Is film noir just an artifact, a cinema movement with a beginning and an end? Many modern filmmakers (and showrunners) play with the stylistic conventions of noir as a kind of postmodern exercise – sometimes for the pleasure of pastiche (looking at you, Woody Allen), or maybe to fetishize history (Mad Men occasionally flirts with noir-ness). Personally, I feel a kind of detachment from noir; I read noir works like dated fables about American society. Noir is weird because it’s deeply entwined with a certain era of American filmmaking only a couple of decades long, and there’s a temptation to compartmentalize it. Though noir films work through the issues of a broken society and American (masculine) identity – issues that surely exist in infinite complexity in 2015 – could we still work within it as a relevant genre?
One of the things that makes Spike Lee’s Do the Right Thing such a compelling film, no matter the time or the context, is its one-of-a-kind sense of style. Lee’s vision is urgently alive with image and sound, full of quick cuts, jarring angles, and uncannily intimate POV shots. Its vividity is at once cartoonish and raw. What we’re seeing is one auteur’s interpretation of the matrix of racist ideologies in which we all live, and because this film is an opus of self-identity, it’s formulated like an audiovisual missile. I’m interested in exploring the question of why the sounds, images, and spoken dialogue of Do the Right Thing are designed to hit hard, and how this film embodies Robert Stam (and others’) characterization of New Black Cinema.
I find that Foucault’s characterization of the Panopticon – the surveillance-based system of imprisonment and self-discipline originally postulated by Jeremy Bentham – can be applied in a million fascinating ways to film analysis. Panopticism, essentially, ensures that a subject is constantly contained in a state of paranoia and behavioral self-regulation as she can never be sure if she is being watched and/or measured up for some kind of punishment by the authority (sometimes the state apparatus).
The black female subject often operates under a kind of cultural panopticism. Her body, as a site of intersection between racial and gender identity, is under scrutiny; however, as a subject, she is hard-pressed to find a context in which she may hold the power of the gaze (or indeed even find a media representation of herself which removes the specters of patriarchy and white supremacy, and allows her a complex, private internal world).
I’ve come to organize my ideas on sound (and how we hear) into two lines of thought: that pursuing pleasure through sound is an active mechanism, and pursuing truth through sound is an automatic mechanism that is constantly confronted. Of course, sensual pleasure and truth/positive identification are related, but like Freud says, they arise separately and are later conflated. I’ll get to truth later, but first I wanted to engage the concept of aural pleasure.
I’ve decided to start posting some of my work as I happily plod my way through the Masters in Cinema & Media Studies program at UCLA. It’ll be a lot of dense theory mixed with my usual manic fangirl stuff. I’ll list all my references, films, TV, etc at the bottom. Enjoy!
At first glance, Christian Metz’s analysis of the cinematic apparatus appears to engage Lacanian psychoanalytic theory in a straightforward way; he begins with the child conceiving of himself (and all that makes him human and corporeal and cognizant) through gazing at his own reflection in a mirror. But the amount of “perceptual wealth” that Metz describes in audiovisual media, particularly film, requires an apparatus with far more nuance than the child’s first mirror. Metz really deconstructs the very nature of watching fiction in “The Imaginary Signifier: Psychoanalysis and Cinema” – and the important distinction which serves as a jumping-off point is that the viewer (unlike the child) identifies himself as the character, not the spectator. S/he not only views a film as a passive appreciator – like a museum-goer – s/he essentially jumps in, seeing her/himself within the action of the world and seeing him/herself seeing the film. Metz’ audience is hyperaware of filmic fiction’s need for an audience, to function and to be comprehensible. “At every moment, I am in the film by my look’s caress.”
Tyra Mail! It says…
If a model falls on an abandoned runway in the middle of an empty stage, does she make a sound? And when Tyra Banks falls while no one’s watching, does she just slip quietly into unsmizing nothingness?
America’s Next Top Model has been canceled after 12 years and 22 seasons, and it’s really okay that you do not care. If you do feel something, like I do, it’s probably just the sad sensation of time passing and culture changing. Just as the end of American Idol made barely a pop culture ripple (despite its massive impact on the TV landscape), ANTM probably won’t be recognized as a watershed program with a long-legged legacy. For my money, it deeply altered the possibilities of the reality genre – and, at its accidental best, was an incisive magnum opus of female psychology. Tyra the Creator knew she’d birthed something amazing in Top Model, and over the next few years she methodically destroyed it.
