Rain Man Arrives in El Paso
Posted: June 16th, 2016, 1:28 pm
A few days ago it started to rain heavily—again. Muddy mammoths rumbled into the motel lot at Tonopah and blotted the sky from my window. Their grilles came up to three-quarters the height of the eave, and next morning they fired their big diesels to go out and fix things in the big empty; I can't imagine what. And after they were gone I sat on the couch and watched the angry sky, as if watching millions of years of geology unfold in minutes; the dark collision zones and dream-spun puff bluffs to outrageous heights; white canyon rifts scraping and converging, coming apart. It blew over for a while and attacked again. Rigs sloshed past on Main Street.
......I wanted no part of that murk, so I rolled south to escape, but squalls lined up across basins like enemy columns and buffeted the truck, as the radio droned on about a "drought." Yes, drought in the desert. Who saw that coming? Turn the damn thing off. I want that drought. I came here for the drought. And heat. And visions of a hard, Biblical desert roamed by reclusive seers with long beards. I ran south, then east, deeper into the desert, toward Texas Ned’s place. Murk may beat the coastal ranges, but not West Texas, not now.
...... But as I roll into El Paso it is socked in with the same clammy rain-scape of dismal seaports up north. I can't outrun murk in a desert drought for godssake; the mud followed me all the way to Texas. The locals buy me drinks and rejoice. It must be a trick, but I'll take the offer; it will take all of my new rain powers to break this drought. But the desert is clearly annoyed by this deluge, wasted in dirty foaming torrents and overflowing culverts. Gawd, what have I done?
......Ned’s porch is how you'd picture a Southwestern artist pad, with a cactus garden and heavy timber door hung by massive hinges, like the door to an old adobe jail that once held Billy the Kid. I rap the big iron door knocker, and Ned lets me in. The house is fascinating, maze-like and full of wrong turns and art, with added-on studios through old window frames. On a shelf lies Frida Kahlo's biography, self-portrait on the cover. She wears a thorn necklace, her dark serenity staring from a colorful Mexican jungle.
......In Ned’s bunker I find a Wall of Books, literally, floor to ceiling. The old, battered computer that sent his poems the crazy poet screen is half-buried in notepads. He is painting a tall canvas when I show up.
......"What is it?"
......"A totem."
......"I didn't see it."
......"It's upside-down."
......My new rain powers impress Ned too, so he buys me a Pacifico at the cantina. None of that stout northern Fatherland stuff. On TV, radar blotches swirl like Pollock throwdowns on the Weather Channel, all harmless until the war special comes on, and a sandstorm pounds a mighty tank column before the desert rain. But I will personally bring this drought to its knees and drench unquenchable land; send gloom to drape its lava flows and sandstone walls, its Conquistador ruins and all those Anasazi cliff homes and kivas so abruptly abandoned eight hundred years ago, mysteriously. Was it a drought? I could fix that now. I could turn this desert into cabbage farms if I stuck around.
......“What’s with all the rain? It’s been weeks now.”
......“Don’t begrudge us a little rain, tree-dweller.”
......“It’s like home: dull, wet gloom. I can’t outrun it.”
......“Change your lens for godssake. Try the Navajo lens.”
......“The Navajo?”
...... “The veins of Mother Earth are being recharged.”
...... “But I was rusting up there; growing webbed feet.”
...... “A season of blowing dust could cure that.”
...... “But I’m coming in pretty thoroughly soaked.”
...... “Springs are clouds, arches are rainbows, a snake is lightning.”
...... “The Navajo lens?”
...... “Earth reflects sky.”
...... “Rock and sky…”
...... “Or maybe the Hopi lens.”
...... “The Hopi?”
...... “You’ll become a cloud when you die.”
...... “I’ll get lost in a dark gray ocean of them.”
...... “To share your life-giving rain with kin.”
...... “I make rain now; I don’t have to wait.”
...... “You do a little dance?”
