Archaeology, Landscape, Texas
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Summer Thus Far…

Talked to a friend on the phone,

told her I’d forgotten how to write.

It’s true.

Maybe it’s just that I have nothing to say really.

Who is it I’m speaking to now, exactly?

I’ve been told too often that I’m overly vague.

But my life isn’t exactly something that can entertain pages upon pages, or even a handful of people really. To be honest, it’s just scraps, feathered pieces of paper torn on each end. Sometimes I wonder why I even write things here…. And then I remember: because it feels good to write things down. Put words down on a page that only really half-exists. Anyway, back to the content of my life, I’m ambiguous and indistinct. Maybe that’s why I’ve taken to poems. The right people to seem to understand them (or at least in my mind they do.) It’s like a type of codex; poems unite likewise minds flowing down the current of the universe. But in attempt to be a little less vague, let me share a little piece of world:

morning

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I’ve been down in the canyon lands, rich with limestone and history, working as a research intern for the Shumla Archaeological Center. It’s been a fantastic experience so far, and I can nearly guarantee that it will continue on in a positive way. I’m working on a report as we speak regarding what is exactly it is I’m doing in more detail, however I will save that for a later day.

As of now I have been seizing the days spent in a quiet little country town, waking up to the sound of passing freight trains. My days start mostly the same: alarm goes off, I peel the sleeping bag off my legs, and I dart up in a zombie-hunger crawl towards the coffee maker. I sip down a strong cup, and put the syrupy substance in a thermos for later. I make some toast and fix myself for the day. I have no beauty regimen whatsoever, so I can’t exactly contribute that here… but the next part of my day involves walking to work passed wandering mules grazing in the tall grasses; they’re usually always together gnawing on their shredded wheat. Most days are spent in the office, but these past days have been out in the field at the White Shaman Preserve. We’ve been documenting newly found figures within the panel and shooting in others. It’s more exciting than I’m making it sound. I promise.

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I love the hike down to White Shaman, the brush is so overgrown now that I always leave with a new scrape, be it from a mesquite branch, or the wandering scratch of a ocotillo finger. The “trail” overlooks the Pecos River Bridge and you can sometimes hear semis bouncing on the dangling surface.

Small wildflowers and cacti sprout up out of the cracks in the rock, and millipedes waver away in steady marches across your feet, goats bleat and bah in echoes across the coulees. The rocks leading down into the annex are jagged, and sure footing is a must. Though the precipice is steep and filled with foliage and wildlife that stings, and bites, and scrapes, the view is absolutely astounding.

You are lead down an increasingly narrow path, the fire cracked rock turning white at your feet. To your left a dense ravine of vegetation and lichen-covered granite, to your right, a pale yellow limestone surface, bleached from the sun. If you look closely you can see faint red figures painted on the wall, close enough to regard in silent recognition that you are stepping into the bounds of a living, breathing history. Carrying on the stride to White Shaman, you must go up some pretty steep stairs (but they are stairs nonetheless,) and there you will see the full panel in all its glory. The panel is located in a large rock shelter with near-vertical access and is comprised of black, red, yellow, and white colored paints, and is truly a site to behold.

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bridge

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To have the opportunity to work in a place so thick with history that it could be read like a book to trained eyes is completely and utterly surreal to me.

I find myself breathing deeply and giving tacit thanks to the fact I am here.

Here in this place, here in my life.

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I hope you enjoy the pictures, as my descriptions do not do it justice.

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