texts from the road: minneapolis edition

Adventure #1: A picnic in a Walmart parking lot. I have never felt so healthy.

The moon from here is still “super” large and as copper as a bloodied penny. It’s incredible.

Astounding. Red, huge, and bright enough to cast shadows sharp as knives. We briefly flicked off our headlights, just to see what it was like, and we could still see every detail to the horizon, even though there weren’t any artificial lights. Spooky, beautiful, enchanting. A film negative, glowing world.

Oh hooray, my turn to nap. Rock on, roadtrip. Rock on. It’s only, what? 6:30 a.m. my time?

Once again playing the technogypsy, parked in a Mcdonald’s parking lot for free access the intertubes.

Whomever invented Montana should have hired an editor. This place looks badly clone-stamped. Also, plz fix the saturation. Thnx.

Currently stealing delicious, delicious internet from a McDonald’s parking lot somewhere in Idaho.

You know that song about where the buffalo roam? We just found it. It’s a rest stop in North Dakota. One just threatened a truck. Surreal.

Besides the very random, up close and personal surprise encounter with buffalo at a rest stop, my favourite part of Dakota has been the iron oxide dirt roads that twine next to the freeway like some gigantic heavenly brush swept down from the clouds and scored scarlet calligraphy into the earth.

Currently taking a picnic break at a ridonkulously windy rest stop somewhere between Bismarck and Fargo, about six to seven hours from Minneapolis.

Currently passing through Fargo. All I can think of are wood chippers.

Finished the Half Blood Prince. Uncertain. She’s still not a good enough writer, but her craft’s been improving with each book, so maybe? There is something there. I’m starting to understand.

Minneapolis is beautiful. My impression so far is of a comforting mix of Proto Blade Runner and The Beaches in Toronto, with a serious dash of alt culture thrown in.

Arrived and swept immediately to “goth prom”. Trying to hit the ground running, but it seems obvious that I’m not as spooky as the majority. NEED MOAR BLACK.

There’s a Ron Mueck piece here at the gallery. Crouching Boy In Mirror. It’s breath-taking, as in I-expect-it-to-inhale. Incredible, immaculately real. Beyond illusion or the uncanny valley into completely believable down to the pores.

You know you’re inured to art when rather than wondering why there’s a shabby piece of cardboard in the gallery, you wonder what it’s made of. (A: bronze).

There’s a number to call under some of the pieces of art in the exhibit John Waters curated. If you call it, he reads to you about the piece in pig-latin.

Heavy alt-culture here. Currently being awed and confused in a Matthew Barney room, which is what he does best.

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