Summertime at Jean Lake

[mnaz]

Summertime at Jean Lake. Pack your swim trunks. Except Jean Lake is a white hot flat of cracked clay and it's a hundred-twelve in the shade, which is theoretical. And from the next ridge, past wavering powerline towers, is a serene hilltop view of the state prison, which dovetails nicely into my story. "I like things that are fucked up", as an artist I met in El Paso reminded me one time. And there's a lot of that around... expired silver veins, snake holes, chucked artifacts and rats by night.

Now comes the heat. I thought wind might protect me in this unfettered free for all, except for its pathetic trickle. So I reposition my pickup truck, as close to ninety degrees to 112 degrees as possible; windows down and water jug too hot to taste, as I imagined. Except I imagined slow motion consciousness, slower than dust devil after dust devil that can't wobble up the side of one particular ramp. And I never figured this subtle phase shift toward a pure liquid state.

But I have space enough to consider origins, if not breath. If I tried to walk to the horizon, I might not make it. I like things that are fucked up. Like my democratic hellhole by the shore of Jean Lake in early July. Oh I could probably find these things in any number of northern Detroits, except I'd be deprived of continual, glinting sunlight. And temporary discomfort is nothing compared to ridges of choreographed indeterminacy spreading out, and the lower passes can't seem to stand still.


Jean Lake in October (when it isn't so mind altering).

[Zlatko Waterman]

A full-packed, solid piece of writing. Barry Lopez and his alkaline flats have nothing on you, my writing buddy.

Strong, and even the picture helps.

--Z

[mtmynd]

another strong flow of writing. great stuff, mnaz.

[mnaz]

Thanks Zlatko & Cecil.

Yeah, it's getting there. I'm still trying to get at how such sparse wide open space both "exhilarates and terrifies" and provides "richness in hard destitution", for lack of a better way to put it...