15– The Innermost Room

The room reads like a dream someone once had about classical grandeur, then half forgot, leaving only the outlines and the emotional temperature behind. Everything is rendered in sharp, etched contours, as if the space has been pulled out of memory rather than photographed. The architecture is unmistakably formal; tall, paneled walls broken into rhythmic sections, each one framed with molding that feels both ceremonial and slightly worn. The lines are crisp, but the atmosphere is soft, like a charcoal drawing that hasn’t been fully smudged in.

Along the walls, arched niches rise like small chapels, each holding a statue. The figures are frozen in mid gesture; draped robes, outstretched arms, the suggestion of mythic or allegorical subjects. They give the room a sense of being watched, not ominously, but with the quiet, impersonal attention of antiquity. Their presence anchors the space in a lineage of old world interiors, the kind built for display, ritual, or contemplation.

The furniture is sparse but elegant. A pair of chairs with curved backs sits near a low table, their silhouettes ornate but not fussy. A long couch or daybed stretches across the foreground, its form softened by the stylized rendering. It feels like a place meant for reclining rather than sitting upright; a piece that invites a slower tempo, a drifting mind, a long conversation that never quite resolves.

The floor is clean and uninterrupted, a smooth plane that reflects the room’s geometry more than its textures. The absence of clutter makes the architectural details feel even more pronounced. Every line, every curve, every shadow becomes part of a deliberate composition.

And then there is the monolith.

A stark, rectangular block stands in the center of the room, utterly indifferent to the ornate world around it. Its surface is blank, its edges severe. It feels like an intrusion from another reality; modern, mute, and unyielding, like a large screen television mounted on its side by an incompetent installer or one who knows that the joke is on you. The contrast is almost theatrical. It’s neither here nor there. Classical ornamentation versus pure geometry, narrative versus abstraction. The monolith doesn’t explain itself; it simply occupies space with the confidence of something that doesn’t need to belong in order to dominate.

The overall effect is a room suspended between eras and intentions. It is at once ceremonial and surreal, furnished but uninhabited, ornate yet stripped of color and texture; like any internet website. The stylized rendering heightens this tension, turning the space into a kind of architectural memory; precise in outline, ambiguous in meaning, and quietly charged with the possibly misleading feeling that something significant either just happened or is about to.

There was a sign on the wall.

”Why in the world are we here?”

-John Lennon-

”Everybody has to be someplace.”

-Anonymous—

Then the music started again.

Eye of the Needle

 

Ten Wheel Drive with Genya Ravan

 

Sharp edged summertime sits on my shoulder,

cutting deeply into my skin

I've been ending for so long,

I can't remember what it's like to begin

I've been wasting my time,

I've been trying to climb

Through the eye of the needle

 

Dog eared pages of phone books and diaries

(I ain't gonna make it, I ain't gonna make it, baby)

Pile together, lost in my room

(I believe in a thousand years ... baby)

Dusty, leftover pieces of feeling slither,

smiling under my broom

(I just keep on pushing!)

And they're feeding the fire

that's driving me higher

Through the eye of the needle

 

Watch the shadows circle,

watch them circle 'round the ceiling

Waiting for conclusions sake

without a trace of feeling

Waiting for the sun to slip and tumble into China

(Hey, I've got to break loose!)

 

Long years wasted in closets and corners,

looking for a future to wear

(Give them the time back, for the children, baby)

Been through hell, looking so hard for heaven

(Taking the last life down to the mountain, baby)

Who knows what I'll find if it's there

And I know I should quit,

but I still try to fit

(Somebody's spoken to me)

Through the eye of the needle

 

Sharp edged summertime sits on my shoulder,

cutting deeply into my skin

(Kiss of the twilight, I have melted, baby)

I've been ending for so long,

I can't remember what it's like to begin

(Taking the last life down, down the mountain, baby)

I've been wasting my time,

I've been trying to climb

(Somebody, somebody's talking to me)

Through the eye of the needle!

 

La-la la-la-la-la-la-la-la la-la-la la-la-la-la-la

La-la la-la-la-la-la-la-la la-la-la la-la-la-la-la

La-la la-la-la-la-la-la-la la-la-la la-la-la-la-la

 

Written by Michael Zager and Aram Schefrin

 

Destination

 

The Church

 

Our instruments have no way

of measuring this feeling

Can never cut below the floor,

or penetrate the ceiling

In the space between our houses,

some bones have been discovered

But our procession lurches on,

as if we had recovered

 

Draconian winter unforetold

One solar day, suddenly you're old

Your little envelope just makes me cold

Makes destination start to unfold

 

Our documents are useless,

or forged beyond believing

Page forty-seven is unsigned,

I need it by this evening

 

In the space between our cities,

a storm is slowly forming

Something eating up our days,

I feel it every morning

 

Destination, destination

Destination, destination

Destination, destination

 

It's not a religion,

it's just a technique

It's just a way

of making you speak

Distance and speed have left us too weak

And destination looks kind of bleak

 

Our elements are burned out,

our beasts have been mistreated

I tell you it's the only way

we'll get this road completed

In the space between our bodies,

the air has grown small fingers

Just one caress, you're powerless,

like all those clapped-out singers

 

Destination, destination

Destination, destination

Destination, destination

Destination

 

Written by Steve Kilbey, Peter Koppes, Marty Wilson-Piper, and Richard Ploog

 

And the ancient turtle, Jonathan, re-appeared.

Tin Man

 

America

 

Sometimes late

When things are real

And people share the gift of gab

Between themselves

Some are quick

To take the bait

And catch the perfect prize

That waits among the shells

But Oz never did give nothing to the Tin Man

That he didn't, didn't already have

And cause never was the reason for the evening

Or the tropic of Sir Galahad

 

So please believe in me

When I say I'm spinning round, round, round, round

Smoke glass stain'd bright colors

Image going down, down, down, down

Soaps a green like bubble

Oh Oz never did give nothing to the Tin Man

That he didn't, didn't already have

And cause never was the reason for the evening

Or the tropic of Sir Galahad

 

So please believe in me

When I say I'm spinning round, round, round, round

Smoke glass stain'd bright colors

Image going down, down, down, down

Soaps a green like bubble

No, Oz never did give nothing to the Tin Man

That he didn't, didn't already have

And cause never was the reason for the evening

Or the tropic of Sir Galahad

 

So please believe in me

Oooh ooh ooh ooh-uh

Oooh ooh ooh ooh

 

Oooh ooh (dab dabad dab)

Oooh ooh (dab dabad dab)

Oooh ooh (dab dabad dab)

Oooh ooh (dab dabad dab)

Oooh ooh (dab dabad dab)

Oooh ooh (dab dabad dab)

Dab dab daah, Ooooh

 

Written by Dewey Bunnell

 

Prof88 and Journa14 stood inside of the doorway Steamer had indicated. It was and wasn't grand. It was and wasn't glowing. It was just waiting for someone with enough nerve to go through it, into the strangely ornate, but textureless room.

They exchanged a look that was meant to be conspiratorial but landed closer to mutual suspicion, trying to hide a mutual fear.

Prof88 said, "This is performative minimalism."

Journa14 said, "Or a test."

Neither believed the other, but both needed the other present to justify stepping forward.

The innermost room had changed from what they had seen initially. It was now small, square, boxy, and undecorated, though it probably once was, that being washed out. The ceiling seemed to be curved, and perhaps was also once decorated. No sea view. No altar. No cosmic machinery. Just a faint, low frequency hum that seemed to come from the walls, the floor, the air, or possibly their own circulatory systems.

The “clearest” physical attribute-design was a fuzzy, possible depiction of a larger than life, White person on a White cross toward the center; flanked by other smaller White figures in apparent distress. Either that, or the image(s) were just a trick of the light, coming from an undetectable source in the ceiling.

Prof88 frowned. "This can't be it."

Journa14 lifted her phone to record, but the screen stayed black; not off-black, as if the device refused to acknowledge the room.

She muttered, "Maybe it's a sensory deprivation effect."

Prof88 walked to the center. "No. It's a provocation. It wants us to interpret it."

The hum deepened. Or maybe their attention sharpened. Hard to tell.

A second door appeared on the far wall. Not by materializing; more like it had always been there, but only now admitted to it.

Journa14 whispered, "Did you see that?"

Prof88, unwilling to concede surprise, said, "It's a perceptual threshold. Classic."

He approached the new door. It had no handle. No hinges. Just a vertical seam.

Journa14 said, "Maybe we shouldn't."

Prof88 said; “We haven’t come this far to turn back now,” and pressed his palm to it.

The seam widened.

Journa14 gasped. Prof88 inhaled sharply. Neither described it aloud, because the room didn't show them the same thing.

Prof88 saw a lecture hall; his lecture hall, but filled with students who were not taking notes, not listening, not even pretending. They were talking over him, laughing, walking out. His voice, amplified, sounded thin and desperate.

Journa14 saw a newsroom; her imagined newsroom, where editors scrolled past her pitches without reading them, where younger writers were promoted past her, where her "big story" was dismissed as derivative.

The room didn't torment them. It simply displayed the mechanism they'd been running from.

Prof88 whispered, "This is wrong. This is not my life."

Journa14 said, "This is not how it ends."

