7:36pm :: Things have turned out empty and the pathways are now clear. Everyone seems to think I'm familiar. Perhaps I just have a familiar face; not in the traditional sense, but with my smiling, balding head, I seem friendly. Angry? Hell no. I bought a tv today and found where I can get a mattress for $25. I am still spending a lot of money though. I recognize the woman pictured on my Continental ticket booklet, even though she is most likely a model. We're all models really, never built to scale. These white teeth, perfect hair, and southern European complexion are just not what we can ever hope to live up to. Although even porno actresses and actors usually have white teeth. I stress over this too much.
I realize now that in seeking the West, I was actually just fooling myself. The West, as known to Americans, is no more. There is just the Southwest, the Northwest, and that Golden State blob choking the Pacific. I think we should realign our definition of the West completely to include Alaska, and disclude most every other state. Land is scarce. Even though acres of it sit undeveloped or even unused by our standards, it is still owned by a possesive individual. It is nice that these people can find the solace which keeps them out in desolation, but land ownership is just very childish. It's not about sharing really, but more about seeing the larger picture. I think that people can be generally classified into two seemingly meaningless cate-gories and thus have overly-generalized traits associated with them: there are those who paint pictures through images, and there are those who paint them through words. Creative energy runs through us all, and it is due to our upbringing as to how that energy is directed. They always so that everyone has some sort of talent at which they are better than anyone else. I believe this only somewhat: I think that no matter what, you will always have someone who will give you some element of competition for your greatest skill, but it is the way you go about doing it which separates you and makes you the true individual which you are. These few people in the world who may seem exactly like you, are in actuality not.
The job is making sense to me. I am catching things and not letting them quickly fly out of my hands. The day will soon become monotonous and boring, and, from what I have seen, I will be desperate to waste my time. The camera clicks once but the objects always keep moving. This is only a snapshot in time, and once the hair and nails grow, it no longer reflects the truth. Nothing is context and Amber Forrester has yet to arrive.

7:23pm :: It's the first time in quite a while that I don't feel inclined to put a location next to my time stamp. I am officially settled at this 60 West Stone Loop. However settled one can get. Silence comes over nothing. Slowly. My mailbox had a card informing the mail man that it in fact belonged to no individual, and was not the property of the United States Postal Service. I think I have them straight on this by removing it. The card prompted me to write the names of the individuals who will be receiving mail at my apartment. How am I to know what the future holds? In every apartment I've been in, I have received mail for people with names I could have never fathomed. Our ability to conjur names is very limited, and it is often obvious when someone is using a fake name. I don't know though. In the meantime, Amber Forrester and Benito De La Cruz will be offically living here, but only in spirit. After all, a name is not a person. Sure, it's a call which the person tends to answer to, but they are never limited to it, especially when that name is not unique. A middle name will often up the odds for having a unique name, but it still bothers me that we are constantly known to society by these names, if not by these numbers. whatever
"It isn't the oceans that cut us off from the world---it's the American way of looking at things."

8:43pm :: Ever wonder why the drama queen in high school was never in drama? I sometimes wonder what I would be like if I had been born in Omaha, into a small, one-story rural home. I suppose I'm just having images of my grandmother's house in Baker: standing up against the grass, the closet in her bedroom and the picture of my grandfather in an army uniform, and the mysterious shed outside with the old license plates hanging on the walls. Most likely, this house has been torn down; if not in actuality, than in spirit. A home quickly loses its clairvoyance once a family and its lives are removed, no matter how long they had remained there. I think clairvoyance is the result of the senses (all six) and memories working together in unison, which does not happen often. I also believe that clairvoyance is not metaphysical in any way, but could actually be measured and studied in some scientific way or another. The metaphysical aspect comes into play when one equates the concepts with spirits or God, and this is ridiculous. After thinking about it, it's difficult to explain this reasoning of mine, only to say that if someone like me begins talking about something which most people feel is metaphysical, than it is most likely not metaphysical at all, but instead something misunderstood. Misunderstandings are what lead us down roads we never saw in the first place, to places deep within the hardened psyche. Like Arivaca, or Wilcox. Whatever that means. anything at all.
Does the word "receptacle" in the minds of most people conjur images of trash? I think it does.

7:41pm (Marana) :: I've seen more people use food stamps in a supermarket these past two days than I have in the past two years. A cross-section too: a young, affluent-looking black couple, a redneck couple and an attractive young white girl. Is Arizona so poor that more people are using food stamps than in Texas? Arizona to me always seemed like a rather affluent state, but I suppose I was looking more towards the foothills, and the gated communities, than to the trailer parks next to the flood plains. Either way, I think I should get food stamps. Hell, I'll qualify for it once this job starts. $9/hour at 40 hours a week is below the poverty line; I think. But, maybe not. I probably shouldn't attempt to cheat the government. I have decided though that I will not vote in the near future. In order to continue living comfortably in this country, I am forced to completely ignore the macro-spectrum, and therefore, national politics. I suppose that I can still watch the news for the local stuff (which I always find interesting).
There are far too many retail outlets here in Tucson. Maybe this is the reason why everyone is poor: low wages are the only jobs available. Tomorrow I start work at, what I have to assume to be, a middle wage job. Yes, it will be awful, and boring, but I need money at this point. The checks keep flying out the door and I have no way to stop them, I can only plead. The wind blows strongly here, especially at night, and air conditioners start without warning. There is a bowling alley and a Hooters across the street here in Marana. What would the community think? Obviously nothing. Bowling alleys really should be places for picking up prostitutes. I mean, you have a bunch of men, usually the types who pick up whores in the first place, standing around drinking and laughing it up. It's basically a strip club already, except for the naked girls. An entrepreneurial opportunity? No. I have no interest in perpetuating the spread of prostitution and bowling. They are simply too evil, and they will not cancel each other out if combined. We do need organized red light districts though, like in Singapore. We need yet another way to separate an aspect of our society which we deem to be immoral and unethical. We need yet another way to throw individuals into the social gutter, and put a stamp on their head for just trying to be happy. Sure, we're all hypocrites, but damn it, it's better than being unpatriotic, right?
What's funny about the desert is how it will defend itself against the encroachment of people. At the hotel on Rudasill, they had a major cricket problem. Crickets were everywhere, even in my room on the second floor. The crickets just aren't ready to leave, and really, they have no where else to go. The area surrounding the building is already developed with a tennis club and strip malls. Who will think about the crickets? Only the exterminator, which is sad. We always push ourselves into these battles with nature, when in fact, nature isn't trying to fight. But in the end, no matter what, nature will always win, in one way or another. Living as we are, we will not be able to win that war. Social change? More like social development, instead of residential and commercial. Coyotes running through steets in between houses? This is the land of coyotes but I have yet to see or hear one. It was only in Palo Duro that I heard one. what?

