That’s the title of a column I just finished for Horse Fly. I probably never should have written it and wouldn’t have, if I hadn’t been temporarily insane. I doubt they’ll even publish it, but if they do, you can read it in the ‘Fly, published and distributed here in northern New Mexico around the middle of every month. Whatever. The more astute among you will notice that it incorporates a pre-Xmas post from this very blog. Here it is, as submitted:
It was a normal American day.
An unelected president signed a bill explicitly reinforcing the privacy of first-class mail while simultaneously declaring his right to open any letter without a warrant, and not a single outraged citizen stormed the White House gates. Half a world away in the cradle of Western civilization, body parts rained down on bloody sand. There was obviously nothing else to do but go shopping, so off we went to Santa Fe.
* * * I like Santa Fe. Have you ever been to Sanbusco? I walked into a pleasant little shop, picked up a thin scarf woven by starving Bolivian peasants, and turned it over to look at the price: $200. The helpful young man behind the register offered, “Some of those are made in Peru.” Ah, I thought: Inca gold, Machu Picchu, that explains everything. Affecting a mildly jaded air, I coolly refolded the item and placed it slowly back on top of the heap, then sidled wistfully for the exit before breaking into a run.
Next up was Border’s for half-price calendars and a pit stop. The urinals in the men’s room there are quite unique, placed closely together to encourage elbow-rubbing and informal camaraderie among the patrons. Being consumed with my own thoughts, however, I eschewed asking the tall gentleman occupying the middle position to stand sideways so I could have a clear shot and took refuge in a nearby stall. “19 years old, 8 1/2 inches, when?” read a penciled note on the wall. Moved by the pathos of the teenaged dwarf compelled to acknowledge his existential angst, I took out a pen and scrawled, “Probably never, if it hasn’t happened yet,” adding after a moment, “but have you ever considered a career as a plumbing inspector?”
Outside were many calendars. Calendars with dead Indians, live movie stars, tornadoes, and kitty cats in the sun. Calendars from Kansas and Provence. Calendars with witches, waterfalls, motorcycles, and elk. (Yes, elk, a different one for every month.) I searched in vain for the kind of calendar that used to hang beside the grease pit in garages of my youth and then remembered: there was a digital calendar on my computer, after all, and on my watch. Also on all our telephones, my camera, pedometer, a $2 package of elastic hair-ties I saw at Wal-Mart, and the coffee scoop my brother sent us for Christmas once, so that was that: after catching a movie in a closet at nearby De Vargas Center, we called it a day and headed for Taos.
Lest you think I’m not grateful for every blessed breath I’ve ever drawn, however, I’d like to set the record straight: enlightenment is still possible, even in the metaphorical fire and ash of American hell. The full moon was beautiful rising over the canyon on our way back home, for example, while a couple of weeks ago, my wife gave me the best present I’ve ever received…
* * * For some of us raised without a warranty, the hardest trick in a relationship is not hanging a mirror on the other and aiming a spotlight at it. Needless to say, besides being hard on your eyes, it’s a lot of work carrying all that equipment around. One would rather write a symphony, if you get my drift.
I have excavated ancient tombs and stables. I have set my chickens free. Yet the other evening when I was feeling pretty good, sharing tequila with the Amazonian priestess, she looked over at me (getting my attention like boulders clacking against each other in a cave), and said: “John, do you think you could — [long pause] — I just really wish you could be completely relaxed with me…”
She has followed me to the ends of the earth (where oddly there are lots of restaurants). She has traded beloved dark green grass for rocks. She has done all this and more, much more, and now the thing she wants the most is for me to be completely relaxed?
That’s it?
That will make her happy?
That’s all I have to do?
She’s given me a mantra to block the beam! She’s inoculated herself. This is better than winning the lottery, mark my words.
(By God, if our country loves us it will do the same.)
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{ 2 comments… read them below or add one }
john!
a hundred euros are on the way.
spend it with your love at josephs table
have him play some chet baker
and give a shout for me at the kitchen crew
on your way out…
If you are demented then so am I. For most of what you write about your observations of the world coincide with my perceptions. The drift of what you wrote is in complete harmony with the content of Horsefly.
Horseflies buzz, irritate and bite. Good for you.
Many years ago I lived in Bolivia. The country is still underpopulated. I saw poverty but no starvation, not even close to what exists in Central America, our close neighbors.
The scarf is ridiculously over-priced, but that is capitalism without brakes.
The small coffee growers in Western Nicaragua are growing coffee unroasted for about $1.00 a pound. Starbucks is selling it for at least $20.00 a Lb. Entire families are standing along side the roads in Nicaragua begging for food. Coffee middle-persons should meet the same fate as Sadaam. They’ve been doing this for a 100 years.