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That is a story about a transformation, a travel, and a ghost. Through the years I have shared my life changing event with close acquaintances, friends, and sometimes strangers. Remember when you and your buddies shared stories? It's Friday Memorial Day Weekend and the year is 1994. I have goose bumps. My destination is the Joshua Tree Inn to spend the night in space number eight. Gram Parsons surrendered to drugs and alcohol on September 19th 1973. Unfortunately, mystery and mystique obscure the Cosmic Americana artist's legacy and passing. From the start this trip is strange and creepy. I recognize the drive from the desert: Silver Lake to Joshua Tree, carrying the 134 into the 210 east, then route 57, and finally merging into the familiar 10 street. My hometowns, Eagle Rock and Glendora, gently float by; I love to take road trips discovering solitude and clarity. My faithful grey Toyota cruises together with her candy stereo system playing Tom Petty's "American Girl". I sing with abandonment until the other car pulls up next to me. The pavement and I'm one. I count boundless trees lining the street and recall the family outings to Edwards Air Force Base. Memories flooding. I remember being 13 years old sitting at the ground of my lime green bedroom, and though I did not need it that colour, my older sister did. Our twin beds were split by means of a glow in the dark poster of "the store on truck in'''' icon stating, "Stop the world I want to get off". Yet I listened to The Beatles White album, sobbing, and soon my loneliness disappeared. The freeway sign snaps me back to the huge high desert and signs my exit. I turn in the closest gas station, but hesitant about entering the Circle K, and bothered by the sand, desolation, and.