2:32pm :: It seems to me that everyday people here in the desert are much more aware, and in-tune with their natural environment than are people in other parts of the country. I suppose that the desert, through beauty, danger and general quirks, demands much more respect than most other types of environments. However, there are the farmers who are obsessive about the land and natural environment, just as there are the fisherman who are obsessive over the sea and its moods, but this is not the same thing at all. Even the urban dwellers such as myself, who live in cramped apartments or tract housing on a sterile street in the center of the heat island, seem to know about the wildlife and botany of the surrounding area.

Whatever. projecting our lives down to this planet earth.
Most shows I've been to, including Sigur Ros and Air, had encores. I think these are way too over-dramatic and make the artist seem conceited (which is the case with Air anyway). Most encores I've seen in this style turn out to be half-ass and lack that initial spark and energy that I suppose is a shared contribution from the performer and the audience. However, last night Mogwai did an encore after only playing for an hour. What was special, and why I have lost no respect for Mogwai because of this, was that they played "My Father My King," which is their 30 minute anti-climactic jam. What surprised me was that the crowd seemed to know this song more than they did the others (even though they did a song from roughly every album in their catalog). They ended this song, as the recorded version does, with loud, senseless feedback, whereupon they walked off the stage one by one. That's how a show should end. No "Good night, Tucson!" No "Thank you for coming out, good night." Just walk off with your music still wagging behind you like a tail. That sticks in the mind much more so than anything, I think. But what the hell do I know besides how to start my car the right way, and shave my face taking care for the curvitures and malformities.
I see myself as becoming a self-proclaimed expert on Tucson fairly soon. There is so much history, as well as so many stories in this area. However, it is much smaller (in geography and feeling) than Houston. Just the town names alone (Sahuarita, Ajo, Arvaca) are enough to spark the interest of the average person. Am I the average person? I suppose, like anyone, I don't consider myself to be so, but "average" is such an all-encompassing gray area of social commentary that it is difficult to escape it on most levels. Eccentricity will only get you so far. Too many people are optimistic about the senseless and pessimistic about the sensitive.

9:03pm :: I think another problem with us is that we are too focused on leading the lives which we feel we should follow. Not necessarily meaning a path that was laid down for us, but really just seeing how others live and trying to emulate it and bring that perceived happiness into our own realm. I see the land ownership thing like that. I have never met anyone else who, like me, does not wish to own a home in the future. This is what most people I know were raised on, and this is how they will expect their own lives to be. It's sad, really. It's a circle. But although it's a circle, continually turning, it's really one of those pinwheel-type circles, where there are several tangents sticking out; tangents that will hit you in the face and leave a mark, tangents that chip away violently at the foundation which the circle has already formed. These tangents are our only hope and destitution seems to be the only result.
I suppose that I want people to realize that although human contact is necessary for our good-natured survival, it's NOT THE ONLY THING THAT MATTERS. This is my mission. My objective. It is no longer seeing the real west, although maybe it was always on the list and was put on hold until I could achieve my other objectives. Originally my objective, and what I told everyone, was to graduate from college. This has happened. Now, I am somewhat lost.

6:55am (Tucson) :: Yes, I have stopped writing. And I attribute this to having stopped reading. It was only yesterday, having nothing to do, that I was able to pick up my new book for the first time. The novel is somewhat disappointing in its rambling and random nature, but it is still Miller. Last night at some miscellaneous campground in Saguaro West, an owl landed on the roof of my car. I had gone there to try to sleep the night away and avoid having to shell out $30 for a hotel. Walking back from the bathroom, I heard the sound of an owl, but could not see it. It wasa only after sitting in my car for several minutes that I looked up towards the flag pole, and there upon was Mr. Owl, perched proudly and stubbornly. It wasn't until several minutes later though, while slowly drifting off to sleep that I heard a loud "CLACK...CLACK!" on my roof. I punched the roof twice but felt that whatever was there was still there. This, needless to say, bothered me enough to cause me to seek refuge elsewhere for the evening. When I started the engine, I heard the thing (I just assumed it to be the owl) leave my roof.
The truly great thing about sleeping in the Sonora is that are truly NO mosquitoes. There are however, plenty of other flying annoyances to contend with. Moths seemed to innundate my vehicle interior, and I ended up just accepting their presence with a sleepy grunt. I think now would be a good opportunity to purchase a pet tarantula. Most people are inherently afraid of spiders, and usually for good reason: a lot of them are poisonous, especially in our species' native Africa. However, purchasing such a harmless but ominous looking arachnid may be a great way to overcome this fear somewhat. Of course, this has not retracted from my desire to own a pet turtle or frog. Of course, all pets seems like a pipe dream at the moment; I don't even have a mattress to sleep on.
mogwai is tonight, and tucson is looking great. I found, what I consider so far, to be an excellent CD store near the university (necessary to my survival in any environment). I also bought new shoes and Modest Mouse tickets yesterday. Needless to say, that I had little to do. It's really awful having no where to go and not much to do. I spent roughly two hours in a Subway on the west side of town, waiting for the sun to go down enough so that I could go see the sunset on one of the mountain roads. Then, later at night, I drove roughly 20 miles back into town to see if there was a fast food restaurant which would stay open until midnight. There were none, so I had to return to my desert hole.
But I mustn't complain for the worst of this week is over. I now have a job, and will stay in a hotel tonight. Is life good? Well, it could be better.

