on the way home
(this is my third beer of the 24 pack. for a mere 18 dollars, i have the pleasure of sipping an artisan crafted beer. winterbraun is a caramel and chocolate pale malt that is two seasons too late. and so, in spring, i get fine beer that costs just as much as pabst.)
life is divine. after theatre practice in eureka, i sip my third beer as we travel in the black and purple bus across the bridge to manila and then arcata. the bridge takes us away from city life and back to rural township. on the bridge, the landscape evolves from city to crop circles. these are not alien circles, but dramatic land and water formations created by the sea that occupies that space only twice a day.
humboldt bay is one of the most dramatic bays on the california coast. over five miles of coastline is emptied of its ocean water. and twice a day, along with the tides, the water dumps itself back into its place along the very same coastline. the water weaves itself through small streams to the coast and then swells profusely into the gigantic bay in the course of a few hours.
the bay, occupied by birds and brush has not always been so sacred as it seems. an indian masacre took place on the island we just passed across the bridge on the bus. wiyot and yurok, men, women and children were ostracized and killed by the thousands. there, right off of the mainland is a small square mile of land. and in the early 1900s all of the natives were pushed onto that land and killed outright. GENOCIDE. and that we shall not forget.
and yet, today it is a pleasure. arcata.
a town where everyone knows your name and smiles. even the woman leaving the co-operative grocery store was interested in our conversation and asked us about making eucalyptus salve. we are family.
i feel like i am in a different country. the culture is totally different. instead of drinking beer, everyone brings organic food and clothing to swap and a song to sing and teach in this romantic place called humboldt.
people recognize the seasons and celebrate with drums and dance. and we all teach each other the rituals of cultures around the world.
samba, acapella, cubano-africano.
despite being so far removed from the rest of the world, in a rural setting, we are all here to rejoice the fruits of ancient times. of traditions passed. our own, created, and those passed, that we have studied, related and contemplated.
ARCATA IS SACRED. we live life in a global village.
the people here move to africa and asia and the americas... and spread the love they have learned here.
we are collectively learning freedom. we are collectively becoming free.
in liberation we join hands, embrace or kiss on both cheeks.
and immediately thereafter churn our compost piles, ride our bikes and organize the community.
this is utopia. yet utopia has its costs.
utopia has the guise of an institution. and institutions too, need to be ramified and revamped to pave way for new ideals.
in a college town, it is easy to get wrapped up in college life. especially when that college life consists of the world coming to you. from nigeria, femi kuti came. from new york, so did thurston moore. and so did balinesian gamelan and japanese taiko.
life is vast. and as i tell my story to a hitchhiker, she tells me i plan my life too far ahead, and that perhaps, i should consider taking to the road with my thumb and backpack sooner than i can imagine... even just a month.
in a county where more than half of the youth has arrived by thumb, one must consider these things.
it is easy to romanticize the life of a forest dweller. i live on the outskirts of the forest and interact with forest friends everyday.
they tell me of trees and of violent weather. of residing under a tarp and still calling it home... even after the rain and the ten story climb to the top.
they bless me with visions. and sometimes i partake in these visions.
i climbed up. but only a story or two, and with apprehension climbed down. even for the love of a man in a tree, i realized that tree climbing is a task of love making that requires skill and adept knowledge. knowledge that i do not have. and so, after attempting, i lay inside the trunk of a cut down tree, body sprawled, acknowledging that i have far to travel, in both my physical endurance and spiritual trust.
this is a different time and place.
life is divine. after theatre practice in eureka, i sip my third beer as we travel in the black and purple bus across the bridge to manila and then arcata. the bridge takes us away from city life and back to rural township. on the bridge, the landscape evolves from city to crop circles. these are not alien circles, but dramatic land and water formations created by the sea that occupies that space only twice a day.
humboldt bay is one of the most dramatic bays on the california coast. over five miles of coastline is emptied of its ocean water. and twice a day, along with the tides, the water dumps itself back into its place along the very same coastline. the water weaves itself through small streams to the coast and then swells profusely into the gigantic bay in the course of a few hours.
the bay, occupied by birds and brush has not always been so sacred as it seems. an indian masacre took place on the island we just passed across the bridge on the bus. wiyot and yurok, men, women and children were ostracized and killed by the thousands. there, right off of the mainland is a small square mile of land. and in the early 1900s all of the natives were pushed onto that land and killed outright. GENOCIDE. and that we shall not forget.
and yet, today it is a pleasure. arcata.
a town where everyone knows your name and smiles. even the woman leaving the co-operative grocery store was interested in our conversation and asked us about making eucalyptus salve. we are family.
i feel like i am in a different country. the culture is totally different. instead of drinking beer, everyone brings organic food and clothing to swap and a song to sing and teach in this romantic place called humboldt.
people recognize the seasons and celebrate with drums and dance. and we all teach each other the rituals of cultures around the world.
samba, acapella, cubano-africano.
despite being so far removed from the rest of the world, in a rural setting, we are all here to rejoice the fruits of ancient times. of traditions passed. our own, created, and those passed, that we have studied, related and contemplated.
ARCATA IS SACRED. we live life in a global village.
the people here move to africa and asia and the americas... and spread the love they have learned here.
we are collectively learning freedom. we are collectively becoming free.
in liberation we join hands, embrace or kiss on both cheeks.
and immediately thereafter churn our compost piles, ride our bikes and organize the community.
this is utopia. yet utopia has its costs.
utopia has the guise of an institution. and institutions too, need to be ramified and revamped to pave way for new ideals.
in a college town, it is easy to get wrapped up in college life. especially when that college life consists of the world coming to you. from nigeria, femi kuti came. from new york, so did thurston moore. and so did balinesian gamelan and japanese taiko.
life is vast. and as i tell my story to a hitchhiker, she tells me i plan my life too far ahead, and that perhaps, i should consider taking to the road with my thumb and backpack sooner than i can imagine... even just a month.
in a county where more than half of the youth has arrived by thumb, one must consider these things.
it is easy to romanticize the life of a forest dweller. i live on the outskirts of the forest and interact with forest friends everyday.
they tell me of trees and of violent weather. of residing under a tarp and still calling it home... even after the rain and the ten story climb to the top.
they bless me with visions. and sometimes i partake in these visions.
i climbed up. but only a story or two, and with apprehension climbed down. even for the love of a man in a tree, i realized that tree climbing is a task of love making that requires skill and adept knowledge. knowledge that i do not have. and so, after attempting, i lay inside the trunk of a cut down tree, body sprawled, acknowledging that i have far to travel, in both my physical endurance and spiritual trust.
this is a different time and place.