Salt Lake City to Reno, Nevada (518 miles)

I spent my last day in Salt Lake City at my favorite branch, Marmalade, that perfect little honey of a library just minutes from Temple Square and downtown proper. I was there from open to close, writing my face off, and feeling both productive and exhausted at the end of a full day. The library closed at six, so I killed some time driving around, got dinner, and finally headed out to the Bonneville Salt Flats, which are about an hour and a half west of Salt Lake City.

A rainy day ended with sudden sunshine, and I got to experience one of those wonderful double rainbows on my way out of town. Instead of "the awe of nature" or Kermit the Frog or a million other things I could have associated with the sight, I instead thought of my old peeps--one of the may different crews I worked with over the years--who brought the silly Double Rainbow Across the Skyyyy guy (and remix) to my attention back in the day (ye olde 2010). So instead of quiet solitude in the soft light of sundown, in my head I heard dance music and that poor, highly emotional stoner screaming at rainbows as I headed west. Thanks forever, Richard. (I maniacally laugh-cried while listening to "Family Affair" so I'm one to talk, remix 2014, one month sober and feeling all the feelings.)

Highway 80 passes right by the Great Salt Lake, so I got to see it in the most magical light, with the sun setting and the clouds streaming across the reflection. By the time I got to the Bonneville Salt Flats Rest Area, it was full dark. I went to bed (i.e. launched my body into the back of the car) around 8 pm and slept for something like ten hours.

When I woke up the next morning, I was bummed to see that I'd managed to visit the area during one the "flooded" periods. I had wanted to view the flats when they were dry, reflecting the sun and creating that strange flat water appearance like a vast and improbable mirror, so at first I felt a bit grouchy about the whole thing. I brushed my teeth and washed my face and went back out to reassess my surroundings. As you can see, I was being a twerp. It was beautiful...and the sky was giving vivid and winsome cloud formations. Honestly, what more could I have asked for?

On my way to Reno, I stopped in Elko because a sign promised I would find Starbucks there. As it turned out, the Starbucks is located in the Red Lion Casino, which you have to pass through to get to the venti pleasures. It was 8-something in the morning, which is a very weird time to be in a casino in Elko, Nevada. There weren't many people there to begin with--most were in the adjacent cafe eating breakfast--the rest were at the slots, but the majority of the banks and banks of machines stood completely empty, still flashing and hooting their clanging come ons. Card dealers stood at their stations, passing the time with small talk, hands behind their backs--I guess it was too early in the morning for blackjack.

Near Elko, Nevada

What struck me more than anything was that strong, lingering stench of cigarette smoke. I saw no one smoking at that hour, but I'm guessing it is allowed--the law in Nevada is clear on the matter: smoking is banned in businesses except for gaming establishments, specifically casinos. Having distinct memories of blowing smoke in other patrons faces at the local Taco Grande back during high school lunch period, far be it from me to get super hypocritical about smoking now, but I knew it was a trigger for me, so decided to complete my business at the Red Lion with haste.

Not that this stopped me from betting 5 dollars at the few slot machines that had the old fashioned pull handles. I couldn't help myself. Somehow I won the $5 back, which sums up my relationship to gambling in general. Breaking even to a large, yawning Meh.

Cashing out took longer than $5 is worth, and the gristled lady behind the counter seemed drearily annoyed that I didn't know how gambling or pay windows worked. I got my coffee and fled, feeling relieved that this particular addiction was never going to get its hooks in me. I do understand the appeal--I've certainly bought at least 5 lotto tickets in my lifetime whoop whoop--but not the hunger for it, the drive to blow every last dime at the chance, the chance, the chance...it seems more like torture than fun. But then plenty of people think that about alcoholism, too. Like, why can't you just dabble in alcohol? Why does it have to be A Thing? My friend, my girl, my buddyboy, how I wish that could be the case for all of us. But for some of us, the problem is simple. There will never be enough alcohol. It's never enough. If you're not drinking it, you're in fear of not having it, not being able to get it, running out. Even with a full case in the cabinet, there's always an empty glass at the end of it. It's never, ever enough.

