CUTTY SPOT

notesfromaresuscitatedman: 

If I’d been around in the 1800s, and had traveled through Arizona or New Mexico or Wyoming, I would have had a horse, and might have carried some sort of revolver, and I probably would have been drawn to the sort of town where women in long dresses carried umbrellas to shade themselves from the sun, and men who played cards at wooden tables in cool, dim saloons all had mustaches and spoke in measured voices, or had grimy, unsmiling faces and were too drunk to stand. I wouldn’t have written what then was referred to as “verse.” Or, if I had, I would have been slow to admit it. I would have watered my horse, and tied it loosely by its reins to the nearest hitching post, and said aloud, so whoever was watching me would hear me and have to decide whether to respond, “Hello, I’m new here, what’s the name of this town?”