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Empire of Dirt University of New Orleans ScholarWorks@UNO University of New Orleans Theses and Dissertations Dissertations and Theses 12-20-2009 Empire of Dirt Tawni Auxier University of New Orleans Follow this and additional works at: https://scholarworks.uno.edu/td Recommended Citation Auxier, Tawni, "Empire of Dirt" (2009). University of New Orleans Theses and Dissertations. 1087. https://scholarworks.uno.edu/td/1087 This Thesis is protected by copyright and/or related rights. It has been brought to you by ScholarWorks@UNO with permission from the rights-holder(s). You are free to use this Thesis in any way that is permitted by the copyright and related rights legislation that applies to your use. For other uses you need to obtain permission from the rights- holder(s) directly, unless additional rights are indicated by a Creative Commons license in the record and/or on the work itself. This Thesis has been accepted for inclusion in University of New Orleans Theses and Dissertations by an authorized administrator of ScholarWorks@UNO. For more information, please contact [email protected]. Empire of Dirt A Thesis Submitted to the Graduate Faculty of the University of New Orleans in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Master of Fine Arts in Film, Theatre, and Communication Arts Creative Writing by Tawni Auxier, B.A. University of New Mexico, 2003 December, 2009 DEDICATION This book is a love child. It is dedicated to all of its fathers, but most of all, to my father, the late, great Timothy John Hackett, who will always be beloved of Tawni. Fly in peace, Daddy. ii ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS First and foremost, I would like to thank my mentors, Amanda and Joseph Boyden, whose patience, generosity, and skill taught me more about writing than I ever knew there was to learn, and without whom, this book would suck. Gale Walden, who supported this vision from day one and patiently and carefully read and critiqued revision after revision. Grim Jim Grimsley, who kept telling me I was going to sell books and taught us all how to use a microphone. The great loves of my life, Desi and Timmy, who inspire me daily and put up with me while I chase my dreams (and a few rock bands). Daddy, whose love sustains me still. (No matter what ―they‖ said about me, I could never quite stop hearing you tell me I was a princess.) Momma who was always there, from the terrible twos to the terrible thirty-twos, and loves me no matter what. Bryan, my first and oldest friend, who built tree forts with me, forgave me for trying to kill him with a frying pan, and shows me every day what it means to live a love-filled life (and also showed me the video that inspired the title of this book). Jules, who has been, since the day I met her, my Fairlight. Leah, who chased me around in diapers, has continued to love, challenge, and surprise me for a lifetime, and always, always makes me laugh. Roger Clyne who creates (and is) the art that is my soul‘s sustenance. Jessica (Pink Princess) who made me believe in myself and keeps running down the dream with me. Jimbo, who believes in me and gives me socks and fights off bad guys and makes sure I don‘t sleep in my car. Michael Papirtis, who first told me this book changed his life and who kept his promise to be there. Tonya, one of my best friends forever, starting that day in Sunday school when we were four. Martine (my very own Mina Loy), who regales me with fine wine and Greek mythology and lives like a rock star with me. Jes, who helped me set out on this journey, wore evening gowns iii to CD launch parties with me, climbed trees in groupie boots with me, and danced, danced, danced. Kris, who made the road a place of laughter and love and made a crack about hemp underwear that started my synapses jumping. Drea, whose beautiful smile will always live in my heart. Merridith, Jeni, Max, and Eva, for the crazy-beautiful times in San Miguel and beyond. And, most of all, my hero, my friend, my confidant, God (aka The Big Cheese), whose love gave me the courage to live. iv A NOTE ABOUT THE LYRICS All of the lyrics used at the beginnings of the chapters are attributed, within the chapter, to the vocalist who performed them and made them famous. That person‘s birth name, as opposed to his or her stage name, is used. If the songs were written with, or by, other artists, that information is noted