This is a narrative chronicling a driving trip across the United States of America via Interstate 70. The photos along with the narrative were published daily in a series August, 2014. This work employs a dream narrative inspired by real places and the fictional character Endymion Jay, on whom this blog is based.
*All photography from "I-70 Day One" and on is original work and the property of Melody Hession. @melodyh_s
DIGGING (part one)
Endymion was digging a hole. She kept digging this hole. It was the only task
she was assigned, so she must persist. She couldn’t imagine she was digging
to anything in particular, but there was no use in stopping. Not anything useful
would come from ceasing this project, so there was nothing more to do but to keep
going.
She knew the risks. She had already encountered too many horrors to count
under the earth. Sometimes, she couldn’t rightly remember them, but they were
dreadful. Monsters, people she loved getting eaten by clones of herself,
and bugs emerging from every corner trying to get at her eyelids, attempting to
eat them.
It was a good thing that underground worked the way it did. Once the
horrors passed, life went back to normal. Her health returned, and her brain
met the status quo... except for the images now imprinted upon it, ready to fade
away then reemerge at any moment.
And so she just kept digging. She got deeper and deeper into the earth, not
questioning the fact that nothing changed about the scenery besides depth.
There were times when other things would impede her chore, like that feeling.
The one that usually ended in a heat stroke. She would sense something
pressing against her side, something hard and yet also soft. It was warm and
solid, but also slithered around her waist. She would instinctively collapse into it,
trying to hide from the eyes she knew were watching her.
When the heat of the object became unbearable, she would cry out, “Please!
Please stop!” even though she knew, in her heart, she didn’t want it to stop.
But the thing would back away... and she could breath. What is breathing?
What significance does it carry while life gets swept away into a hole?
Endymion began to wonder why is it that I must dig this hole? I can’t quite
remember...and she began to look up. Perhaps there was a way out. She lifted
her eyes just in time to have her nose broken by a damned porcelain doll.
It was a beautiful, classic, victorian doll with a slender face and rosy cheeks,
but no eyes. Red blood gushed from them, staining the white, lace dress. What a pity.
Such a beautiful fashion thought Endymion, as she nursed her broken nose,
trying to align it properly so it wouldn’t heal crookedly.
She covered her face while the doll turned ‘round and came back at her for a
killer shot. Sometimes, Endymion would wish against wish that this doll would
kill her. The more she wished, the more violent the doll became. What triggers
What triggers her to attack me? she thought for the umpteenth time.
Lately, she wanted less and less to fight back,
but she knew that the moment she did, the doll would disappear so that
she could continue her digging.
Eventually, like always, she wouldn’t stand it any longer, and would
smack the doll against the dirt wall. She would shove her against the
maggots and the sludge. When she did this, it was the damnedest thing,
the doll would embrace the grime and become more beautiful than ever.
Her dress would change color to a deep deep natural brown with flecks of
green. The eyes would bloody up all the more, blinding the doll completely,
dripping onto her lips, which became perfectly kissably red. Endymion
watched with the temptation to devour these lips, to consume the
twisted beauty.
However, when this happened, and the doll rested at her feet, Endymion
would bury the doll, and begin digging a little to the left so as to avoid
waking her.
There was naught but to resume her digging. It was the only task she
was assigned, so she must persist.
I-70 INTRODUCTION
~Souza
MY DEAR DARKNESS AND DIGGING (PART 2)
Endymion was digging. This pit she had picked away at, shovel-load after
shovel-load, the dirt miraculously disappearing without question, now had
such depth that she could no longer imagine a world that wasn’t a world of
darkness. My dear Darkness she sighed heavily, contemplating thoughts
she had nothing but time to think, muscle memory taking over her body;
not an ounce of conscious thought going into the task at hand.
She had become so grown to the darkness, that she had long ceased
her attempts at sight. She didn’t question how she was able to see so
vividly the horrors she had thus far encountered on this seemingly
fruitless journey, while all of the time, as far as her eyes were concerned,
she might as well be in an infinite void, dense with depth.
But for the first time since beginning her plight, she wondered why. Why
was it so dark? She wasn’t underground; she was in a hole with an open top.
She vaguely remembered many decades ago, or was it hours, beginning the
hole with the first few shovels-full. She tried to remember what had provided
light back then. Had it been something she carried with her? An object she had
perhaps forgotten to bring down with her? She was so careless; she wouldn’t
be surprised if this was the case.
Perhaps the light had been a construction. Something man had made for
themselves, and, since no one lived down here, it no longer applied to
construct such things for her use and hers alone. Then it dawned on her: The Sun
There was a gigantic mass of fire in the... the sky.
Aaaahhh the sky. What she would give to lay back under that
again. She agonizingly missed sunlight. Most of all she missed Always
Running Into Every Light. She knew that she would forever miss running
and this natural absorb of vitamins she hadn’t needed in so long.
She had come to understand something now, however. It is something
she had learned and already become accustomed to and moved on from.
She applied this knowledge once again to this sun she now remembered
and missed. It is that this sun, its light, vitamins, and sky... these were of
no consequence when dreams become our realities.
Endymion thought this in conjunction with her new angst inducing
memories, and along with it came a change. The first change of this
variety she had ever experience since the digging had begun. The
scenery itself was changing. Sight was returning to her; the air was refreshed;
there was wind. She stopped breathing, utterly confused as to the
consequence of what was happening.
Now the sky was blue again. She was on a road, on the beginning of a
road... a long road. It seemed to begin in a place very familiar to her. She
saw very many folks she knew around her. She tried to call to them, but she
couldn’t. They no longer saw her. They only saw the road in front of her.
She had already said her goodbyes to them when she fell asleep. She knew
that she couldn’t get a second chance for such things.
She turned her attention back to the road. She knew that she now had a
new task before her; it was called “journey.” They called this road “high”,
which is probably why she had such an inking that nothing about this trip
would give her the foundation she needed. This trip was not going to
ground her, only encourage her high. She was high on self indulgence, and
I-70 was going to be the next phase of this.
Endymion felt significantly differently about the destination, however.
She knew that the digging had gotten her nowhere but deeper into her own subconscious, but I-70 was going to take her places. Many new places she had never seen before. I
I cannot forget what I see she thought, struggling to remember the monsters from underground, realizing they had escaped her. Looking forward to her next dream sequence, she took her first step.
I-70: DAY ONE
Endymion was traveling along the road. Wondering if she had a choice in her destinations, she decided to set goals along the way. The first goal was going to be to go to Amish Country in Ohio. She thought about how much she’d love the change of pace. She wanted to peruse small shops in a town from another era with different sorts of people living different realities.
She thought about Amish country. What a breath of fresh air it should be. It would be like stepping away from everything she knew, and accepting a different world as a temporary haven. With these peaceful, happy thoughts in mind, she set off ‘round the mountains.
It seemed to take ages. There was a lot of stopping. Endymion was beginning to feel what digging had forced her to lack. Her legs were weak; her back ached; her skin was pale and heavily shadowed, but her arms and core had strength from the manual labor of her experience. She knew she was ready for this move forward.
She began to see signs for Dutch Markets and furniture stores, each isolated in the midst of rolling green hills and pastures, barns standing alone within meadows. The sight was beautiful, and Endymion took a deep breath, attempting to soak it in using all her senses. She was approaching the first Amish town: Sugarcreek.
She spotted what seemed to be a social hotspot, with a sign on the small country road leading up to it. It was a yellow yield sign with a picture of a buggy on it. She smiled, her expectations starting to be met. She came closer to the market-place. There were plenty of folks. They didn’t look too special, the occasional bonnet-wearing woman. As she got closer, however, it became more and more apparent that something was very wrong. Endymion saw a group of jogging women. They were wearing nothing but their bras and small shorts. How do they have no fear of judgement as they run alongside this community?
She entered the main large building, finding a room full of elderly people. The youngest there were probably in their late 60s. She felt like she was at a bingo night in a retirement community, not a market place of an overly-zealous religious community. She ventured deeper into the room; more and more people stared at her, wondering what brought her here. She got a drink, then, feeling increasingly uncomfortable, went outside. She sat on the porch with her beverage, wondering how to proceed. Old men passed her, ogling, without the least attempt at hiding by means of neither looks nor volume, her choice to sit on the ground. “There are chairs!” they said. “Why?” they wondered, with equivalent incredulity that some use to ask why God allows them to suffer injustice. As she sat, she continued to gather the attention of everyone around. A woman approached her and said “My name is Endymion. Who are you? Are you Endymion too?”
Endymion began to be disappointed in this place, but it was seeing a sign about free wifi that made her realize that even the Amish move forward and that this was no longer her haven.
But, she thought, she might as well have a thorough stay while she’s here. She ventured farther into the depths of Amish Country.