But, the room hummed a disagreement.

The hum rose to a pitch that wasn't loud but was absolute. Their outlines softened, as if the air were erasing them with a slow, deliberate stroke.

Prof88 reached for the doorframe. His hand passed through it.

Journa14 tried to shout for Steamer, but the sound dissolved before leaving her throat.

They didn't scream. They didn't run. They simply thinned, like chalk lines in rain, until the room contained only the hum and the faint afterimage of two people who had insisted on seeing something profound and were undone by something simple.

The room reset itself. The second door vanished. The hum quieted. The air settled.

Outside, Steamer slept in the other part of the house, unaware of the exact moment they disappeared. He would wake with the same sense of absurdity he fell asleep with, the same suspicion that the smoke on the water was either sharpening or dissolving.

The Zone had taken its payment.

It always did.

 

Steamer arose, stood at the open door, arms resting against the wall to prevent him from putting his boots down in the room. He called out and got no answer. He called again and then saw Jonathan the ancient tortoise, who said; “It is done.”

When The Music's Over

 

The Doors

 

Yeah, c'mon.

 

Yeah!

 

When the music's over,

When the music's over, yeah,

 

When the music's over,

Turn out the lights,

Turn out the lights,

Turn out the lights,

Yeah.

 

When the music's over,

When the music's over,

When the music's over,

Turn out the lights,

Turn out the lights,

Turn out the lights.

 

For the music is your special friend,

Dance on fire as it intends,

Music is your only friend,

Until the end,

Until the end,

Until the end.

 

Cancel my subscription to the resurrection,

Send my credentials to the house of detention,

I got some friends inside,

 

The face in the mirror won't stop,

The girl in the window won't drop,

A feast of friends, alive she cried,

Waitin' for me,

Outside.

 

Before I sink,

Into the big sleep,

I want to hear,

I want to hear,

The scream of the butterfly.

 

Come back, baby, back into my arm,

We're gettin' tired of hangin' around,

Waitin' around with our heads to the ground,

I hear a very gentle sound,

 

Very near yet very far,

Very soft, yeah, very clear,

 

Come today, come today,

 

What have they done to the earth, yeah?

What have they done to our fair sister?

Ravaged and plundered and ripped her and bit her,

Stuck her with knives in the side of the dawn and,

Tied her with fences and dragged her down,

 

I hear a very gentle sound,

With your ear down to the ground,

We want the world and we want it,

(We want the world and we want it!)

Now,

Now?

Now!

 

Persian night, babe,

See the light, babe,

 

Save us,

Jesus,

Save us!

 

So when the music's over,

When the music's over, yeah,

When the music's over,

Turn out the lights,

Turn out the lights,

Turn out the lights.

 

Well the music is your special friend,

Dance on fire as it intends,

Music is your only friend,

Until the end,

Until the end,

Until the end.

 

Written by Jim Morrison, John Paul Densmore,

Robert A Krieger, and Raymond D Manzarek

 

Prof88 and Journa14 had violated the rules of the Zone which Steamer had warned them about. The Zone kills mercenaries, those with recording baggage, and those who crave human accolades; the categories overlapping. He too was one of the mercenaries on this trip, and consequently he didn’t enter the innermost room.

They had vanished. Steamer didn’t. Not his problem.

Suicide Is Painless

 

Johnny Mandel

 

Through early morning fog, I see

Visions of the things to be

The pains that are withheld for me

I realize and I can see

 

That suicide is painless

It brings on many changes

And I can take or leave it if I please

 

The game of life is hard to play

I'm gonna lose it anyway

The losing card I'll someday lay

So this is all I have to say

 

Suicide is painless (suicide)

It brings on many changes (changes)

And I can take or leave it if I please

 

The sword of time will pierce our skins

It doesn't hurt when it begins

But as it works it's way on in

The pain grows stronger, watch it grin

 

Suicide is painless

It brings on many changes

And I can take or leave it if I please

 

A brave man once requested me

To answer questions that are key

"Is it to be or not to be?"

And I replied, "Oh, why ask me?"

 

Suicide is painless

It brings on many changes

And I can take or leave it if I please

And you can do the same thing if you please

 

Written by Johnny Mandel and Michael B Altman

 

“Catchy tune,” said Steamer to no one in particular. He started to hum it as he walked out, mission accomplished. “Dee dee dah, doo doo, dee dah doo; dee dee dah, doo doo, dee dah dum.”

16-The Slow Walk Back

Steamer stopped looking for the two fortune hunters as he turned back, that actually making him feel relieved, as one with a monetary burden removed from his back. Now he again eyed his own room. It had changed while he was looking elsewhere. A mural of Puff, the Magic Dragon and Jackie Paper were covering one wall, while the attendant song played. He shed a tear or two. It seemed fitting. Steamer knew then that he’d be coming back ...,,,, soon ...... and freely, more or less, of his own non-mercenary volition, ostensibly that also not yet considered by the government or their silent partner Survivalists to be some sort of a violation. He thought; “But, whatever. They don’t make the rules. They merely pretend. The Zone makes them. Though they never say it out loud, deep down they know that and it scares the hell out of them.”

Puff, the Magic Dragon

 

Peter, Paul, and Mary

 

Puff, the magic dragon

lived by the sea

And frolicked in the autumn mist

in a land called Honah Lee

 

Little Jackie Paper

loved that rascal Puff

And brought him strings, and sealing wax,

and other fancy stuff

 

Oh, Puff, the magic dragon

lived by the sea

And frolicked in the autumn mist,

in a land called Honah Lee

 

Puff, the magic dragon,

lived by the sea

And frolicked in the autumn mist,

in a land called Honah Lee

 

Together they would travel

on a boat with billowed sail

Jackie kept a lookout perched

on Puff's gigantic tail

 

Noble kings and princes

would bow whenever they came

Pirate ships would lower their flags

when Puff roared out his name

 

Oh, Puff, the magic dragon

lived by the sea

And frolicked in the autumn mist,

in a land called Honah Lee

 

Puff, the magic dragon,

lived by the sea

And frolicked in the autumn mist,

in a land called Honah Lee

 

A dragon lives forever,

but not so little boys

Painted wings and giant's rings

make way for other toys

 

One gray night it happened,

Jackie Paper came no more

And Puff, that mighty dragon,

he ceased his fearless roar

 

His head was bent in sorrow,

green scales fell like rain

Puff no longer went to play

along the cherry lane

 

Without his lifelong friend,

Puff could not be brave

So Puff, that mighty dragon,

sadly slipped into his cave

 

Oh, Puff, the magic dragon

lived by the sea

And frolicked in the autumn mist,

in a land called Honah Lee

 

Puff, the magic dragon,

lived by the sea

And frolicked in the autumn mist,

in a land called Honah Lee

 

Written by Leonard Lipton and Peter Yarrow.

 

Slow Motion

 

Blondie

 

What's all that commotion going on?

The boy in the back on his second attack

Wants his baby back (wants his baby back)

 

What's all that commotion that you hear?

The girl in the back who was doing the quake

Got a belly ache (she can't concentrate)

 

Pick up the beat, you can move

like you're made out of vapor

"Catch me if you can,"

is what she said with her hands

 

Come on and take me back

(Can you take her back?)

 

When she gives you the beat

and you get the shine

The world slows down

and she stops on a dime

Got a number when you close your eyes

like a real magician

 

Still she knows

she'll never lose a thing

She can put you up on a shelf

until she wants to pull the string

 

Still you know

she'll never slip away

Keep time in your head,

counting in your head

 

Slow motion

I can play with time

I can keep today

but tomorrow's fine

Stop and look at the pictures

rolling in your head

 

Slow motion

You can play with time

You can leave her today

but tomorrow's fine

Stop and live in your dreams at night,

rolling in your bed

 

Still you know

she'll never slip away

Keep time in your head,

counting in your head

 

Slow motion,

you can stop on a dime

Slow motion,

you ought to try it sometime

 

Take me back on another track

Take me back, take me back

 

Slow motion,

you can pick up the beat

Slow motion,

you can stop on the street

Take me back on another track

Take me back, take me back

 

Slow motion,

you can stop on a dime

Slow motion,

you ought to try it sometime

Take me back on another track

Take me back, take me back

 

Slow motion,

you can pick up the beat

Slow motion,

you can stop on the street

Take me back on another track

Take me back, take me back

 

Written by Jimmy Destri and Laura Davis

 

Steamer walked slowly backward through the rest of the house; his posture enabling him to see what no longer was; what was behind him; and what was out of sight. Upon reaching the front door, he righted himself, and viewed what lay ahead. His backward walk was not theatrical; it was procedural. He moved the way someone does who has learned; through error, through humiliation, through the Zone’s quiet punishments, that turning your back too soon is a kind of invitation to a possibly dangerous unknown; like making the mistake of relaxing around the B&B’s. His steps were slow, heel sliding, toe feeling for the next patch of floor. The house behind him was already losing its geometry. Corners softened. Door frames seemed to breathe. The air had that faint mineral hum, the one only he ever acknowledged.

When he reached the threshold, he pivoted forward, and the world ahead snapped back into its ordinary proportions. The porch boards were just boards again. The wind was only wind. The Zone had released him early, so as not to be outdone by any libby incarceration/non-incarceration program, but not gently.

