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Storms sweep into the high desert of eastern New Mexico with strange colors: orange
clouds or purple skies tell the forecast. Those hot hues – looming sienna or crimson
– urge drivers to park and cover their cars so they might spare the paint. And the other
hue, the blue-chill on the horizon, could mean a gully washer, a booming downpour so
heavy and fast the baked earth refuses to soak it up.
Sandstorms, thunderstorms, windstorms, and drought are the four food groups
chewed by this climate. Anyone with a functioning windmill can weather them all. Even
a sailor on some unimaginable sea will tell you that a gale harnessed is of use. But
without that sail, or blade, or tool, the wind is just a nuisance, a wasted power, a noise.
Since I was a child, I’ve heard storms approach and have endeavored to catch
them. It’s an imperfect science. Too often, sensing the storm, I’m merely blown about.
And when the storm passes, I’m left despairing of a missed opportunity. But sometimes,
when I’m lucky, the wind funnels down into me and something moves. Not the earth
(no, leave that to Hemingway), but sometimes my windmill blades catch and spin, the
structure holds, the pump works, and from terra firma comes a sweet liquid product.
That’s what it’s like: being alone in the desert, hoping to catch the wind.
I hear the wind howling and listen for themes: Vengeance? A quest? Some dark
secret that morphs into obsession?
The storms blow through, carrying these characters, or that plot, maybe some
string and a kite. It’s all glorious for a spell. Raw. Bouncing like hail on asphalt with such
friable potential. But how to channel it? How to store it up for those windless days and
nights? And how to judge, when the next storm looms, whether to hold on or let go,
and with open arms, let another story sail in?
It’s not a unique problem, but still, it’s hard to find anyone in this vast expanse
who can lend a hand. Not many even perceive a need to harness such a fickle power.
Some don’t even hear the wind, or care. But if we hear the storms speaking to us, and if
we feel the need to turn a natural force into something of use, then aren’t we compelled,
on some cosmic level, to try our damnedest? And if we’re lucky enough to meet others
in the desert who have the same inclinations, who’ve learned to strengthen the structure,
or who know some clever way to boost the product, then aren’t we all obligated to share
what we can?
The world has enough flat and functional prose. No poetry blows through a
memo; no soul breathes in the corporate machine.
There’s a storm sweeping into the desert. See the colors on the horizon? Listen
for the wind. Hear it whisper? Feel it breathe?
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Carla Norton's articles have appeared in California Lawyer, Diablo Magazine, the San Jose
Mercury News, the San Francisco Chronicle, the Sacramento Bee and the Japanese edition of
Reader’s Digest. Carla has written two nonfiction books about notorious California crimes,
Perfect Victim (“co-authored” with Deputy DA McGuire), and Disturbed Ground.
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