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Nobody’s complained yet, so here’s another lazuli bunting shot, this time with grosbeak interaction. How often do you see the back of one? For that matter, how often do you see a lazuli bunting in the first place? This is only the second one I’ve seen in my life, and he’s been around for a couple of days. I’ve seen a female, too. I hope they’re smart. Our cat sieves juncos like a baleen whale.

The funny thing is, I switched from straight sunflower seeds to the cheapest mix Ace had, because I’m basically just feeding squirrels, and looky what I got. The damn squirrel makes me mad, though. I look outside and there he is, with his cheeks bulged out like golf balls. (You drive down to the hardware store and spend your own ten bucks, you little bastard!) At just that moment I remembered that .22 caliber semi-automatic rifle I inherited, so he’d better fall back. Between the squirrels and the raccoons, it’s getting kind of desperate here. The air horn doesn’t hold them off for long, I can tell you that.

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Ah, well. For a moment I forgot I was an immortal glowing ball of light. There is another way, of course. Just allow more seed!

I mean, look what just showed up.

This afternoon as I was walking in the Terrible Goddamn Beauty—not a thing to yearn for, get it straight—it occurred to me that I should leave my Self alone. I don’t know why I haven’t thought of this before. Oh yes I do. At any rate, upon this innovation came a vision. It just popped right up in front of me. Basically I can now get back to work and have more fun. I may add more to this, so check back soon. At the very least, I’ll have another lazuli photo for you shortly.

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“Just write,” they tell me. “Just write.” Something wants expression and I’m the one to do it, but not for the last few weeks. Editing the soon-to-be published collection of blog posts I wrote during my mother’s final chaotic last four years on Earth precludes any letting go to be creative. It’s also like washing in sulphuric acid.

I went to bed last night wanting nothing more than to get the hell out of Taos, not that I knew where to go instead. Fifteen years is long enough, I told myself. Fifteen years of struggle and soul work, fifteen years of isolation. Whatever else it is, Taos is not a happy or a comfy place, and the deeper energy you may have heard about is not the kind of thing that makes you smile. Far from it! I have a theory that if you’ve never been obsessed with running away from here, you aren’t a true Taoseño. I guess I made it, then, and now perhaps I’ve grown to where I really could be anywhere.

Oh sure.

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Behold the historical record! Oh, the things that were so easy then, though you wouldn’t know it from that picture. It’s a scanned image of an old beat-up photo taken in Houston in late ’71. My father probably held the camera, which must have taken some fortitude on his part, something I haven’t recognized until this moment. Good on him, then.

The image goes with the relevant voodoo republishing of the post below, first uploaded in 2007 to my previous blog. I’ve written several versions of it since, and some of you may recognize the theme. Obviously the Arkansas adventure is on my mind, but the testimony coming up is perfect for the present moment here in Taos. Maybe wherever you are, too. Enjoy.

It was early November, 1971 in the Arkansas Ozarks. I was twenty-six and all alone on 170 acres of trees, rocks, fields, and streams on the side of a mountain surrounded by even more forest, cliffs, and hills that seemed to stagger on forever. Nixon was president, the war was raging, and I wasn’t going back to anything.

I’d never had an autumn quite like that. Living in the middle of the woods can give it to you, though: cold, damp, pungent, brilliant sun and icy frost, the smell of rotting leaves and ripe persimmons. I was most recently from Texas, where it didn’t do that, but the colors of the changing leaves, the smells, and even being so goddamned cold resonated mysteriously with early memories of other latitudes and continents, other lifetimes long gone by. I had real survival problems, however, no time for musing.

That region of the Ozarks was once much more populated. You could wander through the woods and sometimes find an old stone chimney and nothing more, just an unmortared flagstone chimney (or part of one) rising from the leaves among the dogwoods. My 8 x 16 foot shack was hard up against one of these, such that the large half-chimney and fireplace itself constituted the entire north wall, albeit with serious gaps on either side. There were other holes as well. My efforts at construction had been sporadic, and the seasons had overtaken me. Given the ventilation, I’d never felt anything warm from the fire. But a cold front was coming, and I decided to patch the openings any way I could.

With the last of my cash, I bought big rolls of plastic on a run to Fayetteville, then came home and stapled like a madman. I hand-sawed salvaged slabside lumber to fit between the chimney and the vertical posts at both north corners. I pounded rocks into the remaining gaps and covered all the seams with clay. When I was done with that, I gathered firewood.

That night it was thirty-three degrees with a howling wind, and the rain came down like Niagara Falls. Amazingly, my primitive carpentry had done the job: for the first time ever, I could feel real warmth from the old stone fireplace. After a meal of pancakes and apples, I sat with a kerosene lamp at my little fireside desk—a piece of scrap plywood the size of a cafeteria tray nailed to the “wall” at one end and held up by two pieces of 2 x 4 at the other—and it was like the entire universe was in my lap. The rain was crashing down on the bare tin roof in the pitch black wildness, there was no one around for miles, but I was warm and dry and—suddenly I realized—lacked for absolutely nothing.

A holy night, muchachos, and the battery’s still charged.