February 06, 2005

Jefferson Dreaming

The State of Jefferson: the cold treeless waterlogged stony plains around West Louie Road, wet without being lush, glinting in that California High Country light familiar from Bridgeport or Lee Vining (or the Monaro, for that matter): harsh light, dark shadows. Everything in this lightscape is washed out, leached of colour, light grey, grey-green, dark brown.

Crossing the range on the Gazelle-Callahan road, a classic beautiful old two-lane mountain blacktop joining two other two-lane blacktops, I'm the only vehicle for nearly the entire journey. Later, on the outskirts of Fort Jones two large skinny black dogs run free down the middle of Highway 3, barking and snapping viciously at passing cars. Ahead of me an old pickup with the obligatory gun rack (at least two rifles by the looks of things) pulls out into the on-coming traffic next to the dogs; a passenger opens the door and starts trying to hit the dogs with a large broom as the dogs run alongside. The dogs veer off towards the right, across a vacant lot strewn with abandoned fridges and washing machines. The pickup slips back into our lane then roars off down a side track in a cloud of exhaust smoke and dust.

Every third ad on the local Crap Rock radio station, Redding's Rock 106.1, seems to be for a tattoo parlour; every other ad's for assault stereos. And every other song seems to be an ad for testosterone lifestyles.


Post a Comment

<< Home

www Tight Sainthood