So let’s take a moment for America’s Next Top Model…a love-hate letter to beauty, with a singular viciousness and vision.
There’s really two stories being told during every episode of ANTM: the petty day-to-day existences of the model-contestants and the larger godlike arc of Tyra Banks herself. As a transcendently perfect but savvily commercial supermodel, Tyra was perfectly poised in 2003 to launch a show like Top Model. As creator and curator, she brought industry cachet and as host, she brought built-in ratings and popularity. To watch ANTM‘s first cycle – Tyra’s known for compulsive branding-by-renaming, so her “seasons” are “cycles” – is to watch a fascinating exercise in first-time showrunning. Everything about ANTM 1, from production to casting to editing, showcases Tyra’s charming self-empowerment and zeal. There’s a sweet earnestness, an openminded experimentalism, to cycle 1; mundane moments like the girls’ first bikini waxes, cigarette breaks, a judging chamber that’s clearly a hotel conference room. Tyra imbues her presence with a self-conscious approachability, showing up at the tiny models’ hovel for dinner in a velour sweatsuit. No one seems to have expectations about being on a reality show. The girls are incredibly diverse: Adrienne is a rough white-trash urchin, Robyn is a conservative Christian caught between skinny and plus-size, Elyse is the elegant smart-ass who is allowed to actively bash the idiocy of modeling on-camera (and remain a front-runner till the end!). The judges have real credentials, and painfully differing opinions (I miss you, Janice Dickinson). It all seems possible in Cycle 1. Legitimacy and enduring fame seem very real. We see all the ugly boring parts of beautiful, these glimpses of the modeling experience (and the female experience) that we never see again after the flagship cycle.
However, most of the hallmarks that make Cycle 1 truly compelling continue to exist and morph over the next few cycles. Fans and detractors alike can’t deny that Tyra had an eye, even early on, for world-building. She parlayed her skill sets in modeling and public performance into an expanding vocabulary for fans (and the media): “smizing,” “tooch,” “H2T.” Tyra’s ANTM is an auteur’s funhouse, a paradise of sirens, a place where the beauty industry finds transcendence beyond its boundaries. Big girls, strange girls, dark girls, they all stand a chance. In the beginning seasons, she had a savvy eye for casting girls who echoed her physically and in personality, and these girls were consistently rewarded (look no further than Cycle 4’s supremely bland Felicia, who lasted four episodes too long). These ideal contestants became disembodied walking signifiers of Tyra herself, scattered amongst the latest crop, reinforcing her omnipotent and omniscient presence as the Author-God of the ANTM universe. She hooked us in with a phenomenally clever and suggestive tagline: “You wanna be on top?” And as dystopian and weird as Top Model gets, its first few cycles are bursting with startlingly astute observations about what happens to women when they’re isolated from the male gaze but haunted by it, devoted to it. Every single episode has the same naming convention: “The Girl Who…” The Girl Who Cheats. The Girl Who Everyone Thinks is Killing Herself. The Girl Who is a Visual Orgasm. It’s an unabashed commentary on culture, and meta-commentary on reality culture. Each cycle becomes more and more claustrophobic, even as the contestants’ living quarters are upgraded to sprawling estates that the Cycle 1 wretches could never have dreamed of. Every successive cycle shines a burning spotlight on a tightly monitored, hermetically sealed powderkeg of women – and we, as the audience, quickly got that the goal wasn’t really to be the best, the most beautiful, the most superhuman. The goal was survival.
And in Tyra’s dogged pursuit of her own legend, her own legacy, she stumbled on the show’s most iconic moment, what I would argue is its beating heart and the key to its twisted vision of womanhood. Sandwiched in between the naturalistic early cycles and the bloated, vapid later cycles is Cycle 4. Tiffany.
