"Dwight", the van, whipping through the grand fields of New Mexico. I’m currently losing the “guess who’s song is playing” game run by Leo my beloved, our leader this week. Lars and I are amped up on Dunk's coffee which is pretty exciting considering we have seen nothing but Starbucks for two months (every New Englander's nightmare).
The air is stale and the heat is unbearable. We drive through the main street of Sedona passing by an array of outdoor shops that all seem to sell the same five goods including palm readings, psychics, and crystals. Interspersed is a series of restaurants and cafes with prices that make airports seem cheap.
Buckle up, its a long one… (Not bad, just long)
A collection of memories and stories, laughter and light. Pages full of where you sat and who you met. And yes, the drawings are made up of scribbles and wonky lines. And yes, the colors blend in an unfavorable manner and the pencil smudges in lines across the page. To the eye of a stranger they are idle sketches, quite possibly a collection of nothingness. A graphite mountain stretches a small amount of the papers space, labeled “Mountains at Sunset” and a little frog who looks, mushy?? What could they mean to anyone? Each infantile sketch ignites a memory that would otherwise fade.