On the fringes of the "civilized" desert and at the corner of the hottest, driest place in the world is a place where that which is beyond immediate and outright perception is the norm. Death Valley Junction, at first glance merely a collection of decrepit and decayed buildings, hollow but for the vestiges of the past that linger about. One would hardly be mistaken for assuming all manner of supernatural beliefs - the halls of the Amargosa Opera House are endowed with apparitions - ghosts! They flit about at will, much to the chagrin of embattled guests only seeking shelter in this odd juxtaposition of nowhere and somewhere simultaneously. A perfect fit, salvation even, for lost souls. Marta Becket might be inclined to agree.
A haven for the obscure. Standing the ultimate test - of time and memory - this place....remains. I wonder if the voices of performances past still reverberate through the Opera House? Can the same energy be felt - the excitement, the brazen anticipation of gatherings over the decades - as if nothing has changed at all? While much of the world seems as though it is hanging by a thread, Death Valley Junction perseveres.
Call it an endearing desert quality. The beginning of mythology.
The Mojave is ripe with tales that have all established footing in a disbelief that anyone or anything could ever make much use of itself here. But there is meaning in the fact of existence - here or anywhere. The best work of one's life can emerge from where it is least expected. A place whose most distinctive feature, aside from the beautifully striated mountainsides, is its positionality at the gateway to a place known for being hell on Earth in the summer, Death Valley, is no exception to a universal tenet.
A Shakespearian audience adorns the walls of the Opera House. Intended to solve the problem of persistent loneliness, they inadvertently cast a haunting veneer about the place. I wonder what it's like when all the seats are full, a performance is being staged, and the hall is full of life, rather than its painted likeness. Decades of opportunity in this regard ended long before I could venture out for a show.
A company town without a company. A crossroads to the White Heart of the Mojave. A derelict monument to dreams since perished along with the passionate theatrics that sustained them. A meeting place hanging by a thread because of its proximity to a National Park. The former convergence spot for miners, sex workers, travelers, and rambling destitute vagabonds. Loved intensely by few. Virtually unknown to the masses. Discarded by those who lack an appreciation for desert antiquity. Prized by the rare soul that longs for a curious home in a way they cannot describe succinctly.
Crowds are not common here. And they don't need to be. That's part of the innate meaning instilled within such a semi-forgotten locale, I think. After all, a town has to live up to its name. The nearby Funeral Mountains would be inclined to agree if they could speak for themselves. Various passersby over the years may also concur with this determination. But don't let the facade of runaway decay fool you. Death Valley Junction holds on, and by more than just a thread. Are there ghosts? Sprites? Restless apparitions of a traumatic past? Who's to say. Find out if you would like. The eye of the beholder is the most trusted personal source of judgement.
Zoomed in on the Amargosa Opera House. You can almost feel the spirits near at hand. The performances here must have been magical.
An abandoned building that appears to say "garage" at the top. Perhaps also served as a fill-up station.
A long exposure B&W shot of me (with headphones on and listening to music) at Emigrant campground, Death Valley National Park, CA.
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