Just 48 hours ago, the idea of taking off on a writing retreat isolated out on the sparsely populated Arizona/New Mexico border seemed like a brilliant idea. Now, this morning, I’m supposed to leave. I’m acutely aware of what I will sorely miss: my best friend, all-around pal, and wife, Caroline. It all seemed so easy in theory, but after these six months of never really being more than a dozen feet away from each other, my separation anxiety is gripping me. Not that I’ll give in to it, as the rationale for putting myself somewhere outside my routine is not a bad thing, and with the idea that in order to gather value from my time away, I have to pen a weighty number of words that may or may not have exceptional meaning, I will endeavor to bring them out in the thousands. What I’ll write remains a mystery in the moments before I depart.
Driving for hours across the desert, listening to nothing more than road noise and whatever murmurings my brain allows to escape, the passenger seat is sadly empty, but my heart is not as Caroline is with me even when she’s not physically there. I can’t write that without some small amount of corny feelings welling up in my fingers; come on, who writes these kinds of cliches at this age? Allow me a small amount of mea culpa, as romantic pinings are not always easy to come by when the mind is distracted with unknown things that are at the core of what’s dragging me to go and spend some time contemplating whatever it might be I could discover.
How does one live in a remote place like Duncan, Arizona, and have the same concerns as somebody who lives in a major city? How long does it take to sit somewhere where nothing is happening until you come to the point that you are okay with nothing happening in your own life? Or is my myopic view and understanding of where one’s center is broken?
Walking around Duncan is a lot different than using this old town as a base for other destinations. I’ve finally started to really look at things, trying to see beyond the few aesthetic sights that are part of a narrative that celebrates travel. There was once faith that Duncan was a town that held the promise that this could be a good place to live. Back then, it was farming, mining, and ranching that drove the economy, but times change, and what once had been lucrative no longer was, and with the tumult of poverty moving in, some had to move out.
The waxing and waning of economic vigor fluctuate with the few enterprising people who hold on to hope that there’s enough through traffic that might support a new endeavor so a small pizza joint hangs on; the Simpson Hotel is here though it’s operating on a very strict program, the Ranch House restaurant seems to have enough customers that they’ll still be here on our next visit too. As for residents, it’s hard to read the ebb and flow as many dwellings look well abandoned, though I’m reluctant to poke around to see if that’s, in fact, true.
It’s undeniably beautiful out here in the middle of nowhere. Well, that’s if you can define nowhere as being nearly 100 miles (160 km) from a town with at least 10,000 people living in it. To me, that’s close to nowhere, but don’t think I cast aspersions with this observation as, in some ways, I don’t believe this is remote enough, but it’s conveniently distant so that I get a good sense of being out of the wreckage of a big city. Go ahead and ask me, “Why must you disparage big cities?” Xenophobia, poor education, disappearing culture, belligerence, risk of chaos due to gross inequity, and my old worn drum beat of harping on mediocrity come to mind and are the driving forces that bring me out here to explore my thoughts if there’s something in my head that can be said differently and maybe more effectively.
A rainbow seems like as good a sign that something will blossom if I were to believe this natural phenomenon portended something significant, but I don’t, so I’ll just go with posting this as a nod to Caroline as we always, without fail, delight when we share a kiss under the rainbow.
I won’t be able to call in help or tap someone else to find inspiration while on this sojourn to search for words that would allow me to say something meaningful, even if they are so to nobody else but me. Here on this first day laden with the emotion of leaving Caroline, if even for only a short while, along with the four or 5-hour drive, I sit here at the Simpson Hotel and feel the struggle of finding much of anything to share. It’s kind of like looking in the phonebook that’s no longer there for a name I don’t know and not being able to grab the phone that has been removed to ask for information for help. So, it must be time to hang up and call it quits on this day.