mud people

The desert speaks.  Not in words.  With wind and sky and dirt and nothing.  As quiet as peace — as loud as fear.

When we arrived, the color blue dominated the desert sky.  Cartoon clouds for contrast.  A darker beast on the horizon.  A cloud like a bad mechanic’s coveralls.  Crawling on its belly, making its way over the mountains, along dirt roads, licking its black lips.

Set up camp. Pour wine to lure in the desert gods.   Make a ring of fire and dance about it.  Ride bikes across what was once the sleeping quarters of a lake.  Nothing to trip over in this desert.  No stones to turn.  No jagged plants.  No fish bones.  The desert floor absorbs it all.  Seals what was, beneath a puzzle piece mural.  All that remains is what is.

Eat slowly.  Listen to the desert.  Watch the beautiful monster, inching closer.  Aware of our perception, unconcerned with our safety.  The playa breathing huffs of wind.  No dust.  Not in this desert.

The evening wrings the blue out of the sky.  Even the rainbow is sucked into black and white.  Rain dance around the fire.  It makes no difference.  Each individual raindrop separated with a scalpel into one-hundred liquid pinpricks.  Don’t retreat.  Let the desert ease our anxiety.  

Drunk electrician working in the sky, along the edges of the desert.  Lightning moving latterly.  It has a healthy respect for the desert floor.  It understands power.

Celebrate the chameleon sky.  What was brilliant and blue, now overtaken by dirty hues of deep purple and coal-smoke gray.  More flashes of light, no thunder.  Sound works differently in the desert.  In the desert, a whisper can travel a thousand miles.  A scream might fall dead where it was born.

Time is as elusive as the wind in the desert.  It’s not as late as it seems and it’s always past your bedtime.  Take photographs.  The dirt laughs at our pathetic attempts to capture it.  Too much for one picture, and too little.

The ring of fire withstands the wind and the rain.  It contorts and snarls, but remains undaunted.  This child of lightning also knows power.

A camp of humans in the desert.  The tallest things for miles.  Asking for a jolt.  Thunder purrs, an unsettling calmness to it.  The black mass is close enough to breathe in.  There’s a spice to it.  The spice of both life and death.  

Retreat to the vehicles.  Rubber tires for grounding.  An illusion of safety.  If the desert wants us, it will have us.  Blow smoke out the window to pacify the storm.  Laugh at the fragile nature of humankind.  Witness the perseverance of the desert floor.  Admire the light show.  

The beast crawls over us and into the night.  Reconvene around the fire.  Stare into the ring.  Give it a silent piece of ourselves.  Accept the warmth it offers in return.  Sit, sandwiched between the clouds and the desert floor.  Little headroom.  No plan or room for escape.

Most of the clouds move along, like sucker fish on the belly of the beast.  The brightest stars greet us from afar.  Ride bikes in the dark.  Turn off the headlamp, trust physics.  If we become lost, remember — stars up, dirt down.  Test the courage, ride toward nothing, until the hairs on the back of our neck stand and shriek.  Turn around, return to the firelight.  

Play with a glowing frisbee.  Lean into the darkness.  Appreciate the little bits of light.  Leave the shutter open the camera and try our hand at capturing the night.  Darkness — another slippery subject.

Crawl into the bed of the truck when the power levels turn the color of embers.  Bundle up.  Breath in deep, soothings breaths of dark nighttime air.  Watch the stars work against the black backdrop.  The clouds are still out there, with the wind, with the lightning.  Don’t let that disturb us.  Exposed, we’re left to dream as massive as our brains will sanction.

Wake up in the night.  The winds have returned.  This time they have brought a river of sound.  Listen as the gusts sprint over the desert floor.  The rains follow.  Heavier drops.  Move to the fallout shelter.  Wrestle the wind.  Pry the flattened tent from the crushing hands of the desert.  Hunker down.  The night is strong in the desert.

The rain lasts until morning.  The puzzle pieces that were once the desert floor become hungry.  The mud has no taste preference and an insatiable appetite.  The time has come.  Everything must go — otherwise, everything will go.  Pack quickly.  Spin the tires.  Fling thick chunks of desert concrete. Maintain forward momentum.

Stop for coffee and eggs and bacon.  Reflect on the desert, the discipline, the power, the endurance.  No need to mention the mud.  It’s obvious — on our boots, under our fingernails, in our soul.