Not Enough Room in the Box

If you want the short story of my experiences at Reggae on the River, 2015, it goes like this: I planned; I attended; I enjoyed. There, all done.  However, it is my custom to use my blog to not only recount experiences, but to extract from them some sort of sage assessment. 

Each episode will consist of a vignette written to stand by itself, but which will also link with all of the others to attempt to imbue the reader with a basic understanding of what the attraction is to gathering with thousands of others along the Eel River every August, when it is most likely to be hot.

#19: Not Enough Room in the Box

The forty-minute ride home Sunday night from Reggae on the River 2015, for Casey and me, was a contrast from the vibrancy of Albarosie’s finale on stage, but we had formed a plan and we stuck to it. Farm responsibilities take a backseat to nothing and ROTR was no exception.

One thing was certain: I didn’t have to get up early in the AM, to pick and distribute the CSA (Community Sponsored Agriculture) shares, so I kept my trap shut. We were told afterwards that the show got better as it progressed, and that we had really missed out, but the reality is that both Casey and I felt that we had gotten our money’s worth.

I owe a lot to Casey for being clear that he would make sure I had plenty of support, without putting me in the position of feeling that I had no choice. Buddha knows, I do not respond well to being placed in a corner with no choice. 

“I’m having a hard time internalizing the whole experience,” I began, as we cruised along deserted Highway 101, both of us basking in the glow of the entire experience. 

Even an awkward moment at the very end, as we hustled down the hill of the bowl from the area behind the Beer Garden, and prepared to exit at a gate which would have been the most direct route back to camp, did not deflate our exultation.

After my last-second reunion with Shane, Sir Andrew Aguecheek from Twelfth Night in middle school, which got me even further pumped up as Casey and I were slipping out the back, I was stoked. 

This particular entry/exit point was about fifteen feet wide, enough to accommodate the hordes of revelers which flowed in and out of the venue, as artists came and went on stage. At this point in time, with Albarosie being in full swing, the entire throughway was deserted. We naturally swung to the right and headed at a fast pace out the exit.

“Hold up!” rang out the heavily-accented authoritarian voice. “This is not an exit. You will have to go around.”

Of course it’s not an exit...not until Albarosie is finished playing, But just look at all of these thousands of eager fans, jamming this entrance! Not. Why do you have to be such a dick? Oh well. I don’t have it in me to create one negative instant. I headed down the bowl.

I sensed, rather than saw, Casey’s irritation, simply because the detour added an extra five or so, hustling minutes to our exit plan. However, from resources deep within, he mustered up enough intestinal fortitude to simply shrug his shoulders and follow my rapidly-disappearing back, and we double-timed our way along the now-familiar route back to camp.

There we grabbed the last of the stuff we were taking home, while leaving tents and sleeping bags, et al behind, to be retrieved on Tuesday, and headed to the truck. We would be coming back to break it all down and return French’s Camp to its native appearance, as soon as Monday Market was out of the way.

Farm first, frivolities to follow, as is how it should be. Surprised Casey devotes as much time to ROTR as he does, but then again, not surprised. He’s been doing this since before he was in middle school, counting the money for Marbry in the WellSpring booth, because she knew he could be trusted. Besides, she knew he wouldn’t make a mistake.

At that time of night, in that venue, the same could not be said for anyone else...

“I can’t just let the whole weekend slip by without saying how much it means to me, that you were not only willing to make sure that things went well, but that also made sure that I did not feel pressured to attend.”

“It’s all about the love. Besides, I am amazed at how independent you were. That was key.” I could feel the love.

I said, “We had a plan and it worked to perfection. Knowing where every port-a-potty was, in every corner of the festival, was just one of a hundred different components that had to be in place. I can’t think of a single thing that I missed-except Annie-that is, but that will never happen and I will never address it.

Well, maybe a camp chair, even though dudes were giving me theirs, left and right. I could have brought the two red camp chairs, and put one in our camp, and one up at Robbie’s,” I finished.

“Mama not a fan, that’s for sure.” 

For so many years Annie had told me that I would hate it. And the truth is, the old me would have.

“No, and that’s all right. She was hugely supportive, once she got over being cynical.” I had been clear with her, that this was not a case of me trying to return to my youth. I was not there to party.

Return to my youth? Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhh. Once was enough, thanks.

“It’s funny. We talked about you just tagging along after me, and that would have been fine, but then you just started doing your own thing, and that was even better.” 

I enjoyed hearing his words. All I could think of to say was, “We always maintain that it takes a village to raise a child...I like to think of it as the teacher will become the pupil, and the pupils will school the teacher.”

We drove along in silence for a few minutes, and then I asked him, “Will Lito be on-farm tomorrow?”

