#Marta Becket
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"Sidle Up" Written by - @scottklopfenstein
Performed by the Littlest Man Band
Directed by : @chrisgraue
Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/track/1glzyi...
Video Location : Amargosa Opera House and Hotel - Death Valley, CA
Scott Klopfenstein - Vocals / Guitar
Ed Kampwirth - Bass
Tony Austin - Drums
Dennis Hamm - Piano, Organ
Edgar Guadiana - Alto, Tenor, Bari Saxophone
Adam Liebreich-Johnsen - Tenor and Bass Trombone
Tavis Werts - Trumpet
Produced by John Avila
Mixed by Eric Fuller
Mastered by Adam Haggar
Artwork by Jimmy Panagopoulos (Scotticity)
Management @gscottbarrett
https://www.recordsfromanotherplace.com
Copyright 2023 license all rights reserved
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Amargosa @ Lipa
On the evening of the 8th June 2024 I attended a Dance Show event at Lipaâs Paul McCartney Auditorium to see a show titled Amargosa, Directed by Emma Annetts and Kristine Berget. This was the name given to the Second Year Dance Students Summer performance. A bit of context at this point.. Amargosa has been inspired by the life of Marta Becket and the legacy of The Amargosa Opera House. TheâŠ
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Amargosa Opera House, Death Valley Junction
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Rules: Tag nine people you want to know better.
I was tagged by @youritalianbookpal
Three ships:Â Probably 90% Jaime x Brienne, though I love Brienne x almost everyone, too. Iâm not usually this monofannish. I considered counting them as two, one show canon and one book canon, very different pairings, but that seems against the spirit of this. Two others I love are Marta Cabrera x Ransom Drysdale from Knives Out and Raleigh Becket x Mako Mori from Pacific Rim.
First ever ship: No idea. My first Game of Thrones ship (when it comes to fic reading) was Cersei x Jaime x Brienne, though. A friend recommended I read Drunk Girls Donât Cry by impertinence because I love the pet sociopath trope, and it was brilliant.
Last song:Â âConflictedâ by Halestorm for a potential gift fic
Last film:Â The Deep House, a scuba diving haunted house film.
Currently reading:Â Just started A Clash of Kings by GRRM for book club. For fic, Iâm about to read and comment on chapter three of Hope (at the Bottom of Pandoraâs Box) by @missgillette.
Currently watching:Â Nothing. I need something new.
Currently consuming: Water.
Currently craving:Â A long, complicated, emotional enemies to lovers arranged marriage Jaime x Brienne fic.
Iâd love to see any one of you do this.
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Marta Becket, desert icon who made the Amargosa Opera House a destination in Nevada. By Klaus Laubmayer.
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I love experimenting with different film and cameras in the desert! Things can get a little tedious otherwise. After seeing Badwater Basin, we drove out to see the Amargosa Opera House, just outside Death Valley National Park on the California/Nevada border in a place called Death Valley Junction.
Knowing Iâd gotten a photo this interesting would have been enough for me to say Iâd been to the opera house in the desert, but since this was film, I had no way of knowing what my little camera held. And besides, there was some activity around the hotel that is connected to the opera house. We walked over to the lobby to see what was going on.
Once in a lifetime experience awaits you in a tiny town known as Death Valley Junction, for this is the home of the Amargosa Opera House and Hotel. For more than 40 years, Marta Becket has lived and shared her art and dreams with those fortunate enough to find this wonderful and magical place. Located a few miles west of the California-Nevada border, near Death Valley National Park, no journey to this part of the world would be complete without a visit to this unique and inspiring destination.
Sadly, Marta passed away earlier this year. But a young lady was working the front desk and for $5 offered to show us and three other women around. And, we did indeed get inside the opera house, a fully functional theater with a stage and hand-painted audience on the walls - by the multi-talented Marta - for those performances she would give when no one was around to attend. When you run an opera house in the middle of a desert, thatâs likely to happen on occasion.
While we were allowed to take photos inside the opera house, Iâm not going to post them here. This is a road trip gem worth making the trek to see for yourself. The hotel and opera house will live on post-Marta. I think Iâll stay there next time.
Read more about Marta Becket and the Amargosa Opera House here. And, since Iâve been mentioning movies filmed in Death Valley, I should point out that this building was used for exteriors in David Lynchâs Lost Highway.
