to california, with love IV

black and white picture of joshua trees

For me Joshua Tree is a place not of this earth, in fact many places are if you look at them with eyes that detach them from their physical placement and logical accessibility.

There was a moment when i first saw the asymmetrical shape of a lone Joshua Tree on a beautifully composed photograph by Anton Corbijn on the back sleeve of U2’s album of precisely that title. It stood there like it was waiting for something, like everybody seems to be in the desert. Breaking the scanty vegetated flatness with a shaggy brokenness and carelessly groomed wildness and i wanted to go – right away, off into a prickly forest of Joshua Trees.three photos of joshua trees at sunrise

You must know those moments, in which you incomprehensibly and violently want to leave, when some unknown thing or literal object draws you and you don’t even know why, don’t care to know why. It’s just the way it is and that’s that. I could probably explain all of it with my heavy-breathing-love for California, which i tried to avoid because everybody figured automatically i would love it and i just generally don’t like to act the way people think i will. But i won’t explain because some things don’t make sense and that’s how i like it.

So here we are now. Breathing in the alien landscape of Joshua Tree with it’s sweetish air. Miles of powdery sky and Joshua Trees of every shape and size on endless display. After a while soft rock formations, coloured in a shade of creamy unbleached silk, emerge and form little valleys at their feet. Everything takes place in slow motion. It’s a bit like being under water, the smooth surface and rounded molding of the rock, it’s texture suggesting that you could just cut through it with a knife.

We explore little trails, walk across Joshua Tree fields and climb the huge rocks at sundown. In the distance a man is lying on a Harley Davidson, feet on the handlebars, and i think that this is probably all the allure of the United States in an incidental illustration of what freedom must taste like. My dad always dreamed of doing this.

And then we stand atop a picnic table in the dark and memorize the lineament of Milky Way above our heads. We sleep in our car at Skull Rock and i startle up every few hours, dreaming of snakes sliding into the car.double exposed photo of man standing in front of joshua trees

We awake early to watch the sun rise. I didn’t get much sleep but i don’t mind. We are the only ones awake, not many travel the desert during the hottest time of the year and even less are awake at this hour. We drive down the single street. Every outlandish sound is amplified by the fresh morning silence and spiky silhouettes lean against the bright orange that is edging off the midnight blue. The most peaceful and beautifully detaching thing i have ever experienced may just be this: standing in the curve of the road, surrounded by cholla fields, capturing a papaya-whip sunrise surface behind an obscure mountain.

Before we leave we go to Cottonwood Spring where little forests of wild palm trees create shady dens and we can touch bedrock mortars left by the Cahuilla Indians who inhabited the territory about 2000 years ago. Joshua Tree is not of this world. This earth is not of this world.

bend in the road at sunrise


photos of milky way at joshua tree


Click here for California Part 3.


the way i remember things. new york.

double exposed photo of new york skyline, taken with an analog camera


There was, in 2007, a January in which i left – armed with the pretensions of a luminous almost-grown-up-ness – for New York, with an unsettling restlessness in my heart. I stayed until the end of summer and returned home with concrete in my chest, adding to the restlessness that leaped to it’s feet as soon as mine touched JFK. I knew then i would never be able to comfortably do normal again.

Ten years have gone by and i have fallen short of many 3am morning-resolutions, but made that concrete crumble by aiming never at status quo, sometimes landing there, but never being satisfied staying there.

It’s funny to say (i will say it though as an example of how my odd, odd brain works) that a smell, reminding me of Brooklyn garbage in summer, made me write this, made me think of how i never dared to write about New York after i left. So here are a couple of things that i am missing.



I associate New York most vividly with smells. Unseen clusters of molecules that, without being noticed, pressed miniature grape-like patterns into the surface of my brain. And so every now and then i might smell something like the odour of garbage simmering in the Brooklyn midday sun.

This in turn will bring my mind to me sitting in a little, yellow stage truck, window open (said smell streaming in), rushing past the streets of Brooklyn. Bodegas – blasting Puerto Rican music – , 24 hour Laundromats, Jamaican Soul Food Diners, African Hair Braiding Salons, wooing with their red, green and yellow plastic signs. Each stringed narrowly beside the next, colourful beads on a wristband, tearing when we cross the East River and scatteredly recovering as we touch the hot tar of the South Bronx.

Now the South Bronx might bring my mind to Mott Haven Housing, green plastic tarp in the sun or it might stay in the yellow truck which harbours a certain space in my heart (not exclusively because it’s stage knocked me down and granted me many visits in Lincoln Hospital).

I might remember my teammate sitting in the cargo area between placards and wigs, teaching me jamaican idioms or me trying desperately to close the trucks back door in full speed, hanging out on the highway one-handed.

I might remember the heavy scent of cooking gas at 11am on Grove Street and myself perched on a stool next to the wide stove. Telephone in hand i am testing out the thought of staying in New York, slowly rolling the words out with my tongue, paraphrasing each intention – i don’t want to scare anybody. And just like that every scent is heavy with memory.



Another memory imprinted on my brain: the looming presence of the projects. Red brick giants with miniature windows constructed by the New York Housing Authority. 30 floors of a scratched record on repeat.

Stepping inside the projects is like stepping into a caricaturists world in which all features are predictably exaggerated. I dismiss the thought of taking the elevator because there is pee in it and take the staircase (although there is pee in the corner or somebody peeing into one).

After climbing to the top floor i open the door and, just after escaping the pungent smell of urine, am hit by multifarious smells of unknown foods and body odour. I step onto a narrow T-shaped hallway with yellow tilework and worn down, light blue doors.

The occasional muffled dialogue from a television set is the only noise swaying in the unsettling quietude. A smothering silence is shrouding the projects’ hallways and inner yards. It’s the kind of silence that makes you feel like you are being observed, a silence made more silent simply by existing in close proximity to all the lively noise on the streets, in the basketball courts, on the front steps.

And then i might remember Bronx nights where, after sunset, the stillness of the projects seeps outside. The warm glow of a streetlamp mixes with the halogenous light streaming through the tiny windows and lends the tarmac a burgundy hue, infused with an eerie neon.

When i think of those nights it might bring the feel of goosebumps, although i am not able to tell the matter accurately. It’s not necessarily a gloomy one, since i kind of liked those nights, physically being there, in a way. Maybe those nights allowed me to feel a fraction of what some things may mean. Maybe.

And for those of you wondering: this is my notion of a love letter.