Live Oak Cemetery, Section D Plot 166
If everything passes, what past will remain?
I collect zines. The more obscure the better. I came across a word-of-mouth endorsement for a small publication called “The Consecrated and Cononical Draconian Qliphotic Prayer Book to God-Got and The Dark Lord Shaitan derived from A’Arab Zarak By Daemon Deggial”. Without thinking twice I added to cart, paid international shipping from Sweden and promptly forgot about it. A month later I received the envelope in my mailbox. I had a bit of shock opening it – inside were two zines, and a folded letter addressed to Blaze Foley and his grave site.
I sat looking at the sealed-with-tape letter for a few minutes. Even though I could clearly see Blaze’s name, I felt “this is for me”. How could it not be? Who was this Swede who was writing to a man who has been dead for 32 years? How could this stranger know my own deep connection to Blaze’s poetic legacy? What Jungian synchronicity was happening?
I reached out to the zine’s author. He had also been deeply affected by Blaze’s music. He knew I lived in Austin so he took a chance that I could deliver it, but he didn’t expect that it would reach someone with a similar appreciation for Blaze. He also wasn’t aware that I had attempted to speak with Blaze simply by visiting the place he died, and striking up a conversation.
What kismet gift was this that would send me back into that mindset – that of trying to speak or communicate with Blaze. I notified Brittany of this weird coincidence immediately after receiving the letter, and once she found out I’d already tried to talk to Blaze once, she suggested the only logical thing to do would be to try again – this time at both his grave and at the house where he met his untimely death. (Note: The house where Blaze died is owned and occupied. We did not bother the resident, but parked outside. Please do not disturb the resident.)
It was a rainy day that started with Polvo’s Tex-Mex. We visited the house and noticed the calm stillness of the Bouldin neighborhood. The land is old, dating back before Waterloo settlement became Austin. Some of those old 1830’s houses still remain, but most of the bungalows were built in the 1920’s and 30’s. Quietly we sat, full of enchiladas, and simply talked to Blaze. Through our various methods we received words and messages. Whether or not they are relevant is for us to figure out later. But in that moment, concepts like proof and justification didn’t matter – it was enough to sit there and imagine.
To make good on my promise we headed to the cemetery next. Rain began to fall and the already steamy day turned soggy. Finding the grave wasn’t hard at all, especially since our friend from Sweden had marked the section and plot for us. The usual mementos littered the headstone. Anywhere else this would seem disrespectful, but the beer, cigarettes, and toys are offerings. We delivered the letter, unopened, to Section D Plot 166. The rain covered everything and I watched the ink on the paper blur and sink down into the ground – imagining its journey through the soil, through the duct tape that covers Blaze’s coffin, and directly into Blaze himself. Later we sat in the car and tried to talk a little more.
On the dreary way home I realized that we’d probably be back soon. Who else is going to keep him company?
