We
took a meandering shot up Highway 25, zigzagging across the Rio
Grande to the WiFi-less outback.
Did
a pit stop in Belén. In English, that's Bethlehem. I wonder what
they do at Christmas time. A Mad Max-ish two-seater motor trike was
also filling up. A local newspaper announced that archeologists were
going to excavate their old mission.
New
Mexico is an archeological wonderland. And the homeland of a new
futurism.
A
truck labeled MAGICO LOGISTICS passed by. Actual, live bison grazed
in a fenced field. There were lots of pueblos, solar panels . . .
casinos . . .
Huge
ravens greeted us in Truchas.
Once
we unpacked, Em and I did quick run to Taos. I found all three
volumes of Eduardo Galeano's Memory of Fire trilogy.
There
was a new mural at the Wired? Cafe, and a Zen sand garden. The
times—among other things—are a-changing, to quote that Nobel-prize-winning dude.
While
taking pictures of some motel totem poles, I found a hidden mural of
an arrow-shot Billy the Kid.
The
next morning Hurricane Harvey hit Texas. Trump declared it a
disaster. And pardoned Joe Arpiao. And I thought we were out of
Trumpizona.
A
grasshopper had become the guardian of the farm house's front door.
We did a thrift store expedition to Española with it's creaky
buildings, treacherous staircases and dangerous parking lots. I snagged more
books and a Waco baseball cap with a cowboy riding a giant scorpion,
that suits my mood this year.
We
passed a place where you couldn't tell where the junkyard ended and
the parking lot began. Is this a brave new world, or an archeological
site? What kind of America did we come from? What are we building to
replace it?
Someone
had painted TRUMP in red circle-and-slash “no” symbol, with
marking that made it look like the New Mexico sun sign.
On another wall, in neat, black letters: IMPEACH!
Seems like we were always crossing a county line, or entering another Indian reservation, and stumbling into serendipitous photo ops.
Back
in Taos, we cruised Paseo Pueblo de Sur, that I like to think of as
Dumb Fucking White People Road. There's a hill where about twenty
years ago, our car stalled. I jumped out to push it. A car full of
Indian kids whizzed by, and one of them yelled, “Dumb fucking white
people!” Some people think I'm white, others think I'm black. Go
figure.
We saw vultures on Salazar Road, where the police had pulled over a guy with that aging New Mexico scallywag look about him.
There
were lots of white kids with dredlocks, man-buns, and/or mohawks. A
traditional counterculture, if you will. I wonder if it will survive
under Trump and the apocalyptic TV reports from Texas. Emily reminded
me, “The woo-wooism is strong in this one,” a wild storm sent
it's tentacles in from the hills, occasionally raining on us.
In Santa Fe, a cleancut
white boy carried a barbell-like thing that might be a post-modern
boom box.
The Super 8 Motel offered
“Law Enforcement Rates.”
I found out that the
Santa Fe Indian School's team was the Braves, and took a lot of
pictures of murals along Cerrillos Road.
The rain started to pour
once we got back to Truchas. The grasshopper had abandoned his post.
Sir, you do some cool cruising and trekking!
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