The green out here is grey. The sage and acacia and saguaros covered with a film of dust hundreds upon hundreds of years old, baking under the desert sun. And perhaps it is because I have begun reading Luis Alberto Urrea’s Devil’s Highway that I am seeing the earth more scorched. My eye starts squinting for bones amongst the cactus patches. Mauve and yellow cliffs might offer the only shade in the distance and I imagine more remains below them. A cat nap that turns into the long sleep in this damned heat. Everything is noxious and spiked, the plants and the nocturnal animals. A poisonous landscape that equally provides salvation and desolation for those that try to cross the border between Mexico and these Southern States. As I begin reading about the “biggest die-off, the largest death event in border history,” I am taken with the high, wide and lonesome afternoon. I am trying to see past the torture and rape and beatings and starvation that accompany the first chapter and I am given some easy scapegoats in the scenery. Signs for crystal shops and old chapels and pueblo houses and New Age Vortex healings for desert hippies and aliens, too, landed out here, didn’t they? There are answers for anyone in these parts. Amongst the meth and cacti and red dirt and animal skulls and peyote buttons and drying chiles, New Mexico offers itself as “The Land of Enchantment.” It is hard to deny the natural spirituality of our environs as we listen to Meat Puppets II in its drug-drenched excursions into the surreality of the American South West. During our rest stops we start to feel kinship with the indigenous tribe of the Zia people; our mouths offering a paltry drool with our bodies incapable of keeping up with hydration and our cloudy heat-addled brains begin to see clearly and find their answers absolute: The sun is everything. By the time we’ve reached Santa Fe, we are no longer atheists exactly. There must be meaning to all this beauty. We’re just not sure which gods and demons and desert angels and apparitions are the most just with their offerings but we’re certain we’re on a journey to finding out. We are aided by the soothing waters of the Santa Fe Inn and further guided by the margaritas at Maria’s. We become very certain very quickly that this agave liquor has some solutions. Back at the Inn, the sun has gone and the desert winds picked up where she has left us. There are no stars brighter. The chill sends us into a sauna and a hot tub and we talk into the night, inventing our own creation stories. Answered only by cicadas and the occasional bat passing. All the answers I’d ever need. I realize. Here and now.
In downtown Santa Fe, we are given insight into some of the areas regional problems with heroin as junkies shoot up in the bathroom stalls or find rest, curbside, in the shade of cars. We muse that the landscape must not differ much from the plains of Afghanistan really. There is no city I have seen more populated by art galleries and jewelry stores and craft markets. I immediately wish I could afford everything for everyone I love. My stepmom would love these big silver bracelets with their hand hammered bear claws and water symbols. My stepdad could surely find use for one of these copper guitar picks. My mom would love the symbolism of these stitched and restitched eyes of these immense dream catchers. My brother would tonk the heads of his kids with these fluorescent tomahawks. My sister has always looked her best in dazzling leather jackets and big belt buckles. My Dad would affably challenge the epic story-telling of the Navajo elder we talk with at length. We peruse the handmade wares of the native communities that have gathered in the city square and discuss their journeys here and the differences in their motifs from the ones we know from our East and West coast reserves in Canada. Santa Fe might bear the burden of spirit quests gone too far – surely booze and meth and heroin have led the best-intentioned astray from time to time – but it also fosters a community of unique minds. I feel inspired and taken, full of ideas and dreams.
At Sante Fe Sol, I feel obliged to do something meaningful with all the transcendent visions New Mexico has given me. The people who have gathered, for our show, out in the desert suburbs, are like us and unlike us – they have different answers but we are all on the same search. A fan schools Dan about peyote usage. She looks like we should trust her… In fact, respect her. Another fan is dressed to kill, and amongst her equally sexy sisters, she is here with the conviction that booty-shaking will solve the worlds riddles. After the show I redraw my own tattoo on her forearm because she too wants to be both greater and less than herself. (>