Leaving Albuquerque was like leaving home. It lingers with me after miles on the road. What started out four years ago as a first visit with distant, even barely known or unknown relatives… this time has truly become a whole new family. Aunt Carrie’s medical misfortunate and the excavation for Nellie has created a new embrace with us… cousins coming out of the soil of that fabulous digital network from virtually every geographical pin point on the map. The journey homeward promises titillating discovers with new kinships, new embraces.
The long endless highways across NM and Texas draw me into ever expanding anticipations, expectations and challenges, with some level of anxiety, as I am basically a loner but, a Scorpio with somewhat of a scorpion personality.
And I become seduced with her, figuratively, with what is down there at the other end, as with that bikinied underwear clad ally girl on Bourbon Street with barely, as one would rhetorically describe, barely a stitch on, nervously shaking that mouse into the gutter out of her bedroom fan.
The extreme contradictions in this land are thrilling, intriguing, palpitating, poetic. In just 180 degree… the soil goes from explosive ripe green to arid, crusty sand, where life still manages… with beauty.
And then to this wise old comical figure which I see as a mythical ancient grey bearded desert Yoda spider… giving the sagely advice to… “Go everywhere!”
So there I go, everywhere, in my cargo can. On top, I have my propane tanks, two containers of small carpentry tools, a ladder, pick, shovel, axes, a spare tire and two bicycles… everything that one needs for the unknown roads…people do ask, why two bicycles when I travel alone. Friends gave me four, long abandoned and I made two… one for me and one for a Doisy-do, with that gypsy woman I will meet along the highways… don’t laugh… I have had 100% success on previous trips. If the opportunity arises, if I would be invited… I will tell you more, show you the art, will read you the poetry and sing the songs I have written in memory of those poignant events.
You might find the interior even more intriguing… you might. I will not presume. I normally stop at the Interstate Rest Areas, which might be perceived as rather boring, overcrowded places with tourists in a hurry for a pee or truckers taking a sleep break, both of which are quite often true. But look at this…
.
.
When I pulled in there last night, I assumed this was one of those big musical band tour buses or a charter bus for 60 or 80 people. Then an old man slowly stepped out, got a black bag from the luggage compartment and got back in. The driver, I wondered? ... sleeping in the seat across from the driver seat. That was it until morning… an elderly woman, seemingly somewhat arthritic climbed down, holding firmly unto the rail, with a white plastic bag in one hand and gingerly shuffled her way, I assumed to the facilities but, no... to the garbage bin, dropped the bag in and shuffled her way back. She was well groomed but, was wearing two different shoes. Seemed her hair was sort of blond. She opened the big door… steee-pted up carefully and disappeared for maybe a minute and a half. Then her head emerged slowly in view through the window. The head stopped, turned around and disappeared again... the door closed. The head reappeared attached to a slow moving body... both edging their way forward and faded through a door. An hour later, the bus started, rose up on its suspension airs bags and drove away. These are merely the facts...least I should show my biases, I leave it to you to create your own story.
Then this big beautiful black man stopped by as I was preparing breakfast and commented on my Coleman stove. Told me a story about and old gas stove he had that was against the law to use again but, he was going to fix it up and sell it.
Next, a little old skinny dark Spanish looking fellow came toward me smiling, about two remaining teeth displayed in his big smile. I shook his hand… “your name... Llewellyn? ” I pointed to the label on his shirt. He nodded yes, continuing with that near toothless smile. “My name is Rod…..”, I said. He nodded again, with his big smile, as I knew he did not understand. “Rod… Rod, like fishing rod” and I gestured, as if casting a fishing pole. His smile grew bigger, covering face and eyes, as he shook his head up and down more lively and accommodating, while waving his hand as he moved on… meaning, “Have a great Day!” He was the cleaning staff.
Joe came by, gestured to help me tighten down my roof bikes. “Those straps are Home Depot garbage”, “Wal-Mart garbage” I yelled as he continued on to the facilities. The straps were literally disintegrating in the sun. He came back, took me to his big 18 wheeler and proudly showed me the proper straps to buy. We chatted at length about his beef cattle, his horses and his two Belmont Stakes wins ($40,000) and his plans to move from Massachusetts to Florida to get 50 acres, more horses and cattle because, in Mass… $7,000 taxes a month for his truck business… $3,000 in Florida. Said he makes $2
a mile...$60,000 a month, coast to coast, $550,000 a year. Paid cash for his tractor and trailer… “Cash”
He dropped by again in passing when I was practising guitar and seem appreciative as I took time to explain the difference between a Dobro and regular guitar and I sang him an old country song… Wabash Cannon Ball.
“I’ll see you on the road…” he said, “ I’ll know you… seen you before… will give you the horn…Road Buddy”
Finally, I got to breakfast… I try to eat healthy food on the road… cooking on my Coleman stove… two or three meals a day…
Breakfast.... Corn Tortillas, scrambled eggs with tomatoes, tea, orange.
Lunch.... Whole wheat tortillas with basically Caesar salad, toped with BBQ chicken
Supper... grits with cubed chicken mix and laced with various condiments... from little packages I pick up at the occasional café pit stop ... soya sauce, crushed peppercorns, parmesan, chili mix, hot sauce, etc.
Then to work. My Cargo Can is equipped with full accommodations, work space for writing, eating, sleeping and guitar practice. As I am feeling a little pressured to get out of this Starbucks Café, I will close now. My next blog will be titled: Nellie's Blues.
No comments:
Post a Comment