Once again there was the desert, and that only.
I have spent weeks in the desert, forgetting to look at the moon, he says, as a married man may spend days never looking into the face of his wife. These are not sins of omission but signs of pre-occuopation.
Shavonne Wright: What the hell are you talking about girl? Kaye Faulkner: Didn't even think about it did you? Shavonne Wright: Gilligan's Island? Kaye Faulkner: It's what called a male pornographic fantasy. Shavonne Wright: [laughs] Oh my haha Kaye Faulkner: Think about it! You're basically alone on a deserted island with 2 readily available women. One, a seductive sex goddess type. The other... a healthy girl-next-door-type with a nice butt. So the men have it all, the Madonna and the whore. Women get nothing! We get a geek, an overweight middle-age guy, and a nerdy scientific type. Jodi: [interrupts] The professor... is sexy.
Clive: I don't think I ever want to have sex. Gypsy: Mm-hmm Clive: I'm serious. Gypsy: Ok. Clive: I just want someone to kiss, with big, soft, delicious lips. He'd have to smother me in old-school romance. I mean, candles and incense, Moët and Chandon, but only in a deserted castle in the south of France. Gypsy: [releases pent-up laughter] Oh my god. You are so much more of a girl than I am.
It was a lone tree burning on the desert. A heraldic tree that the passing storm had left afire. The solitary pilgrim drawn up before it had traveled far to be here and he knelt in the hot sand and held his numbed hands out while all about in that circle attended companies of lesser auxiliaries routed forth into the inordinate day, small owls that crouched silently and stood from foot to foot and tarantulas and solpugas and vinegarroons and the vicious mygale spiders and beaded lizards with mouths black as a chowdog's, deadly to man, and the little desert basilisks that jet blood from their eyes and the small sandvipers like seemly gods, silent and the same, in Jeda, in Babylon. A constellation of ignited eyes that edged the ring of light all bound in a precarious truce before this torch whose brightness had set back the stars in their sockets.
Alferd Packer: And then I ran and ran as fast as I could. Polly Pry: But you made it out, right? Alferd Packer: Yeah, I hid in Wyoming for a while. I should have let them kill me. Polly Pry: Why? Alferd Packer: You ever been to Wyoming. [we cut and see Alferd in a deserted field] Alferd Packer: Uh, hello? Polly Pry: Oh my God! It sounds horrible!
Water, water, water....There is no shortage of water in the desert but exactly the right amount , a perfect ratio of water to rock, water to sand, insuring that wide free open, generous spacing among plants and animals, homes and towns and cities, which makes the arid West so different from any other part of the nation. There is no lack of water here unless you try to establish a city where no city should be.
They laid up in the shade of a rock shelf until past noon, scratching out a place in the gray lava dust to sleep, and they set forth in the afternoon down the valley following the war trail and they were very small and they moved very slowly in the immensity of that landscape. Come evening they hove toward the rimrock again and Sproule pointed out a dark stain on the face of the barren cliff. It looked like the black from old fires. The kid shielded his eyes. The scalloped canyon walls rippled in the heat like drapery folds.
Within minutes my 115-mile walk through the desert hills becomes a thing apart, a disjunct reality on the far side of a bottomless abyss, immediately beyond physical recollection. But it
Deserts possess a particular magic, since they have exhausted their own futures, and are thus free of time. Anything erected there, a city, a pyramid, a motel, stands outside time. It's no coincidence that religious leaders emerge from the desert. Modern shopping malls have much the same function. A future Rimbaud, Van Gogh or Adolf Hitler will emerge from their timeless wastes.
I wish I had the courage to travel light, like John Muir, with only raisins and a crust of pumpernickel in my pockets. But he was wandering in the friendly High Sierra, where brooks babble and berries ripen in the placid sunshine.
I thought of the wilderness we had left behind us, open to sea and sky, joyous in its plenitude and simplicity, perfect yet vulnerable, unaware of what is coming, defended by nothing, guarded by no one.
They took it for granted that if they went he would go also, but really they scarcely cared. Thus children are ever so ready, when novelty knocks, to desert their dearest ones.
She wanted to eat my heart and be lost in the desert with what she'd done, she wanted to fall on her knees and give birth from it, she wanted to hurt me as only a child can be hurt by its mother.
I asked him if it were a mirage, and he said yes. I said it was a dream, and he agreed, But said it was the desert's dream not his. And he told me that in a year or so, when he had aged enough for any man, then he would walk into the wind, until he saw the tents. This time, he said, he would go on with them.
One mile farther and I come to a second grave beside the road, nameless like the other, marked only with the dull blue-black stones of the badlands. I do not pause this time. The more often you stop the more difficult it is to continue. Stop too long and they cover you with rocks.
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