I waffled back and forth quite a bit after Erika invited me to go on a whirlwind Death Valley/Mojave desert weekend with her in February. I'm always envious when Erika announces another spontaneous vacation destination-- usually muttered somewhat under her breath, as if her quiet will combat my jealousy-- but this one came as a surprise at a time in my life when I seem to be more and more closed off to surprises.

So I thought about it.

And today I accepted. Tickets were purchased. Maps were consulted. Plans were set in motion.

And in the end it wasn't really the need to get away or a longing to go somewhere I've never been. It wasn't to feel more travelled or spontaneous or open. It wasn't about having another birthday adventure. And it wasn't to fulfill a resolution for a year I haven't quite welcomed yet.

I think, instead, it really came down to the words below that began running through my head at the very thought of the desert and the thump of tires and an endless horizon. Words I'm sure I've written on these pages before-- so bear with me. Or sing along. Whichever you prefer.

"I had been driving south from Las Vegas to Palm Springs and the Nothingness was very much on my mind. I kept on being surprised by the bigness of the landscape-- just how far nothing can extend to-- in my rental car, climbing up and falling down the slopes and sinks of the Mojave desert. Outside the car there were no trees or billboards or plants or animals or buildings-- not even fences-- just radio waves and the Mojave's volcanic granite, experienced at seventy-seven miles per hour.

"Here's what was on my mind: I had recently begun worrying about my feelings disappearing more and more-- noticing that I had seemed to simply be feeling less and less. These worries became more focussed and stronger as I was driving. I felt like I was turning into a reptile, an iguana sitting on a rock with a decaying memory and no compassion.

"My drive continued and worries about vanishing feelings remained like a background radiation. But I guess the nice thing about driving a car is that the physical act of driving itself occupies a good chunk of brain cells that otherwise would be giving you trouble overloading your thinking. New scenery continually erases what came before; memory is lost, shuffled, relabeled and forgotten. Gum is chewed; buttons are pushed; windows are lowered and opened. A fast moving car is the only place where you're legally allowed to not deal with your problems. It's enforced meditation and this is good."

"In the Desert" from Life After God by Douglas Coupland

On the return leg of my cross country trip in March 2000, I drove from LA to Vegas as the sun was setting. I remember the most defining orange-colored sky and random truck stops with Red Vine liquorice. I remember all that nothingness speeding by while I refused to stop-- or even slow down-- long enough to contemplate it any further.

Now it seems like the most palpable metaphor.

Bret Easton Ellis used a line from a Led Zeppelin song as an introduction to his book, Less Than Zero: "There's a feeling I get when I look to the West..." I get that feeling, too. A feeling that there is something of mine lost out there behind those mountains where the sun finally disappears with a whoosh of pyrotechnics. I'm hoping that we can find it. Inside our car. On that road. And in the midst of one of the world's most friendly and comfortable silences.

Thank you, Erika, for a truly gracious invitation.