A few years after my mother died in 1997, I moved back to Amarillo, where the people talk slow, the bareness of the landscape embraces you, and memories flash by like bright stations reflecting on the windows of a train at night.
My characters are those of the people, influences and loves I knew here so many many years ago. In other words the ties to a certain place often dictates one's emotional heritage. There may not be much difference in the Amarillo I grew up in and the Amarillo of today. But, Old Route 66 and the San Jacinto area have disappeared into the arms of a dying crack addict.
Both are shadows of what I remember from my youth. Much of what you read here springs from a mystical time, from the heart, deep as the sea of humanity, deep as the winding muddy river of life.
I recall sitting under a tree holding hands with my first true love. I may have been about 12 at the time. We shared a love back then that many of us have forgotten, forfeited or never knew. A love delicate in it's innocence, reachng far beyond time and geography, beyond the secret of the ages.
Watching the slow decay, first written 2. Jan. 2009
4 months ago