my eyes, capitalism consent, and beatnik budgets

9 Sept. 2010 (4:20 a.m.)

"This land is your land, this land is my land
From California, to the New York Island
From the redwood forest, to the gulf stream waters"

With plastic shopping bags fastened to the canvas straps that crisscross the interior ceiling of the car which hold the makeshift surf rack on, I drove like a madman out of Iowa. Survivor man techniques to me surely seemed like an absolute lunatic’s ‘hairbraining’ to those I passed at 4:30 in the morning, had I passed anyone. Water-filled bag swinging by my head and each of the three other doors, I attempted to avoid puddles from forming in the seats. The jerry rigged surf rack was fine for sunny So-cal but definitely not tornado alley. In a semi-slow process, or just under immediately after the rain starts soaking the straps, quite a potent drip is released , thus, the occasional wet left shoulder during sudden cloudbursts along my journey and, tonight, a wet backseat bed with drips occasionally escaping the bags and either landing directly on my forehead or feet.

I may have dosed off around 11:30pm or 12am, but a restless night yielded little comfort to my bloodshot, rain-soaked road eyes when I woke up to my cell phone ‘dawning’ 4:20am. Jumping in the front seat my four white specters and I were ‘ghoul’ing’ off by 4:30. Horrid? At least I didn’t confuse the route and I made it back to I-90 just in time to watch the sunrise in my review mirror… NOT altogether an unpleasant sight, even with the dangling, squawking, swaying bulbous under the weight of water and oscillating with the uneven asphalt white with blue W A L M A R T that undulated in and out of the fiery red-orange ray spectacles dancing thru the dark grey infernal tempest of the previous night. A vista in my rear view to remind me eternally of the beauty of nature in a country which is often sacrificed for the price of ‘materialmanic’ consumerism… but maybe not in Big Sky country.

Here I could mention that I stopped off in Keystone to see Mount Rushmore and the giant faces of Washington, Jefferson, Roosevelt and Lincoln reinvigorated my American spirit. I would ask them each the really important questions, like you are supposed to ask Lincoln at his monument in Washington. Where AM I, from? What is IT all about?

Here I would add that, at least in my ‘peregrine,’ ‘bloodshot,’ ‘raindropped,’ ‘road’ eyes, driving thru tourist hell at 15mph, neon signs pointing to gambling, game parks, hotels and restaurants in the middle of the only natural bump in the landscape made me pity those attracted to private $15 charging capital ventures set up in the middle of the only thing around; where just east when I saw my first topographical relief and was asked to pay $10 to drive thru it, the Badlands. Now $15 to see faces which I could see just fine from the road, I was trapped between my vein-coursing capitalism consent and disgruntled free hippie spirit with a beatnik budget, their haunting white faces watch as I flee and the questions remain unanswered. They forced me to sway on down the road, plastic bags slung over canvas straps (what a sight it would have been canvas bags over beatnik back, but not this time Lonesome Traveler)…sway on West young man.

16 hours when the day was done, and I did find my big sky. It appeared just after valley and rise and valley and rise thru Wyoming, where cell phone coverage is thankfully still hard to come by, still a bit of the wild in the Wild West. I feel the comfort of home.

"This land was made for you and me."

.s.