Chapter 2 from Memories and Musings of a Post-Postmodern Nomadic Mystic Madman
A True Account of a
Murder: From Another Side
I
suppose I have told this true tale enough times, I ought to find it
an easy task to commit said narrative to writing. Nonetheless, I
shall approach this written record of actual occurrences with all due
diligence and precision as I endeavor to share a concise and
hopefully entertaining account of a series of real events that
occurred to me over the expanse of seven years or so, events that
have inexorably altered my understanding of life and death, and
indeed, of what is real.
The
reception of a live storytelling (the mode by which I am accustomed
to sharing this true tale) and an account to be read are necessarily
very different experiences. A reader cannot see the storyteller’s
facial expressions, hear intonations of a speaker’s voice, nor
notice fluctuations in pupil size, breath or gestures as she or he
peruses the print. The reader is thus left to other devices to
evaluate the verity of what is read, and at most might envision an
imagined rendering of the narrator in the act of storytelling to help
assess the truth of words writ, assuming the writings’ style doth
permit.
I
understand that the content of this tale will be difficult to believe
even for the most open-minded amongst you. I will attempt to keep
such factors in mind as this true-life account of multidimensional
and mindboggling implication flows from memory to fingertips to
keyboard, and then to whatever medium to you, dear reader, and as I
present my case with appeal to your deeper access to truth, free
inquiry and discernment, as well as to your sense of literary
pleasure.
Devotions
in Yosemite
It
was pitch black in the tall stand of pines engulfing the campground,
dark pillars holding up a slightly less dark sky. I had a sense of
invisibility as I began to chant in a deep, billowing and sincerely
devotional manner, “Aum
Namah
Shivia, Aum Namah Shivia,”
over and over, differing tune and tone, pitch and volume as seemed to
suit the prana
flowing through my form. As I attained a thoughtless trance-induced
euphoria, a miniature-helicopter-like-air-chopping-sound brought me
back to my earthbound senses at the floor of Yosemite Valley.
With
the proficiency of an old west gunfighter drawing a sidearm, I
retrieved my flashlight from whatever pocket, flipped the switch and
simultaneously drew a bead on the mysterious culprit with a thin beam
of light. An extremely large beetle with a rather extraordinary set
of antennae lay motionless on the forest floor. In its descent to
the pine needle-strewn ground, the bulky insect had missed my head by
mere inches. Seemed certain the creature’s interruption of my
impassioned intonations was indeed an auspicious sign—for
lack of a better term.
Upon
a closer inspection of this oversized bug bearing an intimidating set
of mandibles, I realized its branching antennae were almost precisely
analogous to the headdress on the Siva
naTaraj
murti
depicted on the cover of a book which I was carrying amongst my
belongings titled, The
Only Dance There Is.
The
two to three inch beastie bore armor that reflected or refracted an
array of colors, glimmering on the surface of the bug’s deep black
exoskeleton. Its two elytron (wing plates) and an armored sclerite
(back plate) showed brilliant green and purple and blue and red under
the narrow beam of light, leastwise in my recollections of the
arrayal of colors vivid even under artificial illumination. The
feathered antennae were black and branched out elegantly, likewise
shimmering in the ray of light the flashlight projected. This beetle
apparition held my attention for a number of minutes as I closely
studied its colors and form before deciding to double-check my
assessment of the antennae/sacred statue analogy.
I
found my tent in the dark forest, pitched in Yosemite National Park’s
only walk-in campground aside from those far from roads on
backpacking trails. No reservation was required at this site, and
the fees were reasonable. For a combination of these and other
reasons, this particular place to pitch a tent or hang a hammock was
notorious for attracting hippies, hardcore rock climbers, and various
other fringe elements amongst outdoor enthusiasts.
At
one time Camp 4 was completely avoided by the park’s transit buses
merely for the fact that the people who were want to pitch their
tents under the tall trees there had excessive amounts of fun—a
clear case of discrimination. To offer an image to grant a glimpse
of the raucous reveling this site had seen, I was told that during
the seventies and into the eighties the tourists aboard passing
transit buses often received a choreographed view of so many moons
from far below the sky whilst driving by this locus of a somewhat
wilder Yosemite camping experience.
In
my cozy tent, sleeping bag already in place and a small Ganesha
tapestry hanging above my pillow, I examined the photographic
representation of a brass dancing Siva, a thin yet muscular figure
surrounded by fire and crowned with a multi-branched headdress, four
arms and two legs and posture in perfect yogic pose. I
unhesitatingly concluded that the beetle’s antennae and the
statue’s headdress were indeed more than mildly similar, if not
nigh precisely same. Now I will concede, many features of religious
representations are drawn directly from observations of nature.
Nonetheless, the coincidence of my transcendental chant and the
apparition of this beautiful beetle with the Siva
Nataraja
headdress was enough to convince me of the auspicious nature of what
I had just experienced.