He descended the porch steps with the careful posture of someone who knows the ground might not be the same ground he walked in on. The path back toward the perimeter was narrow, a corridor of scrub and rusted fencing that had once belonged to a rancher who fled decades ago. The sky overhead had that washed out, overexposed quality the Zone sometimes imposed on its exits, as if it were erasing its own fingerprints from the bottom up.

 

Suddenly Steamer was travelling the New Mexico Bosque with his sweet Dalmatian, Daisy, just as he did when still a teenager.

Steamer and Daisy headed north and would have to cross a flat ten acre drain field filled with small scrubby bushes which the Survivalists mowed once or twice a year. It was about a mile from the public entrance to the Bosque on Romero Road and a couple of miles from the next public entrance on an unnamed road on the border of Rio Rancho. Few would be there, probably due to the necessity of having to undertake a journey requiring more than a few steps, as well as the fact that the going started to get particularly tough there.

Steamer would always talk to Daisy during their trips, sometimes saying; “No, no, no, no,” when she indicated an interest in going toward something which he deemed to be a danger to her, like a dead animal carcass, which she substantially ignored as much as she was allowed. Most often he would tell her stories. She seemed to look back at him whenever he was silent as if to say; “Tell me a story,” or “What’s wrong?” Steamer tried and enjoyed the effort to produce soothing sounds that he hoped were not repetitious, banal “Musaak.” After the early days of telling her about what he knew of her, the wonders of Willy, the dachshund, who was her spiritual, if not biological father, and various other potpourris gleaned from the few books that he had read, his artistic drought led him to using alliteration to expand her name. It was Nabokov inspired and woefully out of style, though neither of them cared much about being considered old fashioned. He called her Daisy. He called her Daisy Dog. He called her Daisy Dalmatian Dog. He called her Daisy Delightful Dalmatian Dog. He called her Daisy Desirable, Enchanting and Delightful Dalmatian Dog, at which point he decided to revert to just plain Daisy. The archaic, antiquated, antediluvian, asinine, anthological alliteration stream proved too bulky for either of them to remember and he could not locate a suitable synonym for enchanting which began with the letter “D.” So, he reverted to conjuring fables which made no sense on the surface. Daisy liked the intonation and he liked the simple ease illogical infinity offered.

The bushes on the field itself grew no higher than two feet, which had briars which would stick like Velcro. It wasn’t particularly bothersome, though sometimes he would stop and get them off both of them. There was another way around the field, which was to take the levee path. However, this required going down a steep decline and then climbing back up, to get around a concrete drain channel. It was easy for Daisy, but much less so for him. On the downslope he would be at full speed by the time his feet hit level ground, and on the upside, he doubted if he would have made it without her assistance in pulling him. The drain channel looked like a huge handball court with shallow, greening water and sometimes had mud and tiny frogs at the base; sometimes thick mud and a zillion frogs.

 

Though their size depended upon one’s point of view, Daisy seemed to instinctively know not to eat them, one of the few items not on her menu, as they were having enough difficulties already.

The prize for successfully traversing was to enter another wooded area in which the unused paths were blocked by broken tree branches. With some difficulty they got through or around the obstacles. They followed a path originally made by mole hills, coyotes, and rabbits.

A few hundred feet into the woods, on the Rio Grande River’s edge, was the prettiest part of the Bosque they had ever seen; their favorite. Undisturbed, mature, two hundred foot, cottonwoods reigned supreme and were appropriately spaced as if someone had planned the site many years ago, and their dream had come to fruition. They’d often linger there as Daisy would investigate all the scents made by the resident animals, relatively undisturbed by mankind. The views were fabulous; the trees, the mountain and the river. No pictures could ever do it justice, as their limited framing would always, at the least, leave out one or two aspects. The quiet provided no distractions from the natural. And as Daisy slowed down to inspect everything, Steamer would catch his breath.

They’d walk alone through the difficult passageways and non-passageways. Sometimes Daisy would sense that something unseen was near and pull up sniffing at the air. It was creepy as there had been occasional reports of mountain lions in the area. Steamer would tell her; “Okay, I’ll get in front,” and lead her through the aromatic part. These were the only times he was allowed to get in front when they were in the wild. In these cases his regular talk to Daisy took on a reassuring note. When the mood struck him, his chatter would become defiant and he would tell her that her spiritual father, Willy, was protecting them. Truthfully, he needed the reassurance himself. He would say that “Willy would never let anything happen to us; as, in addition to food, we were the only things he liked on this planet.” Steamer was vindicated in believing this perception, as the mountain lions displayed more rationality then the average human, as they always found other prey.

It was also reinforced by a dream he had shortly after Willy was gone. In it Willy came excitedly to him and led him to their back yard. At the far right corner was a basket with five squiggling white puppies. Willy told Steamer that these were his babies. Dalmatians are born without their spots. Throughout his life Willy never liked anyone other than Steamer, but as he aged, for some reason, it became increasingly apparent that if he had it to do all over again, he would have made a few more friends. This was corrected to an extreme in his daughter.

On this particularly ambitious and warm morning they continued north, through everything they had previously been near and gotten to. Daisy was at the peak of her abilities as she crisscrossed throughout the trip, making sure that she hadn’t missed a thing. She even investigated the long, straight and boring “Clear Ditch” path, though it was not mowed, and the long, grassy growth was home to many little animals and strange, flying insects with iridescent red, blue or green bodies. Farms dominated the other side of the water; some horse farms, some cattle farms, and one of the tree farm variety, if that is not an oxymoron. A woman on one of the horse farms called out to us; “I left one of those in California.” Steamer remained silent as all he could think was; “Idiot.” They were to shortly come to a gate with a sign which read; “Rio Rancho Bosque Preserve.”

Daisy and Steamer had been this far out previously and would also be there many more times. But, on each other occasion they were near the river. There too, was an identical gate and sign, but after seeing a small dirt parking area, there was basically a continuation of the Bosque. The “Clear Ditch” side was very different. It hosted a large dirt parking area, a children’s playground, houses, and the Rio Rancho waste treatment facility. After sniffing around the other areas, Daisy wanted to investigate the paved parking lot of the huge building with the silver façade, which could best be described by what it resembled; millions of steam-rollered, metal garbage cans glued to embarrassed and hidden frames and beams of unknown origin. They had not seen a human since they had gone around the “Rio Rancho Bosque Preserve” gate and Steamer wasn’t surprised. Further reflection suggests that they didn’t see any animals either. There was probably an insect or two.

Daisy wanted to check out the strange structure and Steamer needed some persuading. She must have thought; “I haven’t come this far to miss anything this big and smelly,” and she proceeded to insistently pull him toward it. He hoped no one was sloppy with yesterday’s work.

No one was, but he held Daisy back when she tried to enter the building. I supposed she thought it fair to acquiesce at this point after having gotten her way the last time. She was not only smart, she was also co-operative. They turned and walked on, he hoping that no one would point a gun at them and accuse them of being investigatory terrorists.

Their next sight was even more incredible and mercifully devoid of any odor. It was a huge, reddish rock, perhaps a mini-mesa, with instructional signs, warning signs and rope hand rails all over it. Steamer took as much meaning from them as Daisy did. With her in front, pulling him up inclines which he couldn’t have handled himself, they started to climb it. They followed something of a path which wound around the mesa, often seeing the edges crumble away and fall down the steep side, a very disconcerting visual for one who gets dizzy at the roof’s edge of a two story house. Steamer hoped that they wouldn’t encounter anyone else, especially someone with a dog, as the skinny path necessitated single file walking. This would have been difficult to negotiate with a friendly, willful puppy. Luckily, they didn’t.

They made it to the top, given Daisy’s adventurous nature and her zeal; if there was any way to do it, they’d have been there. On the trip back down. Daisy found another path, which was steeper than the first. While he may have been able to control his fear of heights on the way up by his usual focus on her, coming down, that same focus brought in the backdrop of the ground well below.

Daisy seemed to pick up speed as they descended. It would have been difficult not to have. So did Steamer. When she abruptly stopped at ground level, to avoid running into her, he had to jump over her. Her expression was one of surprise and curiosity. She didn’t know that he was well practiced in the art of dog jumping from his days with Willy, though he probably could have used some honing of this skill.

Willy, like Daisy, had a knack for knowing whether or not he had Steamer’s undivided attention. He usually did, but sometimes when he stopped or slowed down, Steamer, would take in the scenery. The first time he noticed this he took off running with Steamer running behind him. He stopped on a dime, and rather than risk plowing into him, Steamer jumped over him and came to a stop on the ground, still holding onto his chain without pulling him. While they were on eye to eye level, Willy’s expression seemed to say; “Whoooo. That was fun.” Steamer was sure that he was right as subsequent to that, his repertoire regularly included “Run, Stop and Watch Steamer Jump.”

As the water supply of the Clear Ditch ended two miles back, Daisy and Steamer moved in the direction of the river, probably both due to her thirst and the time they had already been out. This was to be their longest walk; five hours and fifteen minutes.

They got to the Rio Grande through a sparsely vegetated, beachy spot below some houses with a full river view. The land exhibited evidence of having received some human maintenance, unlike any other part of the Bosque they had seen. When they reached the water Daisy went right in and took an extended drink and swim. The water was surprisingly deep just offshore as he could see that her feet were not touching bottom.

