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The first time I came to the desert.
I was with my family.
I must have been about 13. Ish. Post braces. Pre-super badness.
I was on the edge of becoming the kind of kid that doesn’t have “problems.” I was just a little bit chubby and I think at that time a little prone to getting upset kind of easily.
Eventually I became the kid who had problems.
Which ended up working out for me.
But I digress.
This was probably the last family trip we ever took. I can’t recall the exact route. I remember landing in Phoenix. Then I think we went to Vegas. I have vague notions of the Hoover Dam. I remember the Grand Canyon.
Two of my clearest memories:
The first was of the Grand Canyon. I remember stopping and taking our picture at the top - the whole family. Then we went down into the “maw” of the canyon – just me, my brother and my dad. My mom’s knee was wrapped up in one of those things that ended up on her knee after one of many skiing mishaps. Which meant to Maw for Ma.
Side note: My family, not the most naturally athletic, but we try and so – often end up with things on our knees.
The walk into the Grand Caoyon is one of those zig zag trails that zippers you down and deeper into the canyon. The path is covered in ping pong sized poop that my dad said was probably from donkeys – frequenters of the canyon. At some point in the Grand Canyon there are these paths you can walk out into that jut out into the emptiness of the canyon. These are not so adventurous but adventurous type walks. Not for people afraid of looking out into the great empty.
I wanted to walk out but I didn’t.
My dad, did walk out, and he wanted us to take his picture so I stood on the path and waited.
When he finally reached the end of the jutting out bit, he turned back to wave at us.
In this picture, which I only have in old skool hard copy format, my dad looks TINY. He looks like a pin point in the big universe.
Which I. Found. Terrifying. As terrifying as that big empty space. More terrifying. To see my dad so small.
The other thing I remember, and this is fitting because, as we drive along I-10 in the dark I’m listening to Florence + The Machine, was the fact that the only album I brought with me to listen to on my Walkman during the trip was Tori Amox’ “Little Earthquakes” – which is a pretty fucking intense album if you might recall.
Silent all these Years
Me and a Gun
Crucify
I remember looking out into the desert and feeling this music moving around in my soul. Like nesting there. I memorized the lyrics. I sang them in the window careful to turn away enough that my brother – sitting next to me – couldn’t see what I was doing.
I pictured myself a future Tori Amos, singing about my pain, eventually to an audience of my then uncaring peers. I imagined Tori Amos very unpopular in high school and was cheered by the idea that this was probably connected to her fame.
I pictured future music videos in which I would wear a white dress and dance on the red rocks of Arizona while singing about my pain.
This last bit is something I still sometimes do. Although now I’m less concerned about a crowd of uncaring peers showing up. Mostly I just want my friends there and a smattering of loyal fans.
xo
mariko