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…