Dear ones,
We are always glad to be occasionally, in earnest , "out on the range" amongst the sage brush, crossing the Little Colorado. Art Ranger soaks in the film made from staring out the moving window. Not so much all those aggro trucks trucks trucks, but even relishing the refracted shine of their quilted sides.
A road that snakes across the vast open spaces with stops.
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| We must say it out loud : MOTHER ROA DRT |
During the long hours of traverse across the thread of pavement called highway 40, we took a break from the feed of news sickness, and instead listened to "Silent Spring" as we cut though through Navajo country. The book pairs so stupefyingly with Pruitt and The Puppet's poisonous profiteering in violation of earth and its past/present/future inhabitants. We vowed to never eat another non-organic carrot as long as we live in order to fortify ourselves and others, as we press on with our version of art activism. Though we're in what's being called the "post-truth" era, hasn't America been side-stepping truths since our inception?
Finally, the road led us to Mesa Verde, where on an unremarkable Wednesday, we used our legs to wander through centuries of human history to see the cliff dwellings (550 A.D. - 1300's). Having delved just 20 miles off the main road, we realized that for the first time in waaay too long, that we were experiencing true q u i e t. Quietude. Yes, only the absence of sound, vacuumed sound. No human made sounds whatsovever, no airplanes, no leafblowers, no washing-machines, not even birds for a spell. Just a planet, bending and shaping and sifting itself, while we are barely here as a small grouping of cellular substances, lucky enough to spend some moments upon it.
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| Plus the why? the mysterious abandonment, yet the clear ecosystem equilibriums |
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| Often, you felt it wasn't just you being you, but others visiting your visit wearing quiet yucca fiber sandals |
Soon to be interrupted by a group of grown men in trucker hats with lollipops and large p-nut shaped footprints that we ignored by imagining our fingers in our ears. Then some severely stoned French tourists who thought that the teeny tiny houses down below were absolutely hilarious, even though Europeans were in "The Dark Ages" perhaps dying of Bubonic Plague around the time this sophisticated and spiritually connected (LEED platinum) architecture was born.
We're drawn to the two birds far left. This is exactly how our hens at home spend the afternoon talking quietly.
Now we are back in the swing. How about you? Any remnants? or ruminations?
Is it Springtime upon your planet part? Send Found Art to: homelandinspiration@gmail.com
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