One day in a safe, neutral-gray office building, an intercosmic mis-alignment told me to leave. And so I left, out of respect for promptness, through a slapstick revolving door, into a neutral-gray re-alignment of fortuity. I asked the safe, neutral-gray clouds for guidance, then ordered a burrito two blocks down. By and by I came to understand my mission, and I left for the driest, most bereft stretches I could reach in two day's drive, to come in out of the rain.
I spurned paid flesh and God flash on the way like a confirmed fool, and I scribbled something about separation and return on the trail-- impossible to say where. Separation and return. Rings a bell. Like a class I took in 1979. Like rituals and curriculum-gray cycles, or other questionable habits. I left, hard-pressed in philosophy, and returned with a picture of the horizon. That was the city's problem-- no horizon. Only concrete and grease. And a cage of steel thrusts. One might climb one of them for a glimpse, except the climb impairs vision in sensible ways. I was a reliable concrete citizen until I made a wrong turn. I blame the horizon.
I remember the first dirt road. I'll see where it goes-- a couple-hundred yards, that's all. Around the next ripple I'm convinced, so I sit down on a beaten rhyolite slope and write myself in. Thick quietude presses in and a thin metallic tang is beaten out of rock in dry heat lifts. Worthless bright prospects extend in all directions-- superheated, solar-washed. A trail spans the basin below-- a relucent ribbon pulled over scrub, as a rubber-band to hold one mountain to the next.
The sun arcs and common sense liquefies. The wind is a calm westerly flow, or urgent blast followed by an awkward lull. Solar rays dig in. Wind takes moisture as fast as I exude. Generally I don't tolerate such infliction, but it's been too long since I was warm, and common sense needs a little down time-- that poor, overworked bastard. I imagine absorption into a far-off shadow. Muted shapes feather into the next ridge, showing a more lithe version of the moment. Measuring that space is doubtful. Those who measured my map have some claim to it, but if they stood out there, did they trust numbers spit out of devices? Math fails magnitude, and presence.
It works on me, the effortless, unfinished rise and fall. Sun and cloud movements transmute paleness and glow into textures, painted on bald mountains. Character emerges. I could strike out any direction into simplicity on a scale that defies pretense; perspective is inescapable. Meager tan mountains rise in the south, sharpen to a blue-umber crest. Straight ahead the desert wells up and nearly swallows that range. Opaque lumps poke through and watch the proceedings from a delicate slope. How could this scene exist? The scene and question are irresistible. They compel motion, despite my protest. The far side prevails in these matters.
I descend a long grade and the road puts up resistance. A hundred gullies and washes surface, most hidden until on the brink. I puzzle over those deep furrows, out of scale to conceivable drainage in a place where all motion equals dust. The desert isn't what it appeared. I notice immense curvature in the basin floor, which appeared flat earlier. How could any force of nature make such a massive, perfect bowl? The far side keeps its distance at the bottom, in legends of faltering daylight. I recognize nothing. The glow which seeped from here is now strewn volcanic rock.
What about the lithesome light I saw from the other side? I begin a steady uphill grind, so determined that my objective passes by without notice. A broad canyon emerges left, but the road strangely veers right and climbs steeply over a red earth ridge piled on the slope. As the road flattens, gravity pulls me uphill until equilibrium catches the trick.
Time for a break, while dusk puts out a fire, smooths its edges. I sip a beer and rest beside a patch of Joshua trees-- their gnarled, spiky limbs point toward heaven like Joshua, as the story goes. I need a sign, so I invent one. I see a Joshua tree with two limbs bent down, pointing up the hill. One ridge later the sun bleeds. Cream tentacles spread from blackened rock. Wisps burst, one at a time, and lower passes start to fray. Rust red sets in as the highest streaks, straight overhead, flare in pink. Fade to black.
Two turns later the moon is a flaxen pie of girth. It transfixes the horizon, then pales and shrinks as it lifts until it peers out like a street lamp. But what a debut. Then comes a piercing wail, followed by others. It seems to come from ten feet away and I jump about that far. The shrill assault is paralyzing, lasting six or seven of my longest seconds. Coyotes sound closer in the dark than they really are, as I recall from an old Western. It's a nudge. I lay down in the pickup bed and wait for sleep.
Sleep in the desert and wake according to the sun. When sunlight clears eastern rock, sleep is done; the first potent rays hit sooner than they've a right to. I'm embedded in gruff granite, and no hint of breeze. The scene is foreign and patient, unspoiled by action until beads of sweat form-- momentary distraction from a mouthful of sand. It could be a test, or reception. I feel more at home than in years, and start toward the next trick of illumination.
It had to be a reaction. Climb up steel thrusts, then run toward a horizon. Punch clockwork, then drift past. Or.... desert reclaims city over time, like the fate of Las Vegas or Phoenix as told by any self-respecting naturalist. But fabrication can work and noise aligns just right, at times. It's a matter of balance. A pause. Separation, and return. I'll run with that, for now.
horizon (latest take)
horizon (latest take)
Last edited by mnaz on August 16th, 2006, 3:09 am, edited 5 times in total.
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