George Applegate sat at his computer finishing up a searing open letter. The letter, which he intended  for publication in the Times, addressed some complaints about George’s new book made public by the Fundamentalist Right in general, and specifically, by the righteous Reverend William Power, televangelist extraordinaire, .
 He stopped for a moment to consider the structure of the closing paragraph. Caught up in the words, he didn’t notice that it was a beautiful spring day at his home in the Catskill Mountains. His barely concealed anger and intellectual musings screened him from the vibrant greens and blues just outside his window and didn’t hear the songs of the children playing some circle game.
 George leaned back in his worn leather swivel chair running his fingers through his short, thinning straw-colored hair. He was determined to sum up the defense of his newest book in a good style as well as making it plain that the Rev. William Power was a misinformed cretin who should be banned from the airways.
 It still boiled George’s blood when he thought of that small-brained lunatic burning his book on national television. Burning his book! Not once but several times, against a backdrop of hoards of praying fans and accompanied by long sermons calling for a “holy war against the infidel who would transgress the sacred word of God.” Book-burning tended to get George irate but seeing his own creation, the product of ten years of research and writing, ignite and dissolve into its basic molecular components, sent him into a conniption.
 When George called his publishers telling them that he intended to write a letter to the Times, they heartily agreed. In fact, they were delighted, and resolved to use the controversy to best advantage, free publicity being the best publicity, so they arranged to not only have the letter published in five leading newspapers as well as the Times, and also to have George read his statement at a press conference in New York, set to coincide with National Banned Books Week. From what they originally expected to be a modest New Age novel, The Earth Christian was quickly becoming an international bestseller. This turn of events delighted them to no end.
 George approached the situation from a very different angle. He reacted as if someone had threatened Melanie, his five year old girl, with some dire doom. This book was his baby and he would protect it at all costs.
 The Earth Christian  was begun about ten years ago, just after receiving his doctorate. It had became apparent, through deep intuition supported by years of exhaustive graduate school research, that the story of Jesus of Nazareth was sorely misrepresented and incomplete. George had entered into the study of comparative philosophy after getting his bachelor’s degree in creative writing. For his doctoral thesis he compared the long misunderstood mystic branch of Christianity, known as Gnosticism, with other mystic traditions.
 Since the day he was finally freed from the clutch of the sisters at Our Mother of Immaculate Birth, he was aware that there was more to Christianity than what was taught in catechism class. As he plowed through his stint at Northeastern, graduated cum laude, and then continued the search on his own, he  discovered amazing revelations about the secret teachings of Jesus. He found lost gospels hidden in obscure texts, indications of the Christ’s travels to many lands, and most incredibly, the possibility of incarnations prior to His life as Jesus.
 George would be quick to admit that his theories were not what one would call academically proper. Professor Applegate was thoroughly trained as an academic. He knew the rules, and he was well aware that his evidence, so much of it derived from hearsay, psychic channeling or obscure sources, were not scientifically defensible. But since when, George questioned, has religious truth been revealed by the scientific method? And there were some documents. That Tibetan text that described a “Saint Issa,” for instance. Saint Issa had traveled throughout Tibet, China and India, walking a path of love and forgiveness. This Hebrew saint, the ancient document disclosed, traveled through the lands of the east learning from many Masters, creating a synthesis of all that he encountered and teaching his new philosophy to the common people. The document related that the Saint, with his ragged clothes and gentle smile, had finally returned to his own people to share his revelations only to be tragically murdered by the established priesthood there.
 Also, during the course of his research on the Gnostics, he had come across references to a group called the Essenes. This was a cult of Jews that existed from about 100 BC until 70 AD when the the vast majority of the Hebrews still remaining in Palestine were forced out by the Romans. The Essenes were a community dedicated to bringing into the world and guiding the next major Hebrew prophet, or Messiah. Apparently, Jesus was the product of this cult. Yet the Essenes became somehow distant or in conflict with the man who was the product of their early eugenics project.
 Strange and decrepit documents all, but to George they had the ring of truth, resonant with his own soul’s truth, and more compelling than the protests of his colleagues or the twitter of traditional doctrines. Still, Professor Applegate was no fool. He had a family to feed and tenure to maintain, and he didn’t want his carefully cultivated scholarly work to go to weed, even for this project. After much soul searching, he ultimately decided to present his research as a fictional account. He had been hankering to try his hand at some fiction, anyway, and after a few false starts, the book became a kind of autobiography written in the first person by Jesus himself. George felt he knew Him, that he understood Jesus’ philosophy about the natural world. It would easy and fun for the studious professor to pretend to be Jesus through the veil of a story. His Jesus would be a uncommon Jesus, a Jesus to be reckoned with.
 Beating away at the keyboard to a turbulent crescendo, his gray eyes burning coldly, George typed the final words of his final draft of the letter. As the laser printer spit out the hard copy, he scanned its basic format. It began with a soft-spoken appeal concerning freedom of expression. When one person’s rights are trampled, he wrote, everybody’s freedom is at stake. He made references to the book-burning of Hitler’s Germany, then progressed to a strong comparison of the Rev. William Power and “his money-sucking cronies” to the Nazis—he deleted that part several times, but finally, with a sigh of apology to his family, he’d left it in—and then demanded that the profits of the good Reverend’s GOD BELIEVES IN YOU! ministry be looked into more carefully.
 The letter then returned to George’s book which he described as “a humble exploration of the life and philosophy of a great spiritual teacher, known to us as Jesus, whose wonderful tolerance of other people’s beliefs and ideas contrasts sharply with his intolerance of those who would inflict their ideas upon others and rob the poor of their hard-earned pennies.” George asked people to read his book and decide for themselves if the spirit of the novel touched them or not. He mentioned that he was donating thousands of copies to small community libraries, so that everyone might have a chance to make up their own minds about it, and not leave their decisions up to that lamentable religious despot.
 After reading the letter one last time, George threw it on top of the pile of papers and books that cluttered the broad oak desk and released a long sigh. He looked up, and hearing a crow caw, noticed that the larch tree outside the bay window was waving new green leaves against a translucent blue sky. Beyond the tree, out on the wide front lawn, Melanie and her friends were playing. Their piping voices, like soft squeaks, carried on the sweet spring air and waved with the breeze through the open window. George abandoned his chair and leaned way out the window, taking deep gulps of fresh air, and then he yelled, “Hello, my friends, can I play too?” The little faces turned toward the house and their faraway voices screamed in delight. George turned off the computer and thought about how lucky he was to have children around to remind him of what was real. He sat down on the floor, stuffed his feet into a pair of dirty white sneakers, and ran out the door yipping like a wild wolf.
 

 Peter Swift put down his copy of The Earth Christian that George had given him and reached for the half-eaten peanut butter sandwich that he had made some hours ago. After blowing off a score of tiny ants that were sharing his hospitality, he began chewing and talking. No one was in his cabin at that time. Peter paced before a collection of home-made masks that hung on his wall. They were his captive audience.  “… it seems like he is saying that Jesus was a teacher like so many teachers before and after trying to show us dim-witted humans that WE could flow in the original principles of God’s, or the Goddess’, or the Great Spirit’s, or the Unimaginable Creative and Loving Force and Beingness of this God-forsaken Universe … yeah …” Peter munched thoughtfully. “that we could develop a way of perceiving all life with love and compassion and thus escape the wheel of birth and death and birth and death and the pain and suffering associated with moving through that cycle in such abysmal ignorance … yeah …” He meandered over to his futon in the corner and picked up the book. “I think … I wonder if Jesus was really so funny … I like this Jesus better than the one hissed at me by those fuckin’ evangelists … and this one believes in the Goddess! That’s cool, I guess us Stray Dogs have been having some kind of influence on the old geeser, imagine that. Yeah, I like this Jesus. George says the most interesting parts are in the last half, but it would be cool to hang out with this Jesus someday. I’d invite him in, offer him some snack, maybe a beer, maybe even a smoke. He did come from that part of the world. That reminds me, where did I put that pipe?” Peter scraped through that pile that he referred to as ‘his desk’, pushing away empty beer bottles, digging through oozing flashlight batteries, excavating down and down: loose change, pens and pencils, a banana peel (“got to put that in the compost later”), magazines (“ah, there’s that issue of the Utne Reader I’ve been looking for”) and reams of typed and hand-written papers till he found his prey hidden in a cracked coffee cup. And yes, there was even some pot still in it. Grabbing a lighter out of his pants pocket, he ignited that petrified psychoactive ember and sucked on it for all it was worth. Exhaling a cloud of blue smoke, he approached a mask painted cobalt blue with a golden flame between its eyes that he had made for the last Samhain, “Yes, it would be cool to hang out with some far-out spiritual dude who wasn’t trying to dissect me or select me or neglect me. Shit, I’m starting to sound like Dylan, I better watch out.”
 Suddenly came a knocking at the door. “Hey, Peter — are you in there?”  It was Inka’s voice. “Damn, I forgot — I promised to drive her to the hospital this afternoon.”
 “Come on in, the door’s open,” Peter muttered.
 “I’m not coming in, I have my uniform on, I’ll wait for you in the truck.” Inka yelled through the half-opened door.
 “O.K., I’ll be there in a minute.”  Peter put the pipe in his pocket. I’ll try to find the Three Jimmies, they’re sure to have some weed, he thought.
 

(Excerpt:  The New York Times Book Review)
 The Earth Christian is a fictional autobiography of Jesus, “the one who became known as the Christ.” It is written in a lively, often humorous, style creating for the reader a sense that it is Jesus, in the flesh, telling us stories of his life and times. This would be no small feat even if there weren’t those departures from the commonly accepted knowledge concerning His life. Those departures, Dr. Applegate informs us in the introduction, are based upon his research into many esoteric sources which he says have been suppressed for many years. For example, Jesus consistently refers to His past-lives wherein He struggled with material desires and doubts about His spiritual identity. Also He refers to the Creator as Mother, Father or It, whatever seemed most appropriate. This book comes as a treat to all those Catholic Mary worshipers that the Pope has been entreating to turn back to the straight and narrow these last few years.
 This Jesus is no pie-in-the-sky type, nor a hell-and-brimstone type; He is very down-to-earth, much as the title would infer. He describes a philosophy that honors our life on this earth as a gift and an opportunity to grow spiritually. With wit and wisdom, this Jesus sees the application of His principles as creating a heaven on earth, humans in partnership with each other and Nature.
 Dr. George Applegate, who holds a Ph.D. in Comparative Philosophy and is a full professor at the Upstate University, says that much of this information is accessible to the hardy seeker but he wanted to present it in a unified fashion and interesting format in order to reach a larger audience. “The Early Church had rewritten the biblical account many times over the years,” Dr. Applegate informs us, “and the rest of it has been interpreted rigidly in keeping with their agenda to persecute the poor, maintain their vast wealth and control the minds of their followers in general.”
 Be that as it may, this reviewer found some aspects of Dr. Applegate’s revisioning distressing.  Particularly his notion of a secret conspiracy …
 

 “That Peter,” Inka Bloom said aloud as she carefully proceeded down the steep path to Peter’s truck. She didn’t want to mess up her nursing uniform. “Uck, go inside that house, it’s bad enough I have to get in his truck. He’s always late, flaking out at the last minute. I can’t be late for my shift, people in need can’t wait for long. I wish my car didn’t need that brake job. I hate depending on other people.”
 Inka pulled open the truck door, rusty and falling off its hinges. I must be really desperate, Inka thought as she looked over the interior of Peter’s truck. What a rat trap. She pushed aside some yellowed newspapers, empty beer bottles and, uh… what is this?  Inka shuddered and tossed it gingerly behind the seat. She straightened out her white uniform and sat down to wait.
 Peter bounded down the path to the truck. Her knight in dull olive drab, Inka thought. When will he get new clothes. He’s got a closet full ever since that fire sale at the army/navy store three years ago. I offered to take him out shopping just last week, and he refused and said: “When these wear out.”
 Peter jumped in, slapped a tape in the cassette player, and started the truck up with a roar and a backfire. “And we’re off!”  Peter grinned as they assailed the dusty gravel road.
 “I’ve been thinking,”  Inka began.
 “Oh, always up to something new,” Peter interjected.
 “Fuck you… I’ve been thinking about that conversation Osha, you and I had about the ‘coming of the Lord’, you know, the second coming of Jesus Christ that all those fundamentalists are raving about. They’re really depending on this miracle of miracles to save themselves from dealing with the mess we humans have created in this world.”
 “Yeah, a second coming for any man is pretty miraculous,” Peter smirked.
 “I wouldn’t know,” Inka said, sticking her tongue out at Peter. “Anyhow, as I was saying, that conversation got me to thinking and I starting working on a song with Osha and Jill. We got a chorus and melody idea and we thought you could work out some lyrics. Here, I got a tape.”
 “Sounds like a flashing hot idea, my beautiful blonde buddy,” Peter put the tape in his shirt pocket, “this album is shaping up to be quite the concept album. I bet this song would just about round it out. We’re all getting riled up by those gasbag fundamentalists and I suppose hanging out with Perfesser George has been rubbing off on us. Did you read the new book?  Yeah, cool. I think we all did. There’s so many concepts of who Jesus was, or is, it’s getting to be like a game show: ‘will the real Jesus please stand up?’. That’s how Osha and me came up with “Burn your Bible”, ‘cause as a book for spiritual teaching it has passed its prime, or rather in its prime it’s been the source of more human suffering and anguish that any other tome on the planet. Plus, we gotta get back at that dude who burned Perfesser Applegate’s book.”
 “Exactly!” Inka said, “To actually believe that Jesus in the flesh is going to come down out of the clouds, singing ‘hallelujah’ and scoop up some self-appointed chosen people before all hell breaks loose it’s, it’s…”
 “Ludicrous,”  Peter peppered in.
 “Yes!  I say, take us all or leave us alone!”
 “I like that,” Peter said, “here — write that down, ‘take us all or leave us alone’, hmmm, sounds good. I got some ideas already. So, how is Jill, is she over that nasty wicked bladder infection?”
 Inka nodded. “Oh yeah, we got that under control and only had to use the short course of antibiotics. With the new herbs, extra vitamin C, loads of water and changing her catheter more often, we can keep that happening again. You know a bad UTI could really hurt her if it gets up to her kidneys, she was peeing blood at one point.”
 Peter shook his head. “It’s a shame that she had to be born all deformed and paralyzed. She’s lucky to have you around. I hope you know I think you’re a great person. I’d do anything for you.” Peter winked at her though she couldn’t see it through his dark glasses.
 Inka smiled and looked away. “Thanks, I think you’re o.k. too.”
 The truck rumbled and screeched to a halt in front of the hospital. “Thanks for the ride, be here at midnight and don’t forget!” Inka jumped out. Peter trundled off to search for the three Jimmies.
 As Inka walked up the stairs to her unit, she did her usual meditation to focus her mind for another night of caring for the sick and dying. Ascending the narrow industrial-green tiled stairwell, she imagined herself shaking a small rattle. That calmed her mind and bathed her in clear light. As she turned up the hall, she sensed it might be a quiet night. Inka heard Paul Bonesteel calling from his room, the loud voice of a deaf man: “Something’s goin’ on but I don’t know what it is.” Inka thought: you got that straight, my friend.
 

 Now where could those Jimmies be? Peter thought as he drove away from the hospital. I’ll try Jill and Inka’s cabin, I think they’re building some kind of something there.
 Like a dust devil, Peter proceeded down the farm road and parked near the Grrll’s cabin (as Inka and Jill called it). It was only a short stroll on the wide paved path to their front door.
 Jill Silver had been paralyzed from the waist down since birth by spina bifida. Jill and Inka had been friends since grade school. Now in their mid-twenties, they still enjoyed each other’s company enough to build, with the help of the three Jimmies, this little cabin in the wood. It was designed to ease Jill’s wheelchair-bound existence with wide ramps, low tables and such amenities. Little by little, the Grrll’s Cabin, was improved using Jill’s SSI payments and her under-the-table income from dealing marijuana and mushrooms.
 Ah, there they are, Peter thought. Looks like they’re taking a coffee break. Cool. “Hey, dudes. What’s happening?”
 Jim smiled. “Peter, my man, just the sentient life form I was at this moment contemplating. Do you have your sweet little pipe?”  Jim’s perfect natty dreads cascaded in every direction. His eyes shone in a well-crafted dark face that sported a neatly trimmed goatee.
 “Oh, yes. Here you are. Howsit going, James, Jamie.” Peter hugged them each.  They sat down to smoke and talk. All the Jimmies were self-described paisley-collared workers; that is, college educated carpenters. They had met in an “Intro to Philosophy” class sometime in the Paleocene epoch and became fast friends. They all went on to get Ph.D. degrees in a variety of subjects: Jamie in Relevant Philosophy, Jim in Apolitical Science, and James in General Humanity Studies (an independent study, to be sure). The Jimmies were famous for their coffee breaks. The passage of time altered when you hung out with the Jimmies.
 They had built or improved just about every structure on the farm. James and Jamie lived in the only legal house on the farm: the purple farmhouse that George used to live in before he and his family moved into the new big house. Jim and his wife Leaf had a small cabin near Jill and Inka’s home that they had put up just a year ago. George Applegates’ friends on the zoning board turned a blind eye to this contingent of squatters.
 “Hey, you’re getting high and you didn’t even tell me,” Jill rolled out on her electric wheelchair. “Hey, Peter, give me a kiss.” Jill kissed Peter and then took a hit off the brass pipe. “It’s the kind bud, yeah.” Jill spun her chair around.
 Peter felt that pleasant oh-so-familiar sensation move through his mind and body as he held the hit. The sun brightened and he saw halos dabbed with violet sparks surround his friends. The conversation became more animated.
 Up the path came Osha and everyone howled. Osha stirred people up wherever he went. He sauntered towards them, a warm breeze followed at his heels stirring the leaves with whispers and speculations. Osha moved smoothly around giving his friends hugs that felt like blessings. Golden curls tumbled around a face that shone with a boyish beauty. Even after all these years, Peter was still  startled by how much in awe he was of Osha. And a part of Osha’s charm was that he didn’t take himself all that seriously. But what Osha did take seriously, his ideas and opinions about spirituality, the flux of history and connection with the life-spirit, had been Peter’s main inspiration in composing his lyrics. He would often just read Osha’s poetry and get it to fit with the tune with a good rhyme.
 Now, as they grooved in the afternoon sun, Osha described his adventures in The City running around with his old friends and hooking up a free concert date in Central Park for The Sun Dogs. “And it’s on the day they’re celebrating Solstice,” Osha said, “I think this might be the break we’ve been looking for.”
 “Oh, don’t get your hopes up too high,” Jill said, “there’s tons of bands that play in Central Park without much notice but hopefully we’ll be able to sell a bunch of CDs and get ourselves out of debt.”
 Osha frowned thoughtfully. “Yeah, you’re probably right. But hey, what the fuck, it’ll be fun, right? Now tomorrow night is Taylor’s initiation ceremony so we gotta make some plans…”
 As Osha and the rest talked about young Taylor’s initiation into their band, Peter sat to one side and wrote the words to “The Coming of the Lord.”
 

The Coming of the Lord

The end has passed, the beginning draws near,
a no-man’s land where nothing is clear.
Preachers boast, Children scream,
Most of us spin in between.
This much is true I have no doubt,
Very few will help you out
and so I’m sad, angry and bored
by the coming    of the Lord.

A book of tales like a bed of nails
It teaches us the strong will prevail.
For some there’s hope, for most a curse
I cannot tell you which is worse.
In the end, we’re ground to dust
until then we do what we must
on that day will we be ignored
by the the coming    of the Lord.

The squeeze is on, so much to tell,
as you fall to heaven, I’ll fly to hell.
This parting arrives much too soon
Let’s make love with the Jasmine Moon.
Jesus Christ, your heart is stone,
take us all or leave us alone.
We’ll all pile into your flatbed ford
with the coming    of the Lord.
 
 
 

 “Thanks Peter.” Inka stepped back as Peter motivated off to his cabin. At least he picked me up on time, she mused as she strolled down the path to her and Jill’s place. The night air was thick and steamy, it clung to her like grade B maple syrup. Fireflies danced in staccato luminance searching for their one true love. What was that enzyme called that allowed them to light up the way they do, oh yeah, Luciferase — named after Lucifer, the Light-Bringer. She liked that — even the scientists are remembering the old gods and their original nature.
 “Hello, I’m home.” Inka heard a shower steaming away. I know what she’s up to. Leaving a trail of clothes behind her, Inka walked into the bathroom. “Jill, you in there?”
 “Who else would it be.” Inka stepped into the shower room and turned on another nozzle. Their shower was as big as most people’s bathroom; easy for Jill to roll in and out of, with grab bars strategically placed. She leaned over Jill and kissed her fully.
 “So, are we gonna put it in tonight?” Jill asked.
 Inka grinned and nodded her head. “Wash yourself thoroughly so we don’t get any bugs in there.” Inka washed off the the smell of the hospital, a mix of rubbing alcohol and decay.
 After the shower, Jill pulled herself onto their bed. “This is great! I hate those diapers, they make me feel like either an infant or old lady, and I ain’t neither of them. Now I can sleep through the night without changing those damn diapers.” Jill ran her fingers through her hair, whorls and pools of midnight. Inka walked in the room drying her back with a big towel. “All the supplies are set up on the overbed stand.” Jill pointed out. Jill whistled a merry tune.
 Inka appraised her dear friend reclining so sweetly on the bed. Only someone like her could get enthusiastic about a urinary catheter. Jill was a typical Scorpio: her strong moods, her intense concentration, those devilish eyes, that impish grin highlighted by a perfect little beauty mark on her left cheek. And dexterous fingers, can’t forget those. Jill was naked and lay spread eagle waiting for Inka to insert the catheter. Her pubic hair contrasted with Inka’s own pale blonde bush, the raven and the dove, that’s what Peter called us once. Inka felt a hunger inside as she looked at Jill. She felt moist between the folds of her pussy and the cool air lingered on the surface of her breasts. Yet… Inka took a deep breath and smiled at Jill. “O.K. Let’s get it over with, I’m kinda tired. It’s been a long day.”
 Inka brought the overbed stand within easy reach, pulled back her hair and tied it into a long pony tail so it wouldn’t fall into her face or the sterile field. She checked the supplies: the betadine swabs, the chux, the beige urinary catheter wrapped in a clear packet, the plastic bag with a long hose.  Jill calls it ‘her purse’ and in fact hides it in a brightly colored Guatemala bag that hangs off her wheelchair. Inka peered into Jill’s immaculate cunt, touched the thick brown folds, parting them to see a pink little pilgrim wink at her. A wave of desire to lick and kiss her friend’s pussy swept through her but… they’ve been through all that before. After a few awkward attempts at making love in the past, Jill admitted that she didn’t feel comfortable having sex with women. It broke Inka’s heart for awhile. She so loved Jill and found it difficult to let her go. Inka could never understand this: with her other girlfriends she was so free and easy but with Jill there was some deep, unresolved bond that she found hard to let go of. I guess I should be content with our close friendship, Inka thought, but seeing her like this, so open and at her mercy, aroused conflicting emotions in Inka. She took another deep breath.
 Inka casually glanced at Jill and said, “Looks fine.”  Inka expertly slipped the catheter in and a stream of clear yellow fluid filled the tube and began filling the bag. Jill was happy and, after washing up, curled into her bed and fell asleep.
 Inka went to her bedroom, pulled out the pornography and, while flipping through pictures of sweet young women and reading her favorite stories, masturbated to a soft orgasm. As she lay on her bed, the rain fell and the tree frogs blended into a pulsating chorus singing praises to Sappho.
 

 “HELLO MY FRIENDS AND WELCOME TO THE “GOD BELIEVES IN YOU” RADIO MINISTRY.
 “In only moments we’ll be hearing an inspirational talk from our Good Shepherd, Our Light in a Dark Time, our very own Rev. William Power. If you want a tape or transcript of this or any other part of our show, you can send us the name and number of the program along with $10 for a tape and $5 for a transcript; prices are subject to change. Of course, tax-deductable donations are always accepted.
 “Spreading the Word of God in this Time of Worldwide Crises and Disbelief, when the very fabric of our society is being ripped to shreds by disease-ridden gays, man-hating feminists, humanist-new-age-occultists, these and others are plotting the downfall of our blessed American Family Value System, these and others are corrupting the minds of your young people. Doesn’t it seem strange to you that prayer is outlawed in our schools while the humanist agenda of sex education and evolution is being taught day after day; using our tax dollars no less. Doesn’t it seem strange to you that on these TeeVee talk shows degenerate people are paraded out and allowed to promote their sinful deviant and thoroughly wicked points of view as if they were normal folks? Yes, we at the “God Believes In You!” ministry are working day and night to pull the veil off the face of Evil, to preach the Word of God to the far-flung heathen, and to lay bare the insidious schemes of the humanist-homosexual-drug-addicted vocal minority. It’s a heavy burden but one in which we take great joy in doing. Your contribution, no matter how small or large, will make our job that much easier.
 “Now, without further ado, here is the Man himself, the founder of our organization, the Rev. William Power.”

  “Hello, my friends, this is the Rev. William Power. I reach out to you through this miracle of radio, reach out to you in your home, to your place of work. May God Defend You from the Demons of the Earth. May He bless and supply you with abundance and security.
 “Today I want to discuss a matter that strikes the body of our belief: our Bible. Yea, throughout the ages there have been those who have attempted to add or subtract from the Word of Our Lord, there have been those who have misinterpreted the Sacred Book and have lead many astray. Is Heretic too strong a word to apply to anyone who willfully desecrates our Holy Book? Who would strip, violate and deflower the very Foundation of who we are. My friends, I think not. Oh, there may be those out there who would say: ‘Reverend Power, take it easy’  even amongst so-called Christians but, my friends, I will not ‘take it easy’.
 “There is now in the world many who would lure and tempt the meek at heart down devilish paths. Out of every dark crack slips the spirits of the air, subtle demons of uncleanliness. On every rock and roll stage prances incarnations of Beelzebub entrancing our youngest of minds with Occult Satanic practices. Yet the most crafty workers of the devil are those you don’t usually see or think of. It is those quiet manipulators of minds, those subtle bespeckled agenda formulators, those ivory-tower academics. Plainly said: Humanist Intellectuals, you know who I’m taking about, the university professor, the teacher, the scholar. Ah, noble professions you might say and so they are. What I’m concerned about is the power that they weal in affecting the minds of our society. There are those scholars who would use their power in a manner that can be only termed as ‘ungodly’. This is the Humanist Agenda rearing its ugly head once again. Do we Christians have to stand by passively while the Jewel of our Lives, our Rose of Sharon, gets spat upon?
 “No! No! I say! We cannot sit idly by with such evil lurking in our midst.  Specifically, my friends, I speak of … The Earth Christian, a book by one Dr. George Applegate. This book cannot be ignored, it is paramount to Treason in this Christian World, it is Lies coated with honey, it is Blasphemy. It takes the Image of Our Savior, Jesus Christ, and twists Him and tangles Him until we have a depraved Jesus, barren of all holiness. I say, we must act and act now to nip this foul-smelling bud from the tree of our world. We must educate people to this horror, we must write to our newspapers, we must block the doors of those establishments who carry this book of ill-will.
 “I have more to say, my friends, but time is valuable. If you want to know more I have written a pamphlet on this subject. This pamphlet describes, in detail, the nature of this nasty book, my arguments for its removal from our libraries, and ways that you can help. Sam, here, will give you the specifics on how to order this eye-opening account of a literary nightmare.
 “So in closing, I want you to know, know in the very bosom of your heart, that I believe in you, and that God Believes In You. Thank you.”

