big dipper and kitsch

breakfast with an alien. an older man, buzzcut, little beady eyes, little to no lips, sitting by himself in the 1990s decorated (coral blue framed white washed bouquets of flowers in shiny brass, paintings) continental breakfast area, drinking coffee out of a styrofoam cup sitting in a pink armchair. I was scooping no-name raisin bran when he talked about the "markings" on my arms and asked how long I've been out. He talked so fast I only heard the last word from his sentences as they were higher in pitch than the rest to properly form a question. He assumed my tattoos were markings indicating that I was either on break from the military, or paroled from jail. I told him I was a student and sat down. This tattoo sighting functioned as an icebreaker, as a one way conversation spurted and motored through his lips about his military service in 1959, I think this is what it was about. My nodding unfortunately functioned as fuel to keep his story rolling all through breakfast.
Drove around Roswell to the Alien Museum. It was alot less kitsch than I originally thought, and there were other crazy visitors there, like ourselves.
Drove through the Picacho Foothills and cottonwoods, low lying treed areas near a dried out creek for miles, beautiful. Made our way to where Doug's cabin was and Cloudcroft to a haunted hotel and restaurant, possessed by a woman named Rebecca. She was a maid of the lodge, popular amongst the lumberjacks and other men in town, who was later murdered by her jealous husband who scattered her remains in the surrounding woods. The hotel has been the site of many paranormal investigations who use the best technologically sound devices to catch a glimpse of fog, shadows, or a blur.
10,000 feet and driving around with elk, birch trees and finally a decent radio station that isn't country or christian.
Make our way through Alamogordo, I need to come back here, to White Sands for sunset. Miles of white sand reflecting the myriads of colors the sunset opens. Every direction you look is endless sand dunes. Driving back to Los Cruces on the barren interstate with the sunroof open, a makeshift space center, we see a sky that is bright and speckled, like a poster demonstrating all the star systems, that one living in the city never truly believes actually exist. There's more stars than the fucking big dipper.