Tyra’s epic freakout on the hapless Tiffany Richardson is by far the most-quoted clip of ANTM, and it elevated the show out of its creative niche into mass reality entertainment. On the surface, it’s basically just a host berating a participant for not taking the competition seriously enough. Beyond the scene’s histrionic trash-TV value, however, it also exposed Tyra’s endgame all at once, in a shocking reveal of her pathetic vulnerability and maniacal control of not only the Top Model project, but her own narrative. Tyra’s speech is absolutely littered with the charred remains of a real female human being. It’s a coded story about the way the beauty industry’s been Dementoring her since her childhood. “When my mother yells like this, it’s because she loves me,” Tyra spits, hitting a hysterical sound outside pitch on the word “love.” “When you go to bed at night and you lay there, you take responsibility for yourself, ’cause nobody’s gonna take responsibility for you.” How many beds do you think Tyra Banks laid in all by herself, surrounded by identical beds filled with identical women vying for her life? “You have no idea where I come from,” she tells Tiffany, apropos of nothing. “You have no idea what I’ve been through.” Perhaps most telling is the indelible phrase “We were rooting for you, we were ALL rooting for you! How dare you?” The amount of context contained in that vitriolic indictment is incredible. Every woman is rooting for you even when she hates you, even when she’s against you, Tiffany. You owe HER your successes and your failures, even when you’re selling your face and your body to men. LEARN something from this!
In taking this tack, I obviously am showing my hand a little. I think Tyra Banks is a sympathetic figure, but also an absolute psychopath. The vision she built with ANTM is a danger to society – but in both the straightforward anti-feminist way AND the subversive-to-patriarchy way. Sometimes it’s hard to want the misery that these women want; sometimes we want to kill them for wanting it. ANTM certainly does encourage us to hate beautiful, ambitious women, to despise their delusions of grandeur and gaze-greediness. I could write a whole separate blog post on Jade Cole, who is hands-down the most interesting contestant in ANTM history. She’s a reality addict’s dream and was definitely Tyra’s nightmare, as she expertly (and self-reflexively) played to camera and became Cycle 6’s breakout star, the emblem of all that was insane about model ego and and ANTM specifically. “This is not America’s Next Top Best Friend,” crowed Jade, framing the decorative wall letters “A N T M” with her hands. She was right; she just didn’t know yet that those letters stood for “America’s Next Top Meme.”
I would argue that Cycles 1-8 are the meat of Top Model, the oevre we’re really talking about when we dissect the importance of this show. Because Tyra is the auteur and Tyra is insane, the show slowly but surely begins to crumble after the mild but still accessible wackiness of Cycle 8 (whose standouts included the heavily-accented first Latina winner Jaslene and the mail-order bride Natasha). The winner of Cycle 9 was rumored to be pre-fixed by Tyra. Contestants were forced to film “viral videos,” which anyone familiar with the internet knows is a comically absurd proposition. The judges were cycled in and out at a rapid pace until Tyra had assembled a panel of sycophants – empty and under-qualified personalities, most of them not even of the fashion world (i.e. the universally despised “PR Maven” Kelly Cutrone). By the time the first “gimmick” cycle – 17, the All-Star season – rolled around, ANTM was not ANTM anymore. It was Top Model only in name, and that dream was a farce, evidenced by the complete professional invisibility of almost every past winner. The death gong tolled around Cycle 18, the first cycle to pit teams against one another (British and American) and Cycle 21’s inclusion of male models was simply a phallic stab into ANTM‘s long-cold corpse.
The full lifespan of great TV is really quite poignant: when a show becomes successful, it’s immediately pumped full of creative and stylistic hormones that overstrain its heart. Then when it experiences brain-death, it’s kept on life support. And when it finally dies, almost no one comes to the funeral. They’re at a party with the show’s hot younger siblings. That’s the story of America’s Next Top Model. And even if ANTM‘s demise as a show isn’t unique, its legacy is.
Never before did we get to watch such a vivid portrait of mean. Never before did we get so close to the bleeding scalps and swollen toes of America’s most beautiful women, or see them cry and routinely be crushed despite their model faces, their model smiles. Never did we get front-row tickets to dozens of closed rooms like this, studies in female group dynamics engineered by one of its seminal victims, a mastermind who both kept us at arms-length and desperately tried everything she could to hold our attention. America’s Next Top Model is over forever, but we all still wanna be on top.
