The Manifest Destiny Tour - Day 13

In San Francisco

8:49 am

While in San Francisco, we’re staying at my friend Lauren’s. She lives on the third floor of a townhouse overlooking Castro Street, the unofficial heart of the gay district. The gay district of San Francisco. I know. I’ve experienced enough world, especially living in Austin, to not be too shocked. Although my Southern Baptist upbringing did cringe slightly while walking past The Sausage Factory, I’ve been more amused than anything. Jordan, I’m afraid, whose Billy Graham sensibilities are still firmly intact (which, ironically, I’m glad of), has been a little more than weirded out. Last night, after skirting around the Moby Dick patrons, he muttered something about his concern for our safety. I reassured him, saying that we were probably on the safest street in America, that we could take anyone in a fist slap-fight. Of course, we were immediately passed by two large men holding hands. Not fair, I remember thinking. Gay men are supposed to be sweet and funny and small. But what do I know about these things.

11:37 pm

We went to the Giants game tonight. It was fun, a baseball game. Because parking can be a nightmare anywhere in the city, and especially at AT&T Park (will we ever go back to names like Candlestick? [sigh]), we decided to take the San Francisco Municipal Railway. Muni for short, it’s a sometimes underground, sometimes aboveground subway, trolley-car, light rail thing. Despite its confusion for tourists (perhaps purposely so), I believe San Fran’s public transit is extremely efficient.

And it’s diverse. All types were on board with us: different races, nationalities, religious affiliations, socio-economic backgrounds, personal hygienes. And all of us it seemed were heading to the baseball game. Packed in, sardine-like, picking up more sardines at each stop. Packed so tight that we can’t change position. So tight that there’s no need to hang on to the railing anymore, just squeeze forward or back. So tight that all our differences bleed and melt together. I become the Indian storeowner from Mumbai. He becomes the young black boy with cornrows and a hard face. The boy becomes the elderly Chinese woman clutching her groceries. His groceries. My groceries. We are ash-colored Agnostics from everywhere and nowhere. We are the Socialist’s quixotic dream. Only we don’t talk to each other, don’t even look at each other, just bowl unapologetically through and over each other and ourselves to get to where we need, disrupting the dream, alone again or not at all.

“Yeah, I heard a funny thing;
Somebody said to me,
You know that I could be in love with almost everyone;
I think that people are
The greatest fun.
And I will be alone again tonight my dear.”
"Alone Again Or" - Love

The Manifest Destiny Tour - Day 12

Reno to San Francisco

225.1 Miles/66 Songs

Led Zeppelin – IV
Bloc Party – Silent Alarm
Eagle*Seagull – Eagle*Seagull
Josh Ritter – The Historical Conquests of…
Smoosh – She Like Electric
Mates of State – Our Constant Concern

12:07 pm - 32 Miles Before Sacramento

Reno treats the interstate much the same way Austin does—by closing as many lanes as possible, slowing traffic to a standstill, so that 18 workers can lean against a guardrail and watch one guy operate some mammoth piece of machinery. Leaving Reno was something of a nightmare. We found ourselves in one of the lanes that was coned off and were forced to merge into the lane to our left. The car in front of us merged fairly early on, a couple hundred feet before the cones. I figured it only practical to use more of the merging space, so I motored ahead. There was a line of about seven or eight 18-wheelers. Not wanting to merge in the middle of them, I zipped ahead to the front of that line, but the trucker closed the gap, refusing to let me in. So I moved up to the next car, a Honda Element with Virginia plates, expecting a normal highway civilian to let me in, but as I moved into position, he raced ahead, also cutting me off. I looked to the driver to plead my case, but he responded by slowly shaking his rakishly scruffy, sunglassed head side to side. That pissed me off. I caught a glance at his wife/girlfriend beginning to slump sheepishly in the passenger seat, eyes lowered, as if to say that she was ashamed of the asshole she was married to/dating. I began to point emphatically at the closing space between his front bumper and the back of the car in front of him, meanwhile mouthing obscenities I hoped would shock his wife/girlfriend and piss him off.

