Travelled from . . . Somewhere.
Ended up in Salt Lake City.
Wyoming looks like Cormac McCarthy wrote it. The land, hard and unforgiving. The greedy plants fighting for water. The deer, mangy and starving, eating whatever plants they find. Or laying, dead, at the side of the highway.
There’s a Best Western called The Outlaw Inn. Wyoming looks like a place for outlaws. Who would chase you there? What sin beats hot on your heels to send you there? Would it follow you into Wyoming? I wouldn’t.
It looks like a place to die.
The Wasteland . . .
What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
Stranger and harder still, Sinclair . . .
Some tumorous plant growing out of rubble and heat to burp flames at the sky.
Utah is beautiful.
Hoping to hit Cali tomorrow.