Dave's Blog

http://thiswitness.org/category/places/unitedstates/

Dave is doing a picture and excerpt style blog. Hopefully this will give people a more rounded view of what we are doing.

An Hourglass World

Finally the moon is full. This means time is passing during this trip. The world turns under our Circadian tires. West Virginia is like a demure African America, quiet and dark. With the moon on its side the sky is brighter than the earth. The trees bow in obsequious humility creating a humble silhouette. Up and Down trade roles to see how it feels and they enjoy it more than they probably should. Lightening bugs flash under the moon in the black area that once was scenery. The cosmos has never been so close. Their forces are tangibly near. Sharing an awe that spans mans' entire sojourn in existence, I pray to the infinite.

How I Cope

There are people
like me,
not unlike
you.
The same people
like you
occlude me.
Use our mouths-
tequila,
talking-
to smile.

I Touched Brock

     My presence in Atlanta, Georgia and the performance of Nero's Day at Disneyland aligned like stars. As it happens, a significant portion of my Berkeley friends were with me. The venue was an umbrella art studio with large empty rooms and hospital corridors cured with hanging, splattered, chalked art. In the center of one of the miscarried wombs of the building stood a keyboard burnished by orgiastic fingers and a pile of wired boxes. The sound from the single amplifier could have been made by a rabid Jackson Pollock pleasuring himself with an anachronistic 15th century AC powered vibrator.
     We lingered as do the indifferent souls on a clouded day in the Elysian Fields, our brains trying to repair and make sense of the sonic battering they had just endured. A large chalk covered wall fulfilled its role as a conversation piece as we fell in with an adjacent couple. Being super-charged by A. the music, B. the beer, or C. the combination platter, we both declared a dance party and invited the nearby strangers in a single excited breath.
     In a house that I didn't live in, with people I didn't know, and with a sound system I wished I owned, I handled the digital turn tables with glistening zeal. By two or three a.m., bodies had disappeared or lay prostrate in little pools of sweat around the premises.

Mouth Stuff

Alright, I'm going to do it. I'm going to tell you what food I've been eating.

At first I ate lots of stuff just in the car (granola bars, fruit and nut bars, trail mix, Wheat Thins) but I have switched over to real meals, probably because we have been through states with cities in them. Crazy thing.

In Austin, Texas I ate pizza that was paper thin and pathetic looking but had a surprising flavor impact. To follow it up I devoured ice cream of which Cold Stone's business model is based. I also ate Whataburger, which is a fast food burger place in the South. It is not good but is probably better than say... Burger King.

Still in Texas (it's a large place) I visited Salt Lick. This was boasted by many as the best BBQ. By my standards, it was delicious. I had a sausage sandwich. Their sauce is quite unique and Dave and I couldn't get enough of it.

In Houston, Texas I had what I was told is traditional Texan BBQ. I only tasted Dave's because I was experiencing my typical stomach discomfort. I wasn't too thrilled with Good and Co. BBQ, mainly because of their tomato based sauce, which tasted like marinara sauce to me. If you know me, you know why I wasn't pleased. The meat was still really good.

In Louisiana I tasted my first Cajun/Creole food. It blew my mind. I had been drinking and that has been known to skew one's perception of the quality of a meal, but this food was amazing. I had jambalaya and Dave had gumbo, my first time trying either and both were really good. We had bread pudding with a whiskey sauce for dessert, an excellent finish to our already stellar meal.

In one day... I had my first beignet, which is a French doughnut. The wait was stupid long and the beignet tasted like a burnt funnel cake. Not the best. Immediately after, we walked across the street and ate breakfast. I ordered a Cajun omelet, which had some of the same things I had the last night but wrapped in egg. It wasn't the same mastery of the food so it was merely acceptable. I also had grits, pretty good. Only around two hours after, we went to the apparent birthplace of the muffaletta. Dave and I both had half (they are gigantic). It was probably one of the best sandwich shaped things I've ever had in my mouth. For those of you who don't know, a muffaletta is an Italian sandwich that has salami (maybe another meat), gruyere, and the best goddamn olive spread ever. It was almost unreasonable. I almost took it back and spat in the chef's face, it was so good.

After arriving in Atlanta Georgia, DT took us to a bar (this is the same day, mind you). We ate fried sea food and drank beer.

