Horse Fly Column, 5/03

Another new Digital Potlatch category! And this one begs an explanation:

Shortly after we arrived in Taos in the fall of ’99, I somehow connected with one of the orneriest, full-bore piece o’ work men to ever walk the earth, Bill Whaley, publisher of Horse Fly, a local alternative monthly news and culture publication of exquisitely weird provenance and status, all of it pretty much resting on his shoulders. I can’t say it was love at first sight, but he sort of liked me for some reason, and when it came out that I was doing online commentary for a Mac site — that I might be a writer, in other words — he offered me a column slot.

I’ve been writing for Horse Fly ever since and have ninety-some columns in the can. I used a number of them in my BUFFALO LIGHTS book, and I’m sure the best part of the others will end up in a book all their own before too long. For now, however, here’s a golden oldie, a piece I wrote in late spring of 2003. My wife and I were experiencing the psycho-emotional damage of trying to live on 20% of our previous income, moving constantly from one rental house to the next, and generally feeling as terrified, stupid, and destroyed as it is possible to be. And yet, against that backdrop, I was having some of the most astonishing revelations of my life. Things could hardly have been worse, yet the highs were outstanding, and probably unattainable in any other context.

This one, entitled “Ruminations and Old Home Towns,” reflects a somewhat younger me who needed to see things in black and white to keep himself from flying apart, and you’ll note the still-present tug of things that used to be. At the time, this was the column that put me on the map: longtime Taos people came up to me to say, “You get it!” — and about that time, Bill started paying me every month. Reading it over now, what amazes me is how much I still agree with. Damn near everything, in fact, although I might be easier on my past if I were writing this again.

Ruminations and Old Home Towns

One of the hardest things for me to deal with after moving out West from Maryland was the perception that nobody back home really understood why I left. Hardly anyone clapped me on the back and wished me luck, though one wise woman (now deceased) offered “congratulations on your wife’s resignation,” and my dentist — of all people — sat down, sighed, gazed out the window at the silo across the road and blessed me with “I hate to see you go, but do what you gotta do, John. Go out there and live your life.” And so I have.

My light was going out, and no one knew. The same kinds of things that reinforced others’ sense of who they were came gradually to smother me and frighten me to death. I had the house, the studio, the car, the boat, the yard, the friends, the reputation (though that soured), but I didn’t have myself. If I go come back someday, I’ll have to find a new contentment there, or better still, make sure I bring along my own. And that’s what moving was all about.

I had to come here to get fixed. Call it healing, if you will. For me that means I had to give up everything I knew before. I had to get pared down, way, way down, and I’m not done yet. This place is like a Holy White-Hot Sweat Lodge Proving Ground from God and that’s what pulled me here. This is also somewhere it’s respectable to be a starving, stumbling, searching fool of an artist, which was not the case where I came from! People used to see me welding metal monsters by my studio and thought I was “retired.” You know, like only someone who’s eaten all his peas is finally entitled to dessert.

Taos is a special place, a very special place. I always wonder though why people who have everything to live for come out here as if it’s just another place to ski or buy a painting. Even stranger still to me are those who come here to retire, Jesus Christ. Many do, of course, and seem to be quite happy, but I wonder all the same. Strangest of all to me are those who’ve always been here, because the energy seems so incompatible with ordinary life.

There are forces here that tear your psychic muscle from the bone. If you live here long enough and nothing happens, you’re as solid as a child of God can be (and thank your lucky stars), but many mostly normal people go berserk before too long. You can hardly walk down the street without stepping in the bloody bits of broken marriages or smelling burning dreams. Impossibility abounds here, stomps around like giant invisible dinosaurs on crack. This is what REAL SPIRITUAL ENERGY is like. You sometimes run across a person who seems normal and he maybe is, except that if you dig a little deeper, there is always something going on that no one back in Maryland would talk about but here they do. It’s hard to see how anyone could stand it all the time, like riding naked on a big electric eel or having root canal therapy on your soul.

But sometimes something clicks. Sometimes in the chaos, there is evolution. The energy is undeniable, at least, and some find they’re addicted to violent, flaming, metaphorical death. This can be a great boost to artists and creative types who find a way to hold their lives together.

So now I’m almost in a state where all excuses die, and this feels right. All the rest is crap, but maybe I’ll show up one day to wash the bird poop off the family gravestones and buy myself a boat. In the meantime, come on down and take a hike across the mesa.

I could show you things you wouldn’t believe.

Related posts:

1. Horse Fly Column, 10/04: “Windshield”
2. Horse Fly Column, 1/05: “Brown Sheets”
3. Horse Fly Column, 1/04: “Island”
4. Horse Fly Column, 5/05: “Yells-At-Nothing”
5. Horse Fly Column, 7/07: “Message for the Fourth”