I wrote this short piece by hand in April.
It is snowing today; the first time since February. A collage of scenery rearranges the birth of spring as a brisk snow flurry sweeps through Santa Fe. Across the street, inside the hotel families are dining, or comparing observations with other guests, drinking apple cider and being in vacation. I see them unload suitcases, and several tote bags, a lot of luggage seems necessary for tourists these days. Teenagers are multi-texting; unaware of the flawless blue sky or architecture. I am looking for artists who’ve come to capture the light, or heal city bruises with the language of the Indian world. The coterie of artists drawn to Santa Fe are now a minority; and on the horizon are tour buses, family reunions, and corporate retreats.
I am standing in the center of the garden, studying the entanglement of spindly branches, clinging to the brick wall. The wall looks like an abstraction of a Kandinsky painting.My sense is that I should not pester myself about unfinished desk business-but to just turn off the motor and observe my fortune. To watch clouds so deeply, and see the shapes turn from a penis to a whale, (analyze that) has always been an act of love. Some people stare at rocks, or flowers, or rain; for me it is the clouds.
The sky has just been ticked off by the sun and she is spreading like butter over my face and legs.
Costume design and realization for ‘Seeing’ by Kandinsky. A contemporary dance interpretation.
Hanging on to home for a lot of us has become a business; a renting out rooms, and converting to a vacation rental to avoid foreclosure. I can sit inside the Movie Theater (a converted garage) and launch into a montage of memories. The Michael Jackson tribute party after he died, when friends came and we danced to his videos; and the Jimi Hendrix live DVD night that mixed jubilation, remembrance, and a lot of laughing as I expelling all I knew about Jimi to a man of twenty-seven. We always showed a film coinciding with a new exhibition of photography. Guests lingered past midnight and I had to turn off the lights to demonstrate closure. Couples in the theater necking, young adults roaring with inflammable laughter upon each opportunity, and hungry men and women waltzing around each other for a bite of passion. Gallery receptions were packed back then; a staggering amount of partying and dancing collided on Canyon Road to live music and open bars.
Hanging on to memories in corners of the house. I’ll take them with me. It will be a leap of courage to untangle myself from this home.
I can almost hear the birds wind as they fly over me; my eyes close to listen. The lullaby is a bath of nature and would not have occurred unless I was alone. I want to reach through writing, to the subject of misfits and loners, outcasts and unrecognized that are too ripe to touch, to sensitive and unyielding; annoyed with the outside world. Like me.
Kandinsky-my tree
The inner voice where gaps of expression are liberated. 