techno-flyover (revised)

[mnaz]

Your eyes are crossed from so much time on the grid. Okay, technically the grid goes anywhere a road can go and beyond, even the twisty canyons, but that's not how you saw it; you believed you could leave, into the empty range. But a glowing screen chased you to those silent spaces and ramshackle rooms, bare bluffs backlit by a lurching feed. You never imagined it like that, not out there, where the icy crisp sun comes up over a pristine mountain, and you might catch trout in a snow-melt canyon with a shovel if you knew where to look. But quiet is dysfunctional. Need the feed.

Recede to wander, if not a screen. The rock flies solo, with only a quicksilver moon, like range poetry, a gambler up against flash and touch. The road always ends in talus beneath the peak, and poetry only sniffs at a soft ferocity of mountain rain; a few animals and ex-prospectors know the place. Picture your wander. Measure the blue dome against a road sign shredded by buckshot, “AUSTIN—149 MI.” Peace reclines on a ruined sign. And through ruined floorboards last night you noticed your perch on a lump of silica and iron hurtling through black. You prefer frayed motels for their whiskey shades.

Powerlines vanish again into a feathery roundscape, as vague as here appears from there, delicate and deadly, and all roads eventually fall into Vegas, in decaying orbits, on a luckless, blind desert, narcotic sea of poverty and Frank up in lights, pure intensity of light, a wisdom drug taxed only by mind-altering heat, or death by profit. Whatever happened to the mob? They bombed the Sands, took it down, buried it somewhere in that intensity and replaced it with hundred-story gleam. The money's spent and tipping points multiply: all the same battles in tightening loops. A city mile is long, not a country mile. Whole empires can occupy a city mile, in steel canyons looking for storms without a sky; in contrast, country miles stretch end to end, plain as day, unless dust is up.

You're being watched. The place is shrinking, jammed with signals and wires; even space gathers junk and orbiting spies. Earth orbit is a curious arc: breathless feel of space, yet on a tether. And satellites are vaguely troubling. They take pictures. You see gone deserts onscreen, places you went not to be seen. You zoom to each mountain and corrugation, but they seemed more powerful when they were uncountable, when you didn’t know just how many occurred between here and there, and they were more than bent bumps on a flat techno-jigsaw, another suspect machine. Maybe life was better as a machine, a sin of routine, when you went about your business. Before wander.

But wander is second nature. Head out to your interior, a thin etching stretching, scrawl faded to burnished sculpture, brilliant or wistful in the angle of day. What does now look like from there? How far could scrawl run until it met itself from the other side? How is a glance worth so many questions? Your dreamlike span blends inner and outer, converges on a big beat earth. Your boundless desert was born in a glance, so in raising its dust and testing its reach perhaps it returns to the eye, rock and spirit. Your eye drifts, and fragile ridges turn deeper shades of obscure, boundless for now, though road may find its limit.

Or road finds its eye. Pistons rumble and the radio mumbles Dwight Yoakam, smoke whiskey in a hundred-eight haze, a gentle pain, and the lay of the land tapers to a single point if you could trace it. You can't just run to the strata, you have obligations, and you drifted too far; mountains are nearly gone, sunk into their slopes under a dazzling crush of heat. Spent asphalt slips onto a blinding flat, and your eye conjures an oak masterpiece. You picture the bar: carved ornate art, hauled a thousand miles from San Francisco in the gold rush. Prospecting is always good, though less certain than blown sand and rubble. Sound carries farther in dry heat, misjudges wind. Shout the contours, scour the bluffs. Go down and pour a blue oak vision, carved from cracked clay. Find the eye, for no good reason. You can't get it on a screen, though some day you'll see yourself out there, while clicking and scrolling along some trail, staring up virtually, right at the big space eye.

[short timer]

I need the feed
the wander



thank you for writing

[dadio]

first class prose writing.

[mnaz]

thanks jack. thanks dadio.

i like the way this one has progressed, but i'm still pruning a bit. and i'm moving the 4th paragraph to be the leadoff paragraph, the (vaguely unsettling) technology seeing eye, fading off into ruminations of my own wandering eye...

one of things i really need to be careful about in my writing from now on (after this latest 14 or 15 month wave of expression) is to avoid too much repetition of concepts and images.

--edit--
ok, i like this version better:

You're being watched. The place is jammed with signals and wires. Even space gathers junk, and orbiting spies. Earth orbit is a curious arc, the breathless feel of space, yet on a tether, and satellites are vaguely troubling. They take pictures. You can fly over gone deserts onscreen, places you went not to be seen. You can zoom to each mountain and corrugation, but they seemed more powerful when they were unknown and uncountable, when you didn’t know just how many occurred between here and there. When they were more than bent bumps on a flat techno-jigsaw, another suspect machine with the answer. Versus wonder? But maybe it's better as a machine, in sins of routine. No place for wander.

But wander is second nature. Head out to your interior, a thin etching stretching, scrawl faded to burnished sculpture, brilliant or wistful in the angle of day. How far could scrawl run until it met itself from the other side? How is a glance worth so many questions? Dreamlike span blends inner and outer, converges on a big beat earth. Your boundless desert was born in a glance, so in raising its dust and testing its reach perhaps it returns to the eye, rock and spirit. Your eye wanders, and fragile ridges turn deeper shades, boundless for now, though road may find its limit.

Or find its eye. Engine rumbles, radio mumbles Dwight Yoakam, smoke whiskey in a hundred-eight haze, gentle pain, and the lay of the land tapers to a single point if you could trace it. Spent asphalt slips onto a blinding flat, and your eye conjures an oak masterpiece. You picture the bar: ornate, carved art, hauled a thousand miles from San Francisco in the gold rush. Prospecting never ends, though far less certain than blown sand and rubble, and sound carries in dry heat, misjudges wind. Scour bluffs, shout the contours. Go down and pour a blue oak vision, carved from cracked clay.

The rock flies solo, with only a quicksilver moon, like range poetry, or a gambler up against flash and touch, and the road always ends in scattered rock beneath a peak. Poetry can only sniff at a soft ferocity of mountain rain; a few ex-prospectors and animals know the place. Last night, through ruined floorboards, you saw your perch on a lump of silica and iron hurtling through black; you favor frayed motels for their whiskey shades. Today you measure a measureless blue dome against a road sign shredded by buckshot, “AUSTIN—149 MI.” Peace reclines on a ruined sign. How is a country mile long? A city mile is long. Whole empires can occupy a city mile, in steel canyons looking for storms without a sky, yet country miles stretch out plain as day, end to end, unless dust is up.

Onward, off the grid. Your eyes are crossed from the grid. But the grid goes where a road can go and beyond, even the twisty canyons and empty range. A glowing screen chased you those quiet places and ramshackle rooms, bare bluffs backlit by lurching feed. Quiet is dysfunctional. Need the feed. You never imagined it like that, not out there, where the icy crisp sun comes up over a pristine mountain, and you might catch trout in a snow-melt canyon with a shovel if you knew where to look. Find the eye. You can't find it on a screen, though some day you'll see yourself out there, while clicking and scrolling along some virtual trail, staring up, right at the big space eye.