Yesterday, in downtown Tucson, I was walking down an alley next to the bus station when two homeless men began coming towards me. One was in a wheelchair, the other not. They crossed the street and began following about 20 meters behind me. I wasn't worried and didn't turn around, but the second I reached where the shadow of the building ended, they stopped, like vampires. This surprised me enough to make me turn around briefly. Their expressions were pleading I suppose, but I really can't describe it without the aid of imagery.
I realized yesterday that in English, we have a word for a collection of images accompanied by sound, but do not have a word for a single image associated with a sound, which I feel is much more powerful. A moving picture does not allow the visual interpretation of the mind to wander, and what is seen is almost always what is remembered. Sounds then become auxilary. However, a motionless image demands at least some level of subjective comprehension by the viewer. Add some sound, and the image not only becomes memorable, but brings with it a new life, which is easily recognized by the mind as special. I think a great example is a CD cover, if you look at the CD cover while you listen to the music. After all, isn't the CD cover intended by the artist to represent the audial aspect of his or her work? OF COURSE IT IS.
Speaking of music, I need a band. But first I need a mattress, or at least a steady place to sleep. I suppose that it's necessary for any person's survival (OF COURSE IT'S NOT), but I've lived far too long in security to be able to sacrifice for any longer than the period for which I have already. I am already restless, and am still somewhat dazed about the prospect of this Sonora being a home. Without connections, and conversation throughout the day limited to the operators of cash registers, I am inclined to feel that I am still on my own magical mystery tour; that soon I will jump in my car and head towards my next destination. Physically I am in Tucson, mentally I am lying next to a pool in a hotel, underneath the sun, warming up my cold blood before the evening.
Ever since coming here, I have been excessively dehydrated. It seems to me that my body is very malleable, and that I have acclimated myself to Houston. I used to sweat profusely in Houston, especially in the summer. Here, the temperature is higher, even now in mid-September, yet I rarely sweat. I ride with the windows down of my car with my skinny, hairy white-boy arm dangling out and only receive a few drops of sweat on my back for it. I now believe that the sweat in Houston was not actually sweat, but it was somehow condensation as a result of the extreme humidity. Yesterday, the humidity here was 15%. I smile wide as I type that number: 15%. My allergies, which I always attributed to coming to Houston, will most likely not clear up here, simply because they are most likely a result of the forest of nose hairs I received when I turned 18. I suppose that this is just a rite of passage amongst we hairy, anglo males, but I still do not appreciate being allergic to almost every cat I come into contact with. I do love cats. Their solitary demeanor fascinates me. They don't like it when you follow them, they become enraged when you stare them straight in the face and they become embarrassed when you watch them shit. On any one of these experiences, a dog will just look at you dumbly with its tongue out expecting to be pet. This is not to say, however, that I don't like dogs. I love dogs for their loyalty and for their utterly blind and unfaltering desire to please (which I suppose are one in the same).
So why sit here in a Starbucks at 7:30am and ramble about the finer points of household pets? Because I have nowhere to go, and nothing to do. The office at the ghetto motel opens at 11am. Between now and then, I have nothing to do. There is a very upscale shopping center next door, and I may visit the Barnes and Noble and other shops, maybe just to see if they'll kick me out in my trashy white shirt and shiny black boots. They won't though, for I'm sure they have a visual record of every individual who has bought anything as small as one of those Godiva chocolates they sell so boldly at their registers. This is the way the new, corporate world works. Efficiency has given way to the impression of efficiency. It's not just corporations, either. At Saguaro, the air-conditioner at the visitor's center starts up every half-hour, although it is closed all through the night. This is why I'm hesitant to give any money to any organization in need, no matter how much I believe in their cause. If I gave $10 to Saguaro for use of their facilities, they would most likely squandor that little bit of money on senseless expenses and over-inflated overhead. In the near future, I will work as a technical efficiency expert, like the Bobs in 'Office Space.' I resolved what I think would be a very funny sketch in my head using the same character Mike Judge plays in that movie of his (Jennifer Anniston's flare-pushing boss). If only he would do it, it would be, surely, the funniest movie ever made.
Oh, but shit! I saved roughly $30 last night and I must celebrate. Of course, I already have by spending about $70 yesterday. I don't really have any explanation for the behavior of my bank account. I remember it being around $3200, and now it's in the $3500 range. The corporate powers that be are keeping me afloat. Sure, they're evil, corrupt and have soul, but damn it, they recognize efficiency and thrift. Any guy who will drive out into the desert and sleep in his car to avoid a $30 motel charge deserves a break in this corporate-controlled world, right? Damn right!

