#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 Lipa’s 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. The…
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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: Probably 90% Jaime x Brienne, though I love Brienne x almost everyone, too. I’m 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 Don’t Cry by impertinence because I love the pet sociopath trope, and it was brilliant.
Last song: “Conflicted” by Halestorm for a potential gift fic
Last film: The Deep House, a scuba diving haunted house film.
Currently reading: Just started A Clash of Kings by GRRM for book club. For fic, I’m about to read and comment on chapter three of Hope (at the Bottom of Pandora’s Box) by @missgillette.
Currently watching: Nothing. I need something new.
Currently consuming: Water.
Currently craving: A long, complicated, emotional enemies to lovers arranged marriage Jaime x Brienne fic.
I’d 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 I’d gotten a photo this interesting would have been enough for me to say I’d 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, that’s likely to happen on occasion.
While we were allowed to take photos inside the opera house, I’m 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 I’ll stay there next time.
Read more about Marta Becket and the Amargosa Opera House here. And, since I’ve been mentioning movies filmed in Death Valley, I should point out that this building was used for exteriors in David Lynch’s 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 ❤️. 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 #usa🇺🇸 #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#usa🇺🇸#travelusa#americanroadtrip
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Part 2, Chapter 6: Badwater
This episode alternates between Jasika Nicole and Roberta Colindrez. Since Roberta’s character has no name, I have dubbed her “Watcher” 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 isn’t 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 – and you’re 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. I’m 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 I’m patient, and now is not the time. I don’t wanna cut anything short. I lay back on the hood of my car enjoying its warmth and look up at the sky – grey and blank as sleet.
Keisha: A sky about to break into violence.
Both in unison: I close my eyes and I wait.
Alice Isn’t Dead by Joseph Fink. Performed by Jasika Nicole with Roberta Colindrez. Produced by Disparition. Part 2, Chapter 6: Badwater.
Keisha: I’m 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: I’m gonna miss this when it’s done. But nothing lasts forever. To take a few uncertain years from someone’s 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. It’s 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? Isn’t it better to die in such a purposeful, clear way than to stagger on until an organ you don’t 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. It’s dusk, and the plants are still churning. Busy workers for now until their jobs go too. Everyone’s 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: There’s a strange ridge along the slope facing me, one that doesn’t look natural.
Watcher: This expanse – is majestic. Truly, breathtaking.
Keisha: As the miles pass, I realize I’m 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 – and pull it back on the road.
Keisha: And I’m 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 can’t be as bad as they’re 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. I’m on a narrow and windy pass, never meant for a truck this size. I’ve 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 but…
Both in unison: There’s 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 I’m under the cab, downhill of it and I’m thinking…
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 it’s 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 driver’s side door. “Hello?” I shout, and I crawl my way out, banging my head on the front bumper. “Did you stop to help?” I say, as if anyone had ever done that for me. But there’s 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 there’s 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. There’s a terrible smell, like burning rubber, and I think “Ugh, my engine is fucked.” 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 – I don’t 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 doesn’t 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. It’s not cold but it’s on the edge of cold. At least I’m 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: It’s 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 don’t know this impulse. I don’t understand this impulse, but I switch off my lights. And now I’m in the dark and I can’t even feel the speed. It’s 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 – I press harder on the gas. I’m going faster and I can’t see the road at all, and the light is like an idea of peace that I’ll never have. It’s 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 I’m 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 it’s the road, straight as it ever was, and I’m still driving on it – 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 Marta’s paintings on the wall. There’s a café that is only open a couple of days a week, but is surprisingly good, in a hipster Brooklyn kind of way. I don’t 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: It’s 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. It’ll be on the road in moments.
Watcher: And then it’ll be invisible. And then it will happen.
Keisha: It’s 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 I’m worried that anyone behind me won’t know to do the same.
Watcher: It’s 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. It’s OK. I’m 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, it’s the light. The light from the sky.
Watcher: That light.
Keisha: It’s zigzagging.
Watcher: What is that?
