Philo

I have spoken to you of Philo.

The first summer of Sundance. I was alone in the truck. Summer free. Sundance had come to its completion and adventure was at hand. My brother let me use his pickup. It was brown. A great truck really. I think it finally died last year. I left out of Mission sometime in July. Heading west across the plains and spiritual places of the Siouan speaking tribes. Close Encounters does no justice to Devils Tower.

Driving on to Seattle. There I met up with an old lover. Time had made the relationship grow apart as with the distance of half a continent. They say to not make a change in the first year of sobriety. I had met her the first week of being clean and it filled a place inside left empty. A year later now and the damage done. Really, I seemed to be a much worse person sober then drunk. The alcohol and drugs served as a buffer on my thinking and actions. Without that blanket of fog in my mind and without the tools of a spiritual life my first year in was destructive to others and to the self.

I grab the ferry to Lopez Island. Stephen White is living in a tree house on the island. I do not know where it is really. I drive and drive. Hitting all the sights on this little place, reminiscent of a small cape town. I picked up a hitchhiker going to the communal house on the island. A place that looked tempting to get lost for a while. There was a beautiful summer camp there, on a small inlet. Teepees lined the shore and artwork hung on the walls of the longhouse. There was an AA meeting in a small white church or community building. Three or four old guys were gathered. Talking about what I don’t remember but kind in letting a strange traveler join them for an hour. I had posted a note at the service station on the far side of the island and the next day Stephen had answered with directions to his tree house.

When I arrived there it was in need of some repair. Stephen had taken to Tequila by this time and was hitting a half empty bottle pretty hard. Never having known him to drink before, his mood was ill and his astute control of the universe somewhat shaky. He dried out over the next couple of days as we patched holes in the floor and roof of this abode. We set out for Seattle again and said goodbye to that city for what would be twelve more years.

I would be heading back to Oklahoma to start fall classes and the White Man was heading back to the Cape or Guatemala or South Carolina or New Orleans or Hawaii or somewhere in-between. I would get him to somewhere along the way. Highway 101 down the coast and my nerves were nearly shot. Close proximity with this dude and no substances to take the edge off was nearly to much for me. I had known Stephen Temple when I was deep into the sacrament of ganja and the elusive effects of psychotropics. With a mind barely a year above the haze I was still most difficult to interact with (the past use of was is not appropriate, am).

We cruised down the coast. California, the golden shore. Remember events and times and small glimpses of that journey. Sleeping in the truck under bridges, Stephen in the bed and I in the cab; police waking us early one morning.

Through the redwood forests. Black birds shimmery blue. Trees too large for the land around them.

Over hills and the coast.

Philo, between Ft. Bragg and San Francisco. A non descript town. Up a mountain. Around a dirt road. Through a broken gate. The home of the commune of Spinners. This place is strange. A setting of what a commune of hippy kids following a spiritual path should be. A stereotypical place. A large building for gathering and eating and working. Smaller buildings with segregated sleep quarters. A smallish temple for prayer. The Spinners took a myriad of beliefs and infused them together. A basis of Krishna and Sufism, guided by the lyrics and music of the Grateful Dead, and partaking in the sacrament of the Rastafarians.

Joseph led the Spinners and gave them a place to be. Something to believe in. Purpose. They made clothing to sell. They kept a garden. They sang, danced, chanted, prayed, and dined together in relative harmony. They would travel around the country side and get things unwanted and unneeded; being castoffs of society they created everything from the castoffs of society. They came to this piece of land somehow and developed it and it fit their lifestyle and philosophy.

Morning prayer was always a delight. Gathering in the temple and chanting and drums and dancing. Praise. Jia Jia, Hare Hare, Jia Jia Hare Hare, hare Hare St. Francisco, Jai jai, Hare hare. I did not partake in the sacrament any longer and that did not seem to be a problem. I left them a copy of the big book for their fairly extensive library of spiritual books. They were interested in sweating and the Lakota rituals from which I had just returned. I did not feel like an outsider being with them. They were open and accepting. They would have been a great group to study on communal/spiritual living in the early 1990’s.

A hill. Someone had driven a bus off the road and down this hill. Wedged it into a tree. It was an odd thing to see. Why they did not get it towed out, I will never know. Anyway, down the hill a way, through the trees there was a pond not really a pond but a natural pool of water. It was fed by a fairly large waterfall. Surrounded by trees. Sun splotched in and lit this place well and the trees provided cool shade on warm rocks. Large blackish boulders at the edge of the pool. Climb into the fresh cool water. Clear. Flowing. This water beautiful. Crawling out of the water and spread out on a warm boulder. Sun drying skin and hair. Cool breeze raising flesh bumps. Sitting up on this stone. Feet over the side barely touching the water.

The moment shifts. I am sitting on this rock but not sitting on this rock. I am above me and turning. Up traveling to the tops to trees. Looking down at myself and this pool of water and the water fall and the green leaves, and the black boulders and I know how small I am in this universe. I know how large the spirit is truly.

Stopping in Santa Cruz to see the devastation of the Earthquake of 1989. There was a great Hindi restaurant there that would open on Sunday morning and serve free breakfast to anyone who came. San Francisco, we wandered the city for a few days. Based out of an old Cape Cod’ders home. This dude was like a nuclear physicist or something. He was it great speakers and loud sounds. He had this pendulum hanging in the living room and when the earth would move it would trace in the sand.

I went to Lyle Tuttle’s Tattoo museum and hung out down by the wharf. Some place there would put plastic alligators in the drinks and a friend of a friend worked there. Golden Gate Park and memories or the trippy days we spent in the city just a couple of years before.

We went on down to Lompoc. We called upon Bob and Marilyn Tate. They fed us dinner and gave us beds for a couple of nights. Bob got a kick out of Stephen. He was wearing a coon skin cap. We went to the beach with Ben Tate and tried to surf but to no avail. The Tate’s house had not changed in many years since I was last there. Very pretty place, lush with plants, dark brown paneling on the walls in the den. I remember getting along with Rachael Tate for the first time on this trip. Being adults made a difference because seeing the Tate’s in the summers growing up she and I were always aloof and adversarial. Marilyn passed away a little over a year ago. Seeing Bob, a retired school teacher, this summer was sad and his loneliness was palatable it coupled poorly with my loneliness. The kids are both married with children and seem to be doing well.

It is back to Oklahoma then. I don’t really remember from the coast back home. Being home I am not even sure what came next.

Strange. Stephen and I stopped in Cordell. We went to the swimming pool and cooled off and sat in the sun. It was a lovely day and I imagine that people were wondering where two long haired hippie freaks had come from to end up in this pool in this little town. We went to the Methodist Church and I saw Florence Edwards. For some reason it was a calling to go see her at that time. Necessary. Mary, her daughter, had passed away the year before. I do not think I really said anything but just needed to be there. I don’t know what Florence would have thought about my life and the way I was who it was I had grown up to be. I wonder that now. What would she think of this life she helped direct for those few years of youth that made the most permeate impact upon the psyche. I believe that is why ice cream and coffee are my comfort foods. The memories of growing up and the feelings of joy at the Edward’s home. One day I will write a book about Florence, or the idea that Florence embodied. She was the cookie lady. I think every child growing needs to have a cookie lady.