She headed south, back toward their entry point of Romero Road, following the shoreline, for at least four reasons he could think of. She wanted to be near her water source. The sun was getting high in the sky on this summer day. She wanted to take a different route back. And she didn’t want to wind around established paths or risk obstacles on the non-paths. She was in for a surprise.

They followed coyote trails, which were common at the shoreline in much of the Bosque that they had seen. They sometimes had to veer inland a bit at places where a low branching tree grew right at the edge. They both avoided dehydration by drinking from the river and things went fine until they encountered a prickly Russian Olive tree in their way.

To make matters worse, its brothers and sisters formed a grove all the way back to the Clear Ditch. Daisy’s thick coat made her rather oblivious to the barbs. But, for Steamer, especially wearing light summer clothes, they meant stitches. He stopped her and thought; mostly productive things like; “Oh, shit.” But, he did get an idea. They were experienced river walkers and island hoppers; so they could get around the trees through the Rio Grande.

He led her into the water. The current was with them. However, Daisy was, of necessity, swimming ahead of Steamer, and he was getting into deeper water with each step. When it reached his neck he decided that they’d better back out and head for the Clear Ditch. Now, they had to go against the current while he had difficulty walking and at the same time had to use her loose fitting collar and chain to pull his baby back. While this might not impress Ernest Hemingway, he was damn scared. He pictured Daisy coming out of her collar and floating down the river to somewhere he’d never find her. But, slowly they made it back to where they entered and followed the line of trees to the Clear Ditch. Steamer could tell by the look in her eyes, that Daisy was also scared while they were in the deep water. But, now she kept looking up at him, as if to say; “What? What’s this all about? Why do we have to go this far out of our way?” He stopped her, knelt down and gave her gigantic cuddles and a few kisses, all the time thinking that they had just survived a potential disaster. It reminded Steamer how much he adored her.

They followed the more or less straight irregular path along the flowing Clear Ditch for some time. Then, when they approached very familiar territory, a bit north of the drain field, they returned to the river. The beautiful, black and white, graceful athlete led the way. Ninety percent of the time she did. Steamer was always the better off for it and, most importantly, he loved her.

At two years of age Daisy was absolutely gorgeous. Her predominately white coat was the softest and most radiant ever seen. Even on a moonless night Steamer could easily see her in the back yard, when he took her out to do her business. The black spots on her body were circular and well spaced, excepting a cluster of four near her hindquarters and a doublet near the center. Her head was almost entirely white with five tiny dots here and there. Her snout was speckled with a series of small dots, ending at her black nose. She stood on long legs about two feet high, was about three feet long, including head, and weighed 60 pounds and was on the increase. Steamer never took any of these measurements with any “scientific” instruments, and was only relying on sight to estimate them. Her ears were mostly black if viewed from the front and she had big, expressive brown eyes. People would regularly tell him how beautiful she was and he would reply; “Inside and out. Daisy and I thank you.” Of most importance he got to cuddle and sleep with her every night.

Most humans are most comfortable when they can characterize things. They seem much more at ease with a one or two word simplification than having to take the trouble to describe any nuances. Unfortunately for those so limited, Daisy didn’t fit into any un-complicated classification. Her physical and mental attributes defied what the American Kennel Club unequivocally advised about Dalmatians. She was an as yet un-documented, British Dalmatian, larger and more shaped like a Labrador Retriever than an American Dalmatian.

However, it was this no brain need for simplification which led to unsolicited commentaries. The majority still called her soft and beautiful, as they stroked her coat, often commenting on the velvety nature it had. Steamer would sometimes point out that it was also a very warm covering, and when combined with its beauty, was the obvious reason why Cruella DeVille lusted after them.

Steamer almost regretted that he was compelled to go into all of this, as he always thought that Daisy is Daisy, that she is perfect, that he loves her, and that is all.

Come Rain or Come Shine

 

Frank Sinatra

 

I'm gonna love you, like nobody's loved you

Come rain or come shine

High as a mountain, deep as a river

Come rain or come shine

 

I guess when you met me

It was just one of those things

But don't you ever bet me

'Cause I'm gonna be true if you let me

 

You're gonna love me, like nobody's loved me

Come rain or come shine

We'll be happy together, unhappy together

Now won't that be just fine

 

The days may be cloudy or sunny

We're in or out of the money

 

But I'm with you always

I'm with you rain or shine

Days may be cloudy or sunny

We're in or we're out of the money

 

I'm with you baby

I'm with you rain or shine

 

Written by Johnny Mercer and Harold Arlen

 

Daisy’s nose had always been predisposed toward smoke and fire. On many of their walks, long before anything was apparent to Steamer, she detected smoky blazes and always headed in its direction. He thought that this must have been the reason Dalmatians were the original fire dogs, but he found no scientific confirmation of this anecdotal fact anywhere, inducing him to further distrust the veracity of science, if that was still possible at the advanced age of sixteen. In all the cases, except one, Steamer could recall the incendiary suspicion was the result of someone burning leaves or garbage on their own property adjacent to the Bosque and he suppressed her investigation. On the other occasion Daisy led him right to a three by ten fire in a dead cottonwood branch alongside the river. The flames were about four feet high and he led her back to Romero Road to find help. Steamer carried no cell phone for a variety of reasons and sought someone who did. The parking lot was empty and the usual yard-work-loving, Romero Road denizens had apparently come to appreciate the virtues of “The Invisible Man;” and the unwritten Corrales law which requires residents to be around at all times, except when they might be able do something useful. He knocked at a few doors to no avail. A few minutes later he saw a man at the end of the road, standing next to a black, recent model Cadillac or Chrysler. Steamer had never seen him before, but approached, told him the story and asked if he would call 911. He balked as he saw no flames. Steamer’s persistence finally convinced him to make the call, during which he disparagingly said; “This guy told me, etc., etc.” as if he wanted to distance himself from the absurd, imperceptible notion. Corrales’ diligent Fire Department must have been on other maneuvers as the Police Department shortly arrived, and after asking him the location, put it out by shoveling dirt on it. He would come to learn that three quarters of the dog walkers Daisy and he regularly encountered had a similar experience. The fires which had been caught when they were still small now had less restricted reign, because of the reticence of civilians to traverse government “closed” Romero Road.

Daisy slowly perused the area and settled for a drink and dunk in the “Clear Ditch,” on the other side of the levee. They sat near her place of entry in the sun. Shortly, State fire officials showed up and told them not to go in there, falling short of defining where there was. They went to work attaching “CRIME SCENE DO NOT ENTER” yellow tape to whatever was left to hold it.

While the purpose of the tape should have been obvious to all, Steamer considered it insensitive to have only used the English language in a heavily bi-lingual state. He considered it an absolutely egregious omission not to have also displayed such important instructions in canine dialect.

Daisy showed her hurt feelings by pretending that she took no notice of the ethnocentrically Anglo instructions and kept attempting to get into the flaming woodland. She came close on a few occasions, to the continually elevating consternation of the man who claimed to be the chief investigator. As Steamer and Daisy had committed no crime, in fact were likely responsible for quelling a real emergency, they considered that very unprofessional behavior from a public servant, as they crossed none of his barriers. In fact it was also their discovery which made this jerk’s “work” possible.

After the fire investigators cleared the Bosque for human and animal traffic, Daisy and Steamer re-entered the piece of land devastated by the government pretense of management. They had sadly and gradually become accustomed to the ravages of clearing.

Clearing the land was said to be necessary for fire prevention and control; while all the dead wood which had made a permanent home on the ground continued to lie, as healthy trees were bulldozed, chain sawed, and carted away. The dried out, zombie dead were apparently deemed not to be burnable material.

No doubt, feeling worse than Steamer and Daisy were the animals who used to make their home here. They had survived the fire only to have their homeland bulldozed, chain sawed, and dragged away by humans in search of profit, no matter the expense; treated like Palestinian residents of Gaza.

Rook, the stag: “Fire didn’t take us. Smoke didn’t take us. But this; this is the part we can’t outrun. They don’t hunt us. They hunt the place that held us.”

Mirek, the boar: “They cut the ground the way they cut meat. Same rhythm. Same confidence. They don’t look back because they don’t imagine anything lives behind them.”

Liska, the fox: “I used to sleep under that cedar. Third stump from the left. I thought surviving the flames meant something. Turns out it was just the prelude.”

Pip, the rabbit: “I kept waiting for the forest to grow quiet again. It never did. The machines talk louder than the fire ever did.”

The two birds, Knot and Whistle, were speaking together: “We warned each other when the fire came. We warned each other when the smoke settled. But what do you warn against when the danger is the ground disappearing?”

Rook, the stag: “They survived the fire too. And now they’re taking their victory lap.”

 

The dead wood’s immunity to Survivalist purview was no doubt enhanced by their prone position, which ordained that they could not be further flattened or easily chain sawed. Their removal would have necessitated an overt personal physical effort from a government employee. Ostensibly, this activity, which might require a G-7 to get more than ten feet from his state owned pickup, is not listed in the schedule of G-7 duties. Their possible priority to protect state property seems commendable, if it were not the case that the recently living trees were also wards of the same state.

