Autumn Interlude: Back to Joshua Tree

Rock.

Rock. There is no escaping it. It is everywhere, anywhere my eyes turn. Rock.

Naked and exposed. Rock. Scoured. Raw. Rock.

They dog me with every change in direction, without respite, without reprieve. They taunt; I hear them now in my wakefulness, and more loudly, compellingly in my sleep. It is a game to them, they have nothing left but to tease and torture.

I press my hand to the cold surface, fingers stretched out, palm flat, and instantly feel the passing of time, slow and forever ancient. They feel not the bite of the wind, the sting of the sun. Freeze and thaw, fractures and cracks. Wind and water, grind and wear. They feel not, so I feel for them. I see their history, a timeline of detritus spread at their feet, decades in their shadows, revealed by the passing sun. I am trapped in their saga.

Tumbled and cast about, they are a madness. Rock. They are my madness. In dropping darkness, they run beside me. Seeking escape. Rock. Stumbling, falling, a cry of shock and anger. A cry echoed round, around. Gathering. Encircled, enclosed. Stacked to the sky I seek a way over. Handholds, footholds, skin abraded. Scramble, pull, leap. The top reveals more.

Endless.

Rock.

Weekend of 29-30 November