and the desert discussed with me the meaning of such things

the desert is an interesting place that seems to spawn many big questions, the biggest perhaps being, what is life? what is the meaning of all of this? and, of course, why am i here? i'm not sure what exactly about the desert encourages such musings on universal meaning, perhaps its the wide open, vast, omnipresent connection to the sky, no trees to shelter you from the big, unblinking, omnipotent star we call the sun. or perhaps it's the fact that sitting out in the desert so thoroughly fries your skull that your brain is warmed up to a temperature of spiritual seeing, perhaps there's just so much energy coming into you at one time that the intense focus of light unlocks mysteries of the cosmos. then again, it could be heat stroke. whatever the cause, these mountains and chiseled rocks bring forth wonder.

i sat on a large boulder half way up the grisly form of Mount Lemmon. there i watched the sun set. the mountain ranges scooted away further and further into the horizon giving me the allusion that i was out in the middle of the ocean watching waves like mountain ranges, crashing against some foreign shore. will i ever reach beyond those mountains? and if i did, and i looked back, would i remember sitting here? will i ever be able to comprehend space that extends beyond my visual perception? to know, intimately every tract of land that i ever crossed, so should i go blind on3 day, i would have the entire world mapped in first-person picture frames?

i thought about seeing, as i always do, and with that, perception. why was i not happy? how could i look at such beauty, the beige sandstone rocks brought into visual relief by rusted red stone and carved into multi-sensory detail by a blue, blue sky, how could i look at this and not see? i was thinking of something else, responsibilities, friends not present, pain in my knees, letters i should be writing, i was honing in on everything but the gift set in front of me. but the desert is vast, and open, and blaring. it took a few hours, but i felt myself calm down as the sun began to sink. the landscape changed, beige rocks became lilac colored, what a visual feast! it is no wonder artists often paint the desert. no place is as clear or vibrant.

they say that everything in the desert is out to kill you, which is easy enough to see. most things that live in the desert are tough out of necessity, it's a harsh environment everyone knows. thus, most things come with thorns or stingers or razor sharp teeth. to the desert, i am thankful for the wisdoms it has already bestowed upon me. the first realization is the power of the senses. the desert has rekindled my awareness of my connection to the physical world. the beautiful vistas i see, the colors of sand, and mountains and saguaros, the hot, hot sun i feel flooding my being, the smell of plants transpiring in the heat, taste of water more sweet and satisfying than the greatest culinary masterpiece, the sound of the wind rushing round the desert walls. my senses become sharp and penetrating as a desert thorn. the second realization is more metaphysical/spiritual. the desert gives a sense of openness, a touch of being solitary, unique, entire, standing out against dramatic backgrounds. most importantly the desert reminds me to be thankful for what is provided, to learn to do without, to remember that life is not some easy luxury, rather that you are here because you were meant to be. it's harsh out here, in the world, the desert environment is perhaps the most obvious indicator, but here you are, nevertheless, in this strange and beautiful place, living, despite the odds. that's a damn amazing thing isn't it?

a rant, is a rant, is a rant

in tucson arizona, in a room that is not mine. i've been discovering lately that very few things are mine. this, of course, upsets me a little, especially when one is desperately looking for a place to call one's own. of course, i'm talking about wolff's astute observation that every writer needs a room of her own. i would also like to add ms. wolff that any human being, not just the writer or the artist, needs a room, concrete or metaphorical, to call one's own.

i have also re-discovered (and i say re-discovered because this is a truth i already know but often times seem to forget) that i am a very fickle little artist. that is to say, my mind is not unlike a sacred budhist temple. this isn't to assume that my thoughts are somewhat holy, so please don't regard me as being so arrogant, rather, like a sacred temple (it doesn't have to be buddhist, i just know they have lots of temples and the asian thing is so in right now) my mind has much going on internally that does not manifest itself in noises, in the gutteral frequencies that we call speech, and it's so very fragile and tenuous really that any clamoring, yipping, yapping or otherwise presence of other human beings (i don't have problems with the other creatures...perhaps because i cannot tune in as easily to their conversations and therefore can often easily filter out their noises) can disrupt the gentle fabric of thoughts and the infrequent and delicate wisps of creativity that somehow drop into my brain.

ah, and so, i am in tucson arizona trying to find the balance between my solitary and somewhat grouchy and socially disagreeable writer self, and my all-observing, socially vibrant writer self (perhaps "socially vibrant" might be a stretch, but you get the picture). and so, like any writer, i'm turning my rant into a blog post, but i must put all revelations (often birthed by rants) onto the page so that i might reference them later. and so here is the bottom line, i am a fickle human being, moreover, i'm an extremely fickle writer. in fact, writing has become a sort of magic that can only be produced under the finest conditions such as having a quiet space with absolutely NO human voices, preferably in the morning with multiple cups of coffee at my disposal. now that i've written it, i realize i'm not really asking for the world. it just seems like it when you are traveling with five other people all the time in a van, going to places you've never been to, with spaces that aren't yours. i sit back and dream of my grandmother's house. how i cannot wait to sit and write in silence and coffee, write, write, write, til death do us part.