My Writing Station
Mark and I have taken 2 major US road trips in our life together, each for 3 months at a time.
The first was when we got married, and we went on a 3 month honeymoon down the east coast and across the southern part of the country in a 19′ Transvan with shag carpeting and a plastic stained glass partition separating the tiny kitchen area from the tiny eating area. Brown and orange stripes painted on the outside made us hard to miss.
For our second road trip, we upgraded to a 27′ motor home and traveled across the northern part of the country, then changed course in South Dakota towards warmer weather in our favorite state of New Mexico.
During this time I really worked on my creative writing.
I took advantage of all of the wonder and confusion of the trip, trying to work things out inside me as well as being highly stimulated by the diversity of the various parts of our country. This sabbatical ended up lasting 6 months, and to this day it remains an an active part of my imagination. This may be a strange detail, or not. I particularly enjoyed coming up with titles for my essays. They include:
- WISCONSIN – Endless Ribbons
- NOTES FROM A DUSTY SOUTHWEST ROAD
- LIVING SPACE: SPIRIT OR POSSESSION
- LOOKING FOR CLUES
- VIRGINIA – The pendulum strikes again
- MY IMPATIENT CHAT WITH GOD
- FLORIDA – Eclipse in Progress
- STARK SENSUALITY
- ODE TO THE MOTOR HOME
An Excerpt
New Mexico is sharp and high contrast. Dry and parched. Open and angular, it offers an intriguing counterpoint to the pastoral quality of the mid-Atlantic region of the United States. I cannot fall in love with the desert after being successfully courted by Lady Shenandoah. I melt into her lush Virginia mountains and sweeping valleys, while sitting apart from this austere desert, communicating with it only in truncated ways. Its blazing sun bronzing my sandpaper skin a pink-hued brown. Its sounds and sights, each separated from the next. Distinct and on their own even though I hear them simultaneously, the desert sounds somehow do not blend as they reach my ears, sounding more like a disjointed, pulled-apart piece of music instead of a masterfully blended symphony. Cactus, Salt Cedar trees, sand, water, and rocks stand alone in front of a limited color palette of blue sky, red bluffs and green flora rather than the tumbled blend of flowers, fences, fields and trees stitched together with the full spectrum of color I am familiar with. Squinting my eyes, I am able to mix the colors together. Otherwise, they remain separate, each with its own stature and importance within this minimalist composition.
