What if our fingers were tape recorders? What if knuckles had buttons and our chapped skin was a red light clicked on to say you’re recording? We could remember every word. Our hands could tell each other stories and we wouldn’t have to retell or recreate what people said.
My hands would say this: I lived in Lubbock, Texas for twenty three years. I grew up with streets as flat as palms. I grew up with wind and skies that turn red when it blows. Because of this, I knew wind long before anyone gave me a definition. That came in eighth grade. My science teacher told us wind was the force and movement of air. And when she asked us if we understood, twenty pairs of eyes stared at her blankly. Lady, we knew wind. We didn’t need your bolded words about weather patterns to tell us that when the clouds were low and black, you ran to the bathroom. You curled in the bathtub, and your dad threw blankets over your head, hollering “This is it, the garden’s finally going to fly away.” Wind may be this force and movement of air, but it was also the bath water running down your leg. The seconds you counted, hoping the tornado blew over.
This city puts wind in your bones. So when I graduated college, I found work transcribing a wind energy oral history collection. There were a hundred stories wound in tape. Everyday, I listened to local farmers, ranchers, and wind developers.
I wrote a story about how landscapes change. About the miles and miles of transmission lines carrying power from the panhandle to bigger cities down south. I wrote about the largest wind farm in the world outside Roscoe Texas. I showed the story to Kim Cypert. She paints and films and sees the world as oils and stop animation. She wanted to make a video. Together, we created a Kickstarter (http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/1945012824/wind-turbines-transmission-a-performance-art-show) to fund the project and in a month we raised all 1,700 dollars needed. I started a blog: http://turbinesandtransmission.tumblr.com/. We took the video around Texas. We screened it in Junction, Muleshoe, and then Lubbock, the city with so much wind.
In college, I studied stories. It started with books, hundred of them, piled in stacks along my bedroom wall. I devoured them with a hunger I’d never felt in my stomach. I read about sadness and loss and joy and grace and all that makes life so wonderful. And then I started writing. I filled folders with short stories. I took creative writing classes and wrote about the day the Berlin Wall fell. I wrote about violence and grace and girl with a heart as wide as Palo Duro Canyon so that it broke easily.
Writing led me to an internship with Ogallala Commons. If I thought the wind energy oral history collection had a hundred stories, Ogallala Commons has a thousand more. For the internship, I am only writing a handful. I am creating narrative profiles for thirty-five interns, writing and filming a video that tells one of the intern’s story, and using social media to form an internet-based Ogallala Commons community. But. If there’s anything I’ve learned it’s that projects change. So for now this is the plan, but we’ll see.



