MY VACATION
By P.

        Having little idea of what an intentional community was i began my
vacation with only a handful of expectations.  A dear friend of mine - - J.,
had invited me to stay two weeks with her at her new home: an intentional
community by the name of 'Dancing Rabbit'.
        J. is an indelible beauty of sculptured grace.  A sightseers' first
impression is her soft and long straight locks of blonde which cascade past
azure pools of wisdom.  Yet it is her childlike giddiness that casts its
spell upon you - - framing your time with her in a postcard of unbridled
youth feverishly mixed on a canvass of laughter and tears.
        In a series of letters she'd begun to describe a blossoming
community of people who were attempting to build a pragtopia (pragmatic
utopia) and felt that it would offer valuable information on my search for
building such a place; along with some much needed R & R.
        From the 'Dancing Rabbit' web page i gleaned what seemed the
beginnings of an entire city built upon a foundation of self-sustaining
environmental practices.  By growing and making their own food, fuel and
housing, it offered an environment that sought to give back to our Mother
Earth more than it took, all the while developing an ecovillage community
that embraced diversity and freedom.
        My relationship with J. was one that was basically platonic with
only a one time awkward french kiss defining the zenith of such a path.  And
with her having just taken a lover - - another inhabitant of 'Dancing
Rabbit', there was very little worry of my experience at the community being
influenced by some manufactured veil of romanticism; by the kind of sight
one succumbs to in the height of passion in which they paint the broad brush
of perfection over an all too ordinary surrounding.
        As a writer who seeks to transpose what truth can be found upon a
medium that by its very definition imposes the solipsistic delusion which
the pen affords,
i will nevertheless seek to report my findings upon these pages in the most
truthful manner i'm capable of.
        From the 'Dancing Rabbit' web page there wasn't the slightest hint
of any spiritual leanings (other than an embracing of veganism - - which by
no means was mandatory).  In fact, J. had in a rather forlorn fashion
mentioned several times the lack of any spiritual practices at the community
and had suggested starting something.  A large part of our correspondence
has been spiritual in nature (pun intended) - - she having read all of my
books which feature several theosophical tracts, and felt that we were
connected not only by our Anarchistic political views, but also by our
Taoist like comprehension of the Universe.  So, without the least indication
of any religious disposition emanating from 'Dancing Rabbit' i never once
had any "cult" apprehensions.


        Yet everyone in my hometown of Seattle i described 'Dancing Rabbit'
to immediately brought up the cult connection.  And let me state
emphatically that the few people i socialize with aren't your typical
judging paranoids.
        Co-workers from the food bank i volunteer at, artists from the art
gallery i live at, and family members all voiced concern.  Some i even had
to assure in long explanations of what little knowledge i possessed about
the history and goals of the place.  At the food bank, responding to the
director and secretary's fear that i might be "programmed," i said totally
in jest, "If anything, it's them that should be worried about me!"
        This humorous sarcasm was greeted with genuinely stricken looks of
panic as the secretary replied, "Maybe they're looking for a figure head."
        Of course i dismissed their distress and boarded a 'Greyhound' bus
without the slightest reservation.  i had chosen a 'Greyhound' bus to
transport me from Seattle to the heartland of the United States - - near
Rutledge, Missouri, where 'Dancing Rabbit' lies, mostly because of the price
and my given economic condition.  i had planned to hitchhike to and fro, but
when my mother had offered to spring for transportation as a birthday
present i took her up on her offer.  Not wanting to take advantage of her
generosity i found the cheapest ticket available, which was a three day bus
ride cross country.  Besides, with the stirrings of fall descending upon the
area i believed that a long drive through Washington, Oregon, Utah, Wyoming,
Nebraska and Iowa, would be an enchanting windowed peep-show of America's
heart as i listened to the unabridged book on tape of Joseph Conrad's 'Lord
Jim'.
        The bus journey began on a rather tense moment.  An old man whose
stone chiseled face was patchworked by a jigsaw of purple veins that only a
lifetime of booze would carve was raging about the outside of the bus.  His
cheeks, even more flushed than normal, spoke in a scarlet fury as he
screamed at the baggage attendant about some nonsensical probability of lost
baggage.  He pointed to his hat, noting that it read: Korean War Veteran, as
if by playing this trump card all would be settled and then took his seat on
our bus which was full to capacity.
        Instantly retreating into the prose of Conrad i found my cassette
reverie shattered by the persistently hacking cough from the woman seated
directly behind me.  In a continuous gasping agony she violently coughed the
insides of her lungs onto the back of my head.  i offered her two
exceptionally strong cough drops i had on my person which seemed to give a
little relief to her tussive seizures for the short life of the lozenges.
        In Portland, Oregon, we switched buses and i found myself seated in
the aisle seat, trying to, with much futility, sleep on a chair that was
broken.  The arm rest wouldn't stay up and of course the seat wouldn't
recline.  This made sleep my only dream as i sat in a crowded bus trying not
to drown in the sweltering heat that was pouring from the climate control
system.



        At some nameless gas station stop in a darkened sea of viewless
black the Korean War Veteran wouldn't let the person who'd been sitting next
to him have his seat back.  He emphatically held his ground claiming both
seats were his because he'd bought a ticket, was uncomfortable, and had
fought in a war.  The hopeless bus seat Refugee just stood there in the
aisle, motionless, not knowing what to do, since there wasn't another open
seat to retreat to.
        From the seat directly behind the confrontation a twenty-something
beer drinking Defender of social etiquette came to the man's rescue.  In a
somewhat terse tone the Defender told the old War Veteran, "Give the guy his
seat back or
I'll teach you a lesson."
        The War Veteran responded in a mumble that was fraught with
agitation by declaring, "I've killed twenty-three people in Korea so it
wouldn't matter if I killed one more."
        In an almost comical stance, suddenly sounding without the least
suggestion of reflected anger or fear the Defender told him, "If you don't
behave I'm going to have to beat you up!"
        This volley sent the bus seat Refugee scampering to the front of the
bus - - his carry-on luggage in hand, where the bus driver let him sit in
the seat directly behind the driver that had been, if memory serves me
right, where the bus driver had been storing something.
        The battering exchange of idle threats between the War Veteran and
the Defender continued in periodic outbursts long into the evening.
        In all fairness, this journey into 'Greyhound' hell did have a
couple of serene moments.  The first being a sublime fiery sunrise that
ignited half the sky in a seemingly gelatinous orange henna, casting its
tentacles of ocherous luster upon the rising hills that birthed from the
Idaho-Utah landscape.
        The next day in an almost sultry clear autumn afternoon i sought
refuge from my sardine can of horror by spending my two hour layover walking
the sidewalks of Salt Lake City.  i found myself admiring the Mormon temple
from the surrounding grounds when two female Chinese Mormons successively
wanted to provide missionary services for me.  i politely declined and made
my escape back to my agoraphobic nightmare.
        i believe it was somewhere near Salt Lake City that we must have
picked up Gangster Boy.  Gangster Boy is a tough looking white dude who
spent most of his time on board the bus loudly singing to his walkman.  His
poor tonality and obvious lack of talent actually seemed to enhance his
performance as he loudly declared, "I'm a mother fucking nigger - - And I'll
pull the trigger - - Of my A.K. - - Shiiiiit . . ."  On and on he went,
trumpeting his raging pop culture in a show of adolescent identification.






        i could not help but wonder what the several African Americans on
the bus thought of this punk white boy singing nigger this . . . nigger that
. . . clear across the country.  Yet i knew if they did tire of this bigoted
performance, the ever muscular Ving Rhames lookalike seated a couple of rows
in front could easily eat Gangster Boy's walkman for breakfast, which by the
way, was sounding more and more tasty, what with the endless stops of
vending machines and fast food restaurants waging a ruthless war on my
gastrointestinal tract.
        i found another moment of grace losing myself in the erupting jags
of stark rock that violently protruded from the gorgeous Wyoming terrain.  i
sat there momentarily transformed by this beautifully unpretentious view as
Conrad's words whispered unspeakable truths of synchronicity through my
headphones as the reader said, "It was a strange and melancholy illusion - -
evolved half consciously like all our illusions; which I suspect only to be
visions of remote unattainable truth seen dimly.  This was indeed one of the
lost forgotten unknown places of the Earth.  I had looked under its obscure
surface, and I felt that when tomorrow I had left it forever, it would slip
out of existence to live only in my memory, till I myself passed into
oblivion.  I have that feeling about me now."
        i turned off the tape and struck up the the most benign of
conversations with a woman - - Matr, who, unconsciously still communicated
that sexy edge of her youth, which had long since matured past the worthless
flirtations of younger years.  She showed me pictures of her two lovely
girls in Pennsylvania who she was going to visit.  In further conversation i
discovered that she was out of money and hungry.  At the next stop i bought
a large vegetarian submarine sandwich and split it with her.  Fortunately,
this act of generosity inspired an Asian man to follow suit, who later,
without any suggestion, bought her some sort of breakfast burrito which he
tossed to her without a word.
        i also had other friendly hellos with those who'd begun the journey
in Seattle.  The time spent in eternal suffering started to form a natural
bond between all of us.  Topics of conversation were mainly destinations,
occupations, and stories of 'Greyhound' having lost everyone's luggage.
        i must here take note, in defense of our several different bus
drivers, that although oblivious to our collective suffering, they were
sincerely friendly when talking over the public address system, and drove
the bus safely while managing with great skill to transport us to our
destinations.  i in no way hold the drivers responsible for the chaos that
enveloped us.  Having once been a school bus driver for eight years, i
empathized with their situation and applaud their focus and calm throughout
the journey.  It was when exiting Wyoming, facing my second night aboard,
that i believed i'd finally be able to doze off for a moment or two, since
'Greyhound' had split the bus load of people into two buses.  With the extra
space and the fact that i was now acclimating to my surroundings, i shut my
eyes and drifted off into a much needed sleep.




