She Says She Talks To Angels

She Says She Talks To Angels

By: Bill the Butcher

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The Voices of Ocotillo Wells

She says she talks to angels. Ocotillo Wells was my Walden Pond. As Henry David Thoreau wrote, “I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.”

The Wells is such a place. It is where you’ll find people experiencing life, and a few, such as myself, trying to forget life. While my son and his family were enjoying the sun and sand, I was in exile, confronting the ghosts that had followed me from Texas.

I’d lost everything. There was an illusion of starting a new life. One more illusion piled upon all the other countless illusions I’d constructed all my life. That was just a façade! Everything I’d known, and loved had been ripped away from me. I drank too much, smoked too much and cussed too much. I rarely bathed, and teeth were falling out of my head. No one noticed that I was crazy.

There are no quick answers to life. That’s why self-help books don’t work. If you’re reading a book it’s not self-help, it’s help. The prophet, George Carlin said that. And it’s true. You have to let life boil you down to your common elements. You have to shed the veneer you’d built to present to the outside world. When you do that the angels will begin to speak.

They don’t shout. They reason. They don’t condemn. They explain. They ask. Like Chris Hansen, they emerge from the shadows and ask, ”What are you doing here?” YOU must provide the answers. If the answers don’t come from within they won’t work because they’re not your answers, they’re someone else’s.

And the angels of Ocotillo Wells spoke to me. Each time I was there I’d get up in the morning, smoke a cigarette, pour whiskey into my coffee, and look toward the east. Toward Texas. But Texas didn’t want me back. Not just yet. The angels weren’t done with me. I had to learn. I had to grow. I had to complete the stripping away of the veneer and become who I really was. Or I had to die.

You see, that’s the truth of self-realization. If you embark on this journey, beware. There is a possibility that in the end, when you stand naked before the voices in the desert there’s nothing there. Only madness. Whatever recipe you’d used to construct you, something was missing, and even though it appears to work, it doesn’t taste right, and while it may appear to be appealing, in reality, you’re just a tasteless plate of hospital food. Did I say you’d have to die? Not at all. You’re already dead!

There is no Eureka moment. There are a series of small epiphanies. You can’t raze a useless building with one swing of a wrecking ball. There must be many smaller hammer blows. Jesus said we must be born again, but the newborn baby is still just a baby. You must rebuild, brick by brick. If you build wrong you must tear it all down and start all over. The angels have all the time in the universe.

You will know when your journey is complete when you wake up one morning and you are happy with yourself. Will other people be happy with you? Probably not. They were happy with the old you. The you they viewed through their own illusion. The you they are most comfortable with. The you they can control. That’s because they haven’t talked to the angels yet.

There was a little girl. She’s crammed more into her short life than most adults I know. Once, while we talked, she confided in me. ”I talk to angels. They all know me. Am I crazy?” No little girl. You’re not crazy. You’re just ahead of the pack. You heard the voices before the world drowned them out.

I knew that when I came back to Texas I was different. But I’ll always remember the voices of the desert angels. There is no pill. There is no drink, no best selling book that will help. For me, there was a place called Ocotillo Wells, and the voices in the wind. That time I talked to angels. They called me out by my name.

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