Truth or Consequences, New Mexico, that is.

Such a friendly place...

For several years, I have obsessed about it, this tiny town in southwest New Mexico, ever since I wrote my first book on the state and found out how the place it got its name (taken from the TV show I used to watch, and recounted here). But more than the unique name, the town has hot springs; it actually was called Hot Springs before the allure of television’s bright lights prompted the rebranding. The history lessons say that warring Native American tribes saw the area as neutral turf, where all would come to enjoy Mother Nature’s warm, soothing, liquid bounty.

My always-photogenic traveling companion; and she tolerates my neuroses so well too!

We did as well this weekend, the SFS and I. We spent two days in the region, after I told Sharon of my fixation on the town, and since she had never been to that part of the state before either, we booked two nights at the luxurious Desert View Inn.

I am joking, of course. Not about staying at the Desert View; oh, we were definitely there. I mean about its luxury. The DVI comes in near the bottom of the list of the…less-posh accommodations I’ve had in recent years. Rather than dwell on the shortcomings, I’ll just mention the few saving graces: It was cheap. Very cheap, though with only a few exceptions, not much is very pricey in T or C (as it’s sometimes called). And the owner/host Hans, an English chap, was very nice. And his sweet daughter had a pet chicken that Sharon petted. That’s not something you can do at just any motel, nope. The bed, too, for such a bargain room, was pretty good, and we had a fridge, which is always appreciated. And the place was within walking distance of the Bedroxx Bowling Alley, though, unfortunately, it was closed when we attempted to bowl a few games on Sunday night. Also within walking distance was Raymond’s Lounge, a windowless establishment attached to the Circle K next door, which we did not try to check out. Though if I had known it had free pool and the best jukebox in town, I might have made a point of hitting its Sunday happy hour, which starts at noon.

My god, the first body of water I've seen in almost five months!

And a roadrunner!

The trip down to T or C was much quicker than we expected, even with a diversionary stop at the Bosque del Apache National Wildlife Refuge. The spot is famous as a stomping ground for cranes in December, before they continue their journey south for warmer climes. We saw ducks, geese, hawks, and a roadrunner (my first in NM), along with deer and wild boar—not something I was expecting to encounter.

The view of the Rio Grande and environs from our private bath.

Our afternoon in T or C brought us to the Riverbend Hot Springs, where we had our own private mineral bath overlooking the Rio Grande. Very relaxing, and the “private” meant we could enjoy the waters au naturel. For dinner, we went to the Café Groovy Gritz, a casual spot that also featured a band providing entertainment (two guitar-playing cowboys and a drum machine. Not quite like two turntables and a microphone). I amazed Sharon by suggesting we dance—twice—as the locals watched and no one else joined us on the floor. Anything to please and shock my honey. At one point, as I surveyed the cowboy-hatted, small-town crowd, I turned to her and said, “This is so not Connecticut.” And that is fine.

On the road to Silver City

The next day, we took a lovely scenic drive west to Silver City, an old mining town (though copper mining still goes on nearby) that has become something of a haven for artists. Or so we were led to believe. Yes, there were some galleries, and some antique stores, and one cool coffee shop, but we thought we would be stumbling into something…hipper. The people were nice, though, and Sharon found some milk glass at an antique mall, while I scored some old vinyl. On the way back, we took a longer, if not as sinuous, route, that brought us through Hatch, the chile pepper capital of the world (saying “chile pepper” is, of course, redundant here in NM, but I wanted to clarify for my East Coast readers).

On the road back to T or C

Back in T or C for the night, we ate at the one classy restaurant in town, Bella Luca, encountered the disappointment of the closed bowling alley, then turned in early. Today, it was a straight shoot back to Santa Fe.

Throughout the weekend, I was amazed—again—by the beauty of this state, with the mountains and the mesas and the clouds hovering seemingly within arm’s reach. And history too: Sharon read aloud about a man hanged three times in Shakespeare, NM (who knew?), a town we did not visit but was close by. And T or C, besides its unique name, supposedly hosted Geronimo at its springs, and is now one of the towns closest to Richard Branson’s commercial space endeavor, Virgin Galactic, at the new Spaceport. I continually marvel that this place so few Americans know much about is so filled with wonders. And I have not even begun to explore it. There will be more weekend excursions, I know. And the truth is, I can’t wait.

Four months! Yes, another anniversary of my arrival has come, and as usual with our perception of time, the period spent here seems both much longer than that, while also passing in an instant. I have quickly settled into various routines—walks to Trader Joe’s, buying the local paper for its art section on Friday, weekends and a “date night,” usually on Wednesdays, with the SFS. And the familiarity I already feel as I drive the neighborhood streets is both comforting and at times boring. No matter where you live, certain facets of daily existence quickly become mundane.