And then she saw a sign! Factory Street. “I am a Factory Girl, won’t you pardon me,” She sang to herself. She wondered if Amish people back in the day were allowed to work in factories. When electricity was first being incorporated and machines being updated... did they have to quit if that was their job?
So much about this place was modern, and she was dissatisfied. But hold on, something was happening. The world around her was beginning to fade. The world was in black and white. She saw an old train station on her left. It was a very small structure, with an even smaller factory outlet building next door. A sign on her right welcomed her to Switzerland. Switzerland? She thought she was in Sugarcreek, Ohio, with the Amish.
She continued along the road, wondering what Switzerland was like. She bet it was better than what she’d seen so far. She would be perfectly happy with this new destination making the detour worth her while.
Something was eerie about Switzerland. There was a quiet -- no -- there was a silence. Not a single sound to be heard. As she approached the train station on the left, he noticed how neglected it was. No one was leaving this town, and no one was arriving.
The scenery was no longer just black and white. It was growing darker and darker. Color was being drawn out from the souls of each object and forced to shine at unexpected moments. Endymion recognized less and less of the structures. There were singing Swiss statues, and a bird was yelling at her because she was running out of time.
This detour had taken a violent turn. Everywhere she looked, something new didn’t want her there. She ‘rounded another corner to a new street. It was called “Elm Street.”
Oh I understand. This is now a nightmare. This is a bad situation. What was happening? She couldn’t make sense of where she was anymore. More signs appeared, telling her she was on “Broadway.” How could she be in New York now? Utterly disoriented, she ran through the deserted town. She stumbled into a bar. “Why are you open at eleven o’clock in the morning?!” She bellowed at them. This wasn’t right.
Nothing about this was right. She had just left Amish country, and now in, what was otherwise, a very well-assembled town there existed a Gospel Shop as the singular establishment completely covered in cobwebs, soot, broken boards, and crumbs of what was once a substantial foundation.
She kept running until a bug smacked her in the face flying by. It fell. Endymion stopped, and looked down to closer examine the flying insect. It didn’t take long for her to see that it was no insect.
Endymion was now on the edge of a forest, and she was two inches tall. Grass towered above her, and many people stared at her. Her surrounding were far from abandoned, she realized. This place was very much alive.
A man dress more colorfully than any well-dressed clown Endymion had seen before jumped out of a clump of grass, bellowing, “HELLO!! WHAT BRINGS YOU HERE? It is too late for your nonsense. Why must we welcome you at this hour? Where have you been if you had to come?”
Taking in her new surroundings, which seemed to be all she did these days, she saw giant butterflies as if they were falling from the sky, girls poking their noses out to get a better glimpse at her, and mushrooms, too big to be houses, towering as one unified species to rule them all.
Endymion didn’t answer the man’s questions, and he didn’t seem to mind. “Can I explore?” she asked, hesitantly. “Can I see this new world?”
“Certainly, my dear. But first, you must sleep. YOU GOT HERE TOO LATE! You must sleep.”
He showed her to a bed under a canopy of trees. There was a girl waiting on it already, waiting for her so she could sleep. No, it wasn’t a girl. It was a fox, dressed up to look like a girl. “This is Foxy,” said the colorful man, “You need to make her feel beautiful.”
“But I am forever young a beautiful,” replied Endymion. This was her porcelain sleep, and no one could take that from her.
“That’s irrelevant,” he said, “It is now your job to make Foxy feel young a beautiful. You will not make it in this world if you can’t do that.”
Endymion didn’t respond, and just waited for the man to go away. Once he left, she looked at the fox. The fox looked back at her. Foxy got down low, looking up at Endymion. She used her paw to wipe her nose and smooth her fur on her face. Endymion scoffed, disgusted by the creature. “Foxes shouldn’t wear clothes,” she said to her. She got no respond. “Did you hear me?” she asked, then repeating, “Foxes shouldn’t wear clothes!”
Foxy put her head down, moving away from Endymion, a few small tears falling from her eyes.
Endymion turned away, resolved on exploring this new world. She went into the density of the forrest, confronting more and more creatures.
There were thousands of faeries. Everywhere, little, delicate people with extraordinarily, disproportionately large wings swarmed mushrooms, ferns, beetles, and moss beds. Wanting to join these frenzies, Endymion climbed up in front of a home where there were very many folks.
A smaller faery leaned on a mushroom, looking seductively at Endymion. “Come play with me,” she asked. Endymion declined, and kept walking towards the front door.
Another faery seemed to be drinking water from a leaf, but Endymion thought that was strange because she noticed other faeries drinking water from small cups they had fashioned.
“Why do you drink water from that leaf?” Endymion asked the beautiful girl. The girl smiled, a hazy look in her eyes and she looked all over Endymion’s face, though not necessarily landing upon her eyes. Finally she replied:
“Do you see that mushroom?” She pointed up above her. There was indeed a giant mushroom throwing them both into its shadow. “When it rains, water falls onto that mushroom, trickling down, picking up remnants of the giant along the way. Then the drop goes in this leaf for us to drink. A GIFT OF THE SHROOMS!” She bellowed this last part, collapsing backward into a fit of giggles. “This is how we’re happy Endymion! THIS IS HOW WE LIVE! WE LIVE!” She waved her arms in the air for emphasis, but then got so thoroughly distracted by the feeling of the air on her arms that she forgot Endymion completely.
Walking away, she thought about how that girl must be feeling. She didn’t particularly want to know, so she searched for something else.
On the side of the house was a staircase. She approached it, climbing around the building, ending up on top of one exceptionally large moss bed. Atop the moss bed was an exceptionally large mushroom.
There was a ladder alongside it, so Endymion decided to climb it.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a voice said behind her.
“What?” she asked, turning ‘round with a start.
“Don’t climb up there. You won’t like it.” The voice was the colorful man who had initially welcomed her.
“Why not?”
“Because you didn’t follow the rules.” He responded. Endymion scoffed, and turned around to climb the ladder. “Okay, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. Watch out for the OSCA.”
“Who’s that?” When the man didn’t answer, but just walked away, she forgot about him and climbed the ladder.
At the top was a girl. The girl looked up at Endymion, expectantly. She seemed to want something from her. A service Endymion wasn’t sure how to perform. “Who are you?” Endymion asked the girl, feeling awkward.
“I am Foxy,” she said, clearly and articulately. “I am young a beautiful.”
Foxy had done it all on her own, and yet she still wanted something from Endymion that Endymion could no longer provide. Her discomfiture grew in the silence, and so she asked, “Who is the OSCA?”
Foxy smiled brilliantly, causing Endymion to blush at having been smiled at by such a beautiful creature. “The OSCA is the Ohio Swiss Cheese Association. They are very important, but not very threatening.”
I-70: DAY TWO
Endymion settled into a city. The city was very spacious, with wide streets, plenty of space for parking, bicycle lanes the size of car lanes, and sidewalks larger than the bicycle lanes. There was a great white river that wrapped around one side of the city. This place was divided into two kinds of people: thinkers and workers. The thinkers stayed near the great white river, and the workers stayed within town in offices.
But neither party cared about anyone but themselves. This city had long become selfish and uncaring. No one had relationships with their neighbors. There were no social hot-spots because no one wanted to listen to each other talk. People stopped sharing.
The thinkers didn’t know what was going on in the world, so their thoughts lacked relevancy. For instance, they were unaware of the war going on in the west. The workers spent all day in offices, writing numbers, then returned to their suburban homes to ignore their families.
This is where Endymion found herself, in the company of a divided household. This family was one of the few that lived within the city. Her hosts were a man and a woman; the man was a thinker and the woman was a worker.
One day, Endymion asked them about what was going on out west. “Don’t you care about me?!” The man accused her.
“You’ve never asked such questions before. What makes that land more interesting than my work?!” questioned the woman. They rejected her for her ignorance, and threw her out onto the street. “You must leave this place!” The man told her. “We are going to put you in a canoe and ship you away by the great white river. It will be made of aluminum and wood. The aluminum is contemporary and represents the release of technology, and the wood is reminiscent and establishes a link to the past. These are the things I consider, and you must feel shame for not having considered them too.” (Nordgluen; Indianapolis, Indiana.)
The woman carried Endymion to the river, and dropped her into the canoe. She dropped a trinket onto Endymion. “This is a utilitarian, man-made item. It is absolute and concrete. You must do all the work if you want it to have significance,” she stated, then walked away. (Gruzenga; Interlochen, Michigan.)
Endymion drifted lazily down the river. She found the wood of which the canoe was made to be Cypress wood. She wondered who had made the canoe, and how the man had acquired it, for he was not a worker; he was a thinker. He would never have known how to construct a canoe of such skill.
