The Desert Times
Synopsis: “A prickly cactus, the desert wind, and a ‘sweating’ bottle of beer provide inspiration for a publisher.”
The Desert Times
The sun has set, and the last visitor has left the state park. The snakes, rodents and jack rabbits have burrowed in for the night, but the familiar orange, and black, “California Tortoiseshell” butterfly, has landed atop a prickly spine of an aged, cranky cactus; it’s twists, and turns reveal a long, tortured life, under the desert sun.
Night has ascended upon Joshua Tree.
A man sits in a vintage wooden chair which swivels, reclines, and squeaks, revealing a personality of its own. Long ago, he carved “RS” into its arm. Somebody, long forgotten, perhaps a friend or lover, had written next to the inscription,
“Ipsa Loquitor”
The carving and inscription signify the Latin term,
“Res ipsa loquitur”
(The Thing Speaks for Itself).
A metal desk fan struggles to turn, and rotate. It’s squeaking joins the chair in a “duet”, an homage to the many years the man has been publishing prose and poetry.
A bottle of cerveza sits atop the vintage wooden desk, and begins to “perspire” in the evening heat. The man will wait for the perspiration to become beads of water before enjoying the exquisite taste and memories of Mexico.
He leans back in the chair, swivels around, admiring the many publication covers adorning the walls, each publication containing the heartfelt emotions of writers seeking birth to their writing. He’s proud to have brought the words into the world.
He swivels back around to his desk, and sighs at the stack of manuscripts staring back at him. He fights to the find the inspiration to press on and read, hoping to find one story or poem which moves him to happiness or tears. Most evenings are met with disappointment.
The warm desert breeze blows through the window, awakening him from his malaise, and invites him into the desert outside his home. The evening symphony of coyotes and crickets begins.
The desert sky is filled with twinkling stars, and a full, bright moon stares down upon him. He hopes each star might be a story or poem he published. The moon, like a giant, fatherly clock, reminds the publisher, it’s time to add to the heavenly library. The desert breeze kicks up, and the man knows its natures “kick in the ass” to get back to work.
He returns to his desk; the squeaky chair and fan providing the “white noise” he relies upon to concentrate when reading submissions of prose and poetry.
His neighbor, an aging hippie and friend, is dancing down “memory lane”, likely with a blunt, blasting lyrics from a “Doors” tune,
Into this house we're born
Into this world we're thrown
The bottle of cerveza, dripping large beads of water, creating a pool surrounding it, cries,
“It’s time to drink.”
The first cool sip of cerveza and metaphors inspired by the brew and lyrics, inspire the publisher to press on. He reaches below his desk, and retrieves the vintage “Royal” typewriter which painted his passions onto paper, and earned him the coveted title, “published author”.
The headline for the morning edition of “The Desert Times” reads,
“Joshua Tree magic attracts record tourism”.