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Cutting through highways and bi-ways, the trip moves from desert to city and desert and beyond. This portion of the trek is the first leg of the journey day-by-day including pictures of desert life... This is where poetry meets the tarmac.
Way to...
Anyone who is lonesome in the city has never been in the desert, that is a lonely place... so empty yet serene.You can see the sun set through your rearview mirror as it reflects off the taillights. Am on my way to Austin town for poetry festival festivities.This is my third time, my third year running and this time I be driving not running or flying. My big ol' Ford F-150 is my conveyance of choice, outfitted with maps and cell phone. The truck goes by the name of OlBetsy, not to be confused with BigBetsy my computer, or LilBetsy my laptop. As I recall Davey Crockett called his rifle Betsy, and he as always is my inspiration for things of this type.
This is a long drive on the miraculous I-10 as it lasers through the terrain. Phoenix is supposed to be something like 400 miles from la la. Not much of a different drive in distance than going to S.F. 'cept the terrain. Although driving north on I-5 is not all that picturesque… you know?
Once you get through the congestion of the Inland Empire (San Bernardino, Riverside, et al), (how is that for a scary name?) traffic lightens up as you make your way through desert scenes. It is wondrous in its own bleak ways.
It is a straight shot down I-10, the corrupter of corrupters deceiving desert dwellers with hopes of prosperity and connection to the new world. No one is alone if they have the freeway at their fingertips. Tires meeting road in a continuous grind of rubber and tarmac.
Finally I come to Blythe, which I would like to treat blithely. It is a border town between juxtaposition states Cali and AZ connected by desert not dessert, although I can use some. I call my contact in Phoenixland as I pump petrol into OlBetsy and tell him am gonna grab some food and continue my trek. He says to eat in Mickey D's. I say what about the other fast food franchises… don't ya love alliteration. He says I been to Blythe, eat at the Mickster. He says it so sincerely, what choice do I have. And even though the establishment is rife with bus people, Greyhounds litter the parking lot like open wombs birthing twins. And I wonder why all the people traveling by bus, i.e., bus people look related somehow. They all seem to have that same hangdog look of hanging out too long in bus-related porta-potties to the extreme. That's it I say to myself… they all have the coloring of stale urine no matter their race. I congratulate myself for being a Greyhound bigot as I try and remember the name of the other bus company that used to compete with this dog line, but cannot (thanks to pal Ryfkah, I now know it was Trailways). Anyway I park Bets out in their lot, wander in grab a bacondoublecheeseburger, fries and diet coke and smoothly exit and eat in the truck listening to Leonard Cohen and reading Blade Magazine (yup a mag about knives, I am a poet who digs sharp steel, can't help it was raised that way).
My contact, going by the moniker of Drew, tells me I still have 3 hours of hotfooting before I hit the promised land of desert oasis rising from the infidel like heat of American desertland. And I wonder (gee I seem to be doing a lot of wondering and wandering on this trip) if like Wisconsin is America's heartland, what is AZ?
I am surprised when I dust into birdland at 8:30 when ol' Drew thought it would be an hour later. I am put up in the DazeInn by SkyHarbor, the Phoenix airport. I dig the handle I think to myself, after stowing my gear, wandering around looking for grub and pull into my all-time fave watering hole for lonely travelers—WaffleHouse, where I feast on cheeseEggs and raisin toast. I am a happy camper.
I wake up this morning wondering where I am. Realizing just as suddenly this is Thursday so it must be Phoenix, sound like Phonix, sounds like? And I wonder if it is Halloween, cuz I am dressed like a beatnik, then I remember I am a poet and I have a workshop and reading today.
Thanks to my good cyber buddy Shelley, who has set me up with her writer's guild I get to practice my craft in public at Paradise Community College, my step to the big time… yeeha! But you know I say to myself that this is about art not commerce and you gotta praise whatever, that you get to practice your craft at all and that you even have a craft. So the reading is in the student life room midday and the workshop will be this evening. Poetry in the student life room, that sounds like mischief in the making. I do my reading sell some books and CD's. I look at college students with the same amused grin that they look at me. I think of my college days. They were not so wonderful but definitely full of growth.
When I started college I was like 5'3"; by junior year-end I was 6'3" and one had to wonder where that foot came from. So I can relate to the change goin on in people's minds and bodies. How your entire existence feels like a chemical experiment performed by the proverbial crazed professor. I want to reach these guys with my words… I feel the sweat beading down my back, the blood starting to cook… my voice rising and falling, going from whisper to scream. I feel alive for the first time in days.The pre-read nervousness completely gone. Living on adrenaline and not a thought in my head, only poetry! Finally, I rattle out Unprotected Poetry as my last words.
The workshop is fun, a mixture of ages and no age bigotry barriers to break through for them or me. We talk about the passion of language and how to pass it on through poetry. They write poems and celebrate newfound thoughts and word usages. One woman, a quilter by profession—a true fingertip artist—pens a poem about quilting, written from the point of view of the swatches she sews together. Another writes about drowning in the depths of imagination and what a wonderful way to go. Still another drips angst and blood with dissecting words. Shelley writes about creamsicles on a hot summer day and the real Indiana Jones writes her (that's right, Indiana Jones is really a she and an archeologist) first poem ever about gray-headed ghosts emerging from a dig. A good night… I sell a couple more books… ah commerce and poetry working in harmony.