In that instant I understood road rage. Guys like us—me and the Element-driving, sunglass-wearing asshole from Virginia—have no real territory to fight for. Not like in the old days. We can’t raid the neighboring village like the people of this area did hundreds of years ago. The only defendable/raidable territory left to us is the six inches of space between bumpers. We are men. We are hunters. We are road warriors. The slumping blonde in the passenger seat couldn’t understand that, couldn’t appreciate it.

I saw that I wasn’t going to win this particular battle, so I slid in behind him, which is actually the preferred position in this sort of skirmish. I guarantee he was feeling more unsettled with me on his 6. I didn’t do anything malicious or menacing beyond glowering at his side-view mirror and the back of his head. We maintained this position for several minutes, holding steady at 4 mph, exchanging cool asshole glances into his mirror. Several hundred feet later, our lane was again coned off and we were forced to merge left into the last remaining lane. I merged quickly, before the Virginian. This gave me the upper hand, and a decision—two ways I could be an asshole. I could race ahead, cut him off, exact my revenge, even the score. Or I could be more creative: hang back, allow him a wide berth, give him a sarcastically benevolent wave, show him how decent people behave on the highway. I like creativity, so I chose option #2. Judging by the smile in his side-view mirror, I think he was also impressed with my tactic.

Again we fell into a holding pattern, this time for 10-15 minutes. Long enough for the adrenaline to die down and for me to evaluate the situation with a calm and level head, to remember that road rage is dumb, that raiding the neighboring village is cowardly, that we have evolved beyond that sort of base barbarism, that the Element-driving, sunglass-wearing Virginian is my brother and I should be looking out for him, that the spark-plug anger in both of us is a product of the discontented culture in which we live, and that we can and must do better for ourselves and the ones we love.

After we passed the 18+1 work crew and regained our coned off lanes, we shot forward with purpose and speed, like babies newborn and baptized by fire and light into a new and knowledged world. And for the next 50 miles or so, the Virginian and I stayed within several hundred feet of each other; sometimes I was in front, sometimes he was, even after being slowed by the California Agriculture Department checkpoint. Our closeness was unintentional—at least it was for me, I can’t speak for him. It was probably just a matter of coincidence, both of us setting our cruise controls at nearly the same speed. But I like to think that maybe it was our destiny to have our lives tethered together for that hour or so, to remind us that we are made for love and not for hate, that our end is good and not evil. And each time I passed him or he passed me, I looked over at him trying to communicate that I was sorry, that sometimes the road makes us assholes for no reason and maybe it’s because we each carry the history of violent men, but that we can move beyond it because our lives have been tethered together and we are good now. I’m pretty sure with the proper facial expressions and hand gestures I could have done that. But he never looked over. I think maybe he was afraid that I would do something obscene, but all I wanted was to tell him I love him.

The Manifest Destiny Tour - Day 11

Hite Campgrounds to Reno, NV

698.6 Miles/157 Songs

Margot & the Nuclear So & So’s – The Dust of Retreat
Rilo Kiley – More Adventurous
Michael Jackson – Thriller
Islands – Return to the Sea
Franz Ferdinand – Franz Ferdinand
Fleetwood Mac – Rumours
Elton John – Goodbye Yellow Brick Road
Elvis Perkins – Ash Wednesday
Coldplay – Viva la Vida
Bon Jovi – Crossroads
The Who – My Generation: The Very Best of the Who
Yeasayer – All Hour Cymbals
The Go! Team – Proof of Youth

