Burn This

Not being able to see the forest for the trees. That phrase keeps spinning round and round Althea's head. She's too far in, too invested, and completely lacking perspective. Five long years of her life, her life's work, culminating in what, exactly? What is this project anymore? A piece? A presentation?An exhibit? A clusterfuck of masturbatory half assed Pollack wanna be, lost in translation, pseudo interpretive canvases or something resembling canvasses that are supposed to represent what, exactly? Exhale, just step back, go for a walk....this is her mantra. Althea owns more running shoes now than she did when she was a child in that other country, miles away from anything resembling civilization. The hours and days and months of her life spent walking, running, skipping, crawling through back roads and abandoned trails gave birth to this mess displayed in front of her now. Two days til vernissage, a week til opening and she wants to set it on fire. Burn this. Walk away. How can something so filled with good intention devolve into such an incredibly ambivalent, souless, incomprehensible creation? It started so well, Althea's Hanging Willow piece, the bright spark that Edward and Louise fostered, encouraged. Hell, they bankrolled this monster and now she's envisioning having to skip town when they witness this hapless disaster. At least that's how Althea sees it. I just want to go back to Taos, back to the desert, wind my way through the tumbleweeds and sip on tequila, hands baked with red earth, skin creased and leathered. To be old there, unknown there, absolved, unaccountable. The dry heat clears her mind, keeps her honest. Her best work was the New Mexico period. Life in the Pacific Northwest was too wet, too rainy, drowning her alive. Too much forest, not enough wide open space. She can't see the forest for the trees.