Tuesday, February 12, 2008


Even the great amoeba cities, clutching each other, skewered on their endless myopic highways, shrink in comparison to the vastness of the landscape in the West. These desert cities, surmounted and circumscribed by wondrous mountains wink small and lonely in the dark night, lost in all-encompassing wilderness. We live that we may be worthy of this landscape.

Tucson, loud city of impolite dogs and cars, planted with inedible fruit and painted with bland colors, at least you are ringed by mountains for every mood. The humble-yet-graceful hump of the Rincons, huge on the Eastern horizon. The jagged charismatic physiognomy of the Santa Catalinas looming in the North, dominant, heroic, common. The austerely lush, picturesque Tucson mountains, dry yet creative, flowering along the West. And finally the distant-beyond-estimation Santa Ritas, spooky at a distance, foreign and strange and Southerly.

Santa fe, quiet city of streamlined roads twisting past close-set fences...[unfinished]

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