"Old dustbins" (last of the road notes)
Posted: August 5th, 2009, 3:49 pm
Thursday Notes (7-23-09)
I like to camp on a vista, in starry smooth warmth. Nevada overflows with such places—public land, no forest (Bureau of Land Management, or BLM). Eastern Oregon does too, but when you leave its southeastern sagebrush realm, fences and “No Trespassing” signs set in quickly, and what fragments of BLM land remain are inaccessible. Maybe you have to know where to look.
Sagebrush and scrub trees yield to grasslands and pine forests—intoxicating western beauty. Push a little farther and you’re into wheat fields. Nothing wrong with wheat fields. They’re quiet and no one bothers me, not to mention they feed the world. I should have picked a random fence, rolled out my bed and counted stars.
Instead I find myself in Condon, Oregon at sundown in the shadow of a grain tower. Condon is a throwback, featuring a Mayberry Main Street with front porches, though crumbling a bit. The volunteer fire department washes its rigs along the street as I roll by. Seems the kind of place where you get your bearings quickly and state your business. Not too many tourists stop in Condon. I find one gas station—old pumps. Closed. I ask a guy if the place has another station—“go north on Main.” I go north on Main. Nothing but a wheat field. I don’t think anything's been built here since 1961. The place isn’t too much bigger than Gerlach, but has a different feel. A bit chilly. Or maybe road fatigue induced a little paranoia.
I’ve circled the place three times, and avoid Main Street on the fourth pass. I find a beat-up motel, but they want $62—a little steep. I consider my options, and two guys with lots of facial hair roll up to the Junction in an old Toyota flatbed with a giant exhaust stack behind the cab—something off an 18-wheeler. Chrome. I decide to put Condon in my rear-view. I pull up behind them. They look back at me. I don’t want any trouble with the Jerky boys. They sit there at the stop sign—a weird pause. Then the driver floors it and that big bad chrome stack sputters and belches all the way down Main.
Friday Notes (7-24-09)
Stayed in Prineville, Oregon, a proper American town with large American pickups and a stately granite courthouse, on the edge of “the outback,” yet home to slight sprawl—a few recent housing subdivisions and shopping centers. The town of Bend, a short drive southwest, sprawls even more. You can’t rightly call these places “redneck towns,” with their mix of neo-suburban pioneers and virtual cowboys of all types. The ones in black tees wonder where they’ll get their first gig. Nothing against Prineville. Or Bend. We migrate farther into wilderness and the city follows, that’s all.
Saturday Notes (7-25-09)
Rummage through old dustbins. Never know what might surface. You see, I ran off in a fever and forgot to pack music. Tapes. Yes, my old rig has a tape deck. Then unexpectedly, a solution—Salvation Army store on 395 in Pendleton, Oregon. I picked over its scruffy tape bin, waded through self-help shysters and a hundred Oak Ridge Boys cassettes until Paul Simon’s record fell off the stack—“Graceland.” I knew nothing of it except that “call me Al” song. What the hell, thirty cents.
Paul Simon’s record holds up well as the miles slip by, the only tape I can plug in when silence or engine drone could use a boost. It has a towering a cappella masterpiece by those African singers—“Homeless.” Fits my wander in some ways. I can put a roof over my head, but home remains elusive. Best thirty cents I ever spent. Call me Al.
Poetic scribe. Is all his music like that? Songs about quiet despair, Cajun girls dancing zydeco, dying constellations in a corner of the sky, and riffs like “she was pretty as a prayer book (and if she’s my prayer book then let us pray).” Take that, sagebrush. It’s just a tape. In the same bin I found Tom Clancy’s “The Sum of All Fears.” The sum of all utterances. The sum of all lyrics. Poet creep. Every three seconds another poet is born, another bomb assembled. Won’t you please help?
Minuteman silos can only watch. The age of classics is done, into an ocean of echoes, where words get layered—sedimentary words, metamorphic words, laid down, compressed, faulted, uplifted into soaring harmony and discord, a blending together of souls. Just passing through. The sum of all fears. The sum of all angst and love. What a pair of poets.
Let’s see… what else. Oh yeah, did I mention my travel bag? So it’s Wednesday eve, all set to pack. Damn, I forgot—my travel bag was stolen two months ago. Enough time to hit a store. Try Fred Meyer—$100. No good. Now what? Hey, a thrift store three blocks down. I find one bag—$5. Done deal. It’s painted up like a mini-van with cute little zipper pouches as wheels—“VBS or Bust!” VBS? That’s “vacation bible school.” Psalm 25 is on the driver’s door—“which way do I go?” Killer. Cute as hell. Perfect for rugged cowboy towns.
