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So many dreams lately, so many dreams… Last night in an Irish pub while I waited for my wife and our little blonde-haired daughter, the warmest, friendliest bartender I ever met handed me a stack of coins and said, “Everybody feels better with a little cash…” Out of the blue this was. I hadn’t been acting poor or anything. Thinking about it later made my day, and I remembered that I’m Irish and not some dour Welshman likw my family pretended all those years. Well, Irish, French, and German, with a few Scotsmen in there, too. So of course I had to buy some lotto tickets.

I hadn’t driven the ’87 Ford F-150 in several weeks because it’s damn near impossible to shift unless I kill the engine, move the stick, and start her up again. That makes it kind of difficult to drive. I used to think this had to do with needing a new hydraulic cylinder for the clutch, so every time I had to go somewhere, I’d pump the pedal furiously ten or twenty times to build up enough pressure to disengage the thing, or so I thought. That never really worked. But letting the damn thing sit for weeks has had a salutary effect! Today I was able to get it into reverse with just a little grinding and into first as well by holding the pedal down so hard you’d think the floor would buckle. This phenomenon is known locally as el milagro del embrague and only happens on a new moon.

The best thing about driving an old truck on our ridiculous fraud of a road is that all I have to do is hang on to the steering wheel like it was part of me and I can go as fast as I want. This meant I reached my favorite gas station mini-mart in record time and even bought some gas. The tank should have held something less than seventeen gallons but took on eighteen and a half, so someone’s getting by. I chose a Powerball ticket (with PowerPlay) and two New Mexico Roadrunner cash numbers like I usually do. As I handed the lady my five-dollar bill, I noticed a pretty new red scratch card called Dia de Los Muertos. I have to say they had me there, so after I walked out to the truck, I turned around and went back in to score one. It cost two dollars and had a top prize of ten grand, which seemed only fair.

I waited all day long until cocktail hour to scratch the “play area” like it told me to—ten whole chances to win, I think—and would you believe, I skunked it! But it was red and had a skeleton on it and I didn’t mind. The other tickets are on the table and the nice man’s in my head. Tomorrow maybe I can start my day without reading about Donald Fucking Trump and write a story no one’s ever heard. That’s the actual lotto anyway, as no man can deny.

I can’t remember the last time I had my hair cut. Let’s just say it was really long! And of course I’m shedding. Everybody does, but our poor carpet… Anyway, I did it. There’s still plenty, anyway. Besides, I needed a kick in the ass. I wanted to look different, but there was also the hope I might act differently for once. Does that really happen, I wonder? I mean, you look at a person who looks a certain way and tend to make assumptions, which in my case would be pretty much correct, but now you might be wrong—just a wee bit, anyway.

You know what tipped me over the edge? I was already wavering about the ponytail because like with tattoos, long hair has lost most meaningful tribal identity associations. It used to be that great long hair meant you were a hippie, a biker, a crazy musician, a Native wannabe, or perhaps just another gray-haired Taoseño with a ponytail. I once had someone in Santa Fe tell me, “You must be one of those old Taos guys!” He actually thought he was being complimentary, but at the time it hurt my feelings. And now? Look at that Duck Dynasty bible hoodlum or Donald Trumps idiot doctor! (The latter is the one who did it for me.)

I’m still Juan and still in shock. And now let’s get to work!

Here, have a Johnson Mesa view from my trip to northeast New Mexico almost two weeks ago. The mesa is one of the strangest places I’ve ever been and well worth your time. I probably won’t be back there anytime soon, however, unless I can figure out a way to visit Capulin Volcano without staying or eating in Raton. For the record, the abandoned barn above is emblematic and more favorably situated. I tried to swap our lodgings with the cows, but they refused!

See if you can pick out the males. They weigh twice as much (2,000 pounds!) and have bigger humps. Keep in mind these animals can run at forty miles per hour, too, then imagine Native warriors chasing them down on horseback with lances or bows and arrows—and on foot for centuries before Spanish horses ran wild… This is our country. This is America.

We came across these beasts about five miles east of Cimarron on the return leg of my birthday trip to Capulin volcano. There were almost three dozen in all. Obviously a rancher’s private herd (most had ear tags), since they don’t roam free these days—more’s the pity—but that made no difference. I hit the brakes at sixty miles per hour and pulled to a stop. The presence of the animals was staggering for what they meant to me. The Utes, Comanches, and other tribes considered them sacred signs of the Creator’s plan. They represent prayer and abundance. Last Wednesday morning, it all washed over me. After very carefully approaching the fence some distance from the herd, I took a great many photos before returning to the car, where I sat in the driver’s seat and started to cry. This was about more than buffalo, but very much related. I don’t know if I can ever get that across or whether I should even try.

It has to to with finding the way back. Not historically, but spiritually. (The landscape of New Mexico has much the same effect.) For me, it’s as if my life has come full circle and I’m free again. Don’t let anybody tell you that can’t happen, and leave some markers on the way.