Cocoposts

En route to Tucson, visiting the Luna County Historical Society’s Deming Luna Mimbres Museum in the old Armory building again. Down the long hall past the not-great paintings are the gems and minerals.

I was staring at the “Apache Tears,” like my brother collected in the Jemez in the 1950s, when I heard a loud person. They are everywhere. But this particular guy was enthralled with rocks, moving from case to case, pointing out specimens. He repeatedly compared these to those at “the show.”

“What show?” I finally asked.

“You haven’t been to THE SHOW?! You’re better get out there because it closes in three hours!”

Three hours later I had some serious quartz crystal energy swirling around my motel room.

Rock Hound Roundup was full of collectors and characters from everywhere and tables crammed with gems, crystals, sculptures, jewelry, orbs, fossils and things with teeth I’d never seen before. There were even more heaping tables outside. Vendors of gorgeous rocks remarked on the gorgeous weather.

There is a road south from Tucson past the subdivisions where growth slows and the Sonoran emerges. Eyes drawn to the southeast for a view. Like the distant horizontal stretch of gypsum draws eyes toward White Sands, here is the bright vertical of San Xavier’s walls, spires and domes. White Dove of the Desert, Ansel Adams called it.

I’ve been here before. At dawn on a day Halley’s Comet got the closest, February 1986. We were on a long road trip across the West, looking for signs and wonders. We drove all night and parked at the far edge of the giant parking lot to stare at the sky.

There was a cold breeze and it was hazy. Long liminal moments passed as the light grew. Over our shoulders, the big fat tall stucco church began to change. We turned around and watched as the hulking mass became weightless in the light, looming. Going from glowering gray to angry pink, to glowing opal white.

More like a winged horse than a dove.

That friend is gone and the comet won’t return until 2061.

Mission San Xavier del Bac was established in 1692 by Jesuit Francisco Kino. This Spanish Baroque church was completed in 1797 by Franciscans.

With Mexican independence from Spain, Franciscans were forced out and the church was abandoned for 16 years Then it became part of the very distant Santa Fe Diocese after the Gadsden Purchase. Bishop Lamy ordered repairs and assigned a priest. I’ll bet he visited and saw the place at dawn.

Restoration is ongoing. The tour guide provided a lot of details. He said there’s an angel tally. A kind of contemplative practice. Searching for them dancing and flying around in plaster and paint. The count was 183 but more and more are peeking out from behind old curtains of soot. The current tally is 200.

I feel like I’m cheating on Albuquerque with Tucson when I’m there. The Festival of Books on the pretty University of Arizona campus was great. The venerable Arizona Inn was impeccable. The Sonoran rowhouse in Barrio Viejo, quiet and cool. The microbrews are delicious. 4th Avenue is hip. There’s rail through the great downtown and an art store next to campus, family owned. When you say “botanical gardens” you have to ask “which ones?”

On the other hand, it got to 104 degrees on the first day of Spring and I didn’t hear any coyotes.

Festival Tally – 12 authors, 6 sessions, 7 books bought.

Being surrounded by thousands of readers and writers at the Festival was inspirational and humbling. Notes scribbled in the tiny notebook:

Everyone here reads and writes a lot. ::smiley face::

He’s magnetic. ::Underlined with curliques::

Never sit in a room named for a saint who was into mortification.

Salman Rushdie radiated wisdom and humour. He spoke to a packed ballroom about India and his latest, “The Eleventh Hour – A Quintet of Stories. I got a signed copy and devoured it in a day.

I met John Fugelsang. Well, our eyes met. He’s warm. Hot, even. And so was the tent. I sat in the back behind a bald spot. I shifted around in my captive plastic chair. Finally he looked right at me. Or it could have been at a member of his family in front of me. Whatever. His book is called, “Separation of Church and Hate; A Sane Person’s Guide to Taking Back the Bible From Fundamentalists, Fascists, and Flock-Fleecing Frauds.”

Authors Ana North and Shobha Rao talked about their female characters who hold on to their agency by caring for others – landscapes and people. North described how she enjoyed writing “mythical interludes” in her new book, “Bog Queen” where she gives voice to the moss.

A note on the venue:

The room was hot. The chairs, attached to each other in tight rows of collective bondage. It’s airplane seating without armrests. I got uncomfortable and started fanning myself. I realized I can’t just stand up and stretch which made me even more uncomfortable. I took several deep breaths, inhaling all the hot air of other people, thought about Covid, quit breathing. The women around me figure I’m sighing from boredom. It’s partly true and guilt joins the anxiety party. I try to relax and pretend I’m moss.

Be wary of any room named for the Patroness of Impossible Causes who cut herself. Lastly, Santa Rita and her little sister rooms are flat so it’s impossible to see the presenters. Everyone has to move their heads around as those in the rows in front of you do the same thing. Everyone is rocking back and forth like they’re in different boats. No wonder I was uncomfortable.

The magnetism of writers and thinkers at the Tucson Festival of Books recalibrated my senses, improved my outlook, and made me want to be a better writer and reader. It spun my compass.