(This is a piece I wrote for a class a few years ago. It is probably the moment I started thinking about the idea of Fromness, which I explored in some length in A Texan Theory of Fromness.)

I am of the red dirt.

The basketball post set with a bag of concrete into a flat spot of grass and gravel. Rusted. There must have been a net at some point.

The fillin’ station on the right that hasn’t been anything but a hollow shell for fifty years, when they used big chunks of green glass right along with the hewn stones.

I’m from the evangelical church where no one shows up anymore.

I’m of the railroad tracks.

I’m from where the bluebonnets start and the hawks swoop and the buzzards sit in the road, hard working janitors.

I’m from past the rest stop with a picnic table that has only distant memories baloney sandwich and traveling families left. My brother says not to ever walk up to the biggest closest tree because that’s where the men have all been taking a leak forever.

I’m from beyond where the rusty arrow welded to the top of the corner post to tell you which way to go to Randy’s.

Past that.

Even past the trailer that burned down. I think everyone is OK. But, I don’t know where they’re gonna go cause I think they were already at rock bottom. Maybe up. I doubt it, though.

I’m from past the sheet of plastic stuck on the barbed wire fence, waving in the wind like an old ghost in a calico dress. It’ll eventually blow on.

I’m of the native grasses and the rusty windmills that tell a story in an old man’s voice. He never brings you water, but he keeps on telling painful stories about lost cattle and drought and cotton fields that went on and on. Way back when.

I’m from past the lone radio tower that tells you when to turn left. Oklahoma’s right over yonder and I’m not from there.

See the perfectly round hay bales lined up just so out in the wheat field. They look so curious with a beautiful math that doesn’t belong. 

Go on past the stubborn Confederate Battle Flag. Those sorts will always be out here, but I’d not stop there to borrow a cup of sugar. They scare me with their own fear and anger and pride in something I don’t understand.

Past where the oaks get taken over by the scrubby mesquite, which makes the few oaks stand out like stately old ladies, holding forth in a messy world.

Past the cows congregating by the fence lines watching the cars go by.

Past the rusted mailbox riddled with bullet holes. All in good fun. The kids have long since grown up.

Over the hill where you think you are there but you are not. 

Over the muddy little Wichita River that runs into the Red. Right before the clutch of trees where the turkeys roost.

You can’t see the river running alongside you just over the hill, but she’s there. She’s bringing you to where I’m from now. Like a happy dog running alongside a truck pulling into the drive.

I’m from just past the spot where the white painted cross sticks out of the grass, reminded you of Billy McClain’s awful accident. Telling you Billy is gone forever.

Past DeWayne’s rusted metal barn, that looks prettier in the winter when the grass is dry and golden light brings out the red in the aging metal. A glorious eye full of country in the last couple hundred yards before you get to the gate. 

Slow down. 

Do you see my little house that’s hidden from the world that makes me so crazy. You can see quiet. Solitude has an address, though nobody uses addresses out here. 

I am of the dust that kicks up under your tires. And I’m from the sound of rocks popping underneath as the truck passes over slowly, and rabbits scampering into the brush. 

This is where I’m from.