The Joshua tree was named by Mormons in the 1850s, who thought they saw their prophet pointing to the promised land.
“Virga” is the name for precipitation that does not reach the ground. It hangs across the desert like a torn curtain.
I did not enjoy the mountaintop.
Last night I covered my office with maps.
Here I am at last, living in the landscape I’ve craved since the first time I drove across the country.
The most compelling piece was an incidental moment rather than any piece of art, which is often the case.
It might be more necessary than ever to develop an eye for the timeless.
Death Valley is a place where ten thousand acres of scenery can easily go missing.
Shuffling through nature’s silence with strangers felt oddly intimate.
Twenty miles west of Barstow, where the desert appears especially endless, I glimpsed the Tank Man in Tiananmen Square.
My little tics and anxieties seem to be moving from the vexing to the comic. Perhaps this is one happy side effect of getting older.
I stitched together my favorite running songs because I need some solid entertainment to keep me moving through the desert.
The desert is littered with bizarre facts, and I often think I invented them, like a fragment from a dream or a misremembered film.
There’s a woman who can tell you the future by deciphering the contrails of experimental military aircraft.
A quiet day in the desert spent watching the shadows of the Joshua trees grow.
A mixtape dedicated to desert motels that advertise color television.