He glanced over at me, and though I could not see his face, I knew that he was grinning at me. “What do you think?”

“You’re probably right. We’ll see him on Tuesday, up at French’s Camp.”

It’s always fun to conjecture as to whether or not Lito will be where he says he will be. On the other hand, when he does roll in, he gets more done than any other two dudes put together.

“I never did make it up to Richardson Grove, where he, Sonny, Conner and the rest of them, all had their camp, but then again, I didn’t need to. That was just sort of a Plan B, in case Plan A did not pan out.”

Plan A had gone just fine, thank you very much, because of the music. So much so that I was already planning for next year.

“You did it, Pops!”

“We did it. It was all about the music and that’s what it took to pry me out of my box.”

I won’t be returning either. There’s no longer enough room in the box.

Tomorrow, the conclusion: “Uncle”

My Song Now

If you want the short story of my experiences at Reggae on the River, 2015, it goes like this: I planned; I attended; I enjoyed. There, all done.  However, it is my custom to use my blog to not only recount experiences, but to extract from them some sort of sage assessment. 

Each episode will consist of a vignette written to stand by itself, but which will also link with all of the others to attempt to imbue the reader with a basic understanding of what the attraction is to gathering with thousands of others along the Eel River every August, when it is most likely to be hot.

#18: My Song Now

I suffered my first full-blown panic attack at age ten, and my mom gave me the best advice she possibly could have. 

“Think of a place you really like and go there inside your head. Don’t think about the bad; just think about the good.”

She had no idea what it was I had experienced, though I had tried to explain what had happened when the girl in the pew in front of us, had fainted. Standing on the aisle, she had keeled over like a dead oak, and the sound of her head hitting the cement floor, was awful.

The sound and shock of the event seared though my brain like molten metal, causing me to start panting. The blood drained from my face and I started sweating heavily. I felt nauseous and knew that if I did not get out of that church, I would soon follow suit, and end up losing consciousness.

Going to the movies. Let’s see now, back of the theater, left-hand side, on the aisle. Not near the aisle-on the aisle. 

At the EGA gathering, Sunday morning before the last day of the Emerald Cup? Where is the nearest exit? And our seats are where? You go on. I’ll just keep an eye on things from back here... Great success!

Reggae on the River? Never. Never. Simply stated, Never.

I did the therapy back in 2010 in only seven sessions, because Dr. Jill was on her way out of Dodge. She had told me I could rid myself of Panic Attack Syndrome, if I were willing to do the work.

I was and I did.

The therapy gave me the tools to go anywhere, even if I could not necessarily enjoy myself, which is why ROTR was so different. From my ability to handle the tight quarters as far as wall-to-wall tents were concerned, to my newly-found ability to stroll through the crush of the crowd, I reveled in it.

I was in uncharted waters and content to be so, because I was there for the music. I was introduced to reggae somewhere in the early nineties, when sixth-grade Chad always had a cassette on hand for me to play any time there was free minutes, and have never looked back.

This kid has a different take on music than the rest. And I gotta say, what he plays makes my feet move a lot more enthusiastically. It’s that lilt to the music I like, the upbeat nature of it...makes me want to dance.

When Casey sailed off to Pacific University, in 2000, the first thing he did was send back to me a whole slew of new music he was picking up. He sent me a Stephen Marley CD, a Collie Buddz, an Alpha Blondy and an Albarosie. I will never forget playing “No Cocaine,” and hearing the refrain, “I love marijuana”:

“Marijuana... ganja farmer...

No coca, no coca, no coke inna mi brain

No coca and no ‘eroin can go inna mi vein

‘Cos I love marijuana

‘Cos man a real ganja farmer.”

‘Cos I love marijuana. Just hearing this artist sing these words is powerful. Knowing that in his world, ganja was the gateway to avoiding far more challenging paths by contemporaries, than that which the sacred herb provides. A twofer if ever there were one...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8lMLPEssruY

When I couldn’t understand the lyrics, I googled them. The message is a good one, that cannabis is a better alternative to other drugs. I would take it one more natural step forward, and chime in that using the bong is also a far better choice than alcohol.

That is a key word, choice. I choose, therefore I exist. With the maze of routes possible in life, choosing not so much the correct one, as one which works well enough to proceed, is often the difference between existence and living.

I can’t conceive of an existence comprised of being locked in a profession I hated. To spend a third of my life in an intolerable situation, is to expend a great deal of energy, better spent in other endeavors. Yet people do it all the time, with little or no choice.

It’s mind control, as Stephen sings about. There are many applications of this concept, one of them being the control the mind has over the body. This is the central message provided to me,  by Pauline, 52 years ago, when she told me to go to a place in my head, that I wanted to be.