Some of that NM scenery (though not right here in Santa Fe...)

Richard Branson's Spaceport, the newest attraction near T or C

But there is nothing mundane about the scenery, which still seems to reveal new wonders each day, with the play of light and clouds and (for the winter, anyway) snow on the various mountains. I haven’t even taken the time to explore the natural wonders outside the city limits; I’m sure that will lead to even more natural beauty. And another excursion out of Santa Fe is in the offing: I will finally fulfill a years-old dream and go to Truth or Consequences! More on that sure to follow when I’m actually there.

What’s not routine, of course, is attending the opening of one of my plays, and tonight is the gala event, complete with drinks and hors d’oeuvres in the lobby for the patrons who shelled out a premium for the honor of hobnobbing with the writers and directors beforehand. Now, I am not one for much hobbing or nobbing, but I will be there.

The joint will be jumping...

We just got the word that it will be SRO in the theater, and everyone is hoping for a good show, to generate some buzz in town. As much as Santa Fe buzzes about theater. As several people have said, the City Different is about the visual arts first. Then comes music, and perhaps dance. Certainly the culinary arts. Theater seems to fall somewhere below origami and freeform Etch-a-Sketch. No matter. Everyone involved with Benchwarmers seems to be having a good time, despite the rough patch that was last night’s preview performance. The audience was sparse and comatose, never a good formula for a high-energy show. But we are counting on everyone punching it up tonight, and the house responding appropriately. If not—oh well. As I was reminded today in an unexpected email from the ex, life is too short, many things are beyond our control. Yup. And it won’t be all bad to walk away from the angst of producing this play; the hard work has been done; now it is what it is.

(Wait, did he just mention the ex in a sort of off-hand way? No explanation? No recounting of the roiling emotional state it must have spawned?)

Nah.

OK, just  a little: As tax time approaches, I figured there would be some correspondence, as each of us gets various documents related to the sale of the house. Today’s email was one of those: I have some tax docs for you, they’re in the mail. Now, seeing her name pop up in the ol’ in-box does still spur a jolt—a not-totally pleasant jolt. Probably akin to what one feels when sticking a wet finger in an electrical socket (yes, yes, hyperbole). But her tone was pleasant, chatty even, as she described some recent activities and asked me what was new. I talked about the play, of course, and how it’s been so long since I’ve been so involved with the process. Almost four years.

Amazing how that time in Chicago can seem so distant. How even her leaving can seem so distant. And apropos of anniversaries, the one-year mark since the divorce has come. And gone. I think it says something—something very positive—that the day passed without wringing a post out of me, or much emotion of any kind. That too, in a way, seems so far removed in time–and of course space—from where I am today.

Tonight’s gala will I’m sure go well. Or it won’t. As I said, my role is done, each show will be different, it will be what it will be. Que sera sera. But despite the occasional angst, I will miss the sense of excitement that putting together a show brings. Back to the routines, I guess. But here, more so than when I was back in CT, I feel like there’s always something around the corner that can add a little savor to life.

But certain facets of our personality are set in stone; perhaps decorated with some striking petroglyphs to pretty them up, but nothing expansive enough to hide the obvious. Like: I can get really thin-skinned, or insecure, or stressed out, about my perceived inadequacies. And God knows there are plenty of them.

The pic in question; yes, many of you have seen it before...

So, the recent reminders of those shortcomings. I joined a local photography group as a way to meet people and perhaps enhance my meager skills. As I’ve demonstrated over and over here and at my other blogs, I take photos, but not always well (and certainly not as well as I would like). Last week or so, I posted my first pic to the group’s webpage. I wasn’t expecting praise, exactly, because as I’ve quickly learned, most of the other members are pros or amateurs with keener eyes and better technical talents than I possess. But I guess I felt my shot wasn’t awful, so what the hell. And as it’s been so apparent over the years, I tend to have a clogged filter when it comes to keeping most facets of my life under wraps (which of course explains this blog and the defunct one.)

With all that, it still came as a bit of the blow when one member asked if I meant to have that hot spot. And didn’t I consult my histogram? Or perhaps I was trying to get another focal point? My internal response to all that: Uh, hot spot? Histo—WTF? And, yeah, sure, that’s it, another focal point. I said none of that in response, of course, just thanked him for pointing out that hot spot.

As I wrestled with the sense of diminished self-satisfaction this stirred, I took myself to task: You said you wanted to learn, right? To get better? Well?

