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.