Blog: Fireworks Inside

He sat on a Harley like it was a comfort chair in his living room. Sloping field, weeds beaten down by traffic, motorcycles everywhere - this was somewhere just outside of Stateline, Nevada. Lake Tahoe' s deep bue was nearby. He reached down to the ground and hooked a gallon jug of Red Mountain Wine. With a deft move the jug swiveled onto his massive shoulder, his wrist distorted and head turned that way he took a giant swig of the cheapest wine money can buy at the local supermarket. "Try some!" He shoved the jug over.

So I did, the best I could. Zack and Bob, Jennifer and Laurie, we all settled into the field. We were composed for the day - an open arena concert on a Fourth of July afternoon. We could see the temporary wooden stage with the temporary power attached to it. We drank our Ripple, our Lancer and more of the Hell's Angels' Red Mountain. Our local favorites, Together, were performing first. They were a collection of good musicians, two lead guitars, rhthym, base and a whole lot of percussion drums. They had managed to push forward one song and they were known for that tune - "The Devil is Coming to Take Your Mind".

As the equipment coalesced on stage Together's lead singer came aboard with his thick and gnarled walking stick. He thumped the stage a few times as if to test its worthiness. The rest of the group meandered along, caressing their instruments and tuning up for what seemed an eternity. Together was not that good. They had talented people but had not taken off as a whole except for the devil song.

The music started soon enough. The field was full. The heat of the day was starting to wane. We were in for a treat. They sounded great. Together started with their anthem, and they played on with various excursions into their individual talents. The music rolled off without a bump, smooth transitions and the underlay of the devil coming, that heavy beat was never far from the song as it evolved. They played for a couple of hours never stopping, free form. People broke off from the crowd and spun-out like angels with diaphanous scarfs. They were lost in the moment and swept up into the performance. Pretty soon we were gone. As the group of Tahoe misfits wound down their song, they changed their tactics and allowed the percussions to step forward. With the beating drums and congas, tambourines and shakers and the lead singers deft pounding on the stage with the walking stick, they drove home the message, 'The Devil is Coming to Take Your Mind'. The beat was on the mark, the words like stray bullets flying through the air. The crowd was lost.

It all ended, the heat of the day, the surge of the crowd, the beat of the drum, and the words had their way. There was no applause. All the performers, crowd included, looked around to gain their positions. It was a workout. The dust settled, as did we amongst the angels from hell. We relaxed with the light awaiting the Feature band - the Youngbloods. Jesse Colin-Young and Banana and the rest put on a very professional show. Their songs started and ended. You could measure their popularity by all the solo dancers who twirled off into the dusk, into their own world of musical bliss. We on the other hand were not impressed. They didn't pound the dust out of the wooden stage, no devils, no angels. They were no threat, no come and take me. They were not that sort of group.

Bob and I headed back to the apartment complex. Night was falling. There were more dogs in the parking lot than people. "Look! That dog is part wolf!" We chatted with various folks, some coming, some going. It was a transitional mood, pleasant, languid. There was no direction. As the heat settled into the building, all the doors were flung open. We spent a  long time in doorways non-commital. For some reason we thought this was a good example of the Monroe Doctrine, so we renamed the place the Monroe Hotel.

Up on the third floor at the end of the corridor was a particularly inviting opening. We pushed aside the beaded string curtain and joined a circle of complete strangers, made ourselves at home and proceeded to soak in the essence. Mother Earth sat at the head of the circle. She was Cammile, the dispenser, weaver of potions, completely inarticulate. We called her Mother. She had long black curly locks jumbled around her head. If you squinted, you might see Medusa, but she pulled it off with a thin tie-dye blanket choked off in various places with beads and trinkets. She sat transfixed with metal strainer, buds, bowls of seeds, piles of stems, a flat bowl of sifted green. Her long fingers worked the tools and produced the product.

We were a group of twelve to fifteen. To count seemed unimportant. It was dark in there and the smoke drifted slowly back and forth. We smoked and laughed and told stories. We listened intently to the left, to the right, across the circle, hands across the water. We were falling into a great time, but something odd occured. Both Bob and I seemed to realize it at the same time. There were two or three joints going around at one given time. Everyone took a hit from this or that joint, but there was one joint that only Bob and I were partaking. The others passed it by. This joint was different, a sharp acidic taste with a bright red burn and a little blue inside the flame. It burned hotter. So, we also passed it by, and gradually it passed out of circulation like a dated romance novel.

A circle was all very good, but at times you need to breakaway, explore. Bob and I slipped beyond to see the rest of this apartment. We were having difficulty navigating the distance to the next room. We kept laughing and falling over each step. With great effort we finally made it to a corner, and with circumspect we edged our two heads around that corner. Lo and behold! It was a kitchen! We were amazed and struck by the glowing apparatus in the sink. The light off this beacon lit up the whole room.

Both of us realized deep down that this was just a sponge, but we refused to acknowledge this fact. We proceeded to swim to this harbor. We were laughing so hard, scrambling to look over the other's shoulder. The boat we were in was rocking, but we knew we could make it if we kept low and the raging water would allow it. We did arrive triumphantly at our destination, each holding the sponge, feeling its other worldly texture, turning it over to discover its light source.

We decided then that it was time to crash at our appropriate apartment. Tomorrow we were to be guided by Jennifer through Desolation Valley and into the wilderness area. But before we left, someone offered us some of that special stuff at a Fourth of July discount. Were we interested? Of course we were, but tomorrow or sometime later.

And as we both lay down on this particular Fourth of July, we closed our eyes and did not find sleep. There were fireworks inside, whirling dervishes, flourescent sponges, sticks on wood, and thankfully a devil to take our minds.