Thursday:
I'm sitting by the pool as I write this. The palm trees sway and the breezes caress and whisper. The sun sparkles on the water. The desert seems Mother and today she is happy. My feet are bare. They enjoy the warm contour of the pool's edge. This deck chair is canvas, low and comfortable. Ah...mother desert. Really, what's the point of living in Palm Springs if this can't be my office?
Inside I hear faint music. Spencer's guitar. That would mean the armatures are all glued and drying. I don't glue things anymore, or pour resin, or mix epoxy. A few years ago, I began to react to them, even with proper ventilation, if truly such a thing exists. I accepted the burning and rash as a message from my body to my brain. STOP HUMAN. Enough with the glue already.
We driven, creative sorts tend to listen attentively to the most mundane pratter of the brain, yet we and ignore the body's earnest attempts at communication.
I begin to suspect that our bodies know the brains they carry around are moronic boobs. If I'm thinking to myself that my feet are screaming, I might want to consider that they might actually be screaming, "Sit down you idiot!" I shudder to think what my stomach might say.
So. Enough with the glue.
The music has stopped, the Roomba has started. My shoulders are becoming unhappily warm.
"I hear you, " I tell them, and I head indoors with Palm Springs Modern on my mind.