STILL ALIVE! DO NOT PANIC OK??
In fact, I’ve been so alive for the past week that I’ve blogged 0 times. I kept being like, “This would be a good time to write and post pictures,” but then America would whisper in my ear, “Hang out with meeee.” But now it is time to dump out my brain basket; here’s EVERYTHING that’s gone down from Sunday to Sunday!
6/28: Topeka, Kansas
Before my drive to Topeka, I was a far more innocent human being, with hopes and dreams and a chance for a better life. Then those 8 hours of fucking hell happened. About 540 miles of dull, plain plains under endless grey skies. A lot of wind turbines, powering nothing except more wind. I realized quickly that I would only be taking boring photos today (see below). I left from Denver too late in the afternoon and by nightfall, I was zooming around pitch-black bends in the highway, fingers white around the steering wheel, preparing to accidentally annihilate a wayward Bambi.
That night in Topeka was a blur. I entered my AirBnB, frightened my elderly host, fell asleep and did not dream.
6/29-7/1: St. Louis, Missouri
This is where it starts to get good. This is also where it rains through the rest of this post AKA the next 6 days of the trip. Anyway, I peeled away the dank experiences of the central U.S. and set out with renewed vigor for The Lou. This was my second Very Real Destination after Colorado – because my bitch lives there and my other bitch was due to fly in a couple of days after my arrival. Two bitches at once? It truly was an embarrassment of riches/bitches!!
First I swung by Left Bank Books in the heart of the citay, to visit my Midwest dream girl Wintaye at work. When she got off, we grabbed some din and I got to see her adoooorb new place right across from Tower Grove Park. She’s got mad gardens outside the window and everything. Watched some teevs, got some gelato, brunched, etc etc. Will forever remember the chorizo eggs at Half & Half. Finally washed my clothes. Dubsmashed all our favorite things. Saw Jurassic World (which was a lot more fun than bad reviews had prepared me for). Ate RIDICULOUS barbecue. Also hit a bunch of bars downtown (to middling partytime success).
Then my squeeze Nick stomped into the picture for ONE NIGHT ONLY. This was the exact moment when my roadtrip playlist began to play “You Are Not Alone,” because he’d be with me the rest of the way to New York. The three of us climbed all the things at the City Museum, which is literally the most dangerous destination I’ve brought my body to, including the Grand Canyon. The children, they just…hang from metal open-air structures.
Also noshed, wined, shopped at cheap superstore Five Below, chilled, and survived a crazy torrential storm.The sadness I felt at bidding Wintaye goodbye in the morning was mitigated by a severely delicious roadside donut. Oh, I’ll miss you St. Louis, you damp, beautiful piece of work.
7/2: Lake Hope, Ohio
Next stop was a campground inside Zaleski Forest of Nowhere County, Where Are We, USA. Our journey was broken up by a super surreal visit to a giant Walmart that seemed to sit in the plain like an ugly mirage. Got our camping sundries and made it to our site by sunset. This was actually my first time camping, eva eva! I was already feeling so rough that roughing it came naturally. Can I please tell you we decided on as “sleeping pads”? Can I tell you that they were inflatable kids pools and they weren’t half-bad?
Nick erected the tent and we spent the eve getting buzzed and bitten. One fruitless attempt to build a fire later and we went to convene The Midnight Society under the flaps. I was (tritely) in love with sleeping in the quiet woods. Even if we were to be mauled before dawn, it’d be worth it. A little.
The next morning, we attempted to find coffee in the INCREDIBLY FRIGHTENING nearest town of Zaleski, OH (population 1 killer). Insert my classic “Zaleski burned down…20 years ago…” here.
After some gas station brew, we got back into the YASmobile. To civilization!