She noticed that the great white river had become the Missouri River. Hearing noises behind her, she spun around in her spacious canoe to confront more travelers. The travelers were two men and a young Native American woman.
“Hello there young lady!” one man called out to her. “Where might you be headed?” The canoe that they had, had to be about twelve feet in length. Intimidated, Endymion sped up. She felt attracted to the girl, but desired to escape the strange men.
Suddenly, she heard a voice inside her head that wasn’t her own. It was the voice of a young woman. She looked back again to see the Native American locking eyes with her. “Go back,” she said, “Go back to the previous state. Get to the mounds.”
The mounds? Endymion thought.
“Yes, the mounds,” was the response, and then the woman looked away from her, disengaging.
Okay, so she had to go back. Endymion maneuvered the canoe the best that she could to the shore. She looked back once more for the woman. There was no canoe in sight apart from her own. The river stretched in front of her a long way forward and back, but the companions had disappeared.
Shrugging her shoulders, Endymion set of on foot across a large corn field that lay in front of her. She collected corn along the way for her evening meal. This field kept going and going, never seeming to end. She kept thinking that she saw the edge of a forest in the distance, but it got no closer than being in the distance. She stopped to take a break, confused as to how to proceed. This path wasn’t getting her anywhere, so what was the point.
Suddenly, the was an excruciatingly loud screech. What she imagined a velociraptor to sound like she thought. “CRRRAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!!” it shrieked again. That noise couldn’t be human! How could it? Where was it coming from. She whirled around again and again, searching for the source of the noise. From the direction opposite of the forrest edge, a creature jumped out at her, shrieking and terrorizing her. It looked like it could have perhaps at one point been a man, but its limbs were skinny and distorted now. It was naked and without a gender. There was a long, squiggly string hanging from where its sex organs should be, appearing to be an extension of a spiral that was painted on its belly. An arrow was stabbed through its chest, and it held a long centipede.
The man-creature chased her around the field. For a while she lost her way, but before she knew it, she was right up on the forrest. Upon seeing the trees, the creature shrieked again, and jumped back, apparently unwilling to approach them. It tore away, into a clearing, then disappeared by being enveloped in white-ness.
Endymion clutched her side, cramped from fleeing. Breathing heavily, she sat on a log to calm herself. She barely had the time to do so, before two new men appeared.
They were twins, identical twins, dressed in all black with white stripes on their faces. “Where did he go?” They asked together.
“Who... are... you?” Endymion asked them between breaths.
“I am Brother Elder,” said one.
“And I am Brother Younger,” said the other.
“We catch monsters,” they said in unison. “Now where did the monster go?”
“That way,” Endymion replied, pointing off into the corn field. “But you’re too late. He’s disappeared.”
“Rats!” went Brother Younger.
“It’s okay Brother Younger. He’ll be back.”
“Yes! Yes! Quick! Quick! We must take her to the chief!” said Brother Younger, jumping up and down.
“Agreed! Come along, Endymion!” Brother Elder cried, taking her hand and leading her at a fast pace into the darkness of the woods.
“How do you know my name?” she asked, hopelessly attempting to slow down her leader.
“Our chief told us about you. He knows very many things,” he responded, cryptically.
“Look out Brother Elder! A monster!” Brother Elder looked up into a tree, and Endymion followed his gaze. There was indeed a white monster, lurking in the crevice of a tree, waiting to pounce on her.
“Put this on!” demanded Brother Younger, pulling out a costume from who knows where. It was the costume of a bear.
“That’s not enough, Brother Younger! She must disguise as a dead bear!”
“Good, that’s good thinking. Come, we will rip of her head!”
“What?!” Endymion cried, trying to escape these lunatics.
“No, no, no! Do not worry Endymion! We have string!” Brother Elder chased Endymion as she tried to escape. Her efforts were to no avail, for he got to her, and jumped on her back. He tied string around the top of her head and at the base of her neck, then ripped off her head. Endymion was down on the ground, a decapitated bear.
There were a tense, silent few minutes as the monster investigated the situation. It sniffed Endymion and nudged her. When she didn’t move or satisfy his nose, he sauntered away without interest. It was at this moment that the twins pounced on him, tearing off his head... without the use of string.
Then they went back to Endymion, put her head back on, and took her hands as if nothing had happened, continuing their journey into the thick of the trees. Endymion, at a loss for words and bewildered beyond expression, followed like a sheep.
Finally they reached a clearing. The twins let go of her hands, and scampered away into darkness. Endymion looked around for an explanation as to why they had stopped. A new man stepped into the clearing. He was beautiful. He wore no shirt and had the torso of a Greek God. His skin was evenly tanned. His jaw and face structure was strong and chiseled. His legs were long and his thighs smooth and looked hard as rocks. Endymion couldn’t speak. Her knees became weak and her jaw dropped as she looked this man up and down.
“Hello Endymion. For a long time, you have been confident in your choices. You fell asleep, and you were certain that having a future of immortal beauty was worth it, but now you are less certain.
Now you are confronted with new choices. With you make them with the same amount of certainty, or has this regret inhibited your ability to continue in any deliberate manner?”
“What?” Endymion was taken from her trance into which his physique placed her. “I don’t regret anything. I am forever young and beautiful.” At this moment, a fly whizzed by her ear and whispered, “Are you?”
But the man simply replied “Okay.” Then he began to dance. He danced, jumped, and twirled all about the clearing. He leaped to the edge and picked up a basket. From it, he pulled a snake. No, two snakes. No, three snakes. He pulled five snakes from the basket, and danced with them all about the clearing, and then into the darkness of the forrest.
Now there was a chief. He walked to Endymion, and stood in front of her. He said: “I was once from the tribe of Cheyenne. We have a story. This is how the world will end: The earth is being supported by a tree trunk. There is The Great Beaver slowly gnawing away at it. The spirits of all the living creatures dance around the tree trunk in perfect rhythm. When they are not in perfect rhythm, The Beaver is displeased, and gnaws faster. This causes the tree trunk to tip a little. If The Great Beaver chews through the trunk completely, then the world will end. It is our responsibility to keep the world in balance. Do you understand?”
“Y-Yes sir,” Endymion stammered, frightened of the chief.
“Okay. I will take you to the mounds,” the chief stated with authority. Endymion followed him as he walked away. With his back turned, she felt bold enough to take a good look at him. He held a large staff and wore a horn on his head. He had many colors in his clothing and fine jewelry about his neck and arms. But his skin was wrinkled, and he was old. His limbs were disproportionate and ugly.
They arrived at the mounds. This place was a Native American village. It was lively and busy. Mothers were running after small children and boys were playing the ball game. Some small children ran up to Endymion and took her hand. “Come play with us!” they beckoned.
These children taught Endymion a new game with seeds. When played properly, six seeds are used, but they only had five. She has to roll the seeds like dice. If three seeds landed with white stripes up, that was six points. If only two then that was three points. If all were stripes up, then that was ten points. Any other combination was zero points. Endymion played this game with the children, helping them with their numbers, for a very long time. In fact, she couldn’t remember stopping.
I-70: DAY THREE
Today we’re going to take a break. Have a moment for a breather, perhaps a smoke, set a spell, sit back, and enjoy a new ride, a new scene, a new adventure. Because today I-70 took me to Kansas City, Missouri. Kansas City is an excellent place. Did you know that? I sure didn’t.
Reading about its historic jazz scene and the Crossroads Arts District, an adventure into the city was a given, but ill-prepared. With an interesting intro onto the cross-streets 18th and Vine, the historic jazz town from the era of Jim Crow danced around us. The Gem Theater, opened in 1912, stood halfway up the street, advertising concerts in its future, but back in the day it played flicks like The Lure of a Woman featuring Dr. A. Porter and Regina Cohee “supported by a notable cast of colored players.” 
On the cross-streets of 18th and Highland stood a small pink building called the Mutual Musicians Foundation. Here was the beginning, the heart, and the soul of Jazz before it spread across America. All the greats played there, and they all played there first. In fact, this little club is where the phrase “Jam Session” was coined. When someone would ask a friend if they wanted to check out that club next weekend, a response might be “No way, man. I don’t wanna go near that Jammed Session,” because the room was so small with so many people packed in tight.
If you keep going down 18th street a few blocks, you enter the Crossroads Art District. As soon as you enter, you know you’re there. You immediately begin to see wall paintings, bars, sculptures made from a junk yard... It is for this incredible place that I have taken a step back from Endymion’s dream so you can fully appreciate the work.
By “the work”, I mean, specifically, the work of the Kultured Chameleon Art Gallery. This is a gallery dedicated to street art, which their organizer Lee Burgess describes as “muralists, urban designers, graffiti.” He says that there is an important difference between vandalism and graffiti, and it is “permission.” He wants to encourage graffiti as a healthy artistic outlet.
