MARFA MARFA MARFA

I'm in another small town a week longer than I intended to stay, whose locals tell me I should stay more, tell me I can sleep in their driveways. The balance here shifts between cowboys and minimalist artists, and there's tension like in any secluded wonderland whose cover has been blown. But it's tension that keeps the heart of these not-so-hidden-anymore gems still beating. Everybody aches to be a local, another symptom of paradise found. With ease I can spot the faithful guards, and the gummy newborns who desperately wait for acceptance. The surly boy who serves my coffee gives a headstrong effort to estrange me, and like a rookie he forgets what is inherent: people from Marfa are kind.

I've made a friend, Marcy Mitchell, and I realize she's a Marfa golden girl after only a few days at her side. She tips me off to use her name to avoid getting searched at the border patrol checkpoint - and it works. Her grandfather Kerr Mitchell ("car") owns the only big time buffalo ranch around. Marcy's grandmother drives us around on the back of a pickup while we talk Marfa shop: illegals, art, cowboys, unemployment, and about the time when they filmed There Will Be Blood on his land. He affectionately greets each cow with a tender "Hi Mom" in between our chatter - rightly so with thirteen new calves running amuck.

But forget everything you've read; Marfa is just the sky. All blue, all wind, all sunset, all moon. Never was there so much sky. 

invited to supper in the home of Dirk & Elizabeth

Kerr and his bounty

prickly Texas terrain too much for city dog