As Land Would Have It

(An excerpt from unpublished manuscript, "Homesick")

It wouldn’t take seven years of living in suburbia to know this is the greatest distance, and time span, I’ve lived from the ocean and a four-lane bridge. I am positioned in the Central Valley, a good three-to-four hours by car—southeast of San Francisco—nestled against the southern Sierra foothills. Regardless of the season, a road trip out of the valley always seems the same.

I pass through dizzy strips of civilization bordered by fuzzy mounds of earth, hilly plateaus smoothed by time. Fast food chains and patriotic mega superstores have emerged from the landscape—clumps of a mirage that offer convenient replenishments that have risen like weeds towards the sky. Their steel tubular necks stretch above Interstate 5 advertising fast food, gasoline—refuge for the weary traveler.

I’m stuck inside a dream; somehow, I make progress through the wind tunnel where water and oil are sacred. What we really need is shade, a break from the ever watchful sun: squirrels sit on their hind legs and nibble next to the wheels of the passing cars; hesitant lizards hide in the waves of blonde grass, trusting no one; snakes I cannot see, watch from under piles of twig and bark. Everyone takes refuge from the deadpan heat. I envy the face of the desert, the solitude. I drive to try and keep my momentum. It’s not very often I get to use the cruise control feature.