Keisha: What is that? The light lowers. It’s 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 don’t feel heat.
Both in unison: I don’t feel anything.
Keisha: I don’t care that I don’t know where I’m going. I speed into the light.
Watcher: And then…
Keisha: And then – I am out of the dust cloud, and I’m 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 haven’t escaped, Keisha. Maybe you get a few days more, maybe a few weeks. But you haven’t escaped.
And now a knock-knock joke.
Knock knock.
[left speaker] Who’s there?
[right speaker] Interrupting cow.
[left] Again?! Interrupting cow who-
[right] Yeah, that’s me.
[left] OK, but what I’m saying is-
[right] I’m the Interrupting Cow, what do you want from me?
[left] Sure, but...
[right] Are you going to let me in or not, it’s cold out here? Everyone wants to just have a conversation through a closed door, like that’s a thing people do, like that’s OK. It’s not OK, you know? It’s rude. I have been searching for shelter. I’m sorry I’m interrupting, but did you ever consider you have nothing worthwhile to say?
Hello? I’m sorry.
[left] Interrupting Cow who?
[right] Hungry and lost Interrupting Cow who just wants to stay still for a little while.
[left] I understand. Come in.
[right] Thank you. Thank you.
[left] It’s no prob-
[right] Moo!
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Amargosa Cafe, Death Valley Junction
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Parte 2, Capítulo 6: Água Ruim
Keisha: Tenho que mijar, e não tem nenhuma cidade no mapa, não por um bom tempo. Mas também não tem nenhum carro.
Observadora: Silêncio absoluto por quilômetros e quilômetros. Aqui não tem luzes, não tem observadores para me observar observando.
Keisha: O sol ‘tá se pondo, as nuvens escuras se demorando no céu, e a estrada não é visível até o horizonte em nenhuma direção. Estaciono meu carro no acostamento lamacento e saio.
Observadora: Estacione um pouco distante da estrada, desligue as luzes – e você está invisível. Eu poderia acabar com ela agora, é claro. Não haveria ninguém para assistir.
Keisha: É estranho pra caramba estar ao lado dessa estrada e ver quilômetros à frente sem enxergar ninguém. Aqui, estou tão sozinha quanto se pode estar. Agacho e aproveito o silêncio. O silêncio absoluto da distância.
Observadora: E que humilhante morrer mijando na poeira; mas sou paciente, e agora não é o momento. Não quero apressar nada. Deito-me no capô do meu carro, aproveitando o calor, e olho para o céu, cinza a preto como granizo.
Keisha: Um céu prestes a romper em violência.
Juntas: Fecho meus olhos e espero.
Keisha: ‘Tou num planalto, faço uma curva e de repente ‘tou olhando pra um vale. Minha elevação não mudou nada, mas a mudança de perspectiva é incrível.
Observadora: Vou sentir falta disso quando estiver feito. Mas nada dura para sempre. Tomar alguns anos incertos da vida de alguém... [escarnece] isso é mesmo um crime?
Keisha: Pensei que ‘tava em terra firme e na verdade ‘tava bem, bem longe no ar. Não tem nenhuma metáfora a ser feita aqui, nenhuma razão pra relacionar isso à minha vida. É só uma viagem, só um planalto, só um vale. Só um momento de tontura tão forte que foi quase prazer.
Observadora: De que valem esses anos? Ela sequer teria os tido? Não é melhor morrer de uma maneira intencional e limpa assim do que se arrastar até que um órgão de que você não precisa comece a produzir as células dele errado?
Keisha: Uma luz ziguezagueando no céu. Não a lua, não as estrelas, não um avião, não nada. Um ponto, se movendo de um lado pro outro, curvas impossivelmente acentuadas. Tiro meus olhos da estrada pra assistir, mas não meu pé do acelerador. A estrada é perfeitamente reta. Me foco na luz e assisto ela se mover até que meus pneus atingem o acostamento e sou puxada de volta pra direção. Quando olho de novo, ela se foi.
