She had always wanted to be a morning person, but had never quite figured out the secret of slipping enthusiastically from bed as the light turned from black to blue to pink. But when she could force herself to do it, she found herself listening more closely, paying attention to the clock ticking in the kitchen, the heater clicking on and off, the refrigerator’s purr. She found herself roaming the house, coffee scalding her palm through her mug’s walls, learning her space while it was, simultaneously, the loudest and the most still.
The wild mirage of 88NV
September 12, 2012It is a long ride to the city’s back edge, where a beacon circles lazily, the only bright light for miles that is neither steady and still or bearing a rapid pulse. There is a terminal there, a tower, a customs office. There are call signs and procedures. But it is still wild up above the runway in the late afternoon, where a small plane struggles to descend, gliding through misguided currents and disappearing in towers of dust for long seconds. It is still a wild mirage that appears, then dissipates, settles into the desert at week’s end.
The small things
September 10, 2012I noted these moments as we arrived: A long-falling star above the highway, a white owl swooping up toward and then away from us in a silent arc, a dragonfly darting through camp the first morning.
Why do you go out there? people often ask, and I always forget to say it is as much for the small things as the large, for what can only be glimpsed out of the corner of one’s eye, for what is so fleeting it breaks your heart, but that leaves me grateful, lucky, thrilled to have been there as momentary witness.
Natural installation
September 8, 2012The moonshadows crossed the desert floor in ragged strips of light and dark. Stars blinked above us as the clouds obscured and revealed them. We had no idea a storm approached, but the cloud-motion’s tempo was already increasing, the striations pulsing in smooth waves. In a city filled with immeasurable art, it was the most spectacular installation we’d seen so far.
Good morning
August 16, 2012He said good morning to each person that passed by, and he said it low and slow and carefully, so they wouldn’t know he might ask for money if they responded, so they would only hear him if they were listening, carefully, not stuck in some dark place in their own head, not drowning out the world with relentless beats, not in conversation with the person by their side, not already checking email on their phone and firing off responses, and every now and then, someone, indeed, said good morning back, as if to a fellow human.
Dreams begin
August 14, 2012The dreams begin again around this time every year: a bicycle ride through thick dust, a conversation with a strangely dressed man, lost belongings, missed opportunities. It is as if there are not ever enough hours once there, as if my mind scrabbles for extra time by creating that place out of sleep and starlight. I wake hungry for more, ready to finish packing, one eye on the clock, my heart already gone again.
Dollhouse
August 12, 2012That year, we moved into a dollhouse. We didn’t shrink, no, of course not. We just moved into a house where the back wall was made of glass, where everyone could see us move woodenly through our days. I made French toast in the kitchen while our daughter played ball with the dog in the playroom. We’d never had a playroom in any other house, but here, we did. He acted as if he were trapped in the living room, a newspaper on his lap, staring plastically into space as the world outside peered in.
100 Proof 