Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

Get away? With seven billion other humans? Station to station at best. Power lines cross remote desolations of leached minerals and sweet smell of sage, forty, fifty miles out. It counts as mild shock, these apparitions, but you follow them, get used to a crackle buzz. You'll camp on a full moon empty tonight but in due time you’ll find the next settlement, small and quiet, suitably proud, a little smug in its separation from noise, as skeletal towers and wires slice the sun, bring electric fields, and satellites hang above, pipe in the news. We all got a little noise. Not to sell the empty basins short though, lull and lurch of sear wind on ravaged rock fallen to peace, panorama echo chamber. Side paths, etchings and fuzzy rubber bands, you could take them, vectors to the end of things where the maker tired, unrecorded space. You could hear fickle wind and destination, fickle mind and useful illusions.

Get out there and the City is a Whore of Babylon in your rear view, creeping closer. You can’t imagine it, a sort of depraved filth left behind, a grainy porn flick full of hustlers and addicts, the City and its bottomless well of excess, kingdom of decay, a quiet neurosis, entirely justified. Ask the locals. As Hunter S. Thompson put it—“suddenly they found themselves next to a white Cadillac convertible all covered with vomit and a 300-pound Samoan in a yellow fishnet T-shirt yelling at them: ‘Hey there! You folks want to buy some heroin? Scag folks, pure scag!’ He whacked on the side of the car.” Unthinkable to go back to such culture and desecration. So you don’t. Not for a while.

“Where pavement ends and the west begins”. A sign beside Gerlach, Nevada (population 200). In truth pavement runs another fifteen miles, but you get the idea. Gerlach is the only fragment of a town for a hundred miles in any direction, not counting the gypsum mine seven miles south, a dust-encrusted little outpost named “Empire,” in perfect sun-demented hubris. Gerlach sits at the southern tip of the Black Rock Desert playa, rimmed by abrupt mountains—Granite Range on the west, dotted by scrawny juniper, and Selenite Range on the east, darker and starker—a waterless fjord opening to a radiant, waterless sea, as the playa expands into its own infinitude, named for a dark ridge that punctuates the void. Mostly it is blinding white cracked clay, the energized plane, dead flat. Might be the place.

Gerlach is known as the town closest to Burning Man, that cosmic art storm splatter on the parched flat, forty thousand mystic freaks camped on the mind-blowing canvas each Labor Day weekend, altering reality, “a postmodern Brigadoon in an ancient wasteland.” It costs $400 and a Scooby Doo van to get in, and for four days a magic city of narcotic, naked art sprouts from vast intoxication of desiccation, “like a strange and beautiful mushroom,” culminating in the gigantic, splayed effigy consumed in fearsome blaze. “Black Rock City,” it’s called, the eighth largest city in Nevada for four days, dwarfing (overrunning) sleepy Gerlach fifteen miles south. You wonder how such wild overt-ness can survive the rugged old west.

Not much in Gerlach. A post office, a school, a few bars and slot machines. Bruno’s Country Club is the hub, and its owner, Bruno Selmi, owns most everything. Bruno is a man of medium stature with a full head of white hair neatly buzzed, into his eighties. He came from the old country (Tuscany) in 1946, found a job at the gypsum plant, took a liking to Nevada’s majestic moonscape and began his empire by leasing a bar in Gerlach. Sixty years later he owns a motel, a café, a gas station, a bar, two ranches and other concerns. He is shrewd and tough, sometimes curses a lot, and tends bar every night. The Burning Man meltdown brings in business, though when you asked him he said it was “the biggest bunch of dopeheads he’s ever seen.” Forty thousand getting away.

sorry to re-post some of this. had to separate the gerlach descriptions from the "mirage" piece. don't want to start repeating myself too often! oh well.

as you were.

Dig the read Naz...as usual. I so dig your writing....
I want to get away. I don't like living/working in the city, cuts off all my creativity. I feel like I can say that here, in this thread under your stellar prose.
I'm going to start looking for a job in a small town, that's on a river or lake.
Anyone who knows of anything, please, let me know.
H

Thanks hest. . . I know what you mean. Might want to get out of this place myself. A lot has changed in my life the last three years or so. Unfortunately a lot's changed in the world too, much of it for the worse.


. . . I had to rework this one a little . . .

