Rock, Bolivia

What I thought would be a city of stones turned out to be a metropolis of rocks. As the sole feature in the broadening landscape of Bolivia´s central altiplano, I was immediately drawn to the presence of something, due largely to the recent lack of everything. A series of sandstone towers perched on the horizon in picket formation lured me into the metamorphic fortress like a tired knight in search of solace. In true, red-white-and-blue fashion, I staked my claim on the fringe, holing up in a quaint little suburb with ample breathing room and an infertile lawn that separated me from any potential of intrahuman contact, also requiring me to travel for hours to obtain supplies while inhibiting the potential for appropriate transportation in the sprawling expanse of soulless abodes. Density be damned, I wanted my own backyard.

Stationed at the acoustical center of a sandy amphitheater, the improvisational itch came over me like an easily contractable rash which resulted in equally spasmatic side-effects. With an empty potato pan in hand and a Hohner harmonica on my lips, I proceeded to awe the bystanding stones with a savagely enthusiastic soundscape, brought on by a socially stagnant stint through days of torrential terrain.

Performances such as these are usually reserved for a select audience, one that exhibits the apathetic characteristics necessitated by an amateur performer such as myself. The more inanimate and unresponsive the better, hence the spontaneous outbreak of expression among geologic giants that carelessly echoed my every attempt at rhythm and melody. After obliging the roaring demand for multiple encores, I crept backstage and wallowed in my stardom. I interpreted Surely´s silence as complimentary and the rustle of my sleeping bag as constructive criticism.

The wind I expended during my rambunctious prancing must have created some kind of butterfly effect within the labyrinthian landscape because as soon as the sun went down, an atmospheric torment arose. From inside my precariously sand-staked tent, I imagined erosion to be happening at an alarming rate. But come morning, after having only drifted a few paces from my original pitch, I found the stoic façades of my faithful fans imperceptibly altered. Erosion apparently proceeded according to protocal. The bit of grit between the gaps in my teeth will remind me of my breakthrough debut and serve as a token rose from the crowd that unwantingly observed my attempt at rock.