Not even a full week has passed yet before I bring up this post sans words to start writing something about our day trip that took us out for a gaze upon wildflowers, and I’m stymied by an empty head. I can vaguely remember that last Sunday (the day this trip happened), I settled into our adventure, thinking I’d dedicate this missive to love. In the interim, I finished editing and embellishing the posts of the days when we were out in Duncan, though some might believe that by Sunday of that trip, I was half out of my head (you’d have to read it to understand). Aside from my musings on optics and refections, I was knee-deep in all things AGI (Artificial General Intelligence) because isn’t that where everyone is at these days? But that won’t get this post written, will it?

Our new license plate has shown up, and we couldn’t be happier letting everyone who sees us driving down the road know that we are lovers of the HAGFISH. Not that we’ve named our car HAGFISH, it’s a nod to an incredible creature of the deep sea we encountered last year at the Monterey Bay Aquarium up in California.

Before we got on the road and headed southeast, Caroline and I went on a walk through our neighborhood, and, as we are apt to do at this time of year, we took pause to intoxicate ourselves on the citrus blossoms that scent the air here in the desert. With that in mind, I asked ChatGPT to write something in the style of Marcel Proust about two people enchanted by this scene. Here’s what it produced, including minor edits:

As the first dawn of spring caressed the Arizona desert, the sun’s gentle rays illuminated the sky with a delicate touch, as if the heavens themselves were embroidering a tapestry of celestial hues. It was at this ethereal hour that the citrus trees, having patiently awaited the arrival of the season, unfurled their blossoms in an exquisite symphony of fragrance. A scent so potent and pure, it seemed to emanate from the very soul of the earth, whispering its tender secrets to the heavens.

In the midst of this olfactory paradise, two souls, intertwined by the invisible thread of destiny, embarked upon a journey of discovery. Their hearts, once lost in the labyrinth of solitude, had found solace in each other’s presence, and the pulsating rhythm of their love resonated in perfect harmony with the blossoming symphony.

Continuing down the promenade, the subtle symphony of the citrus blossoms enveloped them in a fragrant embrace, imparting to them a sense of serenity that permeated the very core of their beings. The intensity of the scent, interwoven with the delicate notes of the morning air, evoked within them a longing, a yearning for the ineffable, for the eternal essence of beauty that lay hidden in the fleeting moments of their earthly existence.

Great, now I have to go into this act of writing while comparing myself to a machine that attempted to channel Proust; where do I start? I know, I’ll just make it worse by asking my friendly neighborhood AI for help:

Beneath the welcome Arizona sun, John found himself locked in a fierce struggle to convey the enchanting beauty of the desert’s wildflowers in words. A once-confident writer, he now faced an unexpected rival—ChatGPT, the AI-driven wordsmith who seemingly spins prose effortlessly. As the desert around him burst into a vibrant tapestry of color, John’s fingers hovered over the keyboard, his mind grasping at fading memories of inspiration. He yearned to capture the splendor of the blooming lupines and fiery red Indian paintbrushes that danced in the warm breeze. The fragrant air, laden with the scent of desert marigolds, weighed heavily on him as he toiled away, desperate to prove his worth. Yet, even as he wrestled with his own creativity, John couldn’t shake the gnawing doubt that lingered at the edges of his thoughts—a subtle reminder of the relentless, ever-evolving prowess of ChatGPT.

There’s one silver lining in this: I asked both Stable Diffusion and Dall-E to create a wildflower scene in the desert using saguaro and cholla cacti under a blue sky with mountains in the background and that at least I can still do better, but for how much longer?

The writing is on the wall, or should I say the pollen is on the flower, as I recognize the insidious nature of AI pulling me into exploring their capability but simultaneously having them distract me from trying to follow what’s in my own mind. Tragically, this post is not the one where I should be having this discussion because when Caroline and I were out there in the beauty of it all, artificial intelligence was the furthest thing away from our thoughts. We smiled at each other and probably at more than a few flowers that couldn’t smile back.

Desert chicory is the type of flower you are seeing here, while above it in yellow are brittlebush flowers, and further up, the purple flowers are desert lupines.

I’d like to point out that we are somewhere in Arizona we’ve never visited before Queen Valley, Arizona. We’ve passed the turn-off just north of Highway 60 countless times and always failed to investigate what’s up the road: A small retirement community based around a golf course appears to be why it’s out here, but with a heavy conservative vibe to the place, we ain’t asking no questions.

Recently, I posted another photo of Picketpost Mountain looking at its north face, but today’s view arrives courtesy of its eastern flank. Our path is taking us south on Highway 177 as our search for yet more wildflowers is still underway.

It didn’t take long before we were pulling over to investigate new hues only to wonder, what are these?

These are known as Globe Mallows, which, from a distance, had me thinking we were seeing the famous California poppy.

