Taking a brief break from the cowboy motif at work here, I joined my friend Chris in Boston for an extra-long weekend of camaraderie and chillaxing at the condo – when and where a Nor-easter arrived right in the middle of the whole thing, testing the coziness and comfort of a condo weekend. Happily, it was a grand time – our typical 36-hour window of getting along swimmingly was extended and we made it out unscathed. In truth, my friendship with Chris has been one of the sustaining graces of my adult life – and after over thirty years of being in each other’s lives, he’s more like family than a friend. As such, we have navigated how to deal with each other’s idiosyncrasies, as well as how to appreciate our differences. Such as his proclivity to bring bad weather wherever he may roam.
I arrived a day early to decompress from the madness that is work and life, and the weather was still fine. Fall is usually brilliant in Boston, and this beginning was a beautiful and welcome day of sunny warmth with the slightest cooling breeze hinting at more to come.
I began the day with an early bowl of pho from my favorite place in Chinatown (Pho Pasteur) – the ideal fall weather companion. Fortified and warmed for the day ahead (the wind was already picking up) I procured some charcuterie ingredients to assemble for Chris and I later that day. It would be a weekend of mocktails and dining simplicity, with a dinner of charcuterie followed by a matcha ice cream run along Newbury Street.
When the Nor’easter finally did arrive, we kept mostly to the condo with a few dining exceptions, and while I departed early Sunday morning, Chris was staying the week to work on his projects. I envied him the stretch of days and nights in the condo, which is the coziest place to be during a storm or a cold night or an entire fall and winter.
Growing up in the small town of Amsterdam, New York meant I was more on the town side of things rather than the rural landscape that was on the outskirts, and the only barn I frequented as a child, and not very frequently at that, was a fast-food joint called The Red Barn. It actually looked like its namesake – a large open-aired barn-type structure of red that stood in a shopping plaza off Route 30, right next to the old-school drugstore called Fay’s. Nearby in the parking lot was a tiny little photo-development place called FotoHut or something that, which was literally the size of a closet. It’s where we would get family photos developed. At the dawn of the 1980’s, this is where my childhood was taking place, and if it feels quaint now, it definitely didn’t feel so at the time.
The Red Barn was supposedly one step up from McDonald’s and Burger King, and several steps down from the most basic of restaurants, and naturally as a kid I loved it. It was always a toss-up between that and Arthur Treacher’s when it came to treats our parents occasionally afforded us as children – kids loving anything salty and fried and coming with the possibility of soda. We rarely got such things at our healthy home-cooked kitchen, so the Red Barn was a rare treat and exercise in how the other half lived.
Class distinctions for someone of relative privilege, such as myself, didn’t go very noticed at the age I was when we visited the Red Barn, nor for some years after that. That comes with privilege, because comfort doesn’t demand notice until such time it is removed.
Cowboys often clash with culture and class, and this space is too small and limited to offer much more than passing glances and surface rumination on that. Instead, a pose before a barn painted red will have to suffice, positing its own questions based solely on imagery, and a pieced-together history that I can barely even remember anymore.
Willie Nelson gets some help from Orville Peck on this rendition of ‘Cowboys Are Frequently Secretly Fond of Each Other’ which was originally written by Ned Sublette way back in 1981 (yeah, this cowboy was alive then by a few years). It gained notoriety when Willie Nelson first covered it in 2006, followed by this duet with Orville Peck in 2024. Today it finds a proper place in the pantheon of cowboy songs we’re enjoying for the fall of 2026. A good song transcends time, bringing the listener along for every iteration and every generation. This one sets up the juxtaposition of the country western motif with the existence of gay cowboys – because when my biased mind used to think of cowboys, it hasn’t always been with the open acceptance we’ve been attributing to them here. My cowboy world is strikingly different from reality in so many elements, and it posits a new view and a new characterization, based on previous pockets of defiance, which is the very essence of a true cowboy.