        Instantly this retreat was thwarted by sounds of confusion emanating
from across the aisle.  Dizzy - - a large white man with a huge mass of
curly white hair was frantically rummaging through his backpack, tossing its
contents - - bottle after bottle of prescription medication, all about.
        Then Dizzy sprang up and began pacing the length of the bus in a
frantic panic attack - - occasionally stopping to sit on people who'd also
finally managed to find some refuge in sleep.
        Matr conferred with me and we diagnosed that Dizzy must be mentally
ill,  probably manic, and that he'd failed to keep track of his meds, and
was now having an episode.  i began trying to talk with him, gently touching
his shoulder with my hand as i calmly explained to him where he was.  He was
convinced that i was his doctor, he was at the hospital, and that all he
wanted to do was go out on the porch and smoke a cigarette.  When i tried to
explain that we were on a moving bus and that going out on the porch wasn't
possible, he became violently agitated.  This frightened Matr, who, fearing
for my safety, wanted me to just leave him alone.  i couldn't just leave
Dizzy to spin out of control, so i chose to try and put up with his fits.
Although, i must admit, that when he pulled out his large pocket knife and
began to frantically jab and cut at the shoe laces of his shoe while he
tried to force it onto the wrong foot, i did become worried for everyone's
safety.
        Looking through his medication i found an anti-anxiety agent and
suggested he take one.  He claimed that he'd already gotten an
anti-depressant (amitriptyline) and anti-anxiety pill (a benzodiazepine
derivative), but he had dropped them on the floor.  He refused to take any
new pills - -because he'd already gotten the others out and would only
swallow those pills.
        i fetched a small flashlight from my backpack and started combing
the floor of the bus.  i had to crawl on my hands and knees while excusing
my way through the multitude of feet.  i finally managed to find the two
pills which he promptly swallowed.  Then i headed to the front of the bus
and explained everything to the bus driver.  i felt that if we could manage
Dizzy for another twenty minutes or so, until his meds kicked in, that he'd
be fine.  For the next half-an-hour i played interference with Dizzy's
attacks until finally he seemed to simply snap out of it.  Having suffered
short term memory loss, he didn't remember what had happened but said, "I
probably verbally abused you and I'm sorry.  Thank you for your help."
        i told him, "Not a problem," quickly shut my eyes and fell
immediately asleep.  Twenty minutes later i was awakened by Dizzy who was
again tearing apart his backpack.
        i inquired, "Dizzy, are you okay?  You seem agitated again."
        That is when he frenziedly assured me that, "I am not agitated
doctor.  I just want to go out on the porch for a cigarette."





        This is when i began to worry that we'd have to pull over and call
for medical help.  If that did happen i had every intention of staying with
him until help arrived, but it was then i realized that my luggage was on
the other bus, which was headed all the way to Chicago.
        At a ten minute rest stop Matr and i managed to get Dizzy outside
for his much anticipated cigarette.  It wasn't an easy task though, just
getting him to stop pacing back and forth looking for the cigarettes that
were in his hand took a good five minutes.  He was adorable though as he
nervously smoked his cigarette - - his curly white hair messed up and
tattered in a crazed monstrosity while he stood there next to the bus with
only one shoe on, which of course, was cut up and on the wrong foot.
        i asked my bus driver if i could get my luggage from the other bus
in case we had to stop and take care of Dizzy.
        The bus driver told me with great assuredness, "Not to worry, if
that happened your luggage will simply be waiting for you in Chicago!"
        i exclaimed, "But i'm not going to Chicago!"
        "Oh," he replied, "Then you better talk to the other bus driver."
        The other bus driver explained that he couldn't unload my luggage
unless it was my authorized stop.  After i explained the situation to him he
calmly explained,
"Not to worry, if things go bad you can simply pick up your baggage in
Chicago."
        That is when, for the briefest of moments, i wanted to just make it
my official stop, grab my shit, and take my chances hitchhiking.  But, not
wanting to let go of the responsibility i'd taken on with Dizzy, and being a
glutton for punishment, i returned to my bus where i spent the entire
evening and following morning nursing him.
        The one positive thing about Dizzy's attacks was it managed to
silence Gangster Boy.  Gangster Boy seemed genuinely disturbed by the whole
incident and during a break in Dizzy's anxiety he boyishly asked if Matr and
i wanted to play knuckles with him (a game where you draw cards and the
winner gets to painfully strike the loser's knuckles).  When i declined with
a slight sarcasm i saw the lonely boy that lived in his eyes as he forced a
smile, curled up, and went to bed.
        We were running late into Omaha - - the city where i had to
officially transfer my luggage to another bus, so i spent the few moments i
had delaying my new bus while getting the baggage handler to get my luggage
off the other bus.  With much effort i was able to prevent my luggage from
visiting Chicago.  Unfortunately, i wasn't really able to say goodbye to
Dizzy, Matr, Gangster Boy and the others like i had wanted.  The stress of
that trip together had formed a connection that i won't long forget.






        On my new bus i struck up a conversation with a young Mexican who'd
just gotten out of jail for strong arm assault.  He bragged, "They couldn't
bust me for the ounce of cocaine because I'd been able to ditch it.  I'm the
only one in my family to never have been busted for cocaine."  He further
explained that because he'd just fathered a child with his fifteen year-old
girlfriend, he was going to stay clean, get a high-school diploma, and with
a little luck, become a professional DJ mixing records at a fancy nightclub.

        J. met me at the bus stop in Ottumwa, Iowa, just sixty miles from
'Dancing Rabbit'.  Having survived my bus trip and finding myself in the
arms of my pen pal, it was a greeting charged with a feeling of immense
resolution - - like the final tonic chord in Beethoven's 'Ode To Joy'.
        Because 'Dancing Rabbit' is always concerned about resource use, J.
was to pick up several items for the community while she was in town.  We
dropped by a bike shop and picked up some tubes for a bicycle, stopped at a
Chinese restaurant for lunch where i recounted my bus ride through hell,
rented a large air compressor that was to be used in stuccoing the strawbail
house that they were in the process of making, and finally visited
Kirksville, Missouri, to pick up a friend of theirs named S.A.D..  It seemed
that another intentional community - - 'Sandhill', was throwing a birthday
party for one of its members and S.A.D. was to attend.
        S.A.D. is an early twenties, cute, pimply-faced bundle of nerves.
She was also from Seattle, and after several moments of conversation we
determined that i had been a school bus driver for her high school at the
time she had gone there.  This comradery made her feel at ease, and in no
time at all she was telling us of her rugged childhood, her dreams of
marriage with her lover, their plans for living off the land, their immense
fear of the Y2K computer virus and their overall apocalyptic anxiety.  Not
wanting to freak her out anymore than she already was,
i resisted my urge to "Phil" her in on what i know of the approaching chaos
and the underlying conspiracy that i uncovered and speak about in my earlier
written works.
        S.A.D. had a vast collection of costumes that she was bringing for
the party.  It seemed in a way almost painfully symbolic - - a young woman
who disguises an immense psychological burden carrying a vast array of
costumes to a party.
        With a population just over one-hundred, the actual town of
Rutledge, Missouri, is only a post office, gas station, two fix it shops,
car wash and a large grocery store that is run by Mennonites.  Scotland
County (the county that Rutledge, 'Dancing Rabbit' and 'Sandhill' lie in) is
full of Mennonites and Amish, and from what everyone told me, they seem to
get along with the intentional communities rather well.  In fact, we passed
a couple of Amish horse and buggies trotting down the road on the way to the
community.





        'Dancing Rabbit' is located one mile north of Rutledge down a long
dirt road.  My first impression as we pulled up to the main house, named
Skyhouse, was one of disappointment.  It was two cream colored trailers
stuck side to side with only a wooden barn and a rather large vegetable
garden flanking it.  This image seemed to shoot my vision of their self
described ecovillage to pieces.  There was the sound of a small wind turban
buzzing above Skyhouse as a breeze flooded our senses with that distinctive
smell of cow manure emanating from the huge grass plain on the neighboring
Mennonite farmland.
        J. led me across a dirt road to an impressively large brown and
white machine shed complete with a small solar panel on the roof.  This was
where their bio-diesel lab was located in which they turned corn oil into
automobile fuel.  Inside one of the rooms of the shed we found A.A. with a
young Mennonite farmer.  The Mennonite had brought over several bags of
freshly cut wool that A.A. was going to experiment with by using it as
insolation.  J. and i proceeded to assist them in pulling out the wool which
had been tightly packed into the huge bags.
        A.A. is J.'s natural brother and was one of the founders of 'Dancing
Rabbit'.  He's a strong virulently masculine man in his mid-twenties whose
deep mysterious blue eyes robs you of any tangible first impressions.  He's
one of the few omnivorous rabbits in the community.  He even owns a shotgun
and hunts.  A.A. is definitely not what you expect in a vegan oriented
post-hippie environmental commune, but then again, diversity is what they
preach, and A.A. is the practice.  For myself, his ruggedness and possession
of a firearm appeals to the left side of my Anarchistic nature, and given
what i foresee as the eventual collapse of the Great American Empire i'm
relieved in knowing that J. will be safe next to him.
        J. proceeded to show me the rest of the two-hundred and eighty acre
spread.  Neighboring the machine shed was a timeworn school bus that had
been turned into living quarters.  Further down the trail as we passed four
grain bins we came to a large sheltered outdoor kitchen that was made out of
a pole barn.  Next to the kitchen - - which was now home to dozens of drying
flowers, was a medium sized herb garden with a tall pole where a dinner bell
rested.  Several unused and dilapidated barns also littered the area
bordering the kitchen.
        The natural lay of the land was most enchanting.  A huge poplar and
elm tree defiantly made their mark.  Continuing down the trail to the back
end of the property we walked in knee-high fescue and red canary grass.
Towards the pond that is used as a swimming hole i found a mix of hawthorne,
choke cherries, maple and fruit trees.  The pond, one of many, was truly a
swimmer's paradise.
A small dock led out to a clear blue pool which was shaded at the other end
with a cornucopia of autumn colors.
        At the end of the property was a trailer, an outhouse, a camper
(which is where J. and i slept), and finally a newly almost completed
strawbail house resting near a large wooden frame that will support a
similar such project.



