Before, written from the after. Memories of a buffalo girl.

Tonight, I had a flash back. It was triggered by a familiar combination of sensations. The sensory (selective) deprivation chamber of my studio. Manic music blasting through my headphones. The slowly developing scene of my painting. The stagnant smell of solvent, paint, and cement floors mingling in my nose. The cramping of my right hand around my paint brush. The rigormortis of my left hand holding a baby food jar full of paint. The undulations of arty endorphins. The sense that time is passing, but I will not look at a clock. Enduro-art. Paint until I can paint no more.
Once upon a time, I was blessed. I would paint and paint, only pausing to smoke cigarettes and flip over the tape in my walkman. The split second before I collapsed, I would stop, wash out my brushes, and walk to my truck. I would drive down a long boulevard, the median of which was planted with trees. Upon reaching my destination, I would let myself in the backdoor. There was always a pot of green chile on the stove, waiting for me. Made with love and intention. The acrid, spicy smell, the warmth of the kitchen, the 1950's formica counter tops, the ristras of Juan's red chile nestled under the ceiling, next to some christmas lights and a dying house plant. The parade of things to go with the green chile, because sadly, man cannot live on chile alone. Yellow squash, with crooked necks. The bland indian bread from Isleta, down south, made by that lady, do you remember meeting her? Beans, soaked, simmered, so damn good, the food of gods. Of women named Persingula. Posole, sorry about the pork, or the venison, but what idiot would make vegetarian posole? A grilled cheese sandwish. A sliced tomato. I would eat. He would give me space. Space to talk about line and form, the transparency of dioxazine purple, the joyful opacity of cadmium, the trepidation to tred across the across the snowy feild of a blank canvas. Space to sit in silence. Space to talk about the Sunday Times. Space to carefully listen to one perfect jazz song, and hear a story about his uncle and his mythical vinyl collection. Space to contemplate the sublime perfection of a poor man's margarita: Squirt and tequila.... Hey, do you know that Squirt is made with turpentine? Hey, do you remember when you moved here? We ate pizza on the naked floor. Hey do you remember the lilacs in Mountainair? The beautiful boys at Jemez feast day? The wooden beams, with the marks of now rusted saws, the labor of now dead hands,the past, laid bear? The green cottonwood spine of the desert? The smell of Catholic insense, of your marijuana, of salty skin, of cedar smoke at dusk, of the sigh of freshness that preceeds a thunderstorm?