Sam Shepard's searing, evocative narrative opens with a man in his house at dawn surrounded by aspens and by coyotes cackling far away as he quietly navigates the distance betwee present and past. More and more, memory is overtaking him: in his mind he sees himself in a movie-set trailer, his young face staring back at him from a mirror surrounded by lightbulbs. In his dreams and in visions he sees his late father--sometimes in miniature, sometimes flying planes, sometimes at war. By turns, he sees the bygone America of his childhood--the farmland and the feedlots, the rail yards and the diners--and, most hauntingly, his father's young girlfriend, whith whom he also became involved, setting into motion a tragedy that has stayed with him. His complex interiority is filtered through views of mountains and deserts as he drives across the country, propelled by jazz, Benzedrine, rock and roll, and a restlessness born out of exile. The rhythms of theater, the language of poetry, and a flinty humor combine in this stunning meditiation on the nature of experience, at once celebratory, surreal, poignant, and unforgettable.