“Nothing is more damaging to the adventurous spirit within
a man than a secure future. The very basic core of a
man's living spirit is his passion for adventure.”
Christopher McCandless
There are 2 schools of thought regarding Christopher McCandless. The first says that he was an idiot who got in over his head due to lack of responsibility and preparation. The second says that he was a damaged dreamer who got in over his head because the so-called "real world" isn't compatible with dreamers, and the damage that drove him into the wild in the first place came full circle in the Alaskan wilderness, which finally killed him.
I am in the second camp.
“I don't want to know what time it is. I don't want to know
what day it is or where I am. None of that matters.”
Christopher McCandless
This is supposed to be the story of "Wandering The Halls," and how I ended up living in the Magdalena Hall Hotel in Magdalena, NM for 2 months over the 2015 holiday season. It's supposed to be the story of the friends I made there, my impressions of the area, and the sanctuary it was for me at the time. From visiting the VLA (the space dishes from the movie Contact), to falling in love with the librarian to ease my pain (which is what the song is about; the "halls" in which I'm wandering are of course the halls of the Magdalena Hall Hotel), to smoking cheap cigars with my ex-Army buddy who worked in the restaurant in the hotel, standing outside on the icy, unpaved streets, lamenting the state of the nation, even at the time.
This is supposed to be the story of my time in Magdalena, of returning to the hotel in a blizzard on Christmas Eve after a long weekend of shows in Reno, Vegas, and Flagstaff, and the sight of the town hanging from the rearview mirror like a chandelier, flickering in the distance. It had become a dangerous drive since leaving I-40 in Holbrook, Arizona, winding down through St. Johns and Springerville before crossing into New Mexico on the 2-lane ice path that wanted to flick my van into the ditch like a cigarette butt, but by the grace of God, I made it "home." My friends were having a mellow party in the lobby of the hotel, and my Army buddy gave me some homemade chocolate before I went back up to my room to smoke weed in a warm bath, savoring the extraordinary, luxurious pleasure of being indoors and among friends for the holiday. I've spent many snowy nights in the unforgiving cold, and would have crawled back to the warm chandelier hanging in the windshield on my hands and knees, if the road had succeeded in dislodging me. Kill me if you want to, I'm not stopping. What difference does it make? Freeze to death tonight or get stoned in a bathtub with a belly full of chocolate.
What's the difference?
“Ultimate freedom. An extremist. An aesthetic
voyager whose home is the road.”
Christopher McCandless
There is truth to the Christopher McCandless statement about a secure future being the enemy of the living spirit. The lesson isn't going to be for everybody; some people are actually well-adjusted and actually believe the neuroses and madness of the damaged is a character flaw. May the consequences of their sanctimony fall lightly on their shoulders, that they may have a chance against the Alaskan wilderness they are building for themselves in self-righteous comfort and security every day. But for those of us who've escaped the damage with our structural integrity more or less intact, however frayed around the edges we may be, I believe the lesson is one of life and death importance. If you find yourself in a bomb crater of circumstance, albeit one that is hopefully metaphoric, it is a matter of mortal necessity to lose your fear of the insecure future, and embrace the unknown. I'm not going to tell you you don't need God, because you do. Just remember that God isn't limited by cultural mores, and that a lot of damage is done in His name. Fill in the blanks with your own subjective experience, but don't limit God to your own subjective will. That's what the abusers and damagers do. In fact it's what most people do, even if they're not abusive.
Don't fall into that trap. Whether you find yourself wandering the halls of life, or holding the line at the Alamo, believing yourself to be actually capable of restricting God is a sure way to destruction.
Guaranteed.
The day I ended up in Magdalena, New Mexico, I had a choice to make. I had enough money to either make it back to the relative social safety of the Verde Valley in Arizona, or get one night in a hotel room. Not both. I'd spent the previous night in a parking lot in Socorro, NM, and with no idea what to do, I looked at the map. Magdalena was the next town to the west. I'd never been there before, so it was an attractive possibility. Should I get a hotel room in Magdalena for one night, take a shower and sleep in a bed with no thought for anything beyond the fleeting moment? Or should I drive back to the Verde to be equally broke, but secure, in the familiarity of the unwelcoming routine?
I couldn't go back.
It was obvious.
I turned the ignition and put the van in drive, intent on finding a hotel room in Magdalena for one night.
Tomorrow be forever damned.
The first place I randomly stopped at was closed, and had been for centuries. There were weathered wagon wheels and empty flower pots, holding court among the tumbleweeds, but not a soul in sight. There was an official-looking sign for the Magdalena Hall Hotel, since it's an historic property, so I went there. I walked into the office with the rightness of the moment, and not much else. The proprietor of the hotel took one look at me and said, "You're a musician, aren't you?" I couldn't deny it. I didn't have enough money for a room, but the rightness was with me. The owner offered to let me stay in the hotel free of charge, as long as I played guitar in the restaurant on the weekends. It was an open door before me, one I never would have seen if I'd returned to the secure, dead-end future of the Verde and the past.
I stayed at the Magdalena Hall Hotel for 2 months, in Room 13. I recorded most of the Wild Hearts Forever album in that time, including "Wandering The Halls." I visited the space dishes from Contact, and enjoyed the homemade stew from the Conoco station, a convenient oasis at the edge of town. It was a privilege to walk down the icy street in a state of cleanliness and warmth and buy stew from the cauldron of civilized cooking at the gas station, and bring it back to my hotel. I didn't have internet in the room, but Linda, the proprietor, let me use the computer in the office if I needed it. Any time of day or night. I worked the desk when necessary. I went around the corner to the saloon and played a set, but the hotel people had some unresolved contention with the owner of the saloon, and it was like opposing spirit teams, feuding in the stars. Everyone was nice to me, but I could see what the hotel's problem was, and only went into the saloon once. Bars are boring anyway.