Well, there’s many a strange impulse out on the plains of West Texas There’s many a young boy who feels things he can’t comprehend And a small town don’t like it when somebody falls between the sexes No, a small town don’t like it when a cowboy has feelings for men
And I believe to my soul that inside every man there’s the feminine And inside every lady there’s a deep manly voice, loud and clear And a cowboy may brag about things that he’s done with his women But the ones who brag loudest are the ones that are most likely queer
While the cowboy world of the Old West may at first glance seem inhospitable and impossible for a gay cowboy to make his way, there is a hidden history of people who had been ostracized as different who lived as they were – people of color seeking to escape social exclusion of other areas (particularly after the Civil War – and it’s notable that around that time one in four cowboys was black or Latino), trans people who sought the freedom of the frontier communities (as seen in Peter Boag’s book ‘Re-Dressing America’s Frontier Past’) and cowboys who lived together, forming bonds of family and friendship and sometimes even love. The latter weren’t using ‘gay’ to describe their lifestyle or their actions – as action was it was all about. Many considered the act of two men living together and getting it on just that: an action not indicative of any defined sexuality. It was a way of living that lacked labels and somehow allowed for greater difference than the boxes we want to assign people today. Not that there’s anything wrong with labels or letters or anything that helps people understand each other better.
Cowboys are frequently secretly fond of each other What did you think all them saddles and boots was about? There’s many a cowboy who don’t understand The way that he feels for his brother And inside every cowboy, there’s a lady that’d love to slip out
I find it fascinating that so many so-called ‘fringe’ elements of society came together under the cowboy guise, and then were buried under years of white-washing and homophobic history-revision. We were there, we were part of that world, yet the rest of society has worked to erase us from that space. A true cowboy is welcoming and open to all people, largely living to let live, and not bothering with what people wanted to do at the end of the day. That’s my definition of a cowboy. It’s also the driving impetus of this fall, and if it turns the Old West on its head, maybe it’s time for a different sort of revision – one that puts the diversity and open-minded acceptance of a dream utopia back into the cowboy realm where it’s always belonged.
And there’s always somebody who says what the others just whisper And mostly that someone’s the first one to get shot down dead So when you talk to a cowboy don’t treat him like he was a sister You can’t fuck with a lady that’s sleepin’ in each cowboy’s head
While it’s nice to dream of such a scenario and work towards such a promise, the reality is much different, and often much more tragic. But I’m here for the fight, I’m here for the battle, I’m here for the war. And if I want to wear a cowboy hat and sing Willie Nelson tunes and maybe even learn a line dance or two (ok maybe not that) then let us have a cowboy’s life.
Cowboys are frequently secretly fond of each other What did you think all them saddles and boots was about? There’s many a cowboy who don’t understand The way that he feels for his brother And inside every lady, there’s a cowboy who’d love to come out And inside every cowboy, there’s a lady that’d love to slip out
The Fall of the Cowboy is off to a rollicking start, and on this first of October it feels like a fine and fitting place to pause for a spell and revisit how far we’ve already come. It’s been a long time since a new image/era/project had me feeling this inspired, which means it’s unfolding precisely how it should be – that the universe has finally aligned after years of feeling slightly out of sync. That doesn’t mean my demons have been eradicated – in fact, this only seems to have put them in clearer focus – and that’s good. You can’t vanquish what you cannot see; you cannot destroy what you cannot name. While nobody falls as hard as a cowboy, nobody rises as miraculously as a cowboy either. Let’s revisit where this cowboy’s already taken us…
Nobody knows what rehab is really like until they have to go through it themselves. It’s not the stuff of cuckoo’s nest movie depictions or dreamy theatrical representations – those might capture the surface trauma and the atmosphere, but they never quite get the ugly despair and haunted hopelessness that are too often found in such spaces. There are glimmers of hope and paradise as well – even if it’s just the paradise of relative relief – even if paradise is no longer perfection but merely the acceptance and acknowledgement of torment, and the terrifying notion that nothing might ever make it go away.
