Sitting in front of World Cup Espresso
Cafe in Taos at the corner of Paseo del Pueblo Sur and Kit Carson,
watching the traffic and the other people sitting on the bench
staring out rather blankly towards the intersection, with
intermittent conversation interrupting the meditation. There's not a
cloud in the sky, so far as I can see from here in the shade behind
the spiral-carved tree trunks supporting the awning of the World Cup.
Passing pedestrians present a variety of people drawn to this
locale and local to it, from wild-west long-hairs to poncho and
Prada-toting New Yorkers, Spanish children of the Conquistadors and
Taos Pueblo descendants of the Anazasi, who have lived here for a
thousand years. The little hogan-style store that sells strings of
chiles swinging in the breeze and roasted chiles around harvest time
is still open, a dozen or two garlands of red peppers pendulously
swaying and shimmering in the sunshine.
I much miss Cafe Tazza, though I was
told it might (again) reopen. With a courtyard next to a bookstore
surrounded by an adobe wall, as well as ample seating, it was a sure
place to meet the local color. The Coffee Spot, formerly known as
The Bean, is still open for business, as are the Mesa hippies who sit
in the yard to the side of the coffeehouse sometimes selling Taos Big
Bud and other strains of home-grown cultivated across the Rio Grand
Gorge in a community of earthships and broken down school buses that
has been affectionately described as “the largest free-range insane
asylum in North America.”
Dinner and Hanuman Chalisas at the
Temple last night blessed my soul, as every visit ventured to said
sacred place, a Hindu ashram in the high desert of New Mexico. The
new Mandir (temple), which unfortunately won't be open until Hanuman
Jayanti (the celebration of Hanuman's Birthday), bears a dome
surrounded by windows, and I'm supposing does correspond to the
parameters proffered by tradition. An ornate carved wooden double
door evocative of both Indian temple doors and southwest Spanish
inspired style graces the entrance to what shall surely be site of
many blissful mantras intoned and many epiphanies and blessings
bestowed by the Monkey God and other expressions of the Divine. The
current temple room and house for Hanuman will always hold a sacred
place in my memories, but the new Mandir will certainly serve better
as a sacred space for the satsang.
A silver-haired silver-bearded
long-hair with a crumpled and stained cowboy hat just strode by with
a cane and leashes in hand, with two happy dogs in tow (else perhaps
leading the way). A pretty and smartly dressed brunette wearing a
pair of large sunglasses just passed and smiled, and I'm not
disinclined to believe twas Julia Roberts, though I will admit I've
been sort of expecting to see her here in Taos. The other day,
sitting in my motor home and smoking a spiked cigarette and a bowl
and likely sipping on my hash pen, I thought a woman walking by on
the sidewalk on Paseo and chatting with a companion sounded like her,
too, I must admit, though I am fairly certain I did see her once at
the Hanuman Temple, her hair covered in a scarf drawn loosely around
her face as a seeming slight attempt at disguise, as she's touted to
be a devotee of the Guru of the house.
The woman in question just emerged
from the coffeehouse, and I'm slightly bummed to note it was not
Julia Roberts, alas . . .
Next day, and surprise: I'm sitting at
another coffeehouse, Taos Java. I parked da beast in the Walyworld
parking lot across the street last night to endeavor to maintain some
semblance of a low profile, as parking on the main drag in a 24 foot
motor home too many nights in a row, despite likely not illegal in
terms of the parking, might be in terms of the camping. I used to,
duly I might note, very much diss on Walmart, as their labor
policies have been and almost certainly still are rather unfair to
the workers (if not relatively atrocious) and their goods too often
come at the cost of human rights abuses, though they did raise the
starting wage of workers to $11/hour recently. The goods they bring to some
communities do allow a slightly higher standard of living, to some,
though the presence of a Walmart almost always means a loss of some
local businesses. They do, most often, provide free overnight
parking, a service to gypsie-style folks like me as well as to
families and retirees on vacation, though obviously with the
intention of garnishing more of those people's business. Lastly, I
might note that the trust-funds that I live on, lest my book sales do
increase, are derived from money made from my paternal grandfather
having invested in Walmart since the 80s, as he was from Arkansas and
saw Sam Walton as just a good businessman from his home state who
provided access to an array of goods they might not have already had
in their communities. Like so much in life, an ironic mixture of blessings
and curses, justice and wrongs seems to make the world go 'round, and
for me, keeps my wheels rollin'.
Taos Java is a comfortable little
coffeehouse. A wooden French door cut with a sensuous curve at the
seem where they meet opens into an L shaped room with half a dozen
rustic log tables and however many rustic log chairs and a counter to
one side. As with many traditional adobe buildings, rows of log
beams hold up the ceiling, and curved passageways and corners give
the rust-red painted walls a softer feel than the choice of color
might otherwise. More than comfortable enough space to sip a coffee
or cappuccino and read a book or pen one.
The midterm election was the
day-before-yesterday, and it seems some semblance of balance has
returned to “the Force” in regards to American politics. Control
of the House is back in the hands of the Democrats, and I feel as if
a weight has lifted across the land, if still threatening to burden
us if we, the people, don't continue the fight to get or keep our
respective heads out of our asses.
I'm considering returning to
Manby/Stagecoach Hot Spring today or tomorrow, though the weekend
weather forecast calls for snow. The springs sit next to the Rio
Grand, a mile or two hike down into the Gorge, allowing one to sit in steaming hot mineral water with naught but a row of rocks seperating you from the icy torrent of the river. When I was there a few days ago, a herd of bighorn sheep
graced the bathers below with a show on the cliffs of the gorge
above, one pair of young rams stood intermittently grazing and staring at us from just across the river and a few dozen feet up the side of the gorge.
I'm ready to sit in the healing waters again already, but Sunday is Chalisa chanting and Indian food feast day at the
Hanuman Temple, however, and I don't wanna get stuck in the snow at the end of Tune Road, so
I'll likely wait out the weather and go back to the springs next
week, and wander the wonderland of winding roads and adobe of Taos
until then to see what wonder and magic I might meet...
Namaste