In those travelblogs I reflected on the red rock castles, bells, chimneys, and stunning buttes here in the American Southwest. Those entries, descriptive, and at times, melodic, emanated from my own mind without the help of anything artificial.
It must have been Sedona’s famous vortices or vortexes (debate ensues) that electrically beckoned me from a restless sleep at 5:30 am this morning and then compelled me, nay, magnetized me, to blindly put on Nike walking shoes, purple striped yoga pants, and a Stanford tee-shirt, finally swirling me out the front door of my friend’s house without caffeine.
Is this what they meant in 1987 by harmonic convergence?
My location, if you choose to follow the link, was across the rock and valley from Courthouse Butte.
Only the quail, the Gila woodpeckers, and an orange bird in a Palo Verde tree saw me leave, headed up a road whose location was somewhere in the Village of Oak Creek.
Maybe it was the incense I inhaled from a Buddha shop in Tlaquepacque yesterday or maybe it was the hypnotic rotating sculptures in my friend’s backyard (or heck, maybe it was the chardonnay I consumed with the Judge before he had to go to the Courthouse Butte): at any rate, whatever it was, the vortexual energy kept sucking me up the road, further and further, farther and farther until…until…I ran out of energy.
I sat down on a red rock, naturally.
Me, myself, and I regrouped. We had to keep moving, lest someone in the house find us gone. Cheri, up at 5:30? Cheri, out the door before coffee? Cheri, in yoga pants in public?
I am happy to report that I did make it back to the house, but not before the wistful soliloquy of a male quail in search of his honey turned my head.
One lone call, another call…he was so handsome and sweet up there on this perch.
Where is your wife? I asked.
I’m unsure, he answered. This morning, she awoke early and left the nest, wholly unlike her.
Oh, I see.