KC Gallery participates in the Crossroads Art District’s First Friday event every month. All the galleries on this strip of 18th street open up and share their work with each other. In a lot behind the KC Gallery, they set up a party, incorporating “the four elements of Hip-Hop,” Burgess says, “Breakdance, DJ, MC, and Graffiti.”
To take their non-profit business a step further, KC Gallery is using street art to break down barriers within their community by teaming up with city property owners and businesses to provide canvases for youth between about 20 and 35 years of age to share their work. They are currently beginning a project on a castle-like structure on 20th and Vine. The property owner Daniel Edwards has teamed up with Burgess to clean out and clean up this grand building.
Between stone walls stand flat cement canvases, ready for color. They have already made a significant amount of headway in this project in terms of clean-up around and about the building, which began in a dreary and rejected state. After this first round of efforts were completed, it started looking so nice that Edwards actually got married there. Aaahh, happy days!
On Thursday, August 20th, 350 volunteers will be coming together to hustle through the inside of this location to finish getting it ready for the next event: an auction. Each canvas is going to be auctioned off to local businesses, who can then work with local artists to get busy. The theme for the artists is given to them: from Trash to Treasure. The artists are asked to share what are treasures to them, working with their sponsors to create something new.
KC Gallery is using this underground art scene with a goal of community improvement. The men that organize this gallery in serval locations along almost a dozen blocks are not artists themselves. Burgess considers himself a platform for young artists to keep alive a world he loves being part of.
For more information, I’d love for you to visit KulturedChameleon.com
The rest of this post is going to be devoted to sharing all of the gallery I got the privilege of seeing.
I-70 DAY FOUR; PART ONE: DENVER
While strolling around the 16th street mall, creative commercial activity springs up around every corner. In between two trolly streets, a piano sits, being hammered on at will by any talented citizen. On the block under the clock tower, Kenny Lee Young was found to be a jamming half of a duo, with a partner on drums. His set can include both covers and originals; he’s quoted favoring the Black Keys. His voice is clean and articulate, with just enough edge to unify his sound with alternative rock. You can tell he has real vocal training as a result of being in choirs throughout his childhood.
He released his first album at age 22 titled “All Sides of the Spectrum.” Following his move to Denver, he released an EP (in 2007) and a few live albums. In April, he released another EP titled “The Learning Curve.” To hear tracks and find out where he’s playing next, check out his page on Reverbnation:
The next stop was Denver’s art district on Santa Fe Drive. At number 757, there is a small tattoo shop called Kitchens Ink. Each of its artists are very talented, most having attended art school, which can be a rarity among this field. Individually, however, they are each “doing their own thing,” according to artist Liz Green. Green describes herself as a “performance artist.” When asked to expand upon that statement, she said, “It’s weird. Weird performance art.” Green has a website, where you can see her photography, drawings, performance information, and tattoo portfolio. It comes highly recommended by yours truly. I encourage you to see her comic pages under her drawings; they’re thoroughly entertaining. The site is LizGreeen.com.
Ms. Green went on to recommend a friend’s work. Her friend is Katy Zimmerman. I didn’t get the chance to speak to Ms. Zimmerman, however I did see her studio in Boxcar Art Gallery on Santa Fe Drive. She does fine intricate stitching on canvases and medicine bags.
You can follow her work at KATY ZIMMERWOMAN
Green’s recommendation sums up the general vibe I got from not only this shop, but from any gallery I walked into on Santa Fe Drive. People were pleasantly supportive of each other. Art was something to share, no exceptions. Truly impressive.
At Kitchens Ink, I got a tattoo done by Renee. Renee made the whole experience of their store excellent. He did very good work for a reasonable price, willing to work with me. Like his associates, Renee too had a hidden talent. Taking hold of a chance to talk up her coworkers, Liz Green showed me this treasure:
The last artist at Kitchens Ink I spoke with was Trent Hartt. Hartt is in the process of developing a graphic novel. It is going to be the first in a series. He has played with the idea of composing comic book that revolves around dreamlike-ideas, which, of course, I was a huge supporter of, but that is not the direction the current novel is taking. He declined to comment further on that project, as it is a work in process. Here is a sample of his talent:
Normally, when you walk around and about a tattoo parlor, you will see photographs of a hundred different tattoos they’ve done in the past, some on disturbing parts of the body. Honestly, I tend to veer my eyes away from these images. But at Kitchens Ink they have displays of many other artists within their community. A favorite of Green’s is Carrie Ann Baade. Baade is a painter and professor. Here are a few images of her original oil paintings.
Her work speaks for itself. Mesmerizing, colorful. The facial expressions have a depth difficult to achieve. If you’d like to see all of her work, visit CarrieAnnBaade.com.
On the streets of this zone in Denver Colorado, I was not disappointed as I searched for comparable street art. There was a good one to be seen almost every block. Here is street art in arts town Denver. Keep checking my Twitter @melody_page or Instagram “melodyhession” as I am continuously posting #streetart I find across America.
In summation, Denver Colorado is the best city thus far on this cross-country treck... but the day is not over yet! There are adventures yet for tonight well into one to two o’clock in the morning, so stay tuned for another DAY FOUR posting as we check in on Endymion and her dream!
I-70 DAY FOUR; PART TWO
Endymion was traveling down a long flat road. Endless corn fields and meadows, so flat that you could be fooled into fearing you might walk right off the edge of the earth, except the edge never came. The end never came, but the fear was endless.
100 degree heat didn’t help the situation either. Endymion had stripped down as far as she could within decency, but now she could feel the scorching sun on her skin. She was getting weaker, and the limitless mass of blue sky was becoming an enemy. At first, the sight was beautiful. The Native Americans had taught her things for this very trip, different ways to truly appreciate the land and make use of its resources. Since she saw all that now in the environment around her, she wanted to do nothing but relish in this part of the journey... but her temper was beginning to take the best of that intention.
Finally, way off in the distance, Endymion saw a curve in the road. “Thank Goodness!” she bellowed out loud, frightening away a few bugs that had landed on her arms. She picked up her travel speed, bracing for the change she had been longing for all the way across Kansas.
On her right, she saw a sign. The same sign had been repeating for the past few miles. For the first time, Endymion slowed down enough to read it. “Come Endymion!” it read, “Stay Here! Come see us!” This sign was beckoning her by name to see them. How had she missed that? What better reason could there be to stop going where she was going. They clearly wanted her.
Endymion slowed down, and turned off course without a second thought. No thought to what might be better up ahead. The road became unpaved and uneven, its sides either rocky or overgrown. Up ahead, the view was mesmerizing, because the road was still flat, but littered with buildings and people as far as her eyes could see. But what really caught her attention was noticing that the farther down the road she got, the larger the structures and people around her were. At first she thought she might be shrinking again, but she had a gut feeling that it wasn’t her getting smaller; it was everything around her growing at a now exponential rate.
She slowed to a stop. Everything around her had grown to be in the neighborhood of eighty feet in height. That was the height of the people. Their buildings were bridging on terrifying. How could a structure be stable like that? She thought. She knew almost nothing about architecture, but this unknowing increased her fear. She veered away from man-made structures for her idea that they might fall.
On a corner was a man with a long beard. He was dressed as if he was from a different time, perhaps mid 1800s in Germany and the surrounding smaller countries. His shirt and pants were casual and quite plain and, Endymion thought, very dull. Before him was an easel as tall as he was. In one hand he held an all natural paint pallet with an excessive amount of yellow, and in the other hand he held a hunk of a loaf of bread. He was also missing an ear.
She scurried around people as they walked. No one payed her any mind, as if she were a small lizard. They couldn’t see her for what she was, the girl they’ve been wanting.
Wait -- How could she fulfill their desires? They wanted her, but how would they ever know that she had arrived?! “Hello!” she shouted, attempting to get the attention of the observant artist as he painted. “Hey you!” She ran around the base of the easel, hitting and kicking it, hoping it would move enough to make him look down instead of off into the field where he longed to see a sunflower, outside of his imagination, to work off of. But, sadly, it was now too late in the season. Sunflowers in Kansas were now few and far between.
Endymion stopped unleashing on the easel, out of breath and tired from a long day’s journey. She was beginning to resent these people. How dare they advertise so blatantly their need for her, and then exist in such a way. What did they expect her to do about this? She couldn’t grow. She couldn’t solve their problems. She didn’t even have a way to simply communicate with them. They would never hear her!
She sat down, empty and exhausted. She began to cry, quietly and modestly, holding tightly onto the only two things she felt she truly had right now: youth and beauty. Daintily wiping away her tears, she walked away from the giant painter. She cursed him: “Never see a Sunflower. Never paint real beauty. Be forever too big so that even when your flowers come, you will step all over them!” and she kept walking away.
