Well, it was 120 degrees here the other day, still the first half of July.
Although we bought our wreck of a property two years ago, we only moved here full time as it became apparent the pandemic would make city living unbearable. It was the right decision. When my partner and I go back to Los Angeles or San Diego to get supplies, or check on family, the loss is palpable. Here in the desert we go for days without putting on a mask or seeing anyone. But it’s 120 degrees out, and leaving the swamp-cooled house is not a great idea.
We’ve become avid comet-watchers. The first time, we got up at 4am. Waiting in the darkness, our eyes adjusting, the warm night was silent. And then I saw a star with a streak, very faint, a reminder of how insignificant we are.
In the heat of midday, a baby hawk sits in the birdbath. Quail and roadrunners chirp and beep. Bobcats occasionally sleep in our oasis. Nature continues, mostly.
We artists are trying to find a way forward. Continuing to paint/photograph/sculpt/perform as we did before COVID seems… stupid? futile? decadent? Those of us who are privileged should perhaps stay silent, and let other voices speak. Listening to these stories deserves almost all our attention. Or, maybe we continue to make work and hide it away for another time. Our calendars are filled with crossed-out shows, non-existent deadlines, and canceled travel. There’s nothing but time, how should we use it?