John Wise

Back out on the road for me. Driving without a plan, turning in whichever direction looks appealing. Southeast was the way the car started, but soon, I was aiming dead south, heading for the border. Astute viewers of the image and those thoroughly knowledgeable about Arizona’s terrain will notice that the photo above is actually looking north. Well, it was the nicer view, not only because it had the appearance of freedom, but not too far ahead was this view:

Give me your snakes, your flying insects, your narrow-framed animals able to squeeze between these bars. The wretched refuse of your Mexican shore. Do not send these; keep your homeless; toss them to the tempest. I raise a fence beside the golden land. Now go home, or we’ll ask for your papers in a poor imitation of what we railed against as a nation during a world war that witnessed a fascist state isolating and profiling a segment of the population that was deemed unworthy and ready for removal. Then, it was Jews; today, it is Hispanics. Just who is on the right side of the fence?

Now, before you go on a tangential argument with me about my opinions regarding immigration, do not read more into this than I have offered. I do not favor allowing everyone to freely walk across the border, but nor do I believe we should be rounding up those already here who have entered due to our ineptitude regarding our own policies and the economic convenience illegal immigrants fill. The fact of the matter is we would certainly face ancillary problems if this exploitable labor force were gone and our elderly social security recipients were forced to purchase unsubsidized, full-cost-for-value food that their pittance of retirement funds could hardly cover. And to all of those people who benefit from clean offices, cheap yard work, maids who have taken care of your hotel room, those hidden away in hospital basements washing the shit from your dying grandfather’s sheets, for all the services they have done in our name for our convenience – a class of people we simultaneously need and hate – we owe them our acceptance, our respect, and the opportunity to pay into our tax system just like the rest of us former immigrants.

This is Joan Ruane, who’s an expert cotton spinner and the woman who led the workshop this weekend. Time to go home.

Damn it, where was my wake-up call? The front desk out here is worthless. If it weren’t for the view, I’d check us out. I know this was rustic and cheap, but the website said nothing of the dysfunctional generator, broken windows, and half a door. Oh well, I try to remind myself that the pioneers didn’t have blogs to whine about trying to fix a broken wheel in the rain one hundred sixty years ago while marauding hordes of bandits circled the wagon trains stealing their animals. After collecting up some dead grass, starting a fire, and making breakfast, I was off for a day of adventure.

But first, I’ll have to find my way out of here. Don’t go squawking on about how a GPS would come in handy right about now; I have a built-in GPS called “sense of direction,” and I’ll do fine – like I always do. Heck, I even have fresh tire tracks to follow; how difficult can this be? It’s not like I’m the first guy out on the Great Plains breaking trail on my way to discover gold in California. I’m just looking to find a little fun today out here in the resort city called Bisbee. By the way, how many others hate these signs that tell us to “Watch for Animals”? I watch and see nothing. I drive through anywhere else where there are no signs and knock off rabbits, javelinas, and other assorted four-legged creatures; I flatten snakes and lizards, even had birds crash into my windshield, but I swear if the sign says “Wildlife Ahead,” I’ll never see it.

The travel guide in our room said we’d find a spa out here with aroma and massage therapy. Haha, funny guys, what am I supposed to do, smell the forest and roll around on the rocks? If I don’t find something fun to do soon, this day is gonna be one giant waste of time that I could have better spent watching the rerun of season 3, episode 6 of Dancing With The Stars, which I swear was one of the greatest moments in television history I have ever witnessed, next to Richard Hatch winning season 1 of Survivor.

I can only assume I took a wrong turn down the wrong dirt road that took me into that forest. Back out on the highway, endless vistas and desert stretch as far as the eye can see, which probably also correlates to the curvature of the earth and how far the horizon is from our vision before it dips below the curve, but it seems far away anyhow. The scattered fluffy clouds interrupt sunlight’s journey to earth, casting shadows where sunlight would otherwise burn brightly, like off on the mountains in front of me. This suits me fine as months from now, I’ll beg for respite from the orb of scorchidness.

Unable to find thrills, a beach, the spa, or any other meaningful entertainment besides all this looking at the desert, I pulled into a now-defunct drive-in theater. It is so closed that nothing, not an inkling of detail, remains to identify this patch of land as a former drive-in theater. Only this panoramic screen stands as a testament to this old 1950s icon. I pulled up to watch a showing of the 1988 B-movie classic “A Sunset to Die For” starring Sage Peterson, Star McBride, and Deedra Bright Sun in her first role onscreen.

Then, just before the sun finally set on this day, up in the sky, curls of fluff atop the clouds began to crest and roll for the celestial surfers who must have been just out of sight waiting for the sun to finish its disappearance so they could come out and catch a wave. So that was my day, Caroline spent hers back in Bisbee playing fiber artist for another day – yawn.

Drove down to Bisbee, Arizona, this evening. It was dark during the night. We arrived, and it was still dark. So, there wasn’t a thing to photograph on the way down from Phoenix. I may have preferred posting an image of some spectacular landscape, but as I said, it was dark outside under the starry sky. Instead, I offer you our room for the next three nights. We checked in late at the Silver King Hotel, right across from a rowdy bar with some of the worst karaoke singers we were ever forced to listen to late into the night. But the room was nice, and the toilet wasn’t too far down the hallway – that’s what you get when you are being cheap. The next morning, we had our first meal of the day at the Bisbee Breakfast Club, affectionately known as the BBC – great breakfast.