Not Exactly Falcon Heavy, but OgBlog is Now Officially Launched
For now, you are looking at what nearly is the storied “blank page.” Or maybe for me it’s more along the lines of a “white canvas.” In time, this blog will be filled with thoughts, ideas, musings, and wonderments. Mostly related to art and the way it flows, like a raindrop’s journey back into the ocean. As for what I may post—my views on art, alongside the various waterways and tributaries, cycles, ways of healing, efforts, anchors, discoveries—all things art, about art, and at times some sneak drops.
It also will exist as a side blog. I’ve just learned there is a way to accomplish that on Word Press.
The idea of writing thoughts down for plunking into the ethersphere has intrigued me since I first signed on to that peculiar realm once known as “MySpace.” For they offered a blog arena, and almost everyone in that kingdom of bad graphics and usually unreadable text had one. A blog, that is. On MySpace, ahem. The things we do for curiosity. The Lannisters would have loved MySpace. I don’t miss it, except for the fact that it does have a strange little archive of my early blogging efforts which needs to be revisited, re-edited, and possibly regurgitated here, or on other sites.
And the photo above?
I live just 14 radium-laced miles from Atomic City. Of the Trinity Project fame. Robert Oppenheimer’s deadly toy, to quote Sting in the mid 1980’s in one of the most heart wrenching songs of that decade, If the Russians Love Their Children Too. Los Alamos is Ground Zero probably for perhaps a handful of nations which would consider it a prize target, and therefore, the Arts mecca of Santa Fe would be thermonuclear toast, probably with retro styling. There are days when I am peacefully at work in my little casita studio when the ground suddenly shakes as a low-level boom wafts through the valley. Once, it was a concert of seven such booms. “The labs are disposing of things today,” said my neighbor and landlady a few months into my moving into the area in early 2014.
My attention was corralled immediately. “What?” I offered up in relative blissful ignorance. “The Lab. Up in LA. Sometimes they blow things up.”
Never one to really pass up good local color or information, especially when nuclear fission is nigh, I asked for more info, and was regaled with her knowledge and experience of such micro-events. “Some days are exciting, most aren’t. Usually they’re just disposing of top-secret equipment. Sometimes though, I wonder if they are testing.”
My eyes rarely get big, but based on her laugh and delight at capturing my undivided Los Alamos Noob attention, they must have been the size of golfballs. Since that day, many tales of old Santa Fe have been shared with me. Many descriptions of weird things afoot in the land that Time forgot, but not Mother Russia. Russia remembers, like the North. These days, it’s a little more ticklish a thought than it was back in 2014; a thought which noodles it’s way into your head after a near-subsonic boom and requisite shock wave rumbles by under your traditional baked brick dry-lay floors. The eyes don’t get large anymore, but the mind does. Imagination can rumble too.
Since that June day, I’ve wandered the mesa often. I’ve found one of the coolest warren of horse stables ever; dating from before the government moved to town. It’s huge, and reeks not with faint celadon glow (as it really should to make a better story) but of the finest cornucopic collection of horse smells ever concocted. But most of all, it is the aroma of American history. I have aesthetic plans for that old and historic section of Los Alamos. They’ll appear here on this site one day soon.
Pardon my post cold war hyperbole. But after all, I live 14 miles from perpetual Ground Zero for the second likely drop in America. I quietly reside in the shadow of Fat Man and Littleboy. Which is a great film starring Paul Newman and a host of other actors, who all participated in one of the finest tellings of the Project I’ve ever seen. A lot of positive karma would do the mesa a world of good. In fact, the old lodge, where many of the scientists spent many harried hours, still stands grandly in the center of that city way up on top of the mesa, and is now the Los Alamos Fine Arts Center. Some nights, usually when all sounds have faded save for scuffling of Mr. Skunk as he dabbles around the compound yard, I think of the history embedded here. One dreams odd things after certain realizations. As for hyperbole?
It seems the hallmark of our day, more so than ever.
To find the quiet moment, that test of our soul’s tenacity amidst all of the compression, stress, and anxiety of our day is a real purpose worth achieving, if we may do so. We are far from Walden’s Pond. Yet it exists at the same time within each of us. That single ember of peace, that place of knowing we are safe. Even at Ground Zero.