The canyon didn’t look too far off so we thought why the hell not and headed in the direction of the vein that ran through Moab. As we hiked the landscape changed. Unsurprisingly the canyon turned out to be a lot further than it looked. We dipped lower and lower – like water running downhill – and suddenly found ourselves perched at the edge of a steep drop-off.
We shuffled close. An electrical current ran up my leg. The sun went behind a cloud. Suddenly it was cold. Everything around us was dusty and brown.
Staring at all of that sameness reminded me of a sensation I used to experience as a kid when I shut my eyes to go to sleep at night. I called it, “seeing far.”
I would stare at the back’s of my eyes – my mind cruising through the darkness like a spaceship. I expected to bump up against some barrier obstructing me from going further. But there was just space. Limitless, empty space.
When I realized there was no end, I’d pop my eyes open. And yet the expansiveness was everywhere in my room. The corner where two walls met. The hazy outline of my closet. All of it seemed to extend forever. I would start to feel panic-y at being untethered and would hustle downstairs to my parents.
Back above the canyon, I lay down on a rock, and let the sun warm the outside of my body. I shut my eyes and felt a wave of gratitude at being able to drift away from it all – just for a moment. And then my brain turned off – like a watchmen resting his head for a second.
Dana’s husband stood silently next to us. At least I assumed it was her husband. He had a large gut and kept eyeing me wearily. I was talking too much – making too many gestures, asking too many questions.
Dana grinned at me through yellow teeth. She’d seen Marcus King at Jazzfest years before he started to blow up. That’s where she’d purchased her first tee. She traced over the words in large bold font, ‘The Marcus King Band.’ I asked her if it had rained a lot that year and she started telling me about all the good food in New Orleans.
Marcus King strode on stage to massive applause. We danced. And danced. And danced! Other guys in the band jammed out – a drum solo – a bass solo – but really everyone was just waiting for the energy to swing back to Marcus. He stood – knees bent, nodding with a devilish smile spread across his cherubic face – and then leveled everyone with another guitar solo – so ballsy you’d think he was already a rock legend.
“The best part of my day?”
My brother paused either for dramatic effect or for a moment of silent reflection.
“The two-hour drive in the Runner from Maine to New Hampshire, a fresh lip in…just cruising.”
I liked that. Amid holiday parties and nights out there could be a moment of total ease, with the wheels rolling and a tobacco buzz humming. The feeling that even though you’re on your way somewhere, you’re not really in any hurry. You’ll get there when you get there. Things will happen as they do.
Contentment implies a certain smugness. You’ve figured it out. No, it’s not that. It’s just that the Runner sounds good. The scenery is nice. It’s warm inside – cold outside.
If I had to guess – and certainly this is a guess, I imagine it felt something like Texas Sun.
Yes. Put on repeat. Do it. Trust me. Just do it.
“In order not to leave any traces, when you do something, you should do it with your whole body and mind; you should be concentrated on what you do. You should do it completely, like a good bonfire. You should not be a smoky fire. You should burn yourself completely. If you do not burn yourself completely, a trace of yourself will be left in what you do. You will have something remaining which is not completely burned out. Zen activity is activity which is completely burned out, with nothing remaining but ashes. This is the goal of our practice.” – Shunryū Suzuki
“Take it all off,” I said, making a lazy motion to the top of my head. This was my third time with Cait. We were starting to get to know each other. She knew what I liked, but this time I wanted something different.
“So, the clippers?” she asked, brandishing them like a samurai sword.
Cait has curly hair and considers herself to be an anarchist. She lives in the Tenderloin, the bleeding heart of San Francisco, and one day she wants to open her own therapy practice.
Cait started with the buzzer at four, just in case I changed my mind. We started chatting about her recent breakup – an engineer who made a lot of money and never talked about his feelings. They’d done couples therapy for a year and then one day he just proclaimed it was over. Shit is fucked, I said.
“Amy is going through the same thing,” she said, pointing the buzzer in the direction of a woman standing above the other chair. Amy is tatted and wears Red Wings. Her hair is long and braided, and hangs beneath a fisherman’s beanie perched on top of her head.
“She came in this morning and wanted to shave her head.” Amy nodded. I pictured two braids being swept off the floor.
Cait told me that hair had energy. She told me she was glad she got the apartment. She might have to find a roommate. Her mom was threatening to visit for Thanksgiving. And then she told me she was going to use scissors for the top, and if I woke up in the morning and really wanted it all gone, she’d do it for free.
“I wrote a poem today,” said my good friend, who I’m pretty sure had never written a poem. We were smoking a joint – leaving the real world behind. I asked if he would read it out loud. He said yes, so we sat down on a park bench, smoked the rest of the joint, and once we were both feeling jittery and nervous, he launched into it.