Back on the main high road, she approached the curve. She now understood that she had made it to Colorado. Seeing a sea of giant sunflowers to her left, she laughed under her breath, a cruel, un-lady-like, laughter.
To her right, appeared a huge mansion, sitting at the top of a hill. It was surrounded by trees until the hill dropped and ended at a river. Endymion did a 360, watching and feeling the dense vibrations of mountains growing up all around her. They climbed underneath her, and some reached way higher than anything in the giant town. Their hight went far beyond her eyes’ reach.
This mansion gave her hope. She needed to rejuvenate and be among civilized society. It had been such a long time since she’d had decent conversation. This environment would be on her level, easy and natural. So she climbed the mountain to the top, and went to the front door.
It had become dusk, the sun disappearing behind an edge of the horizon. Endymion took a moment on the porch of this home to turn ‘round and appreciate the beauty of where she was. She envied those that live here.
Endymion looked down at her hands, feeling cold drops hit her skin. It was starting to rain a steady sprinkle. It took not two minutes for the pace to pick up, and pretty soon Endymion was soaked inside out. She climbed a few more steps to the Mansion’s door, and knocked.
There was silence for a minute or so. Endymion knocked again, adding a “Hello?” This second knock opened the door, which apparently had been not quite closed. It slowly creaked in to the house, letting cloudy, rainy light into an otherwise pitch-black room. The most Endymion could see was a tall, wooden, intricately carved hat rack, and an end table that stood on three legs.
“Hello?” she repeated, a little louder, uncertain of how to proceed. She took a step into the house. Thinking she heard someone to her right, she quickly took a step back, “Is anyone home?”
The response she got was a series of creaks coming from somewhere high above and in front of Endymion. Well, old houses make all kinds of noises, Endymion thought. These people might have left their door unlocked on accident, but they clearly weren’t home. So she took a seat on the porch to wait out the rain.
The landscape had turned from dusk to night. From the top of this hill, she could see the whole town below. There was a main street with many medium-colored wooden buildings and shop lines advertising leather stores, medicine shops, coffee corners, book stores, etcetera.
Looking in the more immediate area, the front lawn of this home was spectacular. Immediately in front on the porch railing was lined with giant sage bushes. She took a deep breath, looking for the smell she loved so well.
Endymion jumped, startled by a rap on the window behind her. Quickly turning around, she saw the modestly sized window, giving light to nothing that might be on the other side of it. “Hello?” Maybe they had a cat.
Endymion stood up and walked away from the front door, along the wrap-around porch. “Excuse me,” a voice said from behind her. She whirled around; there was a butler, holding a cloth in his left hand, as if she had caught him in the middle of something.
“Hi, I’m sorry. It’s raining, so I was just waiting it out on your porch. I hope that’s okay?” she felt sheepish at having come here in the first place and was quite ready to leave. She was more out-of-place than she had anticipated.
“Okaaay,” the butler responded, slowly. “It’s cold outside. Can I offer you a cup of tea?”
“That would be wonderful! Are you sure you don’t mind? I’m sure the rain will stop soon. I don’t want to put anyone out.”
“It’s no trouble,” he smiled a political smile, and went back inside the house. Endymion hesitated, then followed him in. As the altitude had increased, it had gotten significantly colder, so being inside was worth also being awkward and uncomfortable.
She butler hadn’t turned on any lights. He just walked into the darkness. After Endymion followed, she lost track of him. “Sir? Where did you go? Sir?” She wondered where he would have her sit. She wasn’t in the best state. Not wanting to dirty anything, she removed her shoes, and proceeded into the house, searching for a comfortable place to stand.
Better yet, she thought, I wonder if they have an enclosed porch-type area in the back. She went deeper into the house. There was a large banister where she could see all along up the steps and into the second floor. All the floors were made of wood. She heard footsteps on the second floor. They were heading towards the steps. Endymion panicked, getting a sense that she wasn’t supposed to be here. “Excuse me? The butler let me in. Is anyone home?”
There was silence and then WHAM! The door slammed shut behind her. Endymion screamed quickly, stopping just as suddenly as she’d started. “Who’s there?” she asked no one. “Okay ,I’m just gonna go,” she continued talking, more for her own benefit than anyone else’s. If she talked out loud then it meant that someone else was there doing these things, and she’d like to believe that. She approached the door and turned the handle to find it to be locked. She tried turning the lock, but it broke right off. “Oh, I’m so sorry! Shit,” she wondered, yet again, who she was talking to.
She sighed. I guess I might as well just set a spell and wait out the rain,she thought, reverting to her original plan. Her exhaustion was catching up with her, making her difficult to convince that it was time to put more effort into leaving.
She went down a hallway that began underneath the stair-case. At the end of the hallway was a giant, old mirror. The glass was faded, but not so much that she couldn’t make herself out. The frame of the mirror was a beautiful, deep golden color, wherever it wasn’t chipped. She walked up to it and sat down, looking at herself. She stayed like this for quite some time, perhaps fifteen minutes, before she noticed something behind her in the mirror.
It was difficult to make out. Just a shadow off in the distance at first. She turned around, looking for the butler. “Sir?” She looked back at the mirror. The shadow had gotten closer and had taken a form: The silhouette of a man, approaching. Endymion squinted her eyes, trying to make him out, wondering how something can appear silhouetted in such darkness.
Finally, he appeared to be directly behind her, and Endymion began to feel heat that wasn’t her own. She sat still, as if she was waiting for something. Whispers began in her ear, but she was unable to make them out.
Then, all in one moment, the face and voice became completely clear. The face was red and black from fire, the eyes slitted and bright blue. The voice was a vicious hiss, a demand: “LIGHT YOURSELF ON FIRE!!” it echoed off the walls and the ceiling. A match stuck the mirror on her left, then lit her mirror image on fire. Without feeling heat, she watched herself get consumed by flames, her mirror image screaming and crying in agony. Endymion began to cry with no restraint, watching her life be destroyed.
“Stop! STOP!” she screamed, “PLEASE!” The fire slowly died down, leaving nothing but ashy remains in its wake. Endymion wiped the tears and snot from her face onto her sleeve, not turning from the mirror for an instant, entrance by what it would create.
The ashes began to move, so she moved her head closer to see what was happening. An ugly little bird hopped from it. The bird was black and brown, with crust and goo all in its eyes and dripping from its ears. It could barely stand or walk, sneezing every few seconds from the ashes.
The bird went about its business, trying to figure out how life worked, and Endymion lost interest. She was now beginning to fully absorb everything that had happened around her in this house. She began to panic from things she didn’t understand, so ran to the front door. Now the handle was also missing. She darted to the closest window, but she couldn’t see any mechanism that could be used to open it. She hesitated, still with the lingering feeling that she was in someone else’s home and that a certain amount of respect was necessary. But a rush behind her made her own indecisiveness okay. The bird was flying as top speed out of the mirror and at the window. It crashed through the grass and into the sun. How is the sun out? How long was I in there?The sun lit up everything. Absolutely everything in the yard was bathed luxuriously in sunlight. Endymion climbed through the broken glass, careful not to let anything that was broken affect her.
Beyond the yard she was greeted by an enormous meadow, full on Sunflowers. She took a deep breath, and ran into it. The bird flew clumsily around her, still learning and experimenting, but it had become a startling shade of blue. Endymion fell back into the meadow, relaxing her body and absorbing the vitamins. Turning her head to one side, she saw the most magnificent sunflower she had ever seen in her life. The face was wide and the petals a perfect shade of yellow. It was as tall as her. She stood up, and took a good long look at it.
She thought very carefully for a long while until she finally made a decision. She picked the flower, and gave it to the bird, who had grown three times larger in the last few minutes and sprouted feathers of many more colors. The bird flew away with it, and Endymion knew that it was taking the flower to the painter.
I-70 DAY FIVE
Endymion found herself lying down on a leather love-seat. I thought I was in a meadow of sunflowers, she thought, perplexed. Sitting up, she realized it was not simply a love-seat at all, but the seat of a car. The car was very old fashioned, possibly from the 1920s. The steering wheel was thin and large, awkward looking to Endymion. It was also on the British side of the car.
She maneuvered herself into the driver’s seat, then climbed out of the vehicle. It was parked in front of a home with neat arched windows lining it. She was done bothering people in their homes, so she turned away, noticing she was still in the mountains. Looking up, she longed to get up there, up above everything and everyone else. But how? It looked so incredibly difficult. A trek, a task she estimated she was not up for.
She began to walk towards the base of a mountain anyway, but not just any mountain. She searched for one of the highest peaks. If she was going to try, she was going to make sure the reward was a good one.
