Delusions

So much for viral.

Home, watching video of my performance at the Riverview Cafe, getting drunk on the Frontenac wine I made last year (which is mellowing out quite nicely), I realize, holding a pair of deer horns doesn't make me a better dancer. There is some polite applause. Ho hum. I have to remember, I'm more shaman than dancer. The horns translate better in front of a fire. I brought the swords too, but I didn't pull them out for lack of time. Maybe in a couple of weeks.

I sent an email to a friend who has read my book, asking, "What's the first thing that comes to mind when you think of my book? No filters please." He replied with a list:

Big
Bold
Authentic
Arrogant
Visionary
Service
Mission
Needs editing
Won't sell
Start a Revolution

It's all that. He forgot Purpose, which is a word I like in place of Mission. The "Arrogant" and "Won't Sell", are of particular importance. Reading through my manuscript for about the fifteenth time, recently, it came to me that a particular arrogance of mine is the idea that I might make enough money on the sale of this book to pay for this house, soon enough to prevent the property from changing hands. I forget that society is not in the habit of supporting revolutionaries, even peaceful ones advocating awakening and reverence for the Earth and all its creatures.

The only thing to do at this point is finish the book and make it available as a PDF, for free. Everybody loves free stuff. A suggested donation, if you think it worthwhile, helping me keep writing. The second book is taking shape. It will be considerably more accessible than the first one, if more direct and no less compromising.

My last hope, that video, for keeping the house. An absurdly long shot, and it missed by a proverbial mile. Damn. Service to the Goddess and to the Earth is no simple thing, in a culture that can't conceive of the first and sanctifies the ongoing exploitation of the other (they really are the same thing, the Goddess and the Earth.) Making money is a grand difficulty when you see the bulk of Trade as legitimized plunder. A true art form, which apparently, I do not excel at at all.

Blessings

The Riverview Cafe open mic, world premiere of two of my Sacred Theatre dances, was a rousing success, I think. It felt good. The crones loved it, four mature ladies thanking me directly afterward, one asking me on a date, another handing me a US Grant: "I found this in a Baltimore bar. I think you should have it." She plays a fine flute. I have the dances on video (and audio of S. with her extraordinarily generous blessing), thanks to my friend Kevin, who borrowed the video camera and tripod. My good friend Chad borrowed the ipod I needed to play the music. I'll put the video out there, if I can figure out how. My ridiculous PC isn't likely capable of compressing the data.

I think I'll bring the swords and deer horns on the 29th. I couldn't have danced in front of anyone a few months ago. I think it was William James, or was it Henry, who said one of the most remarkable things about this life is the way in which the impossible becomes possible. I lit a pair of swords on fire this past Wednesday, and danced in my back yard. Twice. I was nervous, but I don't think anyone noticed, and it all seemed a little mundane after. On the fourth of July, on my 37th birthday, I danced to a well-done fireworks show, to the impressive sax of a talented fellow named Raven Wolf, to a dozen djembe and doumbek, with my deer horns. That was fun. More of that would be nice.

Every so often a few dollars trickle in, unexpectedly, enough to pay for coffee and the occasional meal. I have friends who care deeply about me. My father can't understand why I don't get a job with an oil company or a trucking service; how can I tell him I'm done with the conventional, that I have become effectively unemployable from a mainstream perspective, that I'm not even actively looking for a job? I'm going to write a second book, even if I can't get the first one published. If that means I lose my house and end up living in a garage somewhere, well, I am alive. Thriving, really. Loving Life. Even if, from a mainstream perspective, I am a total failure.

The tomatoes are starting to ripen. I've had a few radishes this week. the western sand cherries are ripe, the lettuce is bolting almost immediately yet, it's all starting to add up to a significant portion of my diet, what my yard produces. The healthiest portion, really. Wherever I am in six months, I'm going to have an abundance of potatoes and beans, canned tomatoes and salsa.

This really is a beautiful life. Curious, that it has taken me off the grid. A strange fate. But I'm dancing. I have something to say, good friends, more useful skills and knowledge than most, and currently, shelter. If nothing else, I'm proving to my self at least, I don't need much to be happy.

Not that I want to be living in a garage, come winter. But I will, before I go to work for an oil company or a trucking service, or any other employer who requires me to participate, on a daily basis, in the plunder of the Earth, in funneling resources up the steps of a social hierarchy. Regardless what my culture has to say about value, wealth and productivity.