I'm sure addicted gamblers feel the same way. Even when they win a jackpot, they have to keep gambling. It is never going to be enough. Insatiable hunger...isn't that one of the circles of hell?

I'm guessing the BM stands for Battle Mountains.
In case you wondered what you were looking at!

Anyway, the rest of the trip was uneventful. I passed through the Battle mountain ranges and found great comfort in all those rolling, soft hills. After the craggy, toothy Rocky Mountains, with their icy, hard peaks and black rock, those calm, smooth hills were a balm on the brain.

As I neared Reno, something started to happen. an unwelcome, though not as yet alarming change in my overall demeanor. For one, my nose started running. For two, I started to feel tired. For three, my stomach shriveled into a cranky raisin. Having started the trip with an unknown ailment (demon possession prob), and only just recovered from the ugliness of altitude sickness, I refused to believe that this was anything more than allergies and road ravages. Driving for 6 hours sounds like a breeze, but you do have to be at attention for the duration--it does wear on a person--and as I approached Reno the flora changed to a greener setting, so maybe, maybe...it was allergies. Had to be.

I checked into my Air BNB (meeting two shy golden retrievers who gave me soft warning boofs before breaking down and coming closer, sniffing my hand, and licking me hello) then headed out for a quick dinner. Nothing sounded good. I ended up getting a sandwich made of Thanksgiving stuff (the Bobbie) at Capriotti's--it was fine. I'm pretty sure I would have loved it if I hadn't felt...off. I went to bed that night with my nose running and running, but hopeful, ever hopeful, that it was just allergies.

I was up early the next day, checking out of the Reno Air BNB and heading off to get coffee and breakfast before driving up into the mountains to check out one of the premier libraries on my main list, Incline Village, which was located in one of the many little towns encircling Lake Tahoe. My head felt stuffed, my lungs felt thick, and still my mind insisted it had to be allergies. As I pulled through the drive through, I turned on CNN. My sense of surreality plunged into the horror house realm...57 dead, 500 wounded in Las Vegas??? An accident? What happened?

One of my first thoughts was of those hotels with high decks and other insane attractions (rollercoaster on a roof, anyone?)--but it turned out to be a mass shooting. Again. I listened to the news as I made my way up the mountain, head filled with smoking straw. After Sandy Hook, what more could there be? There is no level of horror beyond that. I speak only for myself here--and do not mean that there is no horror in all subsequent mass shootings. Of course they are horrifying, But Sandy Hook took a piece of me. I'll never forget watching Laurie Stokes and Ken Rosato on WABC 7 in New York, then the morning and noon anchors, breaking in to report what had happened. How the victims were so little, and how the numbers kept going up and up. There were so many, and they were only six years old.

It's a similar emotion to how I feel about 9/11. A mind can hurdle some pretty terrible things, challenging things, seemingly impossible things. But some things are just too big.

I feel for those that are tormented by this latest atrocity. I wish them peace. I left everything behind at Sandy Hook. I'm sorry these things keep happening, but if hearts, minds, and policies didn't change after of Sandy Hook, they never will.

Whitmore Library, Cottonwood Heights, Utah

Oh Whitmore Library, how desperately I wanted to stay. I loved everything about you from the minute I arrived to your ample parking lot and first espied your beautiful, foxy boxy glory.

Why are you like this? "Cruel and unusual" should be the only description on your "About Us" page. It aptly describes my visit there, to a razor sharp T.

I love a library that pretends to be a 1950s post office, especially when it's actually significantly newer, but I especially love a library that refuses to state her age. I had to look past the information page offered by the library system itself to an article on the Cottonwood Heights community website to find out that Whitmore is 43 years old (b. 1974).

But Whitmore has treasures in store...so much more than that drab, government-bureaucracy-at-work exterior could tell.

I parked around the side and immediately saw my first focal point of squeaking and picture taking: A curved wall. As I've screamed here before, they are my fave. Big Fave. I'm maniac for the curved wall. The best part of a curved wall, especially in an otherwise box-shaped structure, is that it has no reason for existing other than to be Special, Weird, and Pretty. There's no practical function to a curved wall. It vexes organization charts and resists traditional furniture.

