assignment 5, scene 5

"Even the most perfect reproduction of a work of art is lacking in one element:

its presence in time and space, its unique existence at the place where it happens to be."

-Walter Benjamin, "The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction"

        I look out into the horizon.

        It is invigorating yet intimidating at the same time. 

        I have been here before, and it wasn't in a dream or while letting my mind wander as I sat on my surfboard out on the ocean. I had made the trip with my family on a vacation where I was too young to appreciate the grandeur of what surrounded me. If you really look at the horizon, there appears to be a light blue sea hovering above edge. But, you would need eyesight greater than what the human eye can gaze; there are no oceans for hundreds of miles. Maybe even thousands. In that moment, I wasn't worried about that distance to an ocean though,

        my mind was set on getting to the top of the dunes. With this much sand you would think that we were near a shore. We played bocce ball, as we would when we go on family vacations in Myrtle Beach, but this time I came to them. It was my vacation on the other side of the country. 

        Benjamin is right- I look at these photos often, and even while they fill me with these fond memories and a strong desire to return, I can never match looking upon the great dunes of sand and that feeling that I am so very small.

assignment 4, scene 4

No oceans... notions.

I love the beach, even more so, the beach at night. I have always lived near large bodies of water: starting with a Great Lake in my childhood, moving to be near a Gulf, and on this trip of a lifetime, landing at this scenic view of a Grand River. However, I am afraid of the ocean. I suppose if the waves are my enemies then the natives must be my allies. And this grand river happens to flow from western mountains into the Gulf of Mexico. Parts of this watery road have run dry from droughts in recent years. I couldn't paddle down it back to familiar waters even if I tried. This intrigued me. The natives were my allies; they were my family, both blood-related and by their warm welcomes that only appreciative locals could deliver.

We wound our way through mountains on roads with no side barriers. FALLING ROCKS signs, always cautious. Ears popping, altitude constantly changing, up and up. We pulled off on the side of the road, wandered (aimlessly, if you asked me) a ways, and we found what looked like the chocolate river from Willy Wonka. It crept into my mind how much you would love this "mountains can make you feel so small" I was not going to text you. "I wish I was there" I snapped more pictures for my own collection. "I wish you were here, too" The locals, the weather, the scenery, the family, the adventure. "I've always wanted to live out there" This is the life that I want, the change that I need.
I consider throwing my phone into the chocolate river and follow my cousins back up the bank to the car.

assignment 3: scene 3

Image 3: The local consignment shop; Nadja did not make an appearance. (see lower passage)

     We drove north to visit our relatives who lived in a small town, the kind of small that you see in movies or that you drive through on your way to your actual destination. It was quaint and it was old, like a majority of the inhabitants. In that way it felt like home, but these snowbirds were more pleasant. I'm going to move here crept through my mind repeatedly, unstoppably.

     One of the shop owners on this street was my cousin's teacher from fourth grade, and neighbor, and also was the town veterinarian. Every person who passed by greeted us; that they had no idea I was a tourist and was completely out of my element made me want to live there more. My cousins have lived in this town their whole lives, my fascination with this welcoming made them laugh. I couldn't help but notice that there was something else special about this town. When we passed the consignment shop window I saw the first sign of it, and then I could hear the music start to play. 

     This small town had been infected with Jes Grew. 

     The dancing bears painted on the window were a dead giveaway. I have never interacted directly with a cartoon character  but these bears with their jigs and their scarves had me convinced. For the rest of the stroll I couldn't help but look in the windows of each store, checking for kids bumpin' and grindin' and hootin' and hollerin'. 

assignment 2: scene 2

A fence without cattle, a road without cars.

     "Red, green, and maybe a hint of yellow." Those colors wouldn't come to mind when thinking about driving through a desert. A plea could be made for red in earth or clay, yellow paint on the interstate or naturally on a resilient flower, but definitely not green, there was never enough rain for green.

     "It never rains here," you said, "I think we had 12 inches in total last year."
     12 inches, a foot, one-fifth of me. "We had a tropical storm hit us last weekend that gave us 12 inches of rain." Juxtaposed, though I was tens of thousands of miles from home.
It rained every day the rest of the week. We joked that my visit was exactly what they needed, but made for a lousy vacation. The dogs were afraid of the thunder; I was afraid the adobe architecture would disintegrate in the downpour like melting ice cream.

     Each rain drop was substantial, some only stayed long enough to hit the window and slip away. I wondered if I could stay out west forever.

assignment 1: scene 1

Above the tree line, touching the clouds.

     I have always lived at or below sea level on the east coast; everything about this trip was different from what I have always known. 

Zero humidity,

70 degrees in July (and even colder once the sun set),

no chance of a beach in sight,

and being 2 hours behind everyone I know- modern day time traveling. 

     And the daytime activities, like mountain climbing. The fiercest mountain I had conquered up until that point was the hill to get to Williams and Diffenbaugh. It's funny how being at an 11,000 ft elevation can put a Tallahassee hill in perspective.  

     As the altitude gets higher the air gets thinner. Not a vital is spared- breathing becomes more difficult, the heart races. Not paying attention to the pain that starts to quiver your legs is important, staying hydrated is more important still. Setting goals helped to distract my physical anguish-

singing my favorite song in my head,

counting steps,

finding a point in the distance to make it to,

knowing that the trip back down would be easier,

looking forward to the view from the top,

or imagining you were at the top waiting for me (this option is no longer available).

     We made it to the top, eventually, and a more rewarding feeling does not exist after such an ordeal. 

I found a sight that a picture does not do justice, and a feeling that there is where I belong.