Unincorporated area

Today I discovered that our desert cabin, which I had believed to be in the city of Twentynine Palms, is in fact considered to be in an “unincorporated area”. This phenomenon of places so remote as to be not under any local governance is a new concept to me as a non-native Californian. This state is rife with such areas, apparently. The F and I both loved the wildness of this. As we drove “home” from the cabin (to an Airbnb five miles away), we realized just how dark it gets in an area that has no streetlights and few to no lit houses, either. If it weren’t for the almost full moon we would have felt like we were inside a cow’s stomach. But this is what this has been all about - the ringing silence and dark skies. It’s our jam.

We’ve been out here since Sunday taking care of some wedding stuff and also attempting to do some work on the cabin - which has looked like contractor #2 spending a couple of hours helping us pop a window in the upstairs, a day of shopping for supplies, and then today painting the shipping container (or rather, Bobby and the F painting it while Theo did nothing and I headed to the wedding venue an hour away to do the final walk through). Tomorrow, depending on people’s exhaustion levels, will be placing another window upstairs or framing in the bathroom in the container. The contractor buried a 55 gallon tank under the container and secured a bucket toilet over it, but the F is skeptical of the potential smell so we haven’t used it. So technically we do not have a working toilet there and may have to try something else. 

I’m not really sure where we’re going with all this; the contractor leaves this weekend until December, and with hot temperatures, the wedding, my event, and my band playing Knott’s Berry Farm every Sunday for four months starting in May, I don’t anticipate us being able to come back out here any time soon. Of course, I’d come any old time - I don’t mind the heat or primitive conditions, and have weekdays free. I hope we can carve out the occasional trip, but I don’t know. Despite this flurry of activity we may have to stop all work until September or October. There’s just too much else going on. 

But for now I have to admit, it’s the first time I’ve felt we’re really out here now, not just visiting a construction site. The days of cookouts and starry skies and lounging in hammocks seems closer than they ever have; I was noticing that fresh dry air smell that’s always out here, and of course, the silence so intense you feel like you’re on a movie set about to do a take. I’ve had The Rolling Stones’ Moonlight Mile on endless repeat. It’s a sweet time for us despite all the upcoming stressors. I’m just so glad everyone has embraced this idea and this place as much as I have. My friends all think I’m crazy doing this, but there’s a piece of my heart forever in the desert now. There’s no looking back.