Читать книгу Virga & Bone - Craig Childs - Страница 10

INTRODUCTION

To write this book, I holed up on a far side of Tucson at the edge of the desert. In one direction the night was lit up, the city droned on, and in the other stood dark mountains, saguaros rising into stars. My writing table was up against a rammed earth wall in a modest cave of a house, no extra bedroom, no doors inside, a cistern shower in the bathroom and a composter for a toilet. I stacked and laid books on the work table, poetry mostly, Bass, Neruda, Oliver, Hoagland. There were a few longer reads, reminding me of what I was doing here: Abbey, Meloy, Lopez, Irvine. A mix of the living and the dead.

The place was empty but for a couch, a refrigerator, a wooden kitchen table, and a chair that I salvaged from a dumpster in the city. My friend next door, down a faint trail through cactus, offered the place for me to work. My gal saw a picture I texted and said it looked like I was writing in a Turkish prison, bare earthen floors and walls. She didn’t see the sliding glass door I left open most of the day, and the clouds of spring-green creosote bushes and big-padded prickly pear cactus growing to the edge of worn steps. These weren’t landscaping plants; they’d been growing here for centuries, swelling and shrinking with every rain and drought. Ribbed arms and heads of saguaros studded the skyline where Gila woodpeckers and curve-billed thrashers kept up conversation, and quail bobbed on the ground like sly, pear-sized hens. The Sonoran Desert in southern Arizona this time of year can be a circus. You have to get up sometimes and close the door to stay focused.

At night, my lamp on inside, pages rattled out of my keyboard. I looked up at a fox as it passed sleekly by, its nose almost touching the glass of the door slid closed. It glanced inside and trotted through creosote bushes where the dark of the desert took it back in.

A block away was the rest of Tucson, the desert crunched into lawns and landscape gravels. You could draw a line dividing here from there, light and darkness, mountains huddled back from the city and green from the rains and cool days of March, the other direction roofs.

I remember when I was a kid seeing road signs at the edge of Phoenix, after the last subdivisions, upon which people spray-painted SAVE OUR DESERT. Curve Ahead: SAVE OUR DESERT. Do Not Enter When Flooded: SAVE OUR DESERT. I hadn’t put two and two together, I didn’t know why the desert needed to be saved. Those places are gone now, stripped and replaced, little sense of what might have once been there. I don’t know who did the graffiti in the 1970s, but when I was a kid, I imagined them dressed in bandanas, coming out of the desert, pushing against the city, defending forests of ironwood and saguaros, quail bursting into the air like little jets.

Driving back with groceries to the house where I was working, turning from pavement onto dirt, I stopped at a diamondback rattler half on and half off asphalt. It was drawing up warmth as the day ended, not a good idea with cars coming by. Did it know the dangers here, or was the snake not thinking car, tires, weight, death? I backed up until I could see along the length of its body from my rolled-down window. I told it to get off the road. It didn’t. I opened the door, only got a head flinch, the snake laid out more or less straight, an arm and a half long with a mature stack of rattles at the end nearest me. Go, I said, waving my arms, and the rattler reluctantly moved. I got out and shooed it along as it picked up speed with a few half-hearted buzzes of its tail. As the head went into the base of a sprawling creosote, out of range of a strike, I took a notion to reach down and touch the rattle, let the thing buzz through my hand. How often does that happen? I could use a little snake medicine in this book, I thought. It was not something I’d ever done, but seemed doable. Following the slip of the tail, two inches away from grazing my fingers, I said, out loud, No.

What rattlesnake wants its rattle touched?

NO MOLESTAR LA FAUNA reads the sign outside of a biosphere reserve in the desert of northern Mexico, a few hours from here. The phrase rolls off the tongue. Don’t molest the animals. Don’t pick up desert turtles or pet rattlesnakes. The flora, while we’re at it, needs no manhandling or groping, no more stately dead ironwoods stripped for campfires. We could save a planet obeying signs like these.

I kept thinking about that snake as I wrote during the night, its elegant scowl and the sinuous armor of its body, diamond-backed to blend with the shadows. It carries a neurotoxin that won’t normally kill but will give you a run for your money, with swollen, coal-black appendages and hallucinations.

I’ve always been curious, but I’d rather not find out.

