We played with local busker extraordinaire Michael Comb. Photographer Jennifer Esperanza took some wonderful photos (including the one posted. www.jenniferesperanza.com www.flickr.com/photos/jenniferesperanza
At the time we were headed out of town towards Albuquerque, but the folks in Santa Fe convinced us to go north towards the red rocks. So we did!
If you've ever driven through southern Utah you probably have a good understanding of the vastness of the canyons and ridges, the saturation of the red rocks, the contrast of sand against the green ground fur. The water mirages are there, at least Emilie can see them, and a fox too coming curiously to the edge of the road to see Kate in her red turtleneck and bushy cargo tail, chuggin on up the gravel road. Dressed in turbined headgear to protect her already rosy face from the late afternoon sun, Emilie stops at the top of the switchbacks as Kate scrambles around the last curve of the three mile uphill that is definitely curvier that "the curviest street in the world" in San Francisco, and has brought us nearly 1000feet higher in elevation. At the top we meet our water- three gallons planted the day before by some willing car travellers. Only problem is we just filled up at the bottom and can't carry the wait. We are a little less than half way up(and is is mostly climbing) the Burr Trail, an old cattle route established around 1800, is a largely gravel road, at least fifty percent gravel and slick-rock with patches of sand wash that reaches from Bullfrog, a resort town on the edge of Lake Powell to Boulder, Utah. It is about seventy miles long and there is no water in between. Here's a photo we grabbed from Flickr, (thank you dgans) to give you an idea of this stretch of road... The nights are definitely getting colder. We spoke with this guy, Jason, the other night over a campfire that he built and chicken noodle soup that he brought, about peace. He said that to him, peace is knowing yourself. It starts with inner peace. All the people in power in this country are just children who never grew up. Around twenty-twenty six people start to understand themselves and find peace with within, and the only people who are capable of making war are those who have never found that sense of self. He talked about "clicks" how all that politics is is a bunch of clicks- just like kids in high school. All trying to be popular and impressive.
I (Kate speaking) have often thought that politicians simply don't fall in love as easy and enjoy sex as much as peaceful people- which is not to say that all politicians are war-hungry, power-hogs- but a few rotten apples can ruin the barrel, and it takes some serious backbone to peace down the fighters, Al Gore did his best. We salute! We saw a sign outside of a Navajo art gallery a while back that said "We Make Art and Love, Not War". Yeah! Art and Love. That's what it's all about!
But anyway, I wanted to say something about the desert. The desert is quiet. It's different than the quiet you know inside your house at night, different than the quiet of dawn in Ithaca- this quiet is thick and full of cotton. There are pillows of emptiness collapsing over your eardrum, silence like the feeling of free falling in a dream, hollow as the canyons that carry an echo of your KOO-EE! around the world and back again with twelve reverberations, quiet like a mother's cheek against a hot forehead or a dandelion turning into flight, quiet like a heart stopped beating and at peace in a long still night.
We had breakfast in Bullfrog at a resort(the only place to get food) where everyone was from Jamaica and Indonesia. The Indonesian people loved America and wanted to keep coming back, and the Jamaicans were ready to go home to their music and food! Looking out over the canyon, now filled with water from the dammed-up Colorado River, the landscape is strange. Bright in color and lacking in culture.
We are about to set sail(actually heading into irons as we move West) for Escalante, then Red Rocks. See you soon... Brothers
The pictures are from Kansas City. We are now in the desert, in a little town with no library. We have been through the Navajo lands and saw several little oasis' of towns all with no cell phone reception or library. We are told that there is a book-mobile that comes around once a week. There are thousands of people living without a library. But here in Bluff, the weather is fine, the water is artesian, and the people are kind.
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This project has been made possible by generous contributions from, The Cornell Council for the Arts, Linda and Jeff Shearman, Mary Fessenden, Tara Cooper, BJ Ewing, Lucile Stark, Elaine from the Pharmacy/cafe, Terry Smith, the man at the Gas Station in New Albany, Dave and Jim, Bill and Beth, the girls at Huck's, Diana and Michael, Buzz Spector, Niel, Tim Hayes, Eric Kincade, Blake, Maggie Stark, Connie and Paul, Randy and David, Chris Mathias, Steve (the owner of) Escalante, Stacy Weber, and many others like you...
On September 11th, 2007 the Barn Stormin’ Brother’s began a journey on bicycles that would carry them from Roanoke, Virginia to San Francisco, California performing their work-in-progress, The Two-Headed Nightingale in Laundromats along the way. The Brothers will travel from east to west retracing the steps of the colonial conquest, in an attempt to understand the deep-rooted dream in which land is seized, secured, and exploited in the name of the free. The piece uses song, dance and theatrical vignettes to test the limits of the self. Where does one human being end and another begin? Why do we live in a country that values private property? The performance is constructed as a string of brotherhood equations that evaluate this country’s obsession with ownership and material wealth. We will perform in Laundromats because it is a unique type of public space. We will offer an alternative entertainment, an oasis, which fights prejudice and oppression with a slew of back-bending dance moves, saw-tooth rambling and dizzying percussion. De-robe and De-pants, as we build a wild west out of soap and socks at your local Laundromat.