        Then we headed back down to the double trailer dubbed Skyhouse so i
could meet a few of the other rabbits that make up the ten or so regulars of
the community.
        The entrance to Skyhouse was littered with hanging coats and shoes
that were piled on a squared linoleum floor.  To the right of the front door
was a kind of makeshift computer room where there's also a stereo with a
handful of tapes.
i couldn't help but notice there were a lot of compact discs but no compact
disc player; and ironically they had a DAT machine, but of course there were
no DAT tapes.  The corner of the room was littered with boxes of stored
goods.
        The living room was created by simply facing two couches together.
The floor was covered with a thick dirty grey carpet which was littered with
toys that belonged to the cutest of all the rabbits - - S..
        S., who wasn't even two years old, is an incredibly intelligent and
talkative community protege whose charming round face and hazel saucer eyes
are foundation for a handful of uncombed blonde hair which is anchored by
his two wing-like ears.
        The walls of the living room were adorned with various pictures
including several 'Grateful Dead' stills, a marvelous landscape photograph
taken by another resident rabbit - - R.C. (whose momentary arrival was
eliciting much fanfare),
and a phenomenal black and white finger painted style portrait of S..
        Separating the living room from the dining room was a bookshelf
which was full of environmental and sustainability themes with the
occasional work of fiction - - 'The Tao Of Pooh' and Conrad's 'Heart Of
Darkness' stood out.
        The dining room was simply a brown medium-sized dinning table with a
hodge podge of chairs surrounding it.  The room itself was home to a rather
large community of flies - - both living and dead.
        The kitchen was full of five-gallon buckets that contained the likes
of soybeans, wheat berries, sorghum, honey and almond butter.  Adjacent to
these were several buckets that separated garbage into compost, burnables,
recycling and landfill.
        Two hallways - - one from the living room and one from the dinning
room, led to the three bedrooms and two bathrooms that made up the rest of
Skyhouse.  The dinning room hallway also served as a makeshift clothesline
that was mazed back and forth with drying clothes and diapers.
        Despite the tattered appearance, Skyhouse in no way seemed
unsanitary.  The dishes were all washed and the food was properly stored, it
just seemed a bit crowded.
        L. - - who is mother to S. and companion to A.A., was definitely the
matriarch of 'Dancing Rabbit'.  Eye glasses quietly resting on full cheeks
that are backdropped by dark brown hair flowing down to her large
milk-filled breasts all work to elucidate a consummate motherly demure about
her.  This beauty is capped off by her thickly haired legs, which i must
confess, i found rather appealing.


        L. is a midwife, so consequently she was in preparation to go and
deliver a child for one of her clients and didn't come with us to the party
at 'Sandhill'.  Then J. and i hopped into the van with a warren of dancing
rabbits and headed over to the 'Sandhill' party.
        J. had hyped the party by stating that Fleetwood, the birthday
recipient, had mentioned that as her present, she wanted everyone to eat ice
cream off her naked body.  Although she had said that, the party itself
hadn't the least of such extravagances, the apex being that most everyone
simply tossed on one of S.A.D.'s costumes.  i chose a long purple dress with
a southern tied bonnet.
        The party was located at Sandhill's main house - - a rather large
rustic wooden home with an elegant enclosed porch complete with swinging
chairs.  As a newcomer it was hard for me to approximate the overall regular
population of the 'Sandhill' community.  There were a group of people from
the 'East Wind' community who had come to 'Sandhill' to help in their
harvest of the sorghum crop in a work exchange for a portion of the crop.
In addition to that group, i discovered through various conversations that
there were a number of people who seemed to float from place to place - -
with a large community by the name of 'Twin Oaks' being frequently mentioned
as a hub of sorts.  For the dinner meal itself at least twenty of us circled
in the kitchen, held hands, and sang a song before eating what was a
delicious home-cooked vegan potluck.
        S.A.D. began suffering from an asthma attack so i took her outside
in the fresh air and taught her some breathing exercises.  She seemed
unaware of her progressing condition and wasn't even sure what she was
suffering from.  Having lived with asthma my entire life i assured her that
she was indeed experiencing an asthma attack and suggested that she see a
doctor along with beginning a regular diet, breathing and allergy
maintenance program.
        Then, leaving the party in the rather early stages, we all jumped in
the van and headed back to 'Dancing Rabbit'.  After three days of
'Greyhound', sleeping in J.'s camper was pure bliss as i stretched out on a
lower bed that she'd put together.
        My dreams were made up of a single continuous story which included a
cast of childhood friends, family and new acquaintances that ran from the
moment i went to sleep until i awoke.  Unfortunately, the adventure began on
a rather frightening note.  A snake was about to bite a group of us who were
camping when i sprang down and bit it.  At the moment my teeth penetrated
the flesh of the snake it metamorphosed into a ravishing darkly
coarse-haired woman and i found myself drawing a mouthful of spicy and
sticky warm blood from her finger.  This sucking of her blood aroused in her
a great wave of primal sensuousness as her eyes dilated and then turned into
rubies.  Then i was overcome with the heavy scent of her vaginal secretions.
This Lilith visitation inspired me to bring up the topic with several of the
rabbits who seemed to know very little of the Lilith myth.




        The next day it was J.'s turn to cook the community meal for
everyone so
i volunteered to prepare it with her.  J. let me rifle through the cook
books and choose the meal based on what was available to harvest in the
garden.  Broccoli quiche and glazed carrots grabbed me while J. planned to
bake some bread along with a delicious panned brownie style dessert.  The
quiche recipe called for a substantial amount of tofu.  This is when i
learned that the meals at 'Dancing Rabbit' are truly made from scratch.  i
discovered that first i had to actually make the tofu.  It was a good thing
is was only noon, for this meal would take the entire day to construct.  i
made a large batch of farmer's tofu (a slightly faster version) separating
the soy curds and whey and pressing the remainder into a couple of blocks
for use later.
        Afterward, when i was out in the garden picking the broccoli and
carrots with J., she confessed a feeling of angst and disorganization at our
having to cook so much without knowing how or where anything was.  i assured
her that i was having a blast and would simply do the best that i could.  My
response wasn't received very well.  She complained that her feeling could
be systemic from being a woman in a gender biased society and that my
courage to simply improvise is a skill that has been subtly denied to her.
        i couldn't help but to smile at the complex gender analysis of what
to me seemed no problem at all and this heightened the isolation J. was now
expressing in her tear filled eyes.  i try at all times to empathize with
the conditions that living in a dominator (i.e. sexist, racist, homophobic
and xenophobic) society imposes on those who it isolates, yet i also try to
actively steer clear of the self-imposed elitism that pity affords those who
are privileged.  This equation sometimes means that i must simply accept
that i don't know what in the fuck she is talking about, give her a hug, and
go back into the house and cook the meal.
        J. and i both felt our meal was a smashing success.  The quiche
turned out liked we'd hoped, her fresh baked bread and brownie dessert was
superb, and the sorghum and vodka glaze i had cooked up for the carrots was
the perfect complement.  Again before the meal everyone circled, held hands,
and was led in song by J..  It seems that the chef of the meal gets to
choose the song that is sung.  From my time there at the community it felt
as if there must be some Earth-based community songbook that everyone was
familiar with.  Every night, except one, a different song was sung in which
everyone seemed to know it like it was an accepted community classic.  i
never once recognized one of these songs and so simply hummed along in a
spirit of fellowship.  Had i known that the chef chose the song, when J. and
i cooked, i would have requested the singing of a song i knew.  Furthermore,
in nurturing my iconoclastic tendencies i would have chosen something like
the second verse of The Beatles' 'Revolution 1' or maybe a piece of
Nirvana's 'All Apologies'.





        After the meal i struck up an incredibly stimulating conversation
with Pa.  Earlier, the sound of Pa's car arriving had caused several rabbits
to guess aloud that R.C. had finally arrived.  With all of the anticipatory
enthusiasm at R.C.'s arrival one could only imagine what a character he must
be.  But instead of R.C. it had turned out to be Pa.  Pa is the father of
one of the founding rabbits and was visiting the community for a couple of
days.  He's a short, fairly handsome, balding older man whose thick New York
accent spills from a sweeping tooth filled grin.
        Politically Pa is an educated and progressive leftist who loves to
debate the issues.  He's one of those rare breeds who approaches a
discussion in search of a greater awareness.  Consequently, he will
acquiesce and humbly give up ground in the pursuit of reaching his
discusser's territory.  Since our politics were somewhat similar i chose to
challenge his atheistic tendencies and began spinning my field of
consciousness - - patterns of Nature - - Universal Mind ideas that i put
forth in my book 'Satoriville'.  i totally loved his point-counterpoint
skills and amidst our discussion realized that in my spiritual retreat, i'd
forgotten how healthy and fun a real argument can be.
        Later, after others joined us, he began explaining his job and the
issues he has working for a large multi-national aluminum company.  It
seemed his company was taken over by an even larger company, and now,
although his position was an immensely powerful one it was going to be
eliminated.
        After a while Pa's revolutionary shadow began to show itself as he
commenced into hypothetical fantasy.  He explained to us how simple it would
be to shut down a smelter.  By cutting off the flow of electricity for a
number of hours to the smelter, the aluminum would harden and destroy the
plant.  See, once the plants become operational they can never turn off.
That is why they always have a back-up power source that would also have to
be disabled.
        Then he was careful to qualify that shutting down one plant would
only raise the price of aluminum causing profits to rise for the others and
warranting the manufacture of more plants.  The only way you could do it
would be to simultaneously shut them all down, which wouldn't be that hard,
because there aren't all that many of them.
        Of course he was only fantasizing a romantic industrial prankster
scenario and in no way was condoning such an act.  But nevertheless, within
him, i realized the subversive seed that exists in those wise intellectuals
that have now risen into power from the revolutionary times of the sixties.
And given that hidden potential and my natural ability to tap into it, i,
even more than ever, realized why i had been shut down and exorcised from
television, radio and film.