6:37 am – Hite Campground on the shore of Lake Powell, Utah

Looking back over what I’ve written, I see a theme recurring. It was unintended and undesired, but nevertheless it is there, quietly pervading all other thoughts. Am I really so prone to loneliness that I don’t even notice it? Last night, lying in our tent, sweating, trying to sleep, it was bad. I felt terribly lonely. Why? Is it me—do I isolate myself from others, even those I claim to love, just so I can avoid attachment? Is it America—is that why some of us live so close together, stacked on top of each other, that we can hear each other breathing, in an attempt to smother or loneliness; while others of us spread so far out, miles from our closest neighbor, that we can’t hear him at all, in an attempt to further or loneliness? Is it humankind—have we evolved so far that we’ve outrun our need for each other, or think we have? It’s hard to say, but already I’m feeling better. This Utah sunrise brings me hope.

10:10 pm – Reno

As fate would have it, we drove most of the day on a highway dubbed “the loneliest road in America.” Between Ely and Fallon, Nevada, a span of about 257 miles and a grand total of three towns, lies a stretch of land that roughly 1200 people call home. That’s an average of 4.6 persons per mile. That’s lonely. Of course it’s very beautiful too. Isolated mountain ranges separated by sprawling valleys, so that our drive consisted of slow ascensions of mountain passes and then diving down and cutting through the open valleys. Up pass, down valley. Over and over, like an enormous roller coaster.

We drove a long way today, nearly 700 miles, more than 12 hours, but through some of the most beautiful landscapes I’ve seen. As stunning as Nevada was, southern Utah was more so. We saw rock formations I wouldn’t have thought possible, defying the laws of physics and the limits of creativity.

Finally in Reno. We’ll splurge tonight and stay in a hotel, hopefully get a good night’s rest to make up for last night. Going out to explore the city.

12:04 am

I’m not sure what I was expecting. I remember seeing a movie once where the principle characters drive into Reno in an old Cadillac convertible, and as they pass under the illuminated archway welcoming visitors to the biggest little city in the world, the camera angle changes to the hood of the car so that we can see the lit-up joy on the faces behind the iridescent reflection sliding up the windshield. I guess I expected something like that. And maybe it used to be that way. Before the rise of Vegas and the introduction of Indian casinos in California. Now, it’s a remnant of better times, a fossil of fun once had, a crucible where gold pieces are melted down and made into demigods. Despite all the flashing lights, the streets seem dark and glum, the faces cold and hard. The slot machines are busy but quiet. American Dreams are slipping away chip by paycheck. And I’m tired, so we go back to our room where I’ll try sleeping off today’s lonely images.

"This loneliness ain't pretty no more,
Loneliness, only taking the place of a friend."
"This Loneliness" - El Perro Del Mar

The Manifest Destiny Tour - Day 10

Wilderness Ranch to Hite Campground, Utah

414.8 Miles/125 Songs

Andrew Bird – The Mysterious Production of Eggs
Lou Barlow – Emoh
Marvin Gaye – What’s Going On
Of Montreal – The Sunlandic Twins
Waterdeep – Live at New Earth
The Decemberists – Castaways & Cutouts
John Cale – Paris 1919
Gnarls Barkley – St. Elsewhere
Modest Mouse – Good News for People Who Love Bad News
Arcade Fire – Neon Bible

9:41 am – 8 miles before Pagosa Springs, CO

Leaving is hard. We were only a week at Wilderness, but a week is long enough to make missing. A week of working and eating and playing and talking and being with others. A week is long enough. So as we drive away, I can’t help the hollow feeling in my stomach. But I think maybe the hollow feeling is good. Makes me think maybe I am capable of loving. It helps that my brother is with me. It helps, too, that these mountain roads share the valleys with mountain rivers. Somehow it brings me comfort, traveling the same path as these rivers, knowing that all those drops of water have a history, that they have traveled miles and miles of earth and air, taking the form of liquid, solid, and vapor, picking up pollution, pestilence, purpose, and pride, eventually joining other drops with similar stories, now communing in a common aim, choosing the path of least resistance, like millions of sordid souls, hurrying downward to that purgatorial shore.

