Blackbirdmotel

Here I am on the deck, on this windy warm day, on the eve of the anniversary of The Fire. There's no trace of it that I can see. I used to find plastic dinosaurs in the dirt, melted and disfigured, casualties of that February day. Like today, it was windy that day and the flames spread quickly. It's funny how some childhood memory can embed itself in the psyche. The mind, like an oyster, makes a pearl of it, something I can live with. Two of my neighbors are fond of bonfires. They have enormous pyres in their backyards, ready to light. I took my dog out one night last week and I could see flames through the woods, glowing in the dark like a beacon for that sylvanian creature whose woods are being destroyed. A part of me wants it to rise up out of the trees, ancient and powerful and protect the trees and the nocturnal creatures that bring the bones of dead animals to my studio door. It was strong enough to survive The Fire all those years ago. Even now, I hear it whispering

I was digging around my flower bed at daylight when everything looks mysterious and new. Might as well call it a fairy ring since it's surrounded by the woods. Once the sun burns off the night, the magic evaporates. The surrounding tree sentinels are only trees, the oracles are only spiders, and all that remains of the flowers that bloomed in the spring are dry, withered blossoms, their colors long faded. The magic only lasts about an hour every morning. So now, I'll group my paintings in the shed and try to find a common thread, the thread that leads me back to my enchanted forest.

I've finished cleaning and painting the closet behind my bed and am now using it as an office. I've come full circle now. When I was thirteen, I used hide out in the tiny closet in our dining room for privacy. I'd sequester myself with an eight-track tape player, turn on The Beatles, and write in my notebook to escape the dismal world of the '70s because, despite Star Wars and the nostalgia of avocado green appliances and burnt orange carpet, the '70s were dark times, punctuated by serial killers, blackouts, and a nuclear disaster. Once that door closed behind me, I was somewhere else. The desire to be somewhere else has never gone away. My first somewhere else was Savannah, Georgia. Even before I'd seen it, the name appealed to me and I wrote the first sentence on a yellow legal pad with a red Flair pen: "My story begins in Savannah, Georgia during a hot, unmerciful summer." And, nine years later, it did. I started to SCAD during a hot, unmerciful summer. Now, my