The Curved Wall.

But there it was, in all its glory, which I documented with my usual, curved wall fervor. Little did I know that was the appetizer to a deliciously strange meal.

Once you enter the Whitmore, one element reaches out, grabs you by the cuff, shakes you vigorously, then french kisses you in the eyeballs. It makes NO sense, it follows NO logic, it is beyond purpose or reason, maybe even sanity itself. What otherworldly, completely psychotic element is this? The ceiling-lighting scheme. Look at it. LOOK AT IT.

O. My. GOLLY.

Heavens to Betsy.

I could barely contain myself as I stumbled in, trying to look cool taking my down-low pictures, but I could tell I was exuding palpitations and exhalations. It was so beautiful. So extreme. So completely nuts.

I love the Whitmore ceiling-lighting scheme so hard.

There were nifty little study corrals to set up shop next to other laptop laborers, so I sat down, plugged in, and started working on that day's blog entry. Little signs instructed patrons in this area to be courteous and quiet (no talking to each other or on cell phones) but a man that smelled like hot, angry lemons emitted a seemingly endless, breathless monotone under his hand and into his cell, looking up every once in awhile to see if he was caught. The rest of us just typed away, obeying the rules and not really minding the Monotone Lemon Man since his talent for speaking as though he was somehow white noise was kind of impressive, anyway.

Alas, I could not stay. Perhaps the weird, circus-tent structure of the building is the problem. Maybe it is some technical issue beyond my understanding or influence. Whatever the reason, the wifi would not cooperate. I tried every trick in my bag, but the best coverage I could get was weak or nonexistent, and constantly changing. Since my objective for that day was to track down links for an obscene number of 80s songs, it simply was not going to do.

I was truly sad to leave the Whitmore. It's not often that something so boring and charmless on the outside hides within it something so weird and wonderful. Au revoir ma étrange truffe.

Main Library, The City Library, Salt Lake City, Utah

 
If you drive up to the wrong (west) side of Salt Lake City's Main Library, you might just drive on by, certain that there is no way this can be the very same place about which you've heard nothing but rave reviews. It would be a fair decision, too, as the west bank of squareness is so square and oppressively beige, you might mistake it for a sad, nameless county office that issues permits for tiling the floors of the sanitation department's broom closets.

But if you turn any corner, you'll find a weird and wonderful thing: The Most Extra Library in Existence. Clearly someone had a vision. There were lots of floaty ideas lilting all around, and they were scooped up with a butterfly net and put into an architectural, build-a-scheme, Thing Maker, hooked up with jumper cables to a picture of the Colosseum, and two tween boys with bras on their heads flipped a switch and WA LA, Main Library.

It's won all sorts of awards, which it should for ambition alone, but my first impression of the site was one of dread and unease, as I again found myself sinking into the subterranean depths of the adjacent parking garage. It was a narrow, sketchy scene reminiscent of the J. Erikson back in Dallas, except it was somehow spookier. More echos or something...but it freaked me out. It was also super narrow, so navigating was a little stressful--I could see all the marks from fenders and tires that had not quite made the turn at every stingy bend.

I took the elevator up to the main courtyard and walked out into a scene from Star Trek...you know the ones where they're at Starfleet Academy on Earth and you can still see the Golden Gate Bridge but there are a ton of new, soaring buildings with glinty, spiked edges that always remind me of The Jetsons. The western edge of the library is a fake out, a boring lie. The remaining three corners, if you can call them that, are anything but boring. It is a concrete and glass wonder, a sight to behold. It is nothing but winged, glorious curves. I was in lurve.

The tail of the curve is made up of individual little square units whose purpose was difficult to determine. They basically look like glass and metal boxes attached in a neat row, each no bigger than a standard foyer. According to Wikipedia, they contain things like radio stations and studios (x).

The space within the curve of the library is a grand, open plaza, with a recessed amphitheater right at the base of the main building. The plaza also features a waterfall and geometrically patterned garden spaces.

Main entrance (l) and the first view of the urban room (r).