This is also the central message from Dr. Jill, who taught me that only through a clear recognition and awareness of those specific anxiety-inducing elements in my life, could I begin to eliminate the stress. In preparing for my three-day stay at ROTR, I had planned for all exigencies.

It may have been blisteringly hot during the day (Sunday topped out at 94 degrees, twelve degrees cooler than it had been the first day when it hit 106), but it cooled off at night. In the pic of me taken on Saturday night/Sunday morning after Stephen played, I am wearing a long-sleeved heavy shirt, over a tee-shirt, and have a hoodie on top of everything. 

In long pants I look pretty bundled up, protection from the same air movement that kept us from sizzling during the day.

Funny how it works, that “refreshing breeze” during the heat of the day, becomes that fiendish wind during the chill of the night. But I am ready for action-ready for danger...ready for anything.

Casey and I headed up to Robbie’s spot behind the Beer Garden, well before the allotted time when Albarosie would appear on stage, and I proceeded to replicate my relaxation techniques of the previous night, and took a little siesta. My ability to sleep, particularly with my headphones on and the music blasting, has always served me in good stead. 

Not even Dozer’s raucous barking can penetrate the barrier, bless his pointy little head.

Having waxed on eloquently, if also somewhat repetitively, over my success at ROTR, I will once again assert that it’s all about controlling one’s mind. I believe I can do this, therefore I can. Ask any athlete how important confidence is to his game.

For me it is crucial. In snoozing prior to Albarosie coming on stage, I used my heavy, long-sleeved shirt and my hoodie, as a pillow, and they remained there on the ground as I bounced up at the intro to Albarosie. 

Can there be more electricity in the air than there is now? I should be cold-most everyone else is bundled up, just as I was last night, but what a ridiculous notion.

I had glanced earlier that day at the weather forecast so easily obtainable on my computer, and noted that the low that evening for our venue was 55, with a 7-10 MPH wind. In my world, 55 degrees is balmy, so I therefore decided that I was not cold.

The music was galvanizing and my legs kept time to the beat, surgically-repaired left knee forgetting all about that ancient history. Euphoria blanketed me in a protective bubble of self-generated heat, and it may as well have been 75 degrees. In my tank top, sandals and shorts, I was feeling no cold.

Casey asked me at one point, “Aren’t you cold?” and all I could do was grin and say, “It’s all in your head. If you think you should be cold, then you will freeze your butt off. If you know it’s not cold, and you’re enjoying yourself, then that answers that question. It’s mind control.”

“Mind control.” Stephen’s song, even if Albarosie is playing. 

But it’s my song now.

The Allegory of the Cave

If you want the short story of my experiences at Reggae on the River, 2015, it goes like this: I planned; I attended; I enjoyed. There, all done.  However, it is my custom to use my blog to not only recount experiences, but to extract from them some sort of sage assessment. 

Each episode will consist of a vignette written to stand by itself, but which will also link with all of the others to attempt to imbue the reader with a basic understanding of what the attraction is to gathering with thousands of others along the Eel River every August, when it is most likely to be hot.

#17: The Allegory of the Cave

A paradox exists between what we experienced at Reggae on the River, and that which the outside world saw, and it is all about the intangibles. What we experienced was the emotional high of sharing a space for the common goal of absorbing the music and culture of reggae. What the outside world viewed was a boatload of people making a huge negative environmental impact, on a sensitive ecological venue.

In attempting to convey the spirit of what was occurring on the Eel River, both for myself and for the thousands of other revelers, while also including the rest of the universe, I have found that others have faced similar daunting tasks, going back to the ancient Greeks, and that this task has been addressed before. 

Here is the briefest of attempts to put first ROTR into perspective, and then to use the same process to address what is happening in the real world, when it comes to the newly created cannabis industry, not to be confused with a bunch of outlaws in the hills, growing pot. 

Take it away, Plato...............

The “Allegory of the Cave” begins with Socrates telling Glaucon about a cave, where people live underground. They are tied up and cannot move their heads, so they can only see what is right in front of them. 

So that would be people bound to their lives and their jobs, blind to anything that interferes with keeping grub on the table, no matter how intolerable the situation.

A fire burns behind these prisoners casting shadows on the wall that looms up before them, as others in the cave pass in front of them holding objects, which are then reflected on the wall. In this way those who are confined inside the cave, learn about the outside world. These shadows are their only link.

So this is a metaphor for people who are so close to the street, that even the idea that college would help improve their lot in life, is ludicrous. Working overtime to meet one’s responsibilities, the wife trying to keep the house together and ferry the kids around, and try to keep from collapsing along the way. College? lol

Eventually, one of the prisoners in the cave is released to the outside world, where he is at first repulsed by the light. As his eyes start to adjust to the brightness, he sees the world as though he has always lived there.