Well, indeed. It might not have stung so much if this exchange hadn’t come in the midst of rehearsals for the play of mine that’s in the local theater festival (mentioned previously). There’s nothing like hearing your own words over and over to make you think, “Hey, this could suck” (and that is absolutely no reflection on the actors and director, who have been stellar). Then juxtapose your play with the others, which are funnier or subtler or have better costumes, and you (I) start to think: “Tell me why I write plays again?”

The actors at work.

No, I do know why. The writing process scratches some creative itch, the collaboration—when I get the chance to take part—makes me feel connected to other artists, and the production, when it goes well, is better than any illicit drug. But as some guy once said, there’s the rub: if it goes well. If the people laugh when they are supposed to and walk away from the performance feeling touched or stimulated in some way. But at this point in the rehearsals, I don’t know if that will happen, because of my words. My play could be the dog of the show.

And let’s be honest—I (I won’t speak for other writers) do put my words out there to touch people and get some kind of response, and maybe praise, in return. Just as with that un-histogramed pic of Callie. Writing for public consumption is about, at least in part, ego gratification. Maybe to compensate for something not gained in childhood, eh Dr. Freud? Or in other relationships since.

Which explains why a more recent part of this production left me feeling pretty damn inadequate again. I was one of several playwrights from the festival chosen to sit down with a reporter from the well-respected weekly arts section of the local daily. Quite the honor, especially since it was my first interview ever about my playwriting. So the finished product came out yesterday and—it was bad. Well, my part—all two or three sentences of it—was. The writer started with a factual error (after I had given him the right info) and then quoted just one line of all I said. And misquoted me on the first part, so that I sounded like an idiot. I mean, it just didn’t make sense. And if I really did say that, then he certainly did me no favors by including the inarticulate phrase I uttered while leaving the scintillating (haha) parts on the cutting-room floor.

Man, what an overly sensitive SOB I can be. Guilty as charged. I can step back, as time passes, and see how insignificant all this is. But in those stinging moments when this shit unfolds…ouch. The picture; well, that’s easier to dismiss. I have never defined myself as a photographer. But the play; that is a bitch. Especially when I already feel like this opportunity has not led to the increased social interaction I was hoping for away from the theater. I feel like everyone else involved already knows each other (largely true) and I’m the new kid in school who sits on the fringes and waits so eagerly to be invited to have lunch with someone. Doesn’t even have to be the cool kids. Just someone.

Again—pathetic, I know.

In what might be irony, a member of the photo group helped remind me why I keep playwriting, even with its frustrations (and that’s when something of mine actually gets picked for production; I haven’t even gone into the 95 percent of the time my work is rejected, which, oddly, I’m probably more at peace with at this point). The member sent out an announcement about an online video that explore the nature of art/creativity in the digital age. Yes, a lot of what people create for the Internet is not good, but it gives people an opportunity to express themselves. People can share their ideas and feelings so easily. Now, as we know from this blog, that is not always good.

Thinking about this “democratization” of self expression made me realize this: Theater will never be digitized. Thank god. Theater by definition involves real people performing live in front of other real people. I like that. Even if I don’t always like—or see too vividly the flaws in–the plays of mine that get staged. But I will keep doing it, and most likely repeat the angst of the last few weeks. But I might hold off on posting more photos. Except here, of course. No one here will ask me about my histogram, right? That seems like sort of a personal question anyway, doesn’t it? And god forbid I reveal anything personal…

Wait a minute? Tape?

Ah, the good ol' days--more or less...

It was more than 20 years ago, when I was working at Weekly Reader, that we writers often presented stories on the technology of the future. And around 1990 or so, one of those promised breakthroughs was video-on-demand, along with such perennial favorites as the flying-car-in-every-garage and computers built into your clothes. We haven’t done so well with the latter two, but as I’m sure you all know, video-on-demand is pretty darn ubiquitous, with DVDs and HDTVs streaming Netflix and a host of other services.

So the tapes went away; the digital signal seems to do ok, better than we might have imagined back then. Of course, this was the era of the 2400 baud modem and few online content providers–and no World Wide Web. Prodigy was one of those early dial-up services. Remember that? Most likely not, since so few people every got it, which meant they never got to see my weekly offerings on the SmartKids Quiz, part of WR’s ambitious if premature attempt to go online.

I thought of this the other night, as Sharon and I watched The Painted Veil through Amazon Video. The HD image was beautiful, the sound was great, and there wasn’t a single hitch in the streaming, unlike the problems we’ve both had trying to watch Netflix on our Sony products. Some Web searching turned up the fact that the problem is almost exclusively with Sony TVs/DVDs with the Netflix app, Sony knows about it, and has done nothing to fix it. A sign, many disgruntled customers said, of the quality decline at the once-storied electronics company.

