5/23

There is still snow waiting on the high slopes of the Sierra. Furniture and I decided we could wait longer, so we are waiting on the desert floor. We are waiting on the dry and dusty basin of the Mojave desert, the intermission between two mighty mountain ranges. We found jobs on a goat farm, and arrived today. The owners fed us goat milk and goat cheese and goat meat and goat kefir and took us through this cradle of life in the bowl of dust. Wide blue skies and snowy peaks frame a beige orchard of apple trees and steel goat cages. The wind runs through like a vandal, stirring the plants and the animals. Snakes called "the Mojave Green" slide along the ground, waiting to put a neurotoxin, donated by evolution, into a man's blood. Goats are the citizens of this little city, and dogs are their police, and a monstrous blind pig is their mayor. Already we have heard stories of space shuttles and abandoned gold mines and drag races and heavy metal deposits and Charles Manson's family and the Mojave Green. The desert is the place to pursue things that have been chased out of cities, and here we are amongst both lifestyles- sheltered in an ancient anchored RV in the ring of rusting apocalyptic stacks of machines, just waiting, just being a desert competitor.