Plato’s “Allegory” represents the difference between what really exists, and our perception of it. The prisoners still in the cave are as incapable of learning about the outside world, as people trapped in a treadmill existence. Only those who free themselves have a chance to see reality as it actually is.

Most people prefer to stay in their chains, for to remove them is to draw outside the lines in the coloring book of your life. Only those who are truly able to step outside the boundaries of their own existence, are going to be able to expand their horizons adequately to adopt a new perception.

First ROTR and the outside world’s perception: I took twenty or so photos of mountains of garbage left behind on-site, when the hordes returned home. They would have had to do without the use of Highway 20, shut down by wildfires, which would have doubled any inconvenience already being experienced by travelers on the road.

How happy would these travelers have been to be joined in this road-circus by all of those tired, bedraggled reggae fans? How happy are the denizens of the local community to have their home fronts invaded by an army of dreadlocked, traveling pilgrims? 

Do the pilgrims care? 

The non-participants only see the shadows of the objects they are shown, as opposed to those who live to experience that which uplifts them, at the cost of other things in life.

Now for the participants of the festival: Wall-to-wall tents, port-a-potties that are not for the faint-hearted, who unfortunately have no choice, and minimal chance at any substantial sleep are only a few of the attractive features to be found.

However, balanced for these hardy souls, is a plethora of valid, tangible and intangible reasons for putting oneself through the hassle. These justifications vary from simply liking the music or the party, to my more complex reason of wanting to overcome personal challenges, so that I could continue the renovation of my long-atrophied right-brain.

This shriveled organ began to show signs of life in 2011, and has risen to such a level of prominence, as to put old Lefty [Brain] almost out of commission. This may-or may not-have stirred things up in my neck of the woods for a while, depending on your point of view. 

Those who are freed from the cave are those who actually participate in the festival, as opposed to never understanding what is happening. 

If a composting program could be started at ROTR, 2016, similar to that used on the Black Oak Ranch, to try and reduce at least one portion of the mountains of refuse left behind, this would constitute baby steps outside the cave.

Now I want to take this whole allegory, or metaphor, and apply it to the cannabis industry.

Those in the cave see only the detritus of the raids on Island Mountain, and the negativity which has been so successfully propagandized by US Industry, and its willing partner, the US Government, which has been taken over by money and greed. If this sounds harsh, then maybe you can find a more palatable way to explain it.

Those who use the sacred herb as it has been done by humans since the beginning of time, are those who have escaped from the cave, and understand that one person’s medicine, is no one’s business but the person in question.

For those who scoff at the notion of cannabis as medicine, and assert that people only use it to feel good, I say not a thing.

Is there a point you are trying to make? Listen to yourself. You object to people feeling good by using a natural herb, but you see no problem with Dad bringing home a twenty-four pack, to try and get through the weekend. 

Better still, I point to the wine industry and how much influence it has over societal perceptions. No problem getting wasted on fermented grapes, with all of the damage Big Ag has done, but perish the thought that one would take a couple of rips off of a bong.

So because wine is on the list of “approved” societal substances, those inside the cave see only the sparkling glasses, and that luscious, deep ruby red nectar of the gods, and not the ecological atrocities committed in the name of “culture.”

It’s the same-only different, because big money begets big money, and legitimacy adds an air of entitlement, that galls thinking people immensely.

Those who are struggling to establish the Emerald Growers Association, soon to be the California Growers Association, with the intention of establishing cannabis as “connoisseur” are those who are outside the cave. By stepping forward and contributing money and their names to the ever-expanding list of fired-up folks, these folks are also beginning to win their freedom from the cave.

At the Eel River Restoration Project booth at ROTR, Casey and I spent a lot of time taking in the light with like-minded individuals, and comparing notes. It’s hard to entice people out of their comfort zones, and into the light.

Establishing the CGA, providing other cannabis farmers with examples of appropriate growing procedures, plus providing some help with the logistics of getting their water rights established, all constitute baby steps out of the cave, for others to follow.

It will take much work by many exiles from the cave, before those still mired inside will ever see the light.

Much Love

If you want the short story of my experiences at Reggae on the River, 2015, it goes like this: I planned; I attended; I enjoyed. There, all done.  However, it is my custom to use my blog to not only recount experiences, but to extract from them some sort of sage assessment. 

Each episode will consist of a vignette written to stand by itself, but which will also link with all of the others to attempt to imbue the reader with a basic understanding of what the attraction is to gathering with thousands of others along the Eel River every August, when it is most likely to be hot.

#16: Much Love

As I wind down my chronicles of my experiences at Reggae on the River, 2015, with much remaining unsaid, I remain transfixed on the love that was prevalent throughout the event. This extended to the automatic “Happy Reggae!” greetings exchanged by one and all, no matter how much of a zombie it was that loomed up in front of you at 4:30 in the AM.

