Atomic City

Goodbye tamales, and soppapias, and red and green chillies. Goodbye aliens, and ruins, and volcanoes and cheesy chilly ice caves. Goodbye Jackalope, and strange humming noises. Goodbye atomic bombs, and creepy gated cities. Goodbye scary ladders, and huge rocks, and switchback trails down the sheer side of the canyon. Goodbye curious glimmery stars, and lavender, and wild jagged rocks and mountains. Goodbye Indigenous, Native American, Indian peoples, and all your wonderful art and stories. Goodbye El Morro — this week, as last, my best friend.

Hello you. It'll be really nice to see you again. To hold you again. To hear you again. Your voice, which I know better than my own, has been sorely missed. Nothing beats the package in person. The package — if only it could have been here to watch the arroyo fill and the Plaza lights, and the stars over the mountains. And well, for the sex.

But then . . . there's always tomorrow.

Ode of the day: to my dear El Morro. One lonely patch of geologically stunning, historically intriguing, culturally significant, incredibly romantic land. In the middle of nowhere. Waiting.

Devil's Highway

Funny, I felt a little . . . err, off driving down highway 491 toward Shiprock today. Thought maybe it was just the current lack of a warm body over 60 pounds in my bed, but turns out, I was driving The Devil's Highway — Hwy 491, formally known as route 666. Supposedly one of the worst, accident prone highways in the Southwest (though truth be told, that probably has more to do with the fact that the bulk of the highway cuts through several large reservations). New Mexico and Arizona residents and the res hated it, so they pushed to rename it, and rename it they did. But there's still a wasteland of crash memorials and crosses along the roadside, and that's a little creepy. So I don't know — maybe the devil still gets his way.

Also, about Hwy 191 (which intersects 491), well . . . what's with all the dog roadkill? And in odd states of rigor mortis. I passed at least three dogs frozen on their sides in the road, as though still standing in the back of a big 'ole pickup truck waggling their goofy tongues in the breeze. One of them, a big bulldog, had his paws straight out in front of him and his mouth open wide as if he were just running down the road after a rabbit, then froze up on the spot and fell on his side in the roadway. More creepy. Actually, that sort of popped the creepy meter, I'd say.

Next, down 600 hundred very steep feet we climbed to the bottom of Canyon De Chelly. And yes, back up again (like what comes up must go down only backwards). And yes it was hot, near 90 degrees. And yes, at least one of my small children complained allll theee waaayyy (but usually in tandem). It was a stunning site. But I'm pretty sure I'm temporarily insane.

Ode of the day: To Cortez, Colorado. Where for some bizarre reason, I was very pretty. Prettier then in Minnesota, and about as pretty as in LA (except it's in the middle of nowhere, which makes pretty more like a novelty and less passe). Oh and the town's neat too, as long as you don't stay at the Rodeaway.

Mind Freak

My alien friends are back, which prompted me to write, even though its been months since the last entry. My head feels like someone scooped it into a microwave, which makes me wonder if there's a connection — you know, some kind of mind control thing.
Too bad they don't want me to like, clean the kitchen or do laundry or something. At least it'd be productive.

And the hive — we saved one of its victims, dragging itself across a teal frayed sea like a wounded combat soldier. It gonna die anyway, but seeing it struggle made the boys sad, so I picked him up and put him outside. We were all better off pretending.

I also built a fort. Pretty nifty. Except I'm not allowed in. Such is an architect's life it seems.

A storm passed though an hour back, so black, trailing low clouds that looked like disembodied tentacles. Long and fuzzy, like threads pulled through a loom. I know the house won't really blow away, but I still wish you were here.

So this is it, my ode today: To hornets, who never seem to be anything but curious. Too curious for their own good. We should all be so lucky.