Sweat Your Prayers - That'll Give You Something to Write About

Image by Gerhard Lipold from Pixabay

Given the intense heat wave that is taking over the Pacific Northwest right now, I thought it appropriate to re-post this blog from early June, last year.

What’s happening now is a far cry from a sweat lodge; but in its own way, this may be another opportune time to sweat my prayers. Hear ye!

Since cultural appropriation has been a hot topic for a few years, I start with the disclaimer that there was none of that here.

A Blackfoot Native taught his tradition, along with songs and prayers in his language to this community of copacetic and lovely Caucasian humans.

The story he told of being a watchdog as a child truly made clear the significance of what I was about to do. He said he was forced to go to the Native boarding school, and that their traditional sweat lodges were deemed illegal by the US government.

But the Blackfoot continued them anyway.

Dillon (name changed to protect his privacy) said that his job, along with the other kids, was to hide in the tall grass while their parents snuck the rocks, sticks, wood, canvas, and everything else needed to make a temporary sweat lodge in baskets to look as if they were going out for a picnic or something.

If the kids saw any government officials coming, they were to blow their whistles to warn the elders of coming trouble, who would then stop what they were doing and hide the evidence.

It’s unbelievable that such a practice was ever illegal. There was no reason for that beyond oppression.

I would have thought that as a Blackfoot, Dillon would take offense at the white people who wanted to use his spiritual traditions for themselves.

But nothing could have been further from the truth.

Dillon made it very clear that he was grateful for communities like this one, where the Caucasian nation wanted to form sweat lodges and do the spiritual practice as it was meant to be practiced.

“With your participation,” he said to us assembled there, “the practice of praying in a sweat lodge stays alive. And that’s crucial for us to keep it going.”

This was my first sweat lodge and I really couldn’t have chosen any better.

I used to be scared of sweat lodges.

Until a couple of years ago, I always avoided saunas, and preferred steam. But then one of my best friends and I started a daily sauna marathon after a retreat we attended together a couple of times.

Maybe the retreat was more arduous than most. All I know was that the saunas I shared with my former roommate burst through any resistance to heat and sweating.

Because now I love the feeling of rivers of sweat pouring down my body.

It’s both cleansing and kind of dirty.

There is something primal about it. It’s even more primal within the womb-like darkness of a sweat lodge.

The heat is even more intense and your sweat pours, all while crammed into a confined space with a lot people who are also drenched with body fluid. Throughout we’re singing, calling out prayers, and setting intentions.

This year, I went to the retreat alone.

A new friend I made there invited me to the sweat lodge the following Sunday, after I told him I was staying in the area for a few days longer after the end of the retreat.

“I’m intimidated by sweat lodges.”

“You should be,” he said. “So are you coming or not?”

I did.

I went to the Wal Mart parking lot early that Sunday morning to meet my friend from the retreat and get a ride to the sweat lodge.

I figured the bearded hippie dude doing tai chi in the empty parking lot was likely headed for there.

I was right.

“Just you wait until the water hits the rocks,” he said. “That’s always my favorite part. There’s something ancient and primitive about it that runs deep for me.”

This particular sweat was special in that it was the inauguration of a new lodge. I found out afterwards that these monthly sweat lodges had been suspended for about a year and a half.

The previous hosts were in their late 70’s, and got tired. They insisted that the next generation pick up the ball, and it was a while before somebody did.

The lodge was already assembled with various sticks and branches nailed together and covered with canvas to make a mound. In the center, a hole was dug out.

This held the rocks — aka the Grandfathers — and we carried them to the edge of the pyre that would later become the fire that would heat them up.

There was an air of excited anticipation as we prepared for the sweat lodge. Doing the work of building up the sweat was a crucial part of being here.

The strongest and hardiest of us split logs of varying lengths, while the rest of us carried them to the pile where others built up the pyre. The fire would burn directly in front of the opening to the lodge.

“That’s the fire line. It’s very important to not cross it when you’re coming in and out of the lodge.”

A woman explained to me the points of significance once she knew this was my first time.

Pointing to a small mound to the right of the entrance to the sweat lodge, she explained to me that was where we leave our offerings and prayers, and that the four sticks with long, narrow ribbons in different colors represented the four nations of the races of the world.

“Yellow is for the Asian nations, white for Caucasian nations, Red for Indigenous nations, and black for African nations.”

That lady was very kind to tell me all this.

“The rocks are the Grandfathers, whereas the fire and the lodge are the Grandmothers. The lodge in particular is the womb of the Grandmother, and the heated rocks are the Grandfathers and Grandmothers united.”

“How long does it take for the rocks to get hot enough?”

“At least an hour.”

Finally, it was time to light the fire to marry the Grandfathers with the Grandmothers.

The air was festive on this Sunday. More than 70 people showed up to this and I couldn’t believe it when most of them were able to fit inside that sweat lodge.