Regardless of whether I was relaxing in the campsite or out and about in the hustle and bustle of bowl-life, the love was everywhere. Just as Casey trucked the bong everywhere with him in his basket, or as he calls it, his brief case, there was much sharing of the sacred herb.

Unlike the majority of music festivals, during which cannabis is indulged, ROTR takes the sacred herb to an elevated level, simply because of its position in the Rastafarian religion. The smoking of cannabis (herb, sinsemilla, weed, ganja, or simply pot) for Rastas, is a spiritual act, and it is considered a sacrament in their religion.

It’s pretty high up on the ladder for me too, as far as success is concerned, and if it weren’t for cannabis, and I had to take Corporate ‘Merica’s solution to my mental issues,  I would be hurtin’ for certain.

The Rastafarians believe that ganja cleans the body and mind, heals the soul, uplifts the consciousness, invites a feeling of serenity, brings pleasure and transports one closer to Jah (God). Sacramental use of cannabis in celebration of the Rastafarian faith became legal in Jamaica on April 15, 2015.

Yep. Sounds about right, with the exception of the part about God.

Having been introduced to the sacred herb in 1969, I have been a frequent flyer ever since, with the usual expected gaps. I stopped for five full years at the outset of my teaching career, because I was paranoid about drug testing. Our community on the mountain was being hounded by a disgruntled individual, who kept suing our little education collective out of a misguided sense of injustice.

I figured since she had many of our homes red-tagged by Mendocino County, and went to such extremes to make her unhappiness known, that fingering me as a rampant abuser of reefer would be next. So I simply stopped.

Any teacher’s first years are so hard that it defies description, but I suppose it helped that my manic disposition kept me adequately wound up, until the rubber band stretched out enough for me to collect my fragmented thoughts.

Cannabis helps lasso those scattered thoughts and keeps them confined to the corral which happens to double as my brain. I have benefited from it immensely my entire life and possibly as a result, have never been attracted to alcohol, despite its presence in my lineage.

Sitting in the outdoors kitchen Sunday morning, I was approached by a young man who offered me his little ceramic pipe and a nug of hash. Delighted, I stuck out my hand and said, “Mark.”

“Shaggy,” he responded, “and how is your day going?”

“Another day in paradise. Epically, thanks for asking. Coffee, some dank breakfast and some hash? Sure, and it’s foine morning to be after having a nip of hash.” 

A while later one of the aforementioned zombie-like personalities paused by my table, obviously not wanting to disturb the mustearded oldster, pounding the keys of Terra Jean, his computer.

“Hey man, I hate to bug you, but do yo have a Spirit?”

I know this waste-cadet isn’t talking about my joie de vivre. 

“Sorry old chap, it’s not computing,” I ventured, hoping that he would clarify what it was he was seeking.”

Speaking of not computing. Try focusing.

“No, Man. I wanna know if you gotta ‘Merican Spirit.”

I am obviously missing something here.

“I have to tell you, I don’t think we are on the same page. You’re looking for something but I don’t know what it is,” was the best I could do. Voila!

“ You gotta a cigarette?”

Got it, but no. Maybe this?

Whipping out my one-of-many Altoids box, this one labeled purple diesel, I offered him a fattie, in lieu of a ciggie. This he understood, and looked up at me to see if I was serious.

As a heart attack.

On another occasion I was approached by a fellow who looked as though his dog just died, carrying a bong that looked like it had seen hard times.

“Got any weed?” 

Nothing like getting to the point.

“Sure, Dude. What did you have in mind? Pound? Q.P? Ogre berry? Kush? Acapulco Gold?

OK, the last was just for show.

“No, Man. Just a nugget.”

“Bummer. No nugs.”

He started to move on.

“But I do have some ARs,” or already-rolleds for those uninitiated, and he came back.

“Awesome, thanks!”

“No problemo, Brother Man,” I said to his retreating back.

As Cheech and Chong intoned, way back in the day, “You got something the other guy don’t got, you chair, Man.”

I do a lot of chairing because it is the nature of the beast. I grow my medicine for my own issues but I have plenty to go around. I’m going to get into trouble one of these days because some authority figure is going to decide that it is worth the time to go after me.

Until that happens, I always keep ARs on hand for anyone who needs them.

Sitting back in camp now, deserted except for Mid-Sized David, we chatted quietly, basking in the heat, me with ice water dripping down my face from the melting ice inside my hat.

“I’m so happy to see you here, Mark, I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you here.”

Considering how much David can put away, he’s doing remarkably well. Keeping it together like a Gee.

“Hey, Dude, you are a huge reason why I am here-all of you guys letting me know you have my back. Makes it hard to fail.”

