tessellated santa fe memories / by IKB

Stevie Nicks reminds me of seventeen, of gratuitously prurient poetry and salacious protruding pelvises that slope downward into jeans and the secrecy they afford. She reminds me of spring, parenthetical season of cool breezes and burning sun kisses. In particular, lazy days spent upon the Santa Fe Prep bleachers, cold metallic structure of dilapidated blue. Above, an empty arching sky devoid of all but azure, an imperial blue, delightful, fantastical fading past the curving horizon; melted, deliquesced, absolved — redeemed.

My eyes turn instantly away, submerging upon the tawny greens with the occasional patch of snow (lusterless, lurid — how dubious the name snow now becomes). Abandoned historical fact, Nature’s venial memory lapse (after all she is not holy, sublime nor much less perfect, she’s Nature!). No matter, soon she shall throw herself ecstatically, with celerity and alacrity like Constantine rushing to the Ponte Milvio, however, no Maxentius awaits Nature. This is epic as the mythical fight between Good and Evil but not as silly, not as farcical.

Then Camino de Cruz Blanca will don white signs blazoned with bold red letters alerting to the day’s fire threat levels. Oh how we love threat levels, blasted twisted morbid and yes, disgusting obsession with preparedness! The city poor needn’t worry, they are beyond the reach of this menace; safe in their comfortably numb, intumesced lives. Only those that reside in these lofty hills need worry for the holocaust that may be unleashed consuming their homes. Alas they are insured (no need to fret for these precious homes). But the delightful safety deprives the poor and humble of the iridescent polychromatic orchestra that dazzles these precarious precipices in the summer and upon the owners of these affluent homes feast.

I love snow — the idea of is profoundly mind-boggling; deliriously intoxicating, overwhelming and overpowering: awesome. The realities of transmuted water, however, are not so endearing. They leave one senseless. But the mountaintops drunk and heavy of white are worth it. More so at night when the white turns pink and the sky grey. With limited visibility this isolated place is transported, transliterated to another place. Now more than ever, it exists on its own for itself and unto itself.