The main glass doors lead into what is called the "Urban Room," a moniker so rigorously understated that I had to triple check the map to make sure I got it right. It isn't a "room," it is a cavernous, monumental open space of glass and metal. It is a sort of atrium or courtyard, with windows soaring all five floors to the top of the structure. The Urban Room has shops, restaurants, and seating areas where you can sit, drink coffee, talk with friends, or just wonder at the views all around you. I saw ladies lunching and business folk meeting, laptops open, spreadsheets queued.

When viewing the library proper from inside the Urban Room or out in the plaza, the open and airy design exposes four floors of nothing but books--rows and rows of stacks--and trendy but modest seating situated along the expansive banks of windows. The fifth floor appears mostly administrative, with some meeting rooms and access to the garden roof. When I entered the building, I scoped the place out a bit from the main floor, but my ultimate goal was to grab one of those primo desks--the higher the better.

Main elevator bank (l) and the four main floors of the library (r), viewed from the Urban Room.

Before heading to the elevators, I looked around the first floor and found, to my delight, plushies of Where the Wild Things Are encased in displays near the children's section. In light of my recent Magna experience, imagining those monsters running rampant through the library, biting books and stomping on furniture, seeing the Sendak display was a little on the nose, but a treat nonetheless. This library, though eight years older than the Magna, showed few signs of brutish beasts roughing up the upholstery or climbing up the stacks.

Safely encased for minimum tomfoolery.

The layout of each floor is expansive and generous. There is a lot of open floorspace to balance out the multitude of stacks, lounge furniture, and desks. The furniture and carpet follow a cool blue, gray, and silver template to match the streamlined, futuristic aesthetics of all that glass and metal.

Circulation.

Information.

I have a love/hate relationship with heights. I love to see incredible views, things that knock me on my ass with shock and love, but if I get a little too self aware then it's time for the cold sweats and maybe a little swooning (exactly the sort of thing you want to do on a precipice). For example, I am good with viewing the Grand Canyon from the rail, or even going up into a very tall building (good-ish), but those viewing decks made of Plexiglas, where you walk out onto freaking nothing so you can feel like you are levitating high above the ground? I think fucking not. Hell to the no. Noooooo.

The scary elevator ride.

So I love glass elevators, and if I am not stuffed onto one with other people, all the better. But the glass elevators at the Salt Lake City Main Library have one extra surprise in store, something more extraordinary that lifting people to and fro and all with an open view of the entire five stories of the Urban Room. They go fast. Which is great! You get where you want to go in no time at all. But it is also terrible, because your stomach is still trying to stay on floor one while your bodily self is zinging up to floor five. So, I was a fan of the expedience, not so much the experience. Blerg.

I checked out five for a few minutes, then headed back down to four since I was set on getting a good spot. As I headed toward the seats that faced the plaza, I started to notice an unbelievable aspect of the SLC Main that I hadn't processed earlier when taking pictures from below. The library is open on all sides and throughout, where there are bridges from the main sections to the bathrooms or back storage/staff areas. This is most evident along the wall interior to the massive Urban Room, where you can just look over the side and all the way down to the ground. As I walked through the library I realized this had to be a place people would try to kill themselves; the barriers are only waist high and it would be all too easy to just jump. Later when I researched the library via Wikipedia, my assumptions were confirmed. It even has it's own subentry, which is incredibly sad.

The view from the Bridge.

You have to wonder what they were thinking when they designed the building. It seems an obvious consideration, so what's the logic? I refuse to believe that no one thought of the suicide factor when creating a building where people could jump from five or four stories, to their likely deaths, with no more effort than bending over the edge and dropping. A person would not even have to climb. Even if you put the prickly subject of suicide to the side, you still have to consider the ramifications of library staff having to deal with these incidents. The toll it must take.

It's incredible to have such an open space, but I realized that part of that wonderment was based on the fact that most things are built to discourage the human impulse for self destruction. It's an interesting and exciting experience because we are so rarely afforded the chance to stand at the precipice without a safety net of some sort.

My desk.

Looking straight down.

I set up shop near the windows facing the plaza and got to work. Each desk has its own outlet for electricity and the chairs are simple but comfortable. I worked for awhile, but eventually two distractions were too much to overcome.