So sad on several levels

So while I marveled at the cinematic experience we enjoyed, I thought about Sony’s problem, which reminded me that technology is not perfect. As several thousand people tragically learned this weekend, with the sinking of the Costa Concordia. How can something like that happen, I wondered, on a ship outfitted with the latest equipment? Good ol’ human error (or hubris) surely played a part. Every time I’ve voyaged, I’ve marveled at the engineering and technological accomplishment that is the modern cruise ship. Not that the sucker even stays afloat, since I know there is understandable science—yet still science beyond my ken—at work. But it’s the radar and sanitation and logistical systems that amaze me, along with, ahem, the safety precautions.

Almost 100 years to the sinking of the Titanic, we were reminded in such a graphic way of our limits and failings in the realm of technology. And for me, as horrible as it was that people were injured and killed in the waters off Italy, I felt a pang of loss for the demise of the ship itself (or herself, in true nautical fashion); seeing the carcass sideways and semi-submerged stirred sadness. Yes, sadness for a thing—a little pathetic, I know. But one other veteran cruisers probably understand.

Umm, no thanks.

Still, it might be good to be reminded of the limits of technology, or the limits of humans as they interact with their creations (cough, cough, Sony, cough). I enjoyed my impeccable streaming video and will enjoy more in the future. Just as I will cruise again. But I don’t think I’m going to rush out to buy the first mass-produced version of that flying car.

Your humble narrator dances. Sort of.

The Rifters--one of the bands of choice at the local dances

As mentioned a while ago, my SFS is a devotee of dance, particularly the country-western style so popular here in the Southwest. I’m happy to report that after my first foray onto the dance floor, I have returned several times, and there are still no casualties. I have become fairly adept at the two-step (in a very simple, white-suburban-boy-from-Connecticut kind of way…), and am getting better at the waltz (which is like the frigging easiest step in the world, but for some reason I keep struggling. Or the moments of fluidity are not as plentiful as I would like). Emboldened by Sharon’s encouragement, I actually danced with other partners this past weekend—four, count ‘em, four!—and they all lived to tell the tale. Next up: gotta get working on the swing steps. And I hope to provide a pic or video of me on the floor, to assure all of you this is not some delusional experience on my part.

I produce a play, and perhaps it will turn out well.

Oh, come on--fly out here and see my play!

We had the first rehearsals for my play Huck Finds the Raft, a 15-minute affair that will be part of the short-play festival at the local theater. I don’t want to jinx the process, but so far I couldn’t be more pleased with the director and the two actors. We’ll see what the fine Santa Fe audiences think come February 2. The rehearsals so far have been like sitting in on an acting class, as director Jerry pokes and prods the actors to consider new approaches to the text or to find more effective blocking. I have also cut some of the lines, which I think is always a good thing. And I try not to cringe as the actors consistently drop some of the remaining lines or misspeak them a bit. After all, they’re not supposed to be off-book yet, so no major worries. And it’s inevitable, I think, that actors sometimes massage the written lines a little as they take over the characters. They should just be glad I’m not Edward Albee, who I hear is pretty tough about the literal reciting of his words. Of course, I would be very glad indeed if I were Albee, except for the age thing…

Getting out and about.

La Fonda--the place to stay at the end of the Santa Fe Trail

The holiday season did not bring many chances to explore the nightlife of my new home, partly because things slowed down a bit, and partly because I was solo and so less inclined to go out. There was one pre-Christmas excursion to La Fonda, a storied (more or less) downtown hotel, for a weeknight session of dancing (damn, this whole dancing thing is getting serious…). And a night out at Tiny’s, a local bar/restaurant that also provides free music. The evening was a mixed bag: Tiny’s is within walking distance, and for a second I could pretend I was back in the Windy City, where so much entertainment was so close to home. And the band—which included a guitarist I had met before, a friend of Sharon’s—was good. But Tiny’s itself—oh, boy. Tacky décor and overpriced drinks in a bar in a small strip mall off of a four-lane commercial byway; yikes. I have never paid prices like that anywhere else in Santa Fe, or even in Chicago, outside of swanky downtown establishments.  We were far from downtown and far from swank. Rest assured Tiny’s will not become my local Cheers.

One of my assignment pics...

