Of course, a day has a beginning, and in this cliche of announcing its arrival to recount what passed in those early moments, I find myself regretting wanting to offer a laundry list of things we did, which ended up being nothing more than taking a walk in the direction of the nearby Gila River. A river that has been flowing heavily, according to our hosts, and that recently flooded this small town of Duncan, Arizona. The same river I wrote of yesterday that I thought we’d find as dry as the environment we left at home.
Giving importance to what we are doing here in Duncan seems noteworthy, although I’m looking at things that those who live here find absolutely normal. I attempt to elevate our own experience of this commonplace stop on the map so that our memories might remain with us and not be immediately lost in the multitude of impressions we take in on a day-to-day basis. This reminds me that I’ve rarely ever traveled across Phoenix with the idea of noting what sights and moments I’d capture as though I were visiting it for the first time, an exercise worthy of consideration.
Along the way, we encountered two guys sharing the same path. They were obviously out here looking for birds, which had me bringing up that we’d just spotted a couple of sandhill cranes, but nothing like what we’d seen earlier this year down by Douglas, Arizona. One of the guys piped up, saying that must have been Whitewater Draw; it sure was. While it took a second for my brain to process things, it dawned on me that if he knew that place, he might know of others, and so before there was much distance placed between us and them, we turned around. Well, I’m happy we did, as this introduced us to Arizona Birding Tours, with Caleb being one of their guides. He recommended that if time allows this weekend, we might want to pay a visit to the nearby Gila Box Riparian National Conservation Area. While writing this, I popped over to the Arizona Birding Tours website and signed up for their newsletter, hoping this seed sprouts and that in the new year, we’ll find ourselves on our first official birding tour.
Well, well, the Gila River is running high and even has a bit of fast water flowing through it. That the river crested at about 22 feet is evidenced in the tree line where debris collected. This must have been quite the sight. Not watching or paying attention to any local media, we often have no idea what is going on in Arizona, and to be sure, we prefer it that way.
Following our wakeup walk in the brisk air that hovered in the low 40s and included a close encounter with a herding dog ensuring we weren’t interested in his goats, we sauntered back to the oh-so-historic Simpson Hotel for our rendezvous with breakfast and our now firm decision to remain in place while attempting to do as little as possible. While not on the bongos, Clayton did take up the stove to prepare us a home-cooked meal that, as usual, smacked of perfection.
From the kitchen, the music of Françaix’s Oboe Concerto titled L’Horloge de Flore: Silène Noctiflore is wafting into the dining room where breakfast was taken, and we are currently contemplating how we’ll implement this strategy of doing things that amount to nothing. There’s little to think about, fleeting ideas to consider writing about, and if I were smarter than I am, I’d know to leave my mouth shut and to take a vow of silence when presented with these opportunities to be somewhere with myself. Instead, I detour into small talk that leaves me uncomfortable with that dreaded sense that coffee-driven conversation was too frantic when what I thought I really wanted was internal quiet. So it goes.
Do not look for a lot of correlation between today’s images and what I write of, though sometimes that will work out. To a large extent, I have more photos of specifics while my writing might be all over the map, which others can attest to as being my norm when it comes to talking.
Sitting in the garden, having pulled up a seat in front of the Pompeian Bakery, I’m surrounded by the insects that obviously saw an explosion in their numbers due to the rains and flooding during the monsoon season. If I were a betting man, I’d wager this swarming horde is at work to drive me away while the warm sun, sound of the fountain, and chirp of crickets beg me to stay put. Mosquitos might prove persuasive enough to send me indoors, but I will not be easily defeated as I’m no village near Naples, nor are the bugs a kind of pyroclastic flow.
One of the kittens romps about on the hunt to play with the grasshoppers and little white butterflies, while the older cats cannot be bothered with youth’s antics. The cats move between sun and shade, and the occasional visit for a quick head rub or even snuggly intimacy to let me know they have claws with a need to knead. I can only oblige one or the other for so long before they grow weary of my hand or me of their retractable needles.
These moments of romanticized encounters in the garden were short-lived. I can blame it on the offering of coffee and that it might be better enjoyed inside, or I can admit that the sun grew oppressive, the flying insects annoying, and my patience for such things thin. Whine and comfort can exist on the same menu as I try to choose my words, but what of the proverbial substance of thought I could be serving up? Can’t say I know a definitive answer to that as I tune back into the tick-tock of the clock.
Here we are in the diorama of our own experience, looking out into a temporary reality while believing we are on yet another weekend trip. One potential alternate scenario is that we are borrowing the environment we’ve traveled to, and from the constructs offered by this place, we are temporarily within a diorama hybridizing our world with that of the Simpson Hotel in Duncan, Arizona. to create a new moment on the stage in the box of our existence. [The Latin quotes in the background are “Odi profanum vulgus et Arceo – I hate the common masses and avoid them” and “Facere quod in se est – Do what lies within you” – Caroline]
The pieces of who we are are like the ruins of the architecture that preceded us. We are built from their dust while the words in our heads have spilled off the pages of every book ever written. It’s our life’s work to create new architectures while penning our own novel stories, bringing mythologies and potential meaning to this entity of ours while desiring to understand the absurdity of its presence in the moments it has been granted life.
