CIRCLES OF FIRE

      Return to my winter desert home in Earp, CA

Western Desert or Arizona  Tarantula is not particularly venomous but you won't see me petting this guy.

 Jack, a painter, an artist who embraces giving back to the system, loathes fakes, government subconscious control and TV.  Touching finger to forehead, he says, "Remove ego and the ability of distorting art with flamboyant verbal foolery and you just might find an artist."

Fire rings, recent and ancient, telling tales of today's wheeled campers and yesterday's indigenous nomads.  One particular circle of rocks, undisturbed, ashes within long dissolved by weather calls me, "Sit and listen."  Snapping a few branches from the creosote bush that is now home within the ring I touch a match to dry tinder . Who last warmed or cooked here? How long ago? A hundred years, a thousand, more? This is indigenous country, CRIT, Colorado River Indian Tribes. My mind wanders,  imagination flames.

SO MANY CURVE BALLS AND ONLY ONE TIME AT BAT

I stopped to see my old and very dear friend that now lives in a satellite burb of Madison, WI.  One of those curve balls was served up to JT and she accepted without missing a step. Through rehab she taught herself to talk and balance, and unimaginable to me, re-learned everything from dominate right hand to left in order to once again be self sufficient.

  Losing an arm and a leg ain't for the timid.

"It's all inside, I just had to learn a new way to let it out," She giggled, a giggle that makes everyone smile.  The giggle that the thief Stroke never found.

Being close to the ground in a wheelchair one sees what others miss. Another of JT's eclectic loves, collecting and arranging metal of weathered patina.

A stroke can be an ugly thief or a new path. We see what JT chose. Sympathy simply was not in the cards. Self pity will destroy all that is good.