...and another

Some future social events I’m looking forward to: the photographers’ Meetup group, which I’ve only attended once so far. The group is a little intimidating, as most members seem to have much better equipment and skills than I do. And also a lot more time and/or devotion to the craft. A planned shooting road trip will take two hours each way just for travel time. Uh, call me a snob, but I want to make sure I have something in common with my carpool mates for a ride that long before I commit. And our “assignments” seem to come fast and furious. I did one, and will go to the meeting where we’ll review the results, but after that—we’ll see.

Writer, director, editor, actor, novelist--enough already!

I’m more excited about another upcoming event: hearing John Sayles speak. It’s part of a series sponsored by a local foundation (I wrote about a previous talk here), and it should draw a good crowd in what some LA folks refer to as “Little Hollywood” (OK, I have no verification of that, but Sharon met some people “in the biz” when she was back in CA for the holidays, and that’s what they told her). I’ve been a Sayles fan since Return of the Secaucus Seven—though some of the later stuff has not bowled me over—and I’ve read one of his novels too. Look for a recap of the talk either here or at the History Nerd.

So, I guess that brings us up-to-date. For the most part, life here in the City Different has settled into one of comfortable routines with work and Sharon, with the welcome diversions of the play and other artistic events. And always, every day without fail, there is the natural splendor. Walking to Trader Joe’s today, I thought, “I could be in any suburban neighborhood.” The houses in this residential area are middle class or better, close together but not too close, single-family homes of various sizes. But of course, none of the suburbs I’ve lived in had adobe dwellings, or a Trader Joe’s in walking distance, or snow-capped peaks just beyond the city limits. No, life may be comfortable here, but it never feels routine in a land so unlike most of the United States. Life, as my landlord would say, is bueno (he calls me Miguel too). Maybe that will be on the agenda next—Spanish lessons. And I still have that Casio—a post-marital dissolution purchase—waiting to be played. Seems I will never lack for things to do in my new home.

Generic New Mexico sunset from a few years ago, because I don't have anything recent for this post...

Well. From that sad, sickly soil did such wondrous things bloom! And much of it came from deciding to take that big leap, to begin that year in Santa Fe—more or less—and leave behind the state I never wanted to return to and the associations there with the Ex that still felt too painful.

(An aside on the Ex, who I have pointedly tried to leave out of AYISF, since this blog is about the present and all its beauty and challenges and rewards, and not a past that will never be forgotten, but which should not be wallowed in: We made peace, of a sort, before I left. We can be civil, something I didn’t think I would ever say or truly believe a scant nine, even six, months ago. Things, thankfully, do change. But it doesn’t take much for some of the old anger to return, as I learned as recently as this week. More time needs to pass, I need to dip deeper into the well of compassion, for all those old negative feelings to completely flow away. But they will, they will.)

Yes, the transition began simply enough, with just a few words from a friend. I talked about wanting to be in Santa Fe, a year from then perhaps, if everything fell into place. Why wait, she asked. I offered my rationales, but then it hit me—she was right. Why wait. Do it as soon as possible. See if that beckoning from Santa Fe was truly something soulful, or merely a crank call. And circumstances fell together—after some of the usual fretting and gnashing of teeth on my part—to make the move happen in the fall. So that I could be comfortably settled in my new home in time for my first Christmas Eve farolito walk and a generally warm and welcoming holiday season in Santa Fe.

Of course, underlying the comfort and warmth is the presence of the SFS, the woman who entered my life this July, at a time when I still wondered if I would ever find another love (and just six months into the year-long period of solitude from the court date that my therapist, Dr. Chomsky, recommended as a way to truly mourn and recover from the divorce. Sorry, doc; it wasn’t a willful disregarding on my part. Sometimes stuff just happens…).

Of course, “entered” is relative, since we didn’t meet till weeks later, and it took another month for us to be in the same time zone. But now we are, one of those improbable middle–age (ouch, that still hurts to say) romances created by the wonders of the Internet. But so far, today, and for the time to come, it will be our daily interactions and deepening affection that sustain us, not any wonders of modern technology. No wireless device or electronic tool can replace the effort that is at the core of building and preserving a human relationship of any kind, especially a loving partnership that two people hope will endure (of course, we both thought endurance would be at the heart of our marriages, and here we are, 50-something and single. Hope alone, obviously, does not ensure permanence).

But why look too far into the future, or talk too much about permanence? My reimmersion in Buddhism since the Great Matrimonial Schism of 2010 has showed me, again, the value of being in the present and acknowledging the reality of impermanence. The beginning of that period of upheaval and cataclysm also led me to my own guidelines for how to navigate relationships of all kinds: no judgments, no expectations. And today I say of those self-chosen mantras: Easier said than done, bub. But still worth striving for.

