INDIAN HILL

          Cool wind came over the desert and it rustled the chaparral.  I couldn’t see or move.  In the small of my back I felt a gentle push and heard soft words in Spanish, and I moved in the direction she urged.  A coyote howled once, twice, sang his yip-yip-yeeees and a wet compress touched my wound like cactus brushing ragged naked flesh.       Air calm, the red pain gone now, my felt skin warm, her hands like the gentle lapping of soothing Caribbean waters and I seemed to drift in its swell.       “Your hand feels good,” I said.      “I am not touching you, Senor. ”      “What is it then?”      “You will be better.  Stay there.”  She put a blanket over me and sat down.      Coyotes packs not far off sang heavenly prayers and howled to the creatures they conquered in harmonies only they understand.  Wind answered in a low whoosh sifting sand about the land.  Feeling came back into my legs and I could see stars.  I was thirsty, and asked Maya for water and she unscrewed a

      I am lonely.   The only words today so far came from the Norm’s waitress. ‘Good morning, how are you?’ .  I order pancakes and sausage and she asks ‘Link, or country?’   The food is good and the heavy young waitress who tousled my hair a few weeks ago says ‘Hi’ when I’m leaving and I say ‘How are you doing?’ .        The cashier inquires, ‘How was everything?’ and assures me I gave her a twenty when I fumble through my wallet after giving her a two dollar discount coupon.  She counts the change that she puts in my hand.      Over at Big 5 the clerk in the shoe section asks ‘Can I help you with anything?’ and I point to a pair of Saucony shoes I’m wearing and point then to the top row where a similar pair is on display.      ‘ Other colors?’ I ask. He says, ‘No. They’re on sale, $44.95. These Nikes …’ and I stop him, telling him I’m usually not happy with shoes I buy later when I get home and they don’t fit.  The Saucony’s fit fine, I say, so I just want another pair,

Stigma, Juan and the boys have a new installation on the wall in Pomona. I go by there every few months to see what they're up to. This morning, I came across remarkable new large-scale art on the wall next to the auto wrecking yard, south of the railroad tracks.    The wall is close to a hundred yards long, eight or nine feet high, completely covered in vibrant, striking art that is alive and ever-changing.  Anyone can stop by, the open-air gallery is on the street.  I was talking with a friend the other evening about art, scale, and the difference in what you see in art book reproductions of Masters from the Renaissance, the modernists, impressionists and abstract impressionists. What is lacking in the book prints is scale.        The works are seven and eight feet high, fifteen feet long. See them up close and you can inspect the level of detail, see how the artist has to stand back frequently to get proportion and perspective.  The face of the woman in the image above i