Once the Vietnam era loudspeaker wails from town I know that’s it’s time for me to get painting cars. It’s 5 o’clock then, but their clock is a few minutes early. I’ve noticed and people on Facebook have noticed.
Ghost thoughts of miners swish through my brain every time I hear that wail. These souls lived and worked here and it’s all the same; we inch toward our goals every day. I’m here to make art famous on cars. This will take time. I’m glad they give me the time every day. I wonder who’s in charge of that.
Today’s Saturday, I just noticed it goes off at noon instead of 8. I’ll have to pay attention today at 5. I live in a house trailer right beside Michael Mark’s house; the car forest is half a mile away. I’m sitting on the porch in the shade sipping coffee and having a smoke and editing an entry from the other night…
Out here it’s pitch black, other than the laptop screen in front of me. If it was my beloved little Mac, my keys would be lit up and the typing of semicolons and digits would be easier. I’m not that confident stretching my fingers out that far to these keys. It’s a little awkward typing from the driver seat of this Suburban; I have to shift to the side.
To have a change of perspective, I’ve been sipping cheap chianti from a huge bottle. I’m listening to this guitar and mandolin duet, the tune of which I recognize; It’s Beethoven or Bach. It’s a rondo kinda’ thing ‘cause now it’s the other one. I think Beethoven and then Back, yeah. Enjoying these banjo players from little speakers in this truck, I keep glancing up at the box truck in front of me; I just spray painted the beginnings of a sunset mural on it.
Now on the radio is “Our house, it’s a very very very fine house..”
Then it’s “I read the news today ohhhh boyyyy…”
“A crowd of people stood & stared”.. “The English Army had just won the war..” Anyway, I was thinking tonight, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be. Am I Nowhere Man?
I don’t know how to reel in this journal entry. I hope it doesn’t matter to you.
Michael Mark was up here earlier, like 2 hours ago. He planted that Plymouthstation wagon I told you about last night. See Goldfield Journal Entry #11 to read up on it. We didn’t talk. It’s like 500 yards from here. I can estimate that because I played football one year in high school. I didn’t quit-I always like to point that out.
Now it’s all Tony Curtis on the radio. Holy shit; I’ve got flat black spray paint running down my fingers while I try to type this, coated in dust and enamel residue, while listening to this crooner crooning “I left my heart in San Fransisco..”
I wanted to share some thoughts about painting. It’s something I always want to do but it seems like everything I ever read regarding such, sucks, as a story, so instead, I’ll just ramble like this.
Yeah, it’s like this: I come out here a couple hours before sunset and watch the lighting change dramatically on these paintings and then it’s like the clock has run out. The sun says “Sorg, you gotta’ stop painting now-no choice”.
So I quit. Now I’ll sit here and relish in what I’ve done tonight.
I sprayed a lightning symbol with an arrow in the mural. Look on your camera; this stands for “use the flash now”. The side of this truck is backed up against the West and my estimation is that most people that make it to this end of the car forest will be here after 12 noon. They need to use the flash because the sun will be behind them posing at the box truck.
“Sunset, Posing At The Box Truck” Goldfield Journal #12