A non-relationship highlight of 2011--a Bermuda cruise

So, no grand expectations for this high-desert relationship, even as it fills me with pleasure and a sense of being loved as I have never been loved before. Ever. Just accept it for what it is, and strive my hardest to be the best I can be in it. Overcome the failings and weaknesses I showed that contributed to the Marital Dissolution. And see each day in my glorious, sun-drenched, art-infused new home as a reward for having shown the courage to give up emotional security and set out on this path. Positive changes have already come from taking that step, and they’ll keep coming. God knows I am open to them, though not to say entitled.

On this New Year’s Day, so far removed geographically and emotionally from the one a year past, Sharon and I entertained about a dozen of her friends. Some I already knew a little, others not at all. I feel like many of them will become my friends too, and I’m grateful that having Sharon in my life has given me the chance to meet them—and to ameliorate some of the social isolation that might have otherwise accompanied this transition.  Because as I wrote just about one year ago, in the review of those previous 12 months from hell: “The most important thing of 2010 was learning – or remembering – how many loving and supportive friends and relatives I have, who want me to be happy and assure me better things are ahead.” Now I will be adding new friends to that list. And I think the sentiment is one worth repeating at the start of each year. The friends, the family, the someone special in your life who truly care about you—they make it all worthwhile.

Shoulda used that tripod...

The folks in these parts have long put out farolitos at Christmastime—“little lanterns.” They fill a small, brown paper bag with sand and place a lighted votive candle inside, then line up rows of the farolitos on adobe walls, along walks and driveways, and even on rooftops. Electric farolitos are becoming more common, but on Christmas Eve, the traditional handmade ones are out in force, especially along Santa Fe’s famous Canyon Road.

If you’ve never been here before, Canyon Road is in the old part of town. It’s lined with galleries—very expensive galleries, so many you wonder how they can all stay in business. In some cases, the art spills outside the shops and into courtyards and lawns. For an art lover, walking the street and poking into the galleries is a great way to spend the day, even if you have no intention of dropping a five-figure sum on a new painting for the living room.

Starting in the late 1970s, Canyon Road and nearby side streets also became the focus of a tribute to the farolito tradition. (This info courtesy of the Santa Fe New Mexican, which has an account of last night here, along with better pics than mine…) On Christmas Eve, cars are kept away, merchants and homeowners line their properties with the lights, many galleries open their doors, people sing carols and play music, some generous souls offer free hot cider (other charge for their treats), and thousands of people of all ages come out in all weather to walk the streets and take in the sites.

A little better...

I had the perfect setting last night for my introduction to this holiday fest. A light coating of snow covered the ground, the weather felt wintry but not brutal, and I strolled with natives who knew the ins and outs of the evening. One family sets up a large toy train in their backyard. If you need a quick warm-up, you can find bonfires, or luminarias, set up at key spots, though some looked more like the burning of holiday detritus than carefully organized fires. (And a note on terminology, to show the regionalism of some expressions: What we Santa Feans (“we”—I love it) call farolitos are known as luminarias in Albuquerque.) While the rows of lights are captivating—sometimes set up in patterns, such as the giant peace sign at a school—you have to look up too; one guy sets off what he calls flying farolitos. Heat from the candles propels them into the air, and then they burn up as they float over the festivities below.

Somewhere in the blur, a trombonist plays Christmas carols. Really.

To me, Christmas Eve has always seemed like a family affair centered on the hearth and the tree beside it. But who says that’s how it should be? The farolito walk has the feel of a huge block party in constant motion, with plenty of chances for the large groups of families and friends to stop when they like, meet up with others they know, and then move along. And there’s still plenty of time for the hearthside rituals and private activities at home. Before or after the Canyon Road walk, the locals mark their Christmas Eve with posole, tamales, and biscochitos. In the Burgan homestead, it was my family’s annual ravioli feast. It’s nice to follow the old ways, while adding some new traditions to the mix too. I have a feeling I’ll be back for that Canyon Road walk whenever I’m in Santa Fe on December 24. You should come by for a visit.

They're back!

The theatrical saddle that is, as I’ve been fortunate enough to have one of my short plays picked for the Santa Fe Playhouse‘s annual bill of works by area playwrights, called Benchwarmers. The geographic limitation means the pool of entries is fairly small, but judging by what I’ve seen already, there are plenty of talented theatrical types here, many with Broadway, TV, and film experience—surely more than what you would find in most communities this size. As I’ve mentioned before, over the years many big stars have bought homes in northern New Mexico, and for some it becomes a full-time residence. None of them, however, were at the auditions.

