black chevrolet

I said once that I can draw better when I'm sick. Somehow the dulling of senses enables me to pick up on certain common sensibles better. Or it's the mental distraction of being miserable that pulls my mind from its wonted preoccupations and sets it free to wander about the present as it will.

So for a moment there coming around the curve from the little Mupu Elementary School where crossing guards flash their stop signs on normal days of the week, I left it in 4th longer than I had to and dipped way in to that curve. The shadow of the handlebars and instruments and headlight came up to meet me, bending forward behind the turning sun, and I was on a desert road in the winter. Ash and brittle broken weeds all around, flicking by. I am miles from any civilization, dressed far too slightly for the bitter cold, short black gloves out in front of me, a rifle strapped to my back and my survival gear packed in the saddlebags. An antelope keeps pace briefly then breaks away to the east. The road goes on and on, a ribbon of white in a world of white, a world in which I don't know why the hell I didn't wear my vest. Santa Paula's not that far away but it's FREAKING COLD (mandatory capitals, again).