May 14 2005? (This might be a little melancholy).
Southern Utah/Northern Arizona. Sand Dunes. Macaroni and cheese.
Powder orange in all the pores of my skin. When my orange feet move down the sand falls like
water. The rocks bleed, the sand bleeds, my skin bleeds. It is dark in this Mexican restaurant.
I wish I had wings or reception on someone’s telephone.
Orange table, blue bathroom, sand coated skin.
The girls who were in between what we call “girls” and “women” parked on the side of the road. They didn’t consider the time or how long it would take them to reach the next town. The landscape pulled them over with no fight. It engulfed all four of them with heat and red and dust. They spoke excitedly and rushed towards it…eager to become more than simply a spectator. One of them was blind—visually. But, she saw it too. They threw off their shoes, not caring if the dust buried them for good. The feet needed to feel the smooth thickness of the sand, tiny particles swimming over the skin, inside the skin, through the skin. They climbed up the sand, surprised at the difficulty of movement—two steps up and one slide down. When they reached the top, two of them slid down the hills like silent water, melting their bodies into the redness of the earth, starting with the feet and then moving upwards onto their calves and backs and necks. Every inch of the body covered in red smooth sand. There was a storm coming and the sky above the bright red was dark black blue like ocean. The contrast of the land and the sky made all of the women’s visions’ blurred…except for the line. (At least the ones who could see…) saw that line that separated land and sky. Rain fell and they could feel the rumble of thunder in their stomachs and hearts…their feet washed blood and they ran down the hill, unburying the shoes and jumping in the car. One of them was quick, before the rain fell, she poured the earth into a plastic bottle for them to take with them. They could not leave it for good. It had to be taken with them.
Aunt Terri with apron. Skinny and pretty—blue slanty eyes and short blonde hair. And she moves quickly. Baking a wedding cake. Small hoop earrings, friendly and married 4 times. I like her.
Motorcycle hanging from unfinished beach house. Mystery man named “Richard” who apparently owns the house. The People’s History of the United States is hanging on a string from the ceiling in the bathroom downstairs. Drinking white wine while listening to a random CD of Sheryl Crow. Striped navy blue apron. The dog ate some of the wedding cake last night. Lots of clutter and magazines from the 70s, and maps. Typed poems on the walls.
Postcards and blankets. Notes everywhere—giving directions: “Toilet running?” “Hot water.” “Cold water.” “—not this one.” “Play this CD. Put it back.” “Take off shoes here.” “You’re invited to wail on these drums.” “Pull here to stop motorcycle.” Listening to Santa Monica boulevard. (Reminds me of sleeping in the Subaru on some residential street near the Main street of Santa Monica). Everything hanging on the walls. Random instruments.
“The dishes are done at the time being,” says Aunt Terri.
Poem on the bathroom mirror by Emma Mellon.
It is funny—how small of a book/in a small cover—inside a small bag—can contain such overwhelmingly large secrets.
May 12, 2010.
(This was not part of the 19 year-old road trip. But it seems relevant somehow).
People don’t look loved. The Velveteen Rabbit looked loved, and he was. Most people show no signs of that sort of love. I don’t want to turn into the anti-Velveteen Rabbit sort of person.
(Replaced cheesy stock image color block with Erica in the desert). And it wasn’t 1998. My point and shoot camera was odd.