 “Thank you, Rev. Power, that was certainly a wake-up call to all us faithful Christians. There is no replacement for Vigilance, as they say.
 “Coming up, we have an hour of music, including the hit: Soldiers of Christ. After that we have The Family Values Hour; this week’s show focuses on the topic, “Materialism and our Children”. I hope you’ll stay tuned to us.
 “Now, to receive Rev. William Power’s new pamphlet, ‘Burn The Earth Christian’, please write or phone us here, have your credit card handy…”
 
 
 

 Taylor Applegate and Osha sat on the deck of the Grrll’s cabin watching the sunset. Osha sipped on a pint of blackberry brandy quietly, occasionally smacking his lips. Taylor was boiling with questions to ask Osha but finding him so contemplative he resisted the impulse to blurt it all out. A warm late spring night heaved its bosom forward and sighed. Taylor turned towards Osha.
 “Osha,” Taylor began timidly.
 Osha drew on the bottle once more, capped it and turned to Taylor with a benign smile. “What’s up?”
 “Oh, I’ve been thinking about this initiation into The Sun Dogs and everything and I got some questions.” Osha nodded and gave Taylor his full attention. “Well… you’ve told me that an initiation is a way to create new beginnings, to separate different parts of your life. Honoring what has gone before and preparing yourself for what’s to come.”
 “You’ve been listening very well,” Osha said.
 “Thanks. Well, I know what I’m leaving behind but I’m not quite sure what I’m heading towards, do you see what I mean?”
 Osha considered Taylor’s question. He himself had grown up so quickly and with so little guidance that this question proved difficult to answer easily. He thought of Taylor’s father George, so busy with his books and lectures and letters, that he was unconscious of his son blooming into a man right before his eyes. Osha had been spending a great deal of time with Taylor, fishing, and climbing the cliffs. Or just walking through the woods, talking about the big and little problems that beset a fifteen year old boy. He encouraged Taylor to take part in the Dogs’ rituals and, when Taylor wanted to join the group officially, Osha guided him through the process of developing his own initiation. Osha saw that Taylor wanted to be treated as more of an equal after so many years of being the resident kid on the farm. Yet what was he heading towards? Osha shook his head.
 “Taylor, you’re gonna be a man soon but what that means nowadays is vague and all us men struggle with it everyday. It’s good to go through initiations,” Osha said, “especially at certain key points in your life. Transition times, times of change and turmoil, the initiation gives you a way to bring those times into conscious awareness, to give you power and direction as you go through the day to day dealing with these transitions. But what awaits you is a vast unknown. This world that you’re being given to live out your visions and aspirations is a chaotic mess. I saw a bumper sticker once that said: ‘We’re spending our children's’ inheritance’ — I’ve thought it to be very insightful concerning the last generation, they’ve spent our inheritance wastefully and now we’re here to deal with it while they tour the country in their mega-vans sucking up the last of our dwindling oil. Taylor, I don’t know. I was forced into the adult world as a kid and I survived, though barely. Living here,” Osha gestured to the darkening forest, “and connecting with such great people has eased my pain and healed many wounds. I really envy you growing up here so loved and protected.”
 “But I don’t want to be protected, I want to do something! That’s why I decided to spend the night down in the cave, I want to do something that’ll toughen me up. I even thought I’d get a tattoo, get my nose pieced and go off into the mountains for a week or two by myself.”
 “Whoa…there’ll be plenty of opportunities to do more in the future, you’ll find that life itself is an intense initiation. There is no need to push it.”
 Osha watched as Taylor looked away frowning. What Osha didn’t say is that he was worried what George would think about Taylor’s increasing involvement with The Sun Dogs. Keep it low-key, Osha thought.
 “Come on, don’t get so down, you got to take it one step at a time, tonight is your night! Tonight is the first step.” Osha ran his fingers though Taylor’s black mop of hair and Taylor laughed. “That’s better, you got to keep your sense of humor, that’s the first thing they try to take from you. Ah, I smell dinner, let’s go set the table.”
 Taylor jumped up and ran inside. Osha paused, slipped the pint out and took a long pull. The sweet hot liquid rolled down, down into the depths of his soul, cauterizing those wounds that never seem to go away. Taylor, Osha thought, please don’t go into the world too quickly, it’s a hard place. Osha put a smile on his face and walked into the bright kitchen.

 Later, after Taylor’s initiation ritual and they tucked Taylor into the cave, Osha mediated in the quiet of his dome. His geodesic dome was built on a small hill at the far end of the pasture some years ago. Out of the way, he thought at the time, no one to bother me here. Osha sat still, allowing his thoughts to flick by.
 After about an hour he drew himself out of that peaceful space, took a deep breath and contemplated his home. Sparsely decorated, the canvas cloaked dome was perched on a solid wooden platform and warmed sufficiently with a small gas heater. He carted his water from a spring nearby and washed is dishes in a sink that emptied into a dry well. A narrow bed, a small altar, shelves filled with books. He heard the whip-poor-will plaintively cry to the wide hollow night, he felt his heart ache. I hope Taylor is alright. I have to set my alarm clock to get him just at the break of dawn.
 That night’s ritual had charged him up so that he found it difficult to sleep. Perhaps I’ll write something. He pulled out a composition book and a black felt-tip pen, by the light of a candle he wrote.

The cornerstone crumbles
and sailors look to the sea.
I believe that life begins
again and again
each fine furry moment
another point of departure.
I taste death
cunning graceful sojourn
it dangles like a pendulum
sweeping undulating
tracing the earth and heavens together.
Head to head meeting furiously to make it all real all over again.
Life begins (listen to me)
Life begins …
 harmony and chaos
a nod and a wink.
Life begins
 to take you there
somewhere
allow changes to make you
strange and pliable.
Life begins like a black-ink brush
sweeping circles quickly
deliberately
flawed perfectly.
Life makes no bones about it.
For life will bless you with tragedy
will flail the flesh
will invite you into its soft slurry
will question, cajole, penetrate,
then blows you up
into ten million possibilities
floating like milkweed seeds
on a dry autumn breeze.
Life begins to believe in you
to tame your passions by becoming your passions
to touch your newly shaven body in the golden dawn.
 
 Osha yawned and wondered: what does this mean? dropping the book to the floor. His eyes drooped and he was glad as he crawled into his sleeping bag and fell into a dreamless sleep.
 

 Taylor thought the ritual that preceded his entering the cave was very exciting. After calling the Quarters and the Deity, he was brought into the center and they sang and danced around him. He could feel the energy swirl around him, like being charged with static electricity, he felt sparks fly off him. Then they closed in around him, chanting low and soft. He heard voices calling out to him blessings and warnings. Then, with a great whoop, the group picked him up and carried him to the entrance of the cave. Inka and Osha, the designated high priestess and priest for this ritual, climbed down into the cave and passed down into the tiny chamber all he required for this night. Everything was lights and clattering and warm bodies as he was placed into the cave. But now, in the quiet chamber alone, he felt bored. He shook a rattle for awhile, ate an apple, chanted a few songs then eased back and stared at the candle. He was tired but he desired to keep vigil through the whole night.
 It wasn’t a deep cave by any means and Taylor had explored every nook and cranny over the years living on their Farm. In the deepest part of the cave, after squeezing through a narrow passage, there was a small chamber. He had set up a small alter there: a candle, a terra-cotta Goddess figurine, a rutulated crystal sphere. Taylor sat, wrapped in layers of thick wool army blankets.
 The candle served as the only source of light and comfort. Taylor basked in the golden glow that filled this tiny hole as his eyelids drooped.
 Taylor awoke with a start. The candle had gone out. He must have fallen asleep. Pitch blackness folded about him. A darkness thick and oppressive. Taylor was afraid to move. He lacked any reference points to guide his movement. He brought his hand up before his face, but he couldn’t see it, when he touched his face it felt like someone else’s hand. There was no sleeping now. The space alternatively expanded and contracted, like being pitched into the void, an abyss immense and deep, he felt like he was drifting, moving like a bubble through black-strap molasses. Time also bent and shifted, then lost its meaning in that deep darkness. No ticking of clocks or crickets to honor its passage, Taylor never thought how comforting a watch would be. How long must he sit? How long has it been? Will they come and get him at dawn, or forget? How could he know? He sat there biting his knuckle until it hurt.
 Then he saw something: a sparkle of light like the morning star in the sky. This light seemed far away. It beckoned to him. He slowly unfurled himself from the woolen blankets and crawled towards the singular spark that floated just beyond his reach. Crawling through a crack further and the cold hard surface of the cave became more sandy and his breath echoed about him like the washing of tides over sands. Then his hand touched water, he pulled his hand back and brought it to his mouth. It tasted salty.
 This is strange, Taylor thought. Then he looked up and saw a sky tangled up by stars. Where am I? Who am I?

 Diego del Oro stood on the windswept beach. The winds were blowing in from the south, from Africa, the lair of the devilish Moors. Above him the stars glittered over the Sea that churned restlessly. He tasted the salt in his mouth. He had walked up to the water’s edge and touched and tasted the Great Sea. It was a natural gesture to the waters that he loved so well. Tomorrow he would be departing from his homeland to apprentice with the famous inquisitor, Father Kramer, Grand Inquisitor in the land of the Germans.
  It was the Year of Our Lord 1492. Diego had graduated from the University of Toledo some years ago, a priest of the Franciscan Order and a servant of the Inquisition of Espana. The victorious monarchs, Ferdinand II of Argon and Isabella of Castile, had overthrown the infidels and cast them from this land. The triumph of the soldiers of Christ to reclaim this land in His Name had been extraordinarily successful. With the establishment of the Holy Inquisition, the last remnants of the godless were being swept from Espana. The heretic, the Jew, the witch — all were culled out of the population and dealt with by the Inquisition.
 Deigo looked out over the Sea and the warm winds soothed his soul. That day he had administered a small auto-de-fe in which a number of Moors and Jews had been purged from their hiding places and delivered to God for judgment of their iniquity. The winds washed out the stink of the fires from his robes. It was his first official duty as a newly graduated Doctor of Law and novice of the Holy Inquisition. Yet now, the flush of the day’s excitement had cooled and he contemplated his upcoming adventure.
 At the age of twenty-four, he had prepared himself for a life in which he could do something significant, something lasting. He saw the opportunity to serve God, the Church and the Inquisition as a way towards his larger goal. That goal was to make a name for himself by vanquishing the foes of the Church wherever they may linger. To be another Augustine, John of the Cross or … who knows maybe Saint Diego. He chuckled softly. Well, at least vast riches and thus an easy retirement were all within his reach. As Diego thought this, he felt his spirit wax and expand. He surveyed the world and imagined it to be like a walnut, just waiting for him to crack it open and extract the sweet meat.
 “Life is good,” he said aloud to the sand and surf, “I wonder where my friend Lilly is, she promised to meet me here at about this hour.”
 “I am here, my Lord,” a sultry voice echoed in the darkness. Deigo turned, startled, then quickly relaxed as she moved in closer. The scent of orange blossoms carried on the breeze. She reached out and touched his cheek, he blushed. “Your face is warm, my Lord. I will cool it when we are in my chambers.”
 “Yes, that is well. I shall miss you, my friend. You have been a balm and a comfort to me during these last weeks.” Deigo slipped his fingers through the soft black curls and admired the silhouette, carved in shadows, of a face that was so beautiful, so elegant. “I have a small present for you.” He reached into his waist bag and obtained a smaller bag and placed it into her delicate hands. “This is for you to find better living quarters and to hire a maid. I met an old Jew who will not be needing it anymore. You’ll find fifty-five gold sovereigns in that bag.”
 “My Lord, you are more than kind. I am not worthy of such generosity. How can I repay you?” She eased up closer to him, her breath mingled with his.
 “Tomorrow I leave the land of my fathers. Tonight we’ll create an agreeable memory for both of us to hearken back to when we are old and gray.” He smiled like an angel.
 Diego took her hand. “Come, let us seek our little paradise.”
 Later, Deigo lay in Lilly’s feather bed and drifted off to sleep. He dreamt of crawling into a cave, how strange. And he shivered. Skin nibbled by frost. What an uncomfortable situation, Diego thought. If only I could wake up. He heard voices, oddly familiar, speaking in a tongue he had never heard. The words allured and bought him out of the dream, he floated up and up, about to break through the surface. Yet the surface was so far, just out of reach, when will this dream end?

 Taylor opened his eyes and a light flashed in his eyes. He was cold and cramped. “Taylor, it’s time to come to the surface,” Osha said in his rich mahogany voice. The cave was lit up by Osha’s flashlight. It seemed as if a stone lay inside Taylor’s chest, for a moment he felt unable to breath. It then crumbled and he took what seem to him to his new first breath. Taylor felt much smaller and very confused. “Did you have a vision?” Osha asked as they crawled out of the cave into the beginning day. All the world pulsed with life and awareness.
 Taylor stepped out and straightened himself up. A vision? A dream?
 “Well, yes and … no.” Taylor was trying to remember, will he ever remember, he wondered. It was like piecing together a shattered porcelain vase.
 “Well, that answers my question,” Osha laughed loudly. “Let’s go and get some hot tea and biscuits into you, you’ve done alright. You should be proud of yourself. Oh yeah, I got something for you.” Osha removed a small box and handed it to Taylor, upon opening it he found a silver pentangle pendant. “Here, let me put it on. You know, once you’ve gone through an initiation you can never go back, for good or ill, you’re a Sun Dog now.” Osha smiled and messed up his Taylor’s mop of black hair. “Come on, the rest of the gang’s waiting for you. Remember, we’re all leaving for DayStar in a few days. It’s gonna be your first Pagan Festival, little brother! The Dogs are playing two concerts and giving four workshops. I’m ready to blow them away!”
 Taylor followed Osha along the path back to his home. Osha sang softly and a mockingbird echoed his tune. Taylor tried to remember his dream, it lingered just beyond his grasp, yet a word dangled in the air.
 “Lilly.”
 It seemed to comfort him somehow.
 

Go Where You Go

Crazy flaming feeling loving
We hold hands
Blood mixed with Stone.
Cool dark skin, moss and oak,
Timeless land.
My, how we have grown.

Go where you go
Shine in the night
Flow far below
the surface of what seems right.

People talking back and forth
and ‘round the bend
train whistle sad.
Who’s on her and what’s with him?
Will it end?
Hey — we ain’t that bad.

Go where you go
Shine in the night
Flow far below
the surface of what seems right.

On the edge I’ve got a hut
all my own
and a song that keeps me there.
You visit me — bring some wine —
we chew a bone.
Oh — we toast to the air.

Go where you go
Shine in the night
Flow far below
the surface of what seems right.

Go where you go.
 

 Jim awoke. Crows bleated. A faint breeze wafted through the window. Fishing. Oh, yes. Today. Silent padding abound. Leaf, his darling wife, snored into her pillow. Jim listened to his breath as he pulled himself together. A car pulls up and a horn sounds. He grabbed his gear, lunch, and thermos of coffee as he dashed out the door.
 “This is the day, I feel it.”
 “What are you percolating now, Jim?” James said.
 “I feel like I’m going to catch a big one today”
 Jamie quipped, “I heard you already had one!” They roared off laughing.
 It may be said that the three Jimmies were fond of subterranean drugs, for them the alteration of consciousness was a life-long quest. However, their most constant addiction, their best high, emanated through the flow of their conversation. From the Classics to Chaplin, they whirled like dervishes in long afternoons of dialogue. Perhaps trialogue is closer to the mark, rising and falling in enthusiasm and reverie. Their form of P.C. means Polemically Correct. They decided long ago that the process of how you formulate your opinions to be more important than the opinions themselves, they spent day after day in a delicious banter, delighting not so much in what they were talking about as in the how they were talking about it.
 For whatever drugs they found themselves drinking, smoking, sniffing or rubbing into their third eye, those guys saw them as tools to enhance the flow of their conversation. Their carpentry business came out of the fact that, given their wide ranging interests, they all knew how to swing a hammer and cut in a straight line. And they enjoyed each other’s company so much that they decided that they could make some money and indulge their philosophical urges in the course of their copious coffee breaks.
 In looking for an assistant carpenter, the prime requisite was what could you add to the discussion. Most were rather boring to the Jimmies. They hired and fired one after another until Osha answered their ad. He dropped by the purple farmhouse and they talked into the wee hours. They had found their man and, interestingly enough, Osha had found his band.
  For the Jimmies had been fooling around with a R&B combo for a few years as a hobby but when Osha brought his mike over and wailed like they never heard before, the music started taking over. He introduced them to Inka, Jill and Peter. Osha had been reading alot of stuff about paganism and wanted to form a coven. He met Inka and Jill at an open mike at the Strange Attractor, the local espresso bar. Inka and Jill were singing all these Goddess songs that had odd twists to them. The odd twist turned out to be Peter who wrote most of the lyrics. The original motive to get together was to explore their mutual fascination with nature religions. As Osha worked and talked with the Jimmies and their wives, he incited their interest in Paganism. In a few weeks they had started their eclectic spiritual group which became the Sun Dogs.
 So, in the fullness of time, their melodious chanting around a bonfire led to jamming in the living room. After awhile, Jill and Inka encouraged the others to back them up when they played out and were so well received they started being offered more and larger gigs. Soon they recorded a CD and, along with their regular jobs, they all began to play out on a regular basis. It was a busy and exciting time for all of them.
 But today, the Jimmies left behind their wives and children to have a day off which, given all their responsibilities and interests, was actually a rare event.
 Jamie sat in the backseat keeping time to the music in his head. He paused only long enough to take a hit off the joint that was making the rounds. Jamie’s spike red hair and robin-egg eyes contrasted with Jim’s full blood Jamaican features. James being half-Japanese and half-Irish descent, looked like an samurai sodcutter navigating the seas between two distant islands as he drove them to their special fishing hole.
 Even though the Japanese bought up the lion’s share of the Jamaican Blue Mountain beans for their own use, Jim had his grandmother send him a few pounds every month from his island home. That is what gurgled from the spout of his all-steel thermos on that fine derelict morning. The sparrows swept low over the mist-covered lake competing with the small-mouth bass for mosquitoes and mayflies. Morning doves purred high in the old rotting willow nearby.
 Passing around cups of coffee like it was a sacrament, the three friends sipped silently sitting on that slick mud bank. Jim didn’t allow any additives, that is, cream or sugar, to pollute this special brew. This annoyed Jamie somewhat who wined for some half-n-half. “Too much of life is creamed and sugar-coated,” Jim reminded him, “let your coffee remind you of the pleasure of bitter.”
 James produced a plastic baggy and passed that around. His almond-shaped eyes glinted as he was sharing the results of his mycological experiments. He and Jill made a tidy sum which helped the band acquire some nice equipment. James warned them that they were his guinea pigs and he couldn’t tell them how strong those ‘shrooms were. “It might have been better in an omelette,” Jamie commented while he chewed hurriedly washing those dry bits of fungus down with some coffee.
 Dropping their lines in the water, they began their morning discourse.
 “I’ve been reading this book that details the rise and fall of many civilizations throughout history,” James began. “The author compared and contrasted the circumstances of their eventual collapse into chaos and disorder. He found many similarities between these various situations: an uncontrollable bureaucracy, a crisis-oriented approach to governance, huge debt, highly concentrated power, and public apathy. Sounds familiar, don’t it?”
 Jim nodded. “Oh, yes. A familiar scenario all right, although I have a feeling, as in so much of historical analysis, that these so-called great civilizations are all the same from the get-go. They were the nasty conquering types that periodically rolled over the landscape. Whatever their achievements, their foundations were laid with blood and bones. It’s just so much easier for the historians to study these particular examples, dig up the cities, translate manuscripts written through the eyes of the powerful ones. If there’s any historical lessons on how to live in peace and harmony in this world, it certainly was either destroyed by these war-like ‘great’ civilizations or trivialized by our own modern scholars.”
 “Good point, good point,” James said, “but certainly you would agree that we ourselves are members of a similar war-like civilization right here in the United States of Amerika.”
 Jim’s lower lip curled out. “Yeah, I’d go along with that.”
 “Well,” James continued, a fermenting gleam brightened his features, “I got to thinking that all the signs and symptoms are present in this very day and age for the collapse of the Great American Way. We, as a nation, are teetering on the brink of a fundamental shift in power and resources.”
 Jamie interjected. “If that’s true, where are the present day barbarians gonna come from.  Who’s gonna displace those who have all the power now?”
 “I don’t rightly know,” James said. “It just seemed to me that we are in a very tenuous situation and if we are to avoid ruin we better start shifting our priorities quick.”
 “Why should we avoid ruin,” Jamie said, “could be just the medicine that we need right now. We’re just too big for our britches, that’s all. We need to learn a little humility. I saw this map once where the United States was redivided into smaller countries with an eye on more local self-sufficiency. Anyhow, we’re not citizens of this country nowadays, we’re consumers, even the politicians in their smoozing speeches have turned away from the focus on citizenship to calling us ‘consumers’. That’s where the real problem lies, we are being disenfranchised of our power as citizens. The only way the people in this country are taken seriously is when we consume all those worthless products spewed out by the multinational corporations. Consume — consume!” Jamie’s orange hair glowed in the dawning light. “I think a good dose of social unrest is just what we need to stir up the zombie TeeVee spoon-fed anti-culture we have right now.” Jamie lit up a fatty and the smoke obscured his freckled face as he passed the joint to James.
 James held the joint with the tips of his long fingers, tracing smoky patterns in the air as he made his point. “But don’t you see, that is one of the signs that collapse is just around the corner: public apathy. Most of the people in this country don’t even know that their constitutional rights are being picked away ever so slowly. The whole war on drugs is a good example. If they really cared about people’s unhealthy relationship to drugs they would funnel the money into treatment and not guns. Making drugs illegal only maintains their sensational profitability and thus the relationship with drugs and crime. But no, they want to execute drug dealers as if that would slow the growth of people wanting to indulge. Damn, the CIA is the biggest baddest drug dealer there is and every revelation about them is quietly swept under the rug.”
 “Well,” Jim smiled, “one of our basic theorems is that we’re all doomed, whether individually or as a culture, but how we’re doomed is the salient question.”
 They all nodded in unison on that point.
 Jim took a long draw on the joint and spoke in that high, holding-his-breath way. “To return to the original proposition, that is, issues surrounding the fall of ‘great’ civilizations. I’m reminded of a tract I read concerning the fall of the Roman Empire and the onset of the dark ages. It argued that the fall of the Roman Empire was accelerated by the rise of Christianity.” He exhaled a mighty billow of turquoise smoke and shivered as the herb and shrooms began to meld in his brain.
 “But I’ve always heard that the Catholic Church was the repository of the ancient knowledge as the barbarians swept through the Empire,” Jamie said, “they preserved the knowledge to be released in a future time of greater stability.”
 Jim coughed and spit. “Ah, another case of history being rewritten by the victors to sanctify their actions and demonize their enemies. The early Christians believed that one of the signs of the end of the world was the spread of knowledge. Also it was alot easier to maintain an iron grip on an ignorant population than one educated in a wide spectrum of belief. The Christians felt that toleration of other’s beliefs to be persecution of itself and, as early as 382 AD, declared that any opposition to its own creed in favor of others must be punished by the death penalty.”
 “Man, that’s harsh,” James said while he molded a ball of clay he had scraped from the bank into a wrinkled face.
 “You bet, and don’t think it’s not happening today. Remember those renegade priests killed down in El Salvador? Yeah, it’s still happening. In any case, the Christians destroyed libraries and schools, drove out scholars, broke up marble temples and statues feeding the pieces into lime kilns for mortar, and discouraged laymen from any form of education. Let’s see, I think it was St. John Chrysostom who boasted years later that “every trace of the old philosophy and literature of the ancient world has vanished from the face of the earth.” Weird guy. So it came to pass that all of Europe was plunged into a dark age of ignorance and superstition by the xenophobia of the Catholic Church. One can only imagine what works of art and literature that were ruthlessly plundered during those times. Strangely enough, it was the Islamic culture that was the repository of all the great western cultural writers at that time.”
 “Well that’s something which couldn’t happen today,” Jamie said, “there’s just too many places where our knowledge is stored. Just look at the internet.”
 Jim shook his head. “I wouldn’t bet on that, did you ever see the movie Brazil?”
 “No,” Jamie said, “Don’t you think we should put some bait on our hooks? I know it’s a pain to break up the conversation by catching a fish but my kids wanted to eat some fish tonight.”
 Overhead a Great Blue Heron glided down out of the watercolor sky.  It looked like a relic from the age of dinosaurs, its long trailing legs and huge wingspan, its confident flight. The three Jimmies sat quietly and watched it as it landed in the shallows. A ripple of warm feeling passed between them. They glanced at one another and smiled. Life is good.
 

