Welcome The Cypress Queen
Man invented language to satisfy his deep need to complain. Lily Tomlin (1939 – )
“Day dies into night,” wrote the great Tertullian “and is everywhere buried in darkness…and yet again it revives, with its own beauty, its own dowry, the same as before, whole and unimpaired.”
Is that a fair description of Sedona?
Perhaps one day that was true about residents as well as landscape. But it would be irresponsibly misleading to declare that today. Day after day more and more land is being impaired by ‘dozers; more of the blessed Verde River is heading for dry sections; and more and more newcomers who have other things to do than worry about landscape, loss of volunteerism, but detest hearing musical noises in the night not their own.
Rumors are flying that a group of New Age rednecks, weary of tiresome newcomers have in their mind to construct a huge wicker effigy somewhere near a old cowboy ranch in order to pay homage to the old pioneers of storybook fame who ate toads for breakfast and made their own whiskey. It has been said that several tourists stumbling on a ceremony have yet to return to their timeshares.
Rumors! Just rumors.
Who ever heard of red neck New Agers?
Nothing like that is being planned for Sedona well informed city types assure this humble scribbler. Yet they don’t know everything; there is something in the wind, indeed. Apart from the record breaking allergy season, a special survey finds that a high volume of whining is to be heard in our fair city, and also more than enough NIMBYs (Not In My Back Yard) running around to fill Yankee Stadium.
Must be some sort of Socialism, general readers might conclude.
Nothing so fancy, just citizen opposition to projects in the city like art parks they believe to be dangerous, unsightly, or otherwise undesirable —and noisy because of music—and horny owls.
Truth be known, emotions are running hot, and so are unattended sorrows, waves of anger and resentment. Other cities have created ways of containing all these emotions. Leading the list is the city of Santa Fe, which annually creates a giant effigy named “Old Man Gloom.”
More than 50,000 people a year go to watch Zozobra, who stands fifty feet tall. And after three days of celebrations is burnt to the ground. Burned with him are boxes of letters of gloom written by residents. Reportedly, gloom is soon replaced by joy. As the year passes by, their anxieties arise again, and gloom returns and the people create a new Zozobra.
Discretion, gentle readers is needed now; the following is based on information about a special event which the city must not learn about in advance. Time will tell, deeply informed sources tell deeply receptive staffers reporting on this legendary free sheet, dedicated to truth, good red wine and long, tall ladies.
Around 11,000 years ago Cyprus bloomed in and around the land where the airport looms now. If you look, you may find one still there—twenty feet high, with soft-textured gray-green foliage and rough shredding gray-brown bark, quite drought and heat tolerant, top of the line for windbreaks and erosion control. And best of all, the greatest location on earth to introduce the community to the Cypress Queen.
It has yet to be revealed which Cypress near Airport Hill be the event location. None the less, plans are afoot. First chore is to list all the emotions running loose in the city where many have been in therapy, once were and are now headed that way:
unattended sorrows
buried emotions
hidden anger
wishes for forgiveness
regrets of leaving Chicago
secret passions
need for purification
Second of all, fire walkers will have to be lined up, kettle drums purchased, DJ’s hired for tribal dance music and shop owners invited to supply boxes destined to be placed around the Queen.
Hold on now, this project was not fashioned from the film “The Wicker Man.” Truth be told no sacrifices are planned. What will happen is: at the proper moment the Cypress Queen will spray golden pollen over the attendees, purging themselves of all desires to complain, whine and bitch. The drums will be heard throughout the city.
Finally liberated, they will gather together, singing some cloud melting harmonies. They will march two by two through West Sedona and occupy City Hall, confident that there will be nothing to complain about ever again.
Until next year.