I imagine fame is a similar beast, so when you put together the white hot celebrity status that Orville Peck achieved just as he began a slide into addiction and alcoholism, you have the conditions that ultimately found him checking into rehab – and fueling the main emotional heft of his latest album ‘Mule’ – an exercise in musical therapy and catharsis that is as beautiful to the ears as it is to the analytical and introspective parts of us.
With a fine voice honed from years of classical vocal training, Peck has always seemed slightly larger and beyond the scope of what most of us would consider country music – hence his successful Broadway debut as the Emcee in ‘Cabaret’. Pushing the limits of country music – both in his openly-gay and unabashedly genre-pushing manner – Peck turns ‘Mule’ into a musical journey embodying the emotional rollercoaster of the past year or so of his life. A number of singers and songwriters have found fertile ground in addiction, though most aren’t able to translate it into something richer and more resonant, and certainly not as musically gorgeous.
It takes both a well-earned confidence and humility to give the opening song slot to the trio that sets things in motion on “Prologue (Eulogy of a Man Turned Mule)” – though I suppose when that trio is comprised of Emmylou Harris, Noah Cyrus and Allison Russell, the star-power and talent is well-matched, and an ideal beginning to the idea of what turns a man into a mule.
Peck’s rehab stint is given a stunning cinematic treatment for the video of ‘Already Gone’. One of the catchiest songs in the bunch, its ebullient surface and melodies are directly at gruesome odds with the ambivalent lyrics:
He’s everybody’s favorite but it takes a toll Leave him alone, he’s gonna end it all Lonesome heart by design Broken head in decline Tellin’ anyone who’ll listen, it’ll all be fine Just one more man at the end of his line
The circular hell of his circumstances finds disturbing and blunt exposition in ‘Rehab Blues’: “I hate it here, I don’t care and I wanna die.” It would be awful to dwell very long in such headspace, but when the music sounds this good you stick around to listen – and by the end of the exercise you realize one has to go through it to get out of it. For Peck, living in such a dark and low place seems to have marked the place to begin, and he begins his way back – or at least through – with the driving ‘Ring the Bell’.
On the contemplative ballad ‘The Fall‘ he works toward something deeper, some purpose in the whole awful experience – and it sounds like that might mean not doing it alone – which involves letting someone be there for you as much as being there for someone: “Take a rest right here/ And I will share your pain, I’ve seen it all.” Then it swings back into ambivalence before ending on a note of hope. It leads beautifully into the strongest stretch of the album – the gorgeousness of ‘Cowboy Heart’ and ‘The Breeze, The Grass, The Mourning Dove and Me’ before climaxing in the thrilling ‘Run Out of Road’.
Don’t come running back to me when you run out of road Expecting I’m still behind the door that you slammed closed The price of being wild and free can leave you more alone So don’t come running back to me when you, you, you run out of road My boots on the ground, blue skies You like how I’m moving on with my life? And I’ll admit you cross my mind, but not enough to cross that line You can have a change of heart, but you won’t break mine a second time
Lead single ‘Too Little, Too Late’ is almost an after-thought after this run – albeit an after-thought of absolute brilliance. A hand-clapping good time, this celebratory, carefree fuck-off to an unappreciative paramour (or perhaps a different sort of monkey on the back) works as a rollicking way to leave someone, or something, behind. It also sets up the gritty determination and strength required to really reveal all that comes in the final song, and title track, ‘Mule’:
Somebody save me from the night time Morning always feels okay And perhaps this need to run is my attempt to chase the sun I think about that every other day
His voice occasionally catching, the quiet and somber guitar work gliding exquisitely underneath it all, ‘Mule’ is the bit of grace that makes the ugly brutality of life worth living. It’s the moment you find yourself walking with a loved one – maybe not holding hands, but simply walking beside them – as friend, lover, or partner – in any of the meaningful ways we connect to another person. In that space and in that place there is, if we’re lucky – and if we allow it – the grace to make it through to the next morning. Sometimes such a friend comes in the form of a song, maybe a collection of songs, that let you know you’re not alone. Sometimes it comes in a melody that eases the mind, sometimes it comes in a turn of words that perfectly expresses what your heart has once felt. And sometimes it comes in an album called ‘Mule’ by an artist named Orville Peck.
