'That tamarisk', the realtor said, pointing at the feathery green-grey tree generously shading the north side of the house, 'is probably home to a king snake'. A harmless snake, I knew it would slither out to scout for less-friendly members of its species each evening. A king snake was a good omen. Also called 'salt cedar' that tree would drop a mess of needles and kill any plant under it, the woman derisively informed me. 'Take it out straightaway'. I knew to be wary of her.
Just as the guardian king snake hides in the debris around the tree, there are layers to sift through before truth and purpose are revealed. The friend who lived nearby in the high-class gated community where he re-posed for a while to make millions had been victim to that. As summer came harshly in, he had dug up the trees on his newly acquired plot and shifted them to spots more preferable to him - slowly and shamefully they died. Then squirrels arrived and dug up his ground cover, as if in subtle vengeance.
In the picturesque seaside town on the southern Californian coast where I had been living, awkward yuppies strolled restlessly up and down in front of the chic restaurants and boutiques and homes they owned only at weekends. Pacific Coast Highway lived up to its grand name - cutting beach-goers off from the sand, giving sightseers fast passage. Local newspapers wrote sad articles about the planned suicides of dispirited bohemians who had hung on, and brash mansions encroaching on unruly cottages.
The little oasis my new husband had rented for decades had been sold to developers; and we were out. A cheery contractor told us the owners intended to rip out its heart, chop down the trees, and add the expected generic features. Our visitors had always commented with delight on the zany cracked tiling, the brilliant stained glass set into wonky windows, the friendly plants creeping through the vent panels, the bejeweled spider's webs. They didn’t notice the absence of a dishwasher; but the new arrivals would.
So we were taking a look at a place the agent called 'way out there'; Cost-co and nouvelle cuisine were a half-hour away. You reached the ranchito either by rounding the mountains at the base of which date palm oases drank up the water that crept through an active fault line; or by the long waves of a road that crossed Sky Valley, as broad as its name. On the corner of Happy Valley Drive, a low-slung brick house with a wide wooden porch nestled behind brave desert plants.
The place seemed to offer an oasis for any desertion of the soul. This desert defied its outward appearance with its underground supply of water; just as even the saddest or baddest of us have deep-running souls waiting to be drawn upwards. In the front yard was a huge rock pool fed by natural hot water from an artesian well drilled almost 500 feet into the floor of an ancient ocean. I had the odd experience, standing in the spacious hallway at the center of that desert house, of ley-lines converging.
How easy to imagine peaceful nights closing in over the ring of mountains, candles around the pool, hours of whispered thoughts for bright stars that died long ago. Human stars, I learned, had stayed there to escape from false adulation. But the owner was a spiky cactus holding prospective buyers off. A film set-designer, his breakfast bowls were patiently placed, and never filled in the weeks we went back to view; a paintbox and paper with bright splodges were laid out pretentiously on an artist's desk.
Back in the coastal city, a well-meaning society lady invited me to join her women's book club at the latest grand hotel. We gathered in a room of mirrors to stretch in lackadaisical yoga under the sweet approval of a young woman and then rocked along with a black African-American dancer. I realized that my spirit would dry up in such a place. The desert needed no mirrors in order to show me myself. The expansively empty talk that lifted me up and dropped me down like a gullible girl might fade there.
To see life in the desert you must look long and diligently - the tracks of snakes, the camouflages. In the rundown office of the buyer's agent, I went through the form for house-buying. Sheryl was voluble with local blah. Changing her tune to match our hopes, she was sure we’d be a great success, sure the waters were wonderful, sure of everything and proof of nothing. Too many mistakes on those forms for me - my partner thought she’d called me, admiringly, 'Miss Eagle Eye'; I heard 'Miss Pickie'.
Sheryl and Joan, the seller's agent, were dealing with a touchy owner. They were nice only up to a point, the point with the money. Money was behind all those expansively empty words I heard. When it didn’t come tumbling out of the glittering pinball machine at the pull of the lever, they were off to the next station. I didn't want to be mistaken for a pinball machine. The local native American Indians were gambling on it, drawing the crowds to their gaudy casinos along the highway to the desert.
The house was not for us, though I still think of it. Of how certain places stand on geological power points that I can feel, and others may not.
(Adapted from an essay by Sulis/ Sara Firman, written November 2001.)
For more on snake medicine see Snakes (two poems by Sulis).
