Description

I have a recurring dream where I’m driving down a two-lane desert highway in the dark of night surrounded by stars, windows down in the warmth of summer, careening toward a distant beacon of light. The place could be a motel, gas station or cafe. It’s off the beaten path, a place of rest where time, space, and light meet. It alternates between the red rock deserts of Utah, the bajadas of the Mojave Desert, the mountains in Northern New Mexico, or the Great Basin, but the place is always the same. Old signs, run down buildings,- a spot to rest my head. The defunct Roy’s Motel in the town of Amboy on Route 66 is where reality meets slumber. I had the Mother Road to myself, a fitting conveyor of asphalt to guide me home into the churning megalopolis. Speeding west, I blasted the Gypsy Kings version of Hotel California windows down, 12-hour old coffee flowing, and generally not giving a shit about anything other than the 500 feet of road in front of me.