8:55am :: Time is more fun when it's wasted, right? Absolutely. I feel very dirty, and this laptop, as always, is getting me unwanted attention. I must shower, if not for my unfortunately anal nature, then for Mogwai. 'I can hear the birds singing to me outside. Talk to cats for a while.' It is a truly beautiful day, as are most days here in the northeastern Sonora. The sky is clear, blue and the sun is saying 'Hi' with disturbing intensity. I feel like a skinhead today with these new, black boots. I realize that old people where sunglasses unnecessarily here. Even when it's not overly bright inside, they daught their un-stylish accessories. I suppose it has something to do with concern for vision health as age approaches higher numbers. I should possibly go and have my eyes tested again, for I still think I should wear glasses. I think glasses would make me appear much less threatening and people would stop believing that I was angry all the time.
I must also convey how utterly depressing it is to again be employed. Although it is good to be able to do something which is somewhat productive with my time, I can't stand the fact that I am again someone's grease monkey, working as a number, under a number, for a number. I will not be tangible; I will be a miscelaneous voice, trying to be friendly. Some sort of faceless communication, only slightly more personal than email. I do hate the telephone, and I think by the end of this job, I will despise it. But of course, it is impossible to forsake these comforts of our civilization. Just as I am expected to give some thoughtless gift on Christmas, I am expected to answer my phone with prompt and polite good nature. These expectations are only necessary for these stupid creature comforts which we surround ourselves with. But unfortunately, without these creature comforts in our lives, we are suddenly not members of society but on the lunatic fringe. There was recently a man who was found living in a cave in the Coconino National Forest near Flagstaff. He was arrested. When I heard this result, I shuddered. It pains me to think that we have gone so far to suppress free will, and that the desires of others to be isolated, which of course harms no one, is not acceptable to the society or to the establishment. Legally, politically and socially everything sucks. It is only through ignorance that I am able to obtain this contentment. I focus intently on the sunset, waiting for it to speak to me. Outlining the negative space in my mind and imagining the mountains as clouds, forming a jagged horizon. I then in turn ignore the the news, although listening passively. Active listening is what drives us mad. Taking everything seriously will bring everyone to the brink and soon over the edge. It's happened to many authors before, but it can happen to stupid bastards like me too. I've been told before that I am too intense about things, but I am as laid back as I can be without letting myself fall into that ignorant stupor that is American living. Focusing on petty personal issues is not the way to live, because there is so little you can learn by focusing on yourself. Covergys works for me.

11:52pm (Tucson) :: It has actually been over a day since I arrived in Tucson, but I have had no desire to write until now. Several hours ago, after seeing it on a map, I drove to Reddington Road. It's a narrow, curvy road which turns to gravel and twists into the mountains north east of the city. After about a mile, you have a gorgeous view of the entire valley to the west of you. The lights shimmer and sparkle, and the illumination from a bright, full moon coming from the east and forming the eerie shadows of the mountains over the empty cacti fields creates a great site. This was one of the first things I had seen in quite a while where I was reluctant to leave it, I suppose because I wished to remain in the moment. There were other people up there, but only a couple, and they seemed to be spread out. The desert is just so intimidating at night and I think I'm going to have to get accustomed to it.
The living situation is going well so far. I have found an apartment that I think I will enjoy and have scheduled two interviews after applying at only three jobs. Maybe there is a shortage here of young web developers with Business degrees. I am going on a more extensive job search tomorrow, towards the airport and down to several other hotels. The only problem now is the actual move.
Renting a truck would be $1000, and a car rental is just not going to happen. I have decided to just fly to Houston in a couple of weeks, gather some stuff into one or two boxes and bring them on the flight back with me. This means that I will have to abandon my mattress, couch and desk, although these can be replaced over time. The drum set will also have to remain in the dank, suburban car-hold. I will eventually figure out a way to get them here, but I cannot do it at this time. This of course means that I cannot join a band at this point, and will just have to work like the monkey I am.

Thinking about the recent trip, I am reminded of a Japanese girl I met in Albuquerque who stated that her job was making neck ties; not designing them, actual factory work. I did meet quite a few strange people whom I will never see again. Even if some of them wanted to contact me, they'd have virtually no chance since none knew my last name (if they knew my first name). It seems strange how this sort of gypsy youth has emerged, although I suppose that they were always around. I have written before about this driving force in youth to travel, but it still interests me as to how universal it seems.

Also thinking education tonight. The University of Arizona has a graduate program in Chinese. I think I should investigate. Urban planning is also a possibility, and I may also look at this.
Aside from this, I am boring and reborn in the Sonora.

7:31am (Payson) :: I believe I figured two things out last night: one of which was that an author has a duty to spark thoughts about life in their readers minds, but in doing so, they must also stress that this is only what works well for them, and that the readers must really decide what is best for their own selves.
It came to me in a phrase, which I don't exactly remember now, but it seems kind of stupid this morning anyway. Last night I began sleeping at a scenic overlook on Highway 260 after leaving the entrance to Montezuma's Castle because of the amount of traffic passing it. I spent the remainder of the evening searching in vain for a "Wet Beaver Creek" sign (there was nothing!). But after waking up to the noise of a mosquito in my ear, I bolted from the overlook to a small road in the forest near the Arizona Trail. The worst part about sleeping in the forest is that, before you drift off, you're surrounded by absoulte silence, broken only by strange noises which you can only assume are made by animals. Close to 4 this morning, I awoke to see two elk in the meadow just a few yards from my car. Of course, this means nothing to my current objective. It rained all night, and my fear this morning is that there are flooded roads. But none of this is related to my current objective. I will drive into Tucson, somewhat triumphantly, and seek accomodations for tonight at the local hostel.
I need a rest. I have marks all over my hands, I am still having problems with my foot and I am just weary in general. I always sleep very well in my car, but always awake very tired and can never quite shake it.
But enough, this town of Payson is surrounded by these Arizona pines and seems to be populated with a much more conservative population than I have seen in the state thus far. I feel incredibly agitated here; by the music, by the people, by this awful weather. Either way I am only about 150 miles from Tucson, and it should be a fairly nice drive through the mountains and pines, past Teddy Roosevelt's Lake and through the Oracle of the Sonoran. I suppose this means that the trip is almost over considering that I do not plan to leave Tucson for some time after my arrival. I realized in Flagstaff that I may never get do something like this again in my life. Reflective? Yes, but it is mostly just fatigue. I need to scan the horizon but the horizon is just a gray reflection. Whatever that means.

