I groggily throw open the window and am shocked to see desert. At 27,000 feet and 2,700 miles from home, Nevada looks lovely this morning. In my mind I trace Nazca Lines, looking to the hills for shapes as one searches for faces in the clouds and crowds. And: how would Don Quixote feel about all these here wind farms? The hills wrinkle a glowing ruddy gold, conjuring the image of a lazy shar pei dotted with capers and mossy undergrowth. To talk of snaking, single lanes wouldn’t be as inaccurate as much as I fear it to be cliche, and I can’t help but to look at the terrain below me -– the eerie black lakes -– and feel to be watching through an infrared lens. Onwards to San Francisco. The landscape morphs into clay red tiles roofs and bright blue swimming pools -– those, I feel like they’re lying to me. Descending.
Through my window, a mountain peers over the tarmac –- and who are you?
[September 16, 2015]