It was a helluva road trip.
I like to camp on a vista, in starry smooth warmth. Nevada overflows with such places—public land, no forest (Bureau of Land Management, or BLM). Eastern Oregon does too, but when you leave its southeastern sagebrush realm, fences and “No Trespassing” signs set in quickly, and what fragments of BLM land remain are inaccessible. Maybe you have to know where to look.
Sagebrush and scrub trees yield to grasslands and pine forests—intoxicating western beauty. Push a little farther and you’re into wheat fields. Nothing wrong with wheat fields. They’re quiet and no one bothers me, not to mention they feed the world. I should have picked a random fence, rolled out my bed and counted stars.
Instead I find myself in Condon, Oregon at sundown in the shadow of a grain tower. Condon is a throwback, featuring a Mayberry Main Street with front porches, though crumbling a bit. The volunteer fire department washes its rigs along the street as I roll by. Seems the kind of place where you get your bearings quickly and state your business. Not too many tourists stop in Condon. I find one gas station—old pumps. Closed. I ask a guy if the place has another station—“go north on Main.” I go north on Main. Nothing but a wheat field. I don’t think anything's been built here since 1961. The place isn’t too much bigger than Gerlach, but has a different feel. A bit chilly. Or maybe road fatigue induced a little paranoia.
I’ve circled the place three times, and avoid Main Street on the fourth pass. I find a beat-up motel, but they want $62—a little steep. I consider my options, and two guys with lots of facial hair roll up to the Junction in an old Toyota flatbed with a giant exhaust stack behind the cab—something off an 18-wheeler. Chrome. I decide to put Condon in my rear-view. I pull up behind them. They look back at me. I don’t want any trouble with the Jerky boys. They sit there at the stop sign—a weird pause. Then the driver floors it and that big bad chrome stack sputters and belches all the way down Main.
Friday Notes (7-24-09)
Stayed in Prineville, Oregon, a proper American town with large American pickups and a stately granite courthouse, on the edge of “the outback,” yet home to slight sprawl—a few recent housing subdivisions and shopping centers. The town of Bend, a short drive southwest, sprawls even more. You can’t rightly call these places “redneck towns,” with their mix of neo-suburban pioneers and virtual cowboys of all types. The ones in black tees wonder where they’ll get their first gig. Nothing against Prineville. Or Bend. We migrate farther into wilderness and the city follows, that’s all.
Saturday Notes (7-25-09)
Rummage through old dustbins. Never know what might surface. You see, I ran off in a fever and forgot to pack music. Tapes. Yes, my old rig has a tape deck. Then unexpectedly, a solution—Salvation Army store on 395 in Pendleton, Oregon. I picked over its scruffy tape bin, waded through self-help shysters and a hundred Oak Ridge Boys cassettes until Paul Simon’s record fell off the stack—“Graceland.” I knew nothing of it except that “call me Al” song. What the hell, thirty cents.
Paul Simon’s record holds up well as the miles slip by, the only tape I can plug in when silence or engine drone could use a boost. It has a towering a cappella masterpiece by those African singers—“Homeless.” Fits my wander in some ways. I can put a roof over my head, but home remains elusive. Best thirty cents I ever spent. Call me Al.
Poetic scribe. Is all his music like that? Songs about quiet despair, Cajun girls dancing zydeco, dying constellations in a corner of the sky, and riffs like “she was pretty as a prayer book (and if she’s my prayer book then let us pray).” Take that, sagebrush. It’s just a tape. In the same bin I found Tom Clancy’s “The Sum of All Fears.” The sum of all utterances. The sum of all lyrics. Poet creep. Every three seconds another poet is born, another bomb assembled. Won’t you please help?
Minuteman silos can only watch. The age of classics is done, into an ocean of echoes, where words get layered—sedimentary words, metamorphic words, laid down, compressed, faulted, uplifted into soaring harmony and discord, a blending together of souls. Just passing through. The sum of all fears. The sum of all angst and love. What a pair of poets.
Let’s see… what else. Oh yeah, did I mention my travel bag? So it’s Wednesday eve, all set to pack. Damn, I forgot—my travel bag was stolen two months ago. Enough time to hit a store. Try Fred Meyer—$100. No good. Now what? Hey, a thrift store three blocks down. I find one bag—$5. Done deal. It’s painted up like a mini-van with cute little zipper pouches as wheels—“VBS or Bust!” VBS? That’s “vacation bible school.” Psalm 25 is on the driver’s door—“which way do I go?” Killer. Cute as hell. Perfect for rugged cowboy towns.
It was a helluva road trip.
.. mmm...last time I paid 30 cents here I bought a photocopy and a chicle! 