Yes, the auditions. That’s what makes this little creativel coup a little more satisfying—and nervewracking—than some of the other recent productions. Not only am I the playwright (the work is Huck Finds the Raft, filled with Twain allusions, a Connecticut setting, and a little homosexuality), but I am also the producer.

Gulp.

I say that only because my previous turn at producing, as some of you know from the old blog, was not exactly the stuff of SRO audiences and boffo reviews. At least with this show, there are two skilled executive producers overseeing the whole shebang and a slew of other plays to help make the audience forget any shortcomings in mine. The writing I mean, not the stellar work I am sure to receive from my director and two actors.

I was fortunate, given that I know practically no one here in Santa Fe, and certainly no one in its theater world, to be introduced to an intelligent, dynamic director (an East Coast transplant, natch, as so many of us here are). Who actually wanted to direct my script. And who happened to know an actor suitable for the lead–another Nutmegger new to NM–which was really convenient, since during the two auditions exactly three other guys who fit the age range showed up. Fellow writers warned me that casting 20- to 30-somethings in this town would be a challenge, and that was no hyperbole. Plenty of women of all ages, and plenty of 40-plus men, though. So my next entry in the contest will feature no one under 50. I’m thinking about something semi-autobiographical based on my recent stay at my mother’s…

Despite the small pool of candidates for my two roles, I enjoyed being involved in auditioning again. I love taking part in all aspects of the theatrical process, even though I always feel like such a damn neophyte and am afraid I will let slip with some comment or display a blank stare that reveals my ignorance. Stick to the back of the room and keep your mouth shut, that’s my credo. Sitting in also gave me the chance to see that local talent I mentioned above, and get the occasional insiders’ gossip from the people around me. Wouldn’t want to spread any of that, though; this theater community is too small for that, and god knows I don’t want to burn any bridges before even laying the first plank.

When I submitted for this contest, I had a hope, but obviously no certainty, that I would get in, for more than the usual reasons. Yes. it’s a great validation to have strangers give your work the thumbs up, though Huck has gotten some positive feedback before. Despite my slight trepidation about the producing process, I also thought getting into this festival would give me the chance to meet people—especially theater folk—and possibly create connections that went beyond the run of the show. Here’s hoping. I can already tell that some of the people involved are smart and funny and talented—people it would be fun to hang with beyond the production. Stay tuned for updates for how this odyssey–onstage and off–plays out. And book your flight now for a trip to see the show; we open February 2 and run every weekend through the month. (That is, of course, a joke. Save the plane fare for when I get a full-length play produced…)

With all the turmoil and change of the last few years, and then the big move out here to the high desert, it’s good to know there are constants in life. Such as this:

People everywhere totally freak out with the forecast of snow.

Now, some people unfamiliar with my little corner of the Southwest might be surprised we have to contend with snow at all here in Santa Fe—“Didn’t he just say desert?” But to geographers, a desert is simply a region without much precipitation, and it can be as cold as any Chicago winter morn (as the other day proved, with its below-zero wind chills), along with as steamy as the Sahara. Though truth be told, the snowfall tends to be light down here in the city, compared to the peaks of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains nearby (they get up to 300 inches per season at some of the ski resorts around Taos).

So, yes, we have established that snow is part of winter life here in the City Different. Which led me to believe that some of the panic that sets in back in New England when a Nor’easter is predicted might be tempered. I mean, people are so laid back here about most things…

The first snow--not much to write home about (yet that did not stop me from writing about it here...)

But no. Going into Trader Joe’s a week ago, several days before the first of two storms was supposed to hit, the bread shelves were stripped bare, and huge chunks of the refrigerated cases looked pretty sparse too. People, you live in a city; you will not run out of food when the forecast calls for 2-4 inches of snow! Of which we got maybe one here in my neighborhood.

I did not go to the store before Round 2, which warranted a storm warning, rather than a mere watch, from the National Weather Service. But even then, several days of light snow was only supposed to drop at most six inches here in the city. We got maybe three, but that was enough to shut down almost every school system across several counties and close a major government lab. A day off, with pay! Just another undeserved perk for those damn public-sector workers.

A little more from #2-up to a foot in some places.

As I started my rant on the inanity of all this, my beloved asked me to consider another side. We might live in a city, but not too far beyond our borders it gets very rural, very quickly. Some people have to travel long distances to get to work or the store. Over hilly country roads that can ice up quickly when the temperature drops, and that can go for days without getting any meaningful sunlight. Also, the fleet of trucks available for snow removal is small, given the size of the state, and I had to admit that the fleet I read was being readied to plow didn’t seem much—if at all—bigger than the ones that hit the streets in Connecticut. Tiny, compact Connecticut, which can fit into NM about 250 times over.

