ramble

(untitled image, 2010)

I can't help but feel this heaviness. It is in the air within me, and perhaps around me as well. In the night, a fog overs the land, and all I can see are the glowing pairs of eyes, big and small, red, white, and yellow, dancing. I feel a calling coming from a deep place in my memory. Often I talk of my time in the desert, obsessing over the texture of the land, the atmosphere that surrounded that place, and perhaps it is because this place, where my feet rest right now is too solid, it is too grounded on facts, and seems to have no myth, no eerie cool air, no vastness that provokes the feeling of endlessness. There is very much a limit here, with non such thing as wild. I seek an opposition, something far removed, with chance, and if there's magic, I'll take some of that too. Perhaps, I tell myself, it is just an illusion, an idea, a fragment of nostalgia that has finally crystalized and formed a face to whom I call my longing. I want to see the red sand desert, I want to walk through the pinto forests, and canyons, I want to hear of the legends the live in such places, hear them spoken not from remote sources, but at first hand.

And if I can, I wouldn't mind seeing Monument Valley again.