New York to Warsaw
Eddy & Eli,
The first photograph sums up a good chapter in Idaho. Identical to the trailer home we lived in Picabo. I still don't know how it could be so warm & cozy inside...blizzards couldn't put a dent on it. The truck reminds me of dad's little white pick-up, driving with all the junk in the back. I can still smell it, especially after log peeling at work. This trailer home’s window takes me back to Little Moj's ranch...from the tiny window, I could see whose car was heading our way miles away, always hoping it would be someone cool.
Walking in Idaho was no joke, like the time after football practice at Carey High. I don’t know what propelled me walk up-hill across the mountain. It got dark as soon as I could see the long road ahead. Dark as ever, I hear a car blasting AC/DC, catching up to me at full speed. I got off the road looking for rocks or stick to man up if I had to (natural instinct if you come from Lima). The little hoopty passes me, stops and hits reverse. I thought it was on, now or never. A dude shouts my name; “Mike, c’mon…get-in”. Three Guns and Roses, Metallica outcasts from school. Home free. The music, the three bandits roaming the country side in complete darkness. In these photographs, the lighting and mood at dusk are quite theatrical, soothing to say the least. A brutal contrast from Lima, still theatrical, overcharged with friction, violent and haunting in an addictive way. I miss them both.
Idaho, so picturesque...I didn't know any better, a punk kid from Lima trying to get out or get in...
Love you always,
The of Birds: Portraits in Extinction
In the reading room of Hell In the club
for science-fiction fans
On the frosted patios In the bedrooms of passage
On the iced-over paths When everything finally seems clearer
and each instant is better and less important
With cigarette in mouth and with fear Sometimes
green eyes And 26 years Yours truly
In The Reading Room: A Homage to Roberto Bolaño