Fantasizing about the road again. I’m craving the sensation of speed and possibility like the time C. and I spiraled out of the mountains and rode along the California and Nevada border, racing past names like Lake Topaz and Antelope Valley. “I like the color palette of cows,” she said.
She recited the items on the menu at Denny’s like a koan: “Lumberjack slam, grand slam, triple slam, maybe the grand slamwich.” I could listen to that for days.
A tiny airplane flew low in the sky while we walked the bleached shores of Mono Lake, an otherworldly landscape of alkaline and soda towers that surrounded flat waters without a single ripple. We checked into a $40 motel on the edge of California City, where the only lights were fluorescent, and the TV was on the fritz. Tonight I want to dream in the electric blues and whites of Mono Lake.
