I’m up in the mountains in Santa Fe praying that my tent doesn’t collapse and fly away. We decided to camp out for the night at the Chatooga Indian Reservation campground. It is absolutely amazing up here. There truly is nothing like watching a thunderstorm roll in from the mountains. Jaren is asleep in the car but I decided to tough it out in the tent. The rain has let up but the wind and lightning have yet to die down. I’m going on thirty-five hours without sleep, and amazingly enough, I am still not ready for bed. Being up here uninhibited, braving the weather is too exhilarating for me to just ignore and give in to wasting my time sleeping. In about fifteen more minutes the landscape will become pitch black with no light from the moon or stars as they are hidden behind stormy weather. This is the perfect time to smoke a joint when I am left alone on a night like this, in the mountain of New Mexico no less, with nothing else to do but write. I’m using an old beer can left behind by the last campers as an ashtray. There’s a haze of smoke in the beam of my flashlight, and upon gazing into it, I noticed the wonderful setting the beam of light has made for shadow puppets.
July 15, 2000