2:08 pm – 2 miles past Durango, CO

Spent two hours in Durango. Ate a great lunch. Bought a Crazy Creek camping chair and a Nalgene bottle. Bought a CD [John Cale’s Paris 1919]. Tried to get sold a $300 basket. Went with $30 wooden wolf for Mom instead (surprise, Mom). Bought Jordan a 118-year-old silver dollar for his birthday (today’s his birthday). Now worried about the time, we still have a ways to go today.

7:15 pm – 36 miles past Blanding, UT

Despite my concern for our being behind schedule, we can’t resist stopping at the Mesa Verde cliff dwellings. We are both suckers for antiquity. And the thought of seeing the thousand-year-old dwellings of the native Americans is enough to bring out the nerd in both of us. So we pull off highway 160, pay the $15 (FIFTEEN DOLLARS!) entry fee, and drive 25 miles to the first ruins.

While driving, I can’t help myself from pondering—pondering about America. We’ve seen a good bit of her up to this point, and there’s one thing I’ve noticed. Actually I’ve noticed it before, have pondered over it before, but have been reminded on this trip. It’s that we Americans don’t really like the old. If a building gets too old, crumbling, sagging, dilapidated eyesore, we tear it down and build a new one in its place. If an idea or philosophy or religious thought becomes too old, rigid, stale, monotonous blathering, we forget it and think up a new one in its place. If people grow too old, decrepit, feeble, absent-minded, we ignore them and defer to younger ones in their place.

In the past I’ve never been able to pinpoint why we have such disgust for the old. But I think now I’m beginning to figure it out. It’s a feeling we get when we see something old. It’s the lonesomeness in every run-down and abandoned service station or garage, hotel or house, store or barn that we pass on the road. I think we Americans equate old with loneliness, and we hate loneliness, and we hate anything that reminds us we are lonely, and so we destroy it. Some things survive, sure. We set up a historical landmark sign or build a national park around the thing and then it’s okay. Because it’s someone else’s loneliness and not ours.

One thing I find ironic at first but now makes complete sense to me is that Jordan and I, while at Mesa Verde, are surrounded by non-Americans. Germans, Vietnamese, French, Brazilians, you name it. The only other Americans we see are a group of older women who are rushing through the exhibits because they are craving Diet Cokes. Really. I overheard them. I think maybe other countries, other cultures don’t get bothered so much by the old or by feelings of loneliness. I don’t know for sure, of course, I haven’t been to those countries, so it’s likely I’m just talking out of my ass. But it would explain a good many things I think.

Standing here, leaning against the railing, looking down on the ruinous remains of those ancient Pueblo people, I wonder if they ever thought about things like loneliness. Did they have questions of existence? Did they doubt their beliefs? Did they distrust their spirit helper? Did they wonder if they had the right power animal? The information placard tells me that they didn’t destroy the old and build in its place. No, they buried it and built on top of it.

“For every invention made how much time did we save?
We're not much farther than we were in the cave.”
“The View” – Modest Mouse

The Manifest Destiny Tour - Update

I apologize for dumping several posts at once. I'm sure it's overwhelming, and it's not optimal. But it's difficult finding quality internet time while driving through Colorado, Utah, Nevada, etc. Also, the video postings are not my first choice. I would prefer to be able to leave a link of the songs but have not yet figured out how to do that. If anyone does know and would like to share, please do so. Anyway, Jordan and I are doing well. Spent last night in Reno (more to come on that later). Driving to Cali today. More posts to come shortly.

-Heatmiser

P.S. Blogspot sucks. I can't format any two posts the exact same to save my life. Oh well.

