Grew up a bit North of the pointless grid of California City, just up the other side of Red Rock Canyon. I’m fond of the desert; it pulls you up against her bosom and holds you in her warmth. Flatlanders bring their debris there, deposit it in piles, the desert bakes it with her heat, abrades it with wind-driven sand — an extended process of reducing it back to elements — accepting it. There’s a purity in the furnace and hardened wildlife that clings to existence. To push the broken dirt bike home on loose sand roads a rite of passage, skeletons littering the landscape. Outsiders you talk to never seem to get it. Its mark on you will prove indelible.