In Atlanta I ate breakfast at The Flying Biscuit. It was tasty but I was feeling stomach sick. The grits here altered my perception of grits forever making me believe I love them.

DT took us to a pizza place called Antico. This was one of the best meal experiences in my life. It seems unfair to rate it so highly because I had only one slice of pizza (again, stomach issues) but the atmosphere of the place heightened the experience. After ordering, we squeezed by seated people and found the kitchen. The kitchen felt like an Italian wedding party. The chefs were making pizzas, people were carrying around six packs and bottles of wine, and the large tables were full of large portions of food. The place was bursting with convivial harmony. Before our pizzas were ready, the older woman, the matriarch of her rosy cheeked family, told Dave that if he kissed her on the cheek, she'd give us a bottle of wine. Obviously, we gained a bottle of wine. The food was by far the best pizza I've ever had and the wine was an added bonus. For one of the first times, I felt connected with the people around me through a simple love for food. It had that European glow that I pathetically long for.

Ate breakfast at West Egg. Good but not great. DT claims he knows the where abouts of the best garlic fries in the world. I shall see and report back to you.

Fun side note: Subway is everywhere. I've seen it every state. Sonic is a big deal in the South. People actually go to Dairy Queen. Chili's is the most common sit-down restaurant. In the South East, Carl's Jr. is called Hardee's.

P.S. If you want to comment on any of my entries, please do. It makes me feel like people are actually reading and I'd like to know what people think.

Draw and Quarter

     New Orleans has been repeatedly suggested to me from friends, acquaintances, and books alike. From the names of the streets and places to the assumed cultural presence, a remembrance of Europe, like an intoxicated vein in the body, fills the avenues of the French Quarter. It has been described to me as a consented marriage between America and Europe. I can't quote directly, but Henry Miller proclaimed this area as the last hope in the U.S. The only remaining piece of inspired living.
     Within me lies a passion for Europe. A dormant longing, wishes to express my human need to stumble drunkenly, although not necessarily from drink, through streets and alleys made with stone, and to absorb a transcendent level of peace sitting in outdoor cafes, enjoying sentences and grammatical acrobatics without grasping the meaning of paragraphs. I want to watch on with awesome laudation as two chess masters battle for the board in the prime of their lives. Europe envelop me. Welter me in common courtesy and let us drink until dawn when the only things left open are the harlots.
     My expectations come to a boil and brim through a glassy eyed state of excited pleasure as I take in my first dose of New Orleans. The streets teem with people. I'm drinking a beer as we walk by people already at the threshold of inebriation. Houses and shops line my peripheral vision that help my mind construct a truer picture of France. My elation grows with my belly of beer.
     A tinge of distaste is crawling up the dark side of my tongue. A sickness begins to make its way from my heart to my cognitive cogs. As we hack our way further into the Bourbon Street jungle, I notice novelty. A pathetic tourist attraction, like a sibling of wicked Las Vegas. It feels like the French Quarter is in chains, being flogged and forced to birth the product that is expected from many years of advertisement, whether malignant or benign. Nothing can stay pure in America. We choke anything that has any significance. The Grand Canyon has become a quick stop and "ooh-aah" on the way home. Carlsbad Caverns is lined with railings and suggestions colder than the cave itself and a gift shop poisoning its innards. The French Quarter of New Orleans is just a place to make money off the people who want 'the experience.' Everything in our land of liberty is a roadside attraction.
     Perhaps this is the basis for the artist's desire for Europe. They've all ran to her. The only thing I can think, like a monkey with a miniature cymbal on the stage of my brain, is if Europe has become like America. I shudder but play it off as a chill from my sweating Perrier so that hope is not jinxed.