The Manifest Destiny Tour - Day 7

Balmorhea – River Arms
Bonnie “Prince” Billy – Master and Everyone

10:15 am – Wilderness Ranch

My mother and sister have restless leg syndrome. It’s where the legs are locked in a feeling of discontent; they never quite seem to get comfortable. The feeling strikes especially at night, rendering the owner of the restless legs likewise restless and therefore sleepless. I think I have restless foot syndrome. Only one foot—the right one. I can never seem to make it happy. I’ve never owned a pair of shoes that it’s liked. The left foot is fine, content, wondering what’s wrong with its counterpart. The restless feeling strikes especially when driving, making a 2000-mile road trip aggravating at times.

I think maybe too I have restless soul syndrome. Sounds dumb I know, but like my foot, it’s constantly squirming around, seeking for some bit of refuge and rest, but finding only more discomfort instead. I feel out of place in every situation. In the company of sinners, I feel prudishly pious: in the company of saints, vagrant and vile. Among the socially adept, I feel timidly wallflowerish: among the taciturn, bawdy and annoying. I feel inept around intellectuals, brainy around imbeciles. Jockish when with the artistic, fruity when with the athletic. Perhaps in my attempt to be well-rounded in order to fit in anywhere, I’ve made it so that I fit in nowhere. A friend assured me that everyone feels this way, but I don’t know if I believe him.

"Why can't I be loved as what I am?
A wolf among wolves,
And not as a man among men"
"Wolf Among Wolves" - Bonnie 'Prince' Billy

The Manifest Destiny Tour - Day 4

10:55 pm – Wilderness Ranch

Some of my students arrived at camp today. They’re on the trail this week. I knew they were coming; it wasn’t a surprise. I was a little unsure if being here while they were here would be a good idea. It’s always a bit strange encountering students outside the classroom, and I’m sure the opposite is true. Stranger still when that encounter is a thousand miles from home. I was afraid that seeing me might freak them out. But if it did, they didn’t let on. In fact, they seemed genuinely excited to see me here. And truth is, I was excited to see them too. They hugged me and we talked for a while. I tried keeping my distance but it was tough. I wanted to talk to them more, but I also wanted to maintain an appropriate relationship. The problem is determining what that appropriate relationship is. Loving others is hard, especially when the love has to be curbed. Love has always seemed to me like an all or nothing ordeal, a sentiment free of limits and restrictions. In theory that might be true. But in actuality, there is no one that I love completely. There is always a restraint.

The Manifest Destiny Tour - Day 3

Glorieta, NM to Wilderness Ranch, CO

256.7 Miles/56 Songs

The Shins – Chutes Too Narrow
The National – Boxer
Midlake – The Trials of Van Occupanther
Led Zeppelin – II
The Dodos – Visiter

11:58 am – Tres Piedras, NM

If ever you find yourself in the middle of New Mexico, and all you want is a quick bite to eat, and maybe a little wi-fi internet access, don’t stop in Santa Fe. Last night Santa Fe pushed out Valdosta, Georgia as the official worst city in America. [My apologies to anyone from or in love with Valdosta, Georgia. I once spent a week there building houses for the Jimmy Carter/Habitat for Humanity build-a-thon. It was about 130 degrees, and it smelled funny.] I was a couple of hours ahead of schedule. (I thought I was a couple of hours ahead. Turns out I was only one hour ahead. But by the time I figured this out, I was 30 minutes behind schedule. I wrote a paper in college proposing we abolish all time zones and adopt a universal time. As Big Brother as that sounds, I’m still in favor.) So I thought I’d get dinner and, with the extra time I thought I had, check my email. Not ever having been to Santa Fe, I wasn’t real sure where to go to carry out this mission, but I didn’t think it would be too difficult. Living in Austin, turns out, will spoil an individual. The first exit claimed to have a visitors center complete with “free information,” so I took it, thinking I could find a finger pointing me in the right direction. I never found the damn visitors center. For all I know, the “free information” is a crappy joke on tourists and the friendly finger is anything but.

