April 22nd, 2008
I’m back from bright lands: Tucson in spring, the air wild with sun. A country of such sweep. Sabino Canyon crackled with dry spring energy as my girlfriend led me to the low streams. Everywhere crisp with the season’s turning. All hues vivid, every green saturated to pulsing.
The desert is so honest. There is no hiding. Across the desert nothing interrupts the sweep of your eye but cholla and scrub until spike of peak or range. Along a mountain: a scatter of saguaro, little else. It’s a terrain too naked for secrets.
I’ve lived in New York for five years, so I found that desert openness unsettling. Life here is rich with alley, shadow, nooks for skulk. And secrets. This is a land of compression and dwelling folded in upon dwelling and endless chambers of discovery, some forgotten, some concealed. Packed buildings lean in like endless members of committee and I’m the child caught up in their robes & ceremony, comforted by all the density and drone. Lost among cold fathers, mothers. Their squeezing machinations. Dank & dour. I love them.
But Tucson I miss your open palm. As much as I’m made for this place’s pocketed fist.
C. Way/ SnailCrow.com © 2008