She stood at the base, hesitating. Then a woman’s voice came up behind her. “You know, there’s an elevator over there,” she pointed around a corner off of the main path.
“A wh -- really?” asked Endymion.
“Of course. What, do you think they expect you to climb this all on your own?” The woman continued on past Endymion, meeting up with a friend. Endymion watched as they began the trek together.
She turned the corner, and, sure enough, there was an elevator lodged right into the side of the mountain. It was an antiquated elevator. It had what looked like a brass framed door and a gate. She pressed the up arrow, and the door and gate opened. “This can’t be safe,” she said to herself, walking in.
The interior had mirrors all around it, and the level buttons were different altitudes. This particular mountain seemed to only go up 5,000 feet. It had looked much higher than that to her, but she pressed the 5,000 button, and the elevator slowly creaked shut.
Inside the elevator was a crank. The crank gave her options like “keep door open” or “emergency stop” or “call” or “gum.” She turned the crank to gum, and a piece slid out under it. She chewed it as she went higher and higher, avoiding the uncomfortable sensation of her ears popping.
There was a “ding!” and the doors opened. She hadn’t arrived at 5,000 feet yet, but there was a man outside the door waiting to come in. “Endymion?” he said.
The man was the thinker from that city she had stayed in a while ago. “Oh my goodness!” Endymion responded, completely surprised to see him here.
“Hey! What are you doing here?” he asked her.
“I’m climbing a mountain,” she responded, facetiously, “What are you doing here?”
“Well, honestly, Endymion, you got me thinking. And not just thinking, but considering. I’d never really thought about what was going on anywhere else, and I’d especially never thought about how to do work from all my thinking. And then you mentioned the war going on out west, and I just couldn’t get it out of my head. So I’ve been in the battlefield, using my thoughts to talk to people, write articles, and encourage peace.”
“That’s -- wow. I --,” Endymion stuttered, unable to find words that did his actions justice. “I’m impressed,” she concluded finally.
“Thanks, Endymion. Thank you so much. It’s simply thanks to you that I ventured out of my own head. Learning how to incorporate thinking and working has been the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, but thank you so much for getting me to do it.”
The elevator arrived at 5,000 feet. They said their farewells, and the thinking worker walked away, up the mountain.
Endymion realized that the mountain was higher than 5,000 feet. It’s just that the elevator couldn’t take her all the way there. She walked off in the same direction as that man.
The path got steeper and steeper. It weaved back and forth along the side, but it you looked strait up, you couldn’t help but be intimidated by the steep incline ahead of you.
Endymion began to hear thundering in the distance. Her heart sank; she did not want it to rain and force her to turn back. Nevertheless, the thundering continued, getting louder and louder... but the rain never came.
Then there was a change. The thundering stopped and was replaced with another loud noise. It was booming right behind Endymion. She turned around, fearing an animal or strange new weather she was not accustomed to, but instead she found Van Gogh. “You’re the painter!” she said, shocked. The painter was an even bigger giant than he had been before Colorado. “What are you doing here?” she shouted, wondering if he could even hear her. It appeared that, this time, he could. Perhaps the change was that he was listening for her... Why was he listening for her? She wondered. He spoke, but Endymion couldn’t understand. His words were not articulated to her comparatively small ears.
Van Gogh moved his ginormous hand, which was as wide as a house, right in front of Endymion. She understood, and, struggling, climbed onto it. She sat in the palm of his hand. He slowly and gently moved his hand up the mountain and placed her on the highest peak. He smiled, and said something else to her she couldn’t understand. “Thank You!” she shouted. Van Gogh smiled some more, then slowly turned around and thundered away.
Endymion watched him. He paused and turned around. He took something out of his pocket and unfolded it. She saw an 80 foot painting of sunflowers. “It’s beautiful!” she bellowed. She watched a tear fall from Van Gogh’s eye as he said something else to her. Then he folded up the paper, put it back in his pocket, and disappeared into the mountains.
Endymion turned to the view, soaking it in.
Higher to climb
Steady and fine
Skimming a throw-back and life is sublime.
Mid august is summer, but follow me here
And you’ll believe we’ve reached another side of the year.
Snow when it’s raining
Brisk while it’s sweltering
Little compares to this mountain’s mystique
But keep yourself up
Keep your head in the clouds
And you’ll start to remember that you’re here and now.
Keep up your smiling and take in the view
Peaks upon peaks and rivers between
The tundra’s among you, no sign of tall life
But you easily begin to feel at home in spite
In spite of the cold and in spite of the fact
That breathing’s an effort akin to balancing a switch-back.
Breath it all in
Use not only sight
But smell the crisp air filled from wildlife’s help
Feel the edges of rocks under your feet
Taste a strip of jerky: Buffalo Beef
And try not to leave as long as you’re here
You’ll miss the Rocky Mountains this time next year.
I-70 DAY SIX
Indulge in the rain as it stains your hair
Drips down your face, forcing tears
Indulge in the smell of an herb or a spice
Don't brush it off as pleasant or nice
But rub it into your skin, weave it in your hair
Relish the time when this beauty is fair
Indulge in the moment to drop off from the world
Get off the radar, not to be heard
Indulge in the moment you come back again
Talk to a relative; embrace a friend.
Relax in the green: all the nature you've seen
Trees growing taller and you're getting smaller
Prairies get bigger, pulling your trigger
'Cause green is your home; only this much is known
So…
Indulge in the sun as it scorches your skin
Love the moon, countless stars are the points of a pin
Indulge in a moment of luxury and peace
Life on the road demands indulgence in these.
I-80 DAY SEVEN
Endymion was on a road. A highway, that seemed to stretch infinitely in both directions. She took a deep breath and, consequently, coughed excessively. She was leaning down with both hands on her knees, in a fit. Through a slow recovery, she began to take in her surroundings.
She was clearly in a desert. Mountains were still surrounding her. High, unevenly tan mountains littered with sage bushes. Endymion was so tired. She didn’t want to be in the middle of nowhere, but she never seemed to have a say in the matter. She just went where life took her, and now it had taken her to a desert.
So she started walking. Might as well, she thought, bitterly. She could feel the sun burning her skin, risking her beauty.No, not risking anything, Endymion decided, if I am beautiful, then I am beautiful. This will just be a new kind of beauty. There must be an agreement for her to be asleep. She had expectations.
The wind picked up, relieving Endymion momentarily. She heard the wind become louder, approaching her from behind. She turned, and saw the wind beginning to pick up dirt. A small tornado of dirt was forming before her very eyes.A Dirt Devil! She didn’t know very much about the desert, so she wasn’t sure if she was in danger or not. The wind was gaining around her, and she was finding it more difficult to keep steady ground. She began to run down the road because it made her feel stronger and more solid.
Behind her approached the noises of a vehicle. She looked, and a car was getting close. She faced it, and stuck a thumb out, trying to hitch-hike out of this forsaken place. She was running backwards at a brisk place, heart racing. She could see The Devil moving in her direction. She must not get sucked in! She thought, wondering if it was actually an issue. She tended to think of a lot of non-existent things as real problems, and sometimes even became disappointed when she learned how unreal her fears were.
She had continuously been scurrying backwards, when WHAM! she smacked the back of her head into a sign. She collapsed immediately, blacking out momentarily. When she opened her eyes, the crusty dirt of the desert was smashed up against her face, and that same car was still approaching. This damn road was so flat; seeing that car could still mean it was miles away.
Endymion slowly sat up, her sight deceiving her through dizziness. She veered up at the sign that had offended her so violently, to find out what had been so important that it had to confront her path so painfully.
The sign read: Detention Center Zone Next 3 Miles; Hitch Hiking Prohibited.
“Oh,” Endymion said out loud. “Fuck that,” is what followed. She was not going to walk even one mile in this dry land devoid of anything embracing to civilized society... or any society for that matter.
Looking back at the car and seeing that it had gotten closer, she stood up carefully and stuck out her thumb again. She waved her other arm dramatically, wanting to make completely sure they saw her. But now that the car was close, she could identify it with clarity: it was a cop’s car. Not just any police car though; it was the sheriff’s car. Nevertheless, it slowed to a stop beside her.
“Howdy thar young lady,” said the sheriff, with a strong country accent, more texas than eastern-southern. “You cain’t’ve bin leavin’ that prison, can ya? Look too nahce.” He looked at her expectantly, smiling. He wore those round, black, sunglasses that The Beatles were known for. He had a black, sheriff’s uniform on, a belt with unidentifiable tools except for the one old-fashioned looking pistol in a pocket on the right side. She couldn’t see his feet, but she bet he had some mighty cowboy boots on to top off the look.
“No sir,” she responded. “I’m stuck out here. Would you mind bringing me to the closest town?”