 DayStar was the biggest Pagan gathering in the Northeast located on 200 acres in southern Ohio. It was a great party in all ways but it had its focus too. The continuous workshops went on at seven different locations. Concerts and poetry slams, the ranting and raving of amateur lunatics, and the constant drumming and dancing raised the energy deep into the night. A good place to meet like-minded maniacs and love bunnies. All the pagan tribes are represented: the African-based Voodun and Santaria religions, the Keltic Druids, the Native-American shamans as well as the extra-terrestial religion The Church of All Worlds.
 In nice weather most people are naked or close to it. What clothes people did wear appeared to be out of distant cultures and far-flung times. Curious smiles and long hugs were everywhere.
 Peter held reign at the Discordian tent, an early Neo-Pagans religion that began as a highly evolved joke that honored the goddess of Chaos, Eris. In Greek mythology, she was the one who initiated the Trojan War by tossing a golden apple into the assembly of gods. The apple was ‘for the fairest’ of the goddess’ which naturally aroused dissension. For Discordians, a little anarchy was a good thing.
 Let’s listen in on Peter’s rap of the day. “Yeah, all those times you woke up a two or three in the morning. Your mind would be confused and you thought it was something inside you! There are spy eyes in the sky and they got technology that they discovered from that UFO crash in Roswell that can probe your mind and instill patterns. They beam code right into your brains while you’re asleep and (sometimes) you wake up from the beam’s effect. And the patterns they instill are reflected in the more primitive (yet just as effective) mass media barrage most people live everyday. You see how people just put the TeeVee or radio on and ignore it . But what is really happening is that Their Message is penetrating and reprogramming our minds. The insidious use of subtext and subliminal suggestion motifs that are well-known (and well-used) by hypnotists and pyschotherapises, these techniques are the tools by which The Conspiracy undermines our free-thinking! The fact that 95% of all the world’s wealth is concentrated in the hands of less that 1% of the population (believe me: they know each other) makes it understandable that the underlying values of non-stop consumerism and short-term profits-making are the prime message. They own the media and They infuse that media (and don’t forget the spy satellites!) with endless hours of commercials and sitcom banality. It lulls us into a false sense of security and all the time little worms of suggestion are weaved into the presentation. Notice that what they put on television are called programs — very odd. Fnord!
 “Fortunately, some of us have cultivated our Paranoia so that we can exist in this mind numbing atmosphere. Kill your television. It is the first step. We have here a small pamphlet called a Beginners Guide to Killing Your Television outlining safe yet dramatic ways to Kill Your Television. Over here, along the same lines, is a CD and accompanying book of poetry called Rebellion of the Angels, written by my good friend Osha. It talks about burning your bible as a act of liberation from the dominate paradigm. Cuul — don’t yu think?”
 Far from Peter, Jill and Inka sat in a wide green field on a paisley blanket with Dove and Laura, two women they met at last night’s fire circle. “You know,” Jill said, “I don’t really feel different from anyone else. I look around me and see all sorts of people with disabilities. Some are obvious like mine, like extremely fat people have to confront alot of barriers in this world. Some are less obvious: mental, emotional or spiritual disabilities. I can see it in their face, in the way they carry themselves. I hear people talk as if they were physically restrained from dancing or singing or just drawing a picture — but it is only their belief that is a barrier.”
 Dove, who asked the question, nodded.
 “Hey, listen to this.” Inka jumped in.
 “A Womb Stone,” Inka read out of this huge woman’s dictionary, “is the calcified and petrified remains of the products of conception (ie. a feotus or fetus) that died within the uterus at an early stage of development but never was aborted (ie. a miscarriage). Usually small (outside of rare instances of great size) these stones  are common and asymptomatic. There is a black market in the trade of these items as they are found in woman’s burial sites (especially older graveyards) but they can fall out naturally with some scar tissue left behind. Considered as being tokens of great magical power, some have been found buried inside of sculpted Goddess statues…”
 Jill laughed. “Where do you find this stuff.”
 “I just read the stuff. I find it inspiring.”
 “For what?”
 “For giving me guidance, for the space to finally be myself, for validation. Ahhhh, you don’t get it.”
 Jill paused.
 “I was initially just jiving you but let’s consider this woman’s history movement: what does it do and where might it go.”
 Inka said, “I feel woman have progressed alot but there’s a long way to go. Personally I wouldn’t mind a world in which most of the leaders are woman — give us a shot at it and perhaps, just perhaps, it could be a better world.”
 “Are we,” Jill countered, “as a huge population, that much in concert or, in fact, more moral and selfless than men. I known some real bitches in my time. Who could say whether we’d do a better job.”
 Inka curled her lip. “Well here’s a thought: part of the underpinning of the female hegemony during the neolithic times is reproductive in nature. Male embryos abort more often, males are more inclined to early death whether due to disease or the job of living in wilderness. Also infanticide was practiced mostly because the groups resources were minimal and hard to come by. One male could service many females in getting pregnant and most food eaten was gathered, not hunted as is commonly depicted, so much less male hunters were required. Also many woman died in childbirth and to keep the species going, there needed to be a surplus of females to survive birth many times. It explains many things: men’s deep notion of polygamy, fer instance, women’s more affectionate stance to each other, the female-based cult and philosophical practice, that produced long ages of relative prosperity and stability.”
 “Hmmm, could be, wabbit, could be.” Jill chirped. And they laughed together as they journeyed on, over to the food vendors, over the grassy meadows, Jill rolling and Inka pushing. They laughed and laughed.

 Osha was giving a workshop on Poetry and Automatic Writing: A Path to the Higher Self. Surrounded by about twenty intent folks with notebooks open and pens clutched, Osha sat under the boughs of a huge oak tree.
 “In the world at large, we are taught that God is out there and that only special people are allowed to receive divine inspiration. In reality, there is no separations, no walls. We all can open to that part of us that is fully in connection to the Universal Mind. As you write, don’t attempt to make sense of it as you go along. That kind of self-censorship is in us all to be sure but remember that it is only words on paper, you can keep writing, keep turning the page. Especially at first, all sorts of crazy shit will pour out of your pen. Just let it flow. The point is not to publish the stuff. The point is to reach deep inside ourselves and welcome the Divine.”

 “No, the UFO’s don’t come from other planets per se, they come from other dimensions with many intentions!” Peter waved his arms. “And they’re no different than we are: some are benign, some are aggressive, some feed off our emotional distress. The Universe is not only stranger than your think, it’s really fucked. One of the most contemptible alien we, as earthlings have had to deal with, is Jeohvah-1. Here in this book, The Stark Fist of Removal, there are assorted techniques to short circuit the energy-depleating mind/soul/body invasions of this so-called God. Oh, you can laugh if you want, I want to encourage that because laughing at Jeohvah-1 is one of your best defenses. It is the underlying message of His Book: Thou shall not laugh at the Lord, thy God! Ah-ha!”

 The Three Jimmies were putting up a portable dome. “I hope the kids like it,” Jamie said, wiping the sweat off his brow. “It is certainly big enough.”
 James came out. “Well, I think it was a good idea to put them in one place, they can keep an eye on each other all the better. Hey, I got a joint, do you got a light?”

 Inka and Laura were kissing as Jill talked with Dove. “Music is my sport. I run and jump and climb with my music. Music is my lover and companion. Music takes me places: I travel through ancient cities, explore primeval jungles, shoot out into space with just a simple combination of sounds. I can see and feel these places as the music surrounds and comforts me. I watched you dance to our last show, you seemed to be in a trance. Ah, our music helped you get there, that’s good.”

 “Just allow the Divine to enter.” Osha said. “Flow with the Go, that is, let the natural impulse of the Earth take you along on this fantastic journey. There is no need to see it as effort, as you flow you build up momentum, you gather energy. And after a few pages, if you find one phase that clicks, that answers a long-held question or concern, then you have found the treasure.”

 James lit the joint and handed it to Jim. “It is so good to be here. I love the lifestyle we’ve created. Work some, make music, go to gatherings. Why get all stressed out pursuing money or power or whatever. People lose themselves and lose their love in becoming successful.”
 “Yeah,” Jim said, “totally whacked.”

 “Now in ancient times,” Osha said, “poets were perceived as specially endowed people: they were the storytellers, they were the liaison between the mundane and the sacred, they were infused with spirits who inspired them to weave their words in such a way that their story altered the community’s soul, inspired them and pulled them together.”

 “Here comes the kids,” Jamie waved his arms. “Hey, come over here, we got the dome up!” A high yell went up like an approaching freight train. The dozen naked children ran into the enclosure and began dancing and screaming. Jamie looked over to Jim and James, “I guess they like it.”

 “Now I think Inka has the cutest nipples,” Laura said as she nibbled on them, “some baby is gonna be lucky.”
 Inka smiled. “Now don’t you go wishing that on me right now. Ahh. Yeah, keep doing that, ahh.”
 “Would you like to push me to the main stage,” Jill asked Dove, “we’ll let these love puppies have their privacy.” Dove happily assisted Jill up the narrow ramp. “Now the sound check is in three minutes, Inka, try to be there on time.”
 “Yes, ahh, mother, ahh, I will. Yes. Yes.”

 “If these things bother you,” Peter leaned in closer, “then you’re beginning to understand. We are all doomed. We are all like patients on a cancer ward slowly rotting away. The tumor is mass commercial culture robbing us of our creative energy, draining us so slowly and subtly that we believe it is our own fault that we feel so confused. We allow them to infiltrate and reprogram our dreams, their desires become our desires, their dreams become our dreams. And nowadays they are becoming sneakier and sneakier, using all sorts of top-secret high tech equipment that they discovered at the Roswell Incident site. (Have you heard about Launch Pad 22?) You don’t know about that? Ah, let me turn you on.”

 Osha stood up. “Well, that is all the time I have for today, got to get ready for the concert. Just keep writing and writing, it is its own reward. And who knows, maybe someday you’ll write a book. Or a book will write you. Right?” The group crowded around him to get his signature on his new book of poetry.

 That night they began the concert with a long winding space jam. One of the organizers brought out a fire hose and soaked a large depression on the ground. As Jill and the Jimmies entered into vast sonic halls, folks began to dance in the pool and created a huge mud puddle. Naked and covered with mud. These are earth people, Osha thought as he sat in the wings and waited for his cue. These are people unafraid of living. People living a peaceful genuine existence — in harmony with their animal natures. Then the drum solo began, here’s our cue. Osha nodded over to fair Inka: arraigned a open gown of golden strings all held by a soft necklace, her body painted in blue woad. “Ready?” Inka whispered.
 Osha and Inka ran onto the stage, beating handdrums to a growing cheer: “OshaInkaOshaInkaOshaInkaOshaInkaOshaInka …”

Child of Light

A bubble burst, blinding me, I’m shaken to the core
inside the blazing cold vision of things that go before.
 I might as well tell you now
 for all that I’ve seen
 the winter wind still makes me shiver
 and the stars are just as keen.

You say “I love you” while leading me to your bed
are you giving me jewels or robbing me instead?
 I might as well tell you now
 for all that I’ve seen
 the winter wind still makes me shiver
 and the stars are just as keen.

I found myself on a broken path and so I did ride
what waits around the corner is not for me to decide.
 I might as well tell you now
 for all that I’ve seen
 the winter wind still makes me shiver
 and the stars are just as keen.
 

 Next day was totally free. All the campsites were set-up in neo-primitive vinyl and pvc tubing, no gigs, no workshops to run — totally free. Peter suggested a mushroom trip to Osha. Then they rounded up Jamie and James. A fine light blue morning suggested a hike. They set out through a field of Goldenrod and Purple Loosestrife talking and laughing. Far from the drums, they stopped and sat in a circle.
 “These are sacraments of our people,” Jamie said, “the body of the gods of visions and creative insight.”
 “And this brandy,” Osha smiled, “is the blood of the Regenerative God.” He raised the flask. “Here’s to Osirus, Dionysus, Adonis, and even good old Jesus. May we feel your power.”
 James washed down his dose with the brandy. “I read a theory about ‘shrooms being the catalyst for humans creating religion and the developing of the higher powers of reasoning.”
 “Higher powers, that’s fer sure.” Peter giggled.

 The dome was hosting a massage healing circle. A group of eight folks, Inka, Jim and Jill included, took turns laying in the center of seven pairs of hands, waves of caresses, low humming. Jim had to abandon himself to the sensation and just relax — with one person massaging you you could always hold your tension in some part of your body — now he just had to let it go. Inka was fun for the group, her lack of inhibitions and lovely body made the giving as pleasurable as the receiving. Jill’s massage was more serious — her bent frame and scars were reminders of genes gone awry. Her’s was the longest and most powerful massage — the glow of healing warmed the air as they finished and sat back on embryonic cushions. Whatever hurt each had brought in, it was now, for a time, forgotten.

 Later that afternoon a huge boiling cloud came out of the west. Peter, Osha, James and Jamie wandered back to the camp.
 “That looks ominous,” Peter suggested.
 “Ominous,” Osha slowly echoed as he watched a crow fly by.

 That night, Taylor wandered from the camp. The wind stirred the drunken treetops. ‘Get along’ they mumbled. Taylor hurried along. A branch slapped him in the face, just missed my eye, ouch. ‘Perhaps the next time’ the branch answers.
 He was edgy. He needed to escape the drums and hugs and tripping people. He snuck away away when no one was looking and hiked further and further into the woods.
 The air turned and tumbled. Taylor slowed his stride. The full moon light became obscured by clouds. He then realized how he was depending on the moonlight to navigate the twiny and tangled wood. He stopped. He looked up.
 Like a blinking eye, the moon sailed behind racing clouds. While we party, Taylor thought, incredible things are going on over our heads. A constant display of miracles — voices from the gods —  reminders of reminders of reminders.  Taylor stared at the moon which strayed behind a huge racing cloud.
 The darkness encircled him. His vision blurred, perhaps by tears. Taylor watched a face form in the large rapturous cloud. A strange face, one which Taylor would have never imaged: a narrow face with a sharp nose, well-tanned, dark abysses for eyes.The head gained a body: a plain brown robe lassoed with a red cord and holding a large black book. His eyes widened at the swirling yet incredibly realistic figure. The head turned suddenly and looked right at Taylor, or straight through him.
 At this point in the trance Taylor pulled himself together. What’s happening? Did some one slip me something? Overwhelmed, he sat on the ground and sat down. Heart thumping, breath catching. For some reason he felt afraid, fear pierced the air. Air moved and shifted the leaves. Ten thousand whispering tiny tinny goblin voices all around him. He dug his fingers into the ground as if he was going to float away. The earth was soft and friendly. By pure self will and a faith in the earth, he relaxed as the image of that stern strange man was blown away by the breeze. Why did that bother me so bad?
 Soon the moon came out, keen and bright. Taylor stood up resolutely and  walked directly back to his tent.

 Old Fred took the kettle off the stove and brewed up a big pot of coffee. He had a feeling some guests might be arriving that morning to his little hut in the woods of the Applegate Farm. The smell of fresh-brewed coffee is an incense to the gods, Fred thought. Keeps me regular too.
 Fred has been living in that hut for about twenty years now. He arrived just as George was needing a good steady hand to build the main house and run the farm but having little or no money to hire one on. Fred showed up on George’s doorstep and offered him his services and experience in exchange for a place to build his hut, wood enough to keep him warm and three square meals a day. During the course of time, Fred became a member of the family and without him many projects on the farm would never have been done. George would proclaim that Fred was a God-sent, and, in a way, he was.
 A knock came upon the door and in strolled Inka and Peter. They slumped into the room, mumbled some greetings and proceeded to the big sofa into which they sank. Peter wore his usual army fatigues and round dark glasses, his long stringy black hair contrasted his pale complexion. He sat, frowning, looking up at some fly buzzing around the room. Inka, normally cheerful, nervously twisted her long blond hair and glanced around with her bright blue eyes.
 “Hey, did you fix the place up differently?” Inka inquired.
 “Nope, same as it has always been. What are you all up to? You seem a bit under the weather. That’s too bad, it’s a fine day.” Fred smiled expectantly.
 Peter spoke up still watching the fly. “Perfesser Applegate is getting all screwed up about the criticism that that preacher feller is putting on the air about the new book. I told him that he mustda done something right to get so many people mad at him but then he went into this tirade about writing some public letter to get even, “show them a thing or three” I believe he said. Anyhow we exchanged some words and he started getting mad at me!”
 “Well, you did tell him it was a fucked-up idea,” Inka injected.
 “Yeah, yeah — but he didn’t have to take it so personally, jezz, you’d think that I was getting down on his baby. Anyhow, he told me to pack up all my stuff and leave the farm! I just can’t believe it.”
 Fred handed them large cups of coffee and sat across from them in an old wicker rocking chair. It seemed to Inka, as she watched Fred caress the large mug, his hands were like carved yellowed locust wood. The gnarled calloused hands spoke of years of digging ditches and changing diapers.
 “So I assume you’ve come here to get me to talk to George and help smooth things over.”
 Inka sparkled. “Yes, you have such a way with George, and everybody suffers so when he’s in a bad mood. It’s hard enough with all the work that needs to be done around the farm plus with the band producing this new CD, everybody's nerves are frazzled. Please Fred?”
 Fred looked them over: Inka smiled hopefully and Peter stared at the ceiling. “O.K., I’ll go talk with him but I can’t guarantee any results. So, how is this CD going anyhow?”
 Peter perked right up. “Man, this is gonna be a monster release of sonic proportions, we’ve written some songs that are gonna make George’s book sound like a children’s story…”
 And so Fred listened patiently to Peter and Inka describe the trials and tribulations of The Sun Dogs. Oh, they were rebels, no doubt about it. He could see that his young friends were going to make some kind of mark in the world but exactly what Fred couldn’t quite divine. Fred just wrapped them all in a secret golden light and hoped for the best. When it came to the difficult choices, each being was on his own.
 

A Mid-Summer’s Day

Oh Nancy please come out and play
barefoot running through soft grass.
Our fear is melting, let’s get away,
or else the world will turn to glass.
 Don’t look around for reason
 we’ll pick a bright bouquet
 you know it is the season:
 a mid-summer’s day
 a mid-summer’s day
 a mid-summer’s day.

I give him hours, he gives me gold,
I eat a pill when my head aches.
I’m getting tired of being told
when to take my coffee breaks.
 You can keep your money
 and your bucket of clay
 I’d rather taste my honey:
 a mid-summer’s day
 a mid-summer’s day
 a mid-summer’s day.

The trees discussing the time of year
and moss is creeping on my bones,
a little man grins from ear to ear
dancing amongst the standing stones.
 While the sun’s still shining
 forget your yesterday
 the planets are aligning:
 a mid-summer’s day
 a mid-summer’s day
 a mid-summer’s day
 a mid-summer’s day
 a mid-summer’s day. . . .

 So much time, so little to do, Fred thought to himself as he wandered over to the main house to have a chat with George. If only people were more consistently aware of the vastness of life, perhaps they would settle down and focus on the really important things, such as relationships and heart-felt communication, rather than getting caught up in making money or things and creating all these attachments.
 It is a beautiful process to create, one in which humans were peculiarly adept at, yet they invest so much of their egos in the object or the accumulation of wealth that what is forgotten is that the process, and the sharing of that process, is the only important thing. It is the only thing recorded in the book of time whereas the object will decay and return from whence it came.
 Yet it through creative acts that humans learn and in this little community here there were all sorts of strange things being done in the name of art. The Applegate Farm really isn’t much of a farm at all. Except for some goats and a big garden, there wasn’t any farming going on whatsoever. In one of his more generous moments, George Applegate commented that he allowed people to raise themselves with him providing a fertile soil for people to pursue their creative muses.
 Scattered throughout the farm were about a dozen semi-permanent shelters,  domes, huts, teepees, yurts and shacks, where the people who comprised this community lived. Some of the folks were former students of George’s whom he invited to live there in exchange for some work. Most were attracted by The Sun Dogs and their particular brand of nature worship. George found these people useful for his various building projects (especially the three Jimmies) as well as the interesting ideas and activities they sometimes brought to this isolated world. Lately, however, George has been complaining that things have been getting out of hand.
 The Sun Dogs have been practicing out at the old barn more often and louder, Fred thought. More and more of the band’s friends and followers have been coming by. Last summer the number of tents increased dramatically and, as the weather improves, I bet they’ll be coming back in force. These young people have pretty much kept to themselves at the far end of the land. But there were a few problems last summer and it was difficult for Fred to bale out these young folks time and again.
 George has mentioned more than once how nice it was when it was just Fred, Carol, the kids and him. “It’s getting out of control,” he moaned one day, “I just don’t know what to do. I think they’re having a corrupting influence on Taylor.”
 Fred smiled to himself as he approached the main house seeing George yelling something to someone up on the roof. Out of control, you say, George Applegate you would not want it any other way.
 “Say George.”
 “Hello, Fred. James! When you finish sealing up the leak around the gutters please come down. I need to talk to you. Sorry Fred, what can I do for you?”
 “To get straight to the point, it’s about Peter. I spoke to him and Inka this morning and they think you want Peter to leave the land. I was just curious whether this is true.”
 “It’s more than true, it’s a fact. And I got to thinking after talking to Peter that all these deadbeats around here have to be swept out. Oh, I’d leave the Purple House people alone, they pay rent and do a decent amount of work around here, and Jill and Inka have put so much into their place to make it comfortable and safe for Jill I decided to let them stay as well. And Osha’s practically part of the family so he stays. As for the rest of them, damn, there must be forty of them out there and with Peter being on top of the list, out they go.” George made a grand sweeping motion with his arm. “Maybe we can finally get some peace and quiet around here now. Don’t give me that look. This is not a impulsive decision; I’ve given it careful consideration. It’s for their own good, don’t you see?  You don’t see. Let me put it to you this way: as long as these kids get a free ride by living here practically rent-free there isn’t any motivation for them to get out and make something of themselves. This is just one big playground as far as they’re concerned. I’m really doing them a favor. Once they all get settled in their own places and get some real work, they’ll see the wisdom of me kicking them out of the nest. They need to fly. Oh, I’ll give them a month to clear out of here. I’m not an ogre.”
 George was a full six feet tall while Fred couldn’t have been more than five foot two, but George always felt small when he spoke to Fred especially when Fred wanted his way in something. Other times he had given in but this time his mind was made up. Fred can do all the talking he wants to.
  Fred scratched his chin. “Sounds like you’ve made up your mind and I suppose there’s nothing I can say to sway your decision. It’s too bad. I’m going to miss all the young people. Well, that’s what I came to talk to you about. Would you like to come up to my place and perhaps we could share some words on the subject.”
 “Sure, how about tomorrow?”
 “How ‘bout today?” Fred raised his eyebrow like a hedgehog arching its back.
 “Sure… Sure, Fred. After I finish up here with James.” Fred turned and headed back to his cabin in the woods. And Fred, in his straw hat and dusty overalls walked away and left George standing there, puzzled. George decided to take his time following after. Then George saw Fred turn and call out to him. “George, there’s a saying: ‘Without fingers, the hand becomes a spoon’, see you.”
 What the hell does that mean? George shook his head. “Hey James! Aren’t you finished up there yet?”

 Old Fred was sitting. Just sitting. He was practicing a form of mediation as he waited for George. It was really simple: Find a quiet place, find yourself, sit and relax. Perhaps it’s not all that simple after all.
 He imaged a waterfall of golden light pouring down over him. First it began as a trickle because Old Fred’s other thoughts, other selves, crowded his awareness. Gagging — Growling — Goofy. He chanted: “just let it go — just let it go….” He opened to the power of the Golden Waterfall and it became Truth flowing over him, cleansing and resplendent. The utter chaos of no thought swirling about him, sweeping him into an awareness simultaneous oneness and difference, growing up in an intelligent Universe, reaching out and expanding to the reaches like standing on a windswept crag watching the crashing waves roll in.
 Then a stillness…
 Fred sat and breathed deeply, he opened his eyes: a red squirrel ran chattering up a tree and the crunching of leaves drew Fred’s attention fully.
 The lanky figure of George Applegate came up the winding path that lead to Fred’s home. The hut was perched on a small knoll, a sharp cliff just behind fell into a dark chasm, only one path led cleanly up to his home. George knew this path well for he and Fred had built the hut together when George felt himself to be as much a carpenter as a writer and aspiring academician. Fred had picked the site and George supplied the lumber. Fred stood up and awaited his friend.
 “Hey, Fred!” George called when halfway up the path as per his custom.
 “Hey yourself! Come aboard!”
 George picked up his pace as was soon there, huffing a bit.
 “It seems to get longer to walk here every year.”
 “Perhaps you should practice that walk more often.”
 George caught the irony, considered a retort, reconsidered, let it go.
 “Fred, you watched how these kids came to the farm over the years. At first, just a few at a time, some were even helpful around the place. It just, just got out of hand, too many — too soon. You see what I mean.”
 “I see that they came and stayed at your request, George. Now you’ve changed your mind. If it is just Peter’s foolish comment I’m sure we can work it out. Yet now I see George Applegate with a turbulent mind and intolerant nature. Why is this? What has changed in you? Are you sure of your decision?”
 “What do you mean? I was taken advantage of, my generous nature and bohemian turn of character, and when Peter had the audacity to question my intentions I saw clearly that things on our farm were not quite kosher.”
 Our farm? I was not asked my opinion, I was not given a vote, how can you say: ‘Our farm?’. How do Taylor and Carol feel?”
 “They’re angry at me, of course, just like you. But sometimes a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. Ultimately, I’m responsible for what goes on around here.”
 George shook his head. “I just want things to be like they used to be. Simple and quiet — away from the hubbub of the world at large.”
 “Do you really think you can isolate yourself from the world?”
 “I can sure try. Besides, there’s enough going on in my life without having to deal with this stuff in the sanctuary of my own home. The world is banging on my door and I need some peace around my home to deal with all the changes happening to me.”
 Fred smiled and motioned George to follow him inside his hut.
 A thin film of gold played on the furniture and paintings inside of Fred’s house. George supposed it was a ray of sunlight shining down through the green canopy. Fred started to grind some mocha java and they were silent for a minute as the beans chatted in the grinder.
 “I’m not ashamed to take responsibility even though it goes against a majority vote because I don’t think you and Carol understood the insidious way they were hedging in on my, er, our property. This land is Taylor’s and Melonie’s inherence and suddenly I have a tribe squatting on my children’s inherence! Quite a few of them even asked to buy some land. Quite a few! I didn’t want this pristine valley to be destroyed and subdivided by a rock band. Oh, a few of them like Osha, Jill and Inka, the Jimmies and their family were easy enough to have around but they ruined it by slipping in all these other kids. You can see where it was leading, Fred. I must protect my family.”
 Fred looked at George as he set a cup of coffee before him.
 “I appreciate your thoughts, many do have merit to a rational person. Yet they were a support and inspiration to all of us here. I’m not getting any younger and there wasn’t a day when someone wouldn’t come by and give me a hand or just pass the time pleasantly. The community that was forming here seemed special to me. Perhaps you could give them another chance. I don’t believe they were that much of a threat.”
 George was worried. He had his rationale very clearly drawn as he walked up the hill but now Fred confused his thoughts on the subject. How could he not feel responsible for his family and this land. He had given some slack already — it was those kids who were being hard-headed. Peter said: “Take us all or leave us alone.” I never understood that boy. And the others whom I asked to stay are not taking me up on my offer readily. James told me that they have to have a meeting tonight to figure this whole thing out. Yet essentially they are unwilling to compromise with me so why should I get soft and let this travesty go on and on. He felt a strange sensation in his body. This is strong coffee. He looked around the room to get his bearings. Ah, the golden light still, sparks skipping off of metal, waves rippling off of wood. The space about him seemed to pulse and throb, it gave him a headache, got to get some ibuprofen later. Now where was I?
 “Well, I appreciate your thoughts and concerns,” George continued. “They’re be some I’ll miss mightily and I hope to keep in touch with them once they get settled in their own places. I am sorry that Osha and the others insist on leaving with the rest — that was not my intention. But I definitely don’t want Peter to stay and the fifty or sixty other bums hanging out here. Sometimes you just got to draw a line in the sand.”
 Fred sipped and looked steadily at George.
 “I guess it is finished.” Fred whispered.
 

