The desert as literature..
The desert as literature..
None of this is true you know, the desert set adrift on my words. If you sit quietly on a buff mesa, slaked perhaps by a taste of foul, hot bourbon, and your scrawl gets lucky, starts to follow the spiritual contours of the place, it may feel as if your notebook and words are merging with the beaten ocher rims and starving light saturation, mapping indefinable space. But that space is not virtual. The desert has height, breadth and length. It is a coiled Panamint Red, one foot around, on a moon-bathed, cracked asphalt center stripe. It is the forlorn crunch of a withering white salt flat exactly three miles wide. Don't let my words fool you. The desert was never immune to mathematics, though it's always been much greater and more terrible than the sum of its parts.
Last edited by mnaz on May 31st, 2008, 5:32 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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