Observadora: Depois das cidades maiores, ficam as cidades mineradoras. Algumas casas e uma escola colada em uma pedreira e uma processadora de minério. O sol está se pondo, as plantas balançando com o vento. Trabalhadores ocupados, por hora, até os trabalhos deles acabarem também. O trabalho de todo mundo é descartável. Exceto o meu. Esse tipo de fome violenta está sempre em demanda. Eu poderia dormir por mil anos e acordar para um mundo que precisasse de mim.
Keisha: Dá pra ver a estrada descendo e daí subindo de novo por quilômetros a minha frente.
Observadora: Um homem parou seu carro para tirar uma foto, e consigo ver por quê.
Keisha: Tem um cume estranho na encosta à minha frente, um que não parece natural.
Observadora: Esta expansão… é majestosa. De verdade, de tirar o fôlego.
Keisha: Conforme os quilômetros passam, percebo que ‘tou olhando pra toda a extensão de um trem de carga. Um que levaria dez minutos pra passar por um cruzamento.
Observadora: Eu paro também. Levo-o até os arbustos e o deixo lá. Pego o carro dele– e volto para a estrada.
Keisha: E estou a uma distância em que dá pra ver o trem inteiro passando pela encosta da montanha.
Observadora: De verdade. De tirar o fôlego.
Juntas: A chuva chega, enfim.
Keisha: Placas dizem pra evitar essa estrada pelo risco de enxurradas, mas pego ela mesmo assim.
Observadora: Quero ver a água e senti-la debaixo do meu carro.
Keisha: Só fico na esperança de que enxurradas não podem tão ruins quando fazem elas parecerem.
Observadora: Quero ficar de pé no meu capô enquanto as águas se erguem sobre mim. Quero ser atingida por um relâmpago, quero ver o que quer que se vê quando a eletricidade atinge seu cérebro.
Juntas: Lagos se formam de repente no deserto. Logo, todo a terra dos dois lados da estrada é água. Ondas quebrando em uma costa de asfalto.
Keisha: Que eu saia a salvo disso. Que eu saia a salvo disso.
Observadora: Afogue-me, leve-me embora.
Keisha: A chuva piorou, estou num caminho estreio e ventoso que não foi feito pra um caminhão desse tamanho. Cometi um erro. Mas o único jeito é ir até o fim.
Observadora: Trechos sem ninguém à vista. Nenhuma testemunha, Ninguém para ajudar.
Keisha: E então, a alguns quilômetros de distância das planícies, faço uma curva e tenho um momento de “o que é isso na estrada”? E daí tem esse barulho, e a parte de baixo da minha cabine ‘tá travada. Uma pedra enorme. Paro o caminhão, esperando que as luzes impeçam outras pessoas de baterem nele, mas...
Juntas: Não tem pra onde ir em uma estrada estreita assim.
Observadora: Pegue a minha mão. Pegue a minha mão e me acompanhe até onde a estrada não é mais visível.
Keisha: Fico de bruços na lama, debaixo da cabine na ladeira, e estou pensando...
Juntas: OK, então é assim que você morre.
Keisha: A rocha ‘tá presa à parte debaixo da cabine. Tento tirar ela, mas não se move. Um carro passa por mim, tem que desviar do caminho. Meu corpo todo ‘tá sujo de lama. Olho e tem um par de pernas à frente da porta do lado do motorista.
— Olá? — eu grito, e engatinho pra fora, batendo minha cabeça no para-choque frontal. — Parou pra ajudar? — eu digo, como se alguém já tivesse feito isso por mim.
Mas não tem mais ninguém lá. Só eu e meu caminhão, e uma pedra presa no meu caminhão.
Observadora: Quase, Keisha, foi quase.
Keisha: Quero sair desse cruzamento, então começo a dirigir, e a pedra fica se arrastando na estrada, e parece que a própria cabine ‘tá caindo aos pedaços. Então, faz-se um último som rascante terrível e a pedra fica pra trás. Tudo parece ainda funcionar bem.