“Yer clearly not from ‘round here, are ya? Firstly, you don’t talk raaahght. Nextly, you know how many laws yer breakin’, young lady? You don’t look raahght neither.”
“Is looking right part of the law?”
“Yes, ma’am. You best come with me. I fix you up so’s you don’t haf ta git behind bars. Good?”
“Okay,” Endymion said, puzzled. “So, I’m sorry, but I didn’t break the law because of the hitch hiking? I broke the law because... because... what exactly have I done again?” The sheriff reached over and opened the door for Endymion to hop into the car.
“Naw, hitch hikin’ ain’t no thang. You don’t worry yo-self ‘bout that. Sometimes, folks jus’ gotta git around. I don’t mind. I do mind if they do they’re goin’ around disturbing the order o’ things. I run a decent town, and you ain’t gonna roam around behavin’ strange, makin’ folks worry.”
“Okay,” Endymion repeated. Yet again, she decided to just go with whatever adventure her life threw at her next. “So where are you taking me?”
“I’m takin’ you ta mah town. Boonville. Yer lucky. Things is boomin’ raahght now ‘cause o’ the mystery.”
“Mystery?”
“Yes ma’am. They’s somthin’ goin’ awn we cain’t figure quite right. Hey, maybe yer somethin’ we need!” He exclaimed, suddenly.
“What? What do you mean ‘I’m something you need’?” Endymion responded, getting nervous.
“I mean you ain’t like us!” he got really serious suddenly, narrowing his eyes to small slits as he looked off into the endless road ahead of him. “Maybe what we need’s a fresh pair o’ eeeeeeeeeyes,” he said, drawing out the word ‘eyes’ with a long aahh.
The sheriff turned the car, and drove into the mountains. They were fairly quiet for a while, as Endymion listened to the car switching gears, struggling to make it up the mountains, then coasting down the other side. After making their way around four giant mountains, Endymions ears were in some pain, not used to the frequent change of altitude. She was about to talk to the sheriff to distract herself, but he started to speak without prompt.
“There’s somethin’ wrong with the music ‘round here,” he stated, nodding his head in the distance. Endymion looked, noticing the town beginning to take shape up ahead. It was about a mile long, completely made of wood. She couldn’t make out too much yet, so she waited and turned to the sheriff as he continued to tell her about the mystery she was going to help with. “The music’s bin contam’nated.”
“Contaminated how?”
“Well, there’s this character come to town. No’one cain’t never seem ter track ‘im down, but we hear ‘im. Hear ‘im in tha music in tha Saloons. Our bands er changin’, and no folks lahk it.”
“That’s the mystery? What are you gonna do about it? What can you do?”
“Well, we figure we gotta find ‘im an’ either talk sense to ‘im, or make ‘im leave.”
“Do you know anything about him? Anything that could help you find him?”
“We know he goes by ‘Travolta.’ He’s got that rock ’n’ roll look, or so’ve heard from the young folks. And his voice’s lahk a woman. Who’d want that, I ask ya?! Who’d want ter hear a man sing lahk a woman?! If I wanna hear a woman, I go’n’ see one fer real. Ridiculous,” the sheriff continued to mutter under his breath about high-pitched men, and Endymion looked out the window, checking out the town that was now around her. Horses were parked everywhere, some saddled up and attached to poles, some wild and roaming around. The saddled horses seemed, for the most part, oblivious to the roaming horses, except for one. There was one horse that was eyeing all the wild horses closely. He stood stalk still, just watching them. It was difficult to tell if his look was envious or suspicious. Endymion’s initial response was that Horses aren’t envious! But then she remembered Foxy. Even if the horse isn’t envious, it doesn’t mean that he doesn’t want to be. 
Some doors to the shops were shutters, and some were full wooden doors. Most of the doors had bags of water hanging from them. Endymion asked the sheriff about this. “It’s ter keep them flies away,” he responded, giving her a look that clearly meant for her to understand that this is something she should have known and that it was questions like that that made her behavior against his policies.
“Oh,” was all she said, looking away again. The sheriff parked his car behind the line of buildings that made up the town. There was a long row of cars parked back here, hidden from the world that existed on the other side. Endymion followed the sheriff through the back shutters of a building. They had walked into a Saloon. Many folks dressed in southern 1860s garb nodded at her companion. Men tipped their hats; some women lifted their dainty hands or tacky feather boas.
They exited out the front door. Posters vandalized the walls of every single shop, declaring “NO MUSIC!” in bold, black letters. “This’s part o’ our prevention tactic,” he said to her, very seriously.
“I see,” was her response. The sherif seemed frustrated by her lack of enthusiasm, so went on.
“We don’t want no music ‘tam’nation to git a’holda our lil’ town, so we gon’ nip it at tha start ‘fore it gits worse. At least, ‘til we can find tha bastard and fix this mess.”
“How would you like me to help?” Endymion asked, figuring she could ride this out until the sheriff turned his back and she could get out of town.
“I’m gon’ have you talk ta one’a our kids here, an’ then you should try’n tell us where we c’n find Travolta.”
“Okay. Take me to the kid.” The sheriff lead her to a larger, more impressive victorian building. He told her that this was the school, and that there would be some kids out on the picnic benches on the left side. He stayed on the walkway.
Endymion walked around the school, and she saw the kids. “Hey, what’s the best way to get to the next town over?” she immediately asked them.
“Who’re you?” a young girl responded. Her accent was sweet and smoother, a southern bell.
“Endymion Jay. Your sheriff asked me to help him find Travolta because he’s messing up your music...” Endymion drifted off. Her words disappeared while the whole group erupted into laughter.
“He’s in charge ‘round here, but people do what they want. We ain’t so authentic as you’d think. AW-thority ain’t no thang. You just gotta know when tah stop an’ you can do pre’ much anythang you wawnt,” the girl continued, “I got a car ‘n’ nothin’ ta do. This’s a ghost town. We don’t know nobody but each other. I’d find it mighty fine to take you somewheres you want.”
“That sounds great. Thanks!” The girl hopped off the picnic table. She kissed two of the boys sitting next to her, but not the third, took Edymion’s hand, and led her all the way around the school to a cluster of trees in which her car was parked. They hopped in, and she drove off through the main road of town. “Goodbye y’all!” the girl screamed out the window.
“Wait! WAIT!” the sheriff yelled and ran after them. “Where’s that damned Travolta?!”
“In ’94 he was in San Fernando Valley, California and in ’07 he was in Baltimore. That’s all I got for you,” Enymion shouted out the window to him, and they disappeared back into the desert.
I-80 DAY EIGHT
Plucking my nerves like I'm a harp
Expecting me to make music? I don't know where to start
How about at the fact that everything you ask
Inspires me to rage against the task
Because you don't make sense
Everything about you is nonsense
What you do, what you think
How you sound when you drink
And I'm tired of these lessons and I'm tired of dreams
I'm tired of you trying to unravel my seems
That I've work so hard on for many a year
It's time you accepted your ways are queer
It's time to end this. It's time to fess up.
Stop being nervous that I'm shit out of luck
It's time to pour myself a new sort of cup
It's time be honest. It's time to wake up.
CROSS COUNTRY LAST DAY
The southern bell brought Endymion to San Francisco. She drove 90 miles an hour on the highway, yet that wind did nothing to deter the sting of the summer heat. In spite of the heat, the strange company, the odd trip... she was extremely glad to have reached the West Coast.
This is where she wanted to be, where she wanted to live and be an adult.
“It was nice meeting you,” Endymion said to the southern bell, as she got out of the car. “Thanks for bringing me here.”“My pleasure, girl. You be careful now. Don’t you get lost or nothin’. ‘member, don’t use backtrackin’ if yer los’. It don’t help for shit. You jus’ git yerself mo’ los’. Ok?”
“Um, yeah. Okay,” Endymion said, smiling. Confused, she walked away from the car, and into the city.
She was in San Francisco. Walking around a corner, she was confronted with a brightly colored street. There was a music store in the middle of the block, a painting of Jimmy Hendrix above a market, and a graffitied building on the far corner that read “1967 Summer of Love.” Looking at the cross streets, she realized she was at Haight- Ashbury, a center for the Hippy Revolution in the 60s. Jefferson Airplane came out of this place, and every aspiring burnout came here to go up in smoke.
Psychedelic music blared from a store titled “A Touch of Haight,” as if nothing had changed. Endymion went up to the street signs to get a better look, and an under- nourished girl with long blonde hair and blue eyes leaned on a lamp post.
“You wanna make sure you look at it with the clock too,” she said. “You also wanna buy some of my weed,” she smiled, playing coy.