7/3-7/4: Philadelphia, PA
At the moment we crossed the city line into Philly, I felt the comforting, crushing weight of the REAL East Coast on me. There was something about verdant flatlands giving way to belching industrial monsterscapes that felt so…RIGHT. And you know what else felt kind of momentous? My valiant Honda hitting 100,000 miles!!! I would drive 100,000 miles if I could just…see…you…cheese steak. *piano cadence*
Once we’d navigated the very Tomorrowlandish structures of smoke and grime that surrounded the city, we made our way to Spruce Hill, the neighborhood containing my friend Janna’s cozy apartment and our new temporary bed. Everywhere we walked, the sidewalks were cracked by the roots of huge leafy trees, and shrubs and vines strained out of fences to touch the passersby. Philly is so RICH and GREEN. It was a slightly more packed version of St. Louis, with all its stately old houses and excesses of flowers and roadside garbage. At this point, I was thankful for the on-and-off rain, because it paired perfectly with all the foliage and erased the smell of street cleaning gone wrong. Literally just put the trash in the cans, guys.
Our sole full day in PA was the Fourth of July, which was so wet that most of the fireworks fizzled from dawn till dusk. Didn’t matter, we still touristed expertly! Did the farmer’s market in the morning and killed some delicious pierogies, and I also saw the most amazing Scary Stories tattoo of life (pic below). We then lost ourselves in the glittering holey grotto they call The Magic Gardens. It’s a crazy mosaic of stairs, tunnels, and valleys (with more than enough boob/peen-painted tiles to keep adults interested in the finer artistic details). Again, the constant mist made it twice as beautiful, glittering.
After a beer, we steeled ourselves for the last long dramatic event of the day: a blocks-long “party” down the parkway culminating with fireworks above the Philadelphia Museum of Art. Weirdly, the weather seemed to have drained the batteries of everyone around us and the energy at this thing was super low. We entertained ourselves with endless games of gin rummy and Heads Up on the damp grass, but finally couldn’t take it anymore. The clouds were blocking the ‘works anyway. We turned around, went home, and read tarot cards as the sky exploded around us with thunder and illegal firecrackers.
7/5-Right now: New York, NUUUUU YORK
It only took us about 2 hours to make it from Philly to New York. Home rose up around me so fast; as soon as we crossed the George Washington Bridge we were THERE.
It felt completely different from every other time I’ve returned to NY from LA, and the feeling was hard to put my finger on. Eventually I kinda realized that it was the absence of a plane flight: the surreality of six hours in a box, the impersonal watercolor glimpses of all the country in-between, and the first sudden breath of dank, smoky air I’d get at JFK. When I fly back and forth, it’s like my destination cities had never even existed before I touched down. It makes me feel so crazy that, usually, when I get back to NY, I feel supremely disoriented and time-traveley for a full 24 hours. This time, the transition had lasted two weeks, and the transition itself had MATTERED. I’d navigated every mile, all three thousand of them, to my home place. I’d watched it gradually materialize in front of me, at the end of the road – and when I made it, it’s like New York had been waiting (impatiently).
First thing we did when we got to Nick’s place in Queens? Pizza, sleep, ANTM. Same as it ever was.
So I guess…this series is officially over! I’m going back to Long Island today to wash off the remnants of America and visit my old barista. My birthday is in two days and I have some refreshing-up to do before I’m ready to take on 26 in a celebrity death match.
Thank you sooo much for reading these travel thoughts. It’s actually been a #blessing to have a place to store all my observations, photos, and whinings, and I really hope they entertained a little bit. All in all, I drove through SIXTEEN STATES, including eleven in the course of this post alone. And I’m doing it aaaaaall again in August – NY back to LA by way of the South. REVERSE, REVERSE! See you then.
AND WE’RE BACK. I am writing to you from a Starbucks, forever my oasis in the unfamiliar desert. I walked a mile and a half here before 9 AM on a Sunday, dragging my sorry self from the car repair shop. More on that later.
I have spent the last few days immersed in family time between Boulder and Denver (and one night/hungover morning in Arvada). It’s been JAM PACKED and kind of amazing. I just ker-plunked myself in the middle of everyone’s lives and ended up running through the rain with a pack of 4-year-olds, slamming Cherry Bombs, strolling through a bonsai garden, and generally collecting rich snapshots of the lives I’m usually so disconnected from. My uncles and aunts are all really fascinating human beings and are raising their families in utter mountain paradise; plus, got the bonus of quality time with my cousin Olivia, who’s close to my age and moved here relatively recently. It was pleasant and a little disorienting to have people offering to make me comfortable; these 4 days have left me slightly spoiled and have added a pound or two (worth it).