And, oh, I still got a ways to go And, oh, it may seem like I changed, I know And, oh, it’s not change I think it’s more like coming home
And if it seems I’m losing track of what I’m saying Just don’t mistake me for a fool It may look like I’m fine, but you’ll realize in time You’ve been talking to a man turned mule.
Thirty days hath September – April, June and November…
Somehow the last day of September is already upon us – and I’m left wondering what the hell I’ve been doing for this month, other than transforming into the cowboy before you – a cowboy in name and spirit more than action and reality – for such has always been my life. The transition from September to October has often been marked by emotional upheaval – and next month will mark seven years since I stopped drinking, which no longer feels like the big deal it once did. Not that I’m not still happy with the decision, and thrilled with how much it freed and inspired me to work on myself in ways that alcohol was only ever going to mask and disguise – I’m just not sure how much more there is to say about it. Maybe I’m feeling a little tired and exposed, a little worn and weary. It’s too early in this fall to be anywhere near this exhausted; it’s too late in my life to be anything less than exhausted.
And yet… and yet. Whenever I find myself on the edge of a field – a field that stretches out into sunshine and shadow, a field that runs further than the eye can see, that disappears from sight before it ends – I find the desire and impulse to start running – as fast and as hard as I can, the way I used to run up the street as a young boy, trying to get away from everything that was wrong in my childhood. Then the exhaustion I feel as a fifty-one-year-old man slips away, and my boots strike out and into soft, lumpy stretches of grass. Exhilarated, the mind impels the body to keep going, until lungs burn, until legs sting, until I have to admit I’m human, until I have to admit I’m too old to do this, even if I’m not.
It’s strange how trying on the life of a cowboy has me finding out more about myself than when I was decked out in the feathers and sequins everyone thinks of as my true style. Putting on the damage of another persona may be the freedom from being myself that my overthinking and overanalyzing ass needs. It’s one of the oldest tricks in the books: distraction and fluff to allow for your mind to unwind. When you focus on something for too long and too intently, you completely lose sight of it. You need to get out of yourself. For me, getting into the cowboy is the best way of getting out of myself.
This post goes out to my pardner in life Andy, and the shirt is my homage to his love for cars. T-shirts have marked a couple of occasions for us – the first being the ‘Get Wicked Tonight’ shirt he wore when he met my parents way back in 2000. (In fairness to us both, he didn’t know he was meeting them at that particular moment, and I didn’t know he would be wearing that t-shirt.) Later that same fall, I had a t-shirt made that said ‘Puddin’ on it, which was his name for a hot young piece of ass, which I have always aspired to be. Being someone’s arm candy was a relatively new role for me at the time, one that I slid happily into with arrogant aplomb. Twenty-six years ago, there were deeper things at work between us, and while ‘Foxy Lady’ may be the song that Andy assigned to me at the time, this song speaks to the more poignant love that was developing between us.
I’ll always remember the song they were playing The first time we danced and I knew As we swayed to the music and held to each other I fell in love with you
Could I have this dance for the rest of my life? Could you be my partner every night? When we’re together, it feels so right Could I have this dance for the rest of my life?
How could we have known that we’d go on to be together for the next quarter of a century and counting? We couldn’t, and we didn’t, and in those early weeks every day seemed to be a breaking point day. Not necessarily in a bad way, and not always in a great way – simply in the way that the early days of any relationship are fraught… with every emotion. That’s a sign that it’s going to matter.