Still
in a devotional mood and mode, I lit candles and incense, smoked some
herb and began to chant “Ganesha
Sharanam, Sharanam Ganesha,”
an invocation of the popular Indian deity who is responsible for the
creation and removal of obstacles, among other things. After a few
rounds on the mala
I
wore round my neck, I stopped to examine my breath and enjoy the
altered awareness that comes from meditative states generally, and
specifically from the resonant vibrations of a voice’s voluminous
Sanskrit intonations bouncing around a practitioner’s skull and
chest—quite a nice “natural” high.
As
this euphoria waned, I experienced a sense of loneliness, and quite
naturally associated this with my dearth of female companionship. I
had been separated (for a second time) from at the time
still-legally-wife for better than a year, and had not experienced
any sort of significant satisfying intimate relationship since our
parting. The energy I had directed into the aforementioned newfound
ancient practices had gone a good distance towards transforming these
sorts of immediate desires. I had just attended a wedding, however,
and I met a beautiful and intriguing European woman (I’ve forgotten
her specific nationality—Spanish or Italian, I think) on a
backcountry trail and again in the campground who piqued my interest
and sense of want for female companionship.
In
this mood and mode, I decided to ask via this divine remover of
obstacles, represented (‘present?’ or perhaps better,
‘presented’) in the orange and brown and yellow died tapestry
depicting said elephant-headed deity, if he might be so kind as to
remove whatever obstacles might prevent me from a positive
relationship with an attractive woman. “Nothing too committed,
mind you Ganesh,” to paraphrase my thoughts, “I’m not even
divorced yet,” though seems other reasons and events unmentioned
and perhaps unmentionable had indeed already sealed that union’s
cessation.
A
Neophyte Post-Hippie-Era Hippie Goes to Haight-Ashbury
From
Yosemite, I hitched a ride with a self-represented white-Rasta
driving a rusty blue van to the nearest town with rail service, and
from there caught a train to San Francisco—my first visit to the
west coast since I was ten years old. I checked into the Green
Tortoise Hostel, a lively bunkhouse in a neighborhood of strip clubs
and trinket stores and a noted hub for world-travelers where one
could stay for $20/night and feel fairly comfortable openly smoking
marijuana (in the recreation room, at least) and sipping a beer
whilst mingling with numerous and interesting world travelers. The
hostel also served as a point from which one might embark on
adventures to a number of destinations aboard one of a number of
painted-green vintage greyhound-style buses converted to offer
cuddle-puddle style sleeping accommodations for upwards of
forty-three people.
I
soon set out to explore San Francisco’s fabled hippy-mecca, the
Haight-Ashbury district. Admittedly wearing rose-colored glasses
(er, John Lennon style shades) as I walked up and down these streets,
the once-homeland of the free-love, peace, and psychedelic movements,
not to mention the origin of lots of good music, I scarcely noticed
that the Grateful Dead were either dead or had moved to Marin or
Sonoma County, that Janis and Bobby McGee were nowhere to be found
(though Wavy Gravy was still hanging out), or that love-ins were just
plain a bad idea with HIV a significant factor by the mid-1990’s.
It
didn’t even annoy me that the price of herb on the street was
rather steep. A “haighth” (a Haight Street-purchased
eighth-ounce of marijuana) is often up to a gram light, else up to
twenty-dollars higher than the price to be found in California
outside of this particular cutthroat marketplace (unless you “know
somebody”). I was also not yet so immediately conscientious
regarding the ironies of the commodification of 60’s counterculture
as I am now, and went about my days a very happy and high
neophyte-postmodern-hippie wandering the Haight.
Blissfully
exploring this famed district of the city by the bay, I soon
discovered Golden Gate Park’s “Hippy Hill,” a locus for drum
circles and lounging in the sun popular with longhair types and
counterculture sorts since at least the Summer of Love. Emblematic
of this hill’s history, some random dready informed me that an
oddly shaped tree growing alone at the foot of this hill was made
famous by a photograph of Janis Joplin sitting atop its branches.
This tree is thus colloquially called “the Janis Tree.” The
rather short and bushy tree is said to be just big enough for “a
girl and her guitar,” though I’ve seen two or three climb out of
this tree’s tangled branches—girls and guys and not necessarily
guitars.
Other
stands of trees surround the grassy hillside, home to a cadre of
gutter-punks and the likes who are often the source of the infamously
short bags of weed, and apparently not infrequently the perpetrators
of violence after dark in this once gathering-place of peace protests
and free-love. I made the acquaintance of a few of these and other
regulars who hung out around the hill and at the Haight street
entrance to the park, and thus maintained my supply of grass despite
the steep prices, remaining comfortably high the whole time I was in
the Bay area—as is only apropos for a recently-converted hippy’s
first time in San Francisco.
On
one particular evening I remained on the Hill until after dusk,
enjoying the evening sky’s last light. As I began to make my way
out of the park, I approached a shadowy grove of trees at the edge of
the expanse of green grass. Though the sky was not yet without a
reminder of the sun’s setting, the trees obscured what little
natural light remained.
In
what seemed a mere moment, a shadow-obscured male figure approached
unseen from my left side, said something I cannot precisely recall
after placing a pistol to my left temple. I felt two concussions as
I turned to retreat, my vision suddenly pixilating to a narrow
tunnel—not unlike experiencing any significant bang on the head—and
I was abandoned of my consciousness far before I hit the ground.