Endymion smiled, didn’t say anything, and walked away. She went to cross the street, and a bus rushed past her. It read “Magic Bus” and had bubbles pouring out the back. It was covered in flowers and funky designs of red, green, blue, yellow, purple... the list goes on. It looked like people could sit up top as well as inside the tinted windows.
Endymion was starting to get a little sketched out by this place. She could tell it wasn’t what it used to be. There were homeless people on most corners, and the streets and buildings looked neglected. The street art could be somewhat fresh, but there was nothing fresh about the walls they were put upon.
She started to walk away from the district, when something caught her eye. There was a tree with dozens of flowers plastered to the base of it. On the ground at the very bottom was an empty case of hard cider. Unsure of the purpose, she decided to appreciate the ability to make art out of anything... to find a little beauty in something otherwise used and forgotten.
The Magic Bus approached her again. She flagged it down, and it slowed to a stop.
“Can you take me somewhere else, please?” She asked the driver.
“Why, sure ah cain,” the southern bell was looking down at her.
“What are you doing here?” Endymion asked her, confused.
“Well, soon as I dropped ya, I decided I didn’t want ter git back ta that god- fersaken town. This here bus came bah, ‘nd ah hopped own. But the driver weren’t in no good kinda mood, ‘nd he ended up leavin’, so I just went up to the seat ‘nd took ‘is job. I thought ter mahse’f, ‘Why not?’ I like takin’ people places. So tha’s jus’ what ah do now.”
“I see. Okay, well at least I’m glad to know someone in this city now.”
“Tha’s the spirit! Hop own."
Endymion climbed onto the bus. It was completely empty. She chose a seat right behind the bell of the bus.
Inside the vehicle was a lot louder than outside. Endymion could see the other girl trying to talk to her anyway, so she just smiled and nodded, unable to make out a single word. The girl steadily drove faster and faster. Before Endymion knew it, she was well outside the city, back on a high road. The vehicle had gotten so fast, she could no longer make out anything outside the windows. It was so fast, it was black, like an endless abyss. Beginning to panic, she felt herself blacking out from the speed. Where was she going? When was this madness going to end? She had made it across the country, so why couldn’t she just settle into some kind of normalcy? What if she wanted to wake up? How the hell could she wake up? She wanted to awaken to her beautiful life and live it in length, not live this endless confusion. She resisted the headaches, the nausea, the fatigue that were plaguing her due to the overwhelming speed, darkness, and uncertainty, but in the end the darkness won and she was gone.
This is where she wanted to be, where she wanted to live and be an adult.
“It was nice meeting you,” Endymion said to the southern bell, as she got out of the car. “Thanks for bringing me here.”“My pleasure, girl. You be careful now. Don’t you get lost or nothin’. ‘member, don’t use backtrackin’ if yer los’. It don’t help for shit. You jus’ git yerself mo’ los’. Ok?”
“Um, yeah. Okay,” Endymion said, smiling. Confused, she walked away from the car, and into the city.
Psychedelic music blared from a store titled “A Touch of Haight,” as if nothing had changed. Endymion went up to the street signs to get a better look, and an under- nourished girl with long blonde hair and blue eyes leaned on a lamp post.
“You wanna make sure you look at it with the clock too,” she said. “You also wanna buy some of my weed,” she smiled, playing coy.
Endymion smiled, didn’t say anything, and walked away. She went to cross the street, and a bus rushed past her. It read “Magic Bus” and had bubbles pouring out the back. It was covered in flowers and funky designs of red, green, blue, yellow, purple... the list goes on. It looked like people could sit up top as well as inside the tinted windows.
Endymion was starting to get a little sketched out by this place. She could tell it wasn’t what it used to be. There were homeless people on most corners, and the streets and buildings looked neglected. The street art could be somewhat fresh, but there was nothing fresh about the walls they were put upon.
She started to walk away from the district, when something caught her eye. There was a tree with dozens of flowers plastered to the base of it. On the ground at the very bottom was an empty case of hard cider. Unsure of the purpose, she decided to appreciate the ability to make art out of anything... to find a little beauty in something otherwise used and forgotten.
The Magic Bus approached her again. She flagged it down, and it slowed to a stop.
“Can you take me somewhere else, please?” She asked the driver.
“Why, sure ah cain,” the southern bell was looking down at her.
“Well, soon as I dropped ya, I decided I didn’t want ter git back ta that god- fersaken town. This here bus came bah, ‘nd ah hopped own. But the driver weren’t in no good kinda mood, ‘nd he ended up leavin’, so I just went up to the seat ‘nd took ‘is job. I thought ter mahse’f, ‘Why not?’ I like takin’ people places. So tha’s jus’ what ah do now.”
“I see. Okay, well at least I’m glad to know someone in this city now.”
“Tha’s the spirit! Hop own."
Endymion climbed onto the bus. It was completely empty. She chose a seat right behind the bell of the bus.
Inside the vehicle was a lot louder than outside. Endymion could see the other girl trying to talk to her anyway, so she just smiled and nodded, unable to make out a single word. The girl steadily drove faster and faster. Before Endymion knew it, she was well outside the city, back on a high road. The vehicle had gotten so fast, she could no longer make out anything outside the windows. It was so fast, it was black, like an endless abyss. Beginning to panic, she felt herself blacking out from the speed. Where was she going? When was this madness going to end? She had made it across the country, so why couldn’t she just settle into some kind of normalcy? What if she wanted to wake up? How the hell could she wake up? She wanted to awaken to her beautiful life and live it in length, not live this endless confusion. She resisted the headaches, the nausea, the fatigue that were plaguing her due to the overwhelming speed, darkness, and uncertainty, but in the end the darkness won and she was gone.
~
My dear darkness. I am digging and have been digging for quite some time now. I cannot recall the length, but it is all I have ever known…
It was the only task she was assigned, so she must persist. She couldn’t imagine she was digging to anything in particular, but there was no use in stopping. Not anything useful would come from ceasing this project, so there was nothing more to do than to keep going.
For the first time since beginning her plight, she wondered why. Why was it so dark? She wasn’t underground; she was in a hole with an open top. She vaguely remembered many decades ago, or was it hours, beginning the hole with the first few shovels-full. She tried to remember what had provided light back then. Had it been something she carried with her? An object she had perhaps forgotten to bring down with her? Perhaps the light had been a construction. Something man had made for themselves, and, since no one lived down here, it no longer applied to construct such things for her use and hers alone. Then it dawned on her:The Sun.
But this sun... it was of no consequence when dreams become our realities.
Endymion thought this in conjunction with her new angst inducing memories, and along with it came a change. The first change of this variety she had ever experience since the digging had begun. The scenery itself was changing. Sight was returning to her; the air was refreshed; there was wind. She stopped breathing, utterly confused as to the consequence of what was happening.
In front of her was a road. She had high expectations for this road, so she went down it, confronting many obstacles. She found herself in a disappointing Amish Country and in Switzerland. She felt herself shrink, and then, among many beautiful creatures, she was assigned to make a lone fox feel equivalent. She refused to do so because it was a ridiculous task. She later discovered that the fox attained its goal without her, but still lacked something from the life around it, returning to her for help at the top of a mushroom.
She went on a Native American journey filled with insane people and creatures trying to confront her and disturb her. She entered a haunted house, experiencing horrors in an old mirror. She climbed 12,005 feet of mountain, witnessing a view like no other she had ever seen or would see again.
At this point in her journey, things started to change. She felt that she was experiencing some Deja’Vu as she met a young southern bell.
“Have I met you before?” Endymion asked, politely.
“Yes ma’am,” she said. “Yes indeed. You be meetin’ me fo’ the rest a yer goddamned lahf if you don’ watch yer step.
“What do you mean?
“Well, looks lahk you found yerse’f in a dream cycle. Things be happ’nin the same over an’ over cuz there’s sumthin’ ‘round here you just cain’t seem ter git right. I’s sorry for ya, miss.”
She hopped off the table she was sitting on, kissed two of the boys that she was sitting with, but not the third, and walked away with Endymion. They went to San Francisco together, and Endymion saw the world around her with new eyes. The world of Haigh-Ashbury had a new significance as she walked the streets
The Magic Bus stopped for her, and she was expecting the bell.
“Well, how do I get out of it?” Endymion asked her, scared. She was scared for this miserable future. She wondered how many times already she had been living this cycle, this lie. How pointless had her whole life been? How fruitlessly had she been wasting her immortal, adolescent, beauty?
“You wanna know how ter git out of it?” the bell repeated back to her. Endymion nodded her head fervently, leaning in closely to hear. “The way ter move on is you gotta let go of yer youth. Gotta let go of yer youth.”
…
Endymion hesitated, but, finally, stepped onto the bus.
Fun reliving the journey through this psychedelic lens. Love the last lines and how they revisit her core identity. That was a really memorable trip!
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