9:18pm (Flagstaff) :: Hostelling it again. I tried to stay in a hotel, but not only did it house four separate ex-cons (one of whom I met and discussed being respectful to yourself with), but the window to the outside was also broken, meaning that I could leave nothing in the room. After about an hour, I demanded my money back, and surprisingly got it without even a word from the owner. $20 back, gone to the hostel now. But that's fine. Flagstaff is nice, and I'm here in the mix of it all. On this San Francisco Street there are roughly 4 bars, and I am three blocks from the beautiful Downtown. Tomorrow I figure I will spend most of the day there, drive to Sedona in the afternoon and spend the night in the mountains. Tuesday night will also be spent in the mountains, but much closer to Tucson, for I have already made my reservations, the only portion of my trip which could not have been tentative. It should do me some good to spend a week in the city, and during this time I will try my best to find suitable employment. Maybe just a waiter job, but hopefully something to do with computers. Of course, I must not worry about that at this point in time.
The sun seems to dance in the Native American lands. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see it, swaying back and forth. I have a new theory about a human being's connection to nature, and more specifically lightning. I noticed that not less than three times last night, I looked up not during a lightning strike, but right before at, and right in the direction of the lightning. I think that our brain's physical connection to nature through electricity can partly justify this. Although it could be totally coincidental, and probably is, knowing me.
Like I said though, Flagstaff is a nice town, but it is home to quite a few snobs. Lots of stupid rich kids go to the university here, and there seems to be a large population of yuppie transplants. I have decided though that I must marry a Navajo woman. I suppose it was just her exotic look, but I saw a woman today who I thought was absolutely gorgeous. Of course she was married, to a white guy though. The whole reservation has a strange feel to it, and the feeling changes immediately when you leave it. But maybe it was just the fact that the road surface changed. Today I visited so many beautiful little Indian hamlets though: Chinle, Polacca and the First Mesa village(s), Keams Canyon. Chinle was a junction town, with the most notable things being the fast food joints: Church's, Burger King and A&W (there's also a sign for a Taco Bell, but I didn't see it). The strangest thing about this town is the very nice Holiday Inn on the edge of Canyon de Chelley. It just doesn't fit into the landscape. It also has to be the only Holiday Inn in the country on an Indian route. The others will be mentioned on the web site, but the only really interesting thing about Polacca was the presence of a Bank of America ATM at the only store in town. Ah, and I also passed a "trading post," which seem to dot the Indian landscape along with chapter houses and the crusts from fry bread. I really wish I could have eaten some fry bread, but I never saw any and had to settle on a beef and green chile burrito, only to pass two fry bread vendors on the way out. The direct route from Chinle to Polacca was definitely one of the most interesting I've been on so far.

10:26pm (Flagstaff) :: After insisting how not tired I was and that I would watch Ace Ventura at 1am, I just feel asleep for about 10 minutes. So, I will watch it in the morning. Maybe. I just realized that this is the first hostel I have been where there are no chores, and this must be the reason for the extra $2. Anyway, I don't believe that I will continue writing and will instead drift into a terrible sleep.

7:54pm (Gallup) :: And then the rains came; a desert storm like none other. Hail, a cold gust and six motorcycle enthusiasts getting the thrashing that they thought the desert could never serve up. There are truly so many surprises out here that it continues to amaze me. The weather is just one of them. My "cornucopia" of social contact has ceased, and I am now again the strange, angry white boy travelling alone. I am somewhat angry today because of the weather, a terrible drive into Chaco Canyon and a two-mile-long traffic jam in the middle of the desert. All this I equate to a black cat that ran across my path last night. I suppose that it was poking through the trash, minding its own business, and when I came along it was just as scared as I was. Whether or not these superstitions can be verified, the combination of the events has brought me to Gallup, on the edge of Navajo country. This is the land of oddly placed light-pink government housing and a landscape which gains its beauty only from its absence of distinction. I always complain about the music in fast food joints, but Wendy's by far is always consistently the worst.
But I must regress and get my thoughts out of the mindless soul. I forgoed (forewent?) quite a few plans today. First was seeing the Acoma (Sky City) pueblo, which was the only pueblo that I had intended to see in the first place. Upon reaching the absolutely awe-inspiring Acoma Valley, a huge red and white sign informed that I needed a guide to continue. This was, of course, frustrating and caused me to spit in the faces of the people of the Laguna tribe (which is a strange name for a tribe, considering that they're in the middle of the New Mexican desert). Nonetheless, I got pictures, and I have taken not only the soul, but the full and pure essence of that landscape. That's what 'dem injuns says, anyway. A terrifying sky and a hurt ankle caused me to skip hiking El Malpais, although I did get to see it. Even though seeing it meant having to stop for 20 minutes for a hail storm, then getting stuck for another 20 minutes because the road was washed out. It's all part of the experience I suppose, and it certainly took a number of tourists in Buicks by surprise, which still adds to my impressions of the fading, commercialized image of the West. Still, it does subtract from my wallet and time, which are connected somehow, if not directly.
Enough, I must speak of Crownpoint before I forget what it really was. One of the most interesting things, to me, which I have seen here in "the 'res" was an enormous supermarket (a local chain called Bashas') in this tiny town of only about 1,000 people. The store was almost empty, except for a kid playing a video game, several Navajo employees and a really intriguing old Navajo woman just sort of wandering the front of the store. I have to say, with regret for poking fun at the plight of the Native Americans, that the store seemed like a third-world Kroger. Everything was there, except it was all different. They had brands I had never heard of or seen before and some sort of corn husk food which was kept in the freezer section and cost $5. These supermarkets so often represent the regional, and even local culture. Santa Rosa was the same with its piloncillo next to the grapefruits. My cigarettes have lost much of their tobacco and look like joints. An older Navajo man just asked me for a ride to Window Rock, whereupon I complained, with added swears for drama, about the traffic and insisted that I was going to Gallup. His answer, and his face have spawned a sort of reflective energy in me: "You are in Gallup, mister." Sure, doesn't seem significant, and it really isn't, I suppose that I'm just bored at this point. The worry now is that I need to find a place to park in the next several hours. The local NPR station had a radio broadcast indicating that there was some sort of festival in the Downtown area involving local art. Although this doesn't interest me in the least, it does constitute a chance to absorb the local culture, however transplanted it may be. It does surprise me quite a bit though that Gallup has an art community at all. I would now not be surprised to find a colony of hippies living in the foothills outside of town, as is the case in so many other New Mexican communities. It's strange that I have come SO close to Arizona (3 miles, before turning around in the traffic jam) but have yet to technically enter the state. I suppose that most in this area understand that the two states blend together in the eyes of most passers-through at this far western vantage, but I, like the locals, will continue to reassure those crazy hippies that this is indeed still New Mexico. Every state needs something like New Mexico's lobo. Something so ambiguous, and ridiculous, that people put it on their cars and clothes with pride. Fuck sooners, longhorns, buckeyes, hawkeyes and all that other bullshit. "Lobo" has the ring to it alone to carry it into American folklore. This is what the West should be centered around. Not these myths of cowboys and Indians fighting Lewis & Clark and Daylight Savings Time with reproduction aarowheads, it should be just a lobo. Whatever the fuck that is.

