So i was sitting on a Zapotec playa, basking in the paradise of it all, smoking cigarrettes and herb with a wonderful old anarchist. He just made so much sense. I told him i wish he was running the show in the USA, because he was so good at cutting through the bullshit. For example, his next play is to be titled "Nobody for President"... and he wants it shouted from the rooftops. The more i got to know him the more my love for him grew, at one point i looked him in the eye and said, "You know, we could very well be the same person" to which he replied "I am fine with that"... and it made me feel so good. Then i flicked my cigarette towards the ocean, and a sand crab popped up out of its hole, ran to the butt that was rolling across the sand in the breeze, grabbed the cigarette with the smoking end pointed high at the sky, scuttled back into its hole, with the smoking cherry being the last thing to disappear.
He let me borrow a letter he had written, i offered to post it here on my website. i invite you to bask in the wisdom of America's finest eclipse chaser.
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Love Song by LLwyd deVoid
A Love Song to my Sisters in their seventies
(LLwyd deVoid, himself well into his seventies, uses this, the occassion of Marian Kimes' 75th, to cast a glance back at the women of our generation).
When I plighted my troth to Suzanne, it was with the expectation that we should share the experience of growing old together. Then, when she unplighted hers to me, it forced me to love them all equally, instead of loving one of them to the exclusion of all others. Which is as it should be since it is a mistake to make any one thing in the universe more important than everything else. Everything is
as important as everything else. One thing is certain: we are human beings first; man and woman is an ad hoc condition.
What a rewarding and eventful experience growing old with my generation of women continues to be. Rare jewels all, we were born during the last time the death rate exceeded the birth rate in this nation. Disenfranchised first by the heroes of World War II and then suppressed by the tyranny of numbers in the baby boom; instead of governing we had to be content to try to make government take responsibility for its actions.
Who are these gals?
Their mothers came through the Roaring Twenties and their grandmas, the Gay 90's. There's the geneology of a gal who can hang in with you at a party. I first noticed them as classy fifty's chicks sporting a set of perky pointy boobs. These are not your big titted baby boomers. These women were born into the depression and know how to make the best of hard times. And have a good time doing it. Who impose peace wherever they go in homage to Her, who has no name. Women who exhibit the courage and the zeal to storm the barricades. Women of the pill who could, and did, fuck anybody without regard to race, creed, national origin or sexual orientation. They forced integration on the USA by being nondiscriminating. They insisted on the equality of the sexes - lived it. Riveter, plumber, senator, doctor and priest have been stripped of the male connotation and stand revealed as dickless. the world of work is neuter and the male sexist worker, who is not aware, quickly learns what emasculation is.
It helps if the man doesn't mind doing a little housework. She becomes a woman when she wills it. I've been so honored and i can testify uppity women sport the very best pussy.
Yes! I'm proud of my gals, who stood shoulder-to-shoulder with me confronting violence with nonviolence. Serving hard time for it. I know a 70-year-old Catholic nun who did six months in a Federal penitentiary for the crime of trespass on the School of the Americas. One way to get to be a sainte is by going to prison for crimes of conscience. No blood, no foul, I say.
So how does one relate to a woman who has abjoured love? One is allowed, without insisting on it, to suggest things which may provide mutual enjoyment. My gals have followed me to the ends of the earth in the quest for mutual enjoyment. There are indications my partners have likewise enjoyed themselves, but that is for them to say. There are those, however, who keep coming back for second and third helpings. It really gets good when we got so far into it that we are no longer doing the trip.
The trip is doing us.
Come with me.
We'll go flying with the gods - mezcal drunk on a beach in Oaxaca - take the demon rum to three falls. Aches and pains all over, but it feels good because we know we have won.
Whose keeping score?
We'll go see an eclipse or watch a volcano blow up - both of them at the same time.
Let's cast our shadows on the face of the moon and walk down the sharp ridge from King's Peak in the dark.
Dangerous? Babe, a little danger adds spice to your life. Believe me, some one is taking care of us. I don't know her name, but i do know she has forgiven all debts, even those of gratitude.
Thanks anyway.
Let's walk among the
Sendero Luminoso and the
Zapatista.
What good is a guardian angel if you don't give her something to do?
Let's get a rush. Join a human chain around a Federal building and then sit down on the pavement. Look up at the mounted policeman stamping his horses hooves inches from your body. Put a real spike in the pucker meter. Ghandi was right. Horses will not walk on people.
What's next? You could do worse than join me Mother's Day at a demonstration protesting the doings at the Nuclear Test Site, outside of Las Vegas. Or a Caribbean adventure in '06.
We're not done yet.
