300 Words
21.
Long long drive to Artesia. Out of Sedona, in the wee quiet hours , up one last time through that gorgeous red whispering canyon. Blow past Flagstaff and on across eastern Arizona’s flat flatlands. Bad hash this time in Holbrook, on again across the yellowing high desert. Into New Mexico’s redlands, Gallup, and finally a brief lemony nap, just enough to push on, push on, through Albuquerque, and on down the Miracle Highway to Roswell and, at last, blissful home in Artesia at the Heritage Inn. Highjacked by Italian food pirates at Piccolino’s, devilishly good eggplant parmagiana, my oh my.
22.
Down out of lovely Artesia, through Carlsbad, on to Fort Stockton, yes? Odd signs for El Paso and Las Cruces, my nose finally comes up out of Aubrey/Maturin and we are in the midst of islands in foggy mists, recumbent giants. Mary calls yet again: these are the Guadalupe Mountains and we are off course.
Or are we? These beautiful mountains call to us, calling us home, calling us further down past the Sierra Diablos, the Beach Mountains, and into Van Horn. Mesa after mesa of crow I must eat, this gorgeous west Texas land I have so arrogantly dismissed.
23.
Dead to the world, save my son slipping in between us early morn, but of even that, only briefly aware. Unload the car, piles of laundry about, remnants of the week’s bliss. Internet is fritzing, reminder to stay gone a little longer, why hurry back? SA has been under rain, the air has (presumably) been cooler, but dear old Aunt Humidity seems to have returned just for us. Speaking of returns, Mr. Blue is ever so grateful, ever so. His Teutonic aunt will never do, never. Those Guadalupes, Sierra Diablos continue to haunt, yes, even more so than sweet Sedona.
Long long drive to Artesia. Out of Sedona, in the wee quiet hours , up one last time through that gorgeous red whispering canyon. Blow past Flagstaff and on across eastern Arizona’s flat flatlands. Bad hash this time in Holbrook, on again across the yellowing high desert. Into New Mexico’s redlands, Gallup, and finally a brief lemony nap, just enough to push on, push on, through Albuquerque, and on down the Miracle Highway to Roswell and, at last, blissful home in Artesia at the Heritage Inn. Highjacked by Italian food pirates at Piccolino’s, devilishly good eggplant parmagiana, my oh my.
22.
Down out of lovely Artesia, through Carlsbad, on to Fort Stockton, yes? Odd signs for El Paso and Las Cruces, my nose finally comes up out of Aubrey/Maturin and we are in the midst of islands in foggy mists, recumbent giants. Mary calls yet again: these are the Guadalupe Mountains and we are off course.
Or are we? These beautiful mountains call to us, calling us home, calling us further down past the Sierra Diablos, the Beach Mountains, and into Van Horn. Mesa after mesa of crow I must eat, this gorgeous west Texas land I have so arrogantly dismissed.
23.
Dead to the world, save my son slipping in between us early morn, but of even that, only briefly aware. Unload the car, piles of laundry about, remnants of the week’s bliss. Internet is fritzing, reminder to stay gone a little longer, why hurry back? SA has been under rain, the air has (presumably) been cooler, but dear old Aunt Humidity seems to have returned just for us. Speaking of returns, Mr. Blue is ever so grateful, ever so. His Teutonic aunt will never do, never. Those Guadalupes, Sierra Diablos continue to haunt, yes, even more so than sweet Sedona.
Labels: Earl Warren, East Commerce Street, high temperature
posted by murat11 at 2:40 PM
2 Comments:
It's odd isn't returning to the bustle after slower footsteps, leisure, space, and time: to think, to feel, to remove, to become.
It's odd isn't returning to the bustle which pushes for do this, take care of that, can you, could you, would you.
It's odd isn't returning.
jsd: it certainly is: lunar travelers come home, it seems.
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