I’ll always remember that magic moment When I held you close to me As we move together, I knew forever You’re all I’ll ever need
For all my cowboy-like independence – an independence I would insist on maintaining, sometimes to my detriment over the years – I also knew I wanted to belong to somebody, and that somebody was Andy. Back then, he had all these blue circular stickers on his CDs, and when I asked him why he said he was tired of ex boyfriends making off with his stuff, so he’d started putting these stickers on his CDs so they would know which ones were his. Somehow one of them got stuck on his wallet, and when he noticed it, he took it off and put it on my hand with a devilish smile. From that moment on, I knew my heart would belong to him.
Could I have this dance for the rest of my life? Could you be my partner every night? When we’re together, it feels so right Could I have this dance for the rest of my life?
The crux of healthy independence and healthy dependence was the space of tension for those early months, but we worked our way through it because we knew we had something special. We also took things one day at a time rather than weighing ourselves down with arguments over never or forever. Throughout it all, a tenderness was taking place, along with a peace and calm and feeling of destiny I’d not experienced before. We were designing our own cowboy dance, forging our own partnership, and twenty-six years ago the world was a very different place – we couldn’t even get legally married back then.
This song was one of the first I learned on the piano, and it was a favorite of my Mom’s. Now it rings differently, reminding me of my husband, of all the years we have shared, of the life we have created together. Some cowboys have an independent streak that never gets broken – I knew I wanted a partner, and Andy wanted that too.
Could I have this dance for the rest of my life? Could you be my partner every night? When we’re together, it feels so right Could I have this dance for the rest of my life?
Former Hunk of the Day, former boyfriend to Madonna, and current male model Jesus Luz earns his first Dazzler of the Day simply by maintaining those eyes and that body. Sometimes what’s simple is what is dazzling.
Taylor Zakhar Perez has also been a Dazzler of the Day here, and stripped to his underwear here. Personally, I cannot wait for the sequel to ‘Red, White and Royal Blue’.
Another bit of a break from our cowboy’s tale, this is a pink floral post, recalling a Coquette Summer from several years ago. (And if you need more summer, check out ‘Island‘ and ‘Solid Gold‘.) Having just spent an extra-long and half-rainy weekend in Boston, I’m a bit behind on everything, in the best way. It means I’ve been living instead of posing, experiencing instead of documenting, being instead of blogging – and I’d like to keep that going, just for a bit longer. Have no fear, the cowboy shall be back very soon – his tale has only just begun.
Cowboy fever has consumed the bulk of this blog since last week turned the page to fall. We also had a full Harvest Moon happen over the weekend, so this seems a good place to pause for a moment and reflect on where we are. It’s easy to just keep galloping and charging ahead, especially when our horse is on full-speed autopilot, bringing us to all our appointments and due dates and requisite responsibilities. Life doesn’t slow down or stop until we insist – and that insistence is an integral component of happiness.
The photos here capture the moon just as it was about to enter its full Harvest/Corn status – the anticipatory days leading up to a full moon – which are sometimes just as crazy and headache-inducing as the day/night of the full moon itself. The days following might be equally fraught. During such times, I tend to give myself some additional grace and space in dealing with whatever might arise, reminding myself not to get upset or emotional about things, to let go and let Madonna do her thing. It’s the closest I’ll get to being any sort of spiritual. In the Material Girl We Trust.
The Fall of the Cowboy is in full gallop – both the fall theme of this website and the fall project – so hang onto your hats and saddles, because you don’t want to fall off or miss a day of what’s to come. On with the weekly blog recap, cowboy-style…
Our Fall of the Cowboy posits a deeper rumination of what it means to embody the spirit of a cowboy, and for many the deeper question for a cowboy comes to the choice between romance, love and partnership or independent solitude and going through life alone. It speaks to the greater question of how much we’re willing to give up in order to get what we think we want. The problem with love is that eventually it requires compromise and negotiation, and a cowboy doesn’t need or want to bother with such stuff. They do what they want, when and how they want, and there’s no one to answer to, and no need to discuss further. There is also a definite cost, often a very high cost.