I rented DVDs from the library, which was a converted train depot from the 19th century. I bounced spiritual fireworks off the librarian, whose beautiful existence helped my broken heart to heal, and brought the DVDs back to my room. I laid there on the widescreen bed and watched movies on the kingsize movie machine, with the steam heater creaking in the corner, holding sentry against the darkness through the window, and the cold, infernal misery without.
I hung out in the lobby with my friends, most of whom I'm still in contact with today. I still have a small watercolor painting, which is hanging above the door of the room I'm writing in now, in fact, from the lady who ran the thrifty antique gift shop on the first floor of the hotel. She gave it to me as a gift of remembrance.
If you're reading this, I remember. My 2 months in Magdalena were among the best 2 months of my life.
I will never forget them.
I drove into Socorro every week for groceries, and went to the VLA and fell in love with the librarian and wrote the song "Wandering The Halls." I rented One-Eyed Jacks from the library, and watched it in my cozy, heated room, which is why I included scenes from it in the video below. Me and Marlon Brando were hanging out in the lobby of the Magdalena Hall Hotel, enjoying the juxtaposition of futuristic space exploration and the Old West that is unique to the area. It was a memorable scene, so I put it in the song.
After a couple months, the futuristic opportunities that had met me on arrival in Magdalena had faded into the past, and it was time to go. I'd known the time was coming, so I'd booked a winter tour up the West coast, from San Diego and L.A. to Bellingham and Vegas. I packed my van and bid my friends farewell.
Or maybe I just left. I don't remember. It didn't matter.
They knew that I was leaving.
So what's the point? The point is simply: Whatever you do, don't be the unappreciated vagabond who just lays there at the gates of hell, begging the world to care, and hating it when it doesn't. If it gets that bad, just walk away. If you're going to die anyway, what's the difference?
Die on your feet.
“You are wrong if you think Joy emanates only or principally from human
relationships. God has placed it all around us. It is in everything
and anything we might experience. We just have to have the
courage to turn against our habitual lifestyle and
engage in unconventional living."
Christopher McCandless
The pain is perhaps unbearable, but what if the heart was given to us by God, so that it might be broken? What if our eyes were meant to well up with tears, so that we might be saved? What if it's only the lost who can be found? What if it is those who have found everything they need in this life who are, in the end, completely lost?
"Whosoever will save his life shall lose it: and whosoever
will lose his life for my sake shall find it."
Matthew 16:25
Did Christopher McCandless make it to Heaven? Of course we'll never know. Not until we get there ourselves. But I think it's a real possibility. Who else did he have to talk to, lying in the back of the bus in the middle of nowhere, slowly dying? The people who maligned him and drove him out there in the first place? The people who would malign him in the future, for his poetic, unpragmatic worldview? People who were never going to listen to him anyway?
Or did he talk to Jesus, Who spoke the world into existence with a perfect poem, at the moment of his final breath? I don't know, but I won't be surprised to see Christopher McCandless in Heaven. If he hadn't been damaged, he probably never would have ventured into the uncertain outer circle of the civilized world in search of something real. He would have stayed in the safety of a comfortable damnation, with plenty of money for a hotel room, and all his circumstances intact. He would have saved his life, and therefore lost it.
But he lost his life instead. Unto the saving of his soul, I hope. But whether he accepted or rejected Jesus when he met Him,
The point is sound, regardless.
God knows it resonates with me.
Thanks for listening.
Wandering The Halls
Wandering the halls
naked with my dolls
the neighbors think I'm crazy again
but I am not my name
I'm just a ghost
without a brain
and I will pass through your defenses
like a mist
and then we kissed
Everybody thinks they know what's right
and who knows,
maybe they might
ain't it strange
to watch the rites of passage change
from day to day
and every night
Loneliness is just a state of mind
seems more like freedom to me,
so I don't mind
it ain't so bad to be alone
my peace of mind
is my own
if I don't have it, I don't need it
I don't mind
Wandering the halls
naked with my dolls
the neighbors think I'm crazy again
but I am not my name
I'm just a ghost
without a brain
and I will pass through your defenses
like a mist
and then we kissed
Everywhere I look
I see the light
some of it is dark
and some is bright
everything I see
is beautiful
and free
I love the way you smile at me
So let's linger awhile
in our tree
and stroke each other's feathers
happily
I could get depressed,
but I don't feel like getting dressed
we're blessed
in our lovely little
nest
Wandering the halls
naked with my dolls
the neighbors think I'm crazy again
but I am not my name
I'm just a ghost
without a brain
and I will pass through your defenses
like a mist
and then we kissed
There's a warning
in the corner of the room
more specifically,
a spider
in the spoon
a galaxy of cars
a mansion down on Mars
I don't get it,
I'm just grateful that it's ours
And the stars
are sparkling above
like a symbol of unrequited love
beautiful & cold
in a sea of frozen gold
so far away,
and much too old
And love is like a tree
planted firm,
and yet still wild & free
God knows I've done my time
up beyond the timberline
choking on the view
of infinity
And it's me & Marlon Brando
with a broom
sweeping the dust of life
out of the room
we share a creepy laugh
at the expense/
on the behalf
of the spirits who refuse to bloom
Wandering the halls
naked with my dolls
the neighbors think I'm crazy again
but I am not my name
I'm just a ghost
without a brain
and I will pass through your defenses
like a mist
and then we kissed
©2015 Nathan Payne