First, that view. It was as the planners envisioned: Something to remember, something to write home about, something else. The drop is one thing, especially since desks are right up next to the glass and that is all there is, no concrete barrier even. But the plaza down below and the Wasatch mountains in the distance? Every few minutes my eyes would wander, because I couldn't stand not to look. It was too beautiful.

A view of the plaza from my desk.

Second, the homeless population. Of all the places I've visited, the Salt Lake City Main Library had the largest contingent of homeless patrons. You have to remember just how large this library is--it is enormous. They hung out in the amphitheater, and those with carts had set up semi-permanent residences near the glass boxes in the tail of curve. Many others were inside, surrounded by bags, in reading chairs and at desks.

It is important to note that no one bothered me--everyone minded their own business, found their spots to hang out, and kept to themselves. Were it not for my sensitive nose, I wouldn't have cared, but the as the day progressed, the smell of urine intensified and I had to leave. Remember, my stomach is made of tissue paper and hot acid, so anything that triggers my nausea is a non starter. I simply must go or face inevitable, vomity consequences.

My point is that plenty of less sensitive folks would be perfectly fine -- I saw no disturbances or anything that worried or alarmed me. All in all it was a very positive library experience, though probably more for the architectural splendors than the practicality of library usage. Of course, any view can become mundane after awhile, so I am sure regular patrons, while pleased with their surroundings, are far less distracted by the awesome structure than a traveling flatlander like me.

My last stop was the gallery, also on floor four, and a great addition to the Main Library's offerings. A few of my favorite pieces are featured below.

Laura Erekson Atkinson, (l) Build With Three Kinds of Brick, 

Mixed Media on Wood, and (r) A time to Build Up, 

Mixed Media on Wood (capitalization per the installation).

Laura Erekson Atkinson, Cities of the North, Mixed Media on Panel.

Natalie Kaye Stallings, Life in a Contradicting Shadow, Oil on Panel.

Really. Do Not.

Anderson-Foothill Branch, The City Library, Salt Lake City, Utah

Not far from the Millcreek Community Library I found the Anderson-Foothill Branch library (part of the City Library system). I could almost hear "Don't You Forget about Me" playing as I walked up to the steps and toward the main doors. I was getting a very 80s vibe and, much to my later delight, I was right on the money.

I'd spent a productive morning at Millcreek, and if I hadn't gotten hungry, I probably would have stayed. It was a truly relaxed place, and I would have had a harder time deciding if I should stay or go, but my wandering reflex is borderline urgent. I obeyed my desire to journey onward, knowing I had the time to spare.

When I entered the Anderson-Foothill library, I was immediately drawn to the mega vaulted ceilings, a sure sign of extraneous design choices popular in the 80s. Hell on the heating and cooling systems, but doesn't it look rad? You know what: It does. It is incredible to see one of the living monuments to 80s aesthetics, but modern love of 50s Gas Station Chic will soon totally eclipse one vision of what our future was going to look like. At least I can photograph it now and preach against runaway destruction of our architectural history. Who knows, maybe they'll meet me halfway...eh, who am I foolin. Call me a careless optimist, but I still believe the past lifts us up beyond the tainted logic of forever trashing our collective memory. Its a bit of an obsession.

The Lonely Table

The 80s were also apparent in most of the furniture, save the computer bays, the most obvious update from days just past disco and well before "the net." The pink, burlap fabric and rounded, wood edges were a dead giveaway. The library itself is dark despite the many windows, but to me if felt more like a safe little slice of heaven to burrow in and think.

So I busted a move to the back of the library and found a (sort of) perfect spot near the large bay window (tinted, of course). There was a lonely, stray group table off to the side, spotlighted for maximum sadness, and a bank of tall, two-top bar tables right against the window. I am still not sure why higher ground would make me study smarter, but there was clearly a method to the madness.

The greatest clue of all was the design on the table top I was using--totally tubular fer shure. While I was distracted for a moment, cherishing all the artifacts of years gone by (like, check out the electrical outlet box thing?), the Anderson-Foothill afforded me yet another stellar opportunity to buckle down and write my little face off.