“We all wanted you to be here. You know, you have some good kids. Your sons are good people.”

We go back, Old Sod, don’t we?

“You know, David, I noticed that myself.”

“I love your sons,” he responded, “and I love you, and I love Annie. You’re all good people.

Wow. People don’t say things when they’re wasted, that are insincere. Not possible.

“We go back, Old Sod, don’t we?” Is there an echo in here?

He repeated, “I love you and your whole family.”

There could be no doubt about that. I had been feeling the love from my community all week long and it felt good.

Tomorrow: The Closing Act

Lazing on a Sunday Afternoon, or Gotcha

If you want the short story of my experiences at Reggae on the River, 2015, it goes like this: I planned; I attended; I enjoyed. There, all done.  However, it is my custom to use my blog to not only recount experiences, but to extract from them some sort of sage assessment. 

Each episode will consist of a vignette written to stand by itself, but which will also link with all of the others to attempt to imbue the reader with a basic understanding of what the attraction is to gathering with thousands of others along the Eel River every August, when it is most likely to be hot.

#15: Lazing on a Sunday Afternoon

or

Gotcha

Reclining languidly throughout our existential discussion and ensuing foray into religion, was Bull, who occasionally would vocalize one thought or another, until we hit religion. Considering we were in a venue in which the Rastafarian religion took center stage, it was kind of hard to avoid it.

Reggae on the River means many things to many people, but it might be conjectured that our campsite had a bit more of an eclectic gathering of festival-goers, than the average one. We may have been temporarily submerged in a pool of excess and decadence, with no shortage of dead soldiers strewn about our site, but this was not our natural habitat. 

Like a submarine rising from the depths, Bull surfaced from his siesta as the conversation zig-zagged its way through white-waters, and turned to the potentially deadly subject of religion. He made several contributions to the conversation that were clear, concise and quite eloquent in their simplicity. 

The man is obviously educated.

I am so confused, which Buddha knows is no uncommon state of affairs. Why does the Bull give a flying f**k about religion? I mean, this is Sunday and all, but seriously? Bull just does not fit the profile of a religious fanatic.

The topic was the afterlife, and the Catholic faith’s use of hell as an instrument for keeping uncivilized human beings in line. This helpful tool was the primary reason why I effectively bailed out of Catholicism at age 13, a terrifyingly bold action because I did not completely believe in hell, but it was still taking a colossal chance.

In ranting on as per the norm, whenever the topic of organized religion reared its ugly head, I had been abruptly silenced by Bull’s partner-in-crime, his wife Annabryn. 

She had informed me that Judaism has no concept of hell.

After I retrieved my jaw from its new location on the floor, I listened to Annabryn’s synopsis of the origins of the Jewish faith, with Bull alternately listening and chiming in with his own thoughts. With a fair amount of trepidation, because I am not on firm ground, I will briefly describe what I remember her telling me.

The first premise is that God has an inherent interest in-and love of- human beings. Originally, there was nothing but darkness and when He created light, he sent out a fleet of ten vessels, ships that were supposed to distribute the light everywhere on earth in the form of holy sparks. Unfortunately, the vessels were too fragile to accomplish this huge task, and they broke apart after being buffeted by wind and seas alike, and the holy sparks were scattered all over the earth.

George Carlin asked the rhetorical question, “Can God make a rock so heavy that he can’t lift it?” If God is so all-fired on target, why didn’t he just make the ships indestructible? I know, I know: so young to be so cynical...

Once the holy sparks were scattered, God created man so that he could journey far and wide to gather up the sparks together in one place. Once this had occurred, and all of the light was assembled in one place, the destroyed vessels would be restored and the earth will be complete again.

Man’s task here on earth is to go through life studying the Torah, observing the law, healing the ills of the world or performing good deeds, all of which help to gather up the sparks. In this manner Jewish people all work together to restore the light, with no one individual being singled out and sent to “hell.”

One is either part of the gathering of the sparks or one is not, with no punitive measures in place to “motivate” individuals. 

Help me, help me. This is too mucking fuch. 

There came a point when I finally asked a clarifying question, “Bull, where did you go to school?” because it was obvious he had.

“My second question is, what did you major in?” By now the answer did not surprise me.

“Philosophy and religious studies.”

F**k me running. Oh sure. I saw that one coming. 

It takes more than the average funch-pace to knock me down, but there I was, metaphorically stretched out on the carpet next to mid-Sized David, who was still gently snoozing away. It occurred to me to ask if anyone had taken down the license number of the bus that had just flattened me. 

All of that bluster is just a facade. Who the hell IS this chameleon? Finding out that Bull majored in religious studies is the equivalent of finding out that Madison Bumgarner really prefers a Smart Car over a Ford F-250, or whatever behemoth Ford is slanging these days... 