Nonetheless, this is a state in which no one complains; except Steamer, and no one pays any attention anyway. If everyone tells a person that “The Land of Enchantment” is above reproach, that person will either soon agree or come to doubt their own thoughts on the matter. The system works. To express an opinion suggesting that New Mexico is not Eden quickly results in the conversation provoking line of; “If you don’t like it, then leave.” Steamer’s soft and furry companion was born in New Mexico. This is irrefutable proof that the place is Eden, albeit an Eden with an infinite supply of broken and burned branches.

Daisy trod on. Steamer thought that she would have been disappointed and wondered what she thought. It was eerily quiet when she led him through the un-scorched earth. The birds, insects and the little playful coyote had relocated.

She easily jaunted through the almost obstacle free terrain, tugging at the leash as if there were someplace she had to get to quickly. As Steamer had always done, he told her; “Slow down. We’ve got all day. This is New Mexico, where nothing moves. It will be there when you get there.” Daisy heeded that advice as much as she always did and continued to pull him, ostensibly in confident search of some sort of miracle.

Steamer had to slow her down as he kept tripping over the remains of what once was. They eventually got back to the river and she jumped in. She had found that which was most important to her was invulnerable to the fire. The ever flowing, life giving water of the Rio Grande River was still there. Everything was all right.

One of Steamer’s fondest memories of Daisy is of something that she did not do. She never broached the subject of money. While his experience with human engendered topics of interest regularly and inevitably took the course of the dismal science, his playful little girl always retained a disinterest in greenbacks, with the exception of the grass she munched all her life. She never succumbed to the unnatural considerations of the market value and relative status of her location and room.

That morning, coming back from a not unusual stick, dirt and mud accumulating adventure with Daisy, a garbage man working on Academy Road called out; “Where have you been?” His tone of voice communicated the Tidy-Bowl-expectations of a manicured, suburban community.

Steamer and Daisy no doubt must have been covered in Bosque mementoes; things with which they had no concern, having long ago established immunities. Steamer was tempted to say; “If you don’t know, I couldn’t possibly tell you,” but held back in fear of a follow-up, tidy inquiry. Daisy made no response. Steamer finally called out; “The river,” and they kept moving toward home.

Daisy’s sweet disposition had no antecedents that Steamer knew of. In his curious youth he had read books and saw films about Gandhi, Lassie, the Velveteen Rabbit, and countless other heroes and heroines who seemed to have a spirit capable of rising above it all. They didn’t disappear until he, or more likely the world, had aged a bit. Daisy gave no outward indication that she had sprung from so lofty a perch, but her actions showed an inherent understanding of the things that made the world worth living in, at least while in the presence of one so kindly and forgiving. She never had the inclination to fight, even when attacked. Steamer used to tell her that any bullying nonsense would end if she just used her physical abilities to kick one ass. She didn’t agree with him, though the difference in opinion lay somewhere in what was not obvious to him in his unintentionally biased and corrupted words.

His brave and loving girl showed her most pronounced similarity to Sunshine, a cat from Emma’s and his distant past. He was named in honor of the Merry Pranksters, an early 1960’s group of people who did not give the least bit of a wet fart about the constricting norms of government inspired, effective lies. Whenever Steamer went anywhere, Sunshine greeted him at the front door when he returned.

At least twice a year Daisy and Steamer were stopped by people who had advice as to how she should properly walk on a leash. Not one ever first asked if Steamer or Daisy were dissatisfied with the manner in which they were naturally doing it. One such time a very short man accompanied by a normally sized female came out of a housing development which bordered one of the ditch paths Daisy and he used to take to the Bosque. He announced that without any doubt, he knew the right way to do it. He reached for Daisy’s leash, and being rather startled at the audacious intrusion, he handed it to him. Daisy took off running at top speed dragging Shorty behind her. She stopped about 100 feet away when she saw that she was getting too far away from Steamer. Steamer walked to them, and Shorty returned the leash without offering any more advice.

One of their less frequent walks was through a “beach” situated north of the drain field at the Bosque. This land mass had to have been established through the government “managed” diminishment of the Rio Grande, as it was in a bit of an out of the way area and access required the luck or knowledge of recognizing which trees to go between in a densely wooded section. Few people went there, which made it especially desirable. Steamer and Daisy never saw any, and the only footprints they ever found were that of birds, squirrels, and an occasional horse. Steamer liked the privacy and Daisy disliked the privacy and lack of shade. In warm weather he sometimes would have to lead her to it and she would humor him. Upon arrival she would usually splash through the water’s edge to stay cool. She did not like temperatures above 78 degrees, but she was a very co-operative dog.

The beach had a unique view. Because the land to their south was indented from it and curving, they could see downriver for miles. Steamer could see the spot at which Romero Road, sort of, hit the river; and beyond it to another much smaller beach they often walked when they started out with a southern turn. Steamer didn’t think Daisy mentally dwelled so far ahead. She seemed content to stay cool in the Rio and trying to find something the least bit interesting in sand.

Though it wasn’t technically in the sand, Daisy did find a few things near the sand in the water. Every year there was a period during which the fish were literally jumping. Even when they didn’t see the leap, they’d hear their splash made upon re-entry. Daisy and Steamer could often see them rollicking just below the surface. One time she waded out a little further than usual and caught one in her mouth. She brought the squiggling flyer back to shore and checked it out for food potential. To Steamer’s surprise she didn’t like it. It might have been the only potentially edible thing that she didn’t. When it was obvious that the investigation was over and that Daisy still had absolutely no interest in eating the fish, Steamer threw the incessantly squirming fish back into the Rio. He had no idea if he or she made it, but he was only sure that Daisy and he hoped so.

One of Daisy’s gentleman callers was a sizable, long haired, mixed breed dog named George. He was six years her senior and was brought over by a couple who did sporadic yard work for Steamer’s family. George was the survivor of having been hit by a car and he would eat every treat Steamer offered him.

Daisy got a bone every day, when she returned to her room after her walk. She usually didn’t finish them and when the aggregation got large Steamer would put them in a box, titled “Molly’s Things,” which sat on the portal on the cusp of their back yard.

Generally, Daisy would continue to ignore them until George came over and made it his business to bury them all. She didn’t mind him fooling with her stuff and would follow him around as he did his job.

Steamer found it surprising that after George buried them, Daisy’s interest in the bones would be re-kindled. She would spend the next few weeks hunting for them, and when found, eat them.

 

The bulbous gray clouds motionlessly hovered and filled the morning sky, reflecting an unnoticeably imperfect image of New Mexico’s gawking dead. Any semblance of blue had hidden, far away from the static monotony of the well-armed occupation force. The traitorous White linings attempted to offer hope of a respite and served only to fool those who had not previously seen the scam. No rain was to come as the powers that be had not seen any personal interest in refreshing brittle and starving remnants of the long departed summer heat. On the frozen ground, solemn and patient buzzards shivered near their front doors waiting for a sign of a carcass containing warm blood. It was the unabashed winter in the melancholy terrain which enchants some eastern drifters on their ill-directed way to the coastal promised land.

Steamer’s energetic, Dalmatian girl saw things differently. With her wide brown eyes focused on the ground immediately ahead of her, Daisy pulled him out of his development, and all the way down Academy Road. They crossed the partially paved parking lot which facilitated the Seventh Day Adventist Commercial Enterprises, Inc., ran down a steep hill, unintentionally on Steamer’s part, and were on the back ditch path, the one which parallels Loma Larga.

Being sometime in the month of December, it was still too early and cold for less energetic hikers. The ditch held no water, having been drained for the season in early November. Trapped tumbleweed bunched near the pipes under the iron bridges. Steamer hurried behind Daisy down the frozen path. Its best topographical attribute was the underfoot solidity provided by the frozen portions, which were precariously muddy if in the sun. Its best aspect had nothing to do with itself; it was the fact that Daisy and he were together on it. Daisy showed interest in the barren path, as she always showed interest in everything. She hastily inspected rabbit crossovers at the edge of the dry gouge and rabbit places of gathering in what remained of the brush at the side of the path. He knew that the below freezing temperature was no hindrance to her, so he further concluded that she was anxious to get to the place that made her most happy. The water at this time of year, was only available from its source, the Rio Grande.

A few mornings they did see others on this route. There was the male jogger, who would extend the hand he had on Daisy’s side. Daisy would leap toward it. It looked something like a standard high five mixed with a revolutionary high nose.

There was Ron, with his aging Golden Retriever, Donald, who would only go approximately 500 feet on the ditch, before turning back and returning to their house right off the ditch path. Ron and Donald didn’t mind standing still and talking, though, and Steamer eventually knew his life story. Daisy had difficulty getting Donald started. He was rather reserved, so Daisy contented herself by brushing up against him.

There were occasional others who they never really knew well. There was a newer, large housing development off Loma Larga Road in what used to be called the sand dunes. The dog walkers who lived there almost always stayed on their side of the ditch, opposite Steamer and Daisy. Most never went as far as the Bosque. Many of them coincided their walk with the time that Daisy was there. Steamer’s happy little girl had a knack for making other people smile and they did exactly that. When Daisy saw them she would go to the edge of the ditch, wag her tail furiously and look at them. The people and the dogs seemed to enjoy being a source of enthusiasm.

