More Third Way meditations and Counter Culture Cut Ups from the Coyote Type….
The Trials of November give way to Hollywood for the Holidays and riding the balance wave. Solitude and Community. Time to think and places to drink. Two years since I returned to California, since I left Tucson and late night “fuck you’s” and “where the hell were you’s” and fifteen long months since I abandoned the Oakland rooftop attempt and went Nomadic, went rogue. Now nearly three months of the Separation Ceremony with New York Neon Eyes. All of this seems a liquid dream, it doesn’t stand still when you look back at it in the rear view mirror. The past moves, shifts in and out of focus. The slow reveal. I am moving into myself, the we of me holding hands on the inside. Coming together. You never need to feel alone, you contain multitudes, you are the actors, the whole ensemble, in your heart/mind movie.
AC and the key to the Mystery.
My primary relationship is to my community, my tribe, to the world around me. New York Neon Eyes was my temptation, the devil’s mountaintop attempt to lure me away from the path, the evolution, and into the mainstreamed paradigm, into the fragmented fake blues reality of the East Coast Ivy League elite. That’s Beat. Two Beat. I lost myself on that mountain, I created a parallel universe and filled it with illusions and invisible love letters. I was looking to give away my power and I got stood up at the gate. Mother Wind was looking out for me, blew me into the arms of a Hawk, sent a Stoned Angel messenger on a hog from heaven with glittered sidecar. I jumped in without hesitation. I was still thinking about Desire as we disappeared into the moonlight.
I stepped out for a smoke and a young Mexican man was standing over his car, hood opened ominously, a look of “fuck” on his face. He turned and asked if i lived nearby. If I could fill his vessel with water. The car had overheated, the radiator had sprung a leak. I made the water runs and stayed close while he tinkered. Human Solidarity. Minor crisis management. Moral support in the time of the dying automobiles. The Third Way leads us toward helping hand interactions and cross culture intersections. We are here to help, a Legion of Mary, a Third Way interactive realtime Traveling Circus. We have guitars and a monkey wrench and we are crashing the party.
I am keeping time with myself. Playing my own tune. My inner clock is playing in New York City time. I am up in the 5am dark chill of Los Angeles. I have the city to myself at this hour, the quiet of the in-between window. At 5am the late night action junkies have disappeared into the drawn curtains of try again tomorrow and the early birdies aren’t yet reaching bleary eyed for snooze button reprieve. At 5am I have the Gods’ attention, I get an audience with the Spirit Daddies, with Mother Universe and her Legion of Stoned Angels trance dancing in the Moonlight. At 5am the coffee as elixir. At 5am in the blue light of begin the day I stretch on the Moroccan rug. I wiggle my fingers and twinkle my toes. I take a Mind inventory and throw out the stuff that’s going bad. I throw out the stuff that looks like it might be going bad. i am making hard cuts this morning. I reach into the back of my mind and find a rotting Apple. Big, but not as big as me. I throw it out and don’t look back.
There is a convergence. A tribe of the cosmically inclined, of the opened heart, out of time, spirit minded. Being drawn into the moment, into Los Angeles and her Mojave surround. Waking from singular sleeps into the shared dream of the Future Myth. The Symbol of the Retreat Center, of the Cosmic Hotel at the End of the Universe, of the Ark rising in the Desert and waiting for the Flood, is the Vision of the moment. Everyone’s dreaming of getting away, of getting back onto a spirit track, of living and lining up with the stars. Singing in Sun and Moonlight. Drawing lines in the sands of the Mojave. Sending smoke signals out to the dispersed warriors and shamans and singers of the band, of the Tribe writ large. A great western Rendezvous, a Pow Wow emphasis on Wow, is being orchestrated by inner dimensional alien master storytellers. These entities want to see alchemical reactions light the long dark tea time night like electric kool-aid bottle rockets launched from the melting rooftops of possible tomorrows. We are being urged forward into the communion by the overseer spirits, the ghostly onlookers on the other side of the galactic one way mirror eyeing curiously the developments and calling plays from the sidelines of the shared dream. We are in conversation. We have blueprints and an Ancient Map.