  Everybody at the farm, except George, Carol, Fred, Taylor and Melanie, met in Osha’s large geodesic dome at sunset. There must have been about sixty people there milling about talking so much that when Osha entered the dome the air hummed. He saw Peter off to one side sitting in large chair reading a book. While everybody else seemed to be caught up in the crisis of George’s eviction notice, Peter, as practically the match that lit this fuse, seemed to be keeping a low profile. Just as well, Osha thought, he’s caused enough trouble as it is. Just as things were looking up for this community and the band, Peter had to push George a bit too far and now see what’s happened. Kicked out. We’re all going to be orphans now. With this thought, Osha shuttered. His years as an orphan would never leave him. The community that formed here became the only real family he had ever known and he loved everyone so much it hurt. That’s why he worked so hard at patching up difficulties and getting people to talk and work out their differences. It grieved him terribly to contemplate the prospect of everybody splitting up.
 Jill saw him and rolled over in her hot-rod wheelchair, “Osha, Osha. Everybodies’ freaking out here. The three Jimmies are thinking about quitting the band and go into carpentry full-time. Peter’s depressed and isn’t talking to hardly anyone. All the rest are scattering to the four winds. Our family, our family, Osha what is to become of our family?” Osha looked at her intense dark eyes. She knew how he felt about this group of people, only she understood the depth of his need.
 “I don’t know, Jill, it looks pretty bad. Damn, everything just started getting good. Fucking Peter, he’s at the root of all this trouble.”
 “Ah, don’t get too down on Peter, he just happened to be the one that George decided to pick out to blame and do what he’s been wanting to do for at least a couple years. Come on, now that you’re here, let’s get this meeting underway.”
 Everyone gathered in a circle. Silence saturated the air. After awhile Osha spoke: “We have much to discuss and I brought the chalice. First we’ll go around and have a weather report, then we’ll discuss the matter at hand.” The mood as you could imagine was dark, filled with anger, surprise and confusion.  Peter mumbled some sort of apology when he received the cup and Inka remarked that there should be no blame here. The rest of the group felt split in that sentiment. Osha held the chalice and wept. Through hot tears, he said he loved everyone so much and wanted to remind them all of how special they were in this sad and lonely world. Osha was the leader, or, better yet, the locus of spiritual identity for The Sun Dogs. To see him so touched and grieved, affected everyone.
 As the cup went around for another round, people took more time expressing themselves. Most wished this parting of the ways didn’t have to come to pass. Patty, a member of the dance coalition who had set up teepees in the pine wood, said she believed that this was some sort of opportunity. Her arms and hands shaped the air as she spoke. She molded a vision in which they all could be dancing together in a great green field of peace and plenty. After her more people were encouraged to create visions of what they wanted to happen as a part of this group and why staying together was an important idea. This seemed to pick up the spirits of the place and some were actually smiling, basking in the glow of hope in this arena of disaster.
 When Jill got the chalice, she took a deep breath and spoke in her piping little voice. “I’m glad to hear a few encouraging words around the circle, thank you Patty for inspiring us, you’ve certainly inspired me just now. As some of you may know, George has allowed some of us for various reasons to remain on the land. The folks in the Purple house because they pay rent and Inka and I because we put so much money and effort to making our place accessible for me. But I feel like I’m being left out in the cold with the loss of all my dear friends. We got something very special going here, I think we all feel that. It would be crazy to disrupt the growth of such a marvelous community. I’m just about the most avid homebody here so what I propose next is difficult for me personally and a big risk for everybody but I believe it is a way for us to survive as a community.
 “We are a Band, The Sun Dogs, and that band extends far beyond the confines of the stage. There are jugglers, magicians, dancers, healers and poets. We help each other move equipment, make food, do childcare. We are a band of seekers, witches and lovers. We all make those concerts more than the usual brand of concert; we know that. Our concerts, like our private rituals, create a sacred space, a theater of the divine, an extravaganza dedicated to the pleasure of the Goddess. I think what we’re most afraid of is diffusing the energy we’ve generated here. Oh sure, we could keep close and maybe even someday buy our own land and someday may even come to pass but now we’re riding the crest of a spiritual wave and we may wait a long time before another one comes along. We should ask ourselves: why were we brought here to do what we’ve done and why are we being forced out of this place. George Applegate and his land has served as a cradle for our group, our community, to grow and thrive but now, with little money but with lots of energy and talent, we are brought to this crossroads. We have a mission to take what we’ve crafted here on this isolated island of land and bring it to a wider world. At least that’s the way I see it”
 Murmurs of assent filled the air. Jill cleared her throat and continued speaking.
 “Next week we release our 2nd CD, Rebellion of the Angels. We were going to do a small tour to promote it, a free concert in Central Park is already planned, for instance. Well, what I propose is to take our magic on the road, stay together and keep moving. Let’s keep together at all costs! There is something happening here and I don’t want to see it destroyed. Perhaps by promoting the music in the context of, uh… something like a circus or revival meeting, we can make enough money to stay afloat and bring Neo-Paganism to the wide world. It’s a crazy idea and there’s alot of considerations here, I know, but I believe it’s possible. Maybe we can take some time out to talk together informally and then regroup and share what you think.” There was a general hum of enthusiasm.
 Peter stepped outside for a breath of fresh air. Osha followed him.
 “Peter,” Osha said. Peter turned around suddenly and relaxed when he saw it was Osha.
 “Howdy. Well, what do you think of Jill’s idea? It’s got some potential,” Peter said.
 “Maybe, maybe.” Osha replied as he cracked his knuckles.“We wouldn’t be going through all this if it wasn’t for you.”
 “Hey man, I’m sorry, didn’t you hear me in there?” Peter kicked a small stone. “I am really sorry but you know George has been puffing up for quite a while now. I might have been the last straw but I’m not going to take all the blame.”
 “You should take a little more I think. You and your bombed-out cabin has been a irritation to George for years. If you just cleaned up your act and pleaded with George, maybe he would let us all stay. It’s just your damn pride that keeps you from doing that. Look, Jill is talking about giving up her home just because of you! This, this,” Osha sputtered, “idea of her’s, it does have some merit, but not much I fear, it’ll probably just scatter us all over the place. If we could just stay here a little longer, then maybe we could get it together. Come on Peter, talk to George, I’ll come along. Maybe we could change his mind.”
 Peter shook his head. “Forget it, Applegate’s got his mind made up and I’m not getting in his face anymore.”
 Osha growled. “I can’t believe you won’t even give it a try, you’re such an asshole, Peter.”
 “Fuck you, man. I don’t have to listen to this.”
 “You better.” Osha gave Peter a push and Peter fell to the ground. Osha was a head taller than Peter and more robust but that didn’t stop Peter. He leapt up and tackled Osha. They wrestled in the dirt and leaves and flung curses at each other. Inka came out and discovered the commotion.
 “Stop this you guys, just stop it.” She kicked them to get their attention.  They finally rolled apart. “What’s going on here?”
 “He started it,” Peter proclaimed as he scrambled to his feet. A stream of blood leaked from his nose.
 “I didn’t mean to push you so hard, I guess I got carried away.” Osha said. “Not like you didn’t deserve it or anything.”
 “I’m going,” Peter said, “I don’t need to take this shit.” He took off for his truck which was already packed with his meager belongings.
 Inka stood there staring down at Osha. “Well, aren’t you going to apologize.” Osha mumbled something. “Damn, I’ll go get him,” Inka said. Inka sprinted off down the dark trail. “Peter, Peter....”
 Peter was barreling down the road when he heard Inka’s voice. He considered for a moment turning around but … fuck it, let ‘em burn in hell, I don’t have to take that shit from Osha. Peter spat a loose arc of crimson into the blue smoke that billowed behind his truck. I’ll leave them all behind. He slapped the cassette player and this song started screaming into the destitute night.
 

  Bring it back Alive!

I left my friends, my fortune and home
packed a bundle, began to roam.
Bright lights and dark nights, shapes in my mind.
Tasting the dawn when peeling off the rind.
The earth heaves open, the Old Ones awake.
I’m taken through a tunnel to the lair of the Snake.
It helps me to see as I sink in the clay.
And far-off I hear my mother say:
Bring it back alive, bring it back alive, bring it back alive, bring it!
 

I sat very still for a thousand years.
I died and was borne on a woman’s tears.
Scarlet in water, feeling like a saint,
breathing in the Universe without restraint.
The path splits open, a forest shadow deep.
Rainbow visions in the corridors of sleep.
It feels so weird yet it cannot be wrong.
I’m risking my life for a verse in a song:
Bring it back alive, bring it back alive, bring it back alive, bring it!
 

I came back to the world that I knew,
it was all transformed, there was nothing I could do.
I told my tale to all who could hear
they listened for awhile then disappeared.
The doors swing open, uncertainty awaits:
a moment of truth or a question of fate.
Go out and live before it gets away
and there’s one last thing that I’ve got to say:
Bring it back alive, bring it back alive, bring it back alive,
Bring it back alive, bring it back alive, bring it back alive. . . .

 Central Park. New York City.
 An icon of urban planning. A narrow band of trees and green surrounded by shining towers. Strawberry fields. The Ramble. The Obelisk. The Park is a haven, a peaceful grove, for people to escape the press of the crowds, the dulling traffic noise and the sharply tuned intellectual and creative life that crackles in the air like Saint Elmo’s fire.
 The Sun Dogs had been setting up all day for the free concert in the Sheep Meadow. Two days ago they left the Applegate Farm in a caravan of cars, buses, trailers and even a few motorcycles. When George finally saw them all packed and ready to drive off, he nearly relented in his determination to see them gone. Now that Peter had mysteriously vanished, he began to rekindle his affection for these young folks. But he saw that they had gone to great lengths to organize and get themselves to this point and, sad though it was,  if he backpedaled it would only postpone the inevitable.
 Now The Sun Dogs had entered the City flashing with enthusiasm like a burning brand. Their promotion crew pasted up the symbols of the tribe all over town. The whole community was out in force determined to make this concert a springboard to their traveling circus. The weather was fine with blue skies and a slight lilting breeze coming off the ocean clearing away the pollution. The new CD was receiving some air time for the last few weeks, especially the songs Rebellion of the Angels  and Clacking Sticks, and sales were becoming brisk throughout the Northeast. The poster being pasted everywhere showed Osha, sexy and serious, holding a Bible licked by flames. It advertised the group as a “seminal circus for the polemically correct”, which sent everybody running to their dictionaries. The word was on the street: this concert was to be a Happening for the new millennium.
 As well, the word went out amongst the network of pagan communities that a Sun Dogs circle was going down in the middle of the City. The most far-flung covens arrived first, the hearty snow-belt clans from Buffalo and the banks of Lake Ontario, the Cleveland contingent, and the Boston collectives. Pitching tents and banners, they drummed, danced in circles, and in the heat of the day started dropping articles of clothes. Soon the local covens wandered in, finding words of welcome and free food and drink being passed about along with numerous pamphlets describing a host of subjects such as Neo-Paganism, environmental causes, legalization of drugs and sex, the BCCI and S&L conspiracies, just to name just a few. Jamie collected these from every group that would put up a poster or buy a CD and passed them out vigorously. “We got to network to get work!” he insisted to anyone to would stand in one place long enough to listen. And during the last few weeks they hustled their butts off.
 The afternoon wore on and more and more people arrived. Then more and more. Then more. Osha looked out from the stage at the masses of people lazily picnicking hours before the beginning of the show. This is their big break, he thought. The rest of the Dogs were excited, unable to contain their energy. They gabbed, practiced and laughed at the slightest thing. Inka sat rubbing Jill’s shoulders for the longest time. Osha overheard Inka say: “I wish Peter was here.” Osha felt embarrassed and walked away.
 There was a circular area about fifty meters in diameter fenced off in front of the stage. This would be the ritual space. The crowds pressed in all around here. Police warily eyed the field that was slowly but surely filling with bodies. “Ain’t seen the like since da sixties,” one cop whispered to another, “But dees guys are attractin’ a real odd bunch. Old hippies, punkers, suits and look over there: she’s got to be sumbody’s gramma.”
 Many of The Sun Dogs, except for those directly involved with the stage show, wandered through the people. Doing magic tricks and mime, selling posters and CDs, passing out free literature, signing up folks to their mailing list. A small contingent of nattily-dressed people were protesting the City allowing devil-worship on public property. The Dogs’ promoters circumvented this group to avoid any confrontation, that would be a hassle and, besides, this was their day under the sun, wasn’t it?
 Finally, as night closed in, they were ready to begin the show. The stage had a huge white backdrop upon which the light show projected their fanciful images. The jugglers came out first and their shadows, huge and distorted, played upon the screen. The band slowly took their places in the shadows, waiting. Jeremy the Juggler was finishing up with his fire sticks and when he dowsed them the stage was completely in darkness.
 Then, as if from a great distance, a howling was heard. It gathered and surrounded the entire park. The audience began howling. The Sun Dogs have arrived.
 The screen lit up with ancient cave paintings and well-known Venus or Goddess figurines. The music for Clacking Sticks began and applause rang out. With a impressive gust of smoke, Osha stepped into the light and sang. He wore a loose flowing robe, bright red and his golden locks radiated like a halo. When the chorus came and Inka joined him, their luminous beauty burned like flames in the night.

Clacking Sticks

Clacking sticks down in the deep
Away from neoplastic matter
Printing hands on limestone skin
Feeling the pulse of the earth much better.

Serpentine question a fate so seeming
Rage in a cave of where we began
Pushing senses while riding a demon
Bidding goodbye to the Son of Man.

 When we rise up
 Break through the surface.
 Rise up
 to the Unknown.
 Friends will be there
 to greet and meet us.
 Luminous friends and a vast Unknown.

Tattooing memories where we won’t see them
Shame is a game we learn to believe
Rewarding ourselves in earthly experience
With high-noon hearts we have to conceive.

Open the gate to the temple garden
Shaping our way in candle light
Down in the deep we slowly remember
Crafting new words, sharp and bright.

 When we rise up
 Break through the surface.
 Rise up
 to the Unknown.
 Friends will be there
 to greet and meet us.
 Luminous friends and a vast Unknown.

 Luminous friends and a vast Unknown.
 Luminous friends and a vast Unknown. . . .

 The concert rolled and rocked for about an hour and a half rippling through originals and favorite covers from Steely Dan, The Beatles, Michelle Shocked and Bruce Cockburn. They then took a fifteen minute break to catch their breath and prepare for the next set.
 Jill and the Jimmies were passing a huge joint and bottle of wine jabbering excitedly about various moments in their jams and the audience reactions. “Man, when you hear all those people spontaneously cheer,” Jim said, “it just sends me to another planet.”
 Jill said, “That’s because we’re from another planet.”
 Inka stood at the police line signing autographs and flirting with all the beautiful woman. She was quite taken by the adoration.
 Osha watched all this and felt a wave of mixed emotions. He didn’t like them getting too high in concert time and was worried by any premature celebration. Also, this next part of the concert was crucial for the Dogs to stand out and shine, to make the message from their new album come alive. He moved promptly to the dressing rooms where a handful of leaders from various Pagan groups gathered. “Well met, my friends,”  Osha said as everyone cheered and patted his back. “Thanks, thanks, yeah, it’s fun, quiet, quiet please, we have but a few minutes and some last points to work out.” Osha reached into a bag and pulled out a leather bound book. “Here it is, the Christian Bible,” Osha announced with gravity. The gathering of women and men hummed low. They discussed some of the finer points of what is to come in this very public ritual.
 One of the elders spoke up, “I still have reservations about this ritual you’re planning Osha. Oh, I’m no great lover of the Bible, to be sure, but it still gets me a little nervous. What are we trying to say with this ritual?”
 “Thanks Barney, we need to be clear, very clear, on what we’re to do tonight. I believe that we are going to precipitate some serious magic tonight. The time has come for us witches to fly out of the broom closet and spread our light, our healing, our strength to the four winds. In all magic, one needs a token of the adversary in order for it to work. A piece of hair or cloth is used in personal magic, for instance. This is called the Magical Link, it links the magic-user to that which they are trying to effect. In order to effect the actions of a entire group, one needs a talisman that is widely recognized and given much power in of itself. The Bible is that link, that talisman, that we’re going to use to arouse an entire nation, perhaps even the world, to reexamine its history, its goals, its purpose. As we enter the 21th century, what with all the craziness of population explosion, famine, floods, climate change and on and on, too many people are looking to this book for salvation and guidance. I believe in my heart of hearts that if too many people take up this fantasy of Millenarianism, which seems to be intensifying rather than diminishing since “The Millennium” came and went without much happening. They’re still waiting for some promised Second Coming to save them from this beautiful but injured planet, then what hope are we to have to save it for our future and that of our children? We need to push the issue, to break the chains that bind the minds of far too many people in this country and around the world. To give this planet, our home, another chance at survival.
 “After a two thousand year depression, the pagan philosophy is having a rebirth after many long ages of repression. Wiser perhaps now. Now is the time to make our move. We can’t wait any longer. Yes, it is powerful stuff we’re dealing with but we do believe in magic, we can make this work. In the years to come, I want my children to know, without a doubt, that I opposed the Powers-that-be that would neatly dispose of the Earth for their own self-grandizement, greed and lust for power. The Fates have brought us to this place and I, for one, will follow my destiny to the bitter end. No one need go into this if they aren’t completely sure. Are you with me on this? Are you part of the Band?” Osha looked around at the nodding heads then at Barney. His lined and weathered face was grim but, at last, he nodded. “Fine,” Osha said, “I’m glad we’re clear on this. The rumor has gone around and all the media are here, even some live coverage by CNN and MTV, I understand. It should be great fun, after all. Are we ready? Great, let’s go.” They filed out of the trailer to take their places.
 Osha carried the Bible with him. It was about four years ago when he burned his first Bible, that one was given to him by one of his many foster parents with the veiled hope he would settle down.. He took it with him to a Pagan gathering years later and, at the community fire circle one evening, he and the Dogs burned the entire bible, page by page. That night Peter and he started developing the song, Burn Your Bible which lead to Osha and Inka writing a preamble to performing that song that was a mixture of traditional pagan invocation and on-the-edge performance poetry. This poem they named Rebellion of the Angels. For some reason, perhaps a braiding of luck, marketing and zeitgeist, they now had this narrow window of opportunity to get into the cultural face. Tonight Osha felt like he was standing on the shore of a new world. He wanted to overthrow this symbol of two thousand years of manipulation and deceit. He wished to discard this out-dated ream of propaganda and lies that has be the source of more suffering than anything he knew of.
 His heart was filled with a maelstrom of certitude and dread as he approached the stage. With sweaty hands clutching the soft leather-bound book, he joined his friends.

 The Sun Dogs took to the stage with a general uproar. Jill pumped up her synthesizer and whipped into a solo both exciting and transcending. Then she turned on a thick pipe organ sound which calmed and focused the crowd. The spotlight hit Inka and Osha, both dressed in black robes with mirrors sew in that bedazzled the eyes. Osha and Inka turned to each other, their images were projected on the screen behind them. Inka raised a knife while Osha knelt in front of here with an up-raised cup, the athame and the chalice. They spoke with power and conviction:

Let it be known
That no man is greater than a woman
Nor is a woman greater than a man
For what one lacks
the other can give
And as the Chalice is to the female
So is the Athame to the male
And when they are joined together
They become One.
For there is no greater Magic in all the world
Than that of Love.

 Osha and Inka shared the cup. Attendants moved to them and took away the sacred tools. The drums began, soft and slow. About sixty people, dressed wonderfully, colorfully, outrageously, proceeded into the ritual circle, carrying white tapers lit, chanting.

Earth, Air, Fire, Water
Come tonight, Come tonight.
Earth, Air, Fire, Water
Bring us Light, Bring us Light!

 Osha and Inka faced the audience and in unison spoke powerfully:

Immortal Mother, we call to thee.
Dark Goddess from the Deep, we call to thee.
Giver of Life and Death, we call to thee.
 
Living God who came forth from the Mother, we call to thee.
Great Stag of the Forest, we call to thee.
Lover of the Earth, we call to thee.
 
Join
us
now.

 As the band filled in with an eerie background, Osha began the poem.

Tonight is the Night of the Bone.
We’re all together and each alone.

The Storyteller
strikes a rock and water pours out
provoking our attention.
Words are weighed out on the thin desert air
like grains of gold on a hand-held scale.
The scintillating light vibrates with each gesture:
an arc of the arm, a cloud of ashes let loose.

 A spray of sparkling powder shot out over the audience.

Tribal sharing
when ears become eyes
a story is savored by the full body.
Fire light reflects in our sweaty faces
and when we look up
stars gather and take shape.

(Be not afraid of the Universe.)

 Now the beat began to build up.

With this in mind allow me to degenerate
and dwell with the tribes of today.
These tribes overshadowed
by delicate high-tension lines
of electromagnetic fury, like ley-lines of old,
straddling the dragon of perilous beauty
across a landscape abused.
These tribes fleeing to the outback,
rattling bones on bareback mountains,
filling the Void rightly and divinely.
 

Tribes of fire circles,
a moonylunie communion with the trees.
Tribes humming and drumming,
keeping time, folding space.
Tribes raging and engaging.
Tribes stretching out,
hand to hand, heart to heart.
Temporary Tribes
extemporizing and rationalizing.
Tribes cast asunder and wandering lost (lost!).
Crazed in tracking a useful path
through these badlands and high dry desert.
Tribes lighting twigfires in the thorny night.
Tribes spread thin. Too thin.
Can we find our anchor,
that place and time to gather.
Will we survive?

Join in, enter the fray:
The thunder rips the air,
the rain weaves it together.
Standing forth naked, revealed:
A blaze of Darkness
drawing down an androgynous moon.

(Be not afraid of the Universe.)

 All the stage goes black except for a spotlight on Osha.

Let me tell you a story:

I remember
One Far-off Day
when I stole my soul from God.
He raped my wife
and left me a bastard child.
So we had a score to settle,
  you see?
So I stole my soul from God
gave it to my Mother to keep safe and warm.
It was then I took to the road.
That was when the Chase began.

Pursued out to the edge of a minor galaxy.

I am only now
just beginning to
Remember.

I am only now opening doors,
entering unafraid, waxing full.

We’ll go in the garden
and God won’t find us there.

 The band begins to chant.

pooka
 pooka
  pooka
     pooka
   pooka
       pooka
 pooka
     pooka     pooka

Have you ever been invisible?

Composed Quarklike — Strange yet charmed.
Illuminated hand print.
Wearing the mask of the Faceless One.
Cold howling Craft — shifting introspective damp forest mind.
As if by chance — unveiled and resplendent:
the Pooka Dances.

pooka
 pooka
   pooka
       pooka

I can smell the islands:
The islands of my birth into this world.
Orchids swell and burst
frail and translucent in the crescent moon tide
leading me along towards paradise.
I live on this earth without regret,
doing little harm.
This earth succulent and sustaining.
This earth clad with wild innocence.
This earth singing every fine and faithless hour
with the tongues of cockatoo and butterfly,
of macaque and man.

Follow me into our World:
A hollowed out canoe rising then sliding down
over warm ocean swells.
  I am a floating world.
Enclosed in a silvery membrane
a creature that knows nothing
paddling indulgent forgotten oceans.
Living thus in Paradise
I greet the foam and spray,
being filled and emptied all at once.
My heart leaps as I follow the spindrift scent
to my Lover’s island.
We will feed each other fresh nectar
from fruits breaking easily from the vine.
We are Earth’s Children:
savoring sweet life
discovering rapture
in each dewdrop
on each green leaf.
We know the Songs of Old
and we’ll sing them to our children
and our children’s children.
Then we’ll sleep and dream of the Pooka
dancing all garbed in green and laughing.

Pooka!
 The chant stopped and silence strained to listen.

Yet here I lie, under a stark and wired sky,
a fading hero to desperate love.

I will now dwell in the valley of my friends,
partaking of the cup in common.
All of us are injured,
scarred by eons of abuse and neglect.
All of us taking time
to lick each others’ wounds.
All are trembling
as the hitmen from God corner us
and deliver salvation with words and weapons.
All opposition is futile, they say.
All you need to do is render your soul to us.
Become slaves of God.
Like anonymous file transfer protocols
we become casual data in the mind of this God.
Like pigs being herded into the slaughter house,
He eats us for brunch, thin and crispy.

Read up, read up!
It is all in this BOOK!

 Osha lifted the Bible above his head.

 The circle chanted: Now, Now, Now. . .

 Attendants brought in a tripod with a brazier on top and placed it between Inka and Osha.
 The audience chanted: Now, Now, Now . . .

 Osha raised the Bible up high, its image grew behind him on the huge screen, he wore a leather green man mask. Jill and the Jimmies began playing with the drumbeat.
 Osha began:

The transcribed indelible forefinger of God
so they say.
The rightly divided Word
that none can transgress
so they say.
The Law — so they say.

But now it is like a fantastic trashy novel
that spawned a religion
and who knows?
Perhaps that may happen again.
Yet now this BOOK is drenched with blood:
not of God but of us.
Where do we go from here?
What comes next?

Oh yeah…

Now hear me out:

Burn your Bible today.
Do not be mislead for a single second more.
Burn your Bible today.
Cast off the rags of that old tribal warfare.
Burn your Bible today.
It is a Book of Tales like a Bed of Nails.
Burn your Bible today.
It tells you that you are born into Sin
and in your body you can never win.
Burn your Bible today.
Shake off the sham.
Say goodbye to the Son of Man.
Burn your Bible today.
There is no entrance fee to reality.

