“The book American Gods wishes it was.” --Despina Durand

Thursday, April 18, 2019

SPRINGTIME IN AZTLÁN


The world is awash in political turmoil. Not just Washington, but the whole planet. It’s reaching out into orbit. And I have writing to do.


But, it’s springtime in Aztlán, the Wild West, the Southwest, my native region, my homeland.


There are those who see it as a vast, hideous wasteland. I feel sorry for them. They do not know what beauty is. Their lives are poorer for it.


It never really got cold this winter. Now the brighter light and warmer temperature snags my attention as I sit in front of the computer, trying to take care of business. I find myself getting out of my chair, and wandering out into the visual delirium.


My wife, Emily Devenport’s garden glows. She says I have a way with capturing light on flowers, but the truth is, it captures me. I see it, do a WOW that’s sometimes audible, then run to get my phone. I've learn that if I wait, the magic configuration of planet and star are lost.


Sometimes surrealism just happens.


Sometimes I find natural occurring abstract art. As Jackson Pollock once said, “I am nature.”


And people keep forgetting the cold, hard fact that flowers are plant sexual organs in a state of arousal.


Again, it's spring. Plants, lizards, and motorcycles are in full mating display.


Throughout Aztlán, as the chaos brews.


John Wayne stands guard over a Men’s Room, and a two-dimensional cowgirl hang with a bloated saguaro, as mythologies battle over the fantastic landscape.


And the world still grows more apocalyptic. Like the “In the springtime” at the end of Un Chien Andalou, with a man and woman buried up to their waists in the sand, being devoured by huge insects.


We need be like cacti who refuse to die.

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