October 26, 2005


JR had a bulletproof smile at dinner. Grill of incandesense tween those bites. His illustrious Ozzie Guillen For Prez has turned the lights back on. Tonight, the SOX-stress was too great and he was too wracked, he said, to sit through the play by play. First time in his life time, he reminded me. So, instead we had dinner, hit the last showing of Capote, talked about conspiracies we believe in, casually (Did Oswald act alone? Is extreme weather a sign of impending doom? We did not discuss the conclusion I came to earlier this year, which is simply a thought that developed as my fundamental distrust of the gov't grew, and I am fearful it lumps me in with the Art Bell callers who believe that Hurricane Wilma is weather-control revenge enacted by the Chinese--but, I now think the moon landing was faked (am on the fence of whether Wellstone was mudered)-- I have crossed over.).

Still wrapping my head around the Joshua Tree's parched sprawl. Details TK.
Don't let me forget the stories about the Chee-toos. Stories about the white desert trash and their cheesy foodstuff understandings.

The desert was great as it has been portrayed to me by movies such as Ruben & Ed and Over The Edge. I saw the sky bigger than I have ever known it to be, and I liked the awe. I dreamt, the first night in the little cabin, of big-earred coyotes biting and fighting me-- they thought I was stealing their watermelons. They spoke English, the coyotes. If only all attacking animals could be so reasonable. The Joshua Tree National Park Literature devoted a full page to a cautionary, if heavy handed, tale: implied-but-not-detailed horror story about why not to give a peanut to the chipmunks (glucose!), and why it is a bad idea to let your four year old daughter wander unattended with a ham sandwich in her hand to the edge of a campsite, where, tragically, coyotes are encountered. Ham sandwich became hand sandwich, perhaps. They trail off, leaving you to imagine the worst. I imagined the girl bribed the English-speaking coyote with the sandwich and they saved her from a life of banality on the 29 Palms marine base camp, and instead she got to ride through the San Andreas fault on the backs of thin wild dogs. That's why they do not tell you what really happened. So you will not be jealous that you do not get to live in the sandy wilds, on the shore of the Sultan Sea.They keep it secret So that you will head back to yr golf spa and resort in Palm Springs and spend money and be none the wiser, eating lobster bisque for dinner and then dancing when the electric piano-led duo band does a samba version of "All of Me" from the poolside patio bandstand.

Posted by Jessica at October 26, 2005 02:00 AM | TrackBack