Here I am again, back at the Anaconda Bar, in the El Monte Sagrado hotel in Taos, New Mexico, listening to Jimmy Stadler and Don Conoscenti playing “Moon River,” which they’ve dedicated to the bartenders Dexter and Rushan. A woman walks past wearing a bejeweled T-shirt with the words, “Wild West.” My mind drifts to earlier conversation in which a local mentioned that the midwife here packs a 357 Magnum under her front seat (for the rattlesnakes?). I thought to myself, “Honey, you are in the Wild West!” As opposed to Santa Fe, or “Fantase,” as artist Felipe Ortega calls the city an hour south of here, land of velvet broomstick skirts, cowboy boots and Wild West T-shirts.
The café gallery where I was so inspired on my last trip has closed but the friendships I made within those four walls seem to have generally survived. And the surge in creativity that I experienced before has happened again, albeit not as strong as before. I feel the absence of what Julia Cameron calls a “fuse lighter,” the person whose enthusiastic support of our artwork fuels our own creative fires.
While I’ve been somewhat less productive this visit (5 paintings instead of 12), I’ve done more exploring. I’ve seen the awesome Rio Grande Gorge and the bridge that crosses it, the second highest cantilevered bridge in the U.S., and the Earthships, a fanciful term for the housing development outside of town employing sustainable rammed earth construction methods and recycled materials, notably old tires. I’ve soaked in the mud bath and iron pool at Ojo Caliente, one of the oldest hot springs in the country. I discovered that I’m allergic to some part of the juniper plant, although I’ve had no trouble imbibing gin and tonics. And most nights of the week, I’ve gone dancing to music played by bands both local (Tijerina from Albuquerque) and international (MindFlow, Brazilian progressive rock).
I’ve gotten more used to driving my Beetle down dirt roads and, ironically, being out in the country has encouraged me to embrace my inner glamour puss, thanks to Eliza, owner of The Muse, an eco-lingerie shop. I’ve also felt myself slow down here, feeling my body and my emotions more, a healing process that continues to unfold.
And then there is the sacred Taos Mountain, which exerts a gentle but inexorable pull. I am not surprised when another local tells me that beneath the mountain are metal deposits so dense that they can be detected from space by U.S .government satellites. I too, am relieved when he goes on to say that, fortunately, the Red Willow people of Taos Pueblo aren’t about to let anyone close enough to the mountain to investigate.
When I was here before, more than one person told me that the mountain either accepts or rejects newcomers. In the three weeks since I arrived this time, I’ve been trying to guess how she feels about me. The night my glasses break, followed by my digital camera and new sunglasses disappearing, I thought that might be a sign that she wanted me to leave. Then a woman from Taos Pueblo told me that the mountain accepts each in its own way, which gave me some hope; the camera and sunglasses resurface, the glasses get fixed.
Despite the complaints by old-timers that the town has changed and that it’s almost impossible to make a living, for me as an artist/writer with virtually no corporate experience, Taos seems to have more possibilities than the overcrowded metropolis of San Jose/San Francisco/Oakland (its official name). Perhaps it’s the wide-open spaces and big skies,, or that so many people here are also in the arts, or even that housing is a whole lot less expensive.
Other things, like drinks in this bar, which caters to tourists, are only slightly less expensive than at home. Of course, it’s all relative; to my son who lives in London, everything in the Bay Area is cheap. The upside is that unlike many small towns which wallow in provincialism, Taos has a uniqueness which draws visitors from all over the world, so that the person sitting next to you at the bar could just as easily be from Sydney as from Denver.
Unlike my last visit, where I sat in the Anaconda sipping a prickly pear margarita and feeling like an alien, I feel more like a local now. Instead of watching others, I’m participating, flirting with the bartenders, laughing with my friend, and dancing (but not the two-step). Instead of black, I’m wearing an aqua floral silk garment, one which is considered a dress here and in L.A. but a nightgown in Silicon Valley.
As Don sings “Beautiful Valley,” my heart resonates, and I wonder again if a girl from the Valley of Semi-Consciousness can find happiness in the valley of the Sacred Mountain.
A week later, I’m back in the San Francisco Bay Area, driving along Ashby Avenue in Berkeley. The stoplight turns red and I glance up, only to have my breath taken away by the sight of the hills dotted with houses and the blue sky streaked with clouds. A block or two later and to my right I see the Bay glittering in the distance, with the Pacific Ocean stretching beyond.
Where is home?
June, 2008
