the end of the fifth day I compile a list:
PATHS TO SPIRITUAL FULFILMENT (NEW AGE)
1. Intuitive development
Chakras, auras, astrology, channelling, oracles, tarot
2. Creating your own reality
Transformational journeys, meditation, dreamwork, astral projection, brain machines, drugs
3. Transitions
Birth, death, reincarnation, past lives
4. Spirituality
Mysticism, Native American spiritualism, nature worship, the Goddess, the Crone, miracles
5. Consumption
Shopping
and resolve to make this my agenda.
DAY EIGHT
Awake at six, feeling elated. It’s sunny outside, but cool still. A rust-coloured hummingbird motors around the agave outside my room. In the shower I am overtaken by the uncomfortable but undeniable possibility that the longer I spend alone the lonelier I may become.
My God-Box insight for the day is:
It’s never too late to have a happy childhood
printed in soy-based ink with a picture of an ancient swinging in a child’s playground.
A woman at the juice bar in Wild Oats on Cordova Street recommends wheatgrass juice on account of its positive impact on prana. She doesn’t say whether it takes prana away or gives it to you, but at $3 a pop you’d have a right to expect it to do one or the other, surely. She directs me to the seating area, where, pinned up on the corkboard is a notice advertising a drum birthing workshop: ‘The second day of the workshop is spent in birthing teams ritually birthing both your drum and yourself. You will be guided in how to co-ordinate sound, breath, your body and the team’s energy in order to give your drum the best life possible. A properly birthed drum will pull tremendous amounts of energy from you in order to begin its life, just as a baby does.’
‘You here for Whole Life or just doing some work on your-self?’ asks the juice-bar attendant, with the dilute resignation of a person who finds that life in the periods between trips tends towards the crushingly predictable.
‘Bit of both, I guess,’ I reply in non-committal tone. She waves away an insect, suppressing a yawn with a flailing hand.
‘Have you been out to the desert yet?’
I shake my head.
She opens her eyes in mild surprise, as if offended by my unconventional behaviour.
‘You must go! The life force there! I mean, the whole desert energy thing roots you into this amazing consciousness of your interconnectedness with all beings.’
‘What,’ I suggest, recalling the texts of the lost week, ‘transformative at the soul level?’
‘We’re talking molecular.’
‘So you’re saying it acts as a kind of metaphor for the holographic universe?’ I persist.
‘Right.’
‘Biocosmic resonation?’
She smiles a smile a highway wide. ‘Hey, you’re into that too.’ Then leaning in close enough for me to be able to smell the tang of grease in her hair. ‘Tell me, did we meet in a past life?’
‘Uh huh,’ I reply, returning the smile.
‘I knew I’d seen your face before.’
I’m driving to Chris Griscom’s Light Institute in Galisteo, about twenty miles south of Santa Fe, for a ‘Knowings’ in which people gather ‘knowing’ from themselves and ‘apply it from a place of enlightenment’. I had always imagined wisdom to be an accumulated quality, only now I am told it can be taught in Knowings workshops.
South of Santa Fe, the sky unfurls to an artificial blue, scribbled over with cirrus. Last night’s roadkill still lies moist and filleted on the highway, as yet undiscovered by the ravens sunning themselves in the squawbush on either side of the road. It is the first day of summer heat. The sun is yellow now; by noon it will shine as whitely as magnesium flare.
The highway passes right through Galisteo then out onto the other side, across the Galisteo basin. At speed, you might pass the village of Galisteo altogether before your eyes had even registered it. The main street is little more than a strip of dry clay messed up into troughs by the winter rains. A black mongrel dog tied to a loop set into an adobe wall pulls at its chain and howls. Caboose draws up and slides into the verge, too early for the ‘Knowings’. On the pavement lies an old fake swiss army knife, handle picked at by ants, blade sound enough. Near to the place where the dog is tied, two hispanic women and a man in a straw hat sit in the shade of a mesquite tree still covered in the papery casings of its lost blossom. Across the road towards the Spanish church, the plastic honeycomb from a six-pack drifts in the breeze. A car runs over it, slows momentarily then flows south leaving its image slipping into the heat shine.
The patrona of the local store is stationed on a wooden chair outside brushing away the dust with a Spanish fan. A radio tuned into a Santa Fe station spits out part of the signal. She follows me into the store, lined along one side with Uncle Ben’s; she smoothes her hair, lifts the plastic cover from a plate of danish pastries, wipes off a fly and moves along the counter. Taking my five-dollar bill and making a little show of it, she opens a wooden drawer where there are five-dollar bills and one-dollar bills, fixed together with an iron bulldog clip and passes back some coins. I sit up against a wall hard from the sun, sip from a bottle of warm, sweet soda and watch the black dog shivering on its chain. A boy with worn down shoes comes by carrying a bunch of mint with the leaves dragging in the dust.
Over the wall in someone’s garden two cockerels are doing violence to each other, throwing pieces of flinty stone up into the air and a chestnut horse with a paper fringe over its head to keep away the flies rubs its neck against a little bothy built into the wall. The chickens don’t bother it, the dog doesn’t bother it. A man passes in a tow truck, makes a wide turn at the end of the road and cuts the engine. He sits and waits for something to happen, but nothing does. Around the town in each direction lies almost silent a fauvist bowl of bluegreen laterite edged in navy where the sky scrolls down onto its beginning.
The world headquarters of the Griscom global enlightenment enterprise is a collection of modest little buildings surrounded by cottonwood bosque up a remote and self-effacing dirt track to the east of Galisteo. By six-thirty, fifty people or so have gathered in a prefabricated building on one side of the main administrative building, behind an adobe barn. To the front of this building a line of cars waits to park: Mercedes estates, Mitsubishi four-wheel-drives, GM minivans, the odd station wagon. A waspish woman in linen tells me she makes the round trip (seven hundred miles or so) from Denver each week. It costs her $50 in gas, plus the $15 Light Institute fee. Chris Griscom is a very fine person, and a very famous person she says. It occurs to me that since my last visit