Next
thing I knew I was standing on the other side of this grove of trees,
just off Hippy Hill, disoriented and bewildered, but without the
expected holes in my head—and it was now daytime!!
“What
the fuck just happened?” I asked myself. “Did I dream that?
‘BANG-BANG?’ Did I sleep in the trees? I know I didn’t go
back to the hostel last night . . . what the fuck?!?!” I didn’t
even have a headache, and certainly no blood gushing out some hole or
holes in my head.
I
gazed around at the sunlit park setting and contemplated the
absurdity of this most bizarre of situations, indeed quite dazed and
confused (please pardon the cliché). After a few moments attempting
to regain my bearings and composure, I noticed an attractive young
woman sitting in an open grassy span. She was sporting a recently
shaved-head and wearing a lacy white dress, and as her gaze met mine
I decided to make my way towards the opening. Over the next few
seconds, as I walked in the direction of this apparition, my
cognizance of the preceding events faded from memory. Not until
seven years later—perhaps to the day—would I recall the
happenings of that odd evening, and specifically the percussive event
which turned that nefarious night into day; led back to this lost
memory by a mysterious woman, a mistress of disguise, who rather
reminded me of this woman sitting on the patch of Golden Gate Park
grass.
I
sat several yards from this lovely figure in white and pulled out my
notebook to write in my journal and work on some poetry. As I not so
subtly smoked some sensimilla, I noticed she was taking note of me.
A week or so later this first person encountered “on the other-side
(?)” approached me during the Sunday afternoon drum-circle on Hippy
Hill.
“Hi!”
she said with a warm smile whilst offering me a small flower extended
in her right hand, “my name is Aan—Angela . . . ”
“Nice
to meet you, I’m Jeffrey.”
After
half-a-moment of silence, I invited Angie to sit with me. She asked
what I had been writing the other day. “Poetry,” I told her.
“I
write poetry too. I’d like to show you some sometime, if . . . if
I have the opportunity.”
Sort
of randomly, she also told me she was into “role-playing” whilst
we sat on the grassy hillside, enjoying the wild rhythms and melodies
of drums, flute, and whatever other instruments were engaged in the
weekly improv sesh, and sharing bowls of herb and joints with others
sitting round us. I admit, I presumed she meant by “role-playing”
some sorta San Francisco fetish sorta somethin’. I soon took a
different interpretation of this statement, however—excepting of
course when she brought out the maid’s outfit complete with puffy
petticoat one time . . .
Angie
and I strolled to Strawberry Hill to ride a paddleboat around this
hill’s moat, ate some Middle Eastern cuisine, then headed to her
studio apartment, just off lower-Haight. The first thing I noticed
as we entered her domicile was a
large tapestry of Ganesh
on the wall at the head of her bed!!
“You
might not believe this . . .”
I
told her of my supplication to Ganesha in Yosemite several days
previous, and she told of having made a similar request around the
same time. I soon moved my things from the hostel and ended up
staying with Angela for about three weeks.
A
couple of interactions in our short but sweet relationship became
important clues informing my endeavors to discern the meaning of a
bizarre storyline, clues later pieced together that would vex my
already broadened paradigms and expanded consciousness.
A
few days after our meeting, Angie showed me some of her poetry,
apparently typed on an antique typewriter (judging by the font) on
plain white paper. Upon examining these words, I realized they were
in fact Ani Difranco lyrics.
“Very
nice,” I said as I handed them back, silently contemplating any
number of scenarios regarding these indie-pop lyrics presented as
personal poetry. Is
she a plagiarist? Is Angie really Ani—thus the mispronunciation of
her own supposed name at our introduction? Is Angie role-playing as
Ani Difranco role-playing as an anonymous person?
On another occasion I asked her to play the guitar that sat in the
corner of the otherwise nigh empty apartment. She replied that she
was “trying to give it a rest for a while.”
After
a few quite blissful weeks with this sweet and somewhat mysterious
lover, I boarded the Green Tortoise bus for a ten-day cross-country
trip to the east coast. After our parting, Angie apparently made a
few attempts to contact me, and I likewise made a few attempts to
call her when I was back in the Bay area. I haven’t seen or
communicated directly with her since, however, unless a mysterious
woman I encountered about seven years after this in the Bay Area was
Angie, yet again playing roles . . .?
Revelations
of Life and Death: The Golden Gate?
Many
miles and experiences later, I was in California holding tickets to
fly from LA to Delhi. I was staying with my friend Joe in the
Sebastopol area, an hour or so north of the Golden Gate Bridge. We
were passing through downtown at dusk on a balmy yellow-sky Friday
evening when I intuitively sensed I should check out what was goin’
on at the bars. Tom, a friend of Joe’s, stopped the small sedan at
my request and I hopped out and walked round the corner to
O’Connell’s.