“Where pavement ends and the west begins”. A sign outside Gerlach, Nevada (population 200). Pavement runs another fifteen miles but you get the idea. Gerlach is the only fragment of a town for a hundred miles in any direction not counting the gypsum mine seven miles south, a dust-encrusted place named “Empire,” in perfect sun-blast hubris. Gerlach sits at the tip of the Black Rock Desert playa, a sea of dead flat cracked clay rimmed by abrupt mountains, Granite Range on the west dotted by thin juniper and rabbit brush, and Selenite Range on the east, darker and starker, a waterless fjord opening to a waterless sea, to radiance measurable only in theory, named for a dark ridge that punctuates the void forty miles north.

It knocked you flat upon witness, a pure plane of light expanding beyond indecipherable washings of rock. A reset. “Away” was a possibility, the rare, giddy air, whiffs and gusts wicking moisture, and in the interval intensity as still as cracks on the plane, and thermals wobbling bravely, barely visible, deeper into alleys of obscurity. Span, but no scale. No reference point, ringing stillness and mercurial wind, a metaphor like history, inducing poems you can’t afford on a blank sheet. No sound but lurch and lull, intensity that wrecks your ears. You can’t match it anywhere, that baseline. The moon? Too many craters. The ocean? Water slosh.

Deserts curve a little more down south, intensity stemmed a bit by aircraft, a few jeeps, the odd air-conditioned ghost town or military concern, but no less deadly and hypnotic when it’s on. Get far enough in the curves and the City is a Whore of Babylon in your rear view, creeping closer. You can’t imagine going back, a sort of depraved filth left behind, a grainy porn flick full of hustlers and addicts, the City and its bottomless well of evil excess and decay, a quiet neurosis entirely justified. Ask the locals. As Hunter S. Thompson put it—“they found themselves next to a white Cadillac convertible all covered with vomit and a 300-pound Samoan in a yellow fishnet T-shirt yelling at them: ‘Hey there! You folks want to buy some heroin? This is scag folks, pure scag!’ He whacked on the side of the car.” Unthinkable to go back to cultural enrichment.

Gerlach, Nevada is best known as the town closest to Burning Man, that annual cosmic art storm splatter on the parched flat, forty thousand strong, camped on a mind-blowing canvas. It costs $400 and a Scooby Doo van to get in, a “postmodern Brigadoon in an ancient wasteland,” and for four days a magic city of narcotic, naked art sprouts from vast intoxications of desiccation, “like a strange and beautiful mushroom,” culminating in the gigantic, splayed effigy himself consumed in fearsome blaze. “Black Rock City,” as it is called, is the eighth largest city in Nevada for four days, dwarfing (overrunning) sleepy Gerlach fifteen miles south. You wonder how such a display of mystic freakishness will survive the rugged old west. You got people running naked in the middle of the desert.

“Away?” With seven billion others around? Station to station at best. Power lines cross the most desolate leached minerals and sweet smell of sage fifty miles out, apparitions that count as mild shock, but you follow the crackle and buzz sometimes, turn off and camp on a full moon empty. In due time you find the next settlement, small and proud, a little smug in its quiet, as skeletal towers and wires slice the sky, bring electric fields, and satellites hang above, pipe in the news. We all got a little noise. Not to sell power lines on empty basins short, sear wind on ravaged rock, panorama echo chamber. You could go there, etchings and fuzzy rubber bands, vectors to ends of things where the maker tired, between fickle wind and destination, fickle mind, useful illusions.

Not much in Gerlach. A post office, a school, a few bars and slot machines. Bruno’s Country Club is the hub, and its owner, Bruno Selmi, owns most everything. Bruno is a man of medium stature with a full head of white hair neatly buzzed, into his eighties. He came from the old country (Tuscany) in 1946, found a job at the gypsum plant, warmed up to Nevada’s majestic near moonscape and began his empire by leasing a bar in Gerlach. Sixty years later he owns a motel, a café, a gas station, a bar, two ranches and other concerns. He is shrewd and tough, sometimes curses a lot, and tends bar every night. The Burning Man meltdown brings in business, though when you asked him about it he said it was “the biggest bunch of dopeheads he’s ever seen.” Trying to get away.



Dangerous to mention Burning Man and not write much about it.

I want to get out of here too
This suburban sprawl that blots out the stars
At least I got this little window on the world here on my desk so I can stare into your desert.


I dig how you polish and re-polish your prosetry
Like polishing gem stones

thanks Jack. I need to move closer to "the quiet." Seems like I can drive forever from where I live now and never get out of the city . . .

I appreciate your comments, always.