Inside Earth

     Comparing Carlsbad Caverns to Hades, with its spacious, dank rooms where souls could while away or to an under water diving adventure with the coral-esque formations and blue-black crevices or to another world altogether, one where the ceiling could be the floor, where faces seem to pop out of stalagmites, a carnival fun room, would be as repetitive as a cat call off the sonorous walls of the cave, so I won't.
     The rooms of the cavern are more like the lonely rooms in a castle where an only daughter of some passed and forgotten king stays. The big room, cleverly its actual title, would have been the girl's quarters. A mansion room characteristically too large for just one person, with specific areas for daily solitary living. Many of the walls are hidden by luxurious curtains; draperies to give the bare and neutral color some essence of wealth, so that any onlooker could say to himself, "impressive."
     As I stroll around the deliberate paths I have the distinct impression that I am taking an evening walk in a French or English park, narrowing the possible locations of our castle. There are stone formations that remind me of trees, shadowed in dramatic lighting that act in my imagination as streetlights. It is a chilly night and I can feel it in my numbing fingertips.
     I re-enter the equally cold castle. For entertainment or, more likely, a distraction from solidarity, there are the remains of stages for puppets. A grand place where shows of doll escapades in fairyland and exotic Chinese and Arabian frame tales were once enacted. The auditoriums are pink, white, orange, giving brightness to corners of the cave and rising edges of mouths.
     The whimsical attractions of the derelict theaters die away as I enter the damsel's bedroom. A sense of warmth hangs in the room like a mist resting on the cavern's floor. The surely opulent bed cannot be found but there are hundreds of candles in its place. In different stages of size and therefore life, the candles creep everywhere with waxen tentacles, exploring their frozen environment. There are large piles, skinny strands, and millions of years of naturally flowing build up that give the area a dangerous yet enchanting aura.
     Seeing signs for 'elevator' and 'gift shop' is like getting a 44 ounce glass of wine thrown in my face. The tourist's necessities are like pollution in the exclusive magnificence of the caverns. I stare at the floor of the elevator, wishing to project myself through sight back into that magical and mysterious place my mind had roamed.

Action/Location Two

Forgot to mention that I hiked into the Grand Canyon and explored a cave. Very physically taxing.

Visited Roswell, New Mexico.
Went to Carlsbad Caverns.
Stayed with some more friends of David. Very awkward for an awkward me.
Went to White Sands. The nuclear bomb was test very near. It was blinding.
Drove across half of Texas. Don't let the map fool you. That place IS its own country.
Spent a day in Austin. Exciting city, wish I knew people here.
Stayed with Rebecca, Dave's ex, the first night.
Stayed in a hotel by myself the second night because I couldn't deal with being around people I didn't know and I wished to be alone and catch up on writing. I hope this benefits you.
Currently: Sitting in a coffee shop called Once Over, waiting for Dave's call so we can eat the BBQ that everyone suggested and move on.
I should not have had coffee. I can't resist.

Endless Endless

Begin with the sunset.
     It is red. A hue of red found more commonly in fantasy stories. A color that doesn't really exist, until you see it yourself from the side of highway 66 in New Mexico. As the sun disappears it leaves in its wake red cursive strewn across the lower sky, portent but hardly legible.
     I woke up near the Grand Canyon for the last time. Breakfast eggs were accompanied by homemade biscuits and gravy. We packed up and shipped off. Flagstaff is the small town that the surrounding small towners visit. The coffee shop we stopped at belonged in a culturally rich city such as San Francisco or New York and I felt both out of place and at home. There was a new brand of hipsters there. These held onto the hippy part of the word and had a dirty biker native American feel. Somehow, we managed to also eat passable Greek food.
     We drove. Driving has become less a choir or boring interim. It feels more natural and Dave and I have immersed ourselves in the system. Despite our familiarity with the task, we weren't going to make it in time to our next destination, Santa Fe, New Mexico. We phoned the people we were supposed to camp with and meditated another day long venture.
     Night driving in rural areas is more absolute than its urban counterpart. Once the moon, or lately lack of moon, takes over, the world changes dimensions. The once expansive landscape where an eye can be lost in a glance is reduced to about the vicinity of one's vehicle and the occasional retro reflective sign. This produces Indian ink darkness and a milky bright sky. The stars are everywhere above the horizon instead of just up. They can be seen while peering straight ahead.
     Due to this visual and mental fog, I had no concept of my surroundings except in relation to what I had seen during sunset. We arrived in what signs told was forest but I had qualms against camping. I'm still uncomfortable with the idea of insects on my skin. I convinced Dave to push deeper into the night to Roswell, our next point of interest.
     The sky between us and Roswell, New Mexico was lightning. Far off thunderheads rumbled and glowed like a faulty night light. My predisposition toward the famously kitsch town was of particular eeriness. I'm not convinced in the slightest of the existence of extraterrestrials but a place can take on extra sensual properties entirely through word of mouth. It wasn't a fear I felt, rather a readiness for something unexpected. The hour of day may be in part blamed, but my impression of the town upon entry neared disappointment. It was small and scarce.
     Endless Lakes. Another example of how the name or reputation of a place can affect perception. This was the only nearby camp site and our place of repose. The site seemed empty. Endless lakes, endless sky, endless. All we could see while driving were pools of black water that rivaled the sky in color. The road seemed to be endless and the campsite areas were hidden by the mere suggestion of the site's name.
     We parked the car on what felt like the side of a dirt road. Dave, rugged and determined, vanished into darkness to sleep under the stars. He returned as I was calculatedly hunting mosquitos that were let into the car, my chosen place of rest. He reported that his skin had been ambushed by the insects and could no longer persist.
     It was a hot night but we left the windows to their erect vigil so that our only defense against the blood hungry bugs remained in place. I perspired more than slept. At some unknown hour, a truck's headlights pierced our windows. My body locked and my eyes followed the truck. It parked directly behind us on the opposite side of the dirt road. I felt like my heart could be the still running engine of the truck. Two men exited the large thing and began walking toward our dead car. They stopped and had some sort of interaction in the glow of their rear lights. I couldn't tell what they were talking about nor which direction they were looking for they were silhouettes against the red. After a seemingly endless period, the dark beings walked back to their respective places in the cab. I lowered the hand that hovered over Dave's shoulder.
     Sweating from the musty heat of breathing bodies and my sympathetic nervous system, I sat wide eyed in the darkness. An endless, sleepless night.