What I did find were the bowels of the city. Every building a brown, blocky log of a thing, tracts of them. And not a one, it seemed, offered anything to eat. I found a McDonalds, of course, and it might’ve even had wi-fi, but like I say, I was looking for food too. After traversing through damn near half the city with no luck, I decided to call the girlfriend to see if she, by way of the internets, could help navigate. Thirty miles from Santa Fe, this thought actually occurred to me, but I figured I’d be able to handle it on my own. She found several places in a matter of minutes. The Atomic Grill sounded the most awesome, so I followed her directions there. The Atomic Grill is in the so-called arts district of Santa Fe, and to be fair, I did pass by several galleries. One was even having an exhibit last night, and I could see in, and while waiting for several hoity toity patrons to cross the street, I got a chance to examine some of the pieces. From what I could tell, they all looked the same—varying shades of brown paint smeared vertically on the canvas, roughly a foot long and four inches apart. Looked like rows and rows of turds. Looked like Santa Fe. It’s the first modern art I’ve ever understood and appreciated.

The Atomic Grill is a trendy little open-air café, replete with gigantic charcoal portraits of American pop iconography: James Dean, Jimi Hendrix, Doris Day (or Marilyn Monroe), Bob Marley. After confirming with the waiter that they indeed had internet and food, I ordered an iced tea and, because I was wrapped up in the hipper-than-Tao atmosphere, a veggie burger. After the waiter left, I got out my computer and set up a little work station for myself, glad to finally be out of the car and all that lonely nothingness, surrounded by internet waves and pop culture icons. It gave me a certain feeling of comfort. And just as I was beginning to think I had judged the city hastily and unfairly and that there might be some redemption in it after all, it didn’t work. I could connect to the Atomic Grill wireless network, but nothing would load. I tried disconnecting and reconnecting and all the other tricks that sometimes work, but still nothing. Ten hours of driving, playing the fool to that God-forsaken place, and all I wanted was to check my freaking email. The waiter reset the modem. Still nothing. So in a last gasp effort, I restarted my computer. And lo and behold, the silver lining at last. The world at my fingertips. Go Gmail! Show me the love!

Nothing. Not one damn email. After several minutes of staring at the screen, unable to think of anything else to look up, I closed the computer, ate my veggie burger and left.

10:29 pm – Wilderness Ranch

Any attempt at describing Wilderness Ranch will come off sounding hokey and trite, so I won’t try it. I’ve been coming here in some capacity each summer save two for the past eight years. It’s a hiking/backpacking camp, yet ironically, I’ve never been out on the trail. I consider myself a base camp rat. Mostly I help with the maintenance of the camp and with various construction projects. One of my favorite things about coming here is that I get to see the product of the work I’ve done in previous years: a bridge, a porch, a roof, tile work, etc. All who return here get to see their work. It’s a satisfaction that our world doesn’t offer us much anymore, unless you are a carpenter, or a general, or a plastic surgeon. Most of us slave away at jobs that offer us no tangible measure of success. Not statistics or progress reports or evaluations. I mean real, physical actuality. And I can’t help but think there’s a problem in that. I think maybe we need to see the fruit of our labors. Maybe then we wouldn’t feel so purposeless and alone. Maybe it would give us something real to feel proud of and we could stop envying one another. C.S. Lewis wrote that he believed heaven to be a place where we could finally take pride in our creations without feeling ashamed. That’s sort of how I feel when I’m here. We’ll be here a week.

“All this workin’ just to tear it down.”
“Language City” – Wolf Parade

The Manifest Destiny Tour - Day 2

Ft. Worth to Glorieta, NM

636.3 Miles/134 Songs

Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds – The Lyre of Orpheus
Belle & Sebastian – Push Doorman to Open Old Wounds (Disc 2)
Jeff Buckley – Grace
Madonna – Madonna
Iron & Wine – The Shepherd’s Dog
Wilson Pickett – Don’t Knock My Love

12:38 pm - Chillicothe, Tx

I’m hoping lunch will help prepare me for what’s to come—the arduous journey through the desolate waste of the Texas panhandle. Stretches of vast nothingness, interrupted occasionally by the pockmark towns that serve as speed traps for tourists and truckers. It always makes me feel lonely, especially when I’m driving alone, as I am now. I try to imagine the people who live here. Why are they here? Why haven’t they left like everyone else? How do they cope with the immeasurable loneliness? How could they ever expect to find love way out here?