The
chalkboard at the door touted the evening’s band, “D’Gin” or
some such seeming cipher. I’ve revisited potential meanings of
this playful appellation, and come up with at least three probable
intentions: Dig-In, Da’ Gin (fermented juniper berries) and Djinn
(genie), or some such clever derivation. I bought a pint of a local
microbrew and danced my way towards the back end of the bar and
towards the stage. The vocalist, a tiny little dready mama with a
stellar voice, immediately made eye contact with me, raising one
eyebrow to form a rather distinctive wrinkle on her forehead. She
reminded me a bit of Angela, and was a perfect doppel to Ani
Difranco—so far as I could recall either woman’s appearance.
Two
of my friends from the area had fed me the information that Ani D.
owned a house near Santa Rosa, was involved with a festival in
Guerneville, and had been playing with an anonymously named band at
small venues in the area. Ah, now everything comes into
focus . . .
The
band on stage was by no means amateur, and I recognized some of the
songs as Ani D’s, though the very professional renderings were a
bit different than any I had heard in recordings. The vocalist even
executed a particular Ani stage move I had only seen performed as
effectively by my good friend Star/Jessica, and of course by Ani D
herself on video (had not yet seen her perform live, unless with an
assumed identity on this evening in Sebastopol).
Danced
till first set-break, then sat at the bar. The mystery vocalist sat
down a seat away and ordered a beer. I complemented her music and
introduced myself. She told me her name was “MeMe” or “MiMi,”
pronounced like a repetition of the personal pronoun. The tenor of
her intonation indicated an intended sarcasm, as if to say, “and
you know
that’s not my name.” We exchanged a few other pleasantries, then
she abruptly turned her head in a manner rather like rolling ones eyes with the whole of one's head, and then walked backstage.
Later
I smoked a bowl of some NorCal heady-nuggets (very good marijuana)
with some guys from her band and a few random others in the parking
lot behind the bar. When I asked one of the band-members his
occupation, he replied, “Oh, these days my life pretty-much just
revolves around MeMe.”
The same sardonic tone seemed to convey the same subtle message:
“and you know
that is not her name.”
Next
day I investigate. At Incredible Records I leafed through the
sizable collection of Ani Difranco CDs. On the cover of a more
recent release, a portrait of Ani with dreadlocks bore a more than
slight resemblance to “MeMe.” An older album cover—from about
the time of my SF affair with Angela—showed Ani with a shaved head,
and indeed I perceived certain similarities between this photo and my
recollections of Angie’s visage.
At
a coffee house in Cotati later that day (or the next?), a woman I
happened to engage in casual conversation mentioned a free Berlin
show in Golden Gate Park. Still in investigative mode, I started to
add stuff up: free concert by a powerful female vocalist from the
eighties (think “Metro,” not “Take My Breath Away”), and thus
a likely influence on Ani; Golden Gate Park, the location where I’d
met Angela . . .
Didn’t
find the show, but whilst sitting on Hippie Hill I noticed a short
woman sitting to my left with a couple of openly affectionate
lesbians in her company (fitting well respective M.O.’s for both
Ani D and
Angie—both self-avowedly bisexual). She looked directly at me and
raised one eyebrow, displaying the same pattern of wrinkled forehead
flesh I had noted on the singer’s face a few days previous. I made
bumming a cigarette and a loaded bowl my excuse to investigate at
closer range.
This
woman, no dreads and only an inch or so of hair on her head, told me
her name was “Slide,” then tossed her head away—like rolling
one’s eyes with the whole of one’s skull—in the same manner as
“MeMe” had done after our brief exchange at the bar. Hint:
think of the TV series “Sliders”
(plot deals with wormholes in time—gateways
to other-dimensional Californias), and perhaps also pertinent, recall
the female lead in Fight
Club
standing in “the power-cave,” takin’ a puff of a cig and
uttering only the imperative, “Slide . . .”
Slide
walked off into the trees, and I wondered if perhaps her head-tossing
gesture meant I should follow. Uncertain, however, I remained
seated, continued puffin’ with the others sitting there, then left
the scene all the more intrigued as these strangely connected events
continued to unfold.
Next
day, again seated on the hill, I noticed a woman with the same
body-size and shape who on queue stared back with the trademark
raised-eyebrow-wrinkled-forehead-look clearly displayed. This woman
had straight long brown hair, however, wore a non-descript light blue
down jacket and blue jeans, and was in the company of some similarly
conservatively clad college kids. She and I were the last two on the
hill just after the sun faded. We exchanged a few slightly awkward
pleasantries, then went our respective ways. I was quite certain
this was the same woman as “Slide” and “MeMe.” I was quite
baffled.
Third
day sitting on Hippie Hill, I once again encountered a woman whose
face and forehead and body seemed certainly to belong to the same
woman, in yet another guise. This version was sitting in the midst
of a gathering of SFSFs (I learned of this acronym of an appellation
from some acquaintances whose gutter-punkish paths had lead them to
the company of the “San Francisco Scum-Fucks”). This
manifestation of said mistress incognito had long straight black
hair, wore black patent-leather from unsnapped newsboy hat to
knee-length shiny leather boots, and looked straight at me with the
same characteristic facial expression as the previous three
incarnations
(for lack of a better word).