with a ―*‖ and detailed in the Appendix at the end of the book. Within the appendix, the songs are listed in the order in which they appear in the manuscript. v EPIGRAPH I wear this crown of thorns upon my liar‟s chair Full of broken thoughts I cannot repair. Beneath the stains of time, the feelings disappear. You are someone else. I am still right here. What have I become, my sweetest friend? Everyone I know goes away in the end. And you could have it all, my empire of dirt. I will let you down. I will make you hurt. If I could start again, a million miles away. I would keep myself. I would find a way. --From “Hurt,” by Trent Reznor, covered by Johnny Cash (February 26, 1932-- September 12, 2003) months before his death. The Grammy Award winning video is widely considered his epitaph. vi MEMORIA Come as you are, as you were, as I want you to be. As a friend, as a friend, as an old Memoria. --Kurt Donald Cobain (February 20, 1967-April 5, 1994)* My story begins before my death, in the time when I still had flesh. Hands and feet and eyes. Then, I had lips with which to lie, and I did sometimes. Now, I never do. Mine is a love story, but it‘s no romance. Neither is it a shortcut to Zen, a manual to make life make sense. My story only makes the kind of sense drive-by shootings make. My story begins in the year of the house with no electricity, the night Maggie panted on our tattered couch, her belly heaving with each contraction, her sweat glistening in the clutching candlelight, strands of red hair matted around her gaunt face. From his perch in the corner, our hawk, Huitzilopochitli watched with golden eyes, rustling his mud-red wings each time Maggie moaned. ―It hurts,‖ Maggie whimpered. I stared. Maybe it was the peyote, but damn if that tear on her cheek didn‘t gleam. Maggie covered her face with both hands. ―I don‘t want that hawk watching me, Paul. The baby‘s coming.‖ ―She‘s not coming,‖ I said. ―It‘s not time.‖ I took a sliver of ice from the Styrofoam cup on the battered coffee table and swept it across Maggie‘s forehead. She screamed then, and said through clenched teeth, ―She‘s coming.‖ ―No.‖ I placed a hand on her belly. ―Not yet, Maggie. Not yet.‖ 1 As I watched my wife‘s knuckles clench and unclench, knowing that if our baby came now, she would come to us dead and blue, I cried. Hot, unmanly tears. I couldn‘t stop the sobs from coming though, not when I could imagine my daughter waving goodbye to me through the golden wall of her amniotic sac. We had named her. Aspen. I had whispered that name again and again into the mound of Maggie‘s belly, pretending that protruding naval was some biologically engineered microphone. Every time Aspen heard me, she moved. ―She‘s got some right hook,‖ I would say proudly, rubbing my stubbled chin. Aspen knew me already. Loved me already. And that night, while my wife lay panting, love was thick in the room, as thick as the softly glowing fluid in which Aspen was floating. Maggie and I were hippies then, way back when, before we found Jesus, with feathers and flowers dangling from our dreadlocked hair. Our eyes shined as they gazed out at the earth around us, a new frontier, glittering with miracles. Monkeys fluent in sign language. Boys in bubbles. Rallies for peace. The planet was alive. Yellow. Gold. Orange. On fire with the dawning of the Age of Aquarius. In this sunrise climate, Aspen was conceived, a burst of light erupting in her mother‘s womb, created in a fit of love that was made more intense with the aid of LSD. When our lovemaking was finished, we lay wrapped in the sheets, wet and panting, like fish in a net. ―Feel it, Paul.‖ Maggie grasped my thick fingers and pressed them against her belly. ―What is it?‖ I asked. ―Her,‖ she whispered. ―Our baby. Do you feel her?‖ I gasped. ―Yes.‖ I closed my eyes. ―A flash of light. A sparkler.‖ Six months after Aspen‘s conception, we thought we were doing her a favor by giving her that peyote. ―Open her mind before her brain gets all muddled with toxic rational thinking,‖ 2 I told Maggie, pressing the peyote onto her slick tongue. And maybe we were doing Aspen a favor. Our daughter always saw colors more brightly than the other children. ―Do you think it will hurt the baby?‖ Maggie asked, still holding the peyote in her mouth. ―No, love. It will set her free.‖ Back then, the only people who talked about the dangers of drugs were people we hated.
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