It is a different world out here, so many hundreds of miles from big cities, hundred miles from the closest large town.... The season still shift, but the sense of time is distorted... I am younger than I was when I moved here. I forget to remember what day it is... When someone asks directions, the answer is always "Go that way for a couple of minutes".

Dusty, my mind is dusty... I put down my brushes and my pen and forgot to create because, I suppose, I got lost in the magic of no time.. The magic of the shifting seasonal light on the mountains seems to make creating paintings a moot point... there is ever so much more beauty in the blow by blow visual feast that is the desert mountain landscape than I could ever capture.... And words, those are useless, my friends... I hardly talk to many people anymore.. the inane bar conversation went from being a time filler or time killer to even worse... depressingly repetitive...

I have these magic moments with me and my boy, and I've tried to translate here and there in the throes of passionate longing, but they don't work... Friday night after the guest had gone, stumbling mildly buzzed in the shower in the bus, kissing and touching and just falling into the intense beauty of skin on skin and mouth to mouth and giggles and laughter and hands in wet hair.... I don't know how to translate that, it seems to cheapen it to try to hard... But worse, I fear forgetting if I don't take these verbal snapshots of it, weakened and diluted by time as they may be...

I still get depressed...Last night I just wanted to curl up and die... Perhaps I still do... but even more, I want his touch and his quirky smile and his delight in the simple....

And the night sky, and the screaming of the stars plummeting to earth, and the moaning of the arthritic fog enclosing our senses to teach us what it means to be close to death....