Paro em Stovepipe Wells, um motel disfarçado de vilarejo do oeste. Tem um cheiro de borracha queimada terrível, e penso “Ugh, meu motor estragou”, mas, me afastando do caminhão, o cheiro persiste. O vento ‘tá saturado dele. Passo a noite na área de estacionamento deles, e na manhã seguinte percebo ‘tava sentindo o cheiro das árvores mesquite. Meu caminhão ‘tá funcionando bem.
Observadora: Uma luz ziguezagueando no céu. Sei da maioria das coisas. Há poucos segredos guardados de mim. Mas aquela luzinha se movendo pelo pôr do sol – eu não sei. É uma estranha, então a cumprimento como uma estranha, com uma mão estendida e um sorriso no rosto. Viu, eu sou educada com estranhos. Pelo menos até o momento em que entendo do que preciso, como me aproveitar melhor da existência deles.
Mas talvez eu não possa me aproveitar dessa luz. Parece mais flutuar através do nosso mundo do que voar. Se não me é útil, então não vale o incômodo. Assinto e continuo a dirigir.
Keisha: A chuva ainda ‘tá forte, o vendo chicoteando através das gotas, transformando elas em um nevoeiro encorpado. Não ‘tá frio, mas tá quase frio. Pelo menos não sou o casal de coreanos se aconchegando na estação da guarda florestal. Ele de smoking, ela num vestido de noiva com véu esvoaçante, e uma esquipe de fotógrafos profissionais seguindo os dois por aí. 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 sólida como concreto, se apoiando úmidos um no outro e sentindo a areia nos sapatos formais deles.
Nessa noite, as estrelas estão cobertas pelas nuvens, e a luz retorna.
Observadora: À distância, um objeto na estrada. Sinto um gosto amargo na ponta da língua e tento segurá-lo lá, tento faze o amargor se demorar.
Keisha: Sou eu e meus faróis nessa estrada reta e vazia, e essa luz no céu, fazendo curvas acentuadas sobre si mesma.
Observadora: O objeto é um coiote. Ela estava esperando por mim, parada no meio da estrada, calma.
Keisha: Não conheço esse impulso. Não entendo esse impulso, mas desligo meus faróis. E então, ‘tou no escuro e não consigo nem sequer sentir a velocidade. É tão calmo, o ronco do motor como um murmúrio do meu próprio corpo, e a luz se movendo à minha frente.
Observadora: Capturo os olhos castanhos dela com os meus, e entendemos uma a outra. Criaturas inferiores, tomando sangue de onde podemos. Naturais como as planícies de sal, naturais como uma encosta de pedra.
Keisha: Sinto como se pudesse tocar ela. E isso é tão estúpido, mas – piso no acelerador com mais força. Estou indo mais rápido e não consigo ver nada da estrada, e a luz é como ideia de paz que nunca terei. É um mundo onde nada disso aconteceu comigo. E então, entro em pânico.
Observadora: Olhamos uma para a outra por vários minutos. Prefiro a companhia dela aos covardes que dirigem por este país como se pertencesse a eles.
Keisha: Essa onda de pânico é tão familiar, porque o é que eu ‘tou fazendo? ‘Tou querendo me matar?
Observadora: Pisco, e digo a ela que preciso voltar à minha presa. Como tenho certeza de que precisa voltar para a dela. Conforme me afasto, ela me observa, ainda imóvel, no meu espelho.
Keisha: Religo os faróis e lá está a estrada, reta como sempre, e ainda estou dirigindo nela – e a luz no céu se foi.
Observadora: A maioria dos prédios em Death Valley Junction ainda são ruínas.
Keisha: Um antigo dormitório para funcionários nas minas de bórax. Em 1967, o carro de uma bailarina chamada Marta Becket quebrou aqui, e ela deu com um teatrinho abandonado que os funcionários costumavam usar como salão comunitário. 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 três vezes por semana.
Observadora: Encolho-me dentro de uma das ruínas. Gosto do quão frio fica à noite, e de manhã, assisto a uma nuvem fazer uma sombra perfeita sobre uma montanha.
