Drought Percolation

[mnaz]

I take up residence in a notorious, bone-dry corner of the planet, only to find myself besieged with slate-gray murk. It followed me, this indelible mud, which I disowned long ago. The locals dig out, thank me, and buy me drinks. I begin to think of everything as some sort of trick, though I should take up the offer, let it soak in. It will take a mighty effort to break this drought....

It soaks in, the smudges of dull gray and warm beer.... a slight inebriation, like recess. I take to the playground, splash through orange silt, though I never try to climb the schoolyard fence. I peer through the chain links. The desert is self-sufficient and proud; clearly annoyed with this embarrassment of riches, this overbearing gift, most of which will be wasted in a torrent at the bottom of a nameless arroyo. Soon I'm back in class, drinking in a liquid bell curve, though I never slide over the top. No need to turn this drought into a flood.

But words are already dislodged, like the weather channels.... perpetual motion, streams and bright blotches, swirls of radar.... a Pollock masterpiece, completely harmless at a distance. But tonight they show a special. Vicious storms pound the desert, slowing a column of tanks to a crawl. Video captures their mechanized might.... undeniable, despite a holy sandstorm, despite winds in excess of blind faith which briefly slow another advance on a bombed-out cradle of civilization. Now comes a purging rain; mud and rubble salvation, no depth perception. It is a place of worship, an immortality grab.

There is no battle, except for profit. Every one of them was waged for a good cause. Armored evangelists know the code, and speak in it as well. But I notice how the world fills in, how the mechanized valor profit margin shrinks. At age seven, I saw traces of it in Walter Cronkite's six o'clock battle counts.....the footage seeped in. How do you fight a jungle? And why?.... The drought was spreading.... Worship the machine.

Hell, I am the machine. I am the rainmaker. I will personally bring this drought to its knees because my intentions were always pure. Consider the raw conviction of the young. Consider the excellence, the sacrifice. I have an unhealthy urge to climb the nearest ridge and survey the planet. I could never get far enough away. I need a more potent fuel....

I have a trajectory in mind.... the angle of Interstate 15 through my motel window.... a headlight stream, melted into Christmas lights, stuck to the eave. It came to me, unrequested. Zen is the lesser road to ruin. I'll have to pick one of them, sooner or later. I could do worse. But zen still has a lot to prove, and I have a full tank of gas riding on it. There's no point to all this travel, though I'm sure I had one before I turned the key. That one is long gone, residing in one of those golden sweeps I motored past to get to another golden sweep. I cling to this zen trend, though it stabs me in the back. The map promised so much more. But I'm halfway up the road. The thing about the desert.... I'm always halfway up the road, give or take. And I'm fine with it because the end of the road has no particular relevance, give or take. Zen scholars eat up this sort of thing, but I just go there to take pictures.

But today the road is washed out so I click reruns, resort to the oldest metaphor in the book.... my fair and bare desert as a woman. Follow her tricky contours and curves into a different climate. She is looking flush these days. She is blushing unhealthy shades of green, threatening to break up a perfect marriage; that of scorched tan and casino tintinnabulations; two altered states suited only for each other like pure legal theft. There is too much relief, too much scale in these rogue streaks of green. That was the saving grace of this place.... lack of scale. It was about crude mountains which grew and shrank in the rare air of my obsession, like a bad travel brochure, like unimaginative photos of Saturn's moons.... dimensionless spheres, clumsy crayon splotches.... a poor artist's rendering.

I caught the forecast. Partly cloudy.... exactly where I was between the lines and points, between thoughts. I'll take it. I miss that drought already....

[hester_prynne]

Gosh, Mnaz, this is a splendid read.

"Zen is the lesser road to ruin..."

One of many sparkling jewels.

H

[mnaz]

Thanks Hes....


This one has been brewing for awhile.... started with my swing through Phar Lepht.... Just ask m.t. and buddhabitch.... They know.....

[sooZen]

That was great Mark...! I am reading it again and again.

('cept...I don't miss that drought one damn bit. Hah!)

Glad to hear from you. Funny, or not so, Cec posted those pictures he took from the Franklin Mtn Park today. (The poppies are blooming their heads off right now, thanks to the rains.)

The desert is a mighty fine mistress Mr. Rainmaker.

Smacks,
SooZ

[mousey1]

Beautifully beautifully written.

A feast for the eyes, this verbal ride.

I found the reading soft and soothing.

Thank-you.

[mtmynd]

mnaz - wonderful read! so much said that it'll take two, maybe more chews to absorb all the nutrients of this piece. congratulations and a double snort of kentucky's finest (or mexico's) to your writing. you're wringing your soul into a self-imposed drought... only to be refilled with more... and that, my friend, is GOOD!

[mnaz]

Thanks much, mousey, Soozen, and Cecil....

the "channeling" continues..... sometimes takes me where I hadn't expected to go.....

but that might be more of a good thing than bad....

Cec.... great photo(s)..... I enjoyed view from Franklin Mtn..... trying to pick out the places on the horizon that I visited last time.... great trip.

Anyway.... thanks again..... computer time runs short again....