cars riding shot
gun or played the good but never quiet nephew in the back
seat. I memorized the signs along the road. I can almost
count the moments before and after when the car turned or
didn't. I wanted new roads even then.
The Eddy
My Great Aunt, Aunt, Uncle or Cousins drove many a night to
fish at a slight river named an eddy.
As a current of water or air moves contrary to "the direction
of the main current, especially in a circular motion."
Walking its soft bank, hardly cooled. Sweating and itching,
it seemed an artifact of a primeval moss and fern nightmare
that trapped the landscape. I was told it was a theater for
macabre murders although none were committed to the best of
my knowledge.
When I leaned out of the slick, and hit the ground in Nam I
connected to that eddy. My desire for death and survival was
not unlike the frog or the tadpole.
Pacing the river waters, kicking the sticks, "fishing" with
my Uncle Darrel, I sank out of tune as I stepped over broken
rocks and just missed cutting my foot on broken coke bottles.
I must have found half a dozen Trojans that I collected as
balloons blowing them up until my Uncle took them away.
Every few feet I'd measure my stubbed toes and mosquito bites
to see how much of myself had been lost.
In Nam, one day during Tet I lost somebody every hour.
Back at the eddy, breaking into tall weeds, I tripped
pretending to escape the alien hoard of Buck Rodgers.
Careening through the "riverine scraggle," squeezed in the
uterus goose neck of the sick mud that pickled between my
toes.
Mosquitoes
In Texas, still a boy, I counted toes, kept a record of dead
mosquitoes as I mashed them against the pine wall board next
to my bed. Their blood, my blood, ran like the serial murder
of children through the dark abuse of the fist and graceful
finger crushed to knotted pine.
Every scar and scab was a totem of an insect's failed
adventure. Or had it already succeeded. We just didn't know
the rites.
Later, while I slept under an historic fan barely electric, I
realized death gave me pleasure. No, I didn't kill dogs and
cats. I was no Ted Bundy. I have never murdered anyone, but I
can imagine it.
That Night
After that one night, years later, I imagined myself naked
driving myself into a frenzy of a multiple butterfly trance
on that east Texas eddy.
I reacted strangely swimming that snake guarded eddy. I
stepped out too far, ready to drown, not die, and off
balance, when my internal music stopped, I knew that I had
been captured by the skin of the earth. I would never be the
same. My Pentecostal Uncle by marriage, a good man, Darrel
had no idea that a god other than his had taken me alive.
Sex, his evil, not mine coursed through my spirit like the
fucking flies and maggots, mosquito and larvae. I was no
longer a child. I hungered for decadence and continuity. I
didn't know the force of these words in 1955, but truthfully
I respected them.
1959
1959 was the year before Nixon lost to Kennedy. It was the
year of Castro the hero. It was a simpler time they say.
Politicians and historians seem to lie about truth, not that
my version is more accurate, but I don't pretend that it is
the truth.
All I knew about the 1960 candidates, barely remembering
them, was that they both laughed with a false tenor or
baritone.
At 16 I was not politically precocious; these perceptions are
my present; your lives acting on my past.
Presidents
Famous and infamous people inspire myths. Presidential
candidates do not possess their own names after they are
nominated. How can you not lie if you run for Congress or
President. In November I would have voted for the war hero
Ike. Like my father and millions of others they saved the
world from themselves.
Why do I care about Tyler, Texas?
Why should I? Why should you? How can I ask better questions,
unless I talk about the past as if it were a more reasonable
truth.
I begin one story about Texas and race and sex that is unique
because I lived it. I tell it to illustrate (not as National
Geographic) my routine life as a child in America before
Vietnam and after Korea.
In that decade, we accepted the lies, panty raids and
adultery of Presidents without question. Hard to imagine sex
being a sin when everyone wanted it, did it, sought it, and
lied about it.
As it was hidden and forbidden it never existed. Wonderful
how logic protects the surfaces of truth. I never understood
that reasoning. Perhaps that is the difference between beings
51 and being 12. It is harder to be more human today if you
are politicians. You have life protected by antiseptics that
kills all germs both essential and deadly. Politics kills the
imagination. Sex drives it. We could argue that point. This
is a current belief, but now at 51, sex seems more thought
than action. Once in the saddle you never want to get off.
You hit the ground, walk when you once flew.
All will change now. I write this memory about 1959 knowing
that my lover Laurie has been in 1992 abducted by murderers.
1959 Tyler was rustic; rough tree branches. No, not bucolic--
not pastoral. It was simpler but more complex. Less complex
could mean dishonest. Not hypocritical, really.
There was the honest image of the gentle whorehouse next to
the Baptists church. Church not lost in dirty dancing, strip
show. At that show, there was up in the arms honest sex and
good clean fun between men and women.
Tyler, well that was a myth. They said, and I believed them.
Tyler floated on a lake of oil. Now, it could have, but it
was hard to believe that no one drilled the wells. I am not
sure if it was true or not.
All that money does float up, and when the change rains from
heaven, I knew the myth was true.
Oil makes you rise up higher on your toes. Impossible
distances. The lush greens, and the sickly swamps where frogs
flaked away at the noise, standing, above the tree line,
almost walking on point, doing recon in Nam, keeping track of
the nests where snipers drown life. You could thrive up on
your toes, stretching, and the swamp would force you higher
above the moss.
On a Texas Eddy at night, deep August night, fishing with
grubs and spoons, levitation was easy as the lightning bugs.
Close your eyes and dream.
More American Adventures in erotica and other works by Sean Farragher:
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Sean_Farragher/
Sean Farragher
Poetry Site: http://www.farragher.com
TxM6 Sites:
http://www.taximurders.com
http://www.taximurders.com/enfer
http://www.taximurders.com/lcfallon
http://www.taximurders.com/paradisio (forthcoming)
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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