 The hall was hushed. Jamie began a pulsing beat. One by one, this crowd was drawn into a trance dance, moving like waves on a warm blue green ocean. Inka spoke in a feverish tone: “Now, Now, Now . . .” The crowd began to pick up on it.

 Osha ripped page after page from the bible and a bright flame arose. Another and then another, flash and flash. The music intensified. The blaze intensified. Climbing ten feet above their heads, it was like a huge match. Now, Now, Now …  the crowd chanted. Then he dropped the remaining book on the brazier and raised his hands and it went up in a huge incandescent fire. Osha screamed. The whole park screamed. And ten million people watching CNN screamed. The circle began dancing and the dance spread outward.

Burn your Bible.
Burn your Bible.
Burn your Bible.
Burn your Bible.

Come let us dance:

We are the gates unlocked.
We are the hot breath and sanguine touch.
We are the silence piercing the air.
We are a sack of dreams.
We call for redemption
and hear only echoechoecho.
We are lovers and livers, losers and givers.
We rage in caves, undulating to truth hollowed out in a beat. (to a beat!)
We make motion to sound to scent to slither
through to a sharpened moment.
We believe we can walk right
into the oak grove and unfold.
We form and fire and feel
and then finally break.
We weave and whisper
and pay heed to the wisdom of the Snake.
We are a collective stigmata.
We are angels for all that it is worth.
We can laugh at our gods
and they can laugh at themselves.
We nurture ourselves on the ancient teat.
We bless with our small blessings.
We will be here to welcome you.

We will be here to welcome you.

We will be here to welcome you.

We will be here to welcome you.

 The music quieted until all you could hear was the breath of thousands of people and the traffic. The circle raised their hands and sang in a low hum. Osha looked out over the mesmerized crowd and wondered: what have we done? Well, guess I’ll finish the song.
 
The Storyteller pauses
the shadows lean closer
the fire leaps up.
Is the story unfinished?
What comes next?
The eyes of the Storyteller sparkle
as if with some unspeakable jest
and the only words I hear
ring in the hollow of my Heart:
 

Tonight is the Night of the Bone.
We’re all together and each alone.
 

 Then they rolled right into their song, Burn your Bible. Out in the fields, hundreds of Bibles were meeting the same fate. And so they lit the fuse to what they knew not. But it was great fun.

Burn Your Bible

I looked over Jordan, what did I see?
Comin’ for to drag me down
A book and a sword and some armies
Comin’ for to drag me down.

I say: Ho!  (Ho!)
Ho!  (Ho!)
Hodee dodee Hodee dodee
Comin’ for to drag me down.
I say: Ho!  (Ho!)
Ho!  (Ho!)
Hodee dodee Hodee dodee
Comin’ for to drag me down.

The River is wide and the River is deep
Comin’ for to drag me down
They cut me up and my wife they’ll keep
Comin’ for to drag me down.

I say: Ho!  (Ho!)
Ho!  (Ho!)
Hodee dodee Hodee dodee
Comin’ for to drag me down.
I say: Ho!  (Ho!)
Ho!  (Ho!)
Hodee dodee Hodee dodee
Comin’ for to drag me down.

Listen to this:

Burn Your Bible (Burn Your Bible)
Burn Your Bible (Burn Your Bible)
Burn Your Bible (Burn Your Bible)
Burn Your Bible (Burn Your Bible)
Burn Your Bible (Burn Your Bible)
Yeah. . . .

The River is deep and the River is wide
Comin’ for to drag me down
Ain’t no Peace on either side
Comin’ for to drag me down

I looked over Jordan, what did I see?
Comin’ for to drag me down
A Book and a Sword and some armies
Comin’ for to drag me down.

I say: Ho!  (Ho!)
Ho!  (Ho!)
Hodee dodee Hodee dodee
Comin’ for to drag me down.
I say: Ho!  (Ho!)
Ho!  (Ho!)
Hodee dodee Hodee dodee
Comin’ for to drag me down.

Ride this Boat:
Burn Your Bible (Burn Your Bible)
Burn Your Bible (Burn Your Bible)
Burn Your Bible (Burn Your Bible)
Burn Your Bible (Burn Your Bible)
Burn Your Bible (Burn Your Bible)
Burn Your Bible (Burn Your Bible)
Burn Your Bible (Burn Your Bible)
Burn Your Bible (Burn Your Bible)
Burn Your Bible (Burn Your Bible)
Burn Your Bible (Burn Your Bible)
Yeah!

 In today’s world, it’s easy to get drowned out. The tide of voices has risen so high. The terror of total inconsequence and loss of power overreaches the moment — it is a desert within the desert. With a worn backpack and a queer compass, we bushwhack through the crowds and anonymity. Finding power from within first then joining with others. That is The Play. That is The Song. We must sing our Song together to be heard. The circumstances demand it. We must be up to the challenge. For why were we born, why did we leave those astral gardens of thought and intent. We open to the That-Which-Moves, the drumbeat within.
 We Sun Dogs weave our spells in the world. In the misty grove. In the tortured spotlight. As we share our hearts and minds, we near concordance in spirit. We approach the alter of Original Creation. We gather to us more of us. The concept of Them sublimates. And Us becomes what is. Regardless of difference or agreement, we are in the end, all Us. Come and join us.
 At least that is our preposterous gesture in this world.
 Let’s Rock.
 Now.    — Liner notes of  CD Rebellion of the Angels
 

 Peter wondered: “How in hell did I end up here?”
 After eight weeks of driving from upstate New York, there he was in the middle of this godforsaken desert. The dry wind pinched his reddened cheeks and the white sun nipped at the back of his eyeballs. The beginnings of a migraine, the woozy swirling, the blanking out of patches of his vision, raised his sense of urgency to do something. But what, he thought.
 Last night could have been a dream. In his desire to escape the roar of the interstate superhighway, he decided to get onto the side roads. They were as straight as the highway, he figured, and certainly alot quieter. As he drove on these side roads, he looked for a place to stop and rest. No rest stops here, Peter soon realized. And with all the pot I’m holding, I can’t just pull off and be discovered by some redneck cop in the middle of the night.
 So Peter turned on the next road, then the next, then the next, till he found himself a peaceful little gully where he could park his rusty pickup truck. Clambering into the back where he had made a rough bed, he fell quickly asleep.
 Now earlier that morning it seemed as if he could find his way back with no problem. Yet every turn seemed to lead him further and further afield until he stopped, gas gauge near empty, engine making funny noises and despair in his heart.
 What should I do?  His heart became a significant presence in chest, pounding out a double-time back beat. I got to do something. He reached for his stash bag and rolled a huge joint to fend off the insidiously approaching migraine and to inspire him in some way. After a few tokes, his heart slowed down and he began to look around.
 Well, it’s not so bad to be here, it’s actually quite beautiful. Peter smoked and wandered off. High above the cree of a falcon was heard.
 Peter turned slowly around and around as he walked. Life endures the harsh landscape and presents a stark beauty. He had seen pictures of the desert in bloom but that wasn’t the scene now. This was high summer desert. Yucca and Sage clung to the dusty hard ground. Scraggly and delicate, the tan grass stirred in the dry wind.  Peter followed the intricate system of gullies, occasionally coming to a rise to see mountains: sharp, blue-gray, snow-tipped and probably a great distance away.
 He wasn’t planning to go very far but one interesting thing lead to another till he got to a place where he wondered about the way back to his truck.
 I don’t know how I get myself in these situations, Peter thought. Maybe I should think before I act. But that wouldn’t be as much fun would it now? Peter giggled to himself. “Dear me,” Peter said outloud, “I’m lost in the middle of this stinking desert and I don’t really care.” Peter gave a wild yip and yowl, echoes ricocheted around him like marbles in a bathhouse.
 Then, far-off, Peter heard a similar yip and yowl. What is that? Should I respond? Why not? And he yipped and howled again. Again he got a reply and he scrambled in its general direction. Yip and yowl, yip and howl. He drew closer and closer. Then Peter stopped.
 On a rise about fifty feet away stood a tall man, he worn a white robe with a hood, it was gathered at the waist with a red sash. “Hello,” he bellowed and pulled back his hood to appear less menacing, a bright flash startled Peter. The tall man called. “Come over here, I’m not as strong as I use to be.”
 Peter rambled over to where this man stood. Somewhat out of breath, Peter asked, “Where am I?”
 “You’re with me. Come along, you’ve been out in the sun too long and quite ill-prepared by the look of it.” The man pulled his hood back on, turned with a flourish and walked quickly over the gritty reddish landscape. Peter tagged after him.
 
 This tall man didn’t speak until they approached a small adobe house. “My name is Thomas and this my home. Welcome.” Thomas opened the door and turned to Peter. “I pray that my kindness will not be repaid in deceit.” Thomas’ eyes bore into Peter for a moment, alarming Peter with feelings of guilt and shame. Peter shook his head from side to side. “Good.” Thomas’ eyes softened as he allowed Peter to pass over his threshold.
 Thomas removed his white robe and was dressed quite normally underneath, light brown pants and loose-fitting shirt open at the collar. The first thing that stood out was his shaven head and his piercing eyes. His face was thin and long with a generous smile. “Come, I’ll show you around a bit then you can get washed up.”
 They stepped onto a platform, Thomas pulled a small baby gate behind them, pushed a button and they began their descent. “Most of the house is underground, the part above is quite small in comparison to the rest. You’ll notice the comfortable temperature, it’s due to the excellent insulating qualities of the earth itself, cool in the summer and warm in the winter.” The elevator slowed to a stop, Thomas stepped out and Peter followed quietly behind him becoming more and more astonished.
 “This is the main living area. Here is the kitchen, I’m sure you’ll need to make use of that soon. The bathroom is over here. And here,” Thomas settled into a chair, “is where we can sit and exchange our personal stories for a moment or two.” Thomas looked at Peter expectantly.
 After a few false starts, Peter launched into his tale. As Peter went into more detail about The Sun Dogs, The Applegate Farm and getting kicked off by George Applegate, Thomas listened attentively, asking only such questions that would clarify the sequence of events, the backgrounds of the persons involved and their place in the community. For the most part he was silent. Peter described his cross-country exodus explaining how he had sold everything he owned to buy gas and food. Peter rambled on and on until he felt dizzy and said as much.
 “Oh pardon me, I was so intrigued by your story that I neglected your obvious exposure to the elements. Please sit and I’ll get something for us to eat and drink, then you can shower. Later we’ll continue our conversation.”
 
 After he showered, Peter wore some clothes that Thomas gave him. The soft linen shirt felt strange but good; he had been wearing that old army gear for so long. Too long perhaps.
 Thomas presented a meal of soup and sandwiches accompanied by a pitcher of iced mint tea. He himself only nibbled while Peter wolfed down his food.
 “So, you say you are the lead songwriter for The Sun Dogs?  Are you aware that your latest record is becoming very popular recently and they’re making some impression on the media?” Thomas raised one eyebrow.
 “Really?” Peter chewed, “I didn’t know that. I haven’t listened to the radio much and generally ignore TeeVee and the newspapers. I wondered what’s been happening with those folks. How did you find out about that? It’s a little far for the paperboy to come.”
 “Oh, I have my ways. Have you eaten your fill? Good, I’ll show you some more of my home.” Thomas lead Peter into a side room. “Although my place appears isolated, I’m really very well-connected. Most of the light during the day is supplied by these light vents which, using fiber-optics, bring the light from up there down to here. My electrical needs are served by solar photovoltaic panels that keep a battery array fully charged and then some. My communication with the outside world is assisted with this tool.” Thomas touched a switch and a large screen lit up. With a few strokes on the keyboard, some symbols appeared and danced around for a few moments. This must be a computer, Peter thought, but not like any I’ve seen. “I’m hooked up with the world-wide satellite network,” Thomas continued, “From here I can access any newspaper, magazine, radio/television report as well as the rumor mill of the electronic user-groups. I have these highly sophisticated search robots that continually patrol the internet for subjects of interest to me. I also have some codes that get me into some very special, uh, places.” Thomas touched the huge flat screen monitor and it responded instantly. “Yes, that’s it, here’s the file I collected while you were freshening up.”
 On the screen appeared the front page of the New York Times. There were two pictures next to each other that were very familiar to Peter: George Applegate and the Rev. William Power. “It was the name George Applegate that struck a chord when you began to tell your story. I had heard about him. Some of my friends suggested I’d read his book.” The story detailed the events surrounding the controversy of George’s book and the reaction of the fundamentalist Christians; it was written about three months ago. A few more touches and a page appeared from the Arts section, dated just a few weeks ago. Peter read the story with bland interest at first then with increasing wonder and alarm. It started by describing the Sun Dogs concert at Central Park during the Summer Solstice: the large and bizarre crowds present, the violent clashes between the fundamentalists and the Pagans, the rocketing success of the new CD. There was a few quotes from Osha, Jill and Inka. They defended the concept of the new album and touched briefly on the general philosophy of the band. Then the writer of the article mentioned the songs. Burn Your Bible was banned from the commercial airwaves although it was a regular on some college stations. Clacking Sticks was approaching the number one slot. The album was selling like hotcakes on a Sunday morning. The article mentioned that the lyricist of these songs could not be contacted. “Mr. Osha stated recently: ‘Peter is not one for the limelight, he’s taking some time off with some friends. Hopefully he’ll have a statement prepared in a week or so.’”
 “Fuck! Osha’s lying, he doesn’t know where I am, he’s just stalling for time or something.”
 Thomas nodded. “That seems apparent but what are you going to do now? Are these people your friends? Do you think they need you now? Do you think they’re worried about you?”
 Peter thought about Inka calling out his name as he drove off. His throat tightened and he found he couldn’t speak. He just looked into Thomas’ eyes. Thomas nodded. “I’ll help you get back to your friends but not today. I’m very tired and my servants took the truck into town for supplies. You may be my guest for as long as is necessary. It would please me if you didn’t leave immediately, there are so few new faces around here. Besides I think you need a couple days to plan your strategy; you’re caught by the maelstrom of events and the forces at work here are more powerful and entrenched than you could imagine. I need to rest now. Please make yourself at home.” Thomas left Peter standing there basked by the glow of the computer monitor. Peter went to the Sun Dogs’ web site and left an email for the gang telling them that he’s alright and somewhere in New Mexico thought he wasn’t sure exactly where or exactly with whom. Feeling weary, Peter went to his bed and fell quickly asleep.
 
 Peter awoke. The illuminated light tube sparkled with a bright white light. How long had he slept? He got out of bed and found some clothes laid out, apparently for him. Getting dressed, he wandered out to the kitchen to find something to eat. While sitting down with a bowl of cereal, Thomas walked in.
 “Good morning, young man. I hope you had a good rest. I’m glad to see you’ve made yourself at home. Today we’re going to take a stroll in the desert together. Would you like that?”
 “Sure,” Peter said, “especially if I could wear one of those Lawrence of Arabia get-ups.”
 Thomas laughed. “But of course, time is a-wasting though and let us be on our way before the sun gets too high.”

 Thomas and Peter stood on top of a knoll, resplendent in their white robes in the splintered sunlight. Peter smoked a joint to prevent a migraine from coming on. When Peter had asked Thomas if he would mind, Thomas said no, not now, although he had tried it on occasion these last few years when he felt sick to his stomach. In the distance rose the Sangre de Cristos mountains. The air trembled in the morning with the sound of insects and birds. Only a slight stirring of wind disturbed the transparent blue sky.
 Peter frowned. “What a desolation this is. Why would anything want to live out here, man or beast. There are so many better places to live.”
 “Well, I live out here precisely because there are so few people,” Thomas said, “and so few distractions. I suppose that the plants and animals tough it out here because of the same reason, less competition and so, in an odd way, it is an easier life for them. Those who couldn’t adapt simply perished. With all the problems on this planet, environmental, population, spiritual, we humans, as a species, should look very carefully for what qualities we’ll need to survive the upcoming changes.”
 “What changes are those?”
 Thomas looked at Peter silently with the look of a stern schoolteacher. Peter realized that he already knew what changes that could kill us as a human race. Race wars, weapons of mass destruction, environmental degradation. Peter needed to think of a smarter question to get something out of Thomas.
 “What qualities do you think will be important?” Peter queried.
 Thomas chuckled. “I only wish I knew. It all depends on what happens, I suppose. Some of these survivalists contend that developing a life where you require very little from the outside world will assure them of survival. A paltry kind of survival if you ask me. I wouldn’t want to be one of a scattered few on a planet scoured by who-knows-what catastrophe. The survival I’m referring to is that of our species as a whole. For too many years the reigning philosophy of humans, especially of the western world, has been one of hierarchy and dominance. We viewed the world as a hostile place that needed to be subdued and that we were the rightful masters to carry out such a plan.
 “Unfortunately, such a viewpoint has brought us to the brink of world death; at least the extinction of our species and civilization as we know it. Ah, it won’t be long I’m afraid.”
 “What can we do?” Peter asked, “With the way things are going, the inertia of the last few thousand years cannot be turned very easily. It would be like changing the course of a river.”
 “That’s a good question and, as you no doubt aware, many people have been wrestling with that question for many years now. Yet lately some of us have had an increasing sense of urgency in this regard. Let’s go back to the homestead and I’ll show you something that gives me a little hope and more than a little insight.”

 Thomas lead Peter into the room where that strange computer lived. Thomas put on a head set and began talking and the computer turned on and all sorts of odd symbols began dancing around each other. The room swirled with phantasmagorical lights reflected from that huge screen.
 “Here, look here, my friend.” Peter watched the screen intently. The screen was filled with swirls and eddies of rainbow colors and crinkly patterns that seemed to simultaneously expand and contract. “This is the Mandelbrot Set, a fractal program. It depicts the transition zone between static order and nameless random disorder, the experts call it Chaos. Now this is merely a graphical representation of a specific type of equation that is solved again and again using the result of the previous mathematical statement into the next one. Now if we use a different equation,“ Thomas muttered into his headset, “we get something like this.” The wild psychedelic pattern disappeared and a simple triangle appeared on the screen. Peter was disappointed to lose that cool picture but soon the triangle began to change, to transmogrify, Peter thought, by degrees until it looked like, “A snowflake!” Peter said.
 “Yes!” Thomas smiled approvingly. “In a manner of speaking, it is — though one entirely invented with this computer software. Let’s save this image and we’ll change the constant in the original equation by, oh, point zero zero zero one. Let’s see what happens. This is my favorite part,” Thomas winked. The figure started out as before, a simple triangle, but as it transmuted it followed a very different path and when it stopped it looked like a snowflake as well but one very different from the previously created one. “See, with only a slight variation in the equation we get a very different outcome. Enough of the show, now I want to explain to you what this really means.”
 
 “Ah, tea is served, thank you Bonny, we’ll take it here.” Peter curled up on a pile of soft pillows near the low table and watched the beautiful dark woman lay out the small repast and then leave with a meek smile. The light tubes bathed the area in a porous white glow. Peter felt oddly peaceful. Thomas poured out the tea deliberately. They sipped in silence for a minute or so. Peter thought how just paying attention, the simplest things take on a fuller meaning.
 Thomas cleared his throat. “Chaos theory basically states that nothing acts independently from anything else, that the beating of a butterfly’s wings in the Amazon could effect the specifics of a thunderstorm here. Thus any system that we look at, whether it’s the weather, the flocking of birds, the development of a child in the womb; it’s impossible to accurately predict any of it. This revelation came as a source of anxiety to scientists who depend on replication of experiment to prove its theories. The closer they looked at nature the more difficult and, ultimately, the impossibility of the accurate replication of phenomenon that serves as the basis for their understanding.
 “But along comes fractals, the graphical rendering of these non-linear equations which puzzled and annoyed mathematicians for so long. These non-linear equations are special because whatever you put into the unknown variable, the ‘X’, its impossible to say what the result will be. To serve as a contrast, in linear equations, if you put, let’s say, ‘2’ in the unknown variable slot you get a certain result that you can put on a graph. If you put in ‘2.0002’ then you can safely assume that the next point would be darn close to the first one. With non-linear equations this isn’t the case, no, not at all; those two points could be light years away from each other.
 “Now the most interesting part is that the patterns in nature, from storms, to branches, to snowflakes, they all tend to resemble the results of solving these non-linear equations. It shows that even small changes can alter the result in wildly divergent ways but they always present a pattern, albeit one that dances between rigid order and the despair of total randomness.
 “Now, to return to what we were originally discussing: what is the likelihood of the survival of the planet as we know it. Well, based on this understanding of Chaos Theory and using these fractals as mathematical demonstrations of the theory, it assures me that small changes, if they are the right ones, could alter the social pattern of our society away from destruction towards sustainability. If we make the right changes at the right time, we could arrive at a significantly different result. Instead of collapse, salvation!”
 “Wow,” Peter said. “But it comes back to what can we do?”
 “That, my friend, is not the point. We know what to do. The problem is getting enough people, groups, organizations, governments to do it. That is the sticky wicket. Believe it or not, there are people in the world who do not share our concern for the planet and whose influence, which is considerable, has been at work for the last thousand years or so to control the people and resources of the entire world. I discovered many groups, while I was a spy for various governments, that would prefer to keep things just the way they are.”
 “You were a spy?” Peter said wide-eyed, “You don’t look like a spy.”
 Thomas roared, “Peter, it is refreshing to have you here. Yes, I was a spy for awhile. It’s a boring business actually. I also was a diplomatic courier, an ambassador, a consultant to a few presidents and Congress, and … other things. Be that as it may, at this point in my life, I am simply Thomas.” Thomas raised his cup.
 “Thomas, you are a cool dude,”  Peter announced. “I’d like to hang out with you some more, learn more cool stuff. Do you think that’s possible?”
 “Anything’s possible. But you’ll have to return to your friends fairly soon, if what you say is true, I wager that they are worried about you. As well, I think we could use the energy of this group of yours to effect some changes, changes that may help this poor world of ours. Stay for another day or so, I’ll arrange for you to meet your friends wherever they may be. Also I’ll give you some numbers so that you can get in contact with me when you do leave. There is so much to discuss but time is short. Ah, I do feel quite weary, I need to lie down for awhile. Please make yourself comfortable.” Thomas rose and slowly made his way to his bedroom.

 
Shrodinger’s Ox
 

I ride an Ox to the oceanside
In between the moon and tide
Crescent horns, a smooth black hide.
Down I go
 A stick in hand
   Does it show
     I’m not real.
 

I touch the earth — she touches me
A sudden moment of ecstasy
It seems so odd, how could this be.
Now I go
 Change my face
   Does it show
     A thin veil.
 

So many paths trod, my Ox and I
We search for answers, create lies
Pausing briefly we can’t decide.
So we go
 Into the mist
   Does it show
     we’re not real.
 

Yes I go
 A narrow way
   Does it really show
      I’m not real.
 

 Peter played with the computer all afternoon. He especially enjoyed the fractal program; he kept zooming in and out on different parts. No matter how close you magnified any portion of it more detail was revealed and more unexpected twists and turns. Similar forms would arise again and again then crumble and reform. Is that how it ought to be? Order and Chaos, light and dark, construction and destruction, growth and rot — it is the perennial tango of opposites. Thomas says that all species must perish sooner or later; that we are all doomed for extinction. So it really doesn’t matter what we do: our time here on earth is short not only for an individual but entire species as well. We must evolve to become a new species in order to adapt to this rapidly changing world.
 He closed the fractal program and rubbed his eyes. They burned something fierce. I need my eyedrops and maybe a puff or two of the weed.
 Bonny, the dark-eyed woman, came in to inform Peter that dinner was now being served. Man, time sure flies when you’re having fun.
 Thomas and Peter ate and talked. Thomas answered Peter’s questions about fractals and specific strategies to turn the tide of destruction. Thomas spoke at length about making our life as humans more sustainable and in certain ways even beneficial to this planet. Using appropriate technologies such as renewable sources of energy like photovoltaic, wind and deep water currents. Developing geopolitical regions, called Bioregions, based on the drainage patterns for rivers and streams, rather than on artificial borders. Diversifying the types of crops we raised and using less and less herbicides, insecticides and fungicides over time. Peter had heard of all these things before but as Thomas pontificated a vivid image filled Peter’s head. It all represented an alluring potential, a quickening of civilization. “And, not to put too fine a point on it,” Thomas said, “most of the revolution of resource use and application needs to take place in the United States and Europe. We started this bloody mess and we sure as hell should feel obligated to clean it up. Oh, it’ll probably require some freak crisis to even get anyone to notice; something needs to happen to tip the balance.”
 Thomas sipped his cordial, his beaklike nose explored the tenuous vapors as he swished it around in his glass. “My servants finally found your truck, it was pronounced a wreck by the mechanic so I took the liberty of emptying it of all your property and had the garage dispose of it. There’s an excellent scrape metal yard nearby. I’ll give you enough money to get you back to your friends. Oh, don’t look so glum, I’m sure it had some sentimental associations for you but it was really pretty far gone. Although you don’t seem to realize it, you yourself have acquired more than a pocketful of success and notoriety of late. And in your line of work this also bestows on you and all your friends some liquid assets. In other words, good hard cash. Buy yourself another truck when you need one. Oh, cheer up.” Thomas was feeling his cordial.
 Peter appraised Thomas as they sat around the empty dishes and a single cut rose set in a slender blown-glass vase. “I don’t care about the truck.  I … well … I don’t want to leave, I could call the Dogs and tell them I’m o.k., they could get along without me for awhile. What do you think?”
 Thomas was the one to frown now. “Don’t think that I haven’t appreciated your company, I have. And I do want you to return. But I have the sense you’re searching for something, is that true?”
 “Yes, and I think I have found it here,” Peter asserted.
 “No.” Thomas said. “You have found a piece of the puzzle here. No. While you feel there is something to find, your vision, your grail, it would not be appropriate for you to remain here. Oh, you might be content for a week, or a month, but soon you would grow restless, be hemmed in by my desert solitude. No, even though it goes against my own desires, I implore you to go tomorrow, find your friends and open to the wide world. Your eyes are always scanning the horizon, as long as you think of what you want as being somewhere you couldn’t be at peace staying here. Do you understand?”
 Peter puzzled over these words.  “Not exactly but I get your drift. I’ll go   but you said I could come back, right?” Peter smiled engagingly.
 “Yes, my boy, that will be possible. When the time is ripe. When the time is ripe.”
 