There was one woman Steamer doesn’t remember at all. They didn’t cross paths regularly, but whenever they did, Daisy and her sizable, stocky looking dog seemed to show a big interest in each other. Steamer and Daisy were always on opposite sides of the ditch and this precluded closer contact. This went on for a while until one day they finally crisscrossed near a metal crossover bridge. Steamer double checked to make sure it was all right and the woman indicated that it was. Daisy rushed half way across the bridge, but then slowed down. Her previous long distance view didn’t tell her that this was a very big dog. Each step she took made her more aware of that. When Daisy neared, the other dog slammed both of his front paws on the ground and loudly woofed. Daisy ran back to her original side of the ditch, almost knocking Steamer into it as she squeezed by on the narrow bridge. The woman laughed and said; “He just means that he wants to play. He always does that.” But, for one of the few times in her life, Daisy chose to display caution.

After walking part of the ditch with the Loma Largans, Steamer and Daisy would make a sharp right on another unnamed road, which would bring them to Romero Road and the Bosque. This road wasn’t very long and they never encountered anyone on it. On occasion they did see people and their dogs come out of their houses which lined it, but they always seemed to dawdle in their yards until Steamer’s “wild one” and he cleared out. Their loss.

Especially when the ditches were drained, by the time they had gotten this far, Daisy would be going as fast as Steamer’s legs could move to get to the Bosque. He was sure that she had worked up a great thirst and needed a drink from the Rio. If the temperature exceeded forty by the time they got there, she’d also take a dunk; a full body immersion that he hoped she wouldn’t shake off on him until they were back to 75 in April.

Daisy regularly did things Steamer found amusing. He would see her with a curious look and say; “What are you thinking?” and sometimes he thought he had a good guess. The first time she noticed that walking close to the edge of the ditch bank caused some dirt to come loose and splash into the water she seemed mystified. She stared at the water wondering; “What just jumped in there? I didn’t see it.” She would keep her vigil until boredom set in, hoping to get a glimpse of the culprit. She never did. New Mexico styled cold weather never bothered her in the least and the ditch banks held many things Daisy deemed worthy of further investigation.

The ditch banks were often devoid of vegetation. They always had the ability to act as a wind tunnel if the gusts were coming from the appropriate direction. In these circumstances, sometimes twenty degrees and a wind chill well below that, whenever she stopped to scrutinize something, Steamer would give her a tug and say; “Come on, Daisy. Let’s keep moving at least a little bit.” She always responded the first two times he did this, but invariably, on the third tug he would be halted in his tracks. He’d turn around and see Daisy sitting on her haunches with an expression that said; “Don’t you dare pull me.”

Initially, Steamer never checked the temperature before leaving in the winter mornings. Usually, his hands and feet were numb by the time they got back, but the only problem that presented was his difficulty in using a mechanical can opener to open Daisy’s food can. One time it seemed strange that absolutely no one else was out. It was breezy and when they finally did see someone they yelled out; “Are you some kind of a nut? It’s minus three degrees.” Steamer was somewhat complimented and thought that Daisy was too, and they kept on. When they got to the river he noticed that not only were his hands and feet frozen, but that he had lost sensation up to the knee.

He cut her Bosque exploration short and led her back home. She periodically stopped and looked at him as if to say; “What’s the problem?”

He’d answer her with a firm; “No, no, no, no. We gotta git.”

She was co-operative and also confused. They got home all right and he took a particularly long time to open her food can. They warmed back up as they napped together. There were times when he’d think that they were not going to make it. But, they always did somehow. She was a very smart dog.

During the second summer of their Bosque excursions, Daisy silently, but with the competent uses of easily decipherable facial expressions, convinced Steamer to join her in the Rio Grande. She took her usual dip at the end of the first available path to the river, after entering on Romero Road. Maybe it was abnormally warm that day or maybe they had gotten out late, but as she waded in the shallows eyeing Steamer, he felt compelled to join her. He entered and they proceeded to investigate the islands. The initial shock of the cold soon wore off, just as quickly as it did when he went into the public pool as a kid. Sometimes he led her and sometimes she led him. If there was any logic to the captainship, it was likely to have been a function of that day’s spirit of adventure mixed with their mutual reticence to get in water over their heads. Upon seeing her drenched, people often asked Steamer if Daisy liked to swim. He’d answer that; “She likes to wade,” as he had noticed the look in her bulging brown eyes when her immersed feet no longer touched something solid.

After the daily, initial jolt of cold subsided, they fought the river current to get to every island on their side of the Rio Grande. Once in a while Daisy wistfully looked at the other half of the river, but Steamer always held her back. He had been informed by someone who should have known, that the river has at least one channel; a severe drop off where the water flows deeply and quickly. Since they had encountered no such thing on “their” side, he made the logical and safe conclusion that it must be somewhere on the other.

They hopped from island to island, finding that all but one were easily reachable during the warm weather, low river level policy of the government. The islands offered only a few surprises which they never found on the mainland; old washed up wallets, clothing, dead fish, and the occasional turtle shell. However, Steamer enjoyed them as they afforded a solitude not available on the continent. Daisy probably did not share this thought, and most likely would have said that she liked the islands because it gave her a better opportunity to stay cool and wet. However, she never found a way to make her feelings clear. On a few particularly hot days, when they were walking back home, people crossing their path mentioned the overbearing heat. However, due to their saturation, they didn’t feel it. They were walking swamp coolers; an inexpensive and popular adaptation to air conditioning prevalent in the Southwest.

Most often Daisy would first lead Steamer to a long and small, half sand island directly in front of her everyday “stop and wade” in the Rio Grande. She’d scrutinize the vegetated back half, return to the front, and gaze at shore. She was keeping her eye out for a friend, old or new. On the few occasions when she found one, she’d return to the mainland to say “Hi.” On the majority of days they’d wait there ten minutes, re-explore the back half, and then go from island to island.

Some were tangled and overgrown, evincing many years of existence, and some were sandy newborns, devoid of any impediments to free movement. One was technically a peninsula, attached at one end to the drain field, so loved and plowed by the Survivalists.

Steamer bought Daisy every type of toy carried by local pet shops. He’d give her a new one every day or every other day. She often ripped the doll like ones apart to get to the inner part which made various sounds. One he got for her was a little gorilla, and when you squeezed his belly he would make a sound like what a gorilla might sound like, if one knew gorilla language. Daisy was very afraid of him. Steamer would pick the toy up and activate the sound, but she wanted no part of it. Within a week, Daisy got unafraid and ripped him apart, exposing the little piece of plastic making the ferocious sound.

Her favorite doll was soundless. It could speak, but generally chose not to. It was a predominately gray, black and white koala bear. After a familial neatness binge resulted in all of her toys being sequestered in iron magazine holders, the only one she pulled back out was him. Daisy kept her koala near her on her blanketed mattress always.

Shane - Daisy’s first love.

In Steamer and Daisy’s earliest days at the Bosque, it seemed that they had the place to themselves for the most part. Most walkers, dog and otherwise, contented themselves to tread the high levee path or the ditch paths one hundred feet away and technically not a part of the Bosque. A small contingent expressed fear of going into the partially hidden aggregation of trees, bushes, tall grass, bees, coyotes and they also must have thought Freddie Kruger. The few times Daisy tried the ditch path routes, she quickly transferred back to the wild, wooded, generally five hundred foot wide drop off to the Rio Grande. Steamer thought that she found the more or less, perfectly straight, vegetation free, sand, clay and rock paths too monotonous, as well as inadequately shaded. Daisy and he did use them a few times when they had gone a little too far and wanted to take the shortest straight line route back home, though in that regard they were misinformed.

Steamer couldn’t recall exactly when it happened, but it was probably within three months of their first walk on the wild side, that they were impressed to see the perils of the untamed navigated by a tiny, brave woman they would come to know as Nancy, who held onto two small, leashed dogs, named Victor and Shane.

Shane was an extremely silly, seven year old pug mix, and Nancy’s favorite. Daisy wanted to run right over and Steamer held her back. Up until then, he didn’t remember her interacting with a very small dog, and he was cautiously fearful that she might confuse them with the delicacies of rabbit and squirrel; though he would later find out that cuisine considerations were not of paramount importance, as at this time Daisy would also chase cats, and he had seen cats bigger than Shane and Victor put together.

Nancy was quite a dog expert and apparently saw in Daisy’s nature that she wouldn’t think of attacking. Eventually, they all met on the same side, nowhere near one of those iron bridges, and whenever Daisy saw the trio she would wag her tail like a helicopter and pull Steamer to them, sometimes doing it so well that he slid on his butt trying to somewhat restrain her.

Out of breath, he once told Nancy that Daisy went crazy every time he saw her.

Nancy said; “It’s not me. It’s Shane,” and sure enough it was. Daisy would be just as excited every time she saw Shane. Steamer and Daisy would often follow the trio into the parking area. As Nancy would drive away, she would open the back window, and Shane would stick his head out of it, tongue hanging out with a wild grin on his face. Daisy and he would watch and smile, anxious to see them again.

