Nothing to Do With Anything (Photos)

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Wednesday November 01, 2006 · 1:20 AM PST

2006/11/01 · 01:20

so, there are six days now. this diary isn't even about politics. i wrote this very short "piece" last weekend after a trip to a ghost-town in western nevada. i thought that between immersing yourselves in campaigns, blogs, and breaking news, maybe a quick breather might do everyone good on this hopeful morning. so here are a few paragraphs and photos. feel free to draw comparisons between the dkos place in the world: i.e., metaphors that dailykos is art and decaying buildings are the DLC, etc.etc. or don't, and draw your own conclusions.

Blue

leaving las vegas, the radio stations fade; the gutter spread of the city draws a line and does not cross. the mountains take over, and the ground becomes an afterthought - some sand and shrubs stuck beside the road. even the sky, all soft light and blue, innocuous - everything unperturbed. two hours out, a tiny town of gas station casinos and indian antiques lies quiet at the base of a mountain ridge. inside the town, all the men dress in dusty clothes reminiscent of mining and decades long gone. they walk slow, and my car trails beside them purring at the 25mph speed limit. tucked inside the town are one-way streets named after letters. on C street is a tiny museum with "books and gifts and toys." something tells me the museum isn't doing its job, but i don't mind. i walk inside and buy over-priced desert rocks. when i walk out, an old man with a dirty cap and a long, tan beard looks up at me from a bench. i ask him where the nearest restroom is. he points towards the east and tells me to drive until i see a police station. this is beatty, nevada, where time cannot pierce its steep edges.

and outside the town, there's a graveyard. no headstones or sprawling epitaphs. instead, the bones of former buildings litter the desert, resembling their surroundings: tough and unmoving and blond. a union-pacific building sits - too quiet. i climb on top of it, rattling tin and cracking tiny splinters into the air. down the street, there's another museum. except all the art is scattered in the desert, tucked off from the decaying buildings, but pointed towards them. as if to say, you're not alone. some belgian artists came here in the 1960s, bringing junk and plaster, brushes and paint. they created ghost statues, junk memorials, and flaming pink tower ladies. then they left. now a shack stands in their wake: a tiny wooden gift shop void of employees. inside is cool bottled water, magazines, and a guest book. in the book, i sign my name beside the date and write a tiny note. i tell them thank you.

the drive back is warm.

thanks for viewing.

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