Diary 53

03.25.25

Measureless redgold
stretch of sand

appears as ventilated flame
across diablo canyon

air tightens it’s maw
on desert mineral scent

amaranth, yarrow
clay sand and silt

hours of unmarked
road extending,

receding,

coalescing

none of this was planned, or it was
this exists, or it does not

I sought to get lost
which means I’m fully present

03.26.25

Currently in Taos, New Mexico staying in a remote cabin about a half-mile from the Rio Grande. It’s situated in a desert valley; an empty expanse of red earth covered in creosote bush and sage brush. You can smell the sage on the wind. This area is a dark-sky preserve, so at night I can see the vast range of stars above the broad black silhouettes of the mountains. It’s real beautiful. There’s one other home off in the distance that has a fire going every night and its flickering light is visible from my porch, a small amber flame against this immense veil of darkness.

So far I’ve eaten green chile stew, sopaipillas, fry bread with chokecherry sauce, bison steaks and piñon-crusted trout. Lots of meat and bread. (+ one salty citrusy potent margarita)

03.27.25

Visited the Agnes Martin Gallery at the Harwood Art Museum to see a sequence of seven large paintings the artist made between 1993 and 1994, each a subtle variation of white and pale blue horizontal stripes. Four benches made by Donald Judd were positioned in the center of the room under an oculus skylight, which made the gallery feel like a chapel, or a sanctuary. Martin’s work has been compared to blank sheet music, and I agree, these paintings made me think of the silent swollen pause before an orchestra begins playing, or the contemplative space between text and white space on a page. Each canvas resembled something vast and meditative, extending beyond it’s frame.

03.28.25

Stayed with friends last night, slept in their horse trailer. Started the morning with a sauna and cold plunge in the creek (which was still thawing from recent snow).

These friends have a 5-year-old named Forest who’s insatiably curious. A normal conversation with him goes as follows:

Forest: “What’s this made of?
Me: “Wood”
Forest: “Where does wood come from?”
Me: “From trees”
Forest: “What are trees made of?”
Me: “Wood, bark, water”
Forest: “What’s tree bark made of?” Etc. etc.

Yesterday Forest invited me up to his room to show off some of his treasures, eagerly proffering a rabbit’s foot, toy gun, and a small beige canvas pouch he plopped in my hand proudly, without explanation.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“It’s a bag of dirt” he responded, as if it was obvious.

It’s sweet to witness kids growing up relatively detached from a screen, whose curiosity and imagination remain wildly active.

03.29.25

Recently read this article describing how Carol Merrill, Georgia O’Keefe’s late assistant, ended up meeting and working for the painter, and it’s brilliant. In short, Merrill was in her early twenties working as a librarian at the University of New Mexico, and sent O’Keefe a brief, frank letter—

“Dear Georgia O’Keeffe, I want to meet you. I do not want to intrude on your privacy—your solitude. I would like to see you, be near you for just a few moments and learn if I have the strength and power to proceed in my work by witnessing your will.”

O’Keefe was 85 years old and notoriously elusive. She rarely responded to letters from admirers. But Merrill’s writing divulged what biographer Nancy Hopkins Reily called “a nonconformist thinking” that intrigued O’Keefe. The artist responded, inviting Merrill to visit her on a Sunday but to stay for only one hour. She then hired Merrill to be her part-time in-house librarian, which later expanded to other roles: cook, secretary, assistant, companion.

In 2010 Carol Merrill published a collection of journal entries titled “Weekends with O’Keefe.” Generally, these entries describe Merrill’s daily work responsibilities: preparing meals, answering letters, running errands. But in one entry, Merrill writes about a piece of advice she received from O’Keefe’s previous secretary upon promotion— that the purpose of her job was ultimately to “maintain the mystique.”
I’ve been mulling that over since I read it.

03.30.25

I’ve had the lyrics to John Prine’s “Clocks and Spoons” stuck in my head for days now. Specifically this one line—

Shoot the moon right between the eyes
I'm sending most of me to sunny countryside