These published postcards are something like cameos of our thoughts, our travels, and our experiences.
it's a messy world, we are messy people, and that is what connects us the most. So we send postcards. We scribble, we scrawl, we pour out our hearts, or talk about something we saw. And then we send them into the unknown, with an intention, and hope that the reader laughs or cries or feels contempt, and always that they feel.
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Through the Jeffery Pine branches, fighting the Pinion Pine smoke, the moon lands on earth. A snap of moonshine makes it's appearance. No longer round, but still silver in the snow-melt Buckeye creek in September. Like fireworks in slow motion, it reveals its shadowy earth-filtered, sharp-light visions on the crests of the creek's rapids. The moon is in the pools that a person could drink from and feel fulfilled. The trout-river-silver-night-moon-shadow-everything.
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I'm in California. Thinking of things to come. Waiting for brakes. Put the brakes on! Sit by a Sierra Stream. Today a doe and fawn wandered into our campsite. They grazed on tiny aspen trees and horsetail ferns while I wrote. We are forced to wait for motorcycle parts in paradise. Yesterday we caught 3-fish with sticks for poles. I taught our companions how to kill them with a rock (I learned that from my crazy-resourceful mother), gut and scale them, and we cooked them over a fire with lemon-pepper and butter. Challenges, Sandy-roads, and mountain Blue Jays. Coco's corner is in the California Baja. A month? Two? There is a cold beer waiting there when we arrive.
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10.28.2016 - Bicycle Tour from Boulder, Co. to Texas
-Sharah
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The people you meet on the road are so very interesting. I think we all know that we will probably never see one another again so we feel free to say things we might not say to a coffee shop acquaintance. Today I met the caretaker of the Des Moines rest stop (New Mexico). He lives in the middle of nowhere and wonders if he will have the courage to leave a town of 10, where his ex lives. I say go for it. I also met a kid in a town of 1,000 who smokes because he gets frustrated washing dishes. I met his dog first. A Bitch with swollen teats begging for my chips. 5-puppies. This kid is envious of the local Mennonite's simple life. Wonderful human and more to the story but where... shall I write the address?
This trip is different. |
Postcards cant be "click-sent" like most things in the world today. No, we actually have to get up off our asses, get stamps, go to the post office and send them where they spend a day, two days, or weeks in the backs of drafty trucks and the bellies of airplanes. They don't have spell check and they might be illegible due to smearing, drunkenness, bad handwriting, or all of the above. Sometimes they get lost forever. I imagine they are swept away into postcard heaven or turned into toilet paper. And sometimes they wander for a while going god knows where, just to show up in the proper mail box weeks after they were due. It's a messy business, postcards.
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GREETINGS FROM SPACE LAND
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