Footprints.

Impressions.

To step into the footprints of the past. Into the impressions they may have had upon us--those we experience now after so many years have gone by. Once remembered as an exciting sweetness of bold, brave adventure, the tales can be mellowed by age into a realization that we are continually growing and how can we learn from the past?

Where are the down-trodden to go when money and power fling their heavy boots upon the trail and stomp into dust all semblance of harmony or understanding. The trail of the past is a gift--not to be judged but to examine for what we can learn from its prints.

Look at the movies, the stories on film, and how they retain or mystify the past as fact or glorifying a fictional impression of life that once was. And yet current are the feelings of warm joy that arise when I see an old image, a building; the safe happiness of home and family all joined together in watching the story created upon the screen--a story we all experienced together. It has taken years--decades--for me to break away from the childhood impression of the past and into my own internal truth--what is resonant with me now when I watch. And yet, that does not negate the past--whether real, created or harbored in memory. To at the same time feel the warm sensation of the memories evoked yet also see through my own adult eyes of personal life experience and education what is so very different about those old stories, the movies of childhood, the ones so loved by my parents.

Walk the sand that holds within its depths the footprints of entertainers, of actors who brought the stories to technicolor life. Walk down the streets, view the facades, touch the weathered wood and crumbling adobe that was once sensed by those familiar faces of old. Ghosts but not because they lived the stories--they didn’t bleed and love and suffer what I saw on the screen. Rather, they absorbed the essence of their characters, portrayed many lives, and now these buildings and creaking wooden sidewalks speak of how all life is tied together. How we connect through our stories and feel the vibrations that linger within the dirt beneath our feet and soar in the sky overhead. These elements hold the past, present and future. Not as archeological dig but of memory and story. The air seems to carry the echoes of all these voices who spoke their lines and told the stories.

A stage of action and stillness, moments of joy and sadness. A stage so much more than the enclosed theaters because here the wisdom of the desert has captured the images for all time, building upon itself with each new performance just as the buildings hold their own ‘ghost towns’ of imagination.Which is the illusion? All is the past. The stories would mimic reality and share someone’s perception of that experience, just as the individual relaying a story puts their own view upon the event--they lay a footprint--a point of view--so when we hear any story it is only an impression.

It is not real. It can never be real again. Learn, be entertained, but never cling to the ghostly past. All are just stories. What are the feelings? Where is the growth? The desire to move beyond what we sense was wrong or mistaken or right? What holds more resonance? The streets of the ‘real’ past or the streets of ‘portrayed’ past? Which footprints have left a deeper impression upon soul and psyche? Does it matter as long as we learn from the past?

~ written in my usual ‘stream of consciousness’ style

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The Old Tucson Studios is a unique experience. Quite a lot of fun if you enjoy western movies and are familiar with many of the ‘old’ ones. Over 300 movies used this site for filming many of their outdoor scenes.