been thinking of a story along those 'lines'. about alone in the Wyoming prairie. a moonless night, 600 billion stars, some fading, others brilliant dots,.. blues, reds, greens, dazzleling whites. Complete solitude, a slight breeze. Absolute silence. sometime after midnight. the cry of a coyote, how far, how near? vague shapes teasing my fear. Trees? bushes or rocks? did that one move? outlines of mountain ranges defined by the line of violet where the velvet sky touches the mountain crests. I sit side-saddle on my battered suitcase, leaning against a road sign that reads 'Yellowstone 247 miles'. I hear a slight drone interupting the silence. Distincly now, a car? a truck? the faint glow of lights. I stand up, walk to the edge of the road, gravel crunching under my worn out oxfords. The rumble, a truck, definately. high beanms, orange row of ligts outlining the top of dark cab. ROAR! a gush of wind, gravel spitting, giant wheels spinning,leaving a cloud of diesal fumes as taillights are dimming and powerful engines are quieted by the silence. Time passes, and passes. I am at one, peaceful. Tiny and huge, nothing and everything. A few more trucks going somewhere with something. A couple of cars, I try to guess the kind by the sound of their engine? A Ford,a Chevy,hearty sounding Buick or tinny volkswagon? Dawn is coming, a violet haze, shapes beome trees, fence posts, a large rock. Surrounded by majestic snow capped mountain ranges. The whinning of a car, bus/ Yes, a volkswagon bus. I take my spot, stick out my thumb. They are pulling to a stop! I grab my suitcase, trot to the bus. We are going to Jackson Hole, hop in. Two guys and a Girl, hippies,just like me. Passes joint, 8-track stereo, Moody Blues 'nights of black satin' morning light illuminating brilliint pthalo/yellow green leaves of Aspens. Their stark white trunks like soldiers marching up to the crests of the snow capped peaks. Thanks for the ride! A cup of coffee, two eggs over-easy, sourdough toast, homefries. Good day to hitch to Yellowstone.
Grey Beard and I rest atop our packs, squinting through Southern California sun. We take turns thumbing down drivers, like fisherman casting into the highway. No bites. No problem - time has lost its edge on us. Is it Sunday? Wednesday? Neither care enough to ask. Bound for Lake Isabella. Restaurants, hotels, chlorinated pools, cars and trucks, clocks, jobs, women, employees, buzzing lights, green says go, red says stop. We prefer quieter destinations: A creek on a map or a mountain's plateau. That night, I lay on a bed, surrounded by luxuries: HBO, NBC, ESPN, FOX News, ice cream in the freezer, beer in the fridge, freshly showered, air conditioning curtsy of hotel Isabella, for the first time in days feeling lost and out of place.
maybe we should publish. I need editing (craig)?and illustrations (travis). Love your easy writing style. spent the summer of 56 water skeeing on lake Isabella with my aunt @ uncle, cuz's johnny and bill. I don't remember any fancy hotels, just dirt and tents, Mercury out-board motors pulling cherry wooden speed boats spewing gasoline and oil. I suppose it' a little different know.
Here's the plan: You, Craig and I pack up the Versa, armed to the teeth, bound for the mojave. Peyote sandwiches and mapless backpacking, no return until we've got our story.
I can't believe I've been "out of the loop" on this running Kerouackian commentary- didn't realize you guys' art ran to words also. Great line Lew, "tiny and huge, nothing & everything." The spirit of the road, the empty highway, going "everywhere and nowhere." Red lights/ blink red/ across Galveston Bay.... NOthing like the road- we gotta do a trip soon (Mojave is cool, but here's something a little closer: Pyramid Lake, western Nevada- surface area large as Tahoe- nobody goes there)
a powerful and unique image!
ReplyDeleteI like passing cars - their message: "Wrong way pal!"
ReplyDeletesome would say "you're going the wrong way!"
ReplyDeletebut not me.
been thinking of a story along those 'lines'. about alone in the Wyoming prairie. a moonless night, 600 billion stars, some fading, others brilliant dots,.. blues, reds, greens, dazzleling whites. Complete solitude, a slight breeze. Absolute silence. sometime after midnight. the cry of a coyote, how far, how near? vague shapes teasing my fear. Trees? bushes or rocks? did that one move? outlines of mountain ranges defined by the line of violet where the velvet sky touches the mountain crests. I sit side-saddle on my battered suitcase, leaning against a road sign that reads 'Yellowstone 247 miles'. I hear a slight drone interupting the silence. Distincly now, a car? a truck? the faint glow of lights. I stand up, walk to the edge of the road, gravel crunching under my worn out oxfords. The rumble, a truck, definately. high beanms, orange row of ligts outlining the top of dark cab. ROAR! a gush of wind, gravel spitting, giant wheels spinning,leaving a cloud of diesal fumes as taillights are dimming and powerful engines are quieted by the silence. Time passes, and passes. I am at one, peaceful. Tiny and huge, nothing and everything. A few more trucks going somewhere with something. A couple of cars, I try to guess the kind by the sound of their engine? A Ford,a Chevy,hearty sounding Buick or tinny volkswagon? Dawn is coming, a violet haze, shapes beome trees, fence posts, a large rock. Surrounded by majestic snow capped mountain ranges. The whinning of a car, bus/ Yes, a volkswagon bus. I take my spot, stick out my thumb. They are pulling to a stop! I grab my suitcase, trot to the bus. We are going to Jackson Hole, hop in. Two guys and a Girl, hippies,just like me. Passes joint, 8-track stereo, Moody Blues 'nights of black satin' morning light illuminating brilliint pthalo/yellow green leaves of Aspens. Their stark white trunks like soldiers marching up to the crests of the snow capped peaks. Thanks for the ride! A cup of coffee, two eggs over-easy, sourdough toast, homefries. Good day to hitch to Yellowstone.
ReplyDeleteBeautiful! We sure have a lot in common:
ReplyDeleteGrey Beard and I rest atop our packs, squinting through Southern California sun. We take turns thumbing down drivers, like fisherman casting into the highway. No bites. No problem - time has lost its edge on us. Is it Sunday? Wednesday? Neither care enough to ask. Bound for Lake Isabella. Restaurants, hotels, chlorinated pools, cars and trucks, clocks, jobs, women, employees, buzzing lights, green says go, red says stop. We prefer quieter destinations: A creek on a map or a mountain's plateau. That night, I lay on a bed, surrounded by luxuries: HBO, NBC, ESPN, FOX News, ice cream in the freezer, beer in the fridge, freshly showered, air conditioning curtsy of hotel Isabella, for the first time in days feeling lost and out of place.
maybe we should publish. I need editing (craig)?and illustrations (travis). Love your easy writing style. spent the summer of 56 water skeeing on lake Isabella with my aunt @ uncle, cuz's johnny and bill. I don't remember any fancy hotels, just dirt and tents, Mercury out-board motors pulling cherry wooden speed boats spewing gasoline and oil. I suppose it' a little different know.
ReplyDeleteHere's the plan: You, Craig and I pack up the Versa, armed to the teeth, bound for the mojave. Peyote sandwiches and mapless backpacking, no return until we've got our story.
ReplyDeleteI can't believe I've been "out of the loop" on this running Kerouackian commentary- didn't realize you guys' art ran to words also. Great line Lew, "tiny and huge, nothing & everything." The spirit of the road, the empty highway, going "everywhere and nowhere." Red lights/ blink red/ across Galveston Bay.... NOthing like the road- we gotta do a trip soon (Mojave is cool, but here's something a little closer: Pyramid Lake, western Nevada- surface area large as Tahoe- nobody goes there)
ReplyDelete