| Black Mountain Lady |
Jay
Dyck
Dyck
Diary of a Goatherder 8 June 1981
These observations may seem kinda dumb or boring to a non-goatherder, I don't know. I
was away from people when all this happened, but I am around them now as I write this
down. Working every night in the Shell station in Carmel Valley. Sleeping there in my
van. Coming into Sambo's across the street each morning to drink coffee and write.
I feel like a little goat in this society. A fringe-er. I hang loosely on the edges of this
human herd, repeatedly drawn back to it, following it. Sometimes I have been seeking it
far from its accustomed path. But when no one followed me, to the mountains, I returned.
I am not the herd, but I am part of it.
There are more powers than horns among goats and people. Beyond the tough guys and
the police, guns and clubs and fists and feet, hooves, horns and teeth… and the small goat
must dodge them all… they are everywhere in my herd, always lowering and nodding
threateningly, down to the flashing, blood-colored lights at our crossings, to the steel chain
link fence that pens us into our patterns… to the cars. Super-butting machines with
chrome horns. The small goat steps out of the way, pumps their gas, takes little and keeps
less, hangs on to nothing, relinquishes wild sweet peas and shady resting places, and
moves on to more, always on the fringe. I drift to the edge of everything, in every
dimension, politically, socially, economically, geographically. The edge of town, the end of
the dirt road, the edge of the land, the beach, the minimum wage, the night shift, the
drifter. I drift to the fringe and turn around to find myself lost in the middle again, passed
by the crowd, then left behind. I follow the herd, clinging to left over strands of power
waving in the breeze, planting my tiny hoofprints into the deep dust of the herd’s passing.
These observations may seem kinda dumb or boring to a non-goatherder, I don't know. I
was away from people when all this happened, but I am around them now as I write this
down. Working every night in the Shell station in Carmel Valley. Sleeping there in my
van. Coming into Sambo's across the street each morning to drink coffee and write.
I feel like a little goat in this society. A fringe-er. I hang loosely on the edges of this
human herd, repeatedly drawn back to it, following it. Sometimes I have been seeking it
far from its accustomed path. But when no one followed me, to the mountains, I returned.
I am not the herd, but I am part of it.
There are more powers than horns among goats and people. Beyond the tough guys and
the police, guns and clubs and fists and feet, hooves, horns and teeth… and the small goat
must dodge them all… they are everywhere in my herd, always lowering and nodding
threateningly, down to the flashing, blood-colored lights at our crossings, to the steel chain
link fence that pens us into our patterns… to the cars. Super-butting machines with
chrome horns. The small goat steps out of the way, pumps their gas, takes little and keeps
less, hangs on to nothing, relinquishes wild sweet peas and shady resting places, and
moves on to more, always on the fringe. I drift to the edge of everything, in every
dimension, politically, socially, economically, geographically. The edge of town, the end of
the dirt road, the edge of the land, the beach, the minimum wage, the night shift, the
drifter. I drift to the fringe and turn around to find myself lost in the middle again, passed
by the crowd, then left behind. I follow the herd, clinging to left over strands of power
waving in the breeze, planting my tiny hoofprints into the deep dust of the herd’s passing.
| Chapter Forty-eight MA |
Who could say from whence came her sad, weary tolerance? She might easily have felt justified in hating or
blaming almost everyone in her world. But she didn’t. She cast her sighs to the dark sky and the moon. She
withdrew, and that was enough.
Her ma could not understand her behavior, even though Diana's early steps followed Carol's own so closely.
Carol Gallagher was no Andrea Clare Devlin, who could abandon the trail and still empathize with one who
chose to keep hunting. She had no Agnes Tawny to sharpen her soul. Once Johnny and Bob were gone, she
sank into a role that could not be compared with the serenity of a happily married ex-witchling with a flock of
chickens at the foot of a mountain near Dove Springs. On Andrea, the glitter of sorrow swords shone like a
shield or a badge. There was pride, and the strength to endure.
In contrast, Carol was crushed by woe. She lost her beauty; she became fat and old. Her mind learned to stand
like a patient horse in the halter of hypocrisy. Pleasure and cheer came to her at the behest of society. If she
laughed, it was because Marilyn Fiero laughed. If she wept, it was because the other back-country mamas were
aggrieved. She was at the bottom of a pecking order of manipulation and gossip. She played like a backyard
bitch, eager and willing to nose through the grass for the leftovers. An old white car, an old red house, beans on
the table and a place for her daughter on the same old yellow bus… it had to be enough for Carol, and it never
could be, for Diana.
blaming almost everyone in her world. But she didn’t. She cast her sighs to the dark sky and the moon. She
withdrew, and that was enough.
Her ma could not understand her behavior, even though Diana's early steps followed Carol's own so closely.
Carol Gallagher was no Andrea Clare Devlin, who could abandon the trail and still empathize with one who
chose to keep hunting. She had no Agnes Tawny to sharpen her soul. Once Johnny and Bob were gone, she
sank into a role that could not be compared with the serenity of a happily married ex-witchling with a flock of
chickens at the foot of a mountain near Dove Springs. On Andrea, the glitter of sorrow swords shone like a
shield or a badge. There was pride, and the strength to endure.
In contrast, Carol was crushed by woe. She lost her beauty; she became fat and old. Her mind learned to stand
like a patient horse in the halter of hypocrisy. Pleasure and cheer came to her at the behest of society. If she
laughed, it was because Marilyn Fiero laughed. If she wept, it was because the other back-country mamas were
aggrieved. She was at the bottom of a pecking order of manipulation and gossip. She played like a backyard
bitch, eager and willing to nose through the grass for the leftovers. An old white car, an old red house, beans on
the table and a place for her daughter on the same old yellow bus… it had to be enough for Carol, and it never
could be, for Diana.
"I can't blame my ma, though. Anyone would have become cynical. I used to think my daddies would have
understood how I am, but the more I understand them, the more I get to know who they were, and are, the
more I realize what a couple of thick-headed trouble-rustlers they were. They deserved what they got.
“What they got, by the way, was a half dozen rounds apiece, .38 Special, police. Carmel Valley Road was red
from ditch to ditch with drips and pieces of their flesh and blood. And why? For being there as predictable as
male cats to meet the goddamned junior high school bus and go running off with that Donna Schultz and her
friend Wendy.
“Sometimes it seems like heroes die, but the bodies they did their heroics in go stumbling on, making fools of
the heroes, disgracing everyone until finally they get drunk and die in a crash, or someone shoots them."
understood how I am, but the more I understand them, the more I get to know who they were, and are, the
more I realize what a couple of thick-headed trouble-rustlers they were. They deserved what they got.
“What they got, by the way, was a half dozen rounds apiece, .38 Special, police. Carmel Valley Road was red
from ditch to ditch with drips and pieces of their flesh and blood. And why? For being there as predictable as
male cats to meet the goddamned junior high school bus and go running off with that Donna Schultz and her
friend Wendy.
“Sometimes it seems like heroes die, but the bodies they did their heroics in go stumbling on, making fools of
the heroes, disgracing everyone until finally they get drunk and die in a crash, or someone shoots them."
| * * * |
