I’ve been trying and failing to write for the last two months. Some of it is simply normal life. Some of it is…the abnormality of the current moment, demanding, as it does, a heightened attention and the constant asking whether this fire needs to be put out or whether it can wait while we put out that fire, instead.

So not much writing, even though there’s been plenty going on. I’ve been juggling my time between working on building up the tarot business, planting a garden and tending to the land, and trying to obtain a visa so that I can be overseas for a bit until the US can sort out its proverbial shit.

So I haven’t really had time to sit and sort through everything happening to turn it into something worth reading. To sift through their shit and my shit and just all the shit. There’s so much shit. One day this will be fertile soil that the writing can emerge from. There are a thousand seeds. They are germinating. Some are even emerging. But everything is still just potential. Chaos. All ajumble. Today, it is mostly still just a lot of shit.

It’s the time of year that the ocotillo should be blooming, like fiery, lanky torches erupting from the desert. In the stark landscape, they beckon with their flamboyant burst of color, and if you keep a sharp eye out, you can see tiny hummingbirds dipping in and out of the trumpet-shaped flowers. One could be forgiven for getting lost in the aerial displays and missing the plants’ formidable thorns hiding under the stumpy leaves. Like most things in Texas, their spindly awkwardness and vibrant cheer are deceptive. So, too, the light touch of the hummingbird, disguising the deftness and skill of his maneuvers behind what looks like gentle effortlessness. To enjoy the ocotillo’s sweeter side takes a healthy respect for its edges along with a delicate touch.