This is a continuation of the previous post that touched on the discovery of a mysterious highway when I was 10. Although what I saw may have been affected by weather, it was the strange geology of the place that captured my imagination. The endless succession of mountains and valleys was nothing but hypnotic.
There may be a need to explain the voice of the piece being written. There could be a thought that says this does not sound like a ten year old. Although, I intend to write what comes to mind of the drive I experienced, the way I encounter things remains the same. When I was two, I stepped outside a drugstore and felt the weight of neon sputtering light into cast iron darkness. Of course, language was limited then. At the age of six, seven, or eight, I wondered whether I was a physical presence, or just an idea with the impression that it had a reality. My mind isn’t anything but average. It just happens to cling to things like the sights and sounds of a playground. It is not sharp enough to find banality loitering around a parking lot. All it sees is the light that illuminates crumbling pavement. Story telling can be tricky, and although I intend to give it to you straight, all truth winds up being fiction. I will try to work from a place of honest deception. When a narrator is needed, I will rely on a travel guide.
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| A dry lake along US Highway 50. Since I left the details unidentified in the writing, I did the same thing here. |
There may be a need to explain the voice of the piece being written. There could be a thought that says this does not sound like a ten year old. Although, I intend to write what comes to mind of the drive I experienced, the way I encounter things remains the same. When I was two, I stepped outside a drugstore and felt the weight of neon sputtering light into cast iron darkness. Of course, language was limited then. At the age of six, seven, or eight, I wondered whether I was a physical presence, or just an idea with the impression that it had a reality. My mind isn’t anything but average. It just happens to cling to things like the sights and sounds of a playground. It is not sharp enough to find banality loitering around a parking lot. All it sees is the light that illuminates crumbling pavement. Story telling can be tricky, and although I intend to give it to you straight, all truth winds up being fiction. I will try to work from a place of honest deception. When a narrator is needed, I will rely on a travel guide.
Getting back to the sand dunes, the range to the south is closer
than it was, there is another beyond that, and it stretches out for as far as
the eye can see. A single butte in
silhouette, rides the horizon. From any
position, the valley is like a sea with this island sailing away in hues of blue
and gray. Here a shift in blue has
everything to do with how far away you are from your destination. I have never thought about this that way
before, but blue is separation. In a
strange way, if the separation is severe enough, earth and sky merge into a
swell of uncertainty. As a phrase, “the
cutting edge” is an odd way to describe the pursuit of the unknown. An edge is a boundary, and boundaries define. It might be better to portray a lot of what
goes on as “cutting corners.” My way of
thinking about the edge, may be unfair. The
phrase probably refers to the extension of something beyond where it was before,
like from city to suburbs, but right now, I am in a place where art cannot not
compete. It never has. It never will. We are not dealing with empty walls that could
use the break that paintings often provide. Our vaulted ceiling is sky. The butte seems to move as we roll along. A river is crossed, a town creeps up on a
slowing car, and one highway turns into another simply by taking a right at the
stop sign. Now, that didn’t take long. Skim through a few pages, and the highway
arrives. This is it. This is our point of entry. In the presence of a ten year old, there is no
distinction between highways. All I know
is that this is supposed to be the scenic way home, and as far as I can tell,
it is. As far as I am concerned, the
highway has no number. It is my favorite
though, and I can feel it.
The fields around town display gray combinations of sandy
soil and plants compressed by the bitter weight of winter. Windbreaks give way to sage. The mileage markers are lean and the desert is
spare. Stunted brush grows close to the
ground in clumps no larger than clenched fists. The land is mean. The desolate environment endorses a trickle
down reality. Annual stockpiles of rain,
sleet, frost and snow may measure less than 4 inches. Mountains to the west capture the promise of
rain by taxing the clouds rolling over their summits. The earth grows prosperous. If the right’s enterprise creates wealth for
the nation as a whole, they should have chosen a better image to prove their
point. Nature does not produce abundance
on scant rainfall. Conditions like these
generate desert. Try a little trickle
down economic philosophy on your garden and see what comes up. Who in their right mind, would want to be
trickled on anyway?
A dry lake shimmers.
Blue mountains break the shoreline. Surrounded by hills and mountains, it reminds
me of the Bonneville Salt Flats. In
fact, I wonder if it is connected. I
look to see if I can tell. I can ask
dad. He will know. I don’t. I ride in silence. It is interesting to see bleached mud flats. The lakebed is substantial. The sky is overcast. There is nothing ominous about the weather
overhead. Gray can be kind to shades of
green. However, there is none along the
highway that now looks down into an empty lake.
I begin to wonder how much longer the desert will last. Even I tire of the subtleties that subterfuge
separation. Simple sentences can stun, but
I seem to be shying away from them. I
should stop the shameful game I am playing, but so sleepy now, shall my mind succumb
to something as severe as reason? Should
I save this sad search for satisfaction found in the sound of the letter S as
the highway steels away from the lake, or shall I leave it lying on the shallows
of shoreline silence? Now that sentence is
hard to surpassed, at least by someone like me. I have been out here too long and I am tired of
trying. Is this pure nonsense? I mean,
can it be clean? Or, do unraveling thoughts prevail?
sky shatters
over a dry lakebed
a thunder clap command
conducted by a bolt of lightening
the blast
military flight
divides sky
asunder
In an effort to skirt a mountain, the highway climbs a fan only
to fall away. A valley is waiting just over
the rise. Below, the scenery has shifted. Openness closes down into a narrow basin. The facing ridge is a row of rough and
tumbling outcrops that disfigure falling shadows. This spectacle takes place out in the open
and in the light of day. Who knows what goes
down when the sun slips behind the horizon. Actually, the temperature does, and night can
be brutal. If the temperature was 90
degrees during the day, you may be facing a low of 45 under a canopy of stars. I hope you planned for this and not some soft
yielding Texas evening filled with the sound of cicadas. Summer is a season that climbs into the sky
each morning. Autumn rules the night. I’ve
even seen ice hiding in a garden hose strung out across the lawn in July. Rise and shine to the bite of a frosty morning. The thrill of a new day is chilling, and in
the arid atmosphere, steam quickly withers away. A freeze can take place at anytime of the year,
and it is rare for it not to cool off when darkness settles in. This is not Las Vegas, and contrary to common
perception, the state is not excessively hot.
Even though Utah snows are more abundant, they melt away more quickly
when summer arrives.
