Taking no prisoners. Including herself.

Juicy! Lucious! Silence! Goddam, I love writing before dawn!


It hurts so drudgingly to get out of bed, that deep chasm of exhaustion reopened, pit-fulls of despair and fatigue. The modern morning.

Resolute to dissolve it, I steal Jeudi back into bed, pacify her inconvenience with head scratchings, and rest gently back, allowing my pulse to slow – my heart is beating too fast for a 6am rise. I seem to get this early morning, bodily anxiety when I’ve 1) stayed up too late (even much past 10 will do it) and 2) I’ve passed my threshold for stress. People stress me out.


What happens first is the flooding purple. It, rising out of the dark from a point of everywhere, fills each tiny cell of the sky. The plains, the mountain, your eyes – all purple. Then the fuchsia takes loft, every hue: raspberry, a sherbet, mauve. Blurry bands of color, fat threads of a woolen heaven. It would be soft if you could touch it. (Psst: you can never touch it. Not with your hand – try with your tongue, or throat – you may be able to feel it there. Pelvis.)

The blue dawns next, circumvents the ceiling, tricks the eyes. It is racing now: ripples forming in its current, grand silhouettes now dotted with ice, less purple, but still flushed with that eerie light, a pop of pink to the south.

Grasses stir, windless. Everything calls to you. Exaltation! All because they have nothing to say.


Too much talk.
I love talk. Talking.
I am probably a chatty one, overly. Chat chat chat. Perhaps I’ve talked off your ear.
It’s because I love words, I love worlds, love to communicate their hows. I love the connection – of ideas, of silence and sound, of people. People, my last defeat.



The sun peaks. Rivulets of stone appear on the Mountain.



The rash of communications has me batty. Frayed. I can’t hear God talking with all that noise. Keep it down out there! I’m trying to listen for silence!


A single dot of juniper just beyond the property line, waves.


I’m just so tired. I can feel devastation born of bordem brittling my bones. Blech. Jeudi will sleep no more, my heartbeat behind her. I get up and look in the mirror. I look old. What a toll life extracts! Extortion! My eyes puffy, wrinkled, with dark underbellies. My face thin and hanging.

“Oh, God… This is what I’m going to look like when I’m an old woman, isn’t it?”

Then I laugh.

“This is what you look like NOW, sister!”


With the sun rising, the mesa explodes in yellow. The grasses have spoken, and triumphed.

They let the sage say a word or two, out of politeness:
“dirty green.”


What-what-what? How do I feel? Feel? Obligated to a buzzing world! Conditioned to attend to the frenzies of people! Can’t just sit here, watching. People will panic. “What? What?! What are you look-ing at?”

The dawn. You.



“Dirty green! Dirty green!” Everyone claps.



Being a hermit doesn’t sound so bad. A little casita on the outskirts of Taos. A New Mexican vow of urban celibacy, a promise not to en coitus with the bustle.

Look, it’s not that I can only love people from a distance. I don’t want to be a hermit because the world and all its players revolt me – quite the opposite! I love too much! I want to inspect, let me inspect. It’s like the adoring curiosity that comes with falling in love: how the other’s eyebrow or cuticle or kneecap becomes a masterpiece. The way they hate cheese. Only, it’s everyone. “Let me adore your details!”

Not, not about loving from a distance. Closer than you’d ever think! Closer then you’d even let yourself get! I’ll love you close up. Your imperfections tickle me. I love them! your nuances and mannerisms, your hypocrisies, shortcomings. Glorious! I salute you, Oh Foibles!


Now the desert is in full bloom, for a winter. The adobe hums. The raw wood turns golden. Even the most lifeless dry earth seems to sparkle.


So it’s not that I dislike people (chatty chatty cathy). It’s that they won’t let me enjoy them properly. They deflect all affections as afflictions. Glance, glance! Zing, zing!

They’re clever, too – all of you. You do not outright barricade your beauty. You distract. Sneaky! I’ll be sitting here, needing nothing – admiring, content, untethered. And you’ll ask me about the weather.

En guard!

I try to keep to you, square in the soft of this now, and smile. “Yes, rain” – a code word for suspicion. You lunge further, “do you like the rain?” Aha! Skilled maneuvering, my friend. This is about me, is it? I throw my weight against the distraction. Grap fast to the All. But it’s too late – you’ve pulled me out of emptiness.

(I’m an unworthy opponent, see – I disrupt far too easily. One word and I’m out of my chair!)

So now we are talking from the front of our eyes, no longer sitting far, far back in space. You’ve coaxed me to the marketplace. Masterful seduction. You con! You cad! You’ve beguiled me with your worldly magic! Incapable of resisting, I am pulled.

How I wish I had the courage, strength, to stay seated! I’d just keep looking through these Godeyes, if I could. Just shyly admire from my corner of the void. But as I sit there, you shuffle me forward, look over shoulder suspicious, “do I have a booger hanging out of my nose or something?” and, in your discomfort, instead of letting presence ricochet between us, you bamboozle me into believing we both still exist.


The day is full now. A grackle rides the coyote fence. My tea is gone. Jeudi is ready to go out.




§1281 · December 5, 2012 · New Mexico Magic · · [Print]

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