Going through old drawings and paintings I did from the 1970s and 80s. Wondering what happened to that free and happy brush stroke, the (mostly) loose and unfettered line.
How insulated I am here, in Elkhorn, in some ways. I miss the din and honk of the city. At Csaba’s party, I met a woman of the Pitt River tribe. She told me about her logical mind, her passion for math and science, and her job as a research assistant. She lives in a suburban area, but misses the country — the real country. I told her about the hawks that perch in the top of the tall sycamore above the field in front of my house. I told her about the three coyotes that (separately) have appeared in the field. How, in two cases, the coyote walked into the middle of the field, sat down, and stared into the distance, for a long time, as if meditating. “That’s special,” she said. “Coyotes come out at night. They don’t come out in the day time. Something like that happens—it means something.”
Random lines from my bookshelf:
I suspect it has something to do with the dream I can’t remember.
Nothing is specific, everything leans into the subjunctive. What is
perceived as conditional is the air I breathe.
— Jean Vengua, “The Conditions,” The Aching Vicinities