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The Stage by Marzena
#Amargosa Opera House#California#Death Valley Junction#Marta Becket#Marzena Grabczynska Lorenc#murals#theater#www.ThruMarzenasLens.com
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Marta Becket, who founded the Amargosa Opera House in Death Valley Junction, CA (a near-ghost town outside of Death Valley with a current population of 4 people in the literal middle of nowhere), has one of these stories:
life in the old days was just whatever
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Dust Devil
https://vimeo.com/516288057 A dream built on a whim in the middle of nowhere: how the New York ballerina Marta Becket made a theatre in the Mojave Desert Director: Poppy Walker (poppywalker.com/) More on this film: psyche.co/films/why-a-broadway-dancer-started-her-own-theatre-in-the-mojave-desert
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One of my favourite places â€ïž. I highly recommend reading the book, To Dance On Sands. The book tells the amazing story of Marta Becket who lived at the Opera House from 1968, until her death in 2017. #amargrosaoperahouse #deathvalley #deathvalleyjunction #deathvalleyjunctioncalifornia #california #operahouse #weirdandwonderful #onlyinamerica #californiatourism #visotvalifornia #californiadesert #travelphotography #outandaboutwithliz #martabecket #americanhistory #heritage #architecture #placeswithastory #californiaadventure #usa #usađșđž #travelusa #americanroadtrip (at Death Valley Junction, California) https://www.instagram.com/p/B7MdCA9llM3/?igshid=a8md631f1x28
#amargrosaoperahouse#deathvalley#deathvalleyjunction#deathvalleyjunctioncalifornia#california#operahouse#weirdandwonderful#onlyinamerica#californiatourism#visotvalifornia#californiadesert#travelphotography#outandaboutwithliz#martabecket#americanhistory#heritage#architecture#placeswithastory#californiaadventure#usa#usađșđž#travelusa#americanroadtrip
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Part 2, Chapter 6: Badwater
This episode alternates between Jasika Nicole and Roberta Colindrez. Since Robertaâs character has no name, I have dubbed her âWatcherâ for now.
Keisha: have to pee and there are no towns on the map, not for a long time. But there are also no cars.
Watcher: The absolute silence of miles and miles. Here there are no lights, no watchers to watch me watching.
Keisha: It is dusk and the dark clouds are lingering, and the road isnât visible to the horizon in either direction. I pull my car onto the muddy shoulder and hop out.
Watcher: Pull a little off the road, cut your lights â and youâre invisible. I could take her now, of course. There would be no one to see it happen.
Keisha: It is truly strange, standing by this highway and looking for miles into the distance and seeing no one. Iâm alone as can be here. I squat and enjoy the silence. The absolute silence of distance.
Watcher: And how humiliating to die peeing in the dirt. But Iâm patient, and now is not the time. I donât wanna cut anything short. I lay back on the hood of my car enjoying its warmth and look up at the sky â grey and blank as sleet.
Keisha: A sky about to break into violence.
Both in unison: I close my eyes and I wait.
Alice Isnât Dead by Joseph Fink. Performed by Jasika Nicole with Roberta Colindrez. Produced by Disparition. Part 2, Chapter 6: Badwater.
Keisha: Iâm on a plateau and then I come around a turn and I am looking steeply down into a valley. There has been no change in my elevation, but the change in perspective is astonishing.
Watcher: Iâm gonna miss this when itâs done. But nothing lasts forever. To take a few uncertain years from someoneâs life⊠[scoffs] Is that so much of a crime?
Keisha: I had thought I was on solid ground and was actually far, far in the air. There is no metaphor to be taken there, no reason to relate this to my life. Itâs just a drive, just a plateau, just a valley. Just a moment of dizziness so intense it was almost pleasure.
Watcher: What are those years worth? Would she have even gotten them? Isnât it better to die in such a purposeful, clear way than to stagger on until an organ you donât need starts making its cells wrong?
Keisha: A light in the sky zigzagging. Not the moon, not the stars, not an airplane, not anything. A point, moving from one side of the sky to the other, impossibly sharp turns. I take my eyes off the road to watch, but I do not take my foot off the gas. The road is perfectly straight. I focus on the light and watch it move until my tire hits the shoulder and I am jolted back to my driving. And when I look again it is gone.
Watcher: Past the larger towns there are the mining towns. A few houses and a school attached to a quarry and a processing plant. Itâs dusk, and the plants are still churning. Busy workers for now until their jobs go too. Everyoneâs jobs are expendable. Except mine. This kind of violent hunger is always in demand. I could sleep a thousand years and wake up to a world that needed me.
Keisha: I can see the road dissenting and then climbing again for miles in front of me.
Watcher: A man has stopped his car to take a picture, and I can see why.
Keisha: Thereâs a strange ridge along the slope facing me, one that doesnât look natural.
Watcher: This expanse â is majestic. Truly, breathtaking.
Keisha: As the miles pass, I realize Iâm looking at the entire length of a freight train. One that would take 10 minutes to clear an intersection.
Watcher: I stop too. I take him into the bushes and leave him there. I get in his car â and pull it back on the road.
Keisha: And Iâm at a distance where I can see the whole train passing along the slope of the mountain.
Watcher: Truly. Breathtaking.
Both in unison: The rain comes, finally.
Keisha: Signs warn to avoid this road because of possible flash floods, but I take it anyway.
Watcher: I wanna see the water and feel it under my car.
Keisha: I just go on the hook that flash floods canât be as bad as theyâre made out.
Watcher: I wanna stand on my hood while the waters rise above me. I wanna be hit by lightning, I wanna see whatever you see when the electricity enters your brain.
Both in unison: Lakes form suddenly in the desert. Soon, all of the land on either side of the road is water. Waves lapping at an asphalt shore.