...... “It just follows me.”
...... “But you might be a speeding puff.”
...... “What?”
...... “I mean, after you die.”
...... “You think so?”
...... “Running from ridge to ridge.”
...... “My strange idea of freedom.”
...... “This drought was pretty bad.”
...... “What is drought in a desert?”
...... “Damn good question.”
......I wanted no part of that murk, so I rolled south to escape, but squalls lined up across basins like enemy columns and buffeted the truck, as the radio droned on about a "drought." Yes, drought in the desert. Who saw that coming? Turn the damn thing off. I want that drought. I came here for the drought. And heat. And visions of a hard, Biblical desert roamed by reclusive seers with long beards. I ran south, then east, deeper into the desert, toward Texas Ned’s place. Murk may beat the coastal ranges, but not West Texas, not now.
...... But as I roll into El Paso it is socked in with the same clammy rain-scape of dismal seaports up north. I can't outrun murk in a desert drought for godssake; the mud followed me all the way to Texas. The locals buy me drinks and rejoice. It must be a trick, but I'll take the offer; it will take all of my new rain powers to break this drought. But the desert is clearly annoyed by this deluge, wasted in dirty foaming torrents and overflowing culverts. Gawd, what have I done?
......Ned’s porch is how you'd picture a Southwestern artist pad, with a cactus garden and heavy timber door hung by massive hinges, like the door to an old adobe jail that once held Billy the Kid. I rap the big iron door knocker, and Ned lets me in. The house is fascinating, maze-like and full of wrong turns and art, with added-on studios through old window frames. On a shelf lies Frida Kahlo's biography, self-portrait on the cover. She wears a thorn necklace, her dark serenity staring from a colorful Mexican jungle.
......In Ned’s bunker I find a Wall of Books, literally, floor to ceiling. The old, battered computer that sent his poems the crazy poet screen is half-buried in notepads. He is painting a tall canvas when I show up.
......"What is it?"
......"A totem."
......"I didn't see it."
......"It's upside-down."
......My new rain powers impress Ned too, so he buys me a Pacifico at the cantina. None of that stout northern Fatherland stuff. On TV, radar blotches swirl like Pollock throwdowns on the Weather Channel, all harmless until the war special comes on, and a sandstorm pounds a mighty tank column before the desert rain. But I will personally bring this drought to its knees and drench unquenchable land; send gloom to drape its lava flows and sandstone walls, its Conquistador ruins and all those Anasazi cliff homes and kivas so abruptly abandoned eight hundred years ago, mysteriously. Was it a drought? I could fix that now. I could turn this desert into cabbage farms if I stuck around.
......“What’s with all the rain? It’s been weeks now.”
......“Don’t begrudge us a little rain, tree-dweller.”
......“It’s like home: dull, wet gloom. I can’t outrun it.”
......“Change your lens for godssake. Try the Navajo lens.”
......“The Navajo?”
...... “The veins of Mother Earth are being recharged.”
...... “But I was rusting up there; growing webbed feet.”
...... “A season of blowing dust could cure that.”
...... “But I’m coming in pretty thoroughly soaked.”
...... “Springs are clouds, arches are rainbows, a snake is lightning.”
...... “The Navajo lens?”
...... “Earth reflects sky.”
...... “Rock and sky…”
...... “Or maybe the Hopi lens.”
...... “The Hopi?”
...... “You’ll become a cloud when you die.”
...... “I’ll get lost in a dark gray ocean of them.”
...... “To share your life-giving rain with kin.”
...... “I make rain now; I don’t have to wait.”
...... “You do a little dance?”
...... “It just follows me.”
...... “But you might be a speeding puff.”
...... “What?”
...... “I mean, after you die.”
...... “You think so?”
...... “Running from ridge to ridge.”
...... “My strange idea of freedom.”
...... “This drought was pretty bad.”
...... “What is drought in a desert?”
...... “Damn good question.”