Woke up at the crack of dawn to hit the desert road. Okay woke up at ten to hit the road by eleven. Vast expanse of desert to conquer full of billboards announcing the thing or continental divide all stores with the same goods and same clerks… I wonder how they get there ahead of me. Stuckeys rules the road, or at least they used to. They used to be on highways up and down the East Coast serving dogs and burgers and cokes and fries and the candy bar of renown pecan rolls. But as the lady said at the one-down-on-its-luck Stuckeys I find on I-10, "last year they made us take our kitchen out, what will be next?" There is a sign by the restrooms telling all us folk how proud they are of their lavatories, which are old a bit rundown—no autoflush fixtures, but they are clean. It is sad that Stuckeys no longer rules the road; this new outfit Bowlins does not have pecan bars or coconut treats. I am glad I had opportunity to make my pilgrimage and stop there.
But the sky is so blue I don't know what to do with myself. And the rocks are sculpted from foreign and alien life forms; for stretches of time I don' t know where I am. This planet has shapes and landscapes that never seem to fit. Like alien architects from several different worlds got hired to design earth, and they could not agree on a design theme or motif and the result is an intense hodgepodge of intergalactic beauty.
I watch the cactus guard stand at attention as Betsy travels the tarmac trail.
Late start. Not till like 2:00 mountain time. I lost an hour somewhere crossing continental divides and whatnot. I spent the night and oops morning in El Paso, in a Holiday Inn where it seems I have had a bit of a holiday staying till late in the day. I wanted to cross the border to Juarez but it was not to be have to keep pushing to Austin town.
I am off to Pecos and beyond to discover how the west was finally won, why it was won, and whom it was won from and well let's see when I get there. I call to my trust imaginary sidekick Sancho, feelin like Don Quixote of the badlands. And they are badlands, or more to the point boringlands. I don't know that any particular stretch of terrain I have ever been on has less definition and character. But suddenly Yitzak Pearlman pops up on the CD changer and the universe is transformed. The experience seems to last about 10 minutes as Zak exercises his aesthetic magnitude and turns the physical locale golden. I don't know that I have ever experienced anything quite like this, and I know that I am changed as a person when I see what art can really do.
So am toolin down the highway not really breakin any speed records. It's a slow moving day and I ain't in a hurry. I spot a Texas highway patrol car comin the other way… I bring it down to about 70 and I can feel him giving me the fisheye, which of course makes me right uncomfortable. And I keep the speed down to that 70 marker and for a mile or two I don't see any flashin' lights, but I know he is back there as I saw him turn around to my direction.
But I am cool; I know I am not breaking any laws. But suddenly there he is riding my bumper. Note there has not been a posted speed limit sign since I got back on the I-10 in El Paso. Anyway I pull over real gently like. I watch smokey put on his hat and tool over to me with that saunter common to folks who wear a badge and have a real shotgun riding shotgun. He is wearing sunglasses, surprise surprise, and well so am I so our sunglasses look at each other, mine more polite than his, but he is acting kindly nevertheless, informing me that when he was coming down the other way he noticed I was a tad over the posted speed limit which is 70 during the day and 65 at night. I wondered at that but decided that discretion is the best part of valor. I am in the middle of nowhere just me and smokey chewing the tarmac together. But he is not gonna give me a ticket, just a warning, and we part friends after he asks me where I am going and how long I am gonna be there and I wonder should I invite him to the poetry fest or perhaps read him my poem about the execution of Mr. Dialo. Again I decide it best just to smile thank him for the warning and explanation of posted speed limits that do not exist.
I stop in Fort Stockton for the night. Not the most picturesque place in the universe. In fact… well it is downright ugly, and the only thing open is the sonic drive-in, which is packed… but it is Saturday night and well ya gotta cruise the drive-in, which I did I most certainly did.
Hightailing it to make it to Austin town now. Don't want stops but for quick food and pee. I have started to start measuring my trip in CD's not miles. It is most enjoyable to try and determine which CD will ultimately get me to my destination. I pull into a Sonics in Sonora, ahhhh Sonora, land of desperados from childish cowboy games, westerns that fill my life with lies now that I know what really happened, and I always wanted to be the Indian anyway. Sonics is like packed, and I drive all the way round and spot a parking space, and just as I am about to pull into this slot alongside a flatbed truck I spot what looks like a dog lying at the edge. Then I see two heads and cannot understand why two dogs would want to lie down like that in the hot sun. And then to more chagrin than I can muster I realize the animals are not lying there they are dead and that they are not dogs they are deer… young dear deer. Ahhh Sonora. I slip out of Sonics faster than fast food, grab some cheese and iced tea and chips at the local 7-11 and hit the road.
I make my way to the intersection of the world-famous Blue Bonnet highway and stop at CJ's Barbeque for my late food break. At least I think it was called CJ's... all I know is that the brisket was great and the sauce livened me up for the rest of the ride.
What a great road this is. There are not only flowers all along the way.
But damn no traffic and I am makin time with tarmac past all the towns for short slowdowns and tourist in Fredericksburg (which I note I want to stop in on the way back) and all the way through Johnson City, Dripping Springs (jeez) and into Austin. I buy an Austin baseball cap and I am all set for poetry. Oh the cap says: Austin… the live music capital of the world. And I am hoping that for this week only it is the live poetry capital of the world.
Photos and road trip © by Larry Jaffe