        Amidst our discussion an emergency phone call came in which J. took.
A friend of theirs, who, like L., was also a midwife, had had complications
in a home delivery.  There had been a lot of blood loss and the mother and
baby had been transferred to the hospital.  All was well, but she was
worried that one of the family members might complain.
        To my surprise i discovered that in several of the Midwestern states
midwifery is against the law.  Although it is not enforced, the practice is
technically a felony (practicing medicine without a license) and when things
go wrong, it promotes a general fear.  She was calling to find out if the
need arose, if she
could come hide out there.  Everyone gave a thumbs up.
        The call naturally spawned a heated debate over the issues of the
safety in licensing, the A.M.A. monopoly, and the control of a woman's body.
J. brought up the fact that in Los Angeles there's an effort to make hair
braiding (a popular African American female hairstyle) illegal without a
license.  It seems the local hairstylists want to protect their monopoly on
hair.  J.'s point was the authorities want to license women who give their
own births and fix their own hair.  "What's next?" she exclaimed, "A license
to be a woman."
        Friday, my third day at 'Dancing Rabbit', was hands down the most
enjoyable.  The day was exceptionally warm for a mid October Missouri day.
Back by the strawbail house Pa was helping his son C.C. make a huge batch of
stucco that was to be used to cover the house.  i went back and started
helping Pa shovel clay into buckets and poor it into a tarped pool in which
C.C. was mixing with water.  The idea was to mix it up into a pudding
consistency, then transfer it into another pool where it would be mixed with
sand, straw and oatmeal.  This mixing process wasn't an easy task.  C.C. was
standing in the pool mashing it with his bare feet like an Italian grape
stomper.
        i had my greatest success in developing a deeper personal
understanding of C.C. than with anyone else except, of course, J..  At times
i felt i truly glimpsed long into the character and grace of his persona.
        C.C. has brown eyes that peer out from a distinctively angled nose
and forehead which seem to rest on a matt of scruffy facial hair.  His body
is thin and almost lanky yet this is contrasted by his toned muscles that
are formed by his constant energetic enthusiasm.  A chestnut Jew fro atop
his head definitely outs his lineage.  His voice is a pleasant deep-throated
joviality which works to give his constant outpouring of jokes a certain
comedic edge.
        After Pa and i had caught up with the necessary amount of clay i
joined C.C. in stomping the pool of mud while we told each other every joke
we could remember.  One of his better gags was called the "Bronzed Rat."







        There was this Gentleman who had one of those friends for whom you
could never find the right gift.  With the friend's birthday fast
approaching, the Gentleman began a frantic search all over the country for a
truly unique present.  His quest brought him to Seattle, Washington, where
in the 'Public Market' he happened upon a Mystical Asian curiosity shop.
Inside, he found the most intriguing bronzed rat that he'd ever laid his
eyes upon.  The Gentleman asked the old Asian Sage, "How much for the
bronzed rat?"
        The Sage replied, "Twenty dollars for the rat.  A thousand dollars
for the story."  The Gentleman handed him a twenty, thanked him and left.
As he exited the shop he noticed that a live rat was following him.  He
began to pick up his pace when all around from the various shops several
more rats appeared and started to follow him.  He began to worry and headed
out of the 'Public Market' increasing his pace to a light jog.  Once he
started down the street hundreds of rats began to poor from the neighboring
buildings sending the Gentleman running to the waterfront in a fast sprint.
        There he stopped at the end of one of Seattle's long piers, turned
and looked back, and saw a thousand plus army of rats heading directly
toward him.  Finally, right as the rats were about to converge on him he
tossed the bronzed rat far into the bay.  The rats all followed after the
bronzed statue, diving into the water and drowning in a splashing squeal of
horror.
        A few moments later the Gentleman was reentering the Asian curiosity
shop.  The Sage bowed to him and said, "Ah, you have come for the story,"
when the Gentleman replied, "Hell no, I'm just wondering if you have any
bronzed Republicans?"
        One of my jokes which elicited his most enthusiastic laugh was about
a Christian who was being chased through town by a Lion.  The Christian, in
a panic induced move, decided to flee down a road, turn, and head directly
into the woods.
        The woods being the Lion's natural domain allowed him to gain on the
Christian.  Soon the Christian realized that all was lost and stopped with
his back against a tree.  Just as the Lion was about to pounce on the
Christian, the Christian fell to his knees and prayed aloud, "Father, please
make this Lion a Christian!!!"
        Then a bolt of lightening hit a nearby tree, a crack of thunder
stirred the air, and a light seemed to glow all about.  Immediately the Lion
stopped, began to wobble, and finally came to rest in a praying position.
Then the Lion smiled and said, "Father, thank you for the food I'm now about
to eat."
        In between jokes we began to playfully challenge each other as to
who could stand on one foot and lean forward the farthest without falling
into the mud.  C.C. gracefully won this contest as he nearly touched the mud
with his nose.





        Soon J. joined us.  In a game that i believe exemplifies the
wondrously playful attitude that is so ingrained within the community, we
told her in order to stomp mud with us that she had to pass the initiation,
which was to balance on one foot and try and touch the mud with her nose
without falling, along with telling a joke.  Without much hesitation she
executed the one footed maneuver.  Then she told us a most hilarious joke
called: "The Story of the Wide-mouthed Frog."  Unfortunately it can't be
translated to the written word so i will relate a tasteless joke that she
followed it up with.  How does a Feminist get a man to help her wallpaper
the house?  By cutting him into very thin slices.
        Next H. - - a visiting quintessential hippy who practices yoga,
joined us.  He eloquently showed us all how the one foot maneuver should be
executed and then told us about the termite that went into a bar and asked,
"Where's the bartender?"  Actually, he initially fucked up the joke by
substituting a cockroach for a termite and when no one understood the pun he
realized his mistake.
        Later, several people from 'Sandhill' and 'East Wind' joined us and
soon we had a huge crowd of people stomping in the mud, balancing on one
foot and telling jokes.  Several people also inquired about the whereabouts
of R.C., having heard that he was soon to arrive - - but there was still no
word.  After we finished mixing the clay into a thick pudding texture we all
went skinny-dipping in the pond.
        After the swim i tossed on my favorite short black skirt and headed
down to Skyhouse to see what was cooking.  M., a decisively feminine man
whose soft blue eyes are framed by a square chin, was busy making burritos.
After a flirtatious compliment in regards to my skirt he immediately
solicited my assistance in preparing the meal.  i decided to grind up the
two large bricks of extra tofu i had made the day before and sauted it up
with some garlic, onion, soy sauce and various seasonings to make a kind of
ground soy burger for the burritos.
        While we were cooking M. had a tape of 'The Sundays' playing in the
kitchen.  Once we were caught up, i asked him if he wouldn't mind if i
rewound the tape to a favorite song of mine  - - 'This Is Where The Story
Ends' - - while i took a break and listened to the song.  i cranked the
music up and stood in the kitchen dancing around in my skirt in a
spontaneous and uninhibited groove.
        Back at home in Seattle, whenever i publicly engage in this dancing
behavior, i find it is unfortunately weighted down by other people's
insecurities.  Case in point: one night i was with Nick and Eve who are the
owners of the art gallery where i live.  We were in a local club whose
proprietor had read my latest script and had agreed to allow his club to be
a primary location for filming - - meaning it was a most friendly of
environments.  It was a slow weeknight so i walked over to the jukebox,
selected a couple of tunes and began to groove in my kind of free-form way
when Nick came over and laid into me that i was some kind of ego maniac
because i was always performing.



        The truth of the matter was, i in no way was performing because i
didn't give a shit whether anyone was watching or not, i was just having a
good time.  Often times i find people will vomit their insecurities on you
because they're jealous of the fact that you're free and uninhibited.
        Furthermore, whenever one of the artists at the gallery catches me
dancing in this manner on the studio floor it is always couched with
patronizing snickers.  From what i'm told, one of the artists, Lefty, even
does a pretty funny imitation of me (although she won't actually show it to
me).  i know these examples seem trite, but it is essential to set up the
context so i can effectively communicate the non-judging acceptance i felt
from the 'Dancing Rabbit' community.  As i danced and grooved in the
kitchen, i didn't pick up a single negative vibe from the one of them.  A
guy dancing like a fairy, alone, in a skirt, wasn't perceived as a
statement, satire, or symbolic of anything except someone who was still in
touch with their inner child.  And for me, this acceptance was a truly
divine moment that i will always cherish.  It was the essence of genuine
hospitality coming from what i perceived was a heartfelt community.
        Later, when we were about ready to serve the meal, Seph, a
Lolita-like pubescent girl who was visiting from 'Sandhill' came out of the
shower with her towel around her hair and not her body.  Nudity is an
accepted norm in the community, but the intent of her actions hinted that
she was trying to test the adults around her.  When no one complained or
made any notice of her she tired of her exhibition and went back and put her
clothes on.  i wanted to mention this because i was most impressed by the
psychology of what happened.
        No one coerced her with the dangerous shame that is so prevalently
used in regular society.  Besides the obvious harm one experiences by
feeling shamed by their own body, my feeling is when this form of discipline
is used, a false connection between a person's naked body and sex is made in
the child's mind creating distorted associations of sexuality which
ultimately will impair them.  It's bad enough that kids today are smothered
with "marketed" youthful sexuality to sell jeans, make-up and whatever else
advertisers can get away with, and then in the name of some perverted
morality our society condemns the behavior it actually exploits.
        After the meal i got into a huge discussion with K., an 'East Wind'
member who looks as if he's Arnold Schwarzenegger's twin.  He was a former
member of 'Earth First' and was telling me about some battles he'd had in
Idaho.  Another one of the obvious advantages in hanging out in this
community was the almost certain political conversations one could easily
find.