Reeling as I was from the newly attained profundity that hell has no attraction and therefore no influence over an entire culture-within-a-culture, I was now sucker-punched a second time, right in the solar-plexus. People never cease to amaze me.

“You majored in religious studies?” I parroted back at him.

He made eye contact and I looked straight into his soul. I liked what I saw.

The sardonic grin, as sh*t-eating a one as I have ever have ever clapped eyes on, peered out at me as though Yogi Bear had just pulled a fast one on Ranger Smith. “Gotcha,” the look said, in at least twenty different languages.

Brilliantly played, my man.

My affection for this raspy-voiced icon of the ROTR-setup/maintenance crew, skyrocketed, and I remembered a piece of advice I used to bestow upon my middle school students: Do not judge a book by its cover.

I trumpeted this when I appeared in dress pants and shirt, complete with tie, four days a week, with casual Friday being the exception. I trumpeted the same message when I wore my hair “in new location,” to quote Carlin once again, rocking a beard that extended well down my chest, and a pony tail, which I used to braid myself until my right shoulder made this no longer possible.

And that sly grin. Oh you swamp fox you, with your air-conditioned tent and a wife that seemed so incongruous with you, that I had already known that there was more to the Bull, than, well, just a bunch of bull.

But he didn’t need to employ a sledge hammer in the process.

Prejudging an individual or a group of individuals-or a culture-for that matter, based on first or fleeting impressions, is never wise. We might already have gleaned this from the Rastafarian religion, which places cannabis on an elevated scale for its medicinal and inspirational qualities, much to the chagrin of many who have a different perspective on cannabis.

For the time being I savored being on the receiving end of a well-played comedy, one six days in the unfolding, the pace unhurried and well-directed, and one that I will cherish as I revisit this venue in future years.

Oh yeah, Bull. You done good. There’ll come a time, Suzie Puente.

Tomorrow: Much Love

Philosophy 101

If you want the short story of my experiences at Reggae on the River, 2015, it goes like this: I planned; I attended; I enjoyed. There, all done.  However, it is my custom to use my blog to not only recount experiences, but to extract from them some sort of sage assessment. 

Each episode will consist of a vignette written to stand by itself, but which will also link with all of the others to attempt to imbue the reader with a basic understanding of what the attraction is to gathering with thousands of others along the Eel River every August, when it is most likely to be hot.

#14: Philosophy 101

Sprawled out on one of the camp chairs, sweltering in the heat which had cooled substantially from the 106 degrees recorded the first day we worked at French’s Camp to set up Reggae on the River, I basked in the glow of my amazing [for me] accomplishment.

I feel as though I have just completed a term paper, or that the school year just ended, and Annie and I are taking our three-day holiday up in Eureka, trying to unwind from another grueling year. Twice each year, at Christmas and in June...that constituted our vacations...

For sixteen years...

Mid-sized David, all six-feet-six inches of him, had started out in one of the camp chairs, but had shortly afterwards convened to the soft carpetting upon which we all tread a little more comfortably, and lay gently snoring as the rest of us looked on just a tad enviously.

Sleep, as vital to life as food and water, was as elusive that weekend as a ten-pound plant, so any time one or more of the crew got the opportunity to saw a few logs, the rest of us were more than willing to listen to the soft, rhythmic purring of the quietest chainsaw.

Revelers drifted in, sat a spell, and then moseyed on. For me, after ingesting a steady diet of stellar music most of Friday and Saturday, and knowing that I was going to be up late that night to catch Albarosie, I was content to attempt nothing more rigorous Sunday morning, than hitting that strawberry cake that had been so ingloriously thrust upon me early Sunday morning, as I returned from the facilities. 

As uplifting as edibles can be, they can also flatten the unsuspecting traveler so thoroughly, that he or she could sit on a piece of toilet paper and dangle his or her legs. I was willing to take one for the team.

Breakfast inside me-it’s time for dessert. Someone needs to hit this straw-belly cake and do a little reconnoitering: “It’s a tough job, Sir, but I’m up for the task, or soon will be, depending on how potent it is...you know me-I’m not one to shirk my responsibilities.”

The cake was exactly as Diego had described it, and the three-inch slice I devoured on top of my Irish breakfast of bacon, strangled eggs, tates and fruit, gave me a nice pleasant glow as I lounged in the shade of our camp.

I had been pondering the unusual rectangular shape gently asserting itself from the inside of Bull’s tent, high up on the right side of his camp domicile as one entered through the front door.

Seriously? An air-conditioned tent? That bulge is a cooler for a tent? I don’t see anything decadent about that.. Not.  My appreciation for Bull’s pragmatism, though, just took a quantum leap upwards. I would never have taken such a dramatic step but then my nickname is not [the] Bull.

