Wayne Atlas Jones

Wayne Atlas Jones was a Halloween baby and a New Mexico man, born howling at the moon and looking for UFOs and some higher truth between the stars. He lived as a son, a brother, a husband, a father, an uncle, a grandfather, and a friend–proud and devoted Dad, Pop, TaTa, Gramps, and Babe, to us. We were not quite ready for his departure, for the too-soon fall and hospital cascade of ills. His tight-knit, sturdy loving clan held him strong as he made his way to the other side, and we will miss him deeply and for a very long time to come. Wayne’s kin hailed from Kansas and Tennessee, by way of Ireland, Scotland, and Wales. A childhood rough around the edges led him to join the Navy young, where he became a medic and a boxer on the high seas. Back in Albuquerque, he met a New York artist, a City Girl in search of a Marlboro Man. They had a brood of two, raised them up, got divorced, and then ran off to Italy together. A bouncer, a fireman, and a pulmonary therapist for a spell, Wayne worked for many years at the Bernalillo County Mental Health Center. His co-workers say he was the only one who could calm a person with schizophrenia, his preferred tools being laughter and dancing, dignity, and generosity. He went on to become a revered individual and a group counselor at UNM–a mental health pioneer who tended to the dispossessed and helped bring one of the first halfway houses in the state into existence–all while maintaining a comedic and lifelong hatred of paperwork. Wayne was an exuberant contemplative who saw through to the Gestalt of the matter–to the truth of who we all were, and are. A professional photographer, he captured us whole in black and white. He liked to push boundaries and hop fences, and got his film taken away in front of the Kremlin once. Fierce and tender Renaissance Man in a Panama hat, red-bearded rascal on a motorcycle. He was never afraid to speak his mind, and if he loved you, you knew it well. He was our protector, our counsel, our chef, our Atlas, our shield. He taught us audacity and inquiry and to be here now. Tai Chi, Buddhism, meditation. Drums, barbells, running shoes, and a rowing machine. German shepherd dogs and well-pressed Hawaiian shirts. Ram Dass, Kübler-Ross, Creeley, Jung. Dylan, Van Morrison, The Chieftains, The Band, The Dead (Wayne and Evey were at Woodstock, you know). Sci Fi, philosophy, Westerns, spies. Vampires and empires. The Greeks, the Romans, the Mayans, and the Ancient Aliens too. Tarzan, Tolkein, Dune, Don Quixote. Michelangelo, Rodin, and Miro. Books stacked upon books; films stacked upon films. Hardly room for eating at the table but we squeezed around. He is the white horse on the top of the hill now, the red-tailed hawk and the Leonid meteor shower. There is a blueberry muffin and a warm cup of coffee on the altar, some Bailey’s, too. A smoked salmon, a ripe papaya, and a bottle of good Italian Prosecco. Buddha and Ganesha, a New Yorker and a Vanity Fair. Cadillac Bob and The Rhinestones are playing loud, in a Thunderbird Bar Dome Valley dream, and we are dancing Wayne into the light. Wayne Atlas Jones is survived by his wife/ex-wife/friend Evey, his daughter Kira, his son Cody, his grandson Noah, his granddaughter Ally Rose, his sister-in-law Daisy Kates, and in Wales, the extended family of Tony, Steven, and Helen Jones. We wish to thank the Placitas community for such a phenomenal outpouring of love and support and shared memory, and we welcome donations in Wayne’s name to Casa Rosa in Placitas, and to Albuquerque Healthcare for the Homeless.