April 19, 2015 3:12 PM
I awoke at dawn at a roadside rest stop in eastern New Mexico—still on the edge of Limbo—with a mind flooded with new insights. Overwhelmed, I dictated what I could into my voice recorder, shot a quick email off to Michelle on seeing herself as a cartoon character (to distance herself from her personal self ala the Hortons) and got the hell out of there.
I don’t know if it’s the area—the Limbo-like quality of the Great Plains—or just the cycle of insights that I seem to get flooded with about once a month, but I wasn’t taking any chances, I wanted them to stop, so I drove and I drove and I drove.
I came across a small town—Roy, NM—and it was utterly deserted. A couple cars parked in front of houses, but not a single person or dog or even the noise of a TV or radio. Only silence interrupted rhythmically by the sound of a metal sign, hanging from a chain, squeaking in the wind. I got out of the van and walked around. It felt eerily apocalyptic as if everyone had suddenly vanished: the deserted and locked stores with “We’re Open” signs hanging askew in their windows, the dead and dried stalks sticking out of the sidewalk planters, the cracked paint and dirty glass and that ever squeaking, “creak, creak, creak,” as the wind blew down the dusty and vacant street—the main thoroughfare of this empty and haunted town.
I drove on.
Biologically on Central Time, but now in Mountain Time, I arrived still early in Las Vegas, NM. I considered staying, but I’m feeling the need to go to ground—to focus on writing, on creating, on the book I’ve been putting off at every opportunity. But Las Vegas—New Mexico or not—is no place to go to ground so I drove on.
I’m typing this from a Starbucks I often hang out in while visiting Albuquerque. I’ll probably spend the night at the nearby casino, get the van’s oil changed in the morning, then head either West or South West to one of about five camps I know of. Camps isolated and quiet and far enough away from civilization so that I won’t be tempted to make a city run just because I can.
With the insights (hopefully) abating, I’ve dumped this morning’s voice recorder notes into Ulysses for future blog posts—lest I forget them, lest the days in solitude become so uneventful as to be blog-worthless.
It’s good to be out of Limbo. It’s time to stop thinking, time to stop theorizing, time to stop the damn insights.
It’s time to stop seeing and time to start doing (Seth Godin’s article, synchronistically posted today).
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