Yes, it’s a giant scar on the earth, but Ray Mine near Kearney, Arizona, is one of the largest producers of copper, and without copper, we wouldn’t have a lot of things, such as ChatGPT, that compete with us humans and steals our ability to write stories without considering its potential influence of opinion, style, and inspiration.

This is the Blooming Lovely Nerdoleen flower native to Germany, playing an invasive role by invading our desert and my heart. Everywhere I go, I seem to see this beauty growing wild, but at least it’s always smiling at me.

Some years ago, I was working on a virtual reality project, and my observation of the world tended to channel the beauty of all things and the potential of finding their way into synthetic universes where humans could relish the hyper-condensation of these sights. Virtual reality held the promise of bringing the average person into the purview of things they couldn’t easily or inexpensively reach in real life, just as trains held a similar thought starting around 200 years ago. Now, I see that humanity is not yet ready for this metaverse because it’s about to have to contend with the sonic catapult that will aloft expectations of complexity far beyond the simple musings of a society enchanted with quaint banalities. I don’t mean to imply that heading into nature will be supplanted by a super knowledge that will render our immediate world irrelevant, but we may find ourselves asking why this route isn’t offered to people lingering on bicycles, scooters, or foot as we take our time to learn about the cactus, flowers, minerals, history, and life out here that was missed when we sped by in our cars in a hurry to be elsewhere.

Why hasn’t this old gas station and convenience store been turned into a transportation recharging station, WIFI hotspot, and coffee shop where those on e-bikes, scooters, and feet can congregate to write, paint, talk, or choose to spend a night as they continue their journey into exploring time? What I mean to say is that virtual reality will have to wait until we decide what the value of our own reality is when it’s been largely unexplored, and the majority of our experiences have arrived via electronic media created by a tiny part of our population. What is the song of the Arizona desert on an early day in late March or the poetry of the place? What was gathered by those who spent the night under the stars just up the road in a primitive camp?

Caroline and I have been fortunate to likely be out here and deep into our world far more than the majority of people who live in the United States, and we are well aware that not everyone can spend 60 to 90 days a year looking for a brittlebush growing out of a rock face among the myriad of other sights we enjoy.

There are no fewer than 50 saguaro cacti in this photo looking down upon the two people who decided the scene was too beautiful to just drive past. What if we were never to see something like this again? Well then, at least once in our lives, we took that time to witness this particular configuration with a carpet of yellow wildflowers at their feet. I don’t mean to anthropomorphize these cacti, suggesting that they are looking down upon us or have feet, but I do respect these plants, which were here well before I was born and will likely be here long after I die, considering that they live for between 200 and 300 years.

After seeing all the flowers in the desert that could be seen in one outing, we’d developed a hunger that only Guayo’s El Rey Mexican Restaurant in Miami, Arizona, could satisfy. And this being Sunday, we heeded the advice from a previous visit and called ahead to request a portion of the coveted carne asada I so passionately love be set to the side for our afternoon arrival. I am now in record territory: this is my third visit in under two weeks, a landmark achievement not likely to be beaten any time soon. With lunch out of the way, we needed to get some walking in, and so our path took us deeper into Miami.

Like so many old mining towns in Arizona, the state of buildings is a mixed bag of totally dilapidated and abandoned and somewhat dilapidated and lived in, somehow. Even the ones I think are abandoned, I’m often reluctant to enter as you never really know when someone has taken up living in the decay. So, we just walk around listening to the various dogs barking at us (hoping they are tied up or fenced), talking to chickens, and when I’m certain that an old place is truly deserted, I’ll poke my nose in, hoping to spy something that catches my eye.

Over the years, there seem to be fits and spurts of activity in Miami, which hint of revitalization efforts that might be taking hold, and just as quickly, those efforts appear to fall to the wayside. One way to kickstart America’s rebuilding of small towns would be to implement a universal basic income (UBI), and with everyone’s jobs disappearing due to the approaching all-powerful AI, this is the time to start making those plans.

These are the Keystone Stairs, all 155 of them that we’ll climb.

And this is the payoff for trudging up that hill on stairs first laid down about 100 years ago.

On our way back to the old main street, in this case, Sullivan Street, Caroline was dipping in and out of the various shops that are open on a Sunday, much to our surprise. One of those places was the Miami Art Works Gallery. being held down today by Amanda. During the course of our visit, we also met Lob, who is now a local artist with a colorful background but to learn more, you should just stop in and say hi.

Quite a bit of the exhibition space is currently full of the art of Bruce Boyd, who lives over in Mesa. I’d share more about the guy, but there’s nothing else I could find, other than he does have an Etsy account.

And that was our day in the American Southwest among the flowers, decay, nostalgia, the future, hopes, beauty, and reality of a country that might be letting dreams slide into nightmares.