Again
using shared smoke to gain a closer vantage, I sat three or four
persons away from this sexy leather-clad mystery lady. I loaded a
bowl to legitimize my continued presence amongst this rather savage
tribe, observing with an attempt at nonchalance. A few other park
inhabitants joined the flock, including a rather rotund black man
that bore a startling resemblance to Forest Whitaker who reclined
just below me on the hill.
I
had encountered this fellow quite a few times over the previous few
days. Upon the occasions of our paths meeting, he would generally
approach me asking for money or herb. “Hey, ya’ got any weed?
Gimme some weed,” he’d say with a whiney nasal tone, or the same
spiel, replacing “weed” with “money.” In retrospect I
recalled that years previous some random Rainbow hippie happened to
have randomly mentioned that Ani D. and Forest W. were friends. Ah,
now things come into focus . . .
Whilst
reclined below me on the hill this fellow began to fidget and then
began to gyrate his hips in a rather grotesque fashion. I
immediately thought of the fat demon Siva stands upon in Nataraja
pose. Following this intuition, I turned the sole of my right foot
towards this fellow. He started to squirm as if suddenly very
uncomfortable, then cried out, “SIVA!” and then stood to his feet
and walked away. Just
as I had thought! Ha, ha!! A
few moments later, a senior member of the gang, short but broad and
burly, approached me.
“We
decided we’re gonna have a conference now, and it’s time for you
to move!!” he growled in a not unfamiliar, labored and deliberately
low and gruff tone—the kind of artificially raspy articulation
adopted by many crusty older homeless men or veteran A-campers
(“alcohol-camp” at Rainbow Gatherings).
“I’m
actually comfortable where I’m at,” I responded, seated in
half-lotus, and quite appropriately ending my sentence with a
preposition, to which he followed with something quite like the
imperative, “You better fuckin’ move or I’m gonna fuckin’
kick your head off!!”
“You
know, this is a public park, and if you and your friends don’t want
to sit by me, you can move,” said I, not willing to cow within view
of this mysterious woman, genie, goddess, or whatever she was,
despite whatever hesitations and trepidations instinct or
conditioning might be want to elicit.
The
whole of the crew, with the notable exception of the mysterious femme
fatale, then
began to hurl their refuse at me. Luckily the projectiles were
McDonald’s sacks and wrappers, plastic bottles and paper cups, and
not glass
40oz.
bottles, dirty needles or whisky flasks. In the midst of this
barrage, the leather-clad lady leaned forward, looked my way, and
said in a rather stern yet calm voice, “You should move.” I
gladly took the opportunity for a graceful retreat, yet left this
scene with more questions and few answers. Who, and as importantly,
what
was this being, appearing in so many different guises? though not by
given evidences a shapeshifter, perhaps a djinn? a goddess (and
possibly even with a capital “G”)? and certainly at least a
masterful Mistress of Disguise.
Later
that night at the Haight Street entrance to the park I was puffin’
with some random hippie when a small dready kid not much over
eighteen stumbled out of the dark, bleeding from a few places on his
face and carrying himself as if he had broken ribs.
“Eight
of ‘em jumped me! Eight of the motherfuckers jumped me and beat
the shit outa me . . . all I did was ask for a cigarette,” he said,
a few tears falling o’er bloodied cheeks from blackened eyes.
I
wrapped a wool blanket around him, concerned he might go into shock
in the chilly San Francisco evening air, and then tried to call
emergency services. The injured individual then wandered off into
the city night wrapped in the gray blanket before I could secure him
some medical attention, to my slight dismay.
The
next morning I made my way down Haight Street from my bed in the
bushes deep in the park. A few blocks down Haight I encountered a
young couple moving things into a moving van. They stopped me and
asked if I wanted to make a few bucks. I obliged them, and spent
somewhere near an hour carrying tables and chairs and TVs and so
forth down a narrow flight of stairs. The fellow was moving back to
the Midwest, Michigan or Ohio or some such. After emptying the
apartment we all stopped for a smoke.
As
we stood in front of the stoop and I had a chance to study faces, I
thought for more than a moment that the female of the pair looked
more than mildly familiar, save that she was three to four inches
taller than the figure I had been encountering, and she didn’t
quite give me “the look,” though had the short hair of “Slide,”
a newsboy hat (plaid wool and not black patent leather, snapped
closed) and she almost
raised her eyebrow appropriately to present the by now psychically
imprinted or leastwise well memorized forehead wrinkle pattern.
I
walked away nearly certain I was delusional, thought it must be
merely my poor mind was imagining this face’s repetitive
apparition. Had someone dosed my morning coffee? Had I slipped over
the fine line between insightfulness and insanity? genius and mental
degeneration? I bought a cup of coffee and smoked a bowl to think it
over.
That
evening I was yet again sitting on Hippy Hill, taking no warning from
the violence of the previous day and evening. The sun was nearly
set, and there were at most a couple of other people remaining on the
green grassy slope. I was about to get up to leave when I noticed
the woman I had met whilst moving furniture earlier in the day. She
was on the hill at about the same elevation as I, and twenty to
thirty yards or so to my left.
