Moving right along with the Digital Potlatch, the following is one of the most appreciated Horse Fly pieces I ever wrote. Back in 2004, it looked for sure like there would be methane gas wells in the pristine Valle Vidal, and the real estate boom was on full-throttle here in Taos. This column was my response.
Windshield
Tumbling blindly through space toward a bug-splat rendezvous, they come. I came. More will.
“You won’t recognize this town,” goes the refrain, like a bullet to the brain. Indeed. But Taos is a midge, a gnat. It’s not just here, it’s everywhere the dingbat cretin white man’s heart decides a buck is better than a plaque beside the Pearly Gates. The collective mind is gone, but on we babble, like Alzheimer’s of the species, running on obsolete, corrupted software. We Anglo zombies aren’t in this all alone, of course. The Japanese never saw a whale they wouldn’t eat, Nambe Pueblo’s caved to Vegas, the Chinese think ecology’s for girlie-men. Here in Llano, people dump basura on the mesa, leave Bud Lite ATV-scat on the trails. (I found a bag today that even had a license plate. That’s traceable, you know.) So everybody’s guilty. It’s like we failed the test, and no one cares — enough to make you rape and steal, loot the store, and cram the chocolates in your mouth before the Big Guy pops your silly watermelon head.
Out in the world, mostly accidental pockets of clarity shimmer in the gloom. Indigenous wisdom accesses the dreamtime. Warriors hold bits of territory free, even in the city. The children know, and some grow up with memory intact. There’s something here like that, worth fighting for, that lifts the whole world to another level. I found a piece of it up north last week, along Costilla Creek. If you’ve never been to Valle Vidal, you probably shouldn’t go, at least not just to have a party. But if you’re curious and humble, it might just let you in, and you’ll be better for it.
This time I went farther up into the mountains than I’d ever gone. I found a dead-end road along a valley where I stayed at least an hour and never saw another soul. There were pine cones in the tops of spruces, where the chickadees went round and round. Bluebirds flitted here and there across the quiet grassy meadow. Birds I didn’t recognize went pecking in the creek, and a red-tailed hawk wheeled overhead. It was mostly cloudy, with a little bit of sun, and every now and then a shaft of light would hit the slopes and detonate a yellow aspen. The air was clean and pure. I felt an otherworldly sense of peace up there and didn’t want to leave.
As I watched the birds and listened to the water, I had the strongest sensation that they were happy. I don’t know how else to describe it. Not just in a decent mood, but deeply, firmly, solidly engaged with all around them in the way it ought to be. And then it hit me: this was someplace where the testing was still on, a windshield where the eye of God looked out and saw the way was clear. Pedal to the metal, baby. You’d think anyone would understand. Drivin’ that train, high on terrain. And air, and water, and all the gifts of creation not yet fouled and lost forever. Right here, right now, uncompromised, exalted.
The methane junkies want to blow it up for good. “New energy sources!” “Progress!” “You can’t fight change!” Except it isn’t change at all, just more of the same: the old calcified refrain, the babbling of a body left without a mind. Change would mean we paid attention to what was in our hearts instead of selling gas and jerky to roustabouts. Isolation’s done the work before, but too few of us to mess things up is just blind luck, not being smart. That’s shifting, so if you don’t want to fight, go find a beach somewhere. Moving to Taos to retire is like swallowing a live grenade for indigestion, anyway.
Bug-splat city, bug-splat nation, bug-splat world: when the Big Guy can’t see out, this buggy’s in the ditch.
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I’m really very lucky. This stuff is gasoline in my tank.