 Fred’s parents emigrated from China at the turn of the century in search of work and freedom. California gave just enough of both to make the protracted trip worthwhile. Fred was born soon after and lived in the Chinese slums of San Francisco. At that time there was a dearth of available Chinese woman because of several immigration laws that restricted their entry into this country. So Fred, especially as an only child, had very few playmates of his age and nationality. He spoke only Chinese until the age of five when he went to school and had to learn English the hard way. Along with the racial insults, his small stature and his struggle to learn a foreign language contributed to Fred being very much alone.
 Therefore Fred did what most intelligent lonely children do: he read many books, took long walks and created his own fantasy world.
 For some odd reason, he was attracted to the stories of Jack London and Mark Twain. He so wanted to be American but the outside world constantly reminded him that, though born in this country, he was a chinee. His parents were Taoists and, once a week, they would read passages from the old books they had brought over with them and discuss their meanings. So Fred imagined himself cracking a whip while driving a dog sled over the Yukon plains reciting the Tao Te Ching or drifting down the Mississippi consulting the I Ching by the dying light.
 While still quite young, he had to enter the work force. He worked at the Tenderloin slaughterhouse for sixteen hours a day for about a year. Then he found a job as a carpenter’s assistant to an Irish fellow named Shamus who took pity on him.  “I’ll give ye a trade so ye needn’t fall down before the goddamned English for a crust of moldy bread.” Shamus gave him a strange book called Ulysses and told him it’s about how people really think.
 About that time, he contracted a debilitating illness that left him weak and unusually sleepy. A Chinese herbalist friend prescribed a mixture of herbs to be taken as a tea twice a day. After a few weeks, Fred had regained his strength but he continued imbibing this tonic all his life with the result that at the age of ninety he looked and acted like a fifty year old. Also the mediation practice didn’t hurt either.
 A full story of Fred’s life would be a book by itself if he had let on more details but we know he traveled widely, became involved in diverse spiritual studies and met remarkable people throughout the world.
 Right now, he hiked a favorite trail on the farm of George and Carol Applegate. It was late august and The Sun Dogs were yipping it up somewhere on the west coast. The farm was too quiet, he thought. I sure do miss those young folks. Maybe I’ll go visit them somewhere along the line. The laurel bushes were in bloom, pink and white flowers filled the shady groves of oak, maple and elm. The sunlight peeked through the canopy dripping quivering pools of white-gold in the still dry forest. Fred placidly strolled, without intention or destination, enjoying the warmth soaking into his bones.
 Abruptly, a shadow rose up before him and then fell with a crash of leaves and twigs. What the heck, Fred cried to himself, as he jumped back.
 There, splayed out in the dirt, was a deer. A young buck, wild-eyed and breathing heavily, attempted to pull himself up by its front legs then again fell with a crash. After the initial shock, Fred inspected the situation carefully while the buck laid there frozen in a panic. No blood or arrows were readily visible. Then he found a neglected rusted wire fence close by with tufts of tan and white hair stuck to it and more recently mangled. Ah. In his mind’s eye, he visualized the buck cavorting blithely, enjoying the day in a carefree manner, coming upon the almost invisible string of fence line. The deer must have attempted a quick spring over it and then got his back legs caught in the wire. In his struggle to get free, he had broken his back. Paralyzed from the waist down.
 What a shame, Fred thought. Now what’s to be done? Could just leave him here to die slowly from fear and starvation. Probably should give him death as soon as possible, that would be the most merciful way I think. Fred sat on a log and spoke to the animal. He told him what he planned to do. In small increments the animal calmed and looked at Fred, eyes brimmed over with an anxious yet trusting appearance. Well, I’ll need some help. Let’s see who’s at the main house.

 Carol, Taylor and Melanie followed Fred up the hill. George was in New York City for a television debate with the Rev. William Power. They brought a large knife, an old purple and white Guatemala blanket, a shovel, a five gallon plastic bucket, some burlap and plastic bags. They were grim and spoke in whispers.
 The buck had dragged himself a few more feet, its hind quarters useless. The foursome sat nearby unsure of what to do first.
 “Maybe we should sing to the deer,” Melanie suggested. “He might go to sleep before we kill him.” The innocence of childhood is composed of a astounding acceptance of life and death. Melanie had seen many a slaughter on the farm over the years.
 “What song should we sing,” Carol asked.
 “Row Row Row your boat, I like that one.” So they sang around and around that simple little song.

 Row Row Row your boat
 Gently down the stream.
 Merrily Merrily Merrily Merrily
 Life is but a dream.

 As they sang, Taylor draped the blanket over the deer. The animal did not move but sat stock still, hypnotized. Taylor and Melanie laid upon the animal, tenderly holding him down. The singing intensified. Carol held back the buck’s head as Fred came around with the carving knife. They sang the song again and again. The buck did not struggle.
 The knife bit and slid through the neck like soft butter. Blood spurted out, thick red fountains splashed upon the ground. The windpipe, a Kirby vacuum hose, heaved hot breath in their faces. After one great exhalation the buck relaxed. Its life was gone.
 The small tribe rested. A hush permeated the gold-green afternoon.
 “Let’s finish our job,” Fred said.
 Hanging up the carcass on a nearby tree, they slaughtered, skinned and butchered the buck. Taylor pointed out a hemorrhage along the spine inside the body cavity where the break had occurred. As they carried the parts of the deer down the hill, Melanie leading with the rolled-up skin, they laughed and joked. It relieved their tension. Tonight they’ll have venison stew. Tomorrow, Taylor and Fred stretched and scraped the skin to make a drum. The heartbeat of that buck survives to this day in that drum.

 
Try my Best

Do I seek devotion
in a wasteland of the soul?
Do I feel the motion
of a world out of control?
 Try my best to hold you.
 Try to let you go, I don’t know.

Wait until tomorrow
or till the end of time.
I’ll play between the sorrow
and the spark of the divine.
 Try my best to love you.
 Try to let you be, can’t you see?

I’m just a curiosity
in a sideshow passing through.
You pay up front to see
and in the end I look at you.
 Try my best to smile.
 Try to shed a tear, without fear.

Sharing bitter water
with an angel on the street.
I say: “I am another
in twilight jungle heat”.
 Try my best to fly high.
 Try to stumble through, how about you?

Do I seek devotion
in a wasteland of the soul?
Do I feel the motion
of a world out of control?
 Try my best to hold on.
 Try to let it go, I don’t know.

 The Sun Dogs in Kansas Somewhere.
 Stranded in some forgotten field after being driven out of the last town by a well-organized coalition of Christians, Muslims and Jews. Odd, very odd. On the wide open plains, everybody felt exposed and isolated. It certainly was a sudden change from the snug forest land back East.
 Inka and Osha wandered far from the camp and settled down on a small knoll. The sun was setting as they sat for awhile in silence.
 Inka then spoke softly. “I wonder where Peter is. I hope he isn’t hurt. He’s been gone for so long without a word. It’s been four weeks already. I’m so worried.”
 Osha remained silent. He had already conceded his fault in driving Peter away. And he too was concerned about his friend. But what could be done? The police haven’t picked him up and for some reason Peter hadn’t responded to his veiled plead published in the New York Times article about the Central Park concert. Just keep praying I suppose.
 “Well,” Inka said, “where do we go from here? Some places love us, other places want to tar and feather us. It’s getting scary.”
 Osha watched the sunset melt like tapioca pudding. “Let’s just keep going west, just keep moving. We’ll be heard whether they like it or not.”

 It’s so boring here since everybody left, Taylor thought. He complained to his father but was brushed off. This is of no concern of yours, he said. Then dad went back to making phone calls, something about a movie deal. There was alot more work for me and mom to do. Now he’s talking about getting rid of the goats and chickens, too much bother, they keep us tied down to this land. Jezz, it’s never gonna be the same.
 Taylor wandered around his home as he speculated on the sudden changes in his life. It was rainy for the last few days and a chill clung tenaciously to his bones. None of his friends could come over and there wasn’t anyone around who could drive him out. Boring. It seems even more quiet and boring because, before the Dogs left, life was really starting to happen. Being initiated into the Dogs, dancing and playing music, and meeting all the girls who came to join the scene — that was exciting. Now… life sucks. Why did dad have to mess things up? Dad sucks the big one.
 As he passed the library, he decided to go in there, make a small fire and read a book. The flames cheered him up. Soft hot tongues licked the cedar and oak, they attracted his attention, soothed his boredom. Better than most TeeVee, Taylor thought. The library, wood-paneled and cozy, had all the walls filled with books. A few comfortable chairs, reading lamps, a potted rhododendron sat in the bay window.
 Taylor stared into the fire for the longest time. Orange white and violet flickering flames held his attention. Ah, I’ll get a book now. The warmth of the fire made him feel a slight drowse and loosened his limbs. Scanning the books on the shelf, he saw one with a strange title that caught his eye, he picked it off the shelf and, as he cracked it, open something dropped out. What’s this? Taylor picked up what appeared to be some sort of key. An antiquated key, wrought-iron and chunky. I wonder where it goes. Then Taylor noticed a slot cut into the wood panel near where he took the book off the shelf. He has seen this slot before but he always  assumed it was a mistake that no one got around to fixing. This was common around his home-made house. Maybe the key goes in there.
 He slipped the key into the slot, it eased in and fit snugly, so he gave it a good turn. The bookcase gave a ‘pop’ and swung open. He pulled open the bookcase and it eased back smoothly. Strange, Taylor thought. He was surprised that he hadn’t found this out sooner, he knew every nook and cranny in this house, or so he thought. I bet Fred had a hand in making this, he’s always talking about secret places that he likes to go and he’s a darn good carpenter to boot. Dad certainly couldn’t make something this slick.
 As he opened the door he found a passageway. He ran and got a flashlight.
 The passage was about eight feet tall and three feet wide. The walls were a rough cut stone, the floor was covered with a sandy grit. Moist and dark. Wary at first, Taylor proceeded down the passage. Hey, what’s this?
 To his left, there was a large door. On further examination, Taylor found it was carved wooden door. Scenes of people frozen in action. Some pulled awkward carts or plowed endless fields. Incomprehensible. I wonder what’s behind this door. He pushed it tentatively and it gave just a wee bit. Taylor leaned his shoulder into it, it creaked open, little by little, the rusty hinges growled then gave way and it swung in. Taylor lost his balance and fell forward into darkness.

 “Here, let me help you up, my brother.” Diego peered up and saw a small dark-eyed man dressed in a dirty brown robe. He reached up to take the out-stretched hand offered. He too was wearing the same sort of robe, thick wool and cowled. “The stairs are uneven and many of the brothers have fallen here. We should have them fixed, but, ah, we of the north can’t afford the luxuries of Rome. There, you seem well, Brother Diego. No harm done, eh?”
 Diego noted that he was in a tiny room from which several corridors led off from. He felt strange and other-worldly like waking up from a long peculiar dream. “Yes, I got dizzy for a moment. I feel better now. Which way do we go from here, brother?” Diego followed the monk through many dark and winding corridors. With each step, Diego forgot that odd moment and recollected himself. Now he was in Germany to serve as a law clerk to the Inquisitor, Heinrich Kramer. Herr Inquisitor Kramer has been busy with the pursuit of heretics and witches in this particular region. Rome required a detailed accounting of these cases and, Father Kramer has been so very assiduous in his routing out those who have fallen off the path of the righteous, that he required an assistance to complete the paperwork as he went from case to case. Also, Father Kramer was writing a book concerning the proper legal proceedings for witchcraft trials, a field unto itself. Brother Diego shook his head and felt a shiver run up his spine as the last shreds of his dream faded away. Very odd, he thought to himself, I must be more careful.
 He was escorted into a large sparsely-furnished room. Commanding the scene was a long thick wooden table surrounded by richly adorned chairs. At the middle chair sat a black-haired man hunched over a pile of scrolls and books. Diego’s new master. “Herr Kramer?” The man abruptly looked up.
 “Who are you?” he demanded.
 Diego stepped forward and presented a sealed scroll. “I am your new law clerk. My name is Brother Diego De Oro.” This man seemed strangely familiar, perhaps they met somewhere else, some other time. But how could this be?
 The Inquisitor nodded his head approvingly while reading the scroll. “Good, good. Ever since Our Father in Rome recognized the extent to which this scourge has infected our population, he has been more than generous in providing me with the necessary tools for my work. Yes, you will do. I excuse you to rest from your journey and settle down in your chambers. I will meet you tomorrow after morning Vespers in this room. Bring your pen and foolscap. We have a new case and this is an excellent opportunity for you to become familiar with our procedure. You may depart.”
 Diego was taken to his cell. A plank bed, a scribe’s desk with an oil lamp, a window that overlooked the village. Nice, Brother Diego thought, as he collapsed into bed. It had been a long journey.

 The next day Diego followed Inquisitor Kramer into the dungeon located in one of the towers. Diego had had disturbing dreams the previous night; dreams of masses of people dancing to loud and alien music, not music really, he speculated, more like thunder, or the sound of armies clashing in the field of battle. These dreams were from the Evil One obviously. He was self-possessed, learned, faithful to the Church, ambitious to excel in his field and not given to be affected by dreams. The sensation of a hairshirt under his robes kept his mind focused on piety and the job he had come here to do.
 As they walked, Herr Inquisitor instructed his young student on the intricacies of this particular line of work.
 “The Devil is always present in this world of ours. His minions are constantly at work to trick and deceive us at the slightest hesitation or moment of our weakness. Bear this in mind. We are consorting with the Devil’s handmaidens and he is jealous at our interference. Even with woman, with all their weakness of mind and gross sensuality, be assured that his demons have applied long hours of temptation and persuasion to lure and capture their body and soul. Our work is to wrest the soul away from that Prince of Lies and deliver it back to God, Our Lord.
 “So be aware if immature sentimentality arises within your heart. The Devil uses all the tools at his command to protect one of his own. His most often used tools are pity and compassion. Ah, you look surprised but don’t be. The Devil knows that these traits lie at the core of any good Christian and uses them against us. We must be determined if we are to root out the evil that does lurk in the shadows of this world. As an analogy, let’s say we were carvers of wood, we wouldn’t do a very good job if we were meek in cutting away the dross, a good carver knows that he must cut fullheartedly if he is to progress at a reasonable pace and reveal the hidden beauty concealed within the log. So must we be. We must cut out the rot in order to save the rest from getting infected.
 “In regular legal proceedings, as you are certainly aware, there are particular rules of order and evidence. These are right and proper as they have evolved over the years to arrive at truth and justice in many twisted affairs. In the cases of heresy and witchcraft however, these rules and protocols are of little use and actually interfere with the attainment of a verdict congruent with the severity of the crime. For example, normally an accused man is presented with the testimony and identity of those bringing charges or evidence against him but this wouldn’t work in the case of a witch, for she is in league with a most potent and powerful ally. If she knew the identity of her accusers, they would be in mortal danger and the likelihood of acquiring witnesses would be sore indeed.
  “It is my especial interest to clarify a set of rules and proceedings that apply to the distinctive indictment of witches and heretics. Ah, here we are.  Please keep your notes in Greek and record only that testimony that applies to the guilt of this person.”
  They reached the door to the dungeon where they were escorted in by a guard. They entered through a low door. The sighs and moans of many prisoners oozed from the shadows where they lay, chained and fettered. In one corner, the guard grabbed the prisoner and dragged her towards them. Torches wavered and the stench of feces and stale urine sickened Brother Diego. When the light of Herr Inquisitor’s lantern fell on her face, Diego felt he recognized this woman, but as through a glass darkly, her long blond hair, though tangled and matted, reminded Diego of someone. A brief flash of his dream rose to the surface, he saw her in the dream singing and shining under an obscenely bright light. Diego suppressed this image as he strove to concentrate on Herr Kramer’s instruction.
 “This, Brother Diego, is the accused witch, one Frau Muller. The case against her is particularly damning. She has been accused of causing a young cow to suddenly fall over dead and the barrenness of another cow of that same neighbor. Those crimes were what initially drew her to our attention. Upon further investigation, we found in her home mysterious vials and elixirs, strange necromantic instruments and ghastly relics of immorality which she used for her horrid craft. Apparently, her demons charmed many of the women in this area to come to her for cures and such. She also gave unctions and potions to relieve the pain of childbearing, to prevent conception and, most abhorrently, to bring on abortions.” Brother Diego wagged his head at that particular allegation.
 “Yet after repeated questioning, she refuses to admit to her involvement in this witchery and the usual machinations of her kind. She refused to believe that the Devil even exists and that it is possible for these things to occur. This brought greater suspicion upon her and when I asked: ‘Then are they innocently condemned when they are burned?’ and she answered that that is exactly what she thought. As you see, the evidence is strong against her but she denies all and shows no contrition. Now common justice demands that a witch should not be condemned to death unless she is convicted by her own confession. This is the next phase of our investigation.” Herr Inquisitor smiled crookedly, the mole on his left cheek sank into a dimple. They followed the guard as they lead the witch out of that place.
 Upon entering a chamber which was more open, well-lit and much less evil-smelling, Herr Kramer ordered for the witch to be stripped and shaved. “This is essential to discover any marks at would indicate a concordance with the Devil.” The guard proceeded with alacrity and any opposition on the part of Frau Muller was met with sharp blows. She was placed on a wide table. With a rude razor and cold soapy water, the guard shaved her from head to toe. When he was done, he dumped the bucket over her to wash off any stray hair.
 They hovered over her inspecting her thoroughly, pawing and picking at her. Brother Diego was enjoying himself, he was sporting a huge erection. She lay there like a wet dishcloth, occasionally moaning as they turned her from side to side. Herr Kramer found a small skin tag on her labia. “Ah, this demands further scrutiny.” Herr Kramer plunged his fingers forthright deep inside of her vagina. The witch screamed and the guard held her fast. “Often the most potent of their wicked tools they conceal in the fastness of their bodies,” Herr Kramer explained. Brother Diego stood by impassionately, familiar with such proceedings. Herr Inquisitor rode into Frau Muller’s vagina with his gloved hand up to his wrist. Finding nothing he pulled out his hand and had her flipped over and proceeded to explore her anus just as forcefully. Nothing. “Ah, well,”  Herr Kramer sighed, “Not every avenue of investigation proves fruitful.” Frau Muller lay on her belly, weeping. Blood trickled from between her legs. “Now, will you sign your confession?” Nothing. “Did you hear me, Frau Muller, will you sign the confession?”
 The weeping quieted for a moment. “I am not a witch.” she whispered defiantly.
 Herr Kramer shook his head ruefully. “Beelzebub gives such ones as these remarkable powers to withstand extremes of pain and humiliation. The fact that she has been impenitent up to this point gives us even more cause to suspect her guilt and proceed with the torture. I turn this phase over to hands more skilled than my own. Proceed, my friend.”
 The rack was applied unsuccessfully but after crushing both her legs with a weird device that looked like a nutcracker, she wailed and said she would sign the confession.
 Frau Muller was propped up in a chair in another room with some shreds of clothes draped upon her. Herr Inquisitor asked Brother Diego to read the confession to the poor unfortunate.
 Diego cleared his throat. “Sine tortura et extra locum tortura, I, Frau Marie Muller, do confess to these specific crimes against man and God. Firstly, for the heresy of witchcraft by which I harmed my neighbors’ persons and property, stirred up tempests, bewitching of cattle, disturbed martial fidelity, caused impotence in the local men, and increased the carnal lusts of the local woman. Secondly, for making a pact with the devil and participating in Sabbaths wherein you flew with a broomstick, joined with other witches, worn men’s clothing or none at all, kissed the Devil’s anus, sacrificed children and drank their blood, and had intercourse with the Devil, amongst other vile activities. Lastly, for providing cures and elixirs to the local woman to decrease the God-given curse of painful childbirth and to prevent or destroy the products of conception.
 “I do hereby attest to all this before man and God to be true and without error. I do repent of all that I have done and ask God’s mercy on my soul. Soli Deo Gloria.”
 Frau Muller signed this scroll without commentary.
 “Prepare her for the stake,” Herr Inquisitor ordered. “Come, Brother Diego, I would like to meet with you in my chambers to discuss some delicate matters.”
 Later, dressed in their finery, Herr Inquisitor and Brother Diego stood by the pyre. Brother Diego smiled inwardly. He was happy that his new master had taken to him so quickly. Three men with grim continence slowly pulled the cart that held those destined for the fire. They appeared to be three brothers to Diego. Herr Inquisitor responded to Diego’s questioning that these three were in fact brothers and talented craftsmen in this small village. “I’ve employed them of late,” he continued, “to organize and arrange these pyres. They have very similar sounding names and I find it difficult to keep them straight. Their initial reluctance to carry out the wishes of the Church was diminished by a bag of gold and the threat of excommunication. An inquisitor must often do what is expedient with the resources at hand.”
 They lashed Frau Muller as well as a young man to the two posts surrounded by brush and scrap wood. Brother Diego felt impelled to ask his master about this man whose curly blonde hair was matted with blood and dirt. “Oh, him. He is an unabashed heretic of the worst kind. He had spread lies concerning the teachings of Our Church and fomented amongst the population such heresies as including the Virgin Mary in the Trinity and the attainment of Grace outside of the Church. Unfortunately he attracted a number of adherents in this region; he was quite charismatic. We’ll cleanse this region of all deviant thought. See, see the blood that drips from their mouths, I had their tongues cut out so they can’t spread their wickedness in the next world.”
 One of the workers gave these two a draught which they swallowed greedily. Herr Inquisitor leaned over. “I allow the villagers to drug the accused if they so wish, the practice soothes the conscious of some of the populace in these proceedings. We’ll wait a bit till the poppy takes hold. Ah, there is the husband of the witch, I have my eye on that one and their little spawn of hell.”  Diego noted Herr Muller for future reference. Dressed in sackcloth, Herr Muller’s long black hair fell into his face as he averted his sunken eyes from the pyre leading his filthy child by the hand. He did not look back. Diego mused that this one could walk away for now but he could not hide from the righteous anger of God as represented by the Holy Inquisition. He walked over to the pyre as Herr Kramer instructed the workers and paid them for their labors. There was something about the heretic that fascinated him. The boyish beauty and well-crafted body attracted him. Too bad, Diego thought, he probably could have been a great leader in the Church. Then the man raised his head and looked fiercely at Diego. That look froze Diego in his tracks. He felt the world begin to swirl about him with this intense man being the only still point. Strange images and sounds whirled in the intersection between them. What is happening? Diego stood there slack-jawed when Herr Inquisitor passed by and snapped him back to reality.
 “I’ll be glad when this is over,” he mentioned, “there is a superb organ in the church here that I wish to play and while away the evening.”
 Suddenly the brush was lit and smoke obscured the sky. Those two, the witch and the heretic, raised their heads and screamed defiantly.
 Brother Diego stared into the flames, mesmerized.

 The fire was dying down when Taylor opened his eyes. He sat in the large over-stuffed green velvet chair facing the fireplace. Looking around he saw no hidden door and where the keyhole was, was just plain varnished wood. What happened, he wondered as he added wood to the fire, was it real, was it a dream, is there any difference?  He found the book he had picked off the shelf, but no key. What is this book?  Malleus Maleficarum , I wonder what this is about. He sat down to read as the flames leapt and danced before him.
 

Tale  Twice  Told

What has happened to my heart I ask myself
in the middle of the night I hold my breath.
Have I run too long in this little round world
am I far too gone to make love to a girl.
Yet I think of her now in a soft safe place
her eyes are bright but where’s her face?
It’s a shame to be young yet feel so old.
It’s a shame to be living a tale twice told.

It’s a feeling I get when I talk with the crow
as the trees glow golden when the sun sinks low.
Four spirits play on a windswept field
where everything's right when nothing is real.
Yet darkness falls and the air turns chill
my heart bleeds and my soul is still.
It’s a shame to have silver yet desire gold.
It’s a shame to be living a tale twice told.

Should I laugh and say that I’m always strong.
Should I pound the earth and scream I’ve been wronged.
Should I let it all go and bow my head.
Should I wake in the morning as the sky turns red.
So I dip down deep in the forest well
I whisper “love” and the echoes swell.
It’s a shame to drink thunder but feel so cold.
It’s a shame to be living a tale twice told.
A tale twice told …
 

 Reverend William Power soaked passively in his hot tub. He fretted and a frown wallowed on his smooth wide face. There were pressures weighing him down: reporters hounding him, cash flow problems, his daughter Candy threatening to leave home. Some people think I got it easy. And not to forget P2. How I ever got so caught up with that group I don’t know. They approached him one day about ten years ago looking to help some American evangelical preacher spread the word of God, or so they said. He was William Cassock then and just started doing guest spots on local Christian radio station. His sermons were well-received and the station was prepared to set him up with his own program. Times were hard though and he was working two jobs to just keep his head above water.
 Then the man from P2 came along. He said his group was based in Europe but was looking to expand its influence to the United States. He thought William to be a rising star in the evangelical circuit and proposed to help him out by providing funding for William to start his own organization. This proposition engaged William: this would free him from the restraints of the network and allow him to pursue his own agenda. William felt strongly that gays and lesbians were eroding away the great American family, what with AIDS and their lifestyle being promoted by the press with undue sympathy, and William wanted to put a halt to it. Toss them back in the closet where they belong or, better yet, help them see the error of their ways and bring them back to Christ.
 So P2 came up with a huge sum and handed it over to William to begin his GOD BELIEVES IN YOU! ministry. P2 provided a creative consultant named Aaron who picked out new clothes, developed promotional material and insisted that William change his name. Soon they started airing his show on radio and television nationally. All P2 wanted, at least at first, was a few of their concerns about abortion inserted into his program. No problem, William declared. Now, he thought, watching his great belly rise out of the water like a pale leviathan, they got him railing about this heretical book. It didn’t make much sense to him at first. Sure, it was blasphemy and he could see their point: it distorted the image of the savior in such a sly and enticing manner that it could lead many astray but, then again, there were thousands of occult books and new age dupes running around, why this particular book?
 But P2 reminded him of their generosity and so William took their scripts and began his campaign against the Earth Christian.. And, at first, it was quite successful. Donations shot up and the over-priced literature sold well thus increased their profit margin considerably. Also, he himself became a household word, major newspapers and magazines interviewed him, he’s been on several talkshows and next week he was to have a debate with the scoundrel himself, George Applegate. Yet his daughter had read the copy he got from the P2 and was quite taken by it. “Seemed to make more sense,” she had said. So he took that copy away from her and brought it to the television studio and, in an inspired moment of frustration and anger, burnt it on the air. The defining moment that put Reverend Power in the global media limelight.
 Now, this debate was taking over his life and P2 kept pushing him not to back down. “This is more important than you realize,” they said to him.
 William agreed with them but it was wearing him out. And tomorrow he was to meet with some P2 big shot. So, William Cassock got into the hot tub attempting to soak all his troubles away but they nipped at his heels like a pack of dogs. Perhaps I’ll turn the bubbles on. And, with a flick of a switch, he was engulfed by a seething foam wake. Ah, that’s better.
 