        Surprisingly, K. related a series of complaints about the 'East
Wind' community and confessed that he was considering moving elsewhere.
Later when i was talking with Z., another person from 'East Wind', she too
mentioned her dissatisfaction.  Obviously intentional communities are
fraught with some of the same socializing problems that besiege normal
society.   i think it's how they try and deal with these problems that is of
interest.  Though, at that moment, i was glad that i had chosen a community
that was still relatively new, so i could, for the time being, be free of
the monotony and personality clashes that would most probably eventually set
in.
        i went outside and danced in the swirling autumn wind and asked
Mother Earth to grant us a true Midwest storm.  One of the few drawbacks to
living in Seattle is its lack of dramatic weather.
        Later that evening, while J. and i were talking long into the night,
a stupendous thunder and lightening storm rolled in.  We ran out into the
rain naked and danced around like a couple of crazy kids - - it was grand.
Shortly after our juvenile jig, i found myself giving J. a back rub while
she sat topless on my bed.  For the briefest of seconds i found a hidden
sexual desire rising to the surface.
Of course, given the context that she had a lover, there was no way i could
act on it and simply let it vanish.
        Being a student of the 'I Ching' i consult it most every morning.
The 'I Ching' is a forty-five-hundred year-old ancient Chinese text that is
made up of sixty-four hexagrams.  Each hexagram represents a pattern of
change in Nature, society, and human beings, which embody the universal
patterns that lie beneath them.  Each one corresponds to an archetype of
present day thought.  By the random act of tossing yarrow sticks or coins,
you tap into the subtle energy fields around you.
        The next morning when i awoke i consulted the 'I Ching'.  In
response to the night before with J. i received Nourishing Truth with a
change line that read:
"The pursuit of desire and pleasure is the nourishment that does not
nourish.  It is possible to throw one's entire life away in this fashion.
On recognizing this, the superior person detaches himself and returns to the
path of the Sage."
        i decided to spend the rest of the day alone in the camper - -
reading, writing and in meditation.  After it got dark i headed down to
Skyhouse where Ty had cooked up some stir-fry vegetables along with a savory
dish of baked beets and potatoes.  Unfavorably, the stir-fry seemed to have
a healthy supply of lupers
(a parasitical worm that lives on the broccoli) which challenged my
definition of vegetarianism among other things.
        Ty wears his curly hair in two short pigtails which perfectly
complements his pronounced chin and pouty female lips.  His expressions
sometimes give you a sense that he's somewhere else, deep in thought.  And
even when he's fully engaged he still doesn't express his enthusiasm in
regular facial aspects, but in sweeping and pronounced hand gestures.



        At the sound of an approaching vehicle everyone exclaimed that R.C.
had finally arrived.  It turned out to be B. & D., two immensely charming
rabbit friends who were going to stay for a while.  B. is an extremely
beautiful man with gorgeous auburn eyes that match the long sweeping locks
that grace his head.  D. is an engaging, short, blonde, blue-eyed pixie.
        i was fairly removed from the festivity of their arrival having a
rather sore side.  A couple of days before leaving on my trip i had cracked
one of my ribs, which, because of the shoveling and lifting of the clay for
the stucco the day before, now hurt like holy hell.
        Back in Washington i had been playing with my four-year old nephew
on a huge jungle gym that my step-father had constructed for him.  He had
never climbed the rope ladder all the way to the top.  So, after i finally
managed to assist him in conquering it, he wanted me to slide down a very
tall and winding kiddy slide with him.  i sat my nephew up on my lap and
with much dramatic fanfare proceed to slide down.  On the top turn, because
of my height, we fell over the rim of the slide and headed for the rocky
ground below.  Instinctively, without a thought, i pulled him into me and
turned my body to protect his - - taking the full force of the fall onto the
rocks with my side.  My nephew hollered with delight,
"Do it again!"
        For myself, this instinctive maneuvering of my body was a
breakthrough of sorts.  When i was in my early twenties just beginning to
date my ex, while camping at Glacier National Park, i had a similar survival
reaction with an entirely different outcome.  The band that we were in had
decided to camp at the park while we played a nearby club in Coram, Montana,
for the week.  The first night camping we'd foolishly left a bunch of food
and garbage in front of the tent before retiring.  Consequently, we were
visited by a large bear in the middle of the night.  Panic ensued as we all
awoke to find him loudly rummaging through everything.  Our guitar player
even got out his handgun in case the bear charged the tent.  In all honesty,
our guitar player frantically waving around a loaded pistol in a crowded
tent probably posed a greater threat to our safety than the bear.  Besides,
a .22 caliber pistol would probably only piss off a large grizzly bear
causing him to eat us purely out of anger.  Fortunately, after only messing
up the outside of our campsite our friendly bear wandered off without any
such conflict materializing.
        The next evening, after carefully disposing of the food and garbage
we all fell fast asleep.  In the middle of the night my ex (who then was
only a girlfriend in the very beginning stages) had a horrific nightmare in
which she was being stabbed to death with a bayonet from a soldier.  She
started screaming, "He's got me!  He's got me!"







        i awoke from my sleep to find myself pushing her out of the tent
while i was hollering, "The bear has got her!  The bear has got her!"  Of
course i felt totally embarrassed that my subconscious instinctive reaction
was to feed her to the bear in the hopes of saving my own skin.  Although,
we were both lucky that our freaked out guitar player hadn't shot us both,
which of course, he was at that moment aiming to do.
        My ex never let me forget that night.  After we split up, in her
comedic retelling of that story she would always close by saying, "I should
have known then whose interest you'd protect."
        For me, my instinctive behavior with my nephew signified a change in
my subconscious behavior.  Having spent several years on a spiritual path
trying to shed off the obsessively self interested ego i started my life
with, i now feel i've actually matured a great deal.  This simple protective
act was a significant one for me.  It represented a shift of self from the
inside to the outside - - a birth of altruism.
        Before leaving i shared the story with my ex (we're still very good
friends).  She claimed that it only proves that blood is thicker than water
- - that the instinctive maneuver i had exhibited stemmed from a genetic
connection i have with my nephew.  This view of the event was also shared by
J..  Several of the other rabbits in the 'Dancing Rabbit' discussion that
followed the telling of this story sided with me - - that blood itself is
perception.  And it is that perception of kinship that forms the heart of a
community and the courage that is often found in foxholes.
        Nevertheless, after the deliberation, as my rib throbbed with pain,
L.,
who along with being the matriarch and midwife was also a kind of
naturopathic nurse, made me a comfrey poultice using a water bottle, one of
S.'s clean diapers, and some fresh comfrey leaves which we picked from the
herb garden out by the outdoor kitchen.  This worked to ease my aching rib
and expedite the healing process.  Then i walked up to the camper and fell
asleep as a Missouri chill began to fall upon us.
        The next morning they had their regular Sunday meeting in which
everyone talks about how they feel, grievances, what they would like to see
happen, and plan the itinerary for the following week and beyond.  Everyone
but A.A. was in attendance.  He had been feeling very ill and chose to just
lay in bed.  Because of his illness, except for that first day out in the
machine shed i hadn't had much interaction with him at all.
        The meeting was led by Fry.  At twenty-one, Fry is the youngest of
the adults at 'Dancing Rabbit'.  He has short dark hair that blends into a
half-mooned beard which is dashed with a small goatee and french mustache.
He is the most ethnic of the group with a deep olive hue to his skin.  His
squinty eyes peer through hipster beatnik glasses as he rambles in an
endless froggy sounding diatribe.



