Friday, September 28, 2018

Road trip, Part 2


Road trip, Part 2

"The only evidence you have of last week is your memory. But memory comes from a stable structure of neurons in your brain now. The only evidence we have of the Earth's past is rocks and fossils. But these are just stable structures in the form of an arrangement of minerals we examine in the present. The point is, all we have are these records and you only have them in this Now." Julian Barbour

9/24/18


I left Bakersfield and headed for Boron, famous for the 20-mule team that hauled low-value borax from the mines for some god-awful reason now lost to time, and for a small air and space museum – throw away and cast off war machines from the nearby Edwards Air base. I’ve been to both museums, but this time I just drove by and snapped a picture of the jets parked outside the building – sort of as proof I’d been there in case I was being framed for a crime that happened somewhere else at the same time. Two years ago, I’d stopped at both museums with my daughter and grandson on a trip we took to Oklahoma – so plenty of pictures are in some vault somewhere – and again, memories are just lying around the area like burnt shells of automobiles.

I stopped in Mojave next for gas. Back in the glory days, you went through Mojave after hours in the desert without air-conditioning and damn it you were happy to do it -- but now you go around it – we are far removed from the greatest generation. In fact, all the road improvements make it a bit of a pain to get to now. It’s now off the freeway and down an empty road a bit.  All the gas stations and food stores reflect this change– they look dried out and worn, many with boarded up windows. There is a ‘spaceport’ right outside of town, but it doesn’t look like much help. Most of the planes being stored at the nearby airport by various airlines and leasing companies are gone, and the ‘mutually verified destruction’ of old military planes and bombs has finished. There is a there, but it’s empty meaning and people, it’s a storage site for the next wave of nostalgia waiting in the wings for a meme to spark interest in.

Came to Barstow next – the same burned out post WW2 feeling as Boron, but bigger and with more stuff. Interstate 15 and 40 both connect through Barstow, so the hubs where they meet are bouncing with fast food places and newish motels – this is clearly where the action is, but it’s low interest action – mechanical and best seen through heavily tinted windows while driving, stop and start, through the Starbucks drive-thru. Though hard to do, coming in the back way on the old 58 highway reveals miles of marginal motels being used as housing stock for the unfortunate, or boarded up as convenient places to lean against when pissing in to the wind. Creative destruction is hard to watch unless you take the time to get out of your car and look, but fortunately, I didn’t, nor does anyone else. In America movement is the point of and end all.

From Barstow it’s 140 miles, or two full hours, to Needles. It’s all downhill from Barstow because Needles has the Colorado river running through it, which has mechanically over time carved itself lower than the surrounding country side.

 From Needles, I went uphill to Kingman, Az., and got off on the best remaining section of the old route 66 – Kingman to Seligman.

I love this section of highway – lots of memories that I’ve overlaid with more memories. It’s a drive where I remember everything and everyplace, even my own. I know the truth of this road, even the parts I made up.

What’s new is the cops and the tour groups – predator and prey acting out life’s struggles in the tapestry of real-time. The cops all have new, shiny cars with big shiny officers driving them – they look like the military wing of Uber that married into some type of off-site international security company. Every time I saw one, and there were lots of sightings, they had either a rental motorcycle tourist or a rental big car tourist pulled over to the side of the road while writing them a ticket. I hope that they strangle off the goose sooner than later, so I can return to this section of Americana in peace. This part of the trip has become a deal breaking bummer. It’s like being in a living shark week, but with Germans.

I made it to Seligman and stopped at the old hotel my family had been stranded at 50+ years ago. (Our station wagon had broken down in the middle of nowhere and for a few days, while waiting for parts, we were stuck at the Stagecoach motel until it was fixed).  It was about a mile outside of the main part of Seligman and back in business, reborn as a retro route-66 way station, complete with a loud bar and an eatery that advertised ‘made from scratch’ pizza’. The pool was gone, having be filled in with dirt thirty years ago, but the memories were still there waiting for me to dig them up. It was taunting me.

 I backed out of the gravel entrance (after taking a picture) and fled back the way I came, happy to have survived the trip so far and anxious to get back home to the now. I left feeling lucky that I hadn’t burst out in tears or had the irrational terrors of an imagined German forest overcome me.

 I think I will stay at the Stagecoach motel for a few days next time and try to connect with the things I’ve left behind. I still remember my mom typing away at some literary project while abandoning her children to the fun and sun, (benign neglect in its finest form)., It might be good for me.

St. Augustine, after his confession to god of his desire to rid himself of his sinful ways, added, ‘but not now.’ I totally understood as I quickly drove westward out of town.






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