The Lot That is the Desert Behind the DMV in 29 Palms or Everything

Today I was waiting at the DMV and decided to wander into the vastness that is land that is not covered in concrete or aspalt. Today is one of those days in the desert where I can’t decide if it is hot or cold, and either the hot or the cold makes me sweat and turns my face red. There is no such thing as empty space out here; everything is a part of the desert biome, dotted with creosote bushes and young smoke trees. I see ripples where the wind has affected the small grains that comprise the earth here. In a moment I am quieted by the alwaysness of a human connection with another living thing. I rub the sticky creosote between my fingers and, despite the fact that I am 15 feet away from the parking lot, feel calm and connected to all that is around me. Rusting tin cans, each with at least one small bullet hole in it, litter the sandy beige landscape. I am drawn to each one, pick it up, looking for some trace of its original use value. Sometimes there is a faint “dr. pepper” beneath the chalky brown layers. Knowing. This is home, traces of past lives in this land of little rain, where what was, remains. No other footsteps on the sand, only rogue roads, tire tracks, the desert used as a secret way between places.

There is openness everywhere out here, nature does not need to be sought out or escaped to. Perhaps there is a slight desire to escape from it sometimes and return to a city with no visible edge. Here the edge seeps into the infrastructure with little piles of sand next to cars in the parking lot. I love the pieces of fabric fraying in the dust as much as the Joshua Trees and the National Park. There are remnants of lives here, there will always be space, unmarked and unpatrolled where I can walk for hours and see no one; this feels so good, it is everything.