Is that the man Don Carlos behind the pig whose maw holds the glowing orb of time travel? Metaphorically and literally, I would have to say yes, but the sense of the message from the artist is lost as it is not a forthcoming gesture from him to explain anything other than maybe the title of his work. Even armed with that, there is little meaning the artist can begin to convey for the individual experiencing their art as it is from our internal dialogue and personal history that we’ll attack this interpretation of reality.
I’ve stood here before, but the circumstances and outcomes were all different. The pieces might be the same, and the setting could be similar, but nothing is as it was. Visiting places existing in art does not benefit from changing seasons, dramatic differences in light, or the immediate weather, but we will experience them differently as our maturity and knowledge evolve. So, like visiting a favorite place over the course of many years, we should be so fortunate to revisit the art we’ve encountered during our lives but do you remember what was where over the course of your travels?
From this tiny corner in a larger piece, I’m going with this as a depiction of Saint Thecla when she was visiting the Apostle Paul in prison; yep, that’s what comes to mind.
Hidden in the corner of the ruins of Rome sits the abandoned head of cowardly Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus. He’s disfigured by the fires that still burn behind him. Don’t let Don Carlos tell you that my interpretations are way off base because my freebasing while writing this shit is all the inspiration I need to see the truth.
Such was the great influence of seeing the studio of Francis Bacon that I now desire to find that impression of chaos in the space of any artist’s corner I’m fortunate enough to visit. Looking at stacks of dusty tools, possibly neglected projects or pieces that were at one time intended for something or other and that yet might find their way into a work, draws me in to wonder about meaning and utility. When exploring my own headspace, I don’t have the luxury of physically moving things around. Even if of little value, I can hold a thing in my hand and let it resonate about how it could come into play. At least in the realm of digital arts, I have icons, tabs, and texts that draw me into considering what that thing can offer me; here, in my mind, I’m forced to sift through invisible impressions that might hint at ideas not yet realized.
I’m seized by either envy or respect that by reaching out, I could grab a tool that would allow me to share a brushstroke, the beginning of a great visual piece of representation that would allow the observer to snatch a moment from my imagination. Stop a moment, Mr. Wordsmith, this other artist, is likely also stymied at times with the thought that a single brushstroke is but a line that potentially goes nowhere and is no more effective in conveying anything more than my leaving the letter Z here for no real purpose.
Is that an urn, a finial, or part of an old baluster? Next to it, a skull and shutters set up a Shakespearean randomness that occupies a shelf in the artist’s studio, while the juxtaposition might even be a contrivance speaking of the spirit of humanity ascending the heights before throwing open the shutters of the mind and imagination to gaze into and upon what it has not yet seen or dreamt.
Dust and cobwebs are proof that time has passed. They are not inherently dirty as there is no illness or disease that can accumulate or be attributed to such things. Some might argue an allergic sensitivity on behalf of the compulsively clean, who, in my view, are delusional with a propensity for drama and hysterics.
These relics of the passage of time suggest mystery and the absence of something as though they are filling the void to allow the passerby to think that nothing else is here aside from the echoes of the past. The dust tells us that things are settling, while the cobwebs hint at where spiders dwell, though their dusty condition also offers the clue that their inhabitants have moved on. Maybe we should, too.
As I ponder cobwebs and dust, I can easily believe that our plastic trash, like human webs, is gathering the dust of our neglect. Of the trash, we show little concern, but should we encounter the scourge of perceived uncleanliness, we clamber for the outrage befitting such housekeeping (or lack thereof). This begs the question, is Yelp where the Karens and Kens metaphorically glue their hands onto a painting in order to express their outrage while kicking back to watch Rome burn under the plastic facade of fake concern?
There are places that demand certain things from people, such as a museum that invites one to appreciate the art, a visit to the coast on a late fall day suggests a bundled-up walk might be nice, while moments spent in an old cathedral demands silent contemplation. Here at the Simpson Hotel in Duncan, Arizona, we both feel the draw of remaining in place, sitting with the cats, listening to the tick-tock of the wall clock, and experiencing the quiet of everything else.
By now, I’ve walked miles in circles that don’t extend very far in any direction, primarily here at the hotel, its garden, the art gallery, and this roofless, defunct old movie theater next door. Should I stop and consider things deeply, I can recognize that much of my trek has been in the created world of artist-in-residence Don Carlos and his dioramas that foster travel through history and literature. These reflections of his musings dare the visitor to find their own interpretation of where they’ve been after going within. For me, I apparently walked endlessly in these miniature settings until, with hunger approaching, we found ourselves on a stroll outward, thus breaking the spell we’d strove for to do as much of nothing as possible.
There doesn’t seem to be anything else to write about. For one, we are sitting down for dinner at the Ranch House, which is our second visit today. And my writing is ignoring Caroline here on my left. I’ve handed her the two other pages of what I’ve been writing this afternoon so I can write about nothing much at all as we await the delivery of our meals. The situation then begs the question, why don’t we just bring up our phones like normal people so we can avoid conversation? Just as I ask this very question, Caroline, now finished with reading my blathering, brings up her phone and reads about the history of Our Lady of Guadalupe.
Hear our prayers, holy mother of god; we have a hunger for that which nourishes our guts. Like a miracle, our enchiladas materialized right before us. Caroline corrected me on this to inform me that our server, Mackenzie, actually delivered them while I was paying more attention to being in my own world than sharing dinner with my wife.
