Coming home through the Gorge
<< 5:20 p.m. - Sunday, Nov. 03, 2002 >>
Driving home. Landscape is flat here. On the other side of the Columbia River Washington�s hills are undulating and round. Scrubby brush is scattered over the land. Blue, yellow, and brown forever.

Listening to lisahall �Is this real?� The music makes the scenery seem even more desolate. The trees are bent at strange angles from the wind. Dried and brown leaves still cling. So empty, a ghost land for miles. Telephone poles stretch across the miles searching for a place to be put to use.

Neck is tight. Too many hours slept on less than a mattress. Can�t wait to get into my own bed. Tinny harsh guitar classifies this ride, this terrain. I�m traveling on. My face glued to the window.

Maybe fame isn�t what I want it to be. Anonymity may be the ticket. Even so, I feel this need to be recognized by my peers, feel somehow validated, that, I too, am a person.

Saw a sign for Blue Mountain. Eyes widened, brain stirred. Something familiar from my childhood. What was it again? A foggy memory of desert landscape and sage all over.

Memories drift by me