        Out of the warren of rabbits there Fry was the most vocal in his
embracement of Anarchistic ideas.  We actually have a lot in common - -
including our appreciation of J..  He is her lover.
        To my surprise, Fry showed no signs of jealousy at all the time i
was spending with J..  Only once, early in the morning, when he came up to
the camper to wake us up had i felt any really funny feelings from him.
When anyone else would wake us up they'd simply pound on the side of the
camper.  When he did, he opened the door and peered inside giving me a look
and feeling that he was making sure that we weren't sleeping in the same bed
before he said aloud, "Time to wake up."
        The whole situation between them is a strange one.  J. rationalizes
that she loves Fry, but is not in love with him, and given the context of
the surroundings (by living in a commune), feels that it is okay for her to
sleep with him.  Fry, on the other hand, constantly confesses his love to
her and approaches the relationship in the hopes that she will change her
mind.
        When J. sprang this situation on me in a letter right before leaving
for 'Dancing Rabbit' i was leery of even going.  i couldn't help but to
think that i could unintentionally be used as an instrument in defining J.'s
independence in the relationship and worried that by displacing Fry from the
camper, in addition to spending the time i was hoping i could with J., would
produce a weird social dynamic between he and i.
        Fortunately there were no uncomfortable sentiments with Fry.  And J.
and i got to actually spend a lot of time talking about the spiritual nature
of relationships along with prevailing ideas of free love.  My concern,
which is still unresolved, is that in any situation where two people are
having sex for different reasons, there comes into play factors of use and
manipulation, which by no means leads to a healthy relationship between
those involved.  And, although i have no problem with those who just want to
equally fuck each other's brains out, i no longer find any real pleasure in
such a path.  Amidst my own sexual revolution, while touring across Canada
in a rock band having limitless sex that boarded on debauchery,
i never in my whole life felt so alone.  As Kahil Gibran poignantly told us:
"The well that overfloweth brings forth the thirst that is unquenchable."
        The Sunday meeting was great.  Everyone checked in - - including Pa
and i.  i witnessed another fine example of how to deal with the problems
that could arise by living in a community.  The meeting's tone was set by M.
who was worried about his dog Bill.  M. was going away the next day (he was
going to catch a ride with Pa) and had to make sure that everyone would care
for Bill in his absence.  Bill and M. were very close.  The last time he'd
left, Bill had suffered from some serious depression.  M. kept assuring
himself aloud that, "This will be good for Bill.  He has to learn to be
independent."  The whole scene was extremely cute.




        i asked if everyone would pose for a group picture which they agreed
to.  Someone made a joke: "Is this for the F.B.I. file?"
        i wanted to respond by saying, "Actually, i'm still so closely
monitored by the FEDS that everything i do does go into a file."  But,
without them knowing the multitude of pranks against the FEDS and my media
successes with them, such a comment would make them think i was just being
paranoid, or even worse, feed their paranoia by not getting the gist of the
joke.
        When it came to dividing up the work i volunteered for some child
care which began directly after the meeting.  S. and i played with homemade
playdoe,
i read him a book, we went next door and played on the Mennonite farmer's
tractor, and finally walked down the road and said hello to the farmer's
cows.
        It was really eery when we walked down to the field because every
one of the fifty or so cows stopped what it was doing and just stared at us
the entire time.  They didn't seem frightened or anything, but i still felt
the necessity to loudly explain to them that we were vegetarians and not to
worry.
        The dinner that night was cooked by C.C. - - Cajun beans, coleslaw
and super tasty ginger cookies.  This was the only time that we did not sing
a song before our meal.  C.C. chose to skip the song explaining to
everyone's protest but mine, "Too much of a good thing robs it of its
specialness."
        In the middle of the meal, while we were talking about how some
women can make money by selling their once worn and dirty panties to
perverts via the mail, the conversation took a turn for the worse and we
started making jokes about how S. could sell his once worn and dirty
diapers.  This gross out came to an end when S. suddenly violently vomited
all over himself.  This had to be one of the grossest dinner scenes i've
ever actually experienced - - man were those Cajun beans tasty.
        Later that night, after several mentions of R.C.'s imminent arrival,

we divided up into teams and played a very closely matched and exciting game
of 'Trivial Pursuit.'
        The next morning J. and i went on a long trip into Iowa with L., S.
and D.  (nothing cryptic, i just couldn't resist the pun).  L. had to visit
her patient for an afterbirth check-up (the birth had gone very well).
After the check-up, which was in Fairfield, Iowa, she was going to drive to
Ottumwa to rent a van so A.A., L. and her, could have a vehicle to drive to
her family's place in Tennessee for a wedding they were leaving for on the
following day.  This meant that she needed someone to come along to drive
back the original vehicle.  D. followed us in her automobile all the way to
Fairfield to simply have lunch with us, then continued on to Chicago where
she was going to live while attending massage school.







        The car ride there was an absolute blast with the three of us
singing 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star' and 'Ba Ba Black Sheep' a zillion
times to S.'s giggling delight.  J. sang a wondrous solo version of 'Sweet
Violets' and then, with a little prodding, L. sang a hauntingly shy and
beautiful version of 'In My Life' by 'The Beatles'.  During the songs i
began to feel vastly connected with their spirits and for the first time
actually imagined myself living there at the community with them.       i
had already fantasized such an idea and talked it over with Fry - -
mentioning that i didn't think it possible because of all of the work it
involves which would interfere with my spiritual studies and writing career.
Fry had assured me that i didn't have to spend so much of my time working;
that in the future the rabbits envision a whole community of people which
would included crafts-people, artists and professionals all doing their own
thing.  As nice as it sounded, it still had seemed only words, not until
that feeling in the car did i finally send my imaginative wheels spinning.
        Fairfield is the home of the Maharishi Institute (a huge school
founded by Maharishi Mahesh Yogi - - the guy who had turned on 'The
Beatles').  So consequently, my first city experience after almost a week at
the community was strikingly surreal.  Fairfield has two large grassy town
squares - - including one with a huge clock that looked like something out
of a fifties Capra movie.  The street across from the square where we parked
had a large natural foods grocery, several spiritual book stores, and a
vegetarian Thai restaurant all nearby.  In addition, we were greeted by a
host of smiling faces that radiated with a warmth of indelible kindness.
        In the restaurant we had a most enjoyable goodbye meal with D..
Later i noted to J. that i'd felt a funny vibe coming from D. - - the kind
you get from someone who has just become single and is in those first stages
of looking around.  Because B. & D. were involved in a relationship this
impression felt out of context, so i just dismissed it.
        After the meal, we went to Utopia Lane right across the street from
the Marashi Institute where L. had to see her patient.  J. played with S. on
a huge grass field surrounding the institute while i went snooping around
the two sizable meditation domes.  i found a door ajar in each, so i quietly
went in, took a couple of pictures and left.  Then we all headed to Ottumwa
so L. could rent the van.       When we arrived at the rental place i was
overcome with a spontaneous inspiration of silliness.  It started with a
tossing of a rock at a telephone pole which J. warned me against while
pointing to a bunch of shiny new cars across the street.  i told her to
relax and then proceeded to miss the pole and ding one of the lustrous new
automobiles.  As we scampered toward the entrance of the rental place we
both felt powerful negative vibes coming from two big Red-Necks who were
hanging out by the door.  It didn't matter that they hadn't seen my mishap,
they just plain didn't like us.




        J. stopped and struck up a conversation with them that segued into
bio-diesel.  i went inside to check on L. and S..  While L. was filling out
the paperwork with a woman at the table, S. was in a back room playing with
two young girls who couldn't have been more than five years old.  i went
into the back room and joined them - - pretending to get an emergency phone
call on their play phone.
        The room was a dismal pit of despair.  It was littered with garbage
and old food that was augmented with some disgusting looking fast-food
mcnuggets.  The walls had several risque pictures including a pin-up of Lori
Morgan in lingerie.
        The children seemed to be fraught with a cloak of emotional
abandonment.  Analogous to the articles that were all strewn about the room,
they appeared like forgotten accoutrements, existing only in the whimsical
musings of their own  imaginations; living, breathing obstacles; who
littered the lives of the adults who were around them.  i was overcome with
their loneliness and smitten with a subtle feeling that was solitary and
lamentable.
        The elder of the two, Tess, is a cute little blonde.  Once i
established her trust she confessed to me that she was an artist.  She ran
and got a picture she had drawn.  It was a magic marker board that had a
writhing chaos of felted black lines scribbled all about it.  Right in the
middle of this sea of disorder was a tiny red cacographic symbol.  She
called the work 'Barbie Saves The Airplane Wreck'.
        i was immediately touched by a profound awareness that she was the
Barbie, who was so desperately wanting to save herself and the others from
the timeless and tumultuous wreck which now engulfed their lives.  i grabbed
her art and went running outside to show J., who immediately praised it.
        i said, "Tess, are you going to be a painter when you grow up?"
        J. responded, "She is a painter!"
        i agreed by saying, "That's right Tess, you are a painter."
        Then one of the Red-Neck's mumbled, "No - - she's just a pain."
        At this Tess and i returned inside while J. stayed outside and
continued talking diesel with the Red-Necks.
        When L. was all done and about to go i pulled up my shorts to my
chest and gave myself a samurai ponytail and began doing a goofy Ed Grimly
impersonation.  This totally freaked out J. who actually covered her eyes
while pleading with me to stop.  Needless to say, i made quite an impression
on the Red-Necks.  We said goodbye to L. and S. who got in the van and told
them to tell everyone that we were going back to Fairfield to catch a movie
('Holyman') and that we wouldn't be back till late.
        On our way out of Ottumwa, for some unexplained reason we were both
blanking on the actual name of Tess' picture - - only remembering something
like the plane wreck and Barbie.  i turned the car around and began driving
back to the car rental shop.
        J. worriedly asked, "What are you doing?"
        i explained, "i have to go back and get the actual name of the
picture.
i need to write about this in my story."


