Santa Fe, NM — I already wrote about the actual driving from Reno to Santa Fe. It wasn’t particularly hard and my friend’s parents were gracious enough to host me for a night so I could make the trip in two days.
I’m always hesitant to write about my life, about the personal, about the “I.” No, I’m not hesitant. That’s some word-mincing. I’m afraid. I’m afraid of exposing myself, I’m afraid of exposing bias or some vulnerability or something I didn’t think would be a weakness but, in fact, is. Among other things, I’m always afraid (read: paranoid) something personal I write will then be used against me.
The truth shall set you free, that’s said, right? I don’t believe it, but I can want to believe in it.
I started on July 9, 2013 as the cops and courts reporter at the Rio Grande Sun, a weekly newspaper featured in a documentary I have yet to see.
Today, in my new time zone, it’s 15 minutes before the start of the first day of me flying solo as the cops and courts reporter. I’m excited, really, really, excited. I love cops and courts; it’s the reporting I live for. I’m caught with a mixture of trepidation, of what I’ll face and my failings, and the joy of being back in my profession. I’m not sure what it says about me, that a job makes me whole, or, makes me feel whole. I can only know that it does.
I live for other things too. I live for food. I certainly enjoy imbibing and imbibing that which I’ve produced. I gave all, no, let me rephrase: I gave every single last drop of homebrew I’ve produced since I’ve started homebrewing away. There was a lot. It pained me than I’m willing to admit. The time always comes to move on and I had reached that time, although it was not of my own choosing.
I currently live in Santa Fe, even though I work in Española. I wanted a place to land when I started working: I didn’t want to live out of a motel. So, I landed in a converted warehouse with four other people, three of whom are artists and have art hanging on the walls. Española has internet access at a rate of 30 percent. Craigslist means nothing, except to yuppies who want to charge $700 dollars for a room in their house. No, thanks. I’m a journalist, not a rich person. I lived in a person’s house (renting a room from a homeowner, as opposed to renting a room in a rental with other renters) in Elko and it was terrible. Really terrible. I’m nowhere near that desperate.
Just going into Trader Joe’s scares me. White older yuppies try to walk so fast I’m afraid they’ll break their new hips.
That’s not ageist. If you go into said Trader Joe’s, you’ll realize this is a real fear. The guy in front of me threw money at the cashier, told him, you count it. I was thanked for waiting for a person with a cart to go in front of me. No, not just thanked: greeted with a look of, “Why won’t these old people chill out? What’re we, in New York? If they’re all retired, why the hell are they all rushing? Thanks for not running out in front my cart, man. At least there’s one chill person here.”
This is a nice place, a nice pace (the converted warehouse): I love looking at art. It makes me feel a bit happier inside. There’s a disturbing mannequin with giant tits and a giant toothy mouth with big, purple eyes and a fur scarf. She’s the Buffalo Spirit I believe and half of her sits on a stool and the other half wears leg warmers and she’s beautiful. Yet, she scares me every time I walk into the warehouse, which I do when I come home every evening.
The drive, the commute, however, is somewhat infuriating, as infuriating as a mellow commute without any traffic jams can be . In other words, I’m a privileged complainer: although New Mexico has a limit of 75 mph on the interstate that goes through Santa Fe, and 65 for the highway before and after Santa Fe, the bypass to Española has a max of 55, with speeds ranging between 35 and 55. After the bypass, the speed ranges from 35 to 65, which still makes no sense to me. The highway is four lines, entirely divided, just like an interstate.
Shrug. I drive an efficient (suck it, hybrids!) diesel, which I plop into sixth gear, so, I shouldn’t complain. The sixth gear doesn’t lend me as incredible gas mileage as my older, 1998 VW Golf with a mere 90 HP and five gears, but, who splits the hairs between 45 mpg and 50 mpg? I know I don’t. Instead, I pray no one throws anything heavy and large out the window of their car moving at 70 mph, as happened today, when I heard a terrible thunk I couldn’t avoid.
I’m replacing a talented journalist who runs his own fascinating travel and other website as The Feral Scribe (http://theferalscribe.com/.)
I’ve been reading his work in lieu of buying any of the works on Rio Arriba county we have for sale at the office. Like I said before, I haven’t seen the documentary yet and I probably won’t yet for a while.
What I will say: I cruised with an extremely nice lowrider while the Fiesta was going on in town. We talked a lot: he’s a chef at a cafe or restaurant in Los Alamos and is trying to get in at the complex, but, is unable to so far.
Over-arching themes: nepotism. With nepotism, or, knowing someone, the lowrider chef would be able to get a job in the security complex. Without, no deal. I’m not surprised. If one picks up an edition of the Sun, it’s filled with all sorts of reporting on local-government nepotism.
My new roommate argued against this: one man’s nepotism is another’s protection.
I disagree: nepotism is nepotism, just as genocide is genocide (another argument I engaged in, briefly, about Serbia, with a Serbian moved to America at 4 months, committing such and the American bombing of the aforementioned.) Homicide is homicide. Whether or not it’s murder, well, that’s a different story all together.
That’s all for now, other than, I need to buy my ski pass, and decide which resort to buy it from. First world problems. All the way.