The subject of cannabis did not surface now and again in this climate, so much as it was always in the background, kind of like the MonoRail at Disneyland, which habitually circles the amusement park, allowing folks to get on and off as they so desire.

There was never any shortage of material with which to work, both figuratively and metaphorically. We passed the bong, newly spruced up with a rinse job and fresh ice water; we twisted up fatties, possibly adding a nice sprinkling of kief, obtained when trimmers work their magic over a screen, and fired them up; or we sampled some of the available edibles. The only alcohol in evidence, was in the form of the results of last night's reveling.

Impossible to believe that it has only been slightly more than a year since we came out of the weed-closet, posting pics on f/b, and having Casey openly politicking for regulation and legitimization of cannabis. We ain’t skeered-not of Tom Allman, anyway. Now the feds? That’s another matter.

The helicopter landing on my parcel in 1985, has been well-chronicled, and the thirty-year-old memory still has the power to render me limp, if I allow it to. The document that the intruders affixed to my gate, informed me that my twenty acres and the house upon it, was now the property of the United States government.

The lawyer I hired, Ron Sinnoway, working out of Miranda, spent nine months to the day before the case was dismissed. The logistics are inconsequential at this point in time, but it needs to be pointed out that this particularly extreme step was taken by the government, in response to a pop-and-son patch with thirty-three plants.

“It came out of the sky...”

The conversation veered seriously off course the beaten track at one point in time, and landed smack in the middle of seminar on existentialism, which was grand, and then progressed to religion, unquestionably the least appealing topic that one could put on the table for this recovering Catholic.

I mean no disrespect to any individual when I clarify that I am not a religious person. I respect everyone’s choice when it comes to spiritual matters, and have always felt it was up to each of us to figure these things out on our own.

I did not have that choice, being indoctrinated into a faith which I found early on in my life, to be simply unacceptable.

Sitting in Father Luke’s religious studies class as a sophomore in high school, and having him thunder at the all-boys class, “You will rot in hell forever if you commit acts of self-abuse.”

Self-abuse? Oh, masturbation. Got it. I’m going to rot in hell for jerking off? Then I guess I may as well get my money’s worth...

Instead of chalking Father Luke up as a certified lunatic, which was obviously the case, I used it as a wedge to efficiently drive me away from organized religion of any kind. What kind of a religion uses fear of hell, as a motivator to be a “better person?” Don’t they [religions] all, was my intended rhetorical question?

As an introduction to the ensuing seminar, the question was worth $64,000. Having slammed the door on the Catholic Church unofficially at age thirteen, mas o menos, I made it official when I got my first car, a ’64 Nova handed down from an older brother, and was then able to skip Sunday mass, and hit the car-wash instead.

I made sure I stopped by the church, however, to pick up the Sunday Bulletin as proof of my attendance.

Organized religion has never made it onto my radar again, not since I took a course at San Jose State University on existentialism, at age 23. At that time I was fortunate to settle in my mind, once and for all, the direction my spirituality would take.

In prattling on with Casey recently, we got into a dialogue about the difference between Aristotle (The only thing we know is that we know nothing) and Descartes (I think; therefore, I am). 

I belong to the Descartes School of thought. 

Man has a lot of damned gall to think the he is somehow going to “live on” after the body cashes in its chips. Comfort for those who are living, and need something to get them through the day?

Aristotle’s definition has merit because of the ambiguity of the word “know.” What one person “knows” and what a second person knows, are as different as the Rastafarians are from what the Puritans represented, but I still do not buy it.

My belief is more basic: What I derive from life is up to me. What I make of my life is also up to me. I think, therefore I am. I act, and therefore, based on my actions, I am what I accomplish. If I am content, then I am happy.

I am infinitely content with what I have accomplished in my life, and could take that final, glorious nap, at any point in time, without feeling I am missing out on anything.

Well, there are the Giants...

In lounging around the campsite that Sunday morning, with the glow of Stephen Marley still encasing the right side of my brain with a salve of sweet deliciousness, I was in an expansive frame of mind, which was a good thing because I was about to get rocked.

Annabryn, Bull’s better half, and the person who initially caused me to reevaluate my opinion of the just-mentioned Bull, has a serene approach to life. Even in the midst of this chaotic venue that was decidedly not one in which you would expect to find her, she maintained an air of acceptance and dignity, and I found conversing with her to be intellectually stimulating.

Add Casey to the mix and it was a recipe for a memorable concoction. I was not disappointed.

I was in the process of getting all fired up once again about the unintentioned nature of religion, as a force for keeping miscreants in line, when Annabryn brought me down with a thump.

The Jewish faith has no concept of hell. Period.

Tomorrow: Lazin’ on a Sunny Afternoon