Lowriders at the Sunport

There is a wonderful art show at Albuquerque’s airport–Curator Max Baptiste has installed “Lowriders and Hot Rods: Car Culture of Northern New Mexico,” which is on display through November.

I sat for an hour–having dinner before meeting a flight–watching people respond to the show. Reactions seemed to range from “how cool” to “died and gone to heaven.”

The art collection at the Sunport is stupendous. It greets each arrival with so much of New Mexico. Over thirty five years, the collection has cheered and inspired me through all the dramas an airport brings.

Manuel Vega’s 1950 Mercury outside Custom Tattoo shop on Central Avenue, Albuquerque by Robert Eckert


Rich and I have often fantasized about trips in an RV. Last night we stayed over at our kids, who happen to live on a ranch with RV Park.
It was cozy:

and compact. The moon shone through the skylight. Spectacular sunset, and nice to see dawn.

Rich made me hot cereal, and actually drove the RV on I-25. I’m afraid I’m more decorative than useful in this situation.

Since we were close by, we headed to funky Madrid.

And enjoyed recycled art at Weasel & Fitz.

Home by lunch.

Have a safe and pleasant holiday.

Dropping The Bomb…right out of History

What gets measured is what gets taught in today’s embattled public school system where the teacher “teachers to the test.”
And so when these cuts are reported we can assume that the subjects have been cut along with the test.

Students in high school U.S. History classes across New Mexico this year will not be tested on massive corporations and monopolies being forced to dismantle during the early 20th Century, the racial and ethnic conflict as people moved from farms to cities, or the bravery of Rosa Parks in fighting segregation in the South…I have suspicions that the events and topics eliminated from the U.S. History EOC are politically motivated. Events such as early 20th Century trust busting and the subsequent regulations on large corporations have been stricken. The racial and ethnic conflict from late 19th Century urbanization has been stricken. The mobilization of the war industry during World War II that led to President Dwight D. Eisenhower warning of “the military industrial complex” has been stricken. The dropping of the atomic bomb on Japan has been stricken. The Civil Rights icon Rosa Parks has been stricken from the standards as well.

The reactionary Republican policy behind this is clear. And was protested on Thursday at the Roundhouse. I was glad to be in the audience for a rousing speech by Lois Rudnik and many other well-thought out arguments against the omissions.

The history of the atom bomb IS the history of New Mexico. Robert Oppenheimer, never at loss for an appropriate verbal response, said famously at the Trinity test site “I am become Death, the shatter of worlds.” He was quoting from the Bhagavad Gita. Perhaps less famously he also said, “Now we are all sons of bitches.”

I hope to visit Hiroshima in January when I’m in Japan. Physicist Enrico Fermi’s sister, though, has the last word on the explosion. She wrote him ” I commend you to God, who alone can judge.”

Blacked Out

Blacked Out

Sunday evening, the electricity went out throughout the city and the northern part of the state. Just at dusk, when you don’t notice for the first few minutes. I walked to the corner to ascertain it was at least the neighborhood and not the house. I immediately met new neighbors a few houses down, a young couple and a toddler.
“What’s the cutie’s name?” I asked.
They told me their names, which I promptly forgot.
Then Rich went out walking, but came back soon. Lightning forked the sky, no rain. We sat in the backyard admiring the string of decorative multicolored solar lights. We had three candles in the kitchen window. Stars playing hide and go seek with clouds.
An hour or so later when the lights came back on the neighbors set off firecrackers, usually reserved for a festive occasion such as the Red Sox winning the World Series or Obama becoming president. Santa Fe’s West Side neighborhood is firmly Democratic Party and no fan of the Yankees.
Thirty-five years ago, my first husband Robert and I were blacked out in our railway flat of an apartment on Rose Alley in San Francisco. It was late afternoon in winter, dark and foggy. We got into bed (our futon on the floor)and read by flashlight while watching the cat try to crawl into a paper bag. Around supper time the phone rang, our friend Thomas wondering if we wanted to go out for dinner.
Well, no, we said, it’s blacked-out. He laughed and told us—the power came on two hours ago, look outside. We did. Behind our alley, the entire city of San Francisco was lit up. We’d just been too engrossed to notice.

Also luminous–Meow Wolf from a recent visit: