At the Aztec

Downtown Subscription was in many ways my favorite Santa Fe cafe in the summertime since I could sprawl out in an Adirondack in their beautiful garden. Sometimes it was like a visit to Mt. Rushmore, surrounded by the stone faces of the moneyed Acequia Madrefuckers. Aztec Cafe was a nice alternative when the weather turned, with an atmosphere and clientele reminiscent of my old pre-Japan boho days, a time when cafes were for tucking into books or passing hours in deep chit-chat. Sad now that most people today are apt to sit alone, with their noses pressed close to a glowing piece of fruit.

It was at the Aztec where I was introduced to many of Santa Fe's characters, though I never learned their names, nor even spoke to them. Behind the safety of my book, I'd sit and listen to their tales and woes, learning a side of the city I rarely saw while kowtowing to the moneyed elite to earn my bread and butter. And I'd see these guys around town: the small guy with the limp; the homeless king with his bicycle and dog; the mustacheo'd 'Zapatista' with his ever present cane. One day I lingered in the toilet of the Aztec in order to eavesdrop on a Tarot reading. Another memory also revolves around the toilet, when I got involved in a rather elaborate game of tug of war with the bathroom door with a woman apparently deep into Alzheimer's. Time seemed to stop, and when the door was finally opened, we stood there looking at one another, caught up in the now.

Yesterday, I intended to drink my final Santa Fe coffee at the Aztec, but arrived to find that it had closed down in early January. I wonder where the truly interesting characters will go now, in a city where eccentricity seems contrived, frustratingly bound to market value.


On the turntable: Soundgarden, "Soundgarden"

Overheard at Downtown Subscription

Out on the patio, a financially-comfortable looking couple has been sitting and drinking their coffee for a while, not speaking. She breaks the silence.

"What'd you buy?"
"A book."
"For Jerry?"
"I don't want to talk about Jerry right now."
"I don't intend to."
"I bought it as an act of kindness."


On the turntable: Treat Her Right, "Tied to the Tracks"

Sunday Papers: Native American Proverb

"We do not inherit the earth from our ancestors; we borrow it from our children."


On the turntable: Joy Division, " Substance"

Signs of the Times

Crossing Isleta land. A weathered sign for "Kerry/Edwards, '04." Another sign, one of those obsequious blue "Adopt a Highway" types that extend nearly as far as the roads themselves. This particular stretch is maintained by the "Atheists & Freethinkers of New Mexico." Wonder what they make of that bizarre new Zionist sign outside Bernalillo, the one with the US, Israeli, and New Mexico flags.

And I roll on...


On the turntable: The Who, "Whos' Last"

(Untitled)

Flashing Jetliner,
Cuts across Orion's belt.
Delusions of Eternity

On the turntable: Tommy Bolin, "Teaser"

Sunday Papers: Hunter S. Thompson

"Politics Is The Art of Controlling Your Environment."


On the turntable: Steely Dan, "Katy Lied"

Migrants

As we pack up (again!) and near our return to Japan, I remembered something from a walk on the Dale Ball trail not long after our leaving Upaya. Miki suddenly felt quite sad, thinking that our old Japanese dressers would be forced to stay forever in the States. Born a hundred years ago, they spent their formative years in the home country, then went overseas in late life. Like many immigrants, they underwent a one-way trip to a land where they're destined to live out their days.


On the turntable: Nirvana, "Nevermind"
On the nighttable: John Pen La Farge, "Turn Left at the Sleeping Dog"