Keisha: Get me safely through this. Get me safely through this.
Watcher: Drown me, wash me away.
Keisha: The rain is worse. Iâm on a narrow and windy pass, never meant for a truck this size. Iâve made a mistake. But the only way out is through.
Watcher: Stretches out here where no one else is in sight. No witnesses. No one to help.
[long pause]
Keisha: And then, a few miles before the flatlands, I turn a corner and have a moment of, what is that in the road? And then there is a bang, and the bottom of my cab is dragging. A huge rock. I pull the truck to a stop, hope my lights will keep anyone from crashing into it butâŠ
Both in unison: Thereâs nowhere to move on a road this narrow.
Watcher: Take my hand. Take my hand and walk with me to where the highway is no longer visible.
Keisha: I get on my stomach in the mud and Iâm under the cab, downhill of it and Iâm thinkingâŠ
Both in unison: OK, so this is how you die.
Keisha: The rock is jammed into the bottom of the cab. I try to pull on it, but itâs not moving. A car comes by, has to swerve out of the way. I have mud all down my body. And I look and there are a pair of legs standing by the driverâs side door. âHello?â I shout, and I crawl my way out, banging my head on the front bumper. âDid you stop to help?â I say, as if anyone had ever done that for me. But thereâs no one there now. Just me and my truck, and a rock stuck in my truck.
Watcher: Almost, Keisha. That was almost it.
Keisha: I wanna get off this pass. So I start driving and the rock is scraping on the road and it sounds like the cab itself is coming apart. And then thereâs one last terrible ripping sound and the rock falls away. Everything still seems to drive alright. I stop at Stovepipe Wells, a motel dressed up as a Western village. Thereâs a terrible smell, like burning rubber, and I think âUgh, my engine is fucked.â But as I walk away from the truck, the smell persists. The wind is saturated with it. I stay the night in their RV area, and the next morning realize that I was smelling the mesquite trees. My truck runs fine.
Watcher: A light in the sky, zigzagging. I know most things. There are a few secrets kept from me. But that little light, moving through the dusk â I donât know. It is a stranger and so I greet it as a stranger, with my hand raised and a smile on my face. See, I am polite to strangers at least until the moment where I understand what it is I need from them, how to best leverage their existence.
But maybe this light is not usable by me. It doesnât seem to fly so much as to float past our world. If it is beyond my use, then it is not worth bothering with. I nod to it and drive on.
Keisha: Still pouring rain, the wind whipping through the droplets, turning them into a fine mist. Itâs not cold but itâs on the edge of cold. At least Iâm not the Korean couple huddled by the ranger station. Him in a tuxedo, her in a flowing wedding dress with train, and a professional photography crew following them around. She folds her arms into the damp wrinkles of her dress, shivering as they wait for the desert (mist) that they came for. Later I will see them posing upon a sand dune that the rain has made as solid as concrete, leaning damply into each other and feeling the crit in your formal wear shoes.
That night, the stars are covered by the clouds, and the light returns.
Watcher: In the distance, an object in the road. I taste bitter on the tip of my tongue and I try to hold it there, I try to make the bitter taste linger.
Keisha: Itâs me and my headlights and this straight and empty road, and this light in the sky, turning sharp corners on itself.
Watcher: The object is a coyote. She was waiting for me, standing in the middle of the road, calm.
Keisha: I donât know this impulse. I donât understand this impulse, but I switch off my lights. And now Iâm in the dark and I canât even feel the speed. Itâs so calm, the grumble of the engine like the hum of my own body, and this light moving around in front of me.
Watcher: I hold her brown eyes with mine, and we understand each other. Low creatures, taking blood where we can. As natural as the salt flats, as natural as a rock face.
Keisha: I feel like I could touch it. And this is so stupid but â I press harder on the gas. Iâm going faster and I canât see the road at all, and the light is like an idea of peace that Iâll never have. Itâs a world where none of this happened to me. And then I panic.
Watcher: We look at each other for several minutes. I prefer her company to the cowards that drive around this country as if it belongs to them.
Keisha: That surge of panic is so familiar, because what am I doing? Am I trying to get myself killed?
Watcher: I wink, and tell her I need to get back to my prey. As Iâm sure she needs to get back to hers. As I drive away she watches me, still unmoving, in my mirror.
Keisha: I switch the light back on and itâs the road, straight as it ever was, and Iâm still driving on it â and the light in the sky is gone.
Watcher: Most of the buildings in Death Valley Junction are still ruins.
Keisha: A former dormitory for employees at the borax mines. Then in 1967, a ballet dancer named Marta Becket broke down here, and stumbled on a small abandoned theater that the employees once used as a community room. She moved from New York City to this town, where she and her husband were most of the population, and she began to dance in the desert three times a week.
Watcher: I curl up inside one of the ruins. I enjoy how cold it gets at night, and in the morning I watch a cloud cast a perfect shadow over a mountain.
