Travels - Past

Give Metamanda the credit for this interesting if shameless waste of bandwidth.

Somewhere in the middle of Switzerland, a short man stumbled into my compartment. A curly strawberry blonde beard dribbled from his chin. The man wore the classic lederhosen with a white shirt and brightly ornamented suspenders.

I remember a night at Organ Pipe Cactus NM when I walked out to the edge of the campground, starchart in hand, partly to see what I could make out of the distant suns overhead, partly to leave Lynn resting in peace.

We went because there was a Minoan palace, one of the grand stone halls they built when they dreaded pirates who were hung like bulls splashing in from the sea and raping their bare-breasted queens.

It's the only civilized place to eat at between Barstow and Nevada.

I'd actually been through it twice on a bus filled with American college students.

"Does nobody see this?" "What is it?" "It's a wedding ring!" "It's a wedding ring? Why are you wearing it there?"

Who will buy this wonderful religion? I thought I heard them saying to each other.

The soldiers and others who carried guns openly never looked at me as I passed them. They could stop and hold a civilized chat. Not this man. His voice murdered us as we scurried across the courtyard....

Perhaps it was in that moment that I began to seek ways to speak as myself, for myself. When I talked as a representative, I sounded forced, untrue to myself.

You couldn't look at her. Not right at her. Not in those eyes that ballooned out of their sockets. I looked away from her face, but I saw her leg.

The texture was something like stringy mushed banana, the flavor unmemorable.