10:14pm (Albuquerque) :: I believe that as youth, we have to be apathetic towards some perceived injustice in our social or political sphere, otherwise, our energy would go unfocused and our creative selves would just fade, wilt and eventually die. It is the responsiveness, and the belief that a change for the better can be made and is feasible which not only keeps a person "young" in any sense, but also drives their soul as it were.
I've applied for a job in this town. I like it. It's homely, but also realistic. I think that just Route 66 through here gives any reasonably perceptive individual a sort of summary of the whole city. A few blocks west is apparently the sleazy, prostitute and transient strip. Downtown represents the best the city can muster under cooperation. The University...is the university, and a nice one I must say. The insight on Anthropology did not cease to amaze me. I'm so interested in the field, but it's hard not to feel overwhelmed by the amount of knowledge required just to gain a footing. The state is teaming with history, both of the traditional interest and otherwise. Really, it's overwhelming just to be here. I do hope that I get at least a call back on this job, I do believe that I would genuinely enjoy living here for an extended period. But, what's this use of language suddenly? A shift? I haven't read Miller for at least a day and I think I am worse for it. My articulation and expression have been neglected, maybe to the point where these abilities have actually reached a personal peak and can only decline in the near future, that is, if they have not began to do so already. I suppose that I shouldn't worry about this, and that most likely, I'm just being overly self-concious, and that these abilities have actually improved over the short term. But maybe not.
I have made maybe too many promises, and these females may just have to kiss my white ass. The car is a much more useful tool than I had ever anticipated, and I now feel more lucky to have one at all, but I suppose that this is just unwanted social influence. We all know that monogomy is just a function of capitalism. I am over-the-counter, collective culture. I know I've written this before, but tonight things came into light. It's very difficult to formulate ideas which are completely independent, although it is also impossible to fully adopt another's ideas absent of subjective interpretation. There is only this middle ground of interpretation and adoption, it seems, where articulated ideas will ring familiarly initially, although any further probing will most likely be much less familiar. I suppose this is the way the machine of the human mind functions; the way the gears grind and groan into something complete. We begin with what is imcomplete, dissect it to better understand and interpret it, and then reassemble it in a manner which adds a personal touch and better suits our needs. However, I suppose this is too deep for the moment, and I must at least try to ignore these noises, lights and eyes, since fatigue is drowning me.

2:10pm (Santa Fe) :: I believe that these few days will be a test of how much carbohydrates my body can truly take absent of meat. I haven't had meat since Taos when I had the little bit of pepperoni. Screw it though. I feel tired, dry and a little dirty. I'm leaving this overgrown adobe village tomorrow, either for Albuquerque or Los Alamos. Los Alamos would mean camping, Albuquerque would mean another hostel with a shower and free food but $15. I do feel though as if I have begun to at least somewhat separate from whatever last week's life involved. Temptation is an awful thing, especially when taken in moderation.
The thing that I am surprised about this hostel life is that, since I am alone in a large dorm room, I feel lonely. Why is it that I don't feel like this when I'm in a hotel room by myself. Maybe a different atmosphere I suppose; all of these empty beds waiting to be crawled into.
Enough of that. It's hot today, and there is very little I could be doing other than sitting in a dark room in front of a bright, thoughtless box. A walk may bring out the spirit but may also suffocate it.

Applying for jobs takes quite a bit of time. If I don't write a custom cover letter for each job, I feel rather guilty. One job in Scottsdale had "Training" as a desired KSA. Oh, how that Management degree pays off, it is truly the gift that keeps on giving. This Western Odyssey seems so much different than I thought as far as the feelings and impressions go. I suppose I expected more time for self-reflection, although I suppose I shouldn't have. I still cannot get over camping on the gorge like that. I must talk to locals everywhere I go in the future, just not here. Albuquerque should have a few camping spots, but I will probably check into the hostel first. Two semi-hippy girls are probably going with me, so this will provide driving company, which I have not yet had except for the brief stint in Las Vegas with the overly-perfumed Mexican lady. This divergence from expectations may be just because I have had very little time to reflect on these experiences and sights. This country is so full of beauty that I believe sometimes the unattuned senses can be overloaded, especially when one attempts to soak everything in. Met a very nice British girl this morning, although I'm not sure of her name, I know quite a bit about her. Like everyone, she is a semi-hippy and thrives on a vegan lifestyle of cheap travel. I must meet more characters, or maybe characatures, add them to some sort of scrap book I have plotting around in my head. After all, what is any place but a patchwork of the personalities of its residents, blanketing an otherwise cold landscape. But damn, this heat. Makes the dirt crack, and it becomes soft and permeable. Makes sweat pour off of spinning heads and down straight, strong backs. I need to be more tan, because surely it's every white persons dream to look like a Mexican. Otherwise, why would we be so desperate to get darker. I realize that nature tends to take over more or less everything, given the right amount of time. These cracked floors and walls, are a product of nature, more specifically the foundation of the building shifting, which is a natural phenomanon. However, these cracks also begin to resemble nature, such as the cracking of the soil. Also these blemishes and bumps which certainly always appear, they are subject also to this battle between nature and man (where man's attempt to make things geometrically and aesthetically perfect is always thwarted by nature's desire to provide all objects with flaws). I suppose you can look at a clover patch in this way: it is rare to find 4-leaved clovers, although in a field teaming with 3-leaved cousins, there is always at least one divergent exception.
I realized last night that I had wanted to bring my nearly full bottle of Jack Daniels, but mistakenly left it in the dank Woodlands garage. I also need to call NMAC, which I will do in a few minutes. But now, I must finish this useless shit.

