Wind

Jamison (visiting with daughter, Sophia) says there is no place like the desert for visions. That there is a violent fragility that goes beyond the surreal. That every surface is glass-edged.

Infinite velocity, no time. Everything and nothing. He's right, I know. The desert can be that.

"Where did Jesus take his questions? " he asks and answers, "to the desert, that's where."

We laugh and grow silent for a moment. We've both seen things here.

Orion and Jamison's daughter, Sophia, play in the next room while in here, I listen and paint Poppets.

Outside, the wind is howling again. We've been talking about world events, speculating on the future, wondering when we became such freaking grown-ups.
Moving slowly through space, quickly through time.

Wondering if there's any way in hell we could talk Pete into going fishing with us. A family fishing trip. Ben too. We are dreaming. We decide Pete would fish if we provide him with a good book.


Really, what is it about the desert? I should find other artists to ask.
Maybe it's because it still looks like the bottom of the ocean. We're constantly reminded that this place was once very different. That we are

very temporary.

Today, maybe because the stormy weather feels like beach weather and beach weather always pulls the past into the present for me, like an inside-out sleeve.

Reinforcing the shade sails was on the list for today anyway, but by the time we'd had breakfast the temperature had dropped a full ten degrees and the wind had started and dark clouds were flying over the tops of the mountains, dragging blankets of shadow over everything below.
Orion held lengths of wire and pliers for me while I reached into the ancient, impenetrable and poisonous oleander to secure wire to the heaviest branches. Orion positively glowed, his eyes sparkled in brilliant strips of sunlight between the clouds. I recognized the particular excitement that comes with the battening down of hatches.

Being five is cool.

And I know this one well. Crystal memories of standing with my toes digging into cool sand, wet salty wind coating every strand of my hair with fine grit while grown ups screwed wooden planks over the windows, shouting and laughing over the wind.
I remember nightmares with great bonfires built along the beaches to hold back a huge swell of black water.

The shades have held, so far, though the wind is still going strong, blowing nests out of trees and plucking blossoms from the orange trees, ripping the bright, sweet fruit right out of winter.

Now, there's some time travel.

What does this have to do with art? What does this have to do with Poppets?
Everything.


Thank you for checking in. g'night