I’ve claimed this rock as my office.
It isn’t wired, there’s no desk, just ledges of rock in seemingly infinite variety. I can recline, as I am now, against a sheer face of granite, my butt leveled on a jutting rock below it. But the problem with working out here is that I get distracted: today I’m pulled by the mustard sky, a belated sunrise to the southeast, where a fishing boat has dropped anchor against the glowing horizon line. I take too many pictures here—hungry to capture the enormity of it, the possibilities, the fickle mood of the water.
As an artist, my work is done for me: all I have to do is show up, point, and click. But I want more than that. I want to dive into it, this beauty; to find a way in so that it trickles through my cells, replicating in wondrous, happy bursts.
As an artist, my work is done for me: all I have to do is show up, point, and click. But I want more than that.