The snake is the desert. The fox is the desert, as is the bee that flew in through the open door while I was mincing words and attacked my head, stinging my face, shoulder, and scalp before I hurled it to the floor and squashed it, then staggered back to my keyboard. The country is not easy. Scorpions are here too, and a lush variety of cactus I would not touch, growing all around the house and in the arroyos up into the tapering ridges of the north Tucson Mountains. How could you not admire this sharpness? The buckled horizons and unencumbered views are nourishing. Poisonous things and needle-tip spines demand attention. A healthy agave with a fresh blade growing straight up, I never hesitate to reach out with a fingertip and touch, reminding myself every time how pointed they really are.

I go to the neighboring house a shouting distance away, a friend from way back. She has a painting on her wall by Pima-Maricopa artist Michael Chiago. It depicts an imagined ritual, could be any time in history, Native dancers coming out of the rainy desert down to the sea, barefoot and raising their hands and colorful tablitas to perform an ancestral rite. Waves wash onshore like glass. Lightning strikes in the distance through the purple smell of rain in the desert. I could stand at this painting for hours.

She brought me tequila in a glass with ice. A desert permaculturist by trade, it made sense she chose tequila, a spirit made from the heart of the agave. The flavor was bracing, stronger than I expected, including tinctures of medicinal desert herbs that she added. She said she made the tinctures herself, rendered from leaves and stems, said she always adds them to her tequila. I drank because it was good in an astringent way, because it tasted like rain and desert and the sting of alcohol. It tasted like where I am from.

All I think about sometimes is desert. Mountains or woods will do, but where I want to be at any given moment, if you catch me staring off, is where boulders are warm to the touch, where rain rarely falls and the air feels like it’s being played on the highest, tightest string of a violin, as if you could barely squeeze a drop of water from it.

Some people dream in color. I dream in canyons. Shaded, echoing swirls; I will be flying, or floating rather, my shadow moving across the sandy floor. Maidenhair ferns grow from a blackened bedrock seep.

On the plains, with their rolling grasses and circular horizons, I look for bare patches, prairie dog towns and lonely buttes. I imagine if it were drier, what it could look like someday, salt flats, hexagonal buckles frosted with halite, not a bush or an ant to be seen. When it’s pure desert, nothing but drought, you see the bones of the world. You see what it’s all made of. I’m not saying it’s better this way or that I want the world to turn to desert. I’m just a fan.

I traveled to Tibet for a month on assignment and on the long flight to Beijing I sat in steerage rows thinking, Utah. What I could do with a month in Utah.

Some are born to it. Some come to it later, not realizing until the skyline breaks a certain way and banners of virga fall from clouds toward the desert floor, but don’t quite touch, that they had come home. You’ve chewed on green twigs of Mormon tea, pulping ephedrine out of them to the cadence of rock underfoot and the hush of wash sand, walking the dry runnels of southern Arizona or northern Mexico, or the red arroyos of the Four Corners. If you’re going to be in the desert, I recommend encountering it in all of its forms. Rain, rock, dry, sand, canyon, mesa, beach. Take it into yourself. If you don’t think the water you’ve found is good, take only a sip, or touch it from your fingertips to your lips. If it doesn’t taste like salt, and it’s old rainwater in a bedrock depression, even if there are a few swollen berries of bighorn droppings on the bottom, or, if it’s a big tank, a dead bat is floating at the surface, it’s probably okay to drink. It will keep you alive.

Yes, I’ve had giardia.

This book is about pieces of the desert, its elements, its waters and winds. These pages are odes to what I see as ingredients making up the arid Southwest, the parts you take inside yourself one at a time, or sometimes all at once.

I’ve chosen not to name characters because this is not about people. It is about essence. People are present only for scale. Some stories were easy to tell, flowing without looking up, and others I crumpled over, could hardly make sense of what happened. Any story should be this way. It should feel like pulling something burning out of yourself. There you find what you are devoted to.

Mostly I wrote inside, so I didn’t wander off. I left the house as few times as possible, going as far as climbing a metal ladder propped against a ramada out the back door. I sat on the corrugated roof and looked across boulder flanks of chocolate-colored mountains. My friend living next door has protected this land for decades, making a pariah of herself to county planners for being a watchdog, for not letting million-dollar homes go up on this patch of desert, for fighting roads and pavement and the wells drying up or turning to poison, and not growing rich over her labors,

using rainwater catchment, turning waste into soil, one of the most noble ways I know of living. To have a ramada in the desert and rainwater in the cistern is enough. To have time to sit and take it in is double the blessing. From the roof I took advantage of this blessing and watched saguaros do nothing, all of them silent as if waiting for one in the group to speak. A notebook was open on my lap and I began to write about the sea.

Tucson Mountains, Arizona

Bean Tree Farm

March 2019