I rolled into Boulder in the late afternoon on Thursday. That night, and most of Friday, I got to enjoy my preternaturally chill Aunt Robyn and Uncle Dan, and my brilliant and dangerous little cousin Lil. She is a firecracker of life, so smart and intuitive, and overflowing with charm. The first night was generally tame – dinner, ice cream downtown, lots of trampoline time, an extended visit to the novelty toy shop where Lily transformed into a frightening and majestic hybrid:
Much relax, so family, very delight. A nice transition to the chaos of Friday.
Chaos in the good way, though. In the morning, I joined Robyn and Lil’s whole daycare class for a field trip to Chautauqua Park – we bussed up to the park and saw a quaintly cute orchestra perform “Peter and the Wolf” for a lot of squirmy kids. These 4-year-olds were SO INCREDIBLY CUTE (I am, of course, biased: Lily is the cutest one and there’s no contest). I ended up becoming an extra pair of supervisory adult hands as we herded the small army of children into a gazebo to wait for the shuttle. Minutes turned into more minutes and rain began to fall. Lily dug her little paws into my hair and created a bird’s next to pass the time. An hour passed before Robyn finally called the po-po to complain about our stranding and demand bus service. Rescued!
After that, the three of us went to see Inside Out, which was…kind of devastating. I thought it was an absolutely gorgeous movie, one of Pixar’s finest artistic achievements, but it boldly went to the saddest depths of human emotion. Not since the 2D experiments of my youth has a kid’s movie felt so dark: at points it was frightening at Brave Little Toaster level, and as depressing/profound as The Iron Giant (which I’ll never watch again due to trauma).The only counterpoint to the really heavy stuff was the visual style; there’s an INCREDIBLE sequence set inside the “abstract mind” that took creative animation to new levels. The central conceit of it is so ambitious: What if feelings had feelings? And in what way do they form us, in the moment and forever? The story of the personified emotions inside one girl’s head – Joy, Disgust, Anger, Fear, etc – has such high stakes because it’s not about the characters, it’s about those concepts. And how they prepare us for the biggest loss we’ll ever experience: growing up. The loss of our innocence and, inevitably, even parts of who we are. Precocious children will love this movie for years to come.
After the movie, I drove separately from the Boulder Steuers to convene with the Denver Steuers for a BBQ (and the start of my short Denver leg). Then, TRAGEDY STRUCK.
On the way there, my car stalled out with no warning!! One moment I’m at a stop sign, the next I’m creeping over to the shoulder with my hazards on and a pounding heart, hissing out a litany of fucks. I kept telling myself that car trouble was “bound to happen,” but I didn’t really think it would actually manifest in my reality. I eventually booted her up and was able to take her to my uncle Gary and aunt Sophie’s place with my grumpy face on.
Save the stall, Friday night in Denver proceeded in EXCELLENT fashion. I finally reunited with my cousin Olivia, who is truly one of my favorite human beings. She just started her life here in Colorado after college and is a source of hilarity, kindness, and endless family gossip. Also squeezed the life out of my other tiny cousin, Esmé, who has one of the sweetest dispositions ever created on this earth. She’s also whip-smart and knows more about fashion than I can ever, ever hope to. Along with Olivia’s friend Ally, the 9 of us enjoyed a super delicious home-cooked dinner and sunny warm time on the patio. And Olivia and I (of the June/July birthdays) both got candles in our ice cream and presents! Yaaaaas.
That night, I pretty much raged with my cuz and bar-hopped a bit in downtown Denver. How I love pulsating beats and rude girls in long lines. Just like the social evenings of my recent youth. Drank, danced, met some very strange guys from Liverpool while we waited for our Lyft. One of them had just gotten a salmon tattooed on his groinal area, which he readily opened his pants to display (twice). Once we got back to O’s place in Arvada, I legit died on her couch in all my clothes and slept like the grave.
