PHOTO: Self-portrait, post-NAMM.
The driving rains of Los Angeles shredded to tendrils, as sharp peaks of the San Jacinto Mountains eviscerated moisture-laden Pacific air. Twelve lanes of traffic condensed to four.
Sunlight hunted remaining moisture, evaporating a thousand miles of desert in the rain shadow of the eastern slopes. Emotion welled and water streamed from my eyes, involuntary tears of joy, and relief.
The intensity, pressure, and excitement of the trade show uncoiled itself from around my internal organs. Alone, I laughed out loud at the first saguaro, as if an old friend. The gentle shimmering in my ears an audible reminder of thunderous cacophony left behind.
"If you believe god is music, NAMM will make you an athiest."
FMoF
And yet, there were moments of sublime musicality, and musicianship. Great camaraderie, as the four of us rustled like outlaws. A realization that sparks we struck are about to grow into something much, much, larger. We will talk about those moments soon enough.
"Your guitar sticks in my head, and I can’t stop telling my friends. Millions of guitars at NAMM...yours is the one I remember."
LH
Companions dispersed, I drifted south, to Tucson.
I sought council from those who had passed before me, in the form of artifacts at the Amerind Foundation. Master craftsmanship revealed in every chip of each arrowhead, a necessity when working tools are stone. Efficiency, displayed as delicate aerodynamic functionality — a few ounces of precisely aimed rock capable of dropping two thousand pounds of running animal in a collapsed meat pile.
My cousin Scott built the beautiful Mission Style rift sawn oak couches in the main display hall of the museum: BAKER + HESSELDENZ
Mostly, though, I needed nature. My soul is acclimated to solitude, my mind to flowing streams of thought. Metaphorically naked I immerse in the forms around me, artifacts of wind and water.











Recent Comments