“I’ve heard of pious men
And I’ve heard of dirty fiends
But you don’t often hear
Of us ones in between”
“Us Ones in Between” – Sunset Rubdown

I stop for lunch in Chillicothe, pockmark #3. I pull in at a Dairy Queen but notice Love’s BBQ & Steakhouse next door. A bit riskier perhaps, but that’s sort of what this trip is about, so I leave my car parked in the DQ parking lot and walk next door, looking for Love, and maybe some answers to my questions.

9:43 pm - Glorieta, NM

Church camp. It’s been ten years since I was here. And I remember feeling much the same way these kids do now. I look around and I see eyes closed, hands raised, souls held captive by the emotional sway, and I wonder how and when I became so cynical. Ten years ago I was swept away in the tide of holy fervor; tonight, I’m the only one with his hands in his pockets. Ten years ago I swore to God Almighty that I would repent of my evil and negligent ways and never again drink or smoke the devil’s putrefaction. My promise lasted six years. Not real sure what’s significant about six years. Maybe that’s about the time the cynicism kicked in.
As I look around at these eyeless faces, I wonder how long it will take the cynicism to work on them. Six years? Ten years? Kids today are sharp; maybe it will take less time. I hope it takes longer. I hope they can remain blissfully unaware. Cynicism is lonely—lonely as hell.

“Ain’t a penthouse Christian wants the pain of a scab,
But they all want the scar.”
"Innocent Bones" - Iron & Wine

The Manifest Destiny Tour - Day 1

Austin to Ft. Worth

211 Miles/29 songs

Sun Kil Moon – April
Rainy Day – Rainy Day
Paul Simon - Graceland
Rangers Game

5:52 pm - Waco, Tx

For the first 50 miles or so, I can’t help but wonder what I’ve left behind. You always leave something behind—you just hope it’s not something too important. A toothbrush is fine. Pillow, headphones, best pair of undies. These can all be replaced on the road, likely at the next Wal-Mart. But charted map, contact lenses, phone charger—these things are harder to replace. A conversation, a hug, a proper goodbye. These things weren’t on my list. They never are.

These songs of loss and regret, they’re what get me thinking this way. I can’t seem to look forward without seeing my rearview mirror.

“She comes back to tell me she’s gone;
As if I didn’t know that,
As if I didn’t know my own bed;
As if I never noticed the way she brushed
Her hair from her forehead."
"Graceland" - Paul Simon

The Manifest Destiny Tour - Day 0

0 Miles/0 Songs

Tomorrow I’ll be leaving town for a while. Roughly three weeks. That’s the plan anyway. I’ll drive to my sister’s in Ft. Worth. Then pick up my brother from church camp in Glorieta, New Mexico. Then together we’ll spend a week at Wilderness Ranch, between Creede and Lake City, Colorado. Set in the San Juan National Forest of the Weminuche Wilderness of southern Colorado, near the continental divide, it’s one of the most beautiful places I know. When we leave there, we’ll hit the open road. West to California—San Francisco, L.A. On the way back maybe Vegas, the Grand Canyon. Then back to Texas. We’re keeping our plans purposely vague. We want to leave room for spontaneity. I hope that isn’t a mistake. Actually we’ve been planning this trip for years. As soon as he graduated from high school, I told him, we would go on a road trip, just he and I, to see America.

"Now there are many
Who will swear it's true
That brother all we are
And yet it seems there are so few
Who will answer a brother's call."
"Brother Where Are You?" - Johnny Rivers