August 1

Burnt or chafed – the orb of my left shoulder. Indeed it is scratched – mapping red my morning pursuits. The surface suffers here.

I have on my hands a day of unlimited hours – but nothing solid nor soft in my grasp. Parched air and dry earth. I take long hot showers to quench, but the water runs off the skin like oil. The water here is slick as soap, makes all things slippery. I think of Lady Macbeth rinsing and rinsing. Andres calls it final unction – a baptism onto death, not meant to wash away – but to cling into the rebirth, indelible as one’s sins.

I laid in the water – the drops that slipped into my ear burnt cold like melted lead. Was it not hamlet’s father killed by poison drops in the ear while he lay sleeping?

I laid in the tall grass and the spiders made paths over me as the mint crushed under – an exhaled resuscitation, painting the air green.

Today there is a ban on painting – a ban on the crutch of the studio. I must walk on new legs, find new thoughts. For what am I here for if not to grind preconception into the dust and find an intimacy with this desert?

First – to lie down with the earth. Later, night thoughts – the space of a room illuminated by the cold light of an open refrigerator.

Tomorrow I am engaged to go to the medicine wheel with the rest of the gang, but it is with glee that I contemplate the acre and the afternoon free from human obstacles.