You’re sitting like stone wearing a mournful expression. Anything the matter? Wondered my Muse.
A poet-pianist I interviewed not-so-long-ago passed on.
What’s it you keenly remember about him?
He’s not a sea-novelist or a mountain-writer; he’s a chronicler of desert-life that’s beautiful-yet-brutal, seductive-yet-pitiless.
He’s an artist who could squeeze the most magic out of the least fertile landscape under dune sun.
For example?
His word-painting of peyote.
Any thought on getting through the grieving?
Soul jetting out to Arizona to be in dialogue with deserts out there to find ways to hang on to the lasting legacy he’d left behind.