One particularly hot summer Nancy recommended that Steamer get a dog wading pool for his backyard. He got one and filled it with water. It was blue, made of plastic, circular, and about two feet across. Daisy investigated it. She must have thought that it was weird, sitting there in an unnatural position, a contradiction to the bricks making up the portal, upon which it sat, in the area so close to home. She must have concluded that it was a massive water dish, as the only use Daisy had for it was to take a drink. She never put her body into the artificial, monstrosity which welcomed her for two summers. Steamer’s little spotted girl chose to ignore the potential of plastic.

Daisy seemed oblivious to the territorial concerns of man and beast; the latter word a misnomer for those who do not pay the least bit of attention to the trifling concerns of the established disorder. While the eminent domain considerations of the petit bourgeois were often foisted upon her, she had an inability to fathom the attempted encroachments of those insecure and overly protective of their perceived and fleeting place in the world. Daisy saw no boundaries; seeing the world as an infinite harbor of potential, which, she obviously thought, should have been reached by all long ago.

At times, she showed her misunderstanding of the status quo. Upon seeing something which seemed entirely mean or entirely self-serving, she would stop and look at Steamer, no doubt thinking that he could clear things up for her. While he had lived long enough, and consequently had the ability to explain why the self-defeating stupidity was in existence, he could never state, in a language she or he, for that matter, could understand, why it was that way. Daisy trusted him to know what to avoid; most of the time; the innocent baby counseled by the ancient and world weary protector. She was a flower child from the forgotten, misunderstood and reviled 1960’s, willing to personally defy at great personal risk the dictum of the Marquis De Sade which warned; “No good deed goes unpunished.” To those who doubted her good intentions, Steamer merely said that you didn’t know her, never will, and that was your loss. Like a shooting star, Daisy transcended the incorrectly predictable order of the supposedly rational cosmos.

Daisy had to have had some Marxian notion about an equitable division of labor. Where they walked in the “wild” as well as in their back yard, her paws would regularly pick up some impediment to her continuation. They came in many varieties, the most treacherous of them being goat’s heads. For those who haven’t had the pleasure of living in the Southwest, goat’s heads are the plentiful seed thrown off by a ground hugging weed endemic to the area. They are hard and have a needle-like protrusion, much like a thumbtack, which is capable of flattening the tire of a riding mower.

Whenever Daisy got one in a paw she stopped moving. If it was in one of her back paws she would use her teeth to carefully extract it. However, if it was lodged in one of her front paws it was Steamer’s job. It was much less perilous for him. He didn’t mind the task, but always wondered why she was so self-sufficient regarding her posterior appendages.

The last returning portion of their walks always took a different route from that with which they had left home. While they always exited the development through the woods at the end of Manzano Road, Daisy always preferred to make her grand comeback only utilizing Camino De Lucia. This made it a slightly longer trip and necessitated an increased jaunt on Corrales Road, the main thoroughfare.

When Daisy was young a Spanish couple lived on the southern corner with their disagreeable dog. The woman was often outside and she would always say “Hello” to Daisy by stooping over and petting the Dalmatian’s head, while using baby talk. After a while she voiced an idea. She wondered if Daisy could come over and play with her dog, in the hope of socializing it. Being a courteous, thoughtful person, the woman had the two dogs introduced while a wire fence separated them. Her caution proved to be a necessary safeguard, as ten seconds after sniffing each other through the fence, her dog always went ballistic. Steamer tried the introduction three or four times, always with the same result. After each failure she would yell at her cantankerous canine, saying; “What’s wrong with you? That’s Daisy!”

Further down the road, Oso was always alone in his back yard, just looking for someone or something to play with. Steamer would bring him things he had found while walking with Daisy; like tennis balls, broken toys, and discarded, highly edible treat packages. Initially interesting and provocative, this didn’t prevent Oso, a large White shepherd, from being the most frequent client of the Corrales dog catcher.

Mike and Annie lived further down Camino De Lucia. Though they always had smallish, somewhat sequestered dogs, the highlight of their property was a group of burros. Pablo, named after Picasso, was always the center of attention. He’d bray, run around and come to the fence looking for people with apples. He was also smart and adventurous. When Mike and Annie had workmen there, Pablo would hang around by the gate, and if one of them was lax in closing it, Pablo would make a break for parts unknown. He’d explore part of the neighborhood and often settle in the shade and imagined privacy of a dirt road behind Steamer’s house. But Steamer would screw up his plan and squeal on him, for his own good.

Mike and Annie were old hippies from Vermont, who operated an eating establishment from where they also sold original paintings by local artists, in many cases being the buyer of last resort. Though they both liked Daisy and gave her rough pets, which Daisy loved, whenever they saw her, Steamer thought that for Mike the feeling was something special; Annie less so. He seemed to regularly just happen to be coming out of his house when Steamer and Daisy approached. He always crouched down and squeezed Daisy all over. Mike was the first to tell Steamer that as a result of pulling him all over, Daisy’s chest muscles were like that of a sled dog.

Sometimes, when no one else was there, Daisy and Steamer would stand at the corral fence to watch Pablo put on his song and dance routine. One particularly energetic morning, Pablo ran the corral like a maniac. Daisy and Steamer fully watched him, but in watching him Steamer lost his concentration on Daisy. She decided to join Pablo in his spree and pulled Steamer right over. He was fine; no arbitrary pro injury reports made, and Daisy continued to run the fence with Pablo, Steamer right behind.

Mike died; perhaps a long term result of his pre-vaccination days polio. Annie no longer came out to see Steamer’s pup. She shortly moved back east. Pablo was relocated to somewhere else in Corrales. Every day, Daisy dawdled at the corral fence, waiting for her friends, but gave up after a few months.

Mear Daisy’s birthday, as she and Steamer were sitting at the Bosque, they met William and Arthur. It was still not yet officially summer, but you could have fooled anyone who went outside. The actual, calendar measured summer yet to come was to prove to be by far the hottest in Daisy’s New Mexican lifetime. The Rio Grande came close to going dry. After an hour’s food hunt, swims and squat, the duo sat at the top of the levee in the shade of a cottonwood. She no longer fancied the marathon walks, and little by little, curtailed them, though she still had her days. She was in no rush to get home as she still enjoyed the sights and smells of the “wild” outdoors even though her locomotion wasn’t anymore that of a puppy. Moreover she had the right vantage point to locate old and new friends. While Steamer missed the old days, he was also rapidly departing his teenage years, now approaching seventeen years of age, and the impending horror of college. On a positive note, it seemed right that Daisy and Steamer were growing old together after jointly having regularly experienced adventures few Corrales dog walkers had ever attempted. This ensured that they would always have their memories. On this day, like many others, Steamer stroked her head and back, saying time worn things like; “I love my little Daisy” and “You’re my magic puppy.”

Steamer and Daisy didn’t see William and Arthur until they exited the woods five feet behind them. They creaked to their feet and turned. Arthur, the seven year old retriever was off leash, but ambled over somewhat cautiously. In traditional Daisy fashion, she impatiently went to him and they immediately became good friends. William introduced his companion and himself and so did they. William made a special note of petting Daisy, as he always would. He described Arthur, who was named after the king, as goofy, and Steamer petted him. William said that the characterization was not meant to be disparaging; that Arthur was just ......... goofy. The four were to meet many more times that season; one time walking and talking so intently, that Daisy and Steamer lost track of the distance they had travelled and Steamer barely made it back, having to stop and catch his breath on more than one occasion. Daisy didn’t complain as long as she could get frequent stops in the water. Daisy and Steamer visited with William and Arthur, which gave her the opportunity to see a friend in the confines of a backyard, a glimpse into what was to become her more sedate future.

While Daisy had no fear of cars, horses, water, other dogs or people, there were two things which she was afraid of; balloons, which she saw as fire breathing dragons, with the sound of a locomotive, which Steamer called The Choo Choo monster.

Every year, during the first weeks of October, there was an International Balloon Fiesta in the area. Presumably, it is scheduled at that time as visitors consider that period as ideal central New Mexican weather, with the hottest days of summer over and the harsh winter still a ways off. However, there is an inevitable dispute with any judgmental statement and this was always a time when Daisy would have preferred to have been vacationing in Tora Bora, Afghanistan.

If the balloons were already in the sky when they entered the driveway, Daisy didn’t want to go in their direction and would attempt to return to the back yard, until things blew over. However, Steamer knew that if he could get her to go approximately 100 feet on their curved street, that the balloons would no longer be in her face, and they would gradually disappear to her left.

This posed no real problem, despite the “Uh oh” look on Daisy’s face. They’d get to the Bosque as usual, but so would many of the intimidating dragons. Many liked to dip down and get as close to the Rio Grande as possible, giving Daisy an up close look and a magnified “whoosh” sound as they fired their helium. Daisy was a smart dog. She’d get under the cover of a grove of cottonwoods to wait out the dragon assault, while keeping a watchful eye on the multi-colored and multi-shaped monsters.

 

But, they didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. The Zone was still close enough to hear them.

They were halfway to the perimeter when the Survivalists appeared; three of them, stepping out from behind a stack of corrugated metal sheets. They weren’t coordinated; they never were. They were a loose confederation of suspicion and half remembered, half understood doctrine.

The first one, a tall man with a rifle slung too casually across his chest, called out; “Hold up. You’re coming out too fast.”