Keisha: Many performances, no one would show up. And so over the years, she painted an audience on the inside of the theater, so that there would always be someone watching. She died this year, but there is still a ballet dancer that does a weekly show. I stay at the attached hotel, with musty carpet and Martaâs paintings on the wall. Thereâs a cafĂ© that is only open a couple of days a week, but is surprisingly good, in a hipster Brooklyn kind of way. I donât know how they make money with a restaurant like that, two days a week in the middle of nowhere. But as I eat at their counter, I feel grateful for people who come to places like this, and do things like this. Dance and make artisanal avocado toast.
Watcher: Itâs time for me to switch cars again. So when a tourist couple pulls into the unlit lot, ready to enjoy the strangeness of the ballet in the desert.. I help myself to them and then help myself to their vehicle. I feel grateful for people who come to places like this. [long break] On the 247 north of (Lucerne), the fields are all dust, and the wind is kicking up.
Keisha: Like something from a story. A wall of dust, the height of a small skyscraper, billowing from the fields. Itâll be on the road in moments.
Watcher: And then itâll be invisible. And then it will happen.
Keisha: Itâs daylight, and then I enter the cloud, and the world of sepia. I can see maybe a few feet in front of me. I wanna slow down but Iâm worried that anyone behind me wonât know to do the same.
Watcher: Itâs nice in here. A bubble of blindness in a valley blinding with light.
Keisha: I think I see headlights. A car trying to pass me?
Watcher: Now, Keisha. It happens now. Itâs OK. Iâm right here with you.
Keisha: My windshield grits up. Everything is so quiet.
Watcher: Maybe 10 seconds. Breathe easy, Keisha. Enjoy the breaths as they come.
Keisha: There, itâs the light. The light from the sky.
Watcher: That light.
Keisha: Itâs zigzagging.
Watcher: What is that?
Keisha: What is that? The light lowers. Itâs just in front of me through the glass. I can see nothing, but I keep driving until the entire cab is enveloped in light. I donât feel heat.
Both in unison: I donât feel anything.
Keisha: I donât care that I donât know where Iâm going. I speed into the light.
Watcher: And thenâŠ
Keisha: And then â I am out of the dust cloud, and Iâm back near some farm fields. Behind me, the dust moves onto the other side of the road. There are no cars behind or in front of me. There is no strange light.
Watcher: You havenât escaped, Keisha. Maybe you get a few days more, maybe a few weeks. But you havenât escaped.
And now a knock-knock joke.Â
Knock knock.Â
[left speaker] Whoâs there?Â
[right speaker] Interrupting cow.
[left] Again?! Interrupting cow who-
[right] Yeah, thatâs me.
[left] OK, but what Iâm saying is-
[right] Iâm the Interrupting Cow, what do you want from me?Â
[left] Sure, but...
[right] Are you going to let me in or not, itâs cold out here? Everyone wants to just have a conversation through a closed door, like thatâs a thing people do, like thatâs OK. Itâs not OK, you know? Itâs rude. I have been searching for shelter. Iâm sorry Iâm interrupting, but did you ever consider you have nothing worthwhile to say?Â
Hello? Iâm sorry.
[left] Interrupting Cow who?Â
[right] Hungry and lost Interrupting Cow who just wants to stay still for a little while.
[left] I understand. Come in.Â
[right] Thank you. Thank you.Â
[left] Itâs no prob-
[right] Moo!Â
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Amargosa Cafe, Death Valley Junction
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Parte 2, CapĂtulo 6: Ăgua Ruim
Keisha: Tenho que mijar, e nĂŁo tem nenhuma cidade no mapa, nĂŁo por um bom tempo. Mas tambĂ©m nĂŁo tem nenhum carro.Â
Observadora: SilĂȘncio absoluto por quilĂŽmetros e quilĂŽmetros. Aqui nĂŁo tem luzes, nĂŁo tem observadores para me observar observando.Â
Keisha: O sol âtĂĄ se pondo, as nuvens escuras se demorando no cĂ©u, e a estrada nĂŁo Ă© visĂvel atĂ© o horizonte em nenhuma direção. Estaciono meu carro no acostamento lamacento e saio.Â
Observadora: Estacione um pouco distante da estrada, desligue as luzes â e vocĂȘ estĂĄ invisĂvel. Eu poderia acabar com ela agora, Ă© claro. NĂŁo haveria ninguĂ©m para assistir.Â
