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I had forgotten how much I missed the stars. The other day I looked up as I was leaving for work. (Before the sunrise, as I always do.) The sight above shocked me: beautiful points of pure light scattered across the low, dark Texan sky. Those were the first stars I had seen in years…
That was quite likely the biggest reminder of just how much Nevada had changed me, altered me in ways I can neither imagine nor comprehend. That is something most people do not know about Las Vegas: it has no stars. The overabundance of light pollution from neon signs and casinos blocks out everything except the moon. The self-proclaimed city of sin is separated from the rest of the world by the desert; from the rest of the universe by its ego. A microcosm. A snow globe filled with sand.
I cannot help but wonder what subtle, hidden impact the utter lack of stars has on city dwellers. Is it at all possible that the Bronze Age sheep herders enjoyed more balanced, happier (though infinitely shorter) lives simply because they could fall asleep beneath the beauty of the Milky Way? Most of the world may never even know such view exists. The price of progress…
“They weren’t the attractive Flipper kind of dolphins. They were regular dolphins that aren’t as pretty and don’t get cast on television. Maybe they just refused to sell out and see a plastic surgeon. I held up a fist to them. Represent.”
Jim Butcher, “Small Favor” (Book 10 of the Dresden Files)
People come and go.
Empires rise, fall and crumble.
Bacon never dies.
My favorite thing about living in Texas so far: starting messages to West Coast friends with “I’m texting you from the future!”
Pretty pretty lights
All fade away behind me
As I travel south.
Over the past 10 years, I’ve often thought about leaving Nevada and seeing what it’s like to live in a more or less normal state. Don’t get me wrong: there’s a lot of entertainment value in getting text message alerts every time bears come down from the mountains and go dumpster-diving in people’s backyards; ditto for weekly meth lab busts and crazy tourists who either drive 20 miles below the speed limit or try to live out their Fast&Furious fantasies fueled by midlife crises. And then, of course, there’s the Las Vegas Metro, who always try to match LAPD in wanton cruelty and overall stupidity.
Granted, all of the above makes for some great entertainment (especially when viewed from afar, preferably from behind a barricade), but after a while the entertainment value of these shenanigans tends to decrease. Sure, there were some good times as well, but overall I’d probably have to call it a tie.
I’m writing this on the eve of my departure for Texas. It’s a bit funny that my escape from Nevada came from such an unlikely source: a temp job in a warehouse that I took during the mean, lean winter of 2009, when my company was the only one hiring in Northern Nevada. Two years down the road, I transferred to our Las Vegas branch. Then I got promoted and honed my skills to the point where I got picked to be the data analyst at the company’s brand new facility in Fort Worth. Looking back, I find it hard to believe that all of this came from my decision to stand in that long line at the temp agency. That was one weird gamble, but sometimes weird gambles pay off – especially in Nevada.
I suppose I should write about how much I’ll miss Nevada and shed a solitary, manly tear for the state I’ve called home all these years. I don’t really feel like it, though. The departure evokes neither good nor bad feelings. I look forward to meeting Texans and living in a completely different state, but that’s about it. I suppose that’s what Kurt Vonnegut meant when he said “it’s impossible for me to get emotional about it, because real estate doesn’t interest me.”
Goodbye, Silver State. Hello, Lone Star.
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