June 24, 2015
From Kayenta to Montezuma Creek, 152 kilometers, by the 163. In the distance, in the red and orange plain, a group of houses took shape in front of me; not even a single sign in the middle of the narration of Monument Valley. A quarter of a mile before the border with the state of Utah, to the left side, this nameless neighborhood lived or died; it does not really matter, it had a church. The churches around here are fast construction works, although they are erected in isolation in the middle of the street, they lack solemnity; they are like franchises, premises with temple licenses. It seems obvious to me that this industrial nature is not good at attracting apparitions and other glamorous heavenly phenomena like the ones in the old continent. The miraculous curriculum of such building cannot go beyond being the only one that escaped the tornado. This morning, while I was thinking about this, I thought about getting rid of the green bag leaving it at the church’s main entrance located right in front of me, at a stop I made for drinking and stretching my legs. I pretended I left it behind inadvertently and I went to the back part. Back there, there was an old fuel deposit with old dents and precious rust deposits, and behind that, there was a perfect reserved space from which I could watch the whike while I carried out an imperative need. When I got back, the priest was standing at the main entrance, smiling, and his face could barely avoid the sin of the pride for having saved me from the disastrous consequences of my lack of attention. Thanks a lot, I yelled, hopped back on the whike and kept going. The worse part of traveling like this is that I do not have time for confessions.