October 01, 2005


Stockton, Manteca, Escalon, Jamestown, Twain Harte, Sonora, out into the haze, the valley, the inhabitation, the long horizons, out into the memories of language (those dense little phrases in folded hills), the fleeting back alleys of meaning, the golden-brown intimations of body, the fractured translations of surface....

Around Sonora the landscape reminds me of Coonabarabran, dry grass, dark trees in thin clumps here and there across the landscape; then the pale pinks and yellows of the Sierra granite, the dark reds and blacks of the volcanic dirt, the Sierra light, the box canyon at the 8,000’ level on Sonora Pass, looking east from 10,000' at Kennedy Meadows, the short descent to Route 395.

Past Bridgeport a very serious-looking girl, maybe ten, with long braided blonde hair, walks over to me from the school party parked at the vista point, and asks: "Mister, can I take your photo?". I say "Sure" (without having any idea why she wants it), and just as she presses the shutter button I leap into the air with my arms stretched up in front of the view. She suddenly grins helplessly and says "Mister, do that again!". So I do. At least five more times. Somewhere out there in junior school land there are these inexplicable photos of a really badly-dressed guy in black jeans, T-shirt, dark glasses, and hiking boots jumping up in front of the beautiful view of the Sierra with a silly smile on his face.


At 10/05/2005 11:35 pm, Anonymous Anonymous said...

siding springs eternal

At 10/06/2005 8:38 am, Blogger Jimmy Little said...

stop casting porosity


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