Keisha: Ă estranho pra caramba estar ao lado dessa estrada e ver quilĂŽmetros Ă frente sem enxergar ninguĂ©m. Aqui, estou tĂŁo sozinha quanto se pode estar. Agacho e aproveito o silĂȘncio. O silĂȘncio absoluto da distĂąncia.Â
Observadora: E que humilhante morrer mijando na poeira; mas sou paciente, e agora nĂŁo Ă© o momento. NĂŁo quero apressar nada. Deito-me no capĂŽ do meu carro, aproveitando o calor, e olho para o cĂ©u, cinza a preto como granizo.Â
Keisha: Um cĂ©u prestes a romper em violĂȘncia.Â
Juntas: Fecho meus olhos e espero.Â
Keisha: âTou num planalto, faço uma curva e de repente âtou olhando pra um vale. Minha elevação nĂŁo mudou nada, mas a mudança de perspectiva Ă© incrĂvel.Â
Observadora: Vou sentir falta disso quando estiver feito. Mas nada dura para sempre. Tomar alguns anos incertos da vida de alguĂ©m... [escarnece] isso Ă© mesmo um crime?Â
Keisha: Pensei que âtava em terra firme e na verdade âtava bem, bem longe no ar. NĂŁo tem nenhuma metĂĄfora a ser feita aqui, nenhuma razĂŁo pra relacionar isso Ă minha vida. Ă sĂł uma viagem, sĂł um planalto, sĂł um vale. SĂł um momento de tontura tĂŁo forte que foi quase prazer.Â
Observadora: De que valem esses anos? Ela sequer teria os tido? NĂŁo Ă© melhor morrer de uma maneira intencional e limpa assim do que se arrastar atĂ©  que um ĂłrgĂŁo de que vocĂȘ nĂŁo precisa comece a produzir as cĂ©lulas dele errado?Â
Keisha: Uma luz ziguezagueando no cĂ©u. NĂŁo a lua, nĂŁo as estrelas, nĂŁo um aviĂŁo, nĂŁo nada. Um ponto, se movendo de um lado pro outro, curvas impossivelmente acentuadas. Tiro meus olhos da estrada pra assistir, mas nĂŁo meu pĂ© do acelerador. A estrada Ă© perfeitamente reta. Me foco na luz e assisto ela se mover atĂ© que meus pneus atingem o acostamento e sou puxada de volta pra direção. Quando olho de novo, ela se foi.Â
Observadora: Depois das cidades maiores, ficam as cidades mineradoras. Algumas casas e uma escola colada em uma pedreira e uma processadora de minĂ©rio. O sol estĂĄ se pondo, as plantas balançando com o vento. Trabalhadores ocupados, por hora, atĂ© os trabalhos deles acabarem tambĂ©m. O trabalho de todo mundo Ă© descartĂĄvel. Exceto o meu. Esse tipo de fome violenta estĂĄ sempre em demanda. Eu poderia dormir por mil anos e acordar para um mundo que precisasse de mim.  Â
Keisha: DĂĄ pra ver a estrada descendo e daĂ subindo de novo por quilĂŽmetros a minha frente. Â Â
Observadora: Um homem parou seu carro para tirar uma foto, e consigo ver por quĂȘ.Â
Keisha: Tem um cume estranho na encosta Ă minha frente, um que nĂŁo parece natural.Â
Observadora: Esta expansão⊠é majestosa. De verdade, de tirar o fÎlego.
Keisha: Conforme os quilĂŽmetros passam, percebo que âtou olhando pra toda a extensĂŁo de um trem de carga. Um que levaria dez minutos pra passar por um cruzamento.Â
Observadora: Eu paro tambĂ©m. Levo-o atĂ© os arbustos e o deixo lĂĄ. Pego o carro deleâ e volto para a estrada.Â
Keisha: E estou a uma distĂąncia em que dĂĄ pra ver o trem inteiro passando pela encosta da montanha.Â
Observadora: De verdade. De tirar o fĂŽlego.Â
Juntas: A chuva chega, enfim.Â
Keisha: Placas dizem pra evitar essa estrada pelo risco de enxurradas, mas pego ela mesmo assim.Â
Observadora: Quero ver a ĂĄgua e senti-la debaixo do meu carro.Â
Keisha: SĂł fico na esperança de que enxurradas nĂŁo podem tĂŁo ruins quando fazem elas parecerem.Â
Observadora: Quero ficar de pĂ© no meu capĂŽ enquanto as ĂĄguas se erguem sobre mim. Quero ser atingida por um relĂąmpago, quero ver o que quer que se vĂȘ quando a eletricidade atinge seu cĂ©rebro.Â
Juntas: Lagos se formam de repente no deserto. Logo, todo a terra dos dois lados da estrada Ă© ĂĄgua. Ondas quebrando em uma costa de asfalto.Â
Keisha: Que eu saia a salvo disso. Que eu saia a salvo disso.Â
Observadora: Afogue-me, leve-me embora.Â
Keisha: A chuva piorou, estou num caminho estreio e ventoso que nĂŁo foi feito pra um caminhĂŁo desse tamanho. Cometi um erro. Mas o Ășnico jeito Ă© ir atĂ© o fim. Â
Observadora: Trechos sem ninguém à vista. Nenhuma testemunha, Ninguém para ajudar.
Keisha: E entĂŁo, a alguns quilĂŽmetros de distĂąncia das planĂcies, faço uma curva e tenho um momento de âo que Ă© isso na estradaâ? E daĂ tem esse barulho, e a parte de baixo da minha cabine âtĂĄ travada. Uma pedra enorme. Paro o caminhĂŁo, esperando que as luzes impeçam outras pessoas de baterem nele, mas...
