peeling floral wallpaper, tasseled lace lamps, vintage mahogany dressers, mirrors with fading glass, vinyl rose print tiles and salmon carpet, old fashioned perfume bottles, gold wireframe beds, a yellowing ac unit, ruffled bed spreads, heavy lace curtains, dated satin nightgowns in the armoire, ghosts haunting the attic
a white wrap around porch, weathered wooden slats, a roof that looks like a chapel, guitar playing soft and twangy and slow, spanish moss and big old trees, the creaky screen door’s open because the breeze is nice, pitcher of lemonade on the wicker table, cicadas chirping, a black cat lives under the house, everything’s grainy and blurry and tinged yellow like an ancient home movie
i love love love the very particular variation/hybrid of midwestern and southern gothic that exists in south texas? like? especially in san antonio and the hill country there’s a specific sort of feeling that comes with the endless bluesky back-country in the north, and the limestone cliffs and the thick mesquite trees and the night-sounds of coyotes and the endless weeds and rusted things and animal bones and abandoned barns and houses you find every so often, just sitting there in the middle of fields and forests.. but there’s also the whole swampy dark spanish-moss-hanging-from-trees old-southern thing going on– especially down on the guadalupe, where it’s more river bottom than anything else. and san antonio is a whole other beast entirely; some of it’s of how religious the whole area is (sa is like…super fucking catholic) and its (long, weird) history, and the fact that it’s a cityfull of ghosts and strange devotion and it’s something covered in ivy with gray clouds and crumbling missions and whistling winds and the kind of heavy, oppressive heat that you only find in a city that’s essentially situated at the bottom of a large, dark pit.
Can you fault a young girl for finding solace in sun kissed meadows? Spinning in circles at night under artificial stars. Small town charm with big city lights. Awed by the glow of a full moon and the vastness of a murky blue ocean. Forgiving the cracks that tripped me in the cold concrete. Forever thinking that Spanish moss trees are the best muses. I trace the lines that flow across the palm of your hand. Stick my head out the window of moving cars. Light matches for fun, and watch the flames dance. Gaze at the way my breath turns into clouds that flutter up and drop down.
I fall in love with fractured sunrays shinning through fall-colored trees. I’ve found beauty in broken things.