The question for all of us is how much of it is worth it if you are someone who wants to be alone? If you can do anything you want to do are you willing to give that up to be with someone? Strange that a cowboy should conjure such questions in modern-life, but that’s one of the thrilling ways this theme resonates in so many of our lives.
Some might question how true of a cowboy they are if they need another person: the nature of a cowboy is to not need anyone. This may not hold true for all cowboys, but it is certainly the case for the cowboy in our upcoming fall tale.
The Fall of the Cowboy is a love story. It’s a story about choosing to be with someone instead of choosing to be alone. A cowboy most often chooses solitude, with notable exceptions when he wants to get laid. Cowboys make very good lovers in the physical sense. Anyone unavailable and aloof is somehow hotter. Cowboys often have a great deal of practice when it comes to lovemaking, yet cowboys make awful lovers in the emotional sense. The death of the cowboy comes whenever he falls in love and chooses another person over his cowboy nature.
The Fall of the Cowboy is also about choosing to go through life alone, being completely true to yourself and to what you want without thinking of anyone else. It wholeheartedly embraces the notion that sharing a life with someone means giving up independence, not entirely, not completely, but in some essential ways, and the decision becomes whether you’re going to be entirely self-sufficient or allow your heart to rely on someone else. There are dangers inherent in both and I am not in any way proposing one over the other. These are just choices we all have to make. The Cowboy is a rugged example and sample for the more subtle and refined emotions all humans eventually experience.
Chris Housman is crowned Dazzler of the Day thanks to a country music career of unprecedented courage and commitment. His latest album ‘Dodge City’ references his childhood visits to the ‘Cowboy Capital of the World’ while expanding the genre to include those of us who fancy fellow cowboys. Standing in the truth of who he is as an openly LGBTQ+ community member, Housman offers some driving music (see and hear the brilliantly bullish ‘Cowman’ and its crotch-grabbing video) and a few indelible images to turn the notion of country music on its hot head. He’s currently on tour if you want to see him live – check out his website here for more info and upcoming tour dates.
“Day by day and night by night we were together – all else has long been forgotten by me.” ~ Walt Whitman
The letters fell into my possession through chance and luck, and maybe some nudge of the universe that understood only I could put them out and share a bittersweet story with the world – one of likely many similar stories from a time when it was dangerous and deadly to be different. They came from a time when men would not have typically written to each other, and if by some strange stroke they did, not much of import would have been said. In that respect, there is more to be read between the lines and within the omissions than is usually there, which makes deciphering this love story – if that’s what it is – especially tricky. I’ve taken great license and probably made a bunch of shit up, but it didn’t really feel like I was writing this. Something or someone else compelled my hands across lined paper, slowly drawing forth a story that is based only on letters – ancient, forgotten, discarded letters that may never have even reached their intended recipient.
The small cache of letters was found in a hidden drawer of a worn and battered chest in Maine, a treasure that came across my path in some antique store I haven’t been able to find again since. The wood smelled strongly of pine, like the smell of history. The chest was stamped with some identifying information that once may have meant something to someone, like the dates stamped on certain Wedgwood pieces which were forged in England.
While moving it, I felt and heard something shuffle but that made no sense as I’d just cleaned and emptied the inside. Looking around for something else that was making a noise, perhaps some fly or bee that was around, or the metal-studded ends of a pair of drawstrings on shorts, there was nothing. I lifted the chest and shook it again, and there, distinctly, was the sound of something moving. Carefully, I opened it up again, and found nothing. While it was open I lifted it and shook it once more – some shuffling sounded, something was in it, but I was looking inside and saw nothing – then I turned it over and the faintest outline of a small trap door revealed itself to my eyes when they stopped focusing so hard.