        She began to become concerned that we'd look foolish, and in not
wanting to additionally freak out those Red-Neck's she came up with a
scenario in which she would go inside to see if S. left a toy behind, then i
could just ask Tess what the name of her picture was.
        i said, "No.  i'll just run in and ask her straight out.  Who cares
what they'll think?"
        She gave me one of those smiles and said, "Okay whatever."
        i pulled up across the street and ran over to the office.  i
discovered they were closed, but saw the two Red-Necks inside.  i pounded on
the door for them to let me in.  They motioned that it was unlocked and to
enter.  i hurried in, and in a frantic voice said, "Is Tess still here?"
        They paused and looked at me in the most confounded of glances - -
replying in unison, "No."
        "Shit," i exclaimed.
        After a long silence in which their minds seemed spelled in an
eternity of unspoken loathing, they stood before me projecting their chagrin
upon me as they tried to fathom why in the fuck i wanted to talk to their
four year-old little girl.  Finally one of them said, "She's here everyday.
You can come back tomorrow."
        i nodded, and then after another long pause (to milk their amazement
of this freak in their midst) i confessed that i was a writer writing about
my trip here and that i wanted to know the name of her picture.
        They said, "Barbie something."
        i thanked them and returned to the car, where suddenly both J. and i
simultaneously remembered "Barbie Saves The Plane Wreck."
        Back in Fairfield, after scoring some healthy junk food, i treated
J. to 'Holyman' - - a slightly funny movie with a good premise about a Sage
named G., which was the impetus for the use of letters for some of the names
in this story.
(i always try and use some sort of thematic shtick to color my aliases in my
non-fiction stories.)
        Upon returning to 'Dancing Rabbit', while driving down the dirt road
to Skyhouse, we indeed caught glimpse of its namesake as two rabbits
hurriedly danced across the road in the spotlight of our high-beams.
        Later that evening during another late night discussion in the
camper J. asked me, "Why don't you move here?"
        i must stop here and take a moment to ask those readers who do not
know of my complicated life of revolution and its ensuing betrayal (which
has been hinted at upon these pages), and those who have heard of or read my
stories
but still cloak their eyes to my arguments and choose without research to
simply judge or patronize me with the malfeasances of apathy and ignorance,
to just for the time being, give me the benefit of the doubt.  For i know,
unequivocally, that my life is still closely monitored by rogue FEDS and
other villainous types, and if i did move to 'Dancing Rabbit', nefarious
two-faced assholes would surely follow.



        If your interest warrants further investigation, detailed
explanations of the truth to my claims are the impetus of my first two books
('The Fool On The Hill' & 'March Forth').  So to not mire 'My Vacation'
story in the shades of a history that is cast with a brooding Kafka color of
conspiracy i will refrain from any long-winded diatribes of qualification.
Although, at this point in my writing, i do feel inclined to convey a
cryptic story of sorts that i shared with J. in a previous letter that gives
humorously loose credence to such a claim.
        In Seattle, shortly after deciding via correspondence that i was
going to visit J. at 'Dancing Rabbit',  i was standing on 4th Ave. waiting
for the bus, when suddenly, i was inspired to go visit a friend whose now
relegated to a retirement home.
        Immediately a bus going near where she was staying pulled up and i
jumped aboard.  The driver sat there on a five minute layover.  Several
minutes into the layover one of "those" people got on the bus, sat directly
across from me, and espied me with a monstrous amount of negative energy.
        Then, in my mind's eye, i saw that another bus was pulling up
several busses behind us.  Something told me it was a bus which would take
me even closer to my friend.  Right as the driver closed the door and
proceeded to drive off, i jumped up and asked to get off.  i was able to run
down and jump on the other bus - - which was indeed the right bus, enabling
me to leave the malefic sentry behind.  There were only about four people on
the new bus, so i took an empty seat and reveled in my dissin' of the dark
operative.
        Then, at the next stop, she also transferred busses.  Not only did
she not take one of the many unoccupied seats from the almost empty bus, but
she actually SAT ON ME.  i slid out from under her and pulled my body up
against the window trying to distance myself from her menacing breath.  Then
i just ignored her.  In a rather cryptically sarcastic tone she said, "I
didn't mean to sit on you."  Then she proceeded to drop her partially open
purse at her feet and leave it there.
        i sat there in silence, blanking my mind of all thoughts,
understanding the message - - we will follow you wherever you go.
        This mind game and its implications - - one of many that are
constantly perpetrated - - is also validated by those who've outed
themselves and speak to me of my situation point blank.
        Nevertheless, my point of the narrative was that i could not reside
at
'Dancing Rabbit' without bringing them into harm's way - - and with J.
knowing this (she's read all of my books and claims to be a believer), i
found her question of, "Why don't you move here?" an affront of sorts.  It
hurt me.  i was overcome with emotions and spilled out, "Don't you think i
would love to retreat to such a place?"  And began to confess my feelings
that i had earlier in the car about such a relocation.





        Gradually we segued off the conspiracy crap and began talking about
our relationship.  We both agreed that the Universe seemed to want it to be
a platonic one.  i followed up that topic with my begrudging acceptance that
it was probably my fate to spend the rest of my life in celibacy (going on
two years now).  i further argued that the sexual path of the Sage, with its
asceticism, is actually just as oppressive and lost as the person who drowns
in their own desire.  i personally feel there is nothing wrong with the
sexual expression of love with someone whom you choose to know on the
deepest and most intimate levels.
        "Unfortunately," i complained, "i have to resign myself to the idea
that maybe the conscious power i seek to align myself with would be jealous
of such a relationship."
        J. agreed with this possibility.
        To my surprise, upon awakening and consulting the 'I Ching' it read:

"An effort at union, made in humility and sincerity, and faithful to the
principles of the Sage, will meet with good fortune."  So i guess if things
go right i might just find a soulmate after all.
        That day was one of immense work.  i spent it helping Ty sow in
chicken wire around the windows in the strawbail house.  Those few of us who
were still left at the community were all finalizing the prep-work and
busily getting the house ready for stucco.  There was an autumn frost
heading in and we had to stucco before it got there.
        That night we ate what was definitely my favorite of all the meals.
It was shakti mushrooms, leftover burgers, potatoes and vegan gravy, all
superbly prepared by Fry.  i chased it down with one of C.C.'s refreshing
home brewed beers.  Even though they did have a large supply of these beers,
it's important to note that i seldom saw anyone drinking more than one.  Nor
did i ever witness anyone intoxicated (including the 'Sandhill' birthday
party).  Additionally, to my surprise, no one there smoked herb.  They are a
truly health-conscious and hard working community who season their
responsibility with only a small dash of pride.
        After dinner B. had a most dramatic late-night conversation with D.
on the phone.  It seemed my intuition had been correct, D. was indeed
splitting up with B..  While B. was outside arguing with D., inside Ty, Fry
and C.C. were bitching about L. & A.A. and their lack of work at 'Dancing
Rabbit'.
        Since L. and A.A. had left for the wedding for the rest of the week
J. said, "Not to talk about L. when she's not here, but . . ." and then even
she jumped in.









        This seemingly sequestered bitch session served to shatter the magic
and purpose of their Sunday meetings and gave me a real taste of the
downside of living there.  i could easily imagine myself after months of
living cooped up with all of them being the topic of some such hypothetical
meeting.  Listening to them complain served to slightly distance me from the
wonder i had felt while fairy dancing in my dress in their kitchen.  i guess
you can say their conversation caused the colors from my romantic paint
brush to begin to pale in the stark light of the all too common banality of
human bickering.  Of course my disappointment was wholly my own fault - -
having observed a week at the community in the context of no such behavior
and had euphorically filled in the other fifty-one weeks of the year as a
faultless continuation of such a climate.
        The night closed off without a mention of R.C. arriving.  i brought
this up to Fry, who, like me, was beginning to believe his much advertised
arrival was all for not.  R.C. was beginning to resemble the infamous
Seattle music scene - - nothing but hype.
        The next day we spent stuccoing the strawbail house.  This involved
the final mixing of the stucco with the sand, straw and oatmeal.  It took
much effort in getting it to the right consistency so as to not jam the
sprayer.  My rib started hurting from carrying the buckets of stucco from
the mixing pool to the spraying machine.  J. gave me a needed "cut the macho
work ethic" reminder and took over my job while i relocated myself to
loading the mud into the sprayer.
        Working with everyone at the community did seem to have a tangible
magic about it.  You felt connected to the work and the people in the most
healthiest of ways.
        After we completed two sides of the house the compressor broke down.
Then we cleaned everything up and headed over to 'Sandhill' where we ate
another delicious potluck.
        At 'Sandhill' i found myself in a delightful conversation with
Seph's mother E., who was a female "splitting image" of Alternative Radio
host David Barsamian.  In our musing colloquy i expounded my "consciousness
is a field much like gravity" idea, while she spelled out the state of
affairs in several other intentional communities - - including Ganas, the
one she's from in Staten Island, New York.
        Thursday was to be my last full day at 'Dancing Rabbit'.  It started
off with a community breakfast of pancakes prepared by B..  The meal was
spiced with whispers of calamity as B. told us of a friend who worked at a
nuclear power plant and accounted to him the ease that it would take for
someone to shut it down.
        In my earlier years of Anarchism i had been an advocate of
peacefully shutting down the Machine in whatever means available as long as
no one was directly harmed.






        But since my awakening into the scheme of things i have discovered
that there are those who now sit, waiting in the wings, ready to capitalize
on such a collapse so they can replace this system with an even more
deadlier one.  i was even offered a leading role in the chaotic aftermath if
i changed my ways and endorsed the violence that they are so ready to
perpetuate.  Of course i declined, and unfortunately so did my influence, as
my movie, TV, and radio show were all consequently shut down.
        The long road to Utopia can be discontenting to the passionate heart
that so pumps the veins of every revolutionary, but the mind can find peace
in knowing that a cautious and sure road is the only means in achieving such
a place, for we can look to history as our great teacher to find so many
co-opted revolutions and the oceans of bloodshed they have birthed.
        It was then that R.C. actually called.  While someone talked to him
on the phone i jokingly told Ty that, "i've come to believe that R.C.
doesn't actually exist, and that even now you could be manufacturing the
phone call to further convince me that he is indeed real."
        Ty laughed and said, "It's too bad that you didn't meet R.C..  He is
also a conspiracy freak - - crop circles and all that stuff."
        i immediately countered with: "The crop circles and space alien
conspiracies are actually perpetrated by the C.I.A..  It's their way of
filling the tabloids and airwaves with fantasy subterfuge so when you
actually find out that they're the ones bringing drugs into the country, or
that they've traded tow missiles with terrorists (and sabotaged American
commando helicopters so the Iranian hostages wouldn't be released, causing
Reagan-Bush to win the election), or any other of their numerous covert
operations, you just write it off as being another wacky conspiracy theory."
        Ty looked at me with a great smile and asked, "You mean the
conspiracies are a conspiracy?"
        "Exactly," i retorted.
        He gave me a polite but skeptical nod of amusement.
        After breakfast J. and i opted to spend the day alone driving into
Kirksville so i could do my laundry and she could change her oil.  After i
washed my clothes we stopped off and had a cheap spaghetti lunch.  Our meal
turned into a long animated conversation which at one turn became a heated
debate over the topic of legalizing prostitution.  We are both in favor of
it, yet differ on our ideas of how, in turn, to remedy the actual and
perceptual subjugation of women associated with such an industry.
        Contrary to the passion of the argument our dialogue was still
couched with huge moments of comfortable silence.  Finally, when our musings
ebbed into stillness, we sat there for the longest of moments, savoring our
time together in a gentle reflection of smiles; a twinkling of spirit marked
forever in a delicate and unstated gesture of truest intimacy.