Juntas: NĂŁo tem pra onde ir em uma estrada estreita assim.Â
Observadora: Pegue a minha mĂŁo. Pegue a minha mĂŁo e me acompanhe atĂ© onde a estrada nĂŁo Ă© mais visĂvel.Â
Keisha: Fico de bruços na lama, debaixo da cabine na ladeira, e estou pensando...Â
Juntas: OK, entĂŁo Ă© assim que vocĂȘ morre.Â
Keisha: A rocha âtĂĄ presa Ă parte debaixo da cabine. Tento tirar ela, mas nĂŁo se move. Um carro passa por mim, tem que desviar do caminho. Meu corpo todo âtĂĄ sujo de lama. Olho e tem um par de pernas Ă frente da porta do lado do motorista.Â
â OlĂĄ? â eu grito, e engatinho pra fora, batendo minha cabeça no para-choque frontal. â Parou pra ajudar? â eu digo, como se alguĂ©m jĂĄ tivesse feito isso por mim.Â
Mas nĂŁo tem mais ninguĂ©m lĂĄ. SĂł eu e meu caminhĂŁo, e uma pedra presa no meu caminhĂŁo.Â
Observadora: Quase, Keisha, foi quase.Â
Keisha: Quero sair desse cruzamento, entĂŁo começo a dirigir, e a pedra fica se arrastando na estrada, e parece que a prĂłpria cabine âtĂĄ caindo aos pedaços. EntĂŁo, faz-se um Ășltimo som rascante terrĂvel e a pedra fica pra trĂĄs. Tudo parece ainda funcionar bem.
Paro em Stovepipe Wells, um motel disfarçado de vilarejo do oeste. Tem um cheiro de borracha queimada terrĂvel, e penso âUgh, meu motor estragouâ, mas, me afastando do caminhĂŁo, o cheiro persiste. O vento âtĂĄ saturado dele. Passo a noite na ĂĄrea de estacionamento deles, e na manhĂŁ seguinte percebo âtava sentindo o cheiro das ĂĄrvores mesquite. Meu caminhĂŁo âtĂĄ funcionando bem.  Â
Observadora: Uma luz ziguezagueando no cĂ©u. Sei da maioria das coisas. HĂĄ poucos segredos guardados de mim. Mas aquela luzinha se movendo pelo pĂŽr do sol â eu nĂŁo sei. Ă uma estranha, entĂŁo a cumprimento como uma estranha, com uma mĂŁo estendida e um sorriso no rosto. Viu, eu sou educada com estranhos. Pelo menos atĂ© o momento em que entendo do que preciso, como me aproveitar melhor da existĂȘncia deles.Â
Mas talvez eu nĂŁo possa me aproveitar dessa luz. Parece mais flutuar atravĂ©s do nosso mundo do que voar. Se nĂŁo me Ă© Ăștil, entĂŁo nĂŁo vale o incĂŽmodo. Assinto e continuo a dirigir. Â
Keisha: A chuva ainda âtĂĄ forte, o vendo chicoteando atravĂ©s das gotas, transformando elas em um nevoeiro encorpado. NĂŁo âtĂĄ frio, mas tĂĄ quase frio. Pelo menos nĂŁo sou o casal de coreanos se aconchegando na estação da guarda florestal. Ele de smoking, ela num vestido de noiva com vĂ©u esvoaçante, e uma esquipe de fotĂłgrafos profissionais seguindo os dois por aĂ. Ela cruza os braços nas rugas encharcadas do vestido, tremendo enquanto esperam o nevoeiro do deserto pelo qual vieram. Mais tarde, vejo eles posando em uma duna de areia que a chuva tornou sĂłlida como concreto, se apoiando Ășmidos um no outro e sentindo a areia nos sapatos formais deles.
Nessa noite, as estrelas estĂŁo cobertas pelas nuvens, e a luz retorna.
Observadora: Ă distĂąncia, um objeto na estrada. Sinto um gosto amargo na ponta da lĂngua e tento segurĂĄ-lo lĂĄ, tento faze o amargor se demorar. Â Â
Keisha: Sou eu e meus farĂłis nessa estrada reta e vazia, e essa luz no cĂ©u, fazendo curvas acentuadas sobre si mesma.Â
Observadora: O objeto Ă© um coiote. Ela estava esperando por mim, parada no meio da estrada, calma.Â
Keisha: NĂŁo conheço esse impulso. NĂŁo entendo esse impulso, mas desligo meus farĂłis. E entĂŁo, âtou no escuro e nĂŁo consigo nem sequer sentir a velocidade. Ă tĂŁo calmo, o ronco do motor como um murmĂșrio do meu prĂłprio corpo, e a luz se movendo Ă minha frente.Â
Observadora: Capturo os olhos castanhos dela com os meus, e entendemos uma a outra. Criaturas inferiores, tomando sangue de onde podemos. Naturais como as planĂcies de sal, naturais como uma encosta de pedra.