A collection of letters, written on degrading parchment, bound with fraying twine, some missing pieces chewed by mice or moths, fell to the ground. They tell the abstract story of falling in love through scattered scenes and pictures of moments, sketches of feelings and rough renderings of emotions – nothing too concrete or spelled neatly out until the last one – but a story appears between the lines, within the very fibers of the thick paper, if you know how to listen, if you cull the sentiment behind the silence. The world was quieter then, and it’s usually easier to make sense of things in the quiet.
Rather than get into the particulars of how the letters happened to find their way to this chest (because that might incriminate otherwise blameless folks who only wanted the story to see the light of the internet) I’ll keep this in the language and style of the story that was told, and let the narrative, put together as best as I could glean, speak for itself, at least from the point of view of the younger protagonist/narrator. Like all episodes of storytelling, something is sure to be lost in this rendition, but since when have I proclaimed this to be a space of accuracy, moral or otherwise?
Ripped in two, the first part of the very last letter our Narrator ever wrote to The Cowboy reads like a cliffhanger, given even more suspense by the mystery of someone’s ultimate disappearance – a mystery shrouded and still unsolved by the eventual appearance of a body, and the solving of one mystery so often leads to more mysteries, secrets loving company and kindred spirits as they do. This letter is the longest of the bunch – a full two pages, written carefully and deliberately, and gives the clearest picture of what may have happened between these two men. I present the first half of it now, to give you an idea of where this story is headed.
The Last Letter to the Cowboy – So Far as Can be Told
Dear Cowboy – Forgive me if you’re not a real Cowboy. You never did explain what you meant by that. You never explained a lot of things you said you would, like the story of your parents that you promised would explain your origin, and I never mustered the courage to insist. This letter has been written a hundred times, in a hundred different ways, and placed in a hundred locations where I thought you might surreptitiously discover it. If it finds you at all, it will be a bit of a miracle, but it’s the only hope I have left, and it isn’t much. This will be my last attempt at finding you, but you will always be in the back of my mind, in whatever new town or city I stumble into, and it will subconsciously impel me to traverse the world in the secret latent hope that I will one day happen upon you. You will ruin me for all others who follow in your wake – the ones who dare to kiss me, the ones who think they can tame, the ones who love unconditionally and smother me with affection – no one will ever fill the hole you left. Maybe that’s the fucked-up mark of true love, and if you find it and ruin it then your life will never be quite whole again. I feel like that’s what you did to us. But what do I know. I’m only twenty. I still live with my parents. And you… you are gone. I fear this is the last letter I will ever send to you. If intuition is any indicator, you have left us all for good, and maybe forever. This letter will have to do as my final thank you and my final farewell. I don’t know where you are and I don’t know where I am headed. Will we ever meet again? Thought I’d spend the rest of my life roaming with you, believed when you said as much, but that’s not how it turned out. I thought a cowboy was true to his word. Maybe only one word, not the many beautiful ones you wound around us late at night and into the mornings. Thought I then might spend it trying to find you but that feels wrong too. You said love shouldn’t be a chase or a hunt. Instead I gotta let it go – let you go. But not before I say a few more things…
{The first part of the letter ends here, along a torn, frayed line which was subsequently taped back together – and we will take our leave on this tantalizing note, because otherwise what would impel anyone to return?}
————————-
There is eloquence and poetry in this letter, in the way that only cowboys can convey, the way that only cowboys might understand. (I’ve intentionally ignored the grammatical and spelling errors as well.) In the earlier letters, which will be revealed in later posts, there is much less – literally. The first few read as almost perfunctory, but there is a kindness and softness that wouldn’t be common at such a time and in such a place. As with most letters, there is more to be said and gleaned from what isn’t written, what lies between the lines. You’ll forgive me for the liberties about to be taken, and I hope the Narrator forgives me as well. From here until the end, you’ll be reading his voice. His name is Levi. He is not quite a cowboy when this story begins.