 Peter and Bonny drove down to Albuquerque from Thomas’ home. Peter wore his dark glasses and some clothes that Thomas had given him. His old clothes were so ratty after two months on the road that even Peter couldn’t bear to put them back on.
 Peter pulled out a joint and lit it up. At least something good was saved from his truck. Bonny glanced at him casually. “It’s my medicine, would you like some?” Bonny took a hit and they blistered along the highway. Bonny, who had been quite reticent, loosened up and told Peter about the surrounding mountains and native tribes. Bonny was half-Navajo, half-Spanish descent. Her finely crafted features were framed by thick curly black hair. In her jeans and denim workshirt, Peter imagined her being able to lasso a steer and bring it in even though she couldn’t have been more than five feet tall.
 “You’re not in any hurry to get going, are you?” Bonny inquired.
 “No, not really. We finally caught up to the band on the internet, sent an email which was picked up by Dingo. Inka called last night and they’re going to be in San Francisco at the end of the week. Boy, she was glad to hear from me, I guess she was worried. But I was going to hang out in Frisco for about a week until they got there, so I’m in no rush. What do you have in mind?”
 Bonny smiled. “Well, I got some friends in Albuquerque and I thought you’d like to meet them. We could take you to some really far-out places.” Bonny’s smile reflected in the sunshine. Peter said he’d be delighted.
 They talked for hours as they neared Sandia, the mother mountain of Albuquerque. The giant hill glowed a crimson red in the afternoon sun. Bonny’s arrival was met with hugs and laughter. Her friends cheerfully welcomed Peter and told them that there was to be a full-moon ritual out at the volcanoes tonight. Peter thought he was in the right place at the right time.
 After dinner, they caravaned out to these volcanoes which lay about an hour west of Albuquerque. Bonny and him walked up the gravelly slopes speaking quietly. She had just graduated from the University with an English degree and picked up the job with Thomas to make some money while she decides what’s she’s going to do next. She had such great friends here but if she wanted to get a real job she probably had to leave Albuquerque and go to some major city.
 As the sun set, they gathered on the top of one of the ancient eroded volcanoes. Peter noted that the remains of these cones lay in a straight line with the peaks of mountains at either horizon. The transparent sky hummed with green and yellow. Peter felt easy and warm. Bonny stood next to him as they all held hands. They began with a song.

 Listen, Listen, Listen to my Heartsong,
 Listen, Listen, Listen to my Heartsong,
 Listen, Listen, Listen to my Heartsong,
 Listen, Listen, Listen to my Heartsong…

 I will never forsake you, I will never forget you,
 I will never forsake you, I will never forget you…
 

 They danced in a circle as they repeated the chant. The sky unfurled a blood red banner retreating from the profound night. Stars wheeled with an intensity that astounded Peter. He felt his body fill slowly with light, a relaxed warmth tunneled up his spine like a snake. He became aware of his body and his spirit weaving together in bliss. The absolute darkness turned bright as the full moon peeked over Sandia mountain. The dance slowed, the chant quieted then they came to a silent rest. They stood in silence. A coyote howled plaintively.
 They called the four elements to join them and invoked the God and Goddess. Bonny impressed Peter with the power and poetry as she manifested the Goddess for them. “All acts of love and pleasure are my rituals.” She glowed in the moonlight as she dramatically raised her hands. Sparks of violet enveloped her. “The world is my cauldron, a vast brew self-aware. A mixture of our thoughts and dreams, our works and cares. Stirred lovingly by the Fates and served to us by Pan who smiles because he knows as we drink the world, the world drinks us. For I am the Goddess, I am three in one: the maiden, the mother and the crone. I give birth, nourish life and allow death to be a friend. I am the bottomless bowl of Being. I am Alpha and Omega. I am the light in the Deep. As you open to me, I open to you. I am here amongst you. Blessed be.”
 “Blessed be,” they echoed her.
 A lone drum began to pulse and someone in the dark said, “Lie down.” In the spirit of openness, Peter lay down his body and looked into the night sky. The drummer led them with a guided meditation. Down into the underworld they were led, deep into their psyche. They were met by power animals which gave him gifts of power: a eagle gave him a flower, a fox gave him a burning brand and, lastly, a mouse gave him a small black book. The drum beat changed and broke the trance, they arose and danced and danced and danced. Paganism is an aerobic religion.
 After the ritual, they drove into the Jemez mountains and brought him to these hot springs not far off the road. To Peter this was amazing, hot water bubbling out of the ground. Everyone was laughing and playing. Bonny massaged Peter’s shoulders and, if he had any tension now, it was soothed by these mineral waters and her touch. “Where does this water come from?”  Peter asked.
 “The stream brings a flow of cooler water but the hot water comes from in there.” Bonny indicated a nook with a small pool above where they soaked. “You can go inside there, it’s not too too hot, I think you’ll like it.”  Peter climbed up and crawled inside the small grotto and slithered into the pool, shaded from the ubiquitous moonlight, it was ink and echoes, twisting shapes of geckos. Like the clattering of silver spoons inside of a silk bag, the water poured into the pool, gurgling out of the dark nook. Peter lay on his back and tucked his head into the cleft from where the water poured out. The rock enclosed him and only a few stars peered at him through the mouth of this small cave. He closed his eyes and relaxed. The gushing heat, the insistent trickling, echoes resonating. It was all too much, Peter liked that, then there is nothing else to do but relax.
 So Peter relaxed.
 Suddenly in his mind’s eye, he saw a trembling light emerge. A lotus flower unfolded and a beautiful woman stepped out of it. Inka, ah… Inka. Peter smiled to himself. He watched the vision bloom, the image of Inka became clearer and clearer. Peter ached for her. He loved Inka with such a passion, a passion repressed and by her rejected. She was dressed in leaf green with a  golden shawl. Her eyes, sad and blue, searched the sky. Peter, knowing it to be a simple mental image, still wanted to reach out to touch her. He felt his strong desire burst from his heart to her alluring arms. Then suddenly fire consumed her and she screamed. Peter felt his stomach wrench. Whose in control here? In moments, her skin bubbled and blackened, then oozed off her skull. Only her eyes, obscene orbs lodged in the caves of the skull, stared blankly at Peter. Peter felt the pinpricks of pain in his own eyes. I can’t look, I can’t look. Peter aroused himself and crawled out of the cave, moaning.
 Bonny arrived quickly. “What’s wrong, Peter?”
 “My eyes, my eyes. It’s my migraine again. It starts in the eyes.”
 Bonny sat him down with some soft words. “Let me get something that might help.” She came back with a jug of water. “Here, drink this, yes, that’s good. Take your time. That’s good. Now sit still and keep your your eyes closed , I’m going to put some of this mud on your eyelids. It’s suppose to be very healing. Yes, don’t worry, it’s going to be o.k.. There — now rest and when you’re ready I’ll help you back to the lower pool and you can wash the mud off.”
 Her ministrations eased his distress. Why did he get so upset, Peter wondered. Damn headaches. The pain eased somewhat. Oddly the cool mud and the concern of everybody as they helped him down the pools felt good. Bonny assisted all the way. The touch of her hand softened his heart. After washing the mud off, Peter looked at the stars. They appeared sharper and clearer than ever before. The pain was gone. “How do you feel?” Bonny asked.
 Peter looked at her, touched her cheek. “Wonderful, thank you, I feel wonderful.”
 

 P2. For a thousand years this group has been a force in the turn of events emanating out of Europe. Men of relentless and vicious determination to ensure their vision of reality comes to pass.
 It all started with some mystics painting pictures and carving statues in early Christian grottoes. Their coffee breaks evolved into an influential labor guild that had a well-developed belief system and intricate secret rituals. These artisans acquired a large sum of cash by the building of countless churches and cathedrals throughout Italy and the rest of Europe. Unlike most of the population, their skills were so highly valued that they were allowed to roam freely to whatever town needed them. This freedom of movement allowed them to create a system of communication that outstripped any of the day. They drove the popes to support larger and more ornate building projects and funneled the surplus wealth into their early banking institutions. With this newly-found power and riches, P2  never quite lost the original spiritual foundation of their organization. That is until the turning of the First Millennium and the apparent no-show on the part of the Christ.
 For the spiritual identity of the Catholic Church was intimately associated with the Last Days and the awaited Return of the Lord. This eschatological obsession began soon after the disappearance of Jesus, amongst a few fanatics at first, much like the search for Elvis, they expected His Return in their lifetime. For didn’t he say: “Verily I say unto you, this generation shall not pass, till all these things be fulfilled”. It had galvanized the early Christians and there arose a complex in which it was considered more holy to die a martyr’s death. The majority of the ‘martyrs’ at that time were actually criminals: arsonists setting fires to temples induce the Final Fire that was prophetized, disrupting sacred Pagan ceremonies violently, murdering those who disagreed with them, especially amongst their own kind. Romans complained about ‘those Christians’ clamoring for the death penalty in order to become martyrs. Antoninus of Antioch irritably inquired whether Christians had no ropes or precipices to kill themselves, without constantly making trouble for the authorities.
 So, as the generations passed and the Catholic Church gained more power and money, the expectation for the Return was pushed further and further back until it hit the supposed wall of the First Millennium. When that Millennium came and went, the depression in Europe was deep and pervasive. Many had sold off what they owned and gave it to the church to assure their place in heaven. There began search parties, after the custom of the Tibetan search for the reincarnation of the Dali Lama, and miraculous births abounded producing a flurry of Messiahs. That was the search for the holy Grail, not some cup or stone, but rather the new Christ child. Ah, but to no avail. P2 funded the early Crusades believing the clues of the Return must hide in the holy land. The Knights Templar were an extension of P2 who, while not finding the Savior, found many treasures, ancient documents and even discovered the whereabouts of the Ark of the Covenant in Ethiopia which they promptly stole and is now hidden somewhere. The cathedral building boom began and P2 gathered more wealth and influence while keeping a hold onto that threadbare hope of the Final Resurrection.
 Soon the wraith of God struck Europe in the form of the bubonic plague. This surely must be the final days many folks thought. But after countless villages were wiped out and vast tracks of land left vacant there was no Jesus proclaiming the Kingdom of God. The Church acquired thousands of acres of prime real estate and cared not for the return of their Savior. P2 followed in their wake building fortress-like monasteries to administer these new holdings.
 P2. Odd name. Some say it’s a phonetic rendering of Petra, the Latin word for Rock, the name that Jesus gave to Peter (who was previously Simon son of Jonah). Peter was the mythic foundation of the Roman See. Or perhaps it came from the pre-christian mithraic pater patrum, Father of Fathers, the city-god of Rome. Or maybe it’s just another way of saying pee-pee and you know what that means.
 Since its inception, P2 has had close, very close, ties with the Papacy. One making proclamations to the public and the other working behind the scenes, like the hand in the glove.
 Lorenzo Valla was the heir to this ancient order and his jet was landing in Atlanta, Georgia. He was sent to meet with the Rev. William Power and fathom the depths of the situation that had wheeled out of control. The powers that be had hoped that their campaign against The Earth Christian  would have more successful at this point. Yet, this book, whose danger lay in its remarkable approximation to the truth, was gaining ground in the minds and hearts of many people.  This was a problem for P2 and, as Project Coordinator, it was also Lorenzo’s problem.
 With fluid ease, Lorenzo Valla was whisked to an austere mansion far from Atlanta. Perched up on a local prominence, he was able to see the lights of that city. This annoyed him to no end. He had brought his telescopes in order to observe Saturn and Jupiter in close alignment to each other that night. A fairly rare celestial event. But that was spoiled by this damn American city. They think they can light up their cities to prevent crime, he speculated, ha! the most outrageous crime occurs best in the broad light of day. And look at their level of violence, the statistics are frightening. I have less security in my visits to Sicily after all. The Americans spoil the skies with their fears. Lorenzo shook his head. Now this comic meeting with this absurd character named William Power.
 He had been chosen as the liaison between the P2 and the Televisionary project. For all practical purposes, he was an independent project coordinator though he had to pass any major decision through his superior; a man whom he’s never met face to face. This was a real experiment for P2. Its ancient alliance with the Vatican was at stake. Its top officials had determined that the position of the Catholic Church as a recognizable and influential entity was not long for this world. They needed to diversify. To extend themselves and create new alliances. Its long history wasn’t due to rigidity and tradition. They survived by being open to the opportunities as they presented themselves. Like now.
 Project Televisionary. P2 has been a force in Washington DC since that city’s inception. For after all, P2 arranged for the huge, cheap shipments of the finest Italian marble that laid the foundations of that city. But rarely has it dealt directly with any religious arm swinging around in the good ol’ USA. Until now, that is.
 Lorenzo actually questioned the validity of this project once with his immediate superior, that man-on-the-phone, Monsignor Blanco. Questioning orders wasn’t discouraged, P2 in general allowed member input and he has had many extended conversations with the Monsignor regarding this particular project.  Lorenzo felt that the use of a fundamentalist preacher in the USA was a waste of time and money. Those preachers, he moaned, are always getting photographed with prostitutes and neglecting their tax returns. Besides, in the polyglot of protestantism in that nation, how would supporting a few relative unknowns serve their purposes. Monsignor Blanco gently reassured Lorenzo that the P2 had a deeper plan and this was just one small piece on a larger game board. His assistance in this matter would bring rewards for P2 and himself, the Monsignor assured him. Secretly, Lorenzo felt it was beneath him and felt the assignment was punishment for so-called failure down in South Africa. It wasn’t his fault, it’s a culture in flux, who knew what turns it was going to take. But he took it on the shoulder then and taking it now.
 Now he’s got to talk to this clown.
 “Yes, show him in,” Lorenzo sighed when he was told that Reverend William Power had arrived.
 The Reverend contritely entered the room. His powder-blue suit clashed with the elegant decor of cherry paneling and Louis XIV furniture. How do these Americans get so fat so soon, Lorenzo wondered. Lorenzo sat behind a formidable oak desk and motioned for Rev. Power to sit down. William squeaked into the chair. Lorenzo grimaced.
 “Greetings, Reverend Power. How are you today?” Lorenzo said blandly.
 William was having trouble getting comfortable in his chair. “Oh, just great, Mister Jones.” William often speculated where this guy was really from, definitely a foreigner, but it was difficult placing which country he was from. His english was impeccable but he guessed ‘Mister Jones’ was an Italian given his raven-black hair, sharp features and arid urbane demeanor.
 “Let us not waste time with formalities,” Lorenzo said. “My organization is impressed with your progress and your willingness to cooperate with our suggestions. I believe both of our agendas are meeting a fair reception in the public forum. I see that donations are on the rise and sales are steadily increasing. That is well. I will be bringing to my superiors a favorable report of your achievements. I’m sure they will respond with additional funding.
 “Your letter to me mentioned your concern in regards to the George Applegate affair. I sense your growing discomfort in this matter.” Lorenzo raised an eyebrow.
 William shifted in the chair. “Yes, I feel that this issue is growing out of proportion to its real threat to our ultimate goals. In some ways we’re calling attention to something that would have better swept under the rug and forgotten. I’m afraid that the proposed debate will just arouse curiosity amongst the people and lead them to read that evil book. I feel the less the people know the better. Too much information can charm them away from their contemplation of heavenly matters.”
 “Well stated, Reverend Power. I will bring up your misgivings with my superiors. But I would like you to proceed with the planned debate. If we show weakness now, especially at such a crucial moment, all our best efforts could be lost. This miscreant must be crushed and swept aside by the only means available to us: the keen persuasive force of the mass media. There is risk, I grant you that, but if we can convince the public of the rightness and legitimacy of our cause then the rewards will be great. I will call you after the debate and we will discuss this issue in greater detail then. Thank very much for your time.” Lorenzo pressed an intercom, asked for his secretary who came in and led Rev. Power out.
 His secretary returned and asked if he could be of any further assistance. “Oh yes, I’m done with official business for the night. Could you have the butler come up, I need some assistance with my telescopes, perhaps this night will not be a total waste.”
 

 Chaco Canyon lays hidden in the San Juan Basin in northwest New Mexico. Ruins are found there, the shattered remains of an ancient culture. Once a thriving and abundant community, at some point, they all just packed their bags and left. Why? Long droughts, perhaps. Deadly plague, maybe. Space aliens, why not? But they was long gone by the time the Spaniards arrived on the scene and even their ghosts had vanished by the time Peter and Bonny visited this site.
 Bonny drove and Peter looked. They chatted away excitedly about all the stuff that’s been going on. Peter spoke at length while Bonny slowly maneuvered through a sinuous red clay road down into a vast valley. After getting a huge weight off his chest, mostly concerning his misgivings about Osha and his missing of Inka, he felt amazed by Bonny’s openness, her compassion. He felt like someone really heard him. Hum, he’s heard about people like this. People who really listen. But then again she helps him really talk, to sing his heartsong. It often came out all thick and gooey. Men are like that. Even if they want to open up, there’s so much shit in the way, it becomes a painful and cathartic event.
 While placidly listening to Bonny describe the ruins, Peter felt how lucky he was, lucky to find someone who really cares.
 “Driving by these collapsed stone and mud walls, it’s hard to rightly imagine the life of a huge community here. And there were thousands, millions of trees,” Bonny said. “A lush oasis in a dry prairie land.
 “They grew blue corn, shaped pottery and sat under immense trees. Ah, the trees. Ain’t no trees anymore. Plumb got cut down. And as the trees fell, the climate changed and unquenchable desertfication began. The soil failed. The dams went empty. The people left. Left behind a ruin. What do you think we’ll leave behind, Peter?” Bonny said. “Ruins?”
 “Well, I don’t know, if we save our behinds we might be able to leave something grand behind, don’t you think?”
 “Peter — you sometimes have a succinct way of putting things. Ah — this it what I wanted to show you first. We’ll have lunch here.”
 They walked around aimlessly, gravitating from place to place. The buildings were composed of layers of sandstone mortared together with a tenacious mud. Thick walls stood in the piercing sunlight. It was like walking through stonehenge or the Parthenon. Yet they were completely alone. One could see how individuals directed these walls’ construction for the stones ran in definite layers of thick and thin patterns with changes in styles easily discernible. Shaven branches and trunks provided the lintels that supported tons of rocks over doorways and windows. The Great Kiva, the human-made cave, was a stone-laid pit that once was roofed like a old-fashioned beehive, with an opening overhead that served as a window to the Universe. One way to enter the Kiva, you must crawl on your hands and knees down a narrow stairway. Then . . . who knows. Some ritual probably. Nearby was Pueblo Bonito, the political/cultural center of the valley. Built near a huge overhang, this building complex expanded over centuries, two and three story buildings predominating with wide courtyards and intricate passageways. Bonny and Petered wandered the labyrinthian building, climbing here and descending there, touching the stonework, losing their orientation. They came to a reconstructed room. It was dim and cool in contrast to the blazing afternoon. As Peter entered the room, he imagined the walls being painted in colorful murals, lit by candles. Bonny blended into the shadows. Peter reached out his hand, felt the space between them. Then he felt a small strong hand take hold of his. Her body followed, curling close to his. Lips. Tongues. Tastes. Heaven.
 After a bit, Bonny said: “Let’s go up a small wash nearby. I know of a private place we can relax and cool our heels in private.” She gave a sly wink and her eyes sparkled in the dim light of that thousand year old room.
 

The Hermit of the Green Chapel

I found myself in forsaken ruins
Before the gate of the hollow hill
upon my harp I played a goodly tune
and caught the cry of the Whip-poor-will.

Those who built here have gone away
like the passing summer rain
to that house they cannot stay
bearing the mark of Cain.

The tall grass stirred though no wind blew
an eagle soared overhead
naked and alone for all that I knew
time stood still as if it were dead.

The gate opened to a crystal cave
a girl walked out and took my hand
her eyes as deep as an empty grave
she then led me through her land.

I wonder if you have been by lonely waters
and felt the smooth evening breeze
and spoke awhile with young river daughter
who splashed amongst the wild weeds.
 

 Peter scanned the tops of the clouds from the airplane. He had enjoyed his few days with Bonny and her friends but the anticipation for returning to his own tribe had increased and he became restless. He tried to calm his mind as he flew to San Francisco and his mind felt like a smuggler’s suitcase, empty waiting to get filled. It was the first time he had been in an airplane, first class yet; Thomas had been very generous. Peter hoped he was o.k. — Bonny let it slip that Thomas was in a serious battle with cancer. It explained his baldness, his lack of endurance, and a number of other subtle behaviors that had puzzled Peter. He had asked Bonny to come with him but she felt that Thomas needed her and “anyhow, you need to reconnect with your friends on your own terms”. Peter promised to return and this made her smile.
 Peter smiled when he thought of her. So many years of one week stands and, ah Inka, he had hoped to be her partner for years but that was such a pie-in-the-sky fantasy. She never really went for men in general and, though he knew she loved him, it was more like a brother than anything else. He was always too shy to make any more than the most obtuse references to his affection for her.
 “Fasten your seat belts,” the intercom announced. Peter had his seat belts on for the whole trip, he didn’t want to crash unprepared.
 
 Inka and Osha waited at the terminal gate. Inka practically dragged Osha with her. “You’re going to apologize to Peter and mean it!” Osha grumbled but there he was, standing with his back to Inka scrutinizing each plane that landed or took off. The unrest between those two guys could only come from the fact that they loved each other so much. They were like two sides of the same coin. She remembered the time when they all tripped on Ecstasy, that love drug, and Peter and Osha talked through the whole night. They decided that they were harbingers of the new age, radical heralds, pipers at the gates of dawn. “Act as if…” Peter said that night, “act as if you are filled with purpose, act as if what you say, sing, or scream into the ethers is what the world most needs to hear, don’t wait for permission cause no one is going to give it to you, give yourself permission to do what you need to do without any embarrassment or apology. We are gods, all the power and energy is there for the asking, we just need to ask. Act as if … we are divine.”
 It’s been a long dusty road since those isolated rarefied nights on the farm. Now, she couldn’t walk down the street without causing a riot, she’s must have gotten propositioned by hundreds of lesbians and signed thousands of autographs by now. Public property, that’s how she felt now. And Osha, shining as he does, a man with a mission, a voice crying out in the wilderness, even he’s showing some cracks in his carefully tailored veneer. Like a flashflood, fame had caught them all unaware and they were struggling just keeping their heads above water. So Inka allowed him his space at that moment, a private space in a public place, allow him to catch his breath and reflect on everything that’s been going on. We need each other more now than ever.
 “Inka?” Inka roused herself from her reverie to see Peter standing in front of her. He looked different. Her heart opened with such passion that it scared her. She hugged Peter and tears drenched his black leather jacket. They melted into each other.
 Osha cleared his throat. The mood shifted and Inka let Peter go. Peter and Osha inspected each other for a moment, smiled and nodded, and gave each other a big hug. “I missed you, my brother,” Osha whispered.
 “We’re gonna talk over here for a while, Inka.” Peter and Osha retreated to a place by the large windows. Inka sat in an orange uncomfortable chair and waited patiently. As the planes roared in and out, the crowds of people hurrying by, they appeared to be encased in an invisible bubble talking quietly. When she heard them laugh, like two boys plotting some clandestine mischief, she finally relaxed. Whatever might happen, they were a family once more.
 
 In a sumptuous castle in the Swiss Alps, Lorenzo Valla and a handful of his associates viewed a simulcast of the debate between Rev. William Power and Dr. George Applegate via satellite. The two meter square screen showed every nuance, blink, and droplet of sweat. Lorenzo sipped his coffee dispassionately as the debate progressed. Inside, he boiled.
 From the onset, George Applegate cut a better figure than William Power, and that was half the battle right there. George was tall and reedy, the Reverend was squat and round. The good Reverend had refused to meet with Lorenzo’s aids before the debate. “If there’s anything I can do, it is how to work the camera,” he had said. But without the grandiose choral backdrops and heavily-painted woman with those high-rise hairdos surrounding him, he looked more like a caricature than someone to be taken seriously. Juxtaposed to Dr. Applegate’s demure pin-stripe suit that framed his tall athletic build grandly, Rev. Power, in his lime-green sports suit, his slicked back hair and his four large gold rings that glittered and caught the eye with every gross gesture, looked liked a lunatic.
 As the commentators reviewed the debate, Lorenzo knew this particular puppet in the Televisionary project was doomed. George Applegate argued his points well and directed the course of the debate flawlessly. Even the representative from the Archdiocese of New York, a commentator, was impressed and hard-put to diminish his shine. Lorenzo was told he had a telephone call. He rose wearily and took the call in a side room. Lorenzo knew who it would be.
 “Hello, Monsignor, how are you today?”
 “I am well, Lorenzo, except feeling a touch dispirited by our friend’s performance tonight. I’m sure you share my opinion. Ah, there’s no need to make any apologies, you followed the plan as directed and did all you could do with such wild cards. I feel it is necessary to remove our assistance from this buffoon’s organization and redirect it into a more deserving cause. Your efforts in this matter were exemplary given what you were up against and you will be rewarded with a handsome check and a two week vacation.”
 Lorenzo was startled. He had expected a stern reprimand. “But why, Monsignor?”
 “Partly because we do value your service in these most difficult projects you’ve been handling and have been galled by circumstances beyond your control. We don’t want you to become demoralized. You have been making some excellent contacts for us and that will, in time, prove to be to our advantage. P2 is a patient organization, we’ve been making mistakes for centuries but, hopefully, we learn by them.” A pause. “Also, in regards to our adversary, we have arranged for Procedure Q to be carried out at the earliest convenience for Professor Applegate. You may take your vacation.” The last statement sounded like an order.
 “Well, thank you sir, I will expedite your suggestion as soon as possible,” Lorenzo said happily.
 Settling the phone into its cradle. Lorenzo felt much lighter and smiled to himself.
 Pressing an intercom: “Angel, please arrange flights out to . . . Brazil, that’s right. Two weeks in Rio, sunshine, beaches, and lovely ladies.” He picked up a slim cigar and lit it.