She
turned her head to look my way, and lifted one eyebrow to fully form
“the look.” Because of the bend of her knees, the cuffs of her
bell-bottoms were lifted enough to reveal that she was wearing
elevator shoes (if the proper term for the then-hip
super-thick-healed footwear) with THREE TO FOUR INCH SOLES!!!! I was
NOT delusional in my earlier identification: it was indeed the same
woman! She immediately stood and started down the hill towards
Haight Street, towards the grove of trees (where seven years previous
. . .). I decided I had to ask, needed to clarify, must understand .
. . WHAT THE FUCK?!?!?!
I
caught up with her at the edge of the trees.
“Hi!
So how did the rest of the move go?”
“Oh,
fine,” or some such said she.
After
a couple more unsubstantial sentences were exchanged, and before I
had the chance to ask her anything of her “true” identity or
connection with these other uncannily similar incarnations, I was
suddenly blindsided by a blow to my left lower lip from a fist flying
from out the shadows. Only mildly fazed, I managed to do some sort
of fancy wrist-lock with my left hand as my shadowy assailant drew
his fist back for a second punch, and then responded as automatically
with three quick rights to his head. This was a rather
uncharacteristic response, by the way, as I am generally non-violent
by nature and I am not trained in any martial art.
Still
grasping my assailant’s wrist as he was reeling from the punches I
had delivered, he exclaimed rather dazedly,
“Hey,
that’s not fair! You’re not s’pose ta’ grab somebody’s
hand, you’re just s’pose ta’ beat ‘em down!!”
“Oh,
I’m sorry! I didn’t realize there was some unwritten code to
street fighting,” I replied, rather more calmly than I would have
guessed I would’ve, considering the situation.
“But
. . . those were some good hits!” he added, extending his hand
almost as if not of his own will or volition. I grasped his hand,
gave him a half-hug, and said, “Well, I love ya’ brother.”
“Well,
I don’t love you!” he said, retreating a step or two, perhaps
afraid I might try to kiss him or something.
“That’s
OK, you don’t have to,” I said as I started to walk away. Of
course the mystery woman had left the scene by this point.
A
few steps into the trees and further towards the tunnel that leads to
Haight Street another fist came out of the darkness, striking me in
the same spot on my already bloodied left lower lip. I did not even
stop to face this second attacker—among other reasons, because I
assumed more black-clad SFSFs might materialize from out of the woods
to take me on as a pack, as they had with the dready kid the night
before.
As
my head was buzzing from the combination of two punches, vision a bit
blurred, a memory returned that shook me to the core: seven years
previous and just before I had met Angela, it was not two punches,
but two
bullets
that were delivered to my head at this very spot. I had been lured
back to this site, perhaps precisely
seven years after my initial altercation in this precise location, to
have my memory restored—to be granted the realization that I had
passed on to “the other side,” or some such shit. Overwhelmed by
this bizarre realization, I quickly made my way down Haight Street,
and I have not returned to Golden Gate Park since. Since and at that
moment of realization knocked back into my head, I have sifted
through many other memories and from various evidences have been
given cause to wonder: has this sort of thing happened to me before?
since? Indeed, after a good bit of retrospection and contemplation
and reflection on certain past events, I believe and have good
evidences it has . . .
I
walked hurriedly down the nearly deserted street, still trying to put
things together, tears more than once falling as my steps carried me
down Haight towards the east. I checked into a hostel, and next
morning took a bus to Cotati. As I hiked towards Sebastopol from the
bus stop, I noticed a large and conspicuous banner hanging from a
privacy fence next to the highway. It read, “YOU ARE MISSED,
JEFFREY!” Yet another clue, hint or allegation strewn before my
path, whether to clarify or misdirect . . .
For
the next three weeks or so I stayed at Joe’s. Before this fateful
stay in San Francisco I had already missed the bus to pick-up my
passport in time to catch a train or plane or bus in time to get to
LAX in time to board my non-refundable courier-flight to Singapore to
then fly to Delhi to begin a trek to Mount Kailash, so I decided to
go to the National Rainbow Gathering, a hippie thing held somewhere
in the National Forest every summer since 1972.
To
offer a glimpse inside the mist-shrouded and mysterious camps of
these many and variegated magical peoples who migrate to alternating
states’ wild places each summer for this celebratory rendezvous:
wander with me now, if your imagination will allow, down a
mountainous dirt road, sometimes only one lane-wide. You’ll notice
stone cairns denoting that you’re on the right track, else
indicating where to turn. At main gate you’ll be met by someone or
other likely wearing tie-dies and uttering the traditional greeting
“Welcome Home,” and likely offering a hug and maybe a toke off a
joint.
