THE PALE LIGHT OF SUNSET: SCATTERSHOTS AND HALLUCINATIONS IN AN IMAGINED LIFE

Peyote - 1994

273 1994 Peyote Yeah, I am still here, and I wonder what it all means. I think about the Indian and the Mexican. I know the Indian is alive, and I know where he is. In my heart, I think that the Mexican is dead, but I do not know why I think that. I do not want him to be dead; there are so few of us left. I wander around in the desert for a few days, not going anywhere. I down-climb into a canyon and sit beside a tiny stream, a rivulet, no wider than my hand. I sip the water. I sit there for two days, but I cannot clear my mind. I am full of clutter, a sloping mound of trash leaning against the back wall of my mind. I cannot get rid of it. I leave to go find the Indian. I sit with Wendell Klah on the edge of a high mesa in the reservation country where he was born. In his pocket he has some hard, bitter buttons that he has gotten from some Utes. Damn Utes, he says. Wish they’d keep this shit to themselves. But he has a pocketful of the buttons. Lee Maynard 274 You have to do this, he says. All the answers are in here. And a cleansing. He puts one of the buttons in his mouth, and hands one to me. I put it in my mouth. For a long while, nothing happens. We just sit there, chewing, feeling the bitter taste running through us. And then we puke. The puking is so violent that I think maybe I pass out for a while, falling over onto the hard clay, the meager juices that are left in me dribbling down my chin. Wendell has brought water and we drink until we can drink no more, and then we puke again. When the puking is over, we lie exhausted on the earth, trying to recover , trying to sit up without the world spinning out of control. We chew again, staring into the late evening sun. The sun is red, and then blue, and then some colors I have never seen before, have not seen since. My eyes blur and the colors run together, washing over each other and over me, blending and yet crisp, clear and individual. I can see each color separately and distinctly, and yet I can see the whole, flowing out over the mesa and covering the red land with a warmth that I have never seen before, never felt before. And I see the Mexican. And Ruker. And my father. Giant hornets fly in front of me. The warmth lasts three days. We sit, stare into the horizon, nod off, fall over on our sides, sit up again. When it is over, I see no one. My head feels strangely empty, clean, uncluttered. It is uncluttered because, after all, I still have no answers. But at least the questions are gone. The Pale Light of Sunset 275 And I am more hungry than I have ever been in my life. But I am not sure that I am hungry for food. I know that I have been very fucked up, here on the mesa, maybe more than at any time in my life. I think maybe I never want to do this shit again. But, what the hell, I think, maybe those Ute guys aren’t so bad, after all. ...