The Woman Who Never Lived in the Castle

I seem to spend a lot of time visiting empty homes in Blanca Flats. Maybe that's how introverts socialize -- through a lateral interaction with people who are no longer physically present. But the fact is, there are a lot of empty homes in Blanca Flats. This county, in general, is filled with abandoned or partially completed dwellings, the shells of dreams. In some cases, the builder couldn't afford to finish the project. In others, the house was built, but the would-be residents decided that they didn't want to live out here.

Blanca Flats is like a giant, empty chessboard at the end of a very long, meandering, melancholy game. The few landmarks on this empty desertscape take on an allegorical weight. The Castle. The Dome. The Abandoned A-Frame. Any one of these icons is visible from our house. Even without binoculars, we can see structures ten or twenty miles away.

According to local legend, recounted by neighbors who are now living in Florida and Costa Rica, the Castle was built by a man whose wife decided that she didn't want to live here. What is it about the Flats that bothers people? The silence? The isolation? The continuous confrontation with empty space?

I can sympathize with people who don't want to live in Blanca Flats. Apparently, the only people who do want to live here are those who can't afford to relocate to Outer Mongolia or join some speculative safari to Mars. There are many times when I miss the comforts of being a consumer. The problem around here is that even if you won the Colorado Lotto, there just isn't much to buy, unless you want to blow $50,000 at Walmart.

The only thing out here that's for sale in abundance is land. Lots and lots of empty land. And space, and wind that sounds like the voice of the world before anything spoke.

There are definitely times when I can relate to The Woman Who Never Lived in the Castle. Times when I'd love to apply for a credit card again, take it to some lavish spa and treat myself to a head-to-toe makeover. But the problem is, I feel so disoriented when I'm not here, when I'm away from this expanse of land. The space and I have merged, somehow, into one empty, dusty being.

The Castle has been empty for years. It's a large stucco building that looks like a reproduction of one of the old adobes in the Valley, complete with the vigas, or wooden beams, that extend across the ceilings. In the back of the building is an empty courtyard. I've never been inside the Castle, but I've peered through the windows, past the boards that block access by curious intruders. Inside, the Castle looks like the gutted interior of a human body, fibrous strands stretching across darkness, webbing the shadows with silver.