Between
parking and the main meadow you may encounter “A-Camp,” the only
place where alcohol is acceptable at a Rainbow Gathering (one of very
few basic guidelines or “rules” at Rainbow Gatherings other than
common decency and respect). This is certainly the least mellow
fire-circle to sit around at night. Said group might be described as
not unlike bikers without hogs to ride and who also happen to have
heightened environmental consciences,
else as gutter-punks who left the gutter behind for a seat by a
rushing mountain river, but couldn’t yet leave the 40oz back in the
city. Bus Village(s) are obviously located where there is viable
parking, thus also towards the outskirts, and are often site of a
veritable art exhibition with VW Bugs and Buses and even sailboats
soldered atop old school buses, as well as other modern gypsy-style
hippy wagons custom-designed and embellished as if the certain
product of an intense acid trip.
After
a mile or two hike towards the interior of the gathering, you’ll
notice an increasing density of tents and hodgepodge campsites with
Buddhist prayer-flags or tie-died tapestries bearing depictions of
Hindu deities or Jimi Hendrix or a Grateful Dead bear or peace signs
flying from tree branches. Music from distant drums or from a
flutist making merry whilst wandering in a nearby field of flowers or
spilling out from a guitar held tenderly by some brother or sister
kickin’ it by a smoldering log or the din of some random crew
crying out “We love you!!!” in order to elicit the same peace-cry
from some other kitchen or fire-pit circle, else some likely
synchronized combination of these sounds meets your ears as you get
closer to main meadow.
Kitchens
begin to appear randomly amidst the forest’s kaleidoscope
camouflage, complete with cooking-fires, countertops built of woven
sticks, and sometimes earthen-ovens to bake pizza or brownies for the
masses. Community fire pits also increase alongside the trail, and
all sorts of beautiful people start to manifest out of the forest
greenery and the shadows of tall trees. Naked earth-goddess-mammas
wearing only glittery body-paint and fairy-wings walk by, gazing at
backpack-clad newcomers with exceedingly dilated pupils and blissful
smiles as they offer the appropriate “Welcome Home,” and often
offer a bare-breasted hug to whatever random homecoming hippie. Keep
in mind, however, this is no free-love fest in the late-60’s sense,
and respect and reverence accompanies the nakedness here, through and
through. Adults and children play in the field and forest, and wild
people in many states of dress and consciousness sit and dance ‘round
wild drum circles that often last all night.
If
you pass by Yoga Meadow, you might see a certified tai
chi
master giving lessons for free next to an Ashtanga
yoga instructor, likewise teaching willing practitioners an ancient
healing art for no charge. You would almost certainly hear chants of
“Hari Krishna . . .” if you passed near the ISKCON tent (they
make really tasty if over-sweetened Indian food, and pretty descent
chai, by the way), hymns to Jesus if you happen by “Jesus Camp,”
or perhaps pagan chants to Mother Earth or a Hebrew prayer or random
(or synchronistically spoken) Sanskrit mantras issued from some
circle or other within the greater circle of the gathering site.
Laughter
and kind greetings and the smell of weed are in the air just about
everywhere, and an overall harmony generally ensues in the midst of
so much diversity. I’ve never yet heard of a skirmish between the
Jesus-campers and Fairy-Camp (gay/lesbian camp) at a gathering, nor
of any pitched battles between Serenity Ridge (an AA/Twelve-Step
kitchen) and A-Camp.
I
admit I have yet to see a Halal camp pop-up at such an event, though
I once happened upon a Kosher camp called “Jerusalem Kitchen” at
a National Rainbow Gathering. Indeed, I’d imagine there’d be a
much better chance of peace in the Middle East if you sat Jerusalem
Kitchen down with whatever Islamic crew might consent to come to a
Rainbow Gathering—“Mecca-Camp,” maybe (yes, there is certainly
such thing as a Muslim-hippy). Simply fill a hookah with some good
Lebanese hash and passed around some mushroom tea, and then let these
peace-loving tree-huggers come up with the solution to the
Palestinian/Israeli conflict. Else perhaps bring Israel’s Knesset
together with the Palestinian National Assembly on a small tropical
island and dose the falafel or matzo for a similar outcome—though
likely with a higher dosage required.
In
the somewhat-center of this site of several thousands camped together
peacefully there is a large meadow with a “Peace-Pole” posted in
the middle, symbolizing the central theme of these gatherings. Food
is free here, though everybody’s s’pose to lend a hand where they
can. Exchange of cash money is anathema here (unless to contribute
to the “Magic Hat” fund for food and other necessities), and
credit cards are not accepted. Trade-circle is the central
marketplace, where blankets laid-out display hand-made drums,
blown-glass pipes, hemp everything, tools and cool hippie clothes and
chocolate bars—for
trade only.
Cannabis is the most stable currency (though that’s the case in
the U.S. generally), weed is smoked freely and reverently everywhere,
and psychedelic explorations are not discouraged—though drugs are
not allowed.
Shanti-sena,
or “peace-force”
(Ã la Gandhi), made up of anyone and everyone at a gathering, keeps
good order and deals fairly with conflicts. If any responsible
adults happen to hear someone call out this Sanskrit mantra they are
obliged to make a beeline to the scene of whatever conflict to help
resolve, and might be noted that the mere intonation of these
syllables is supposed to invoke peace. Nonetheless, the Fed’s
can’t seem to stay away, sending in the LEO’s with firearms to
harass the peaceful under the guise of “protect and serve.”
