Love Letter to Heroes From the Village of the Dark Spring

The euphonious spirit of Miles Davis must have found his way into el viento on this fine late winter morn here in Chuk-son.  A jazz symphony performed by a dozen wind chimes permeates every cell, tickles a quadrillion brain synapses, and thrills my bones to the marrow.  Even my newly made friends the hummingbirds seem to enjoy the Afro-Arizonan fusion rhythms.  More commonly known as Tucson, Chuk-son was the name given to my new home by the ancient resident O’odham inhabitants of this particular part of the Sonoran Desert.  Loosely translated as “village of the dark spring at the base of the mountain”, Chuk-son has grown from village into full blown city.  Not your average American city, mind you.  More like a small central Mexican Ciudad than anywhere else I’ve been within the belly of the beast…with a touch of sanity and, yea verily, friendly humanity, uncommon in the asphalt and concrete jungles of most of the U.S. of A.

Ed Abbey spent his last years here in the lush but blisteringly harsh desert he loved so well, and still decomposes out there somewhere in an unmarked grave.  Noam Chomsky recently left the hustle and bustle of the northeastern reaches of this land to find a niche on staff at The U of A.  And I finally decided that my particular brand of unabashed dissidence fits in here much better than it did in the staunchly conservative, wealthy, Mercedes-driving, tanning salon, and liposuction capital of the…

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