 (Excerpts from Rolling Stone magazine)
 The Sun Dogs have come barking at our collective door and they have been noticed. Some have responded by giving them a bone, others a randomly thrown shoe. They don’t seem to care however; they continue to howl at the moon for their own reasons.
 The Sun Dogs have been a band for about three years. Their first CD The Sun Dogs only received local distribution although, as people snag their second CD Rebellion of the Angels, many have also added the first one to their collection. Double bonus for the Dogs.
 Although they like to get as many of their family involved, I asked for only two or three for clarity’s sake. By last count, they figured their immediate entourage accounted for about sixty souls. I caught up with this traveling rock ‘n’ roll circus as they were preparing for a concert in San Francisco’s Cow Palace. At a sidewalk cafe, in the drowsy late summer afternoon light, I met Osha, Inka and Peter. You can tell something about a person by what they order at a cafe. Osha had mint tea and slice of lemon. Inka quaffed coffee, thick and black. Peter  had double Irish coffee piled high with whipped cream. You can draw your own inferences.
 Osha held court, so to speak. His remarkable stage presence extended into this little sidewalk cafe. Close up, his gestures were precise and emphasized his points. He spoke with clarity and listened carefully. An incredibly well-read person, he could recite long passages without hesitation and draw on facts from history, science and politics. A charming individual with little pretense, for a genius.
 Inka could have been Osha’s sister by their looks, long blond hair and striking beauty. She is an out-spoken radical feminist. While in San Francisco, she is doing some benefit appearances to help various lesbian groups to raise money and consciousness. During the interview, I was taken aback by her intensity. No dumb blond here.
 Peter sat between them like a shady valley between two bright peaks. He worn mirror blue round glasses on his thin nose. Wearing a black leather jacket with a white silk shirt, he affected a slight sneer and most of the time he seemed to be bored with the whole situation. One got the feeling that he could become violent suddenly if you were to cross him.

 Rolling Stone:  How do you feel about this sudden advance in your fortunes?
 Osha:  Hey, it’s great. There’s hundreds of bands out there dying to make it. Through luck and hard work we got some recognition. We’re working hard to bring our show to more and more people. Most folks find it a unique experience.
 Peter:  I think it was destined to be. The Fates are in control here. What we’re doing is just another domino taking a fall.
 Inka:  It’s an opportunity to bring our message to a wider audience. Kind of a responsibility, I think. Although we have fun there’s an underlying seriousness to what we do. In each show we invoke power, the power that is within, the power of the Mother and Her Creation. People seem to be responding to it.

 RS:  You talk about ‘your show’. I saw you folks up in Seattle and it was different from the average rock show very theatrical like, let’s say, Marilyn Manson but including more than just the immediate band members. From your point of view, how does it differ?
 Peter:  It has a point, man.
 Osha:  Well, yes, what Peter says is true. We try to bring meaning and a message to the people who come and join us. On the other hand, it’s a very dynamic presentation. We started out as a colony of artists with a bent towards the divine . . .
 Peter:  . . .and the bizarre . . .
 Osha: (laughing)  Yeah, that’s important, too. Anyhow, over time all these different actors got integrated into our performance. We not only play music, which is great, but we have a state-of-the-art light show, dancers, jugglers, illusionists, clowns, and so on. We’ve fine-tuned the show so that all these players move in and out in a smooth and meaningful way. It is a public ritual. When we write a song, we feel as if we’re connected to some spirit. That spirit swirls around and within us and we play with it. Our show is simply a presentation of people being possessed by a kindly joyous spirit. Sure we practice, alot! But when we play there is a component that is always spontaneous and unexpected. That is why we have such a varied show. There is so much talent and life out there that we need to share the collective stage. The stage is like the universe, always expanding without end. In our traveling feast, we weave a tapestry of knowledge, art and understanding. So Peter is right, our show has a point. We feel as if we were chosen to peel back all the hypocrisy and give an alternative. An alternative to the media-driven mass culture that deprives us of our natural impulse to create and share our primal needs. Write songs that we hope will be anthems of this generation, the generation that will truly decide the fate of life on this earth for a long time to come. Of course, the audience is an important part of what we do.
 Inka:  The most important part.
 Osha:  Right!  You see, as I mentioned before, the show is a ritual, a raising of energy. At every show we have a certain number of people in the crowd who, let’s say, are in-the-know; that is to say, they help focus and direct the circle with the people who are new to this kind of thing. The pattern is really quite simple and as we go from town to town we get a larger following and more people are aware of what to do. The ritual shouldn’t be overemphasized however; it only serves as the skeleton through which the true action occurs.
 
 RS:  Now explain to me the message behind songs like Burn Your Bible  and The Coming of the Lord, it appears to some that, blended with your avocation of the Goddess religion, you are taking a harsh view of Christianity.
 Osha:  Well, Christianity has taken a harsh view on the likes of us for many years. It wasn’t till the nineteen fifties that the laws against witchcraft were repealed. We might be writing songs but at least we’re not burning anyone.
 RS:  ‘Burning anyone’?  What do you mean by that?
 Inka:  Calm down, Osha. What he’s referring to was the persecution of witches and heretics by the Christian religion for the last fifteen hundred years. It got especially bad for about five hundred years, from the middle ages through the so-called Renaissance. It was during the Renaissance that most of the burnings and torture took place. The estimates vary widely, from 500,000 to nine million people were systematically routed out, tortured into confessions and then murdered, usually by burning, though in England they preferred hanging for some odd reason. The vast majority, about 80%, were woman. Often these were the local herbalist, mid-wife or wise woman; they were the repositories of the ancient oral teachings of the pre-christian religion, a belief system in which the Goddess figured prominently. For many reasons, these people were a threat to the Establishment more intensely than they have been for quite a number of years. It involved the rise of capitalism, the increasing influence of professional medicine and the church’s age-old battle with the Goddess and earth-based religions.
 Peter:  That’s right. As well, these songs point out that this Christian religion is totally f--ked from stem to stern. It’s a disorganized conglomeration of stolen myths and tales that were personified by some rag-tag tribe to legitimize their claim to land that wasn’t theirs. The Bible is not the word of any God; it is a bumbling fiction that people have taken far too seriously, deadly serious, in fact. What is trying to be communicated is that this ‘Christianity’ has long out-lived its usefulness, if it had any to start with, and people should just toss out their Bible, burn them if you will, as a symbol of that. I liked to see some saved, of course, for historic purposes and the like. But as a basis for a belief system, forget it.
 RS:  But to burn the Bible, isn’t that going to the other extreme?
 Osha:  It is like Peter adroitly states: what we’re advocating is not to burn all the Bibles but to make people aware of their unhealthy relationship and, let’s say, co-dependence on such a piece of literature. Throughout my life I have engaged people in philosophical debates, which I take great pleasure in the diversity of opinion and experiences, but, more often than not, I come across folks who insist that other truths or perspectives on reality are to be condemned or trivialized because “the Bible tells me so.” It’s as if I decided that I would base my entire world-view on, let’s say, Grime’s Fairy Tales or The Bridges of Madison County. What we would like to see happen is for people to burn their attachment to their monomaniacal worship of a book, to burn their delusional belief system that the Bible is the actual transcribed Word of God.
 Besides, it is a sick book, if you read it carefully which I have several times. It includes detailed justification of child abuse, wife battery, rape, incest, slavery, genocide, suppression of free speech and the daily humiliation of women; just to name a few. The book has been an modern inspiration for violence and murder from Charles Manson with his well-know interpretation of Revelations to the New Bethany Baptist Church Home for Boys who, when it was discovered in 1984 that they routinely beat children and confined them to solitary, unlit cells, attempted to defend themselves by quoting the passage in Proverbs 22:15: “Foolishness is bound in the heart of the child, but the rod of correction shall drive it far from him.” The Christian Church is so riddled with numerous instances of pedophilia by priests, especially focused on young boys that one official stated that “they were overwhelmed by the caseload.”
 I could go on and on but my point is that the Bible is anything but a good book.
 Inka:  I think the burning metaphor is especially appropriate considering it was used to justify the burning of not only women but many other books, both modern and classical, as well as temples, schools, and nowadays abortion clinics. But it should be mentioned that we have nothing against Christians per se. Many have identified themselves as Pagan Christians or Pagan Jews without any problems because they use that system of thought as a springboard to create and reinvent a relevant present-day spiritual practice. A practice usually based on being a human animal on a living conscious planet in a universe imbued by a loving benevolent spirit. I believe that is what Dr. Applegate with his book The Earth Christian was trying to do.

 RS:  Wow! Heavy stuff. So you people have no connection to satanic activities as many in the press would have us think?
 Osha:  Not at all. It is the Christians that invented Satan and the hair-splitting dualism that infects and disturbs our entire culture. Let me tell you a story about that…
 

 Peter did come back to Albuquerque, New Mexico after his reunion with the Dogs in San Francisco. He had a hard time leaving his tribe but they seemed to understand when he told them about Bonny and Thomas. He had promised to keep in touch. Bonny picked him up at the airport. She looked so grand. They went to a friend’s house and made love in a large waterbed for hours.
 “How would you like visit a unique place,” Bonny asked as Peter gently played with her chocolate-colored erect nipple.
 “Sure, what is it?” he said absently.
 “I have a friend of mine who is doing a video on the history of atomic research in the state, tomorrow she’s going to the Trinity Site to do a shoot. She asked me if I wanted to go along for the ride and help a bit with hauling around some stuff. I figured you’d be interested so I told her that you and I would go with her. They only allow the public there twice a year.”
 “Sounds great, but one question.” Peter sat up and a wave rolled under them.
 “Yeah.”
 “What’s the Trinity Site?”

 Next day, Peter met Sophia Greenwald, Bonny’s filmmaker friend. She was originally from Brooklyn and still resonated with her Jewish New York accent. It reminded Peter of back home in the Catskill mountains where he had alot of friends who had come up from the city. Her straightforward hussle-bussle energy pleased Peter and he immediately liked her.
 While driving, Sophia popped in a tape, saying: “Here’s this great new band I heard about.” The Sun Dogs began singing A Mid-Summer’s Day. “Cool tune. I heard they’re coming to Albuquerque soon, I hope I could get tickets.”
 Bonny said,“Well, Peter here…” Peter gave her a light pinch that made her turn with a annoyed look. Peter gave her a sign to be quiet and said, “Sophia, what do you think of this band. What do you think they’re trying to say?”
 “Hum. They’re saying quite a bit. Everything from burning the bible to having visions in caves to making love in the moonlight. I know Bonny here is into this Pagan thing and I’ve been to some rituals myself. I like the impulse to move our spirituality closer to the rhythms of nature. It’s a feeling that predates all the organized religions.
 “Let’s see, I find The Sun Dogs’ message both intriguing and disturbing. The Bible is a history of my people and burning it disturbs me but I do get their point on a certain level. We do need fresh revelations in order to survive into the near future. I’d hate to see the baby tossed out with the bath water, that’s all. I mean: what if someone decided to burn all the books retelling the tales of the Holocaust. As a history alone, the Bible deserves preservation. Though I know enough of it and have an intellectual distance to see it doesn’t paint a pretty tale. Yet it is a powerful story of my people and has had a wide-spread effect on many other cultures and religions. And as with any people’s history, especially in those days, they don’t pull any punches. For them it was survival against hostile neighbors and the need to maintain the group’s identity — well, if you don’t have some roots then where are you?
 “I’m intrigued by their more positive messages of earth-centered ideas. I also see the earth as a potential garden of Eden. Besides, the tunes are catchy and I hear they do a fun show. It would be great if they focused on those more positive songs some more instead of playing up the shock value card. Yet I can understand that in this world of high volumes and constant data streams, how else can you be heard? Does that answer your question?”
 Peter smiled. “Yeah, I dig what you’re saying. They’re pretty wacky people alright. Well, I know some people who know some people who could get us free tickets when those Dogs come to town.”
 “Really? Cool, that would be great. Could I invite a friend?”
 “Of course, the more the merrier.” When Peter returned his gaze back to Bonny, she wore a sweet tight smirk. She whispered in his ear.
 “I’ll keep your secret, my darling. I’m happy you don’t flaunt your success.” She kissed his rough unshaven cheek; it hurt her lips. She didn’t mind however. That’s what happens when you get close to someone: you feel their roughness as well as their smoothness. And Peter did have some nice smooth parts.
 After a long haul across a wasteland, they stood at the base of a black stone obelisk. Peter wondered which was stranger: a monument to a bomb or the people murmuring around it in the middle of this desolation. Like it was a Holy Shrine to the God of Wanton Destruction, the people walked cautiously and quietly, some gingerly touched the smooth stone, some stood transfixed as if in prayer. Sophia and Bonny negotiated the cameras and sound equipment while Peter carried the spare battery packs and tapes. The sun was unrelenting and the light glanced off sharp edges making him wince, he prayed that he wouldn’t get a headache. As far as he could see, there was no place to hide and smoke a joint.
 “The first atomic test explosion,” the ranger began as he walked into the monument area surrounded by this band of modern pilgrims, “known as Project Trinity, took place in the predawn hours of July 16,1945. It was called Trinity because they only had been able to make three bombs by that time. The detonation was the result of more than two years of nuclear research at Los Alamos Scientific Laboratories. The top-secret project to develop an atomic bomb was known as the Manhattan Project and the bomb exploded here was called “Fat Man” due to its rotund structure.
 “The test site was here in the north-central portion of the 4,000- square-mile White Sands Proving Ground, which was later renamed the White Sands Missile Range. Chosen for safety and secrecy, this remote area of public grazing land had become deserted during World War II, when the War Department took control of it for use as an aerial gunnery and bombing range.
 “In final preparation for the rest, the plutonium core from Los Alamos was assembled at the McDonald Ranch House. The bomb was placed on top of a 100-foot steel tower designated Zero. Ground Zero was at the foot of this tower. Seismographic and photographic equipment was installed at varying distances from the tower. Other instruments were set up to record radioactivity, temperature, air pressure, and other scientific data.
 “Three observation points, wooden shelters protected by concrete and earthen barricades, were established about five miles from Ground Zero. A fourth observation point was at Base Camp, 10 miles from Ground Zero. A fifth, located 20 miles away on Compania Hill, was the observation point for most of the scientists and observers present for the test.
 “The detonation of the bomb at 5:29.45 AM produced a blinding flash of light, followed several seconds later by the shock wave and sound. The effects of the blast were seen and felt over a radius of at least 160 miles. The flash of light was seen in Albuquerque, Santa Fe, and El Paso. Glass windows shattered in Silver City — a distance of 120 miles.
 “Immediately after the test, a lead-lined army tank was used to explore the site with measuring instruments and to scoop up soil samples. The steel tower had disappeared except for the steel stumps of its legs, embedded in concrete. Surrounding Ground Zero was a crater about 400 yards in diameter and 8 feet deep. Sand in the crater had been fused by the intense heat of the blast into an unique glass-like substance that was given the name Trintite.
 “Information about the test was released only after the atomic bomb had been used as a weapon against the Japanese at Hiroshima and Nagasaki, on August 6th and 9th, respectively. Trinity Site was fenced off and closed until 1953, when much of the radioactivity had subsided. Then, in 1965, this black lava monument was erected at Ground Zero with this inscription, as you see here: “Trinity Site, Where the World’s First Nuclear Device was Exploded on July 16,1945.” In 1975 a second plaque was added to the marker to designate the site a National Historic Landmark by the National Park Service. In 1984 the McDonald Ranch House was restored to its 1945 condition.
 “Today few signs of the historic explosion remain. The bunkers have been torn out, and the crater formed by the blast has been filled in.”
 On the way home, rolling along on I-25 in the dark, they talked quietly and constantly. The reality of a nuclear explosion, the first one in the United States, struck a chord between them. Sophia’s presentation, she hoped, would spread this realization much further.
 “That was only a small explosion,” Sophia said, “equivalent to some 20,000 tons of TNT. Now they have Hydrogen Bombs that are equal to 20 million tons of TNT or more. It boggles the imagination.”
 “How did you get interested in all this?” Peter asked.
 “Well, as you know, I’m a history major but I wanted to learn to use video to bring history alive for the general public. I read a book called Brighter than a Thousand Suns, A history of the atomic scientists. This inspired me to leave New York and come here to compile data and get my master’s degree using this period and region as my taking-off point. Also… I had a dream that came to me as I was struggling over whether to enter this program so far away from home.”
 “Tell us your dream,” Bonny said. She loved to hear people’s dreams. Her and Peter shared their dreams as they cuddled in bed that morning.
 “O.K. Now I had been reading up on this subject already but the vivid images in the dream brought them to life as never before.
 “The dream began with me standing at a bus stop. A yellow school bus arrived and I boarded. After sitting for awhile, I noticed that I have this dull gray metal box on my lap, in the center on top is this red button. Then the bus hits a big bump and I accidentally push the button as I’m tossed out of the bus onto a grassy knoll. I watch the bus roll away and disappear. In the sky, a window appears. The window just floats there and slowly opens. Through the window I can discern events happening at a great distance. I see then a nuclear explosion, silent like those stock films from the forties. The window closes and vanishes. Next it begins to snow, a snow that is not cold. I have to keep brushing it off as I search for a place to hide. I find a cave and wriggle inside. As I sit, bored and cold, these tiny mutant cows like gadflies keep landing on me but, as I brush them off, they die instantly. Soon I crawl out and find myself at the bus stop again. The same school bus pulls up and I again get on. There is no driver or passengers yet the doors close and it takes off. I watch the scenery, green grass and forest dark. Along the way are these blocks of marble, or so I thought, but upon closer inspection they turn out to be people encased in the snow that I escaped. They look like those unfinished carvings of Michelangelo which are called ‘the prisoners’ or like those plaster casts from the excavation of Pompeii. Their faces and gestures were locked in frozen horror, trying to flee some unimaginable doom, petrified in their fear. Just then I realized that I was the only person left alive on the planet; everyone else was dead. A grief embraced me as I never felt before and I wept hot tears. Then I awoke and knew I needed to face my fears and follow this path.”
 “Wow,” Peter whispered. Bonny stroked Sophia’s hair.
 The wide night on that desert plain crept close and sniffed at their thoughts while they rode silently back home.
 

Zeitgeist

Now and then I have some time
to sip my words that taste like wine
and hopefully I’ll make them rhyme, too.
Teachers tell me “better act your age”
and I agree that it’s just a stage
but who put me in this gilded cage with you.

A Chinese girl she holds my hand
and suddenly I understand
how love will make you change your plans so fast.
Then my mind will run amuck
and everyday I curse my luck
then I think, “what the fuck will last?”.

 Everyday it rains — no one here complains.

Hitler wrote a book of poems
and sent it off to Sherlock Holmes
who said it rattled like the bones of Jews.
Now Adolf’s in high society
making jokes of you and me
and how we veg and watch TeeVee like fools.

The simple life in days of yore
of kings and queens and inquisitor
of elves and pyramids and dinosaur are gone.
Yet if you look its still the same
the guilty have just changed their names
and we are left to push the game along.

 Everyday it rains — no one here complains.

In a search for the missing link
it drags me right up to the brink
when I peered over what do you think I saw?
A child skipping across the waves
upon her lips are words of praise
and, don’t you know, she wants to save us all.

Now and then I have some time
to sip my words that taste like brine
and hopefully I’ll make them rhyme, too.
But in the end the clock winds ‘round
I will lay my tired body down
and listen for that silent sound ring true.

 Everyday it rains — no one here complains.
 Everyday it rains — no one here complains.
 Everyday it rains — no one here complains. . . .
 

 A low rumble approached like a whale clearing its throat. A sound that caught George’s attention while he dawdled over a sandwich and a trashy paperback detective novel. What is that? Louder now. George got up to investigate. Out on the porch, he craned his head to see a large panel van, forest green with no obvious markings, ever so slowly lumber up the driveway. Strange.
 Maybe it’s a package, or somebody lost.
 George stepped out on the porch and approached the truck. It stopped suddenly and then spasmed. All the doors flew open and out vomited five or six shadowy figures, hooded with black ski masks and with sub-machine guns waving, sparks of terror ignited inside of George. A voice within him screamed, “Run, you fool”.  But he just froze and they were upon him.
 Yelling macabre threats, tossing him up like a red rubber ball, they jabbed at him playfully, buoyant and frisky, then they beat him to the ground. “Damn heretic… We’ll show you… not so tough now, huh?”
 Where’s Carol, George thought, as the intense shocks and pain wafted through his body. Where’s Carol? Oh, she went to pick up Melanie at school. Maybe they knew that, perhaps they had waited to pounce when nobody was around. Nobody around. George curled up in the dust and dirt as blows peppered down. Hurled into this avalanche of senseless violence, it reminded him of the schoolyard bullies of his youth. Grown up now they’ve come back to get him once again, I wonder why.
 Not meeting much resistance the gang became bored and pulled him to his feet. Bound and gagged, they carried George into the woods. Branches snapped. Fresh fallen leaves slithered. Oh, they got me now, probably kill me, ah yes, after the torture, the torture comes first then the murder. I hope it is quick, I hate pain. I wouldn’t be a very good martyr. Quickly, efficiently, silently — the bullies carried him through the pine forest, dappled in light and shade.
 They stopped and dropped him.
 Looking up George saw a circle of glittering hard eyes and ski masks that hovered like a brood of constipated vultures croaking to each other. “What’d you wanna do first? Didn’t put up much a fight, what a wuzzy. We should just do what we planned and get going.”
 They hauled him to his feet and pushed him up against a big pine tree. George moaned as the broken ribs stabbed him with fresh vigor.
 “George Applegate,” a stainless steel voice rang out. “You have been convicted of the crime of Heresy for writing of words in contradiction to the Most Holy Scripture, for promoting these despicable ideas and luring the faithful into Sin and Error. You have made a Mockery of God’s Sacred Word and therefore must suffer the punishment of His Wrath as dictated by His Most Holy Representative on this Earth. Do you have anything to say for yourself?” They removed the greasy gag from his mouth.
 “Uh — who are you?” Was all he could get out before the leader whirled and said: “Sir Knight, carry out the sentence.”
 George’s hands were unbound and lifted over his head. He glanced up and saw them positioning a large spike and hammer. George turned his head. Suddenly he felt like he was holding up a great weight, it crushed his spirit, he started screaming. They slapped and punched him until he stopped screaming. “Take it like a man!” He ground his teeth together when they nailed his feet down, then they wrapped a rope around him and the tree to hold him up.
 Far-off, sirens nervously twirled the air. Mister Stainless Steel Voice advanced on George, grabbed his face and said: “Have a good time in Hell, Professor Applegate.” The man stabbed George once in the gut and then strode off.

 George opened his eye, his left eye, the other sealed shut by the dried blood and dirt that caked his entire person. He watched the last of his tormentors run off, kicking up a flurry of dried leaves in their wake.
 The sirens stopped suddenly.
 Silence. A silence surrounded George and seeped into his racked being. The sharp pain of the nails driven into his hands and feet gave way to a warm throbbing sensation. Odd, he thought, very odd.
 The forest was bathed in a green-golden light. Birds chirped overhead, the chirrr of a cicada rose and fell.
 Where is my body. I don’t feel my body. George looked down and saw the thick jelly blood pool soaking slowly into the earth. This earth sipping his blood like a glass of burgundy. How is it, he asks the earth. It was a good year, the earth remarks, although the aftertaste had something to be desired.
 George thought he heard something. He looked up. The light streaming down through the trees grew brighter and swirled ever so slightly. The light took on a density and moved towards him. Odd.
 The light took form before him. Vaporous at first the light gained density and color then condensed into a person. A long tan robe, dark brown skin, reddish-brown hair falling over his shoulders, peaceful yet alert eyes. “Jesus,” George whispered in recognition, “am I dead?”
 The man moved towards George.
 “You may call me that if you wish, but I’m not the Jesus who lived and then died. I am, what you might refer to as, a concept, an archetype, perhaps even as a god. I am all these things and yet none of these. I have been with you much over these years, influencing your creative activities, inspiring you, being your muse, so to speak. You have been most enthusiastic in that regard.” This Jesus sauntered carefully before George as he spoke, like giving a personal lecture, moving about absentmindedly as he spoke, not giving any indication of empathy regarding George being slaughtered on this tree before him. His appearance then shifted, now he was clean-shaven with short curly black hair.
 “Dionysus,” George said.
 “Very good, I am he as well, I toast your health,” he held up a glass of wine with a queer half-smile. “As I was saying, your book was fairly close to the mark and that’s why you’re in such a predicament. The powers that control this world don’t like their myths messed with, but soon their star will fall and I will take my rightful place.” He swallowed his glass of wine, laughed aloud. And as he laughed, he grew into a huge man with the legs of a goat, a smell of sweet moss and jasmine, and a set of horns. The great god Pan.
 “In my many guises, I have evolved on this planet to serve as a repository of wisdom and revelry. I am the light that knows the dark. I am the way through the wilderness. I am the bread of life and the wine of grace. My seed dies in the Earth and then is reborn to replenish it. The beauty of the world excites me to join with her in joyous abandon.” His phallus hardened as he danced a jig. “But I also know the need for sacrifice, give life to have life, and in the old days they would perform human blood sacrifice in their ignorance. That changed to animal sacrifice and that changed to the first fruits of harvest and so on. All I really desired is that people should see themselves as a part of the whole and find it in themselves to give for the greater good of the community. Your Jesus found himself caught up by my mysteries and thus his legend was born. Yet his legend grows old and the evil men in this world use his star to dazzle the people while they do harm to Our Mother.” Pan shook his head and shrunk to a small boy, sky-blue skin and golden hair. Lord Krishna. I hope he doesn’t start chanting, George thought.
 “People sing praises to me with hopes for salvation and a release from the wheel of existence. This must not be, the only salvation is in Life. The people must care for that which lives, and, know now, that all things have life, from the rocks on the ground to the stars in the heavens.” The young blue boy scrutinized George sorrowfully. “I come to you not to preach or for you to take what I say to the people, others will do that. I come to tell you that your sacrifice is not in vain and that peace will someday be yours.” He smiled and metamorphosed into a man, a most handsome man wearing tight leather pants.
 “Jim Morrison?” George couldn’t believe his eyes.
 He laughed wickedly. “Just another one playing out my mysteries, many do, some more successfully than others. But before I leave,” he became deadly serious, “talk to your son, Taylor, talk to him while you still can, he needs you and you need him.” Jim smiled, lifted up a jug of wine to his lips and drank deeply. “Enjoy the blues while you still have them.” Then he laughed. A intense white light encapsulated him and he became that Light. The Light filled the woods and George closed his eyes against the intense brightness.
 The Light faded.
 George opened his eye. Looking around the autumnic woods his didn’t see anything or anyone.
 I might die if I’m not careful, he thought, and for some reason this stuck him funny and he weakly smiled. The pain and weakness rose up from his gut. Oh, what a way to go, he thought before he passed out, I probably look vile.