"As long as you keep getting born, it's alright to die sometimes." -Orson Scott Card "Speaker for the Dead"

I undersold Tucson. It's not such a bad town. I was just stuck on the wrong side of the tracks, so to speak.

I went south next, to visit a friend. That means I've gone from the border to the canyon and back again. My cyclical tour of Arizona has been a pleasure. 

This friend I visited is a big walker. He likes to hike around Rio Rico, the area he lives in, which is only maybe 50 miles from the US/Mexico border. Several times he has run into people illegally crossing into the states. The most notable thing, he says, is how unprepared they are. A dream, a little hope, and no supplies. 

One asked, "Where is Phoenix?" He had friends or family there, but no way to contact them. No idea where it was. The Sonoran is a harsh and unforgiving place to be that disoriented.

It's a petrifying thought.

It reminds me of a Kickstarter project that was just brought to my attention. This guy spent time photographing packaged belongings at a facility where they process the 150+ corpses brought in from the desert every year. People who did not last the journey.

Then I crossed another border checkpoint. This one had a sniff-dog and a batch of fellows in real slick uniforms with shiny guns at their hips. Wasted taxes are so sexy.

I can't help but think, if we weren't spending so much money on keeping them out - and the war on drugs and the other wars, a stilted justice system, a corrupted political system and a desperately mismanaged system of taxation (did I miss anything?) - there would be plenty of room in our economy for anyone who wanted in. Bring us your tired, etc. Call me crazy. Or shit. Write me in. We've got an election coming up.

About 80 miles east of Tucson, I found myself at a friend's place in Cochise County, Arizona. Named for a chief of the Chiricahua Apache tribe, and leader of an Apache uprising in the mid-1800's. 

My buddy isn't here, he just arranged for me to come and crash here for a few nights. I am in his debt.

The wind moans on the metal roof. Mountains surround the valley on all sides. The light shifts by the minute as the sun sets a thousand times. It dips below the western range and illuminates the east. Moon is nearly full. 

I ate dinner at the local watering hole and a big motherfucker burst in wearing spurs and ordered a PBR in a can.

I think I love it here.

I've been listening to the audiobook of Speaker for the Dead while driving - an old favorite. As it came to a close today, my throat went tight and tears came to my eyes. What is it about old, fascistic sci-fi writers that make me so fucking emotional? Something about eternity. Something about dying. Something about leaving a mark.

Thank you for reading. I'm off to Texas.