Keisha: Sinto como se pudesse tocar ela. E isso Ă© tĂŁo estĂșpido, mas â piso no acelerador com mais força. Estou indo mais rĂĄpido e nĂŁo consigo ver nada da estrada, e a luz Ă© como ideia de paz que nunca terei. Ă um mundo onde nada disso aconteceu comigo. E entĂŁo, entro em pĂąnico.Â
Observadora: Olhamos uma para a outra por vĂĄrios minutos. Prefiro a companhia dela aos covardes que dirigem por este paĂs como se pertencesse a eles. Â Â
Keisha: Essa onda de pĂąnico Ă© tĂŁo familiar, porque o Ă© que eu âtou fazendo? âTou querendo me matar?Â
Observadora: Pisco, e digo a ela que preciso voltar Ă minha presa. Como tenho certeza de que precisa voltar para a dela. Conforme me afasto, ela me observa, ainda imĂłvel, no meu espelho.Â
Keisha: Religo os farĂłis e lĂĄ estĂĄ a estrada, reta como sempre, e ainda estou dirigindo nela â e a luz no cĂ©u se foi. Â
Observadora: A maioria dos prĂ©dios em Death Valley Junction ainda sĂŁo ruĂnas.Â
Keisha: Um antigo dormitĂłrio para funcionĂĄrios nas minas de bĂłrax. Em 1967, o carro de uma bailarina chamada Marta Becket quebrou aqui, e ela deu com um teatrinho abandonado que os funcionĂĄrios costumavam usar como salĂŁo comunitĂĄrio. Se mudou de Nova York pra essa cidade, onde ela e o marido eram a maior parte da população, e começou a dançar no deserto trĂȘs vezes por semana.Â
Observadora: Encolho-me dentro de uma das ruĂnas. Gosto do quĂŁo frio fica Ă noite, e de manhĂŁ, assisto a uma nuvem fazer uma sombra perfeita sobre uma montanha.Â
Keisha: Em muitas das performances, ninguĂ©m aparecia. E entĂŁo, ao longo dos anos, ela pintou uma audiĂȘncia na parte de dentro do teatro, pra que sempre tivesse alguĂ©m assistindo. Ela morreu este ano, mas ainda tem uma bailaria que faz um show semanal. Fico no hotel vizinho ao teatro, com um carpete mofado e as pinturas de Marta na parede.Â
Tem um cafĂ© que sĂł abre alguns dias da semana, mas Ă© surpreendentemente bom, bom Ă maneira hipster de Brooklyn. NĂŁo sei como conseguem lucro com um restaurante como esse, dois dias por semana no meio do nada. Mas, comendo no balcĂŁo deles, me sinto grata Ă s pessoas que vĂȘm a lugares como esse e fazem coisas como essa. Dançam e fazem torradas de abacate artesanais.Â
Observadora: EstĂĄ na hora de trocar de carro de novo. EntĂŁo, quando um casal de turistas estaciona no estacionamento sem iluminação, prontos para aproveitar a estranheza de balĂ© no deserto, faço meu caminho atĂ© eles e, em seguida, atĂ© o veĂculo deles. Sinto-me grata Ă s pessoas que vĂȘm a lugares como este.Â
Obervadora: Na 247 norte em Lucerne, os campos sĂŁo pura poeira, e o vento estĂĄ aumentando.Â
Keisha: Como algo saĂdo de uma histĂłria, uma nuvem de poeira do tamanho de um pequeno arranha-cĂ©u, crescendo, vinda dos campos. Vai estar na estrada em momentos.
Observadora: E entĂŁo, vai ficar invisĂvel. E vai acontecer.Â
Keisha: Estou na luz do sol, daĂ entro na nuvem e o mundo Ă© sĂ©pia. Posso ver talvez alguns metros Ă minha frente. Quero diminuir a velocidade, mas estou preocupada que quem tiver atrĂĄs de mim nĂŁo saiba que tem que fazer o mesmo.Â
Observadora: Ă gostoso aqui. Uma bolha de cegueira em um vale de luz cegante.Â
Keisha: Acho que âtou vendo farĂłis. Um carro tentando me ultrapassar?Â
Observadora: Agora, Keisha. Acontece agora. EstĂĄ tudo bem. Estou aqui com vocĂȘ.Â
Keisha: Meu para-brisa faz barulho ao ser atingido pela poeira. âTĂĄ tudo tĂŁo quieto.Â
Observadora: Talvez dez segundos. Respire com calma, Keisha. Aproveite as respiraçÔes conforme chegam.Â
Keisha: LĂĄ estĂĄ a luz. A luz do cĂ©u.Â
Observadora: Aquela luz.Â
Keisha: âTĂĄ ziguezagueando.Â
Observadora: O que Ă© aquilo?Â
Keisha: O que Ă© aquilo? A luz desce. EstĂĄ bem na minha frente, do outro lado do vidro. NĂŁo vejo nada, mas continuo dirigindo atĂ© a cabine inteira estĂĄ envolta pela luz. NĂŁo sinto calor.Â
Juntas: NĂŁo sinto nada.Â
Keisha: NĂŁo ligo que nĂŁo sei pra onde âtou indo. Acelero na luz.Â
Observadora: E entĂŁoâŠÂ
Keisha: E entĂŁo⊠âtou fora da nuvem e perto de umas fazendas de novo. AtrĂĄs de mim, a poeira de move pro outro lado da estrada. NĂŁo tem nenhum carro atrĂĄs ou Ă minha frente. NĂŁo tem nenhuma luz estranha.Â
Observadora: VocĂȘ nĂŁo escapou, Keisha. Talvez tenha mais alguns dias, talvez mais algumas semanas, mas nĂŁo escapou.Â
Toc toc.
