The Adventure

We’re cruising on the burnt black road in John Steinbeck’s California. The road is sloping, bending, turning, squealing against the wind at five, six, seven in the afternoon. The sun is slipping, dropping into the sea – crashing into the rocks a thousand feet below. Our windows are down, we’ve been driving forever, and air is spicy with salty foam that rises up from the depths of the sand. My hair is knotted, these tiny, perfect knots that bring forth curls and splendor. And I think “I’ve wanted to do this for years.” I melt into the leather, it’s supple and warm. There are mix tapes on the ground, hundreds of compilations of moods and songbirds with acoustic guitars. The cassettes swim with notebooks and photographs, all that we have ever needed.

Tonight there is no story, and no one will know. I hum “America” and he sings the words but I don’t know his name. We walked off to look for America. There are thousands, literally thousands, of Polaroid pictures organized in clear plastic sandwich bags, sliding along the back seat as we glide. At our diner stops I’ve photographed the miss-matched diner lamps. I’ve found that diner lamps have nearly always been miss-matched with one another, bright plastic reds with gold trimmed greens that have engraved leaves, a cornucopia of textiles and American Colonial china. I can retrace our entrances and exits, our revolutionary road from the Post Road Diner in Connecticut to Skippy’s in Wisconsin, all the way back home to The Griddle. It’s my intent to publish them, to redefine this country with wonder and a new way to trail blaze West. I have to share this love.

It’s been a long time, so we pull over and watch the sun. We don’t want to come home yet so we turn back towards San Francisco – another night in the city. We work our way back up the state, claiming the afternoon, seizing the night. No one will ever believe what we have become. We link together, and run with the 101. A white Honda is our carriage, ushering our dreams into the night. Near Redwoods there’s this pulse – we felt it the first time too – boom, boom, whoosh – there’s a life in the trees. We suck it up, I pulse faster and breath like its all going to disappear forever by the next time I swallow. The road means that there’s this unbelievable new way to touch and speak. In the woods, like the wheat in Oklahoma, the air is sweet but dry in a dying nation. We’re crying to be resuscitated; I understand why the dew in the grass tastes like the tears of a child. I understand the intensity of adolescent ignorance. There are no lights but we’re flying in space. And then we’re slipping through, breaking in – our eyes are open, our eyes are open, our eyes are open.

The economy hasn’t gone bust; our mother’s haven’t left us to find our own bread. We have been forgiven. Time is this foreign construct of structure and reality and ticking. Tick, tick, ticking – we’re tripping. This is all far away now. Our hearts are beating. We’re on this impossible trip where we can go anywhere, anywhere in any direction. Yesterday we picked up a hitchhiker because we could. He had long grey hair and six punk rock pins on his leather jacket. He gave us two apples and an ear for a rainy stretch. We’re starving but it’s life, we’ve got life. We’re singing; we’re doubled over in the brilliance of our outstretched fingers and the light that drops from the trees, the mountains, the reflection of the sea. I threw my mobile over the cliffs in a rush to escape – and I’ve never – we’ve never…

Look at the moon. The beams form a cross in the sky but I don’t believe in Jesus. I still find comfort in the beams. Look at the moon. I’m on the moon, looking back on the sea. I’ve never seen it this way. Tonight is the end of the world, but we’re all going to be fine. We’ll stick together as we fade and we won’t miss the morning. Not any of us. We’re speeding on the jagged edges of a road that’s been cracked out of a mountain before we’re off, sailing, shooting into the black as we explode with all of the rest in this saturation of peace and beauty that I’d always hoped would befall our last moment. And I think to myself, “I’ve wanted to do this for years”.