8:02pm :: Just ate a stale lolli-pop. Fuck that shit, never again. Santa Fe is not what I expected, although I should have expected it. One of the oldest settlements in the country, situated in the pristine New Mexican foothills. There seem to be four types of people here: Mexicans/Indians, northern yuppie transplants, tourists and hippies. The hostel offers a different mix, although

3:29pm :: I suppose I am somewhat disappointed with myself for having that incredible burning to just buzz through these places which could have proven to be much more interesting than the first impressions led me to believe. I passed three pueblos today, I pulled off at one but did not stop. Why? The sign at the front made me quiver: "Admission: $10," "Camera Passes Available." What the fuck is this? For those who don't know, a pueblo is Spanish basically for a grouping of people, there's really no good translation for it. However, in Native American terms, a pueblo means a small village where the residents lead their lives much the way their ancestors did. This means that stupid white people are paying $10 a head to see these poor Indian people run around with buckets of water and making tortillas from local maize, or, as modern terms are concerned, poverty. It's like that museum of poverty I saw once on the Daily Show, where full-fledged slums were constructed to show people what is like in these places. Shit man, just go to Juarez or Matamoras and walk around a little bit if you want to see this kind of stuff. You can spend the $10 on the children begging and maybe the robber who may stop you.
Something came to light to me yesterday concerning Juarez: the huge statue of Jesus is not in Mexico, it is in fact inside the city of Sunland Park, New Mexico, just over the border. It just seems strange that Americans have built this holy shrine in their own prosperous town, with its mall and race track, which overlooks the poverty-stricken slums of Juarez on the other side of the river. No wonder Mexicans want to come here. If I saw a religious icon in a place, I would see the place as mystical and always desire to go there also. Anyway.
I want to go through some of these towns I blew through today, but first talk about last night. After talking with one of the locals in a coffee shop on Taos Plaza (who was very attractive, but had a boyfriend), I asked her if she knew of a good spot in the area to camp. She got very excited and began writing directions to some remote spot near the Rio Grande Gorge Bridge, to the north of town near the airport. Now, I must say first off, that I will not write the location of this spot, simply because it is unmarked and would be impossible to find if you did not know it was there. It is used almost exclusively by locals and I would feel as if I were betraying the trust of the population of the area in revealing its location. Not only is it an absolutely gorgeous spot perched high above the Rio Grande River, but it is also just up the hill from a grouping of hot springs. Now, don't let that term fool you, since these are not exactly "hot," they're really more like warm springs, with temperatures of about 30 or 32C. Maybe I'm just spoiled, having been to the hot springs in Utah where the temperatures are at or above 40C. Also, I must mention that this particular springs was supposedly used in the movie "Easy Rider." I've never seen the movie, so I can't verify this, I'm just relaying what I was told. I am skeptical though, since it is rather difficult to get here (about a half mile hike down a reasonably steep, rocky trail) and I can't imagine cameras being brought in, unless by boat.

Okay, towns.
Heading south out of Taos on Highway 518 back towards Mora, and then turning right on Highway 75 to Highway 76 back to the main route, you hit three towns, although they kind of merge together. The first is Vadito, a typical poor Indian town. The second is Penasco, which seems the largest of the three and has several gas stations, restaurants and a grocery store. The last is Rio Lucio, which is another poor Indian town, but has a quaint church. Eventually I'm going to list all of these churches, because they are fairly interesting, but they are just too many to get into at this point. All of these towns surround the Picuris Pueblo, which I did not see because of my haste. I think I'm just tired of driving. I have covered more distance than I thought I would originally. I don't know.
Back on the main highway (68) it gets kind of dull. Typical dry mountain landscape and small settlements. Just north of Espanola there is the enormous Oh-Kay Casino. I am certain, for some reason or another, that this casino has better odds than those in Louisiana. Probably should have gone into one, although I don't really have the money to spend in them. The town of Espanola itself is a string of businesses on a crowded 4-lane highway and then the historic Espanola Trading Post, which had a sign out front saying something to the effect of "Adobe Information." Also right in the middle of Espanola is the Big Rock Casino, which also is apparently a bowling alley. I wouldn't mind bowling, but again, I'm under the impression that I'm short on cash.

9:47am (Las Vegas) :: Before I talk about Vegas, I must first speak of trips taken yesterday. I left on I-40 west towards Albuquerque and then turned north on the "El Corro Trail," Highway 3. Highway 3 is narrow, curvy and bumpy with a speed limit of 55, but 75 is much more fun. Eventually you reach the small town of Villanueva (or rather, village of, as the name implies). Villanueva is absolutely charming. The village appears out of nowhere coming around a bend in the road, and the lush, green valley carved by the Pecos River reminds you of pictures you've seen of Europe. The village itself consists of a beautiful church, a few houses and the small "Villanueva Cash Store." It is an old Mexican settlement, so just about everyone in the town is Mexican-American. Further up Highway 3, you reach San Gregorio(?), where you are greeted with a beautiful, old white church named INSERT MISSION NAME.
One thing I must also comment on is the amazingly different culture existing in this state. The accents seem foreign, sort of a hybrid of a Native American and Hispanic accent. People also do things a little slower in this area. They don't hurry when they drive, they talk a little slower and they have no reservations about holding up a line with a conversation (which seems taboo in so many other places).
Okay, so the first thing for any traveller to Las Vegas to know is that there are actually two towns. They both their own business districts, central plazas, high schools, historic hotels, restaurants and movie theatres. The city of Las Vegas itself is unified only in a municipal sense. The story goes that the railroad was built downhill from the original city (now referred to as West Las Vegas) so the city basically moved to the newer city (referred to as East Las Vegas). Of course, not all of the town moved, although the main lodging in town, the Plaza Hotel, was abandoned for many years as a result of the railroad building a new hotel, El Rialto. Both hotels are functioning as of today, and both mark themselves off as historic. Las Vegas is full of history. Those little brown signs will guide you through oak-lined streets with large, victorian houses that makes Las Vegas seem more like a town in Ohio, instead of New Mexico. There is also the beautiful campus of New Mexico Highlands University, which although small, seems to have a large following of its athletics program. The rest of the town is relatively poor. There are large government housing projects and countless trailer parks dotting around the old cities. Aside from this, there is also the typical interstate town stretch, although here, it seems to have a much better feel to it. They typical fast food joints and sleazy 50's-era motels are on the same stretch as several more interesting restaurants. Two of the supposed best eateries in the city are in both of the Downtowns. The Spic n' Span is in East Las Vegas, and specializes in breakfast, while the El Rialto in West Las Vegas specializes in dinner. In West Las Vegas, along the old plaza, there is also the Plaza Hotel bar, two or three smaller Mexican restaurants and the Oriental King, which serves Chinese, Japanese and Korean cuisine but is run by a Korean family. Lunches there run about $7 and about $10 for dinner.