Keisha: Em muitas das performances, ninguém aparecia. E então, ao longo dos anos, ela pintou uma audiência na parte de dentro do teatro, pra que sempre tivesse alguém 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.
Tem um café que só abre alguns dias da semana, mas é surpreendentemente bom, bom à maneira hipster de Brooklyn. Não sei como conseguem lucro com um restaurante como esse, dois dias por semana no meio do nada. Mas, comendo no balcão deles, me sinto grata às pessoas que vêm a lugares como esse e fazem coisas como essa. Dançam e fazem torradas de abacate artesanais.
Observadora: Está na hora de trocar de carro de novo. Então, quando um casal de turistas estaciona no estacionamento sem iluminação, prontos para aproveitar a estranheza de balé no deserto, faço meu caminho até eles e, em seguida, até o veículo deles. Sinto-me grata às pessoas que vêm a lugares como este.
Obervadora: Na 247 norte em Lucerne, os campos são pura poeira, e o vento está aumentando.
Keisha: Como algo saído de uma história, uma nuvem de poeira do tamanho de um pequeno arranha-céu, crescendo, vinda dos campos. Vai estar na estrada em momentos.
Observadora: E então, vai ficar invisível. E vai acontecer.
Keisha: Estou na luz do sol, daí entro na nuvem e o mundo é sépia. Posso ver talvez alguns metros à minha frente. Quero diminuir a velocidade, mas estou preocupada que quem tiver atrás de mim não saiba que tem que fazer o mesmo.
Observadora: É gostoso aqui. Uma bolha de cegueira em um vale de luz cegante.
Keisha: Acho que ‘tou vendo faróis. Um carro tentando me ultrapassar?
Observadora: Agora, Keisha. Acontece agora. Está tudo bem. Estou aqui com você.
Keisha: Meu para-brisa faz barulho ao ser atingido pela poeira. ‘Tá tudo tão quieto.
Observadora: Talvez dez segundos. Respire com calma, Keisha. Aproveite as respirações conforme chegam.
Keisha: Lá está a luz. A luz do céu.
Observadora: Aquela luz.
Keisha: ‘Tá ziguezagueando.
Observadora: O que é aquilo?
Keisha: O que é aquilo? A luz desce. Está bem na minha frente, do outro lado do vidro. Não vejo nada, mas continuo dirigindo até a cabine inteira está envolta pela luz. Não sinto calor.
Juntas: Não sinto nada.
Keisha: Não ligo que não sei pra onde ‘tou indo. Acelero na luz.
Observadora: E então…
Keisha: E então… ‘tou fora da nuvem e perto de umas fazendas de novo. Atrás de mim, a poeira de move pro outro lado da estrada. Não tem nenhum carro atrás ou à minha frente. Não tem nenhuma luz estranha.
Observadora: Você não escapou, Keisha. Talvez tenha mais alguns dias, talvez mais algumas semanas, mas não escapou.
Toc toc.
[voz à esquerda] Quem é?
[voz à direita] A vaca que interrompe.
[voz à esquerda] De novo?! A vaca que interrompre quem–
[voz à direita] Sim, sou eu.
[voz à esquerda] OK, mas o que estou dizendo é–
[voz à direita] Sou a vaca que interrompe, o que você quer de mim?
[voz à esquerda] Claro, mas…
[voz à direita] Vai me deixar entrar ou não? Está 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? É rude. Estou procurando abrigo. Sinto muito interromper, mas já considerou que não tem nada válido a dizer?
Olá? Sinto muito.
[voz à esquerda] A vaca que interrompe quem?
[voz à direita] A faminta e perdida vaca que interrompe, que só quer ficar em paz por um tempinho.
[voz à esquerda] Entendo. Pode entrar.
[voz à direita] Obrigado. Obrigado.
[voz à esquerda] Sem proble–
[voz à 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 there’s a will, there will be a way. I found proof.
I’m 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 cacti…
…and in those who saw what I see.
This is the Amargosa Opera House. It’s the home of the late Marta Becket. It is now on…
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