These are my favorite photos of the last year, with links to their blog posts (if any)—Sallie Little brother made up for Christmas play, my next book…: This Writer’s Life The Pond, Santa Fe, NM: Over the Hills and a Great Way Off The Little House on the Prairie: The Little House on the Prairie
The excitement of the season plus a few flush-inducing angers led to one of my rare sleepless nights, here in the mountains north of town.
Our blue bubble here in New Mexico may be where we are all heading as we fight our way our of this crisis.
These days we are hearing language that is the equivalent of shouting fire in a crowded movie theater, language that whether the speaker is aware of it or not, incites to violence.
I loved the baldness of my visit last weekend to Chaco: sleeping on the ground, during two nights in May when the temperature dropped into the thirties, was an ordeal of amazing benefits.
This house has reigned on a leafy corner of a beautiful street, a few blocks from the Santa Fe Plaza, for 150 years, inhabited by a distinguished family.
In choosing invention, I chose my own view, my own voice, as I chose the woven forms of the marble statue I bought at Indian Market from a young Navajo sculptor.
Something has gone wrong with this country, and I don’t know how or exactly when.
The meeting in Lamy this afternoon was not about losing our train—although I hope in the future that will be addressed—but about the plan, discovered by accident a week ago when workmen began to lay a concrete pad near the train station (there was no state, county or federal oversight, no permits required because of the special status the railroads hold here) where Pacer Oil Company of Farmington, New Mexico is planning to built a depot for the deposit of twenty-five to fifty double-tanker-trailer loads of crude oil weekly, to wait for shipment on tanker cars that somehow can travel on tracks that are unsafe for passenger trains.
Hopper light doesn’t protect, but neither does it isolate; in his mysterious paintings, it sometimes seems to me that the slightest movement—getting up off a bed, going out a door—would change not only the composition and the meanings we gladly ascribe to it, but the light, itself.