These “forest-cops” with their side-arms are often told,
generally politely, that we don’t much appreciate “guns in our
church,” and these intruders are always preceded by calls of
“Six-up!!!” to let others down the trail know they ought to
extinguish and pocket all pipes and joints till the nuisance passes.
Other Forest Service personnel who sometimes show up, biologists or
botanists or water-quality surveyors and so forth, are generally
received as less intrusive guests than the ones who think we need
policing and who carry pistols into our peaceful assemblies and
places of prayer.
I
have actually heard of more than one “defection” from the Fed’s
ranks to the freak-side. Indeed, I’ve been made privy to multiple
reports of forest rangers deciding it wasn’t too late to “tune-in”
and so forth, stripping off light-green uniforms and joining their
long-lost family in a joyful reunion (often after having been offered
a tiny piece of perforated paper or a chunk of chocolate covered
fungus).
All
in all, this rag-tag gathering of peaceful dissidents maintain a
pretty tight ship, with no leaders and no designated or elected
representatives, no centralized planning to speak of, and consensus
as the primary “rule of order.” On the Fourth of July, upwards
of twenty to fifty-thousand freaks stand in a massive circle round
the “Peace-Pole” to utter the sacred syllable “AUM” (which
is, by the way, the root of the Judeo-Christian “Amen,” and
Muslim “Amin”—there is a subtly pronounced “ñ” at the end
of AUM) intended to promote world peace and harmony.
By
the time clean-up crew is gone, scarce a trace of these thousands is
left to sully the wilderness scene, and even skeptical forestry
bureaucrats and field agents are generally surprised that a bunch of
pot smokers and trippers are so fucking conscientious and such
responsible stewards of the land. No fire pit is left intact,
shitters and compost holes are buried and concealed, trails unmade
and reseeded with native seed, and every last trace of human
habitation or litter is remediated or removed. You’d be
hard-pressed to find even a single cigarette filter remaining amongst
the natural forest floor debris by the time we’re all gone.
Anyways,
a few days into my stay at this particular National Rainbow
Gathering, which was held near Mt. Shasta that year, I was walking
along the road at the edge of the site when what did I spy but a
familiar small-framed woman with short hair sitting by a tree,
singing blissfully to herself and any who might happen to hear her.
As she noticed me approaching she ceased her song, reached out her
right hand with index and small finger extended and exclaimed (one
eyebrow raised in characteristic expression),
“San
Francisco says, ‘What’s up, yo’?!?!’”
Before
I had a chance to formulate a response, she continued, “C’mere,
c’mere, I got somethin’ for ya,’” beckoning me to approach
with waves of her hand.
She
rummaged through her belongings and retrieved something in a small
square plastic package.
“Here,
you might need to give this to somebody sometime, er somethin’.”
It was a reflective emergency-blanket, still in the wrapper!
“Sit
down! Sing somethin’ with me!”
I
sat to her left on the side of the dusty road and attempted to
recognize the lyrics of anything I might know as she tried out a
number of well-known tunes, but to little avail—I’ve only a very
few popular songs committed to memory. We abandoned this shaky
endeavor as a couple of other hippies happening by stopped to chat.
I stood and walked on as she conversed with these others, uncertain
of how precisely to perceive this last (certain) encounter with said
mystery woman.
By the way: just a
little ways down the trail a fellow camper, wet from head to toe from
some likely trip into the creek, just happened to asked if I happened
to have anything to help him stay warm on his hike back to his camp.
I gave him the still packaged and folded reflective-emergency-blanket
and continued towards Main Circle, skipping-on-down the trail.
Afterthought
for the still skeptical . . .
Mind
you, dear reader, in case you had your questions: I was not
under the influence of any mind altering substance during these
encounters, save a bit of weed, and on occasion non-intoxicating
levels of alcohol. Neither of these could have altered my
perceptions to the degree necessary for this to have been some series
of delusions or illusions—save as illusion is what all of human
experience is at some level, as some religions contend. Only towards
the end of my stay at this gathering did I very reverently receive
some smoke of DMT (said substance having been derived from Valerus
grass or the root bark of a mimosa tree, by the way), a potent
hallucinogen which does have the capacity to produce visions potent
enough to be dubbed “delusion.” Oh, and I also chanced to share
in a cozy chat with Ram Das/Dr. Richard Alpert at his
campsite—speaking of psychedelic spirituality and so forth—though
didn’t try any of the goodies likely to be found nearby.
This
narrative of events is true, as much as any set of experiences I have
known. Many of the conversations writ here are quoted verbatim, and
all are at least very close approximations of the represented verbal
exchanges. I have examined many scenarios that might render these
series of events in some other guise, and no alternative explanations
add up as well as what I have faithfully represented in the
preceding, humbly offered for your consideration, dear reader.
sometimes quite cleverly deployed in subtle symbolic and oft ironic hints 
Surreptitious She smiles,
when She and I were truly 
Posts
Virgin Mary and Virgin Kumari