[voz Ă esquerda] Quem Ă©?
[voz Ă direita] A vaca que interrompe.
[voz Ă esquerda] De novo?! A vaca que interrompre quemâ
[voz Ă direita] Sim, sou eu.
[voz Ă esquerda] OK, mas o que estou dizendo Ă©â
[voz Ă direita] Sou a vaca que interrompe, o que vocĂȘ quer de mim?
[voz Ă esquerda] Claro, masâŠ
[voz à direita] Vai me deixar entrar ou não? Estå frio aqui fora! Todo mundo quer simplesmente conversar através de uma porta fechada, como se isso fosse algo que as pessoas fizessem, como se isso fosse OK. Não é OK, sabe? à rude. Estou procurando abrigo. Sinto muito interromper, mas jå considerou que não tem nada vålido a dizer?
OlĂĄ? Sinto muito.
[voz Ă esquerda] A vaca que interrompe quem?
[voz Ă direita] A faminta e perdida vaca que interrompe, que sĂł quer ficar em paz por um tempinho.
[voz Ă esquerda] Entendo. Pode entrar.
[voz Ă direita] Obrigado. Obrigado.
[voz Ă esquerda] Sem probleâ
[voz Ă direita] Muu!
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Stranded by flat tire, Marta Becket made the desert dance
Arts
Stranded by flat tire, Marta Becket made the desert dance
A ballerina who drew audiences from around the world to an abandoned Mojave Desert stage she adopted after being stranded there by a flat tire in 1967 has died at the age of 92. Marta Becket was stranded near the ghost town about 95 miles west of Las Vegas and said she felt destined to revive it.With one glimpse inside an abandoned social hall there, Becket saw the other half of her life, she told The Associated Press in 2001. A native New Yorker who had performed on Broadway and at Radio City Music Hall, Becket moved West to renovate the dilapidated building that's now an artistic sanctuary known as the Amargosa Opera House.Louis Kavouras described Becket's shows as vaudevillian, an assemblage of brief dramatic and comedic pieces, but always with a strange and contemporary twist.
like the hot desert wind flowing across the desert sand.
Marta Becket
"She said at the time she was probably the oldest person who could still do that in her ballet slippers," Walker said.Becket and her husband rented the building, and Marta Becket made her debut in 1968 at the renamed Amargosa Opera House. In the beginning, her only patrons were the three Mormon families who lived in the isolated town.The nearest town is 23 miles away from the opera house, but audiences filled its 114 theater seats so many times over the years that extra chairs sometimes had to be brought in.
She continued flitting across the stage in her iconic performances well into her 80s, although health problems slowed her in later years. She gave a final performance in February 2012, before turning the theater over to a nonprofit group.Tom Walker, a city councilman in North Cowichan, British Columbia, said he and his wife stumbled upon Becket's act about 15 years ago during a winter RV trip.
Marta Becket
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Marta Becket, lone Amargosa Opera House dancer, dies at 92
Arts
Marta Becket, lone Amargosa Opera House dancer, dies at 92
Marta Becket, a dancer and artist who spent decades presenting one-woman shows at a remote Mojave Desert hall that she made famous as the Amargosa Opera House, has died.Becket died Monday at her home in Death Valley Junction, California, said Jeff Mullenhour, the Inyo County deputy coroner in Lone Pine, California. She was 92. Becket was born in New York City, where she performed on Broadway and at Radio City Music Hall.
A flat tire during a 1967 camping trip with her husband to Death Valley, California, changed her life.They discovered an abandoned theater in an old borax mining company town near the California-Nevada state line, about 95 miles west of Las Vegas.The couple rented the building, and Marta Becket made her debut in 1968 at the renamed Amargosa Opera House. In the beginning, only the three Mormon families who lived in the town at that time came to watch.The nearest town is 23 miles away from the opera house, but audiences filled its 114 theater seats so many times over the years that extra chairs sometimes had to be brought in.Becket wrote songs, dialogue, sewed costumes and painted sets.
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Where there's a will, there will be a way. I found proof.
Where thereâs a will, there will be a way. I found proof.
Iâm smitten with this harsh and hot land. Completely in love. Where some people see failure, death and destruction, I see life. I see it in the little trickles of water, in the Shoshan people, in the creosote, mesquite, the ephemeral spring flowers, the animals and the cactiâŠ
âŠand in those who saw what I see.
This is the Amargosa Opera House. Itâs the home of the late Marta Becket. It is now onâŠ
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