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. . . .