Then I remembered how overreaction to snow has mushroomed in CT too, though I’m sure the average snowfall in Hartford easily trumps what they get here (hell, it’s even higher than the average in my other beloved spot, Chicago). So, all things considered, I guess what I witnessed last week was not so shocking. Maybe even comforting in a way. We are all so similar, we Americans. And for a moment, it was almost like being back in good ol’ West Haven…

Take away the light, and this could be the bike used on that infamous ride...

I jump on my bike—a golden two-wheeler with a single speed, coaster brakes, and the banana seat so common to the era; a bike I had just recently learned to ride, even though other kids my age had been tooling around for years (yes, I am slow to learn in many things)—and begin the long coast down Matson Hill. Furious pedaling aids gravity, and I gather speed as I make the turn past Foote Road, eyes watering as I near J.T. Slocomb, then a gradual deceleration as I approach the Grange Pool.

Pedaling on, my brain burning with some slight or sulking over some thwarted desire, I push past Cotton Hollow, past St. Augustine’s (oh, I will have to confess this transgression someday, I know, even if I’m not breaking an explicit prohibition), hang a right onto Main Street. There’s still time to turn back, I think, or turn left instead, go to the post office where my father comfortably toils. He would throw my bike in the back of his truck and cheerfully take me home at the work day’s end, I’m sure. Meantime, I could while away the last few minutes of his stint at the drug store, Coke in one hand and new Batman comic in the other.

But no. I push on.

And some time later, I coast to a stop in front of the main drug store in town, Franklin’s. Was this my destination? I don’t remember. I really don’t recall what I was thinking as I rode those six or seven miles from my house to the center of town, a distance easily triple that of any my 9-year-old legs had carried me before. All I knew then was this: I was mad. Going to the center of Glastonbury without permission was an act of youthful defiance easily within reach. And my bike gave me the freedom to it.

Freedom. It still feels like that, when I cruise around town on my bike, running errands, looking for a spot to take another photograph of another sparkling Santa Fe sunset. I am not a “cyclist”—that conjures up images of Lycra-clad athletes imitating some Tour de France rider. And god knows you will never see me bouncing along on a mountain trail deep in the woods. For the most part, riding my bike is utilitarian; it gets me where I want to go in an environmentally friendly, healthy way.

After the escapade described above (which earned me a one-month grounding, I believe), I used my bike most often to visit friends. I was several miles away from the closest, and with a working mother, riding my bike was the only way to end my isolation on Matson Hill. I took the bike with me to college, to grad school, on every move I’ve made over the years. In Chicago, riding was the perfect way to go grocery shopping or hit the neighborhood movie theater. And in certain special moments, the feeling of freedom and being close to the environment around me was amplified by another sensation: I owned the road. For some reason, riding at night has always stirred that sense, and I felt it even as I rode down Addison, not a quiet back lane, on summer evenings.

Art along the Santa Fe...

...Rail Trail, not far from home.

What prompted these thoughts about riding? I was talking to a friend, describing how I choose to ride down to the plaza some days to get a cup of coffee and just get out of the house, or head over to the bank and Trader Joe’s. And she said something to this effect: “So you’re one of those old guys who rides around on a bike.”

Excuse me? Old guy on a bike? The image was particularly preposterous because on this side of my eyes, I’m still that little kid lighting out for a half-hour escape from life’s burdens (as burdensome as it can get when you’re 9…). But then I thought about it. And she was right. I am—or will soon be—one of those “old guys” I’ve often seen around town, here and elsewhere. Graying, helmeted riders trying to keep alive a childhood passion, when they—I—should be driving a Volvo or Prius or even a Subaru, ferchrissakes. Not huffing and puffing up inclines that take on Everest-like verticality in an aging state.

And "home," of course, is a tunnel under the railway...

And to make it worse: I ride around with a red, plastic milk crate strapped to the back of the bike (Sealtest, if you’re curious). Again, oh-so utilitarian for running those errands. But a sign, in some minds I’m sure, that not only is this guy old, he probably has to dumpster dive to survive, the crate there to carry home the latest find.

Perhaps it’s better to just keep looking at myself from this side of things, instead of imagining what others think, hmm?

Because I know this: As long as I can keep my balance and pedal up the streets of my neighborhood, I will ride. I will become the even-older-guy on the bike. Riding has defined an important part of me for more than 40 years. It’s freedom and practicality and control all combined. And you know what? The Sealtest crate stays too. At least until I can’t swing my wizened leg over it anymore. Because you never know when I might want to bring home some Coke (OK, more likely Sierra Nevada) and the new Batman comic.