Did a nice eggy breakfast the day and then headed back to Denver to spend some time with Gary, Sophie, and Ez. We did Cheeseman Park and the botanic conservatory, where we beheld some really weird-looking plants and lots of gorgeous greenery. Ez is eminently fashionable, and cuts a very adorable figure in a garden. After that, had an INSANELY DELICIOUS dinner at a place called Shells & Sauce. I love a place that puts its strengths on display. I was so hungry I didn’t even bother to snap a food pic, which is very serious for me. Esmé introduced me to the wonders of caperberries (what a palate on this one!). It was such a fun night, felt like I walked off a little bit of that heavy cream sauce afterward (though not much).
This morning I woke up at the crack of OMG NO THANK YOU to take my car to the only place in Denver that was open on a Sunday. Turns out my engine’s got mad problems; fingers crossed that they can fix it quickly and without too much agita and extra $$. Of course, being up this early and without a vehicle made my feet start walking towards The Bux. They know and understand me here, and have wifi.
May end up having to stay an extra night in Denver if my auto-troubles are that bad – if not, I’m setting out today for beautiful (?) Topeka, KS (I changed my destination from Wichita after I realized it’d take an extra 2 hours from there to St. Louis). Please keep your fingers crossed for me and my beleagured Civic!
I slept in this morning and woke up to warm sunlight and the smell of fresh lavender. First thought: Have I died and gone to heaven? Second thought: Do they have bagels here? BOTH WERE TRUE. Grand Junction is a magical gift.
My host, Claire, greeted me with coffee, breakfast, and some fresh-picked cherries for which she traded her organic lavender. What?? Where have I gone wrong, that I’m not trading my farmed flowers for fruit on the regular?
I did have a fun day yesterday, though by the end my brain felt frazzled and overcooked. On the ride from Flagstaff to Moab (picturesque as always), I passed through some very small clusters of civilization in Utah. Saw a very creepy-looking sign for a Dinosaur Museum in the town of Blanding, and on an impulse I turned off and decided to have myself a side adventure.
Seriously the oddest place I’ve been to yet. It was almost fully deserted, so all I had for company were the life-size dinosaur replicas, clinging to dusty fake vegetation and prowling the fluorescent corridors. I was so tickled by the fact that they had an “exhibit” of posters for dinosaur movies. It’s nice to see someone else agree that The Land Before Time should be preserved for future generations. Once I’d taken in all the information (including a description of a creature I am SURE is made up, the “Supersaurus”) I hurriedly purchased a postcard and hopped back in the car.
Stopped in Moab briefly to gawk at the red rocks and the Arches and snap a few pics. A very beautiful place, but I was a little bit tapped out by this point, so a half hour walk was all I could muster.
I also had the unique terror/pleasure of driving through a summer storm as I crossed into CO…please note my haphazard dashboard photo of the oncoming black cloud. It was a refreshing blast of cool humidity and splashy, fat raindrops that SPLATTED with such a satisfying sound. The rain continued all down I-70, for almost 90 miles. Kept my windows open for the clean soaked-earth smell and it was pretty much my favorite part of the drive. Also, to my delight, Spotify decided at this moment to shuffle up “Sunshowers,” one of my ultimate summer pick-me-ups:
Once I got here, the gale-force gusts in Grand Junction kept me inside for most of the night – I had the whole house to myself, complete with the ghosty sounds of wind through the door cracks. Was deep asleep even before my body hit the bed.
My next update will probably take a few extra days, because today I meet up with my family in Boulder/Denver!! Can’t wait to put my cabin fever on hiatus and spend some EXCELLENT vacay time with my two uncles and aunts and three flawless cousins. Let the bonding and hiking and gossiping begin.
What’s up? I’m just over here sitting on a Wonder of the World. CASUAL.
Currently writing this from the back porch of the hostel, where many other travelers have gathered to eat their toast, salute the sun, and light their morning cigarettes. I actually don’t understand smoking at this altitude, much less breathing? My lungs have been shocked by my sudden transition to a 7,000 ft lifestyle and are working through their feelings of betrayal.
Sooo yes, I experienced the ultimate nature yesterday! The Lord’s Pensieve, aka The Grand Canyon! It was a craymazing day, and it lasted an absolutely insane 11 hours.
