Dying in Palm Springs

Being back in the desert stirs up many fond memories of my time spent in South Dakota, which is strange, considering the landscape looks nothing like South Dakota and I'm pretty sure Palm Springs would beat Pine Ridge in a heat wave contest every time. All the same, South Dakota is where I did most of my dreaming, before I got to the point where carrying out dreams became difficult, and yesterday as we slogged up the sandy paths of Joshua Tree Park I was recalled to simpler times where rattle snakes were a valid concern and I spent my days thinking of creative ways to kill people, since I couldn't think of creative ways for them to carry on living (they were story characters, just to be clear).


The American desert is the stuff novels are made of. You get there and you see the purple mountains and the desert iguanas and the beds of dying grass, and you just get the feeling that something really beautifully tragic could befall you at any moment, or maybe you'll get kidnapped. I'm not sure if this is really the essence the desert gives off, or just something that writers have instilled into it by building up legends, building up adventures and horrible events that take place in the blistering heat and the sand, but I will say I've never gotten that feeling standing in Winnipeg.

It probably does have something to do with the reading material. You read a book set in the desert and it's nigh-on impossible to forget that all the books you've read before this one also were adventures or beautiful tragedies and they all have a wild west quality to them, no matter how modern day they are. You read a book set in Manitoba and all you get is wheat and this dire sense that you should avoid the Mennonites at all costs.

Once I tried to set a story in the American desert, and my writing professor promptly reprimanded me for not thinking outside the box and setting a story in my own back yard. I should try it some time. Maybe there is some magic to be had back there (she wrote optimistically from the middle of the desert).

Other than being set in the desert, the most notable thing about Palm Springs seems to be its shops. And by that I mean grocery stores. We all piled into the grocery store our first night here and oohed and aahed over the selection of pop tarts, the price of beer, and the rather concerning sales (buy 6 or more 750ml bottles of Gray Goose vodka and they're only $28 each!).

While there are rumours that department stores are advancing upon the earth at an alarming rate, it appears Palm Springs and its surrounding towns has taken the opposite approach and made every store a separate entity that specializes in one specific thing: Fandiego, The Carpet Empire, California Patio Chairs, Dining and Stools (not sure if this is a restaurant or a furniture store), Lamps Plus (really).

They are also, of course, working hard to combat the drought. There are signs up everywhere proclaiming brown to be the new green, and you can get bumper stickers that say "dirty for the drought" to make it clear that not washing your car is a sign of you being a concerned citizen and not just, you know, lazy. I sit beside the in-ground pool and wonder whether this is really still aloud or if we have some sort of connection to the black market swimming pool trade. I avoid asking too many questions.

The first night here I told Ryan I'd be willing to live here, and that was before I knew there was a store just to satisfy all my lamp needs. The house is always freezing and the heat makes me feel like I could die at any second, but there is something about this place that I fully appreciate.