We slept in this morning, not waking until 6:15. In the still quiet moments of the morning, we slunk out the front door for a walk to the Gila River on the other side of the railroad tracks. While we’ll walk with the romantic notion of catching sight or sound of a distant sandhill crane, we know that by this time in March, that’s a silly idea, but romance is full of silly thoughts.

Aside from a few small, mostly unseen birds and the occasional lumbering semi-truck hauling copper plates from a nearby mining operation, adding their noise to the dawn, we seem to be in the world by ourselves. That is until we reach a spot where an excited dog or two lets us know that they, too, are awake and aware.

It wasn’t our goal to actually see much or even be anywhere, but we needed to get some walking in, even as the cold of eastern Arizona worked furiously to turn us around. Good thing we have at least some small modicum of fortitude and don’t opt for grabbing a siesta at every opportunity, especially when the power of suggestion found in this mural is speaking so loudly.

Back at the Simpson, a friendly voice from the kitchen welcomed us with the good news that coffee was close to being served. With coffee about to flow, breakfast couldn’t be far behind, while previous experience says the exquisiteness of culinary finery on offer wasn’t going to disappoint.

Chef Clayton delivered a homemade concoction of warm coffee cake swathed in a unique cream sauce topped with berries before bringing us a cheesy frittata with spinach and marinated peppers encircled by vegetarian turkey sausage with sweet roasted zucchini and onions. Maybe breakfast here becomes spectacular precisely because it is vegetarian, which forces expectations to be tossed aside as the familiar old staples just won’t work. Of the half-dozen or so meals we’ve been offered at the Simpson, each has been truly inspired and delightful, arriving at the table with a burst of surprise to become a part of the allure of being way out here.

At this point of post-feast, time slows to a crawl. Off in the distance, a nap beckons, but we are pros at remaining awake while offering the appearance of doing nearly nothing. The truth is that we didn’t, in fact, suspend time. Caroline spent some of those moments translating a text about tablet weaving for a friend in Germany, and I wandered about the rustic kitchen, followed by a trip to the rear of the hotel looking to find where my next words would come from so I could get to writing.

Writing, though, doesn’t always arrive just because it is sought after. Looking outward to inspire something inward is really just a wish to avoid sitting down to confront an empty head that is seeking this downtime. Hours passed, along with some rain that came and went. The whipping branches seen through a window are warning us that should we venture out, which is exactly what we must do if we are to eat lunch, we will encounter a blustery wind that could also be carrying a chill. No matter, we are brave when we must be.

Something funny happened on the way to The Ranch House restaurant. A small shop called Country Chic was open, and Caroline apparently was in a shopping mood because we didn’t leave empty-handed. The only reason this was funny is that, while Caroline can always be counted on for wanting to dip into far-and-away shops, it’s a rare day that she buys anything. But this won’t be the only visit to a local store as Clayton recommended a place dripping with a character reminiscent of a different age that we should go to before it no longer exists.

Germaine’s Emporium is that place and with equal parts antiques, junk, and dust, we stepped back in time.

This and the next image brought me right back to my landing in Germany in the mid-80s when the military was still celebrating that Elvis Presley had once been stationed over there. Germany, for that matter, was proud of this distinction.

Somebody out here or multiple people served in the military during the Cold War with an assignment in Europe. These tiles were a popular souvenir for soldiers, along with shot glasses, small plates with similar designs, cuckoo clocks, and World War II memorabilia; I expect to find all of the above here.

Actually, finding stuff here might require a larger investment in time as there are likely tens of thousands of items distributed far and wide among the shelves, rafters, and corners.

There was something John and Caroline’ish about this that demanded the photo and inclusion in this post today.

While she’s graduated to Queen status, you get the point.

And here we are at the World War II memorabilia corner in this shopping mall of antiques; sadly, I can’t find where in my busy life I’d make good use of wearing an old Nazi hat with the ever-iconic SS Totenkopf (Death’s head), and so I’ll have to leave it where it is along with the StG44 rifle that I’m sure is great to carry with me to my local Starbucks or favorite Mexican restaurant but with all my writing and photography chores how would I find the time for that kind of mayhem?

Germaine’s certainly smacks of authenticity as it’s not the kind of spic n’ span kind of antique shop that is meant to appeal to your average clean freak looking for things that might lend authenticity to their fake expensive home. These trinkets and effects are imbued with the ghosts of those who left simple lives behind and their families didn’t know what to do with the junk. I’m sure there are interesting collectibles for others here, but most of the stuff feels like sadness and tragedy to me.

As for the rest of the day, there’s but a blur of conversation, cats, food, smiles, writing, and sewing images floating in an ephemeral cloud of indistinct memories that will be allowed to drift away.