Oh, and yes, there are also the mountains. I spent last night in the pinos altos, cold and afraid. What could turn the fearless Colin into a scared white boy afraid to go out of his car? Bears. After finding a suitable place to park on a dirt forest service road which stems from the end of Highway 65, I met a bear hunter named Nick. Drinking a Busch beer and occassionally pawing at his .44 pistol (which I did not notice at first), he informed me that he was a bear hunter and believed that we were in the prime spot for bears. He had grown up just to the north and gave me quite a bit of useful information on the area, but mainly what I was interested in was the bears. Now, many a reader may think to themselves "I would love to see a bear in the wild," think again. The prospect of having a bear come up to your car in the middle of the night while you're sleeping will make you shit your pants. Unknowingly, I had climbed up the mountain next to where I was parked, wanting to see the top. I did not quite make it, but did have the opportunity of coming within the sites of Nick and his .44, as well being very vulnerable to bears. Sure, they don't typically attack people; I don't care. Any animal which has a verified history of eating humans and weighs 5-6 times more than me, I will always steer clear of by several miles. Besides this, the mountains are absolutely gorgeous. Going up there, you first run across what is called "Montezuma's Castle." This far-out-of-place towering mansion was originally the Hotel Phoenix, and was built in the early 20th century for travellers coming for the mineral baths. After being abandoned for many years, it was bought and remodeled by the United World College. This was interesting to me because I knew quite a few people who went to the UWC campus in Singapore. However, this is the Armand Hammer United World College. So, this begs the question, when is Mr. Clean getting his own school? Further up the road, as you go above the canyon and then back down into it, there is a stone house. Supposedly, this is Patrick Swayze's house. Now, to all the homes of the stars mapmakers, I will not go further into the location of the house, since I cannot verify that he in fact resides there. Most people in this area love their privacy, and as stupid, greenhorn tourists, we owe it to them to shut the hell up and keep our eyes on the pines and the road. Now, Highway 65 running along this canyon is not for the weary. There are several one-lane blind curves, there is no center line and the sheer length of the road and the 25 mph speed limit just makes you want to go faster despite the curves. Just be careful. The end of the road, as mentioned above, splits into two dirt/gravel forest service roads. Straight follows the creek through the canyon, and apparently just ends. The left goes to Johnson's Mesa, a peak which yields a beautiful view of Hermit's Peak and the surrounding landscape, and then just ends. However, beware that Johnson's Mesa is 3.5 miles up a windy, gravel road with very few other cars. About 3/4 mile up, you'll see a road off to the left. This goes to Mineral Wells, and eventually winds up back just south of Las Vegas. I did not drive it, but it should be of the same quality as the others, although don't take my word.

5:33pm (Taos) :: Here I am in a coffee shop in the Old Taos Plaza, rushing to get what little I can down before the place closes at 6. I've grown complacent with the towering green monsters of the Sangre de Cristo range, and also maybe a little apathetic towards the masses and their uncanny ability to bring their fat wastelines into any beautiful mountain village and turn it into some sort of half-ass Colorado. Taos is not this, but is still full of these fat people and their friends. The two-lane road leading in is packed with them, although most seem to be from New Mexico, which confuses me somewhat. I went driving around a little, just before having to take a nasty crap in the Mc Donald's here (which, by the way, has no door on the stall - BEWARE), and it really is beautiful country. It makes you wonder what the ancient Native Americans would think if they saw what the White man had done with their little villages after we killed them off with bullets and infected blankets. I think they would say "Wha?" It all goes back to Maslow I think. They surely saw the beauty in this country, but they also saw the reality: a harsh land which yields little food and even less water. Now we have stacked condos on the remains of scrub and turned their old villages into national historic sites. This is a town of transplants, of individuals far too white for their own good, driving around in old SUVs and Volvos, complaining about the admonishment of the environment and the lack of wine shops by their houses. Sure, I'm bitter, just tired of this "Air-Conditioned Nightmare" that I'm sure Miller was so depressed with. I'm just depressed by this whole Western myth, and these fantasty-junkies that seem to throw themselves head-first into it. I do wish I had a guitar, maybe tomorrow I'll play bongos on the plaza, try to earn some bread. Make up for all that Iron Kids I blew in Las Vegas. Also, I will have to find a place to sleep for the night. I washed up and ate a frozen burrito in a gas station in Agua Fria, so I should be good to go as far as immediate hygiene is concerned. However, my ultra-clean upbringing makes me worry greatly about my hair and whether or not I have become a dirty hippy. I'm just waiting for that. My face is too sunburned and my hairline has receded far too much for me to be considered anything but an angry, faceless American youth.