Hiking with Mr. Frodo

All is quiet on the glassy streets of Taos on the Friday night after Turkey Day. I saw not one car as I made my way home from the Plaza. Snow coated the trees and cars, and melt water dripped from canales and slid down the streets by the curbs. A moonless affair, vaporous clouds bellying down near the tops of the still, dark stained trees. Not yet hard winter, but thick with moisture, a mulchy scent of sweet decay kicking up from my boots. My cheeks are cold to the touch, and the bubaha of scattered talk still rings in my ears.

And now it's the next evening, Saturday. I'm down from the mountain and still feel its heartbeat in my ears. My fiddler, I looked for her, in the red willows, and snow muddied trail, in the mineral smell of winter, and amber dipped tops of the trees spraying out their tips to the western light, in that glistening at the tips, in that whir of wind, in the frosted wheat covering of the green humps that lately had fed my eyes, in the pump of my own calf muscles, the outside strength and inner frailty, the snapping twig of my ankle, and finally, in my prayer, shirtless yet warmer than when dressed with my heat coiling around me, to the four directions, but especially the North, my compass. And she was not there, not in sight, or in skipping, no more dipping shoulder. The lullaby went in, and I could hear instead the ahhh, ahhh of wind rising up the pinon forest and swirling at the ridge, and the shhhhhh, shhhhhh, of its downbreath. I scanned in all directions and in all I saw worlds different. I wanted them all; wanted them bad. Give me brush and give me pen, give me sticks in the dirt; don't let me forget. I must have it. And like Frodo and the others, I fought with myself up there, alone, in the trees, the sun melting into a lavender serpent skirting the desert. All of those colors, those clouds, the spiked peak defiant and suddenly white, the semi-circle of mountains turned blue by the snow, the snow squalls crossing the desert and entering the canyons, some in bendy funnels lightly touching the land, some in wide brushes dropping down in bulk to sweep and wipe, and all of this lit by the westering sun throwing light on the sheer layer of cloud above me to create a depth of blue of both darkness and light, of royal and robins egg, periwinkle and indigo, and, improbably, powder, all of this, and ridiculously much more. I wanted it and wanted it, and felt the obsession take me, like hunger, I was hungry, literally, could eat a bowl of pasta as a substitute, a big heaping fucking bowl of pasta with thick cheese melting into it, and sausage chunks to be found deep in the tangles. But that wouldn't have done it, and either would a shot of bourbon or a line of good cocaine. And I thought of those things, too, and why I'm not doing any of that now, and what that really means, if anything. I realized I don't fully know, that I'm on auto pilot that has some kind of listening to it. All of that was happening just as I was putting my layers back on and remembering the cold. I remembered, too, the nudge by the girl at the world cup, that young blonde one from many late nights who knows those people, it was more of a squeeze; a birthday, she said, someone's birthday and I should give her a call tonight. I thought of that up there. Not that I'm interested in her in her tight tights and frosted lips, but I wanted all of that she represents; the wildness, the abandon of the alcohol and then the drugs, and the possibilities and the 360 degree array of people and the turnons they engender, the teeth-clenching, nostril flaring, flanks rustling, freakin stallions leaning over the glass table and then finding their way to the back rooms, unexpected rubbings leading to madmaxed eyes, and a pairing up of people gone all frogs-legs on each other, and I could be one of them (or both of them, or all of them!). And I wanted that, but I was up there in the woods with the Elvish and Kate Blanchette showed me the mirror, she knew I'd just prayed for guidance to the four directions, and I saw it and felt it; the day after, the come down, the low down, the lost man, the bereft motherfucker, and I was blown back on my proverbial ass, a cough and a gag, and still holding the fucking ring. So, no going there, Mordor; "too bad that" I heard in some parts of my Kansas, but I made it through Dodge City, and, fuck, maybe I'll go back, but I don't have enough oreos right now. And I'm back to looking and wanting that view for myself, to keep, to tell, to show, to rub myself raw on the misty mountains, take that little red bush on the side of the trail home to sit on my coffee table, sniff that briny, piny, cidery scent and can the motherfucker. Yes, I was getting scatalogical, not an uncommon state, even to myself. And I was laughing, too. I'm a funny motherfucker, mostly to myself, but some have seen and felt it. It's all ridiculous, and even that word makes me laugh. But back to whatever this is - things were calming down, the bowl of pasta polished, the stallions passed by, the hardon letting loose. "Let go, let go, let go. Just fucking let go." That's what I heard. The crows had been silent the whole friggin time, leaving me with my own personal Tolkien when I was feeling more like Chekhov or even Tom Robbins, for chrissake. But the Tolkien was the bigger, the more fantastical, and that's what I'm about right now, fantastical. I see worlds in everything, the rocks, the sky, the desert ocean. And it's an epic, a full on mad epic. And here I am still on the top of the mountain and it's getting dark, time for the epic to get the fuck home and eat some real pasta with chicken, not some metaphorical meal to keep me from thinking about doing drugs and how this New Mexico sky has so much in it that it reflects every little and big thing, and that it is a drug to me right now, and I'm obsessed by it. And I want it too much, and I have to let it go. Everything is reflecting everything, right? It's too much, so I'm snapped out, just in time, not by Frodo or Aragorn or Sam or whoever Kate Blanchette was (she was gorgeous.......alright, stop, stop...), but by an ambulance way down below in the realm of man sound. It's sad, that warbling sound, and grating, and doesn't riff well with the wind, but it gets me on my way, down and down, feeling ok, in myself I guess, and still hoping the fiddler will show up, maybe on a warmer day.