I’d originally planned to do the whole trek/visitor’s center thing on my own, but the hostel offered an all-inclusive tour and I thought, “Maybe someone experienced in the outdoor arts should guide my survival.” Plus I’ve met a lot of really nice people here already and welcomed the opportunity to share the view with someone new. My group ended up being comprised of Patricia (a Colombian agronomist who’d never tasted a Frappuccino), Annie (a social psychologist with great leg stamina), Dan (a British adventurer who’d been traveling around the world for 15 months), and our leader Dylan (who had flawless taste in bluegrass and knew everything about all the plants). Everyone was good-natured about my “getting stranded in the canyon and having to build a society” or “Which of us would win the Hunger Games” comments. Probably because I was most expendable.
After we drove through the Painted Desert and peeped a little bit of the vast Navajo reservation, we pulled up at the Little Colorado River Canyon, which Dylan kept calling “the tiny one.” Having not beheld the GC yet, I was already overwhelmed by its baby brother. It’s a deep, majestic crack through the earth. Vultures swooped around us in the shimmery heat as our guide casually explained that rescuers have to “leave the bodies down there.” Took a teetering selfie anyway.
After that, we headed to the Desert View Watchtower, stunning tribute to Hopi history. I had no idea about the tense historical relations between the Hopi and Navajo (Navajo means “skull crusher” in Hopi?!) and found the monument/artwork absolutely incredible. There’s something about touching a chair someone made in 1870 that feels even more sacred and timebendy than touching some frillion-year-old igneous rock.
The watchtower was visible from almost every point we traveled to around the Canyon rim – well, the .0006% of the rim we were able to cover, because the entire thing is almost 800 miles around and we’re only human beings, damn it. We drank in views from Lipan Point (hazy and verdant), Moran Point (mostly grey) and the Grand View, which is the classic postcard view with all the spikes, peaks, red rock cliffs and valleys. It was actually kind of an overcast day, which worked in our favor. Less sun (fucking finally, said my skin) and a greater and more subtle variety of colors in the Canyon. We also hit some Hopi ruins, preserved since the 1100s, and ate lunch right next to them. Conversation topics included the shady economy of the Grand Canyon tourist industrial complex and Harry Potter fanfiction (which, UNBELIEVABLY, I didn’t even bring up first). Such a wonderful band of misfits with lots of experiences to trade amongst us.
One of our last activities was a hike down (and up) the Kaibab Trail, which ended up both killing my body and yielding some choice photos. It was kind of mind-melting to actually descend into the Canyon, even for a couple of miles, and watch the sharp cliffs rise up and up around us. Also, we walked past a kid who was running, guardian-less, without shoes on. Ghost? Maybe. Probably. Another body the rescuers were too lazy to grab.
Once we’d clambered out again, Dylan took us to a small store and we each grabbed some libations for an epic sunset-watching session. Dan taught me about the heady concoction of beer, hard cider, blackcurrant juice, and vodka…I will never understand why the British do what they do, but it sounded pretty tasty. Patricia tried her first IPA and deemed it “spicy.”
Our walk down to the final vista was incredible and relaxing and chill as hell: just strolling along the lip of pure wonder, sipping cold brews, basking. It was one of those extended moments when my vibrations of neuroses start to mercifully get slower, and then stop, and then I just feel lucky and good. We plopped ourselves down on an outcropping over the edge of the world and watched the day end.
Absolutely ridiculous. I think I’m going to start a cult around the hoax of the Grand Canyon, because I suspect it’s a green screen. It really doesn’t seem real; it’s a vastness my brain has trouble processing, and it’s QUIET, quiet like nature is concentrating. That sunset was honestly unreal. On the drive home, we stopped in the darkness to check out a clear night of frosty stars, and I was like, enough already. I don’t deserve this beauty. We listened to “Moonlight Mile” as we navigated the long dark and it was perfection.
Pictures below – I edited down as much as I could, and there are still many.
And that is that for the Canyon Grande! About to pack up my stuff and get on the road to the great red arches of Moab and the smallville goodness of Grand Junction, CO…where I am staying with a lavender farmer. Yus.