Steamer stopped. He didn’t sigh, but the air around him seemed to. “You know the rule,” Steamer said. “I go in. I come out. You don’t interfere.”

The second Survivalist, a woman with a tactical vest full of empty pouches, squinted at the canine newcomer. “They weren’t with you when you went in.”

“They were,” Steamer said. “You just didn’t see them.”

That line always worked on them. It played to their mythology, their fear of missing something essential. But today, the third Survivalist; a Z teenager with a bandana pulled up to his eyes, didn’t buy it. “No,” the kid said. “I saw you go in with two humans. Alone.”

Steamer turned his head slightly, just enough to look at the kid without giving him the dignity of full attention. “You saw what the Zone let you see.”

The kid’s grip tightened on his pistol. It wasn’t a threat; it was insecurity.

Steamer ignored him.

“You want to check us?” Steamer said to the Survivalists. “Go ahead. But if you step one foot closer, the Zone will think you’re trying to follow me out.”

That landed. Even the kid flinched. The Survivalists believed in the Zone the way zealots believe in scripture; selectively, inconsistently, but with absolute terror at the edges.

The tall one raised a hand, signaling retreat. “Fine,” he said. “Just move slow. The perimeter’s been jumpy.”

Steamer nodded once. Not gratitude; acknowledgment of a transaction completed.

As they walked past the makeshift outpost; shipping containers, tarps, a watchtower made from telephone poles, Steamer felt the Zone’s presence thinning behind him. The hum faded. The air normalized. The world regained its weight.

Steamer kept walking, boots crunching on gravel, posture forward now, the past finally behind him. The Zone had let him go. For today, that was enough.

Burning of the Midnight Lamp

 

The Jimi Hendrix Experience

 

The morning is dead

And the day is, too

There's nothing left here to meet me

But the velvet moon

 

All my loneliness I have felt today

It's like a little more than enough

To make a man throw himself away

 

And I continue

To burn the midnight lamp

Alone

 

Now the smiling portrait of you

Is still hangin' on my frowning wall

It really doesn't, really doesn't bother me

too much at all

 

It's just the ever falling dust

That makes it so hard for me to see

That forgotten earring layin' on the floor

Facing coldly towards the door

 

I continue

To burn the midnight lamp

Lord, alone

Loneliness is such a drag

 

So here I sit to face

That same old fireplace

Gettin' ready for the same old explosion

Goin' through my mind

 

And soon enough time will tell,

About the circus in the wishing well

And someone who will buy and sell for me

Someone to toll my bell

 

And I continue

To burn this old lamp

Lord, alone

 

Darlin' can't ya hear me callin' you?

So lonely

Gonna have to blow my mind

Lonely

 

Written by Jimi Hendrix

 

Strictly Confidential

 

Roxy Music

 

Before I die I'll write this letter

Here are the secrets you must know

Until the cloak of evening shadow

Changes to mantle of the dawn

 

Will it be sunny then I wonder?

Rolling and turning

How can I sleep?

Hold on till morning

What if I fall?

 

Over the hills and down the valleys

Soaring aloft and far below

Lying on stony ground the fragments

Truth is the seed we tried to sow

 

Marking the time spent on our journey

There isn't much we have to show

Counting the cost in money only

Strikes me as funny don't you know?

 

Tongue tied the thread of conversation

Weighing the words one tries to use

Nevertheless communication

This is the gift you must not lose

 

Haunting me always are the voices

(Tell us are you ready now?)

Sometimes I wonder if they're real

(We're ready to receive you now)

Or is it my own imagination?

(Have you any more to say?)

Guilt is a wound that's hard to heal

(It's a cross you have to bear)

Could it be evil thoughts become me

(Tell us what you're thinking now)

Some things are better left unsaid

 

Magical moment

The spell it is breaking

There is no light here

Is there no key?

 

Written by Bryan Ferry

17-Home Again

When Steamer got there, Emma was standing in the open door to their house. She pointed to the apple tree they had together planted five years ago, smiling and saying; “Look, our tree finally seems ready to produce some real fruit.”

The house had the quiet authority of a structure that has stood for a long time without ever announcing itself. Everything about it reads as practical endurance rather than charm seeking performance.

A tall, steeply pitched roof dominates the silhouette, the kind built for real weather rather than aesthetics. The shingles look hand laid, slightly irregular, giving the roofline a textured, almost topographical quality.

The two story form is straight forward; a central door, flanked by evenly spaced windows, with another row above. It's the kind of symmetry that comes from classicism and necessity, not “expert” taught design school.

The walls appear wooden and weathered, the boards darkened by time rather than paint. You can feel the grain.

The windows are small, square, and plain, suggesting an older build; pre-1830, when glass was expensive and insulation mattered more than views. Their repetition gives the house a steady, unblinking expression, like a face that has watched decades pass without reacting.

A large tree in the foreground partially obscures the right side, its trunk thick and rooted, reinforcing the sense of age. The tree isn't ornamental; it's simply part of the land the house grew into.

The shading adds a quiet, almost archival tone, as if this is a memory of the house rather than a current portrait. This is a survivor's house; built with enough competence to last, but without any gesture toward display. It feels rural, self-contained, and slightly withdrawn, the kind of place that has accumulated stories simply by remaining in place while everything around it changed.

Time

 

Pink Floyd

 

Ticking away the moments

that make up a dull day

You fritter and waste the hours

in an offhand way

Kicking around on a piece of ground

in your hometown

Waiting for someone or something

to show you the way

 

Tired of lying in the sunshine,

staying home to watch the rain

You are young and life is long

and there is time to kill today

 

And then one day you find

ten years have got behind you

No one told you when to run,

you missed the starting gun

 

And you run, and you run to catch up with the sun,

but it's sinking

Racing around

to come up behind you again

The sun is the same in a relative way,

but you're older

Shorter of breath,

and one day closer to death

 

Every year is getting shorter,

never seem to find the time

Plans that either come to naught

or half a page of scribbled lines

 

Hanging on in quiet desperation

is the English way

The time is gone, the song is over,

thought I'd something more to say

 

Home, home again

I like to be here when I can

When I come home, cold and tired

It's good to warm my bones beside the fire

 

Far away, across the field

The tolling of the iron bell

Calls the faithful to their knees

To hear the softly spoken magic spells

 

Written by David Jon Gilmour, Richard William Wright, Nicholas Berkeley Mason, and George Roger Waters.

 

She led him in, and he asked no questions about the changes, both outside and in; durability and classicism out, nonsensical fun in. Joy required no comment. Miracles defied scientific explanation.

The first room entered was a dense, jubilant collision of color, texture, and ornament; one of those spaces where every surface seems to be performing. The first thing that asserts itself is the ceiling; a grid of metallic, diamond patterned tiles, each one catching and scattering light so the whole overhead plane behaves like a low, reflective canopy. It gives the room a faintly theatrical shimmer, as if the ceiling is doing more work than the walls.

Hanging from that mirrored surface are mismatched pendant lamps; glass shades in different shapes, colors, and levels of opacity. They don’t coordinate so much as coexist, each one adding its own temperature and mood. The effect is a constellation of small, warm focal points rather than a single lighting scheme.

The walls are painted a saturated turquoise, a color that refuses to recede. They’re crowded with framed art, masks, and decorative objects; pieces that feel collected rather than curated. The room doesn’t aim for minimalism; it wants to show its inventory of personality.

A television mounted on one wall broadcasts “artsy” rock videos, but it feels like just another object in the collage rather than the room’s anchor.

Tables and chairs are arranged in a casual, functional pattern; nothing overly formal, nothing trying to impose order on the visual chaos. Toward the back, a counter area suggests a café or restaurant/bar service zone, but even that blends into the overall density of color and ornament.

The room’s energy is unmistakably lively. It’s the kind of place where conversation would feel louder, where the décor is part of the entertainment, where the visual noise is intentional. It’s eclectic, playful, and slightly overwhelming in a way that feels deliberate; an environment that wants to be experienced rather than merely occupied.

Steamer continued to make no comment over the perceived change. Perhaps the changes were in his head. Instead he said; “Look Emma, I have some posters rolled up in my pocket. They should fit in well.” They were psychedelic posters and a photo of Quicksilver Messenger Service.

Emma watched the rollout patiently, and when it was over she said; “Groovy. We’ll hang them.”

 

 

“Not too redundant?” he said.

“If it’s worth doing once, it’s worth doing thrice.”

Theme from an Imaginary Western

Song by

Mountain

 

When the wagons leave the city

For the forest and further on

Painted wagons of the morning

Dusty roads where they have gone

 

Sometimes travelling through the darkness

Met the summer coming home

Fallen faces by the wayside

Looked as if they might have known

 

O the sun was in their eyes

And the desert that dries

In the country town

Where the laughter sounds

 

O the dancing and the singing

O the music when they played

O the fires that they started

O the girls with no regret

 

Sometimes they found it

Sometimes they kept it

Often lost it on the way

Fought each other to possess it

Sometimes died in sight of day

 

O the sun was in their eyes

And the desert that dries

In the country town

Where the laughter sounds

 

O the sun was in their eyes

And the desert that dries

In the country town

Where the laughter sounds

 

Written by Jack Bruce and Peter Constantine Brown