There’s a particular kind of ornamental cactus – I don’t know what it’s called – that is distinguished by it’s soft, smooth skin and exceptionally delicate hues of pink and rose. They are soft and feminine and look like rose petals would look if they decided to grow into fruits. They are strangely organic and look almost as if they should quiver or shiver when they’re touched. The skies in the morning out in the deserts of New Mexico are like that – quivering and shivering and shimmering above us, reflecting their light on the mountains surrounding us, pretending that the rugged landscape all around us could be a gentle thing.
As we’re leaving Albuquerque Jenny points to the sky and says “rough weather today”. Darkened horizons to the west between us and Phoenix, I get up and load the car before the rain hits.
Heather and I are traveling between canyons and mountains and cattle and casinos as we skip from squall to squall. The patches of rain are creating incredible mists and dramatic shadows all along route 40, and all of the “observation points” and “scenic pull-offs” are at the wrong places.
People rant about Europe and how you haven’t Lived till you’ve been there and the cathedrals and the history and culture… I’d argue you haven’t Lived until you’ve been out to the American West. We have cathedrals out here that are MILLIONS of years old that surpass the height and strength of anything mere humans have built for our tiny mythologies. The land here takes no notice of us and reminds of us of our place in the universe. Here we can truly be humbled.
My parents would take my brother and I on road-trips across the country, and like any sullen teenager, I didn’t appreciate it at the time. But I remember Wyoming and Arizona in particular – the deserts there were the first places that I remember feeling some sense of peace, understanding the concept of spirit and spirituality… in the years past I’ve ascribed that feeling to having been thirteen, fourteen, however old I was at the time. Going back and reading things from then, I figured it was just teen angst and the other end of that emotional state, that high-ended mania…
But being out here again, there are visions that move a person to tears, and though I wouldn’t trade my company ever, I can feel my pride reigning in the emotions that well up at the sights of cliffs and dust and almost incomprehensible vastness. Sorry girls, I feel weird about crying in front of you.
Monday afternoon, Jenny took us out to the hot springs in the Indian Reservation south of Santa Fe. My friend Sandy was in town on business and wanted to come with us, but just couldn’t get away, and so the three of us piled into Jenny’s pickup and wound and rode up into the mountains to see what we would see.
Jenny is an amazing collector of tales and tiny things and landscapes. She’s been in the periphery of my Life for something like seven years, which is hard for me to believe.
She’s known me for longer than Heather has, and yet I’ve known her almost not at all.
She’s out here with Hawk Watch doing catch / release of birds of prey and watching her lead us up over rocks and waterfalls reminds me that I know very little about her. There’s a rugged grace that comes with being outside as much as she has, and she’s our pathfinder.
I’m quickly reminded that I’m OLD & out of shape as we hike further up and up and up seeking hot springs. At well past 8,000 feet I’m panting and out-of-breath and feeling like I’m going to die, but the view and water is well worth it. I think she mentioned that these magma-heated pools are generally about 105 degrees, and I’m sad that we hadn’t thought of coming dressed for the occassion. As it is, only our feet grace the rather crowded waters (a large Hispanic family and their mop-like dogs and a couple of hippiesque couples have beaten us) as we rest before making our way back down the mountain. My legs are shaky on the way down, but it’s shorter than it had seemed on the way up, and soon I’m gratefully in sight of the truck.
That night we hit the open mic at Brickyard Pizza with Sandy and an old friend from high school, Reni. The host, Chris, was a great rock-blues player, and his friend Marvin played harmonica with him. I was disappointed with the turnout (apparently we’ve managed to arrive for spring break, also to our detriment back at the Blue Dragon), but I DID get to see Marvin playing a bagpipe tune on his harmonica. He’d blown up a balloon and attached it to his harp to create a drone note, and then went ahead and played the melody.
As I’m writing we’re pacing a freight train and watching for elk. There are signs for them all over the place as we pass rusted car grave yards and scrubland.
Last night we hit up the open mic back at Blue Dragon and I perused the coffees. I’m not a coffee person, but i always look to see if there’s anything appealing.
Enter the Walking Dead (turn away, Gilberto, cause these guys ain’t leeeeeavin’). A couple of shots of espresso, chocolate syrup, lemon juice and a slice of lemon create a concoction that I need to ask for every place I go from now on. Some home at Perk needs to start experimenting with this and have it down by our return in May. Please?
In any case, the open mic was a good time – but I frankly wasn’t in the mood. Heather and I got a lot of work done with the Dragon’s wireless and I met up with some of the women we’d met at our show on Monday night (it’s not what it sounds like!). I went and hung out with them in the parking lot and listened to one lass play guitar in a strong, clear voice that sounded a whole lot more honest than most of the “professionals” I’ve been listening to recently. Jenni (not to be confused with Jenny who’d been our host here in New Mexico!) reminded me what it was like to look into the eyes of the observers and see them recognizing the people in the song. So many of my peers lie through their teeth when telling their stories, and I miss the songwriters who are just trying to find a way to express themselves.
I could rant about this, but I’m tired of typing, and it’s probably time for me to post this.
We retired to Jenny’s (see the difference?) and I lay down on the floor and I closed my eyes and then sat back up and stared at Heather till she turned off the light.
I was so tired I clean forgot to dream.
