Friday, Mid September. Desert.

Growing up, we used to have this framed painting on the wall depicting a covered wagon hauling ass across a Nevadan (or at least South-Western) landscape, basically racing the impending storm to an unknown destination. A cowboy piloted the wagon, navigating the straining and eager horses along a poorly-maintained dirt path, cacti and succulents lining each side, the yellowed and parched landscape creating stark disparity against a wall of pitch-blackened clouds amassing on the horizon. As a child, the painting spoke to me, mostly due to the similarity between the cowboy's environment and my own at the time. I could smell the impending rain, its affects sensible via the smell of whetted creosote... well in advance of the first drop of rain felt on skin. Such were my favorite moments as a child in the desert near Death Valley, literally feeling the anticipation of the plants, rocks, sand, and travelers as the thunder cell approached from afar. All manners of being, waiting in electrified anticipation for the (welcomed) inevitable.

I saw this picture years later at my mother's house in Elko; and in fact I am sure she still has the picture since her move to Alaska. This picture haunts my memory at all times, and I'd be hard-pressed to tell you why it dominates my thoughts at this hour; a Friday night at nearly 11PM after a horrendous work week and 36 fluid ounces of cheap Friday-night-special margaritas. But there it is, or rather there I am. It is my location of solace. It is that fictional retreat in my mind, always a few seconds away and always ready to provide infinite amounts of what I crave the most sometimes... quiet. Quiet, peace, and nothing but that very moment of anticipation and contentment. I can hear the wind, I can smell the desert rain, I am aware of everything external and nothing internal. I just am.

I tend to get bogged down, at times. I've been very bogged down this week in my job... in my life. I constantly struggle, wanting to stand up for my beliefs and desires, and yet wondering why I can't just get in line and ingest my prescribed diet like everyone else. My mother has a theory that I am being groomed, prepared for something bigger in life. Sometimes it's hard for me to see beyond the next seven days.

There is no point to this blog, besides maybe delaying the onset of sleep while the faint cheap-tequila margarita buzz begins its waning gibbous toward the new moon of morning sobriety. Struggling, I guess.