In the summers we’d head up the creek when it got this hot, play in the water. It was so cold back then, a great way to cool down when the weather was knocking on 100 and up. We’d spend the hottest part of the day in and out of the creek, dive in holes like this one, come gasping, tender-footed we work our way across the gravel and onto the bank, feet aching, goose bumps and chattering teeth. Warming in the hot sun which soon drove us back in, a cycle of hot and cold, toughened feet and brown skin. Long days outside, summer.
A couple weeks ago we were out driving in the mountains looking for berries and decided to head down the creek we grew up on, stop and eat our lunch somewhere. Of course in no time it came back to us that there was not really any “spots” left on the main creek like we remembered. Those places we picnicked, fished, and got wet at, had romantic encounters, took a nap, or just took it in, the sensory overload of this, the trip we are on—the bizarre combination of beauty and pain punctuated by the kiss of death, that new beginning, our adventure into oblivion. I don’t know about you, but it was in beautiful places and dark spaces that I discovered I was merely passing time in a kind of Purgatory, a holding tank, life.
Whenever I stop for any length of time, I start ruminating on what I see and where I’ve been, and for some time now, I’ve felt compelled to scribble down my impressions. That’s led to calling myself a poet, and defining poetry as those scribblings or spoken words of all people thinking and talking to themselves and anyone else who happens to be listening. These “poets” must believe (or hope anyway) that someone else might be interested in reading what they think and have to say. And the longer I spend in this “limbo” waiting for the change, the more I’ve considered why I’ve chosen this approach to my dilemma about whether and how to react to my experience. Then I think: maybe it chose me, and I’m just complacent enough to feel good about it or haven’t been self-motivated to consider another plan.
I know that from the get-go I have been fascinated by watching shit, whatever was in front of me. Life in general, the experience of opening my eyes mystifies me every day. My perceptions of the sensory opportunities I experience pose questions that I’ve known from a very young age had no answers. No one could give me satisfaction. I intuited that nobody had a fucking clue, and that we were here together along for the ride till it inevitably ended for each of us at one time or another. Simple shit with what appears to be a relatively simple role in it. Yet we are obsessed to make some greater significance to it, our life.
So what confounds me the most at this juncture, thousands of years after we’ve existed at this advanced stage of brain function, is why we haven’t overcome the impulse to succumb to irrational fears and brutality? And why was I able to recognize the futility of that behavior as a child, while so many adults acted like they didn’t see Old Man Death in the waiting room and continued killing each other over stupid bullshit like opinions, envy, and fear? Is the impulse toward love and connection innate? I believe I have to credit my parents to a great extent. They must have clued me into the fact that I was going to die at some point like everybody else, and that time would arrive sooner than I thought. That the longer we’re here the faster it goes, and this little window of awareness (our life) is all we get. So knowing that, it just makes sense to pay attention, appreciate each day, work together and get along with others in the same boat trying to make the most of their day if you like it easy and serene. Peace and love, man. I was born a fuckin’ hippie.
HIPPIES often made fun of labeled immature spoiled children immoral freeloaders drug-addled out of control taxing resources and wasting time hippies defied the rules in a very short while they changed the world psychedelics allowed them to see everything is connected man-wo-man blood in stone flowing dimensionally light red yellow black and white rainbow one pulsing wave of soul love comic homie slim pickens buck naked waving a cowboy hat astride big bang out of chute number two yee-haw holy mother of god a raging hard-on clutched in his gripper hippies knew but didn't care they were long-haired jokes to the power structure they danced and smiled kept getting fucked up on fun tickets so something had to be done and peace loving flower children were really easy to kick the shit out of for awhile but it wasn't good enough for bullies cuz bullies never get enough strokes to lose their fear always beg for more pain a hero a movement a call for justice a fucking war social revolution turning on tuning in and dropping out sparked many fires that scorched the asses of the trumping white-males who owned the world hippies opened the door authority tried to slam shut but alice had taken them down the rabbit hole and through the looking grass to what was behind the hanging clothes in that back closet of consciousness our fear of the unknown was just that rush for something new the adrenaline before the journey begins because it's all a trip one and the same and not of course it's all the source of discovery love is an energy exchange atomic relativity white cops black mothers shuffle the cards anew let's begin again a blue domestic-foreign policy exchange of guns for acid true hippies gave up on war traded fear for love their minds were blown open so they could see there was no way they could continue playing the game by the old rules keep doing the bidding or pulling the triggers for frightened aggressive dogmatically entrenched angry men determined to hold onto what they knew attack and never give in ignoring the seasons and denying cemeteries those goddamned hippies found the key that fit pandora's secret box the one she'd hidden under her bed full of giggling and fucking and funny little phrases like do your own thing and love the one you're with hippies knew love is all you need so since endless love is free and fear costs way too much why don't we embrace their credo of peace and love join the liberation economy abandoned fifty years ago and abide the dude's fuck-it view become a crew of fuckin' hippies
That whole Golden Rule thing we heard over and over again as kids just made sense. It’s the same message all the messiahs bring: be good to each other. If you know how it feels to be abused by someone, then you know there is never a good excuse to abuse someone else or make them feel as miserable as you felt when it happened to you. Pretty easy concept. Kids get it. Dogs get it for Christ’s sake! Obviously, we are complicated animals. We get in the way of putting our ideas into practice. Walking is harder than talking. Then the older we get we begin to read, feed ourselves with others’ ideas about this phenomenon we’re all stuck in, the opinions of philosophers, scientists, and religions, that long tradition of people thinking and writing about this trip, our awareness, and what we think of those interpretations of it. Entering into this shared information about “what’s-it-all-about” helps us develop empathy, kindness, cooperation and negotiation as we recognize we’re all in the same boat heading toward the same end game: all we know for sure is the simple fact that our consciousness is going to disappear and the bodies we perceive we walk around in are going to wear out, decay, and become dust.
