Flagstaff is a one-dreaded sixty year-old white man (his dreads so natty they're fuzed into one) hopping around to some live dub music in a sub-alpine meadow, a feather stuck in his hair. His partner is a Native woman--Hopi? With black hair down past her ass. Her name is Shivering Birch. The two of them dance barefoot in thin green grass that is as soft as hair, trying not to step on the lupines. Humphrey's Peak rises up behind them.
Sedona is a tourist town with overpriced Mexican food and one too many Reiki Masters. But that doesn't bother you; you're there to climb the red rocks. You're there to hear the call of the raven, chase lizards, admire the mottled bark of the manzanita. And you do.
Jerome, an old mining town, is really just a bunch of crumbling buildings teetering on the edge of a cliff. Some of the buildings are art galleries and curio shops, some are bars; there's a candy shop and a cafe. In Jerome you can take pictures of the half-rotten buildings, taste some wines, and eat a haunted hamburger. What more could you ask for? Oh, there is the Puscifer store owned by Maynard James Keenan...too bad it's closed on Mondays.
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Danielle,
ReplyDeleteI loved your poetical description of flagstaff. I love that city. Tell Nate I say hello. Hope your both well. I am going to eventually give you your very belated wedding gift.