This chapter started as a "bridge" chapter, a "tweener," but it's sort of coming into its own. Slowly.

latest take, and onto something else, pretty sure...

“Where pavement ends and the west begins”. A sign outside Gerlach, Nevada (population 200). Pavement runs another fifteen miles but you get the idea. Gerlach is the only fragment of a town for a hundred miles in any direction not counting the gypsum mine seven miles south, a dust-encrusted place named “Empire,” in perfect sun-blast hubris. Gerlach sits at the tip of the Black Rock Desert playa, a sea of dead flat cracked clay rimmed by abrupt mountains, Granite Range on the west dotted by thin juniper and rabbit brush, and Selenite Range on the east, darker and starker, a waterless fjord opening to a waterless sea, measurable only in theory, named for a dark ridge that punctuates the void forty miles north. On first witness it knocked you flat.

“Away” was a possibility, a plane of pure light past indecipherable nebulae and washings, rarified giddy air, odd whiffs and gusts wicking moisture, and in the interval intensity as still as cracks on the floor, thermals wobbling bravely, barely seen, alleys of obscurity. A reset. No scale, but span. No reference point, ringing quiet and mercurial wind, a metaphor like history inducing poems you can’t afford, and no life or sound but lurch and lull, lull to wreck your ears. You can’t match it anywhere, the baseline, utter blank sheet. The moon? Too many craters. The ocean? Water slosh.

Deserts curve a little more down south, intensity stemmed a bit by aircraft, the odd influx of all-terrain vehicles, air-conditioned ghost towns or military concerns, but no less deadly and hypnotic when it’s on. Out in the curves the City is a Whore of Babylon in your rear view, creeping closer, a sort of depraved filth left behind, a grainy porn flick full of hustlers and addicts, a bottomless well of excess and decay, a quiet neurosis, entirely justified. Ask the locals. Can’t imagine going back to such cultural amenity. As Hunter S. Thompson put it—“suddenly they found themselves next to a white Cadillac convertible all covered with vomit and a 300-pound Samoan in a yellow fishnet T-shirt yelling at them: ‘Hey there! You folks want to buy some heroin? This is scag folks, pure scag!’ He whacked on the side of the car.”

Gerlach, Nevada is best known as the town closest to Burning Man, that annual cosmic art storm splatter on the mind-blowing flat, forty thousand strong, camped on a parched canvas. It costs $400 and a Scooby Doo van to get in, a “postmodern Brigadoon in an ancient wasteland,” and for four days a magic City of narcotic, naked art sprouts from vast intoxications of desiccation, “like a strange and beautiful mushroom,” culminating in the gigantic, splayed effigy himself consumed in fearsome blaze. “Black Rock City,” as it is called, is the eighth largest city in Nevada for four days, dwarfing (overrunning) sleepy Gerlach fifteen miles south. They dress in things like carrot body suits and ride bikes nude to get around, but you’re not here to discuss cosmic breakthrough, not yet. You wonder how such a large display of mystic freakishness will survive the rugged old west, that’s all. People running naked in the middle of naked!

“Away?” With seven billion others around? Station to station at best. Power lines cross the most desolate leached minerals and sweet smell of sage fifty miles out, apparitions that count as mild shock, but you follow the crackle and buzz sometimes, turn off and camp on a full moon empty. In due time you find the next settlement, small and proud, a little smug in its quiet, as skeletal towers and wires slice the sky, bring electric fields, and satellites hang above, pipe in the news. We all got a little noise. Not to sell power lines on empty basins short, sear wind on ravaged rock, panorama echo chamber. You could go there, etchings and fuzzy rubber bands, vectors to ends of things where the maker tired, between fickle wind and destination, fickle mind, useful illusions.

Not much in Gerlach. A post office, a school, a few bars and slot machines. Bruno’s Country Club is the hub, and its owner, Bruno Selmi, owns most everything. Bruno is a man of medium stature with a full head of white hair neatly buzzed, into his eighties. He came from the old country (Tuscany) in 1946, found a job at the gypsum plant, warmed up to Nevada’s majestic otherworld-scape and began his empire by leasing a bar in Gerlach. Sixty years later he owns a motel, a café, a gas station, a bar, two ranches and other concerns. He is shrewd and tough, sometimes curses a lot, and tends bar every night. The Burning Man meltdown brings in business, though when you asked him about it he said it was “the biggest bunch of dopeheads he’s ever seen.” Trying to get away.