There is something primordial about cornstarch mixed with a small amount of water, nebulous but on the verge of forming into a fundamental building-block upon which we could get a leg up, but then dissolving right there in our hands before we could speak its name. Fucking Zen.
By the time I reached Arizona, I was playing Dinosaur Jr.’s “Out There” over and over again. He was gone (had lost his mind in a nutmeg haze), I was gone (had lost whatever cornstarch-based faith I had before his nutmeg-Christ-revelation), and whatever force had set this whole wrecking ball into motion was apparently gone as well.
I went to Sedona because I had read that there were powerful energy vortexes there that had mysterious, healing powers. Following a bad map in a new age book, I hiked into an alleged vortex to ask the asshole universe to restore me. But what I didn’t realize was that there was a negative energy vortex forming in my heart and when this vortex came into contact with the vortexes in Sedona, it caused me to lose my balance and fall down a steep, red incline. I limped back to my car feeling more cynical than ever.
When I reached the California border, the sun was beginning its descent and The Grateful Dead’s “Estimated Prophet” was coming in clearly on the radio. Golden shocks of light danced on my windshield and gave me a renewed sense of hope for what this long state might bring.