DEATH, AGAIN And why not? Isn't it what we know best and least, that fear, the bottom of it all, where each year we seem to burn more bones than we bury? Why does it really matter to us how others dispose of our remains, the stiff lifeless clay God "all mighty" won't claim? I guess it's just our need to grasp for the last of ourselves, finish the job, hold onto our image of being in control -- reaching beyond the grave to close the door. We wind up being stuffed inside of those who knew us, those left behind: shelved and cataloged, new local myths drug out to entertain the crowd -- and remind that our stories sustain us like fire, like water and air. When the body dies we talk about spirit and wonder what happens after the lights go out. All we know exists under the sky walking the Earth. Here things die, blossom, grow, attach, reproduce (as often as they can!) and die again and again. How many times, how many cycles, how many stories have we breathed? I know your spirit is real. It lives inside of me, and that's enough, for now. Death is filling me up, and I'll be damned if I don't like it. Generous to a fault, he feeds us continually, and I want to be loaded . . . when the sneaky bastard comes for me. -- for Howard "Bud" Meyers (1932-2003)
As far as we know there is no hard and fast reason that love trumps fear, but I want to believe it does. So I try to lean into it, that it makes the most sense. Tribalism, strength in numbers, the benefits of cooperation, love, yet tribal fear exercises war to maintain peace. The old “best defense is a good offense” argument. Attack! Land the first punch! Do what you have to do to survive! Kill. Kill! Survive as long as you can since there is no escaping the grim fact that the Reaper waits for us all.
Psychedelics are finally being used in mental health care to increase awareness and reduce fear. It makes total sense. I found that out on my own years ago. Many ancient and tribal cultures who lived close to the land discovered the benefits of those plants for helping people accept and become more at ease with this out-of-our-control trip we’re all on. These substances open the doors of perception, allow us to experience a connection to everything on a molecular level, see that we are another form, a truly complex form, of atomic energy, that we are constantly changing, and in dath we will change out of this form as all things constantly changing do. They help us understand that nothing goes away or disappears into nothing. Nothing is made up of something. Everything is part of the soup, the cosmic stew. And this awareness is calming. It reduces fear. Or better yet, it helps us put our fear in perspective. We know fear is often good. It can save our ass. But irrational fear, overreaction, turns into anger, aggression, and brutality. Once we have accepted that our death is part of the plan, then we are less inclined to overreact.
Condolences I’m sorry But it’s what we do We bury each other Every day Somewhere Mother, daughter, brother Sister, father, son Lover, another Shocking reminder We’re growing Colder . . . How old we are When we stop Breathing Matters As much as nothing Matters anymore When someone dies And it’s someone You know, someone You love, we live To die trying To love Dying to live Today I’m sorry Someone died You loved, I will Love living today
Yeah. This is my take on it, life, based on my limited knowledge and experiences. And I will add that I could be the poster boy for “Contradiction Today!” That’s why I’m a poet. All artists recognize how fucked-up we are, try to portray the complicated human in all our splendor and lack thereof. As Dick Hugo told me: human beings are funny goddamn animals. Funny as in odd, contradictory, unpredictable, both incredible and irrational. Maybe in the same sentence. Geniuses and sadists, assholes and saints. Our brains are capable of all we can imagine, and oh, the possibilities! We are wild cards capable of changing the game, even cleaning out the house and ending all bets.
And in poetry (or any art form) everything is fair game, nothing is off-limits. It’s all perfect in God’s World. God is as good a word as any to describe the limitless capability of this existence, our perceived mess. It contains every story invented and yet to be told. And there you have it on my authority: GOD HAS SPOKEN! I could be the new messiah! Although I don’t know what good that would do besides stroke my ego which I have worked at trying not to pamper in yet another essay designed to pamper me. So it goes with human beings, and maybe I’m just shitting myself. Constant self-vigilance is almost impossible, but all I can do is try to muster some humility when I feel its shadow looming again. In the end, it’s all about me for me, you for you. And if my hunch or hope is right, just like Casey, the preacher in Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath said—“we’re all a part of one big soul.”