Trans-Pecos is a desert

Trans-Pecos is the area to the west of the Pecos River in Texas, known as far West Texas. It’s mostly desert. did I know Trans-Pecos was mostly a desert? I guess I might’ve – and now am re-remembering /or learning the first time.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Trans-Pecos

i had this outfit on today, with nowhere to go, and I really thought to myself, I look like someone who’s about to head to Trans-Pecos. There’s a style. Someone who stands to the side of the stage at a Trans-Pecos concert. I’d often enough gone to those and asked myself, who are all these people standing around at this place where they play Toro Y Moi, Unknown Mortal Orchestra, and Tame Impala on speaker while the band sets up? And the chilling answer is, bitch that’s me. She’s her.

It just feels like the “always has been” astronaut meme but worse, like I’m both astronauts. And instead of space it’s fucking Brookyn, New York. The gall to even try being oblivious.

I guess the point is that I’m turning over in my mind what I’m trying to say to myself and others with what I consider “stylish” or… “cool” – odd memory, but in middle school we had these micro-courses early in the morning that ran for half a semester and were focused on niche subjects. I took one on merchandising about advertising, mall-stuff, stuff about being “cool” – a slippery ideal that morphs once it’s “caught” – I guess that’s how the course put it. Once “cool” is known, it’s no longer cool. I guess I’m identifying a little with this old memory in the way finding a definition for my style feels the same as ruining said style.

The fireworks are me admitting I look like a hipster and the animal noises and Jan Sport are me and my sense of self imploding.

View this post on Instagram

from @dalanium #transpecosbackyard

A post shared by Trans-Pecos (@trans.pecos) on

red pants

Ok so, I had a bit more going on than the people in this photo. That’s not the point. The point’s somewhere between my anxiety over belonging to a vague cluster of aesthetic certainties, a devotion, a need to cling onto ambiguity that substantiates my own un-self-awareness and in the moment kind of living. I don’t want it to make sense. I feel like a stiff ball of dough resisting my own attempts to flatten myself out to a more transparent film.

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