The Badlands

They're not called that fer nuthin.

Didn't write a goddamn thing between Mitchell and Murdo, South Dakota. Didn't write anything in Murdo either, but I did manage a few words at a rest stop somewhere on I-90 between Okaton and Belvidere. To whit: "Well, today was weird. Woke up at dawn and crawled out of Duke and into a torrential rainstorm. Ran the hundred yards between the car and the bathroom here at some South Dakota rest stop where we unofficially encamped the night. Last night was insane. A mad energy struck the caravan as we pulled into a truck stop somewhere between Murdo and Rapid City." And that's it. We were, in fact, well outside the Badlands just yet, but for me the ugly energy was already strong. I imagine myself standing at that rest stop and looking up my location on a GPS, one of those satellite-linked calculator-looking things Christopher Columbus would have given his left nut for. Murdo has bad energy and I can just see the GPS reading "GET OUT!" or "NOWHERE" from any point within a 50 mile radius.

Anyway, it's journaliterary (my word) black holes like this that have constipated this tales progress from the outset. Every day now I find myself plugging holes, slamming my head against Duke's trunks trying to recall what the hell happened that night, or that minute. Who would have thought life could move this fast out on the plains of South Dakota? Answer: the citizens of Spencer. Whooosh.

My notebook scribblings from this time read: Corn palace photographer with chew all in his teeth; rain this a.m.; a robust argument in Murdo; Seven says "I'm right on your bumper"; Karl the truck driver from Rhode Island gives me $5; next a.m. Kadoka truck stop biker-looking dude (probably truck driver) gives Stockton $20 "for the art;" wild energy afoot; sprinkler run & shampoo; fireworks shoot.

In essence, the robust argument began in Mitchell. It had to do with Mr. Film-maker's refusal to talk to the artists about what the hell he was doing at any given time. It had to do with out-wearing our welcome at the Corn Palace and being threatened with towing if we didn't leave immediately and make room for several bus loads of Japanese tourists. It had to do with the heat and with my impatience at a consistent lack of communication between the Powers that Were and the documentary's subjects, the artists.

Everything fell apart at a rest stop high above the Missouri River. We had parked too far apart from one another, something that shouldn't have been a problem, one would think, for a group of people with CB radios. But it was a problem. The day was hot and I had been asleep at the wheel since Mitchell. After peeing and standing around awhile avoiding my car and the constant barrage of questions and ogling, I began to get impatient. Why weren't we leaving? The Yellow Submarine sat in the far corner of the rest stop and seemed never to leave. I went and tried to get some info out of Ramon to no avail. The man is a wall.

I don't recollect whether I was trying to herd the group myself or just threatening to take off without everyone, but I got in Duke and headed for the exit at a crawl. In no time, all the cars were lined up except the Yellow Submarine. And so we sat. Over the CB, I said again and again, "Let's go," and "What the hell's going on Ramon?"

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Last update April 1, 2004