        That night back at 'Dancing Rabbit' Ty & B. cooked what they called
the "First Frost Feast."  It was a scrumptious meal of stuffed green peppers
with mole` sauce, green beans and fried green tomatoes.  After dinner Beard
came over.
        Beard is a shortly dark-haired, handsomely brown-eyed man with
scruff and glasses.  He converses to you in a gentle and overtly feminine
voice, but it's his breath-filled and sighing melancholy that truly speaks
to you.  Beard suffers from clinical depression to the point that he has to
leave 'Sandhill' in the hopes of getting some help for his illness.  He was
to hitch a ride the following morning with J. and i when she takes me to
Ottumwa to catch my 'Greyhound' and then head to Tennessee to visit her
mother.
        But that wasn't the reason Beard stopped by.  He came out because B.
had publicly announced that he wanted to organize a musical jam.  B. led us
in song as we all grooved (with Beard and Fry nicely harmonizing) in a mix
of Cat Stevens, 'The Beatles' and 'Simon & Garfunkel' tunes.  B. strummed
his guitar while i pounded on a bongo drum.  It was quite enjoyable.
        While we were singing J. made me a belated birthday cake.  It was
the first cake (carrot) that she'd ever baked and delivered it to us with
much qualification.  She stuck a huge candle in the middle of it and along
with everyone else sang a rendition of Happy Birthday.  The cake was very
edible and was nowhere close to the disaster she had made it out to be.
        The following morning after sleeping an hour past our planned
wake-up time, J. and i picked up Beard and headed to Ottumwa, where, with a
simple hug and kiss, i ended my intentional community experience and was
left sitting at the bus station waiting to board another grueling ride in
hell.
        My three day bus journey home took me north to Chicago, then west to
St. Paul, Fargo, Butte, Spokane and finally Seattle.  Maybe it was at
leaving my new found friends to return to the familiar ground of my home, or
having been exhausted by an impressing vacation, but i seemed far removed
from the vista of wonder that lay just outside my window.  And instead of
breathing in the picturesque rolling hills that flowed into view, i turned
inward and gazed at my thoughts, trying to grasp at how they'd been shaped
by my new experiences.
        The cast of characters on this bus trek included a young, sharply
dressed Military Man with a jagged nose complete with a ring.  He spent the
trip expounding the economic opportunities of going off-grid with solar and
wind energy while excitingly questioning me about my strawbail house
experience (something he knew a lot about).  Unfortunately, he also went off
on his narrowly defined capitalistic philosophy  - - including bragging
about his scab brother.
        There was a Second Soldier among us as well.  He was a kind of
military grunt with a Mohawk haircut and a vast display of tattoos.  He
spent most of his time flirting with P.G..
        P.G. is a young woman with crooked light brown hair and long fake
purple fingernails.  She was expecting her second child (her first having
been taken away by relatives).


        Then there was Rod.  He's a muscular and tall African American with
a shaved head who was letting everyone talk on his cellular phone.  He ran
out of money in Spokane, so i sprung for an egg roll and gave him most of my
fried rice at a horrible fast-food Chinese restaurant in the bus station.
        Another of the clan was Yot.  Yot is a fat, black-haired, religious
right-winger who'd once been a missionary in Europe.  With an alarming glint
of delight in his eyes, he started off a conversation about the
probabilities of
World War 3, which the two military guys augmented with their expertise.
This apocalyptic conversation spread like a plague through the bus causing
everyone to join in.  i even got roped in when Rod mentioned his Oklahoma
City bombing conspiracy - - he said it had been the witch people.
        Of course i had to set him straight.  With the FEDS' widely known
involvement in the World Trade Center bombing as a backdrop (having sold the
terrorists the materials to make the bomb, shown them how to manufacture it,
then ALLOWED them to detonated it) the real Oklahoma City bombing conspiracy
went like this:
        There were two explosions registered by the University of Oklahoma's
seismological department along with numerous reports of people hearing two
distinct blasts.  The bomb site area seems to represent a discrepancy of
destruction with a disproportionate lack of damage across the street.
Everyone in the A.T.F. who worked at the Federal building the day of the
explosion had been given the day off.  The supposed video tape documenting
the presence of  McVeigh's 'Ryder' van and its subsequent explosion has
never been shown to the public.
        So the story goes that along with McVeigh's bomb there was a second
bomb at the base of the building to ensure its destruction.  And this bomb
was put there by renegade FEDS.
        The difficulty most people have with such a scenario is imagining
how a group of rogue FEDS could do such a thing.  The answer is: for the
same reason they assisted in the World Trade Center bombing - - to promote
terror, institute constitutional crackdowns, and most importantly,
infiltrate and control fringe political groups to ultimately stage an
apocalyptic millennium coup when they will wholly take the reins of power
from those corporate lackey do-nothing charlatans that now sit in the
spurious seats of government.
        This rant brought about an enormous amount of respect from my new
found comrades as they solicited me to spill even more.  i politely declined
and retreated back into a very funny book that i was finishing - - 'The
Comedy Writer' by Peter Farrelly.







        Although, on this trip home, the real bus event was in Chicago.
Itch - - a kind young man with a red and white ball cap covering his dirty
brown hair was standing next to another one of our passengers (someone i had
very little interaction with) outside the bus station smoking a cigarette.
Someone approached the guy next to Itch and asked him if he wanted to score
some bud.  When the guy said yes, the supposed dealer pulled out his gun and
told them to get down on the ground.
        Itch, slow to figure out that he was also under arrest, had the gun
thrust in his face until he, along with a girl, were all kneeled on the
ground in the front of the bus station.
        The cop actually found a little marijuana in Itch's backpack so he
confiscated everything in it and let him go.  Then the guy who had agreed to
buy the bud was threatened with arrest.  When he explained that his bus was
about to leave the cop made a deal with him - - $100 cash or he would go
downtown.  The guy paid the money and got on the bus.
        Later in a group discussion i complained that this was totally
unconscionable and corrupt and couldn't believe that we had actually
witnessed it.  Everyone else on the bus seemed to view my outrage as a kind
of naivete repeatedly explaining to me, "What do you expect?  It's Chicago!"

        Somewhere near the west end of Montana we changed bus drivers and
picked up a total Nazi wannabe.  She's a short fiery blonde with a large
butt who would parade to and fro the bus checking our tickets.  Twice she
announced a "shakedown" claiming someone was trying to sneak a ride (she'd
only miscounted).
        In Spokane she accused a soberly tired woman across from me of being
intoxicated.  After loudly arguing with her, she blaringly announced that if
she caught anyone drunk she'd kick them off the bus.
        About fifty miles out of Seattle while crossing the Cascade
Mountains she stopped the bus and went running back to the bathroom.  Then
she marched up to some real sick guy, woke him up, told him that she'd
caught him smoking on her bus, and that she'd discharge him at the next stop
- - without his luggage.        "You can pick up your bags in Seattle!" she
roared.
        As we approached the stop i went to the head of the bus and pleaded
in his defense - - articulating that he was very ill and was being dropped
off in Issaquah (twenty miles east of Seattle) in the middle of the night
with nowhere to go.  She about bit my fucking head off, hollering that she
smokes, and if she can wait for a bus stop to light up, so can he.
        Several others spoke up from their seats which caused her to soften
slightly - - she let him have his luggage before she kicked him off.
        We arrived in Seattle at a little after 12:00 midnight where i
exchanged phone numbers and goodbyes with my new group of bus buddies.  Then
i headed down to 1st Ave. to catch the last transit bus back to the art
gallery that i still call my home.


        Once at my domicile i immediately jumped into bed thinking of my
vacation coming to a close; a two week reverie of enchanting friendship
amidst a canvass of community - - both designed and fortuitous, laid out
across a country's heartland while forever searching for its pulse; this
crystalline vision now beginning to wane into the dreamless sleep of an
aching and tired body, to finally become just another commentary which has
been etched into the scrapbook of my existence.  And so now it is just that
. . .
        i close this story by again quoting Conrad whose prose so eloquently
marked the beginning of 'My Vacation', and meaning so captures its passing:
"It was a strange and melancholy illusion - - evolved half consciously like
all our illusions; which I suspect only to be visions of remote unattainable
truth seen dimly.  This was indeed one of the lost forgotten unknown places
of the Earth.
I had looked under its obscure surface, and I felt that when tomorrow I had
left it forever, it would slip out of existence to live only in my memory,
till I myself passed into oblivion.  I have that feeling about me now."



You can contact P.  @
P.O.  Box  17320  Seattle  WA.  98107  U.S.A.
E-mail: [log in to unmask]