The Denver show was good, and the MRS is an astonishingly beautiful venue, something like if Alastair Crowley and Isis had a lovechild. And it was a building. But the snowpocalypse kept much of our audience away. Three years ago I would have been thrilled with 15 people showing up, but now it's a bit discouraging. Nevertheless we had much D/s fun with Casimira and played some songs off of Haphazard, and gave our all. Our first and last unplugged show, too! No pictures, I don't think. I then had a lovely Indian dinner with a local book club who were sweet and funny and kind--though it occasionally still boggles me that people like my books enough to buy me dinner.
Today, we head west again, through Wyoming towards Salt Lake City. (We have a surprise for SLC. If you can at all make it to the show at the Bevalo Art Lounge at 7, I highly recommend it.)
I've made that hike before, going the other way, and harbor a secret passion for the wide open barren beauty of Wyoming. But it keeps occuring to me, as I look out at the Rockies, how I am repeating a journey my ancestors took, out of the eastern cities and into the western wild, and it costs me so little--a week and a bit of money. It's pleasurable, even, a luxury, to drive this long road. For them it was an epic, once in a lifetime quest, and they died to do it, as often as not. My world is not their world, but I follow their paths, just barely visible in the desert dust.
Such are the thoughts of the Formal Gypsy Half-a-Wagon-Train, as we ascend and ascend.