The Sun

     Dave knew someone who worked for the Grand Canyon giving tours. That person wasn't in Arizona so he pawned us off on friends of his. These people, small town people, canyon people are a people of their own. Everything is Grand Canyon. They bounce facts like puns and exchange hiking stories instead of drinking stories.
     In this place, the sunset is entertainment. It is referred to as such, "we are going to sunset at 8." It is spoken of as if it were a fond friend. I couldn't tell if they wanted to show us the sunset of our lives or if they were genuinely excited but plans to see sunset were discussed and planned like Thanksgiving. A sack of beer was packed and the Subaru Outback was filled. Head nods and casual hand gestures got us through the toll entrances to the park; tourists sat in lines, the futility of their endeavor rising sharply with the sun's decent. The Subaru carved curves of tour bus exclusive roads and was parked at a harsh angle: a warning to any approaching buses.
     We sat at the canyon's edge on blankets made to look like those of her native keepers. A Tecate in one hand and a camera phone in the other, I was prepared for a sunset to be burned into my skull. The sun slid slowly down a foreground of corpulent clouds in horizontal lines, thinning their dimensions by lining them with gold. Clouds not touched by the sun's benevolence dropped virga like cowhands dusting off their bandannas at the end of the day. Jess, the only girl but seemingly the most canyon acquainted of the group, was so afflicted that I thought she'd fall off the crest in her bemused bustling about.
     As a finale to the sunset, rain began to fall. We made our way to the car, cameras held tenderly to chests and a bag of empty cans where once were full. We faced the tourists on the road ledge like the winning team does to its defeated but with almost no respect.

Action/Location One

Start: Lancaster, California.
Passed through Las Vegas, Nevada (that place is hell)
First stop: Hoover Dam
Rode bicycles across Hoover Dam and sweat all the water out of my body.
Cooled off in Lake Mead which wasn't all that cool.
Passed into Utah and slept at an unofficial camp site near a river. All of the roads and much of the soil is red.
Went to Zion National Park.
Dave and I hiked the most difficult trail available. This was my first hike.
Saw the North Rim of the Grand Canyon in the same day. I didn't cry because I'm a man.
Drove through some of the night because the Canyon is reservation only for campers.
Camped in Lees Ferry, Arizona.
Woke up in a beautiful desert that we had never seen before.
Drove to the South Rim of the Grand Canyon.
Saw tourist sites.
Rode our bikes along the rim.
Made sandwiches with supplies from the only store
Met friend's of Dave's friend.
Stayed with them for two nights.
Currently posting in Flagstaff, Arizona.

Begin

Introductory post engage.
I want you who want to know what I am doing to know what I am doing. For this purpose I will make a bullet list of activities and locations. I'm not going to write journal entries because that would bore me. But you will have the pleasure or discomfort of reading about particular incidents. Introductory post power down.