Vampires

By night, I am a Vampire. In the light of day, I hunt Vampire. I guess one could say, I am searching for myself.

In the still of the night I am clairvoyant in my blindness. I am invisible and I am without scent. Somewhere in the darkness lives the truth. The truth struggles, screams and fights the perilous journey to the surface. Once in the light, the truth bursts into flames, releasing it's universal knowledge. The dog's bark means something more in the time of dark than in the time of day.

The last time I was in Austin, Texas, hundreds, no thousands of bats danced into the sky seemingly released by an inaudible signal. Radar. Even the most feral of feral has radar. Radar cannot lie. Liars and Vampires burst into flames in the light.

When it is day I am searching for night. When it is night, I live my secrets among the whispers.

Camels

When I was a teenager I started smoking. I wanted to be like my dad and smoke Camels. Unfiltered, one word I would use to describe myself. I didn't like everything about smoking. The after smell was an insult. A freshly opened pack lingered the aroma of ancient. The pack of Camels was way cool. I started sketching the pack during English class in high school. Rhett, Rhett cigarette the kid beside me chanted. My cowboy boot sent him off his chair and onto the floor. On the way to the principals office I took out most of the smokes and dropped them off at my locker. I already spoke English I reasoned. I focused on envisioning a series of paintings of the Camel pack; imagine my disappointment learning Larry Rivers beat me to it and in a big way. Smoking did have its redeeming qualities, collecting Zippo lighters for instance. And then there was the college girl who, while sitting in a nightclub waiting for the Talking Heads to take the stage ask if, I had an extra one of those. We drank Southern Comfort on the rocks. A romance with fire.

Red Autumn Leaves: Elvis Has Left The Building

Even when I was a puppy, friends, family, acquaintances, strangers and so on, encouraged me to write about my life. I would smile internally knowing there is no way I would do such a thing. I had too many sensitive secrets. It just was not going to happen.

Decades later I find the proposition of an autobiography in my breakfast burrito smothered in green chili. Now, I laugh out loud at the thought. It's just not going to happen; or is it? My spine twitches.

How would I remember everything when so much of it is a blur? Do I tell about the time I set my furniture on fire in the middle of the street or keep it trendy and only tell stories of famous people and places? Should I mention being stranded in Haiti without money or identification or maybe living in LaPark, in West Hollywood, a few doors down from the African musicians who where playing in Paul Simon's band and occasionally seeing Ozzy in the parking garage? Do I call lovers by name? Now, that would be rich. And why write such a thing now? I am far from gnawing my life line in half.

The last few days I have been down with a cold, which should be called a hot. Fever will make a man think funny. Not clown funny, abstract funny. I will write this book and keep it in a secure place. All my life I have been flirting with death, as the book will testify. When death finally winks back, someone will find the manuscript. You can't put a dead man in prison.

Coffee - Part II

When I was a little boy, about four or maybe five, I started drinking coffee each morning. My father, Alvin, woke before sunrise and waited by the door, looking for the newspaper delivery while the percolator pumped a viscus, oily brew. I positioned my bed just right so when he turned on the kitchen light, the beams would glare into my face, waking me. I joined my dad at the kitchen table and waited for my cup of darkness to cool. He liked his coffee black and hot enough to blister your lips. I liked mine with milk and sugar. I poured the milk just so, watching the clouds form and reform. I still do this. Mornings were not about coffee for me. Mornings were about watching my fathers hard knuckles wrapped around the sides of the newspaper. It was our time. Men stuff.

When my father died, I took his wedding band off his finger. The 50 year groove made it difficult to remove. I knew the ring as well as I knew his face from all the years of staring at his fingers wrinkling newsprint. It is heavy and scuffed. Men stuff.

Diner

Being on the road as much as I am sometimes presents challenges. For me, losing track of which day it is, is an ongoing occurrence. It has always been like this, being on the road makes it more so. I think it is Friday when it is Monday or Tuesday when it is Sunday. For the first time in twenty years or so I finally called my best friend, Scott, on the exact date of his birthday. Sometimes I would call as much as a month early or late. It is like that with everyone I know. While living in Taos, I had the weekly reminder of the day of the week when the newspaper would be for sale. Oh the newspaper, it must be Thursday.

I constantly look for anchors to orient me. One of my favorites is mashed potatoes eaten in a diner.

Placitas

Saturday mornings are not the same as when I was a child. I would rush to the television set and watch cartoons: Roadrunner, Bugs Bunny, The Jetsons. Other than flying cars, we live in the age of the Jetsons. 2001 A Space Odyssey was originally science fiction. I view technology as the invention of the external brain. The more we live outside ourselves, the less we are connected to our origin, the earth. It is bad for big business when we honor our Mother. I am always amused when people marvel at the instincts of animals such as a deer. The deer will leap before the twig snap. It isn't a miracle, it is simply the way. The way?

The way is the natural order of things. Let's say one hundred birds are gathered together in a small area on the ground. A gun discharges. One hundred birds will flee into the air in unison without incident. Now let's say there are one hundred humans in the same perimeter and a gun discharges. Humans will be crashing into each other, knocking each other down, stepping over and on one another. Humans have lost their way. We humans collectively agreed to the hypnotism of electronics and in doing so denied our Mother.

Saturday morning my brother and I took a short hike into the mountains of Placitas. Up there you don't get GPS, or bars on your phone. Instead we heard twigs snap, water falling and birds calling down. We also saw signs posted, warning of a large bear population in the area. I assured my brother if we came upon a bear he would not have to outrun him. I simply informed him he would just have to outrun me.

Artist Proof

This week I saw the first artist proof for the Albuquerque International Balloon Fiesta print. A few changes were made and it is off to California for another proof. I am excited about seeing the final version. I feel like I can exhale now. It is all I hoped it would be.

Balloons

The last day my mom went outside was to watch the hot air balloons from the Albuquerque International Balloon Fiesta drift by her home. ALS had it's grip on her and it wasn't letting go. She seemed to ignore her plight and revel in the beauty of the moment. The world stopped spinning briefly. Life was never sweeter. I hold on to the image of the morning she sat in her wheelchair and ate her favorite breakfast with her feeble hands. The day is still alive in me, it always will be.

I learned not long ago I was selected to paint the image for the 2008 Poster for the Balloon Fiesta. Five years will have passed since the morning my mom breathed the crisp outdoor air. I am painting the image in her home, just 10 feet or so from where she last sat on her porch. It is the essence of her spirit I will launch this year in the paint, in the poster, in the sky.

Jerry Louise Burns
1925 - 2004

Security

"Security is mostly superstition. It does not exist in nature nor do the children of man as a whole experience it. Avoiding danger is no safer in the long run than outright exposure. Life is either a daring adventure, or nothing."

Helen Keller
1880 - 1968
Blind/Deaf Author and Lecturer

David and Goliath

"Let there be nothing within thee that is not very beautiful and very gentle, and there will be nothing without thee that is not beautiful and softened by the spell of thy presence"

James Allen
1864-1912
Author of "As a Man Thinketh"