Friday, November 19, 2010
Periodically, the memory of living in New Mexico asserts itself, and today happens to be the day for the Tesuque tribe to nod it's place in my memory. I will not romance the conditions of the tribe: dirt floors, urination anywhere, any time, enhanced, by the mongrel population for maximum racket and overall unrest in the camp. Afterbirth, questionable water sources, a sort of laisez faire attitude combined with the ravages of alcoholism, all in the name of need for whiskey and ammunition, scavenging petrol, fighting over the jug, with a huge tolerance for squalor, numbed to the cries and screams of the night. The night grows numb, and dim, and the day fades to the spectaculour colors of the sandstone bluffs, crumbling inexorably into the arroyos, shifting out of the wind, without the possibility of shelter. The impossible light finally drags its paint can to sleep, as the howls of coyote finish the day.