Their elation and joy was palpable as the people chatted and waited for the grandfathers to get hot enough and the first round to begin.

“There will be 4 rounds of about 15–20 minutes each,” the kind lady explained. “Each round has a theme.”

During the 1st round, we called in the Great Spirit.

During the 2nd round, we called out our Intentions.

During the 3rd round, we asked for Healing.

During the 4th round, we offered our Gratitude.

There were only a few minutes between rounds to leave the lodge — which a lot of people didn’t — to stretch, pee, and drink more water before going back in for more.

Each sweat got more intense than the last.

I’ll never forget my awe when I saw those fiery rocks, smoldering like wood embers in those moments the Grandfathers united with the Grandmothers came into the womb of the sweat lodge.

They came in one by one, in groups of eleven, at the end of a pitchfork to be dropped in the hole in the middle of the sweat lodge.

We called out each time:

“Welcome, Grandfather.”

Once the eleven for that round was gathered, the door to the sweat lodge was dropped, all was dark. The water poured and the steam rose.

The time had come to sweat our prayers.

Sisterhood Where You Least Expect Her

Photo by yours truly

Hey y’all,

Have any of you heard about the Thorani? (Or Phae Mae Thorani – spelling varies.)

She has so been my girl on this trip. She’s cool and she’s hot. She’s awesome!

She’s also part of the Buddhist legend, and a very important part at that, so I’m both surprised and a little sad that I never heard of her until this trip.

Although I’ve had a healthy respect and interest in Buddhism, I’m no expert and I haven’t studied it beyond a casual interest of an article here, a book there, and dropping in on Buddhist-style meditations from time to time.

So I’m wondering if patriarchy and/or fear of pagan spirituality might be the reason why I’ve never heard of the Thorani until I came to Luang Prabang.

Because she’s everywhere here, this beautiful, sensuous looking woman wringing the water out of her long hair.

One question about her to Kip and he was on it! He looked her up and sent us the Wiki page explaining this wondrous being.

You know the Buddhist mantra pose of left hand in lap, while the right hand reaches to the ground? It’s the pose I’ve seen most often in the statues here.

According to the story, Buddha was deep in meditation under the bodhi tree in his quest for enlightenment. Mara, a demon who was psychotically jealous of Buddha and his mission in life, thought who was Buddha to reach enlightenment?

So Mara cast his demons and his temptress daughters on him to distract the Buddha from reaching enlightenment. Still in his deep meditation, Buddha reached his right hand down to the earth and thought to himself: “Let the earth bear witness to this.”

And an earth goddess, Thorani, rose to the occasion. She reflected on all the good deeds Buddha had done in his life and that created a river of water in her hair. Then Thorani wrung the cool waters of detachment from her long tresses and created a powerful flood that drowned out Mara, his demons, and his daughters.

What a badass!

Photo by yours truly

Thus Buddha was freed up to reach enlightenment, instead of having to defend his meditative state from an onslaught of shit.

One of the things that really strikes me every time I see a painting or statue of her is her striking sensuality and beauty. Often, she’s topless and when she’s not, she’s wearing a bandeau around her breasts. Her sexual nature is obvious.

The Buddhists aren’t known for their celebration of sexuality, so I find that interesting.

Also, there’s something about this legend that reminds me of the union of Shakti and Shiva, even if the Thorani wasn’t Buddha’s girlfriend. Well, he had already left his wife and son to become the Buddha, so…

But Shakti is the dynamic energy who wakes Shiva up, who is in a deep meditative state. And in this instance, the Thorani protects the Buddha, so he can remain in his meditative state to reach nirvana.

The stories are different, but something about the nature of them is similar. This isn’t the first time I noticed that vague connection between Hinduism and Buddhism.

A former novice/monk who took me on a tour of one of the temples said: “Oh we’re also Hindu,” when I mentioned it.

Perhaps this is my imagination, yet I kind of feel like Thorani has been my guardian earth goddess on this trip. Maybe because I’ve been meeting an extraordinary number of my sisters since I got to SE Asia.

The strangest and some kind of wonderful thing happened to me last night. Kip and Angela left on Friday (right now is Thursday morning in Laos). Except for dinner with Peter on Saturday, I’ve had little connection with people since my friends left.

(Peter was a new friend picked up on our first night here in Luang Prabang when Angela offered him a banana as he was walking past. It stopped him in his tracks, and he kept saying in a German accent that there had to be a catch. No catch. Angela thought he was cute, and that’s how Kip and Angela roll. Everybody is invited to the party.)

I was thinking about traveling alone and ways to draw on my inner resources last night as I went to a beautiful, outdoor café with a lot of silk lanterns hanging from the trees and lighting up the space.

Thanks to 3 obnoxious toddlers at the table next to me, I changed tables and ended up next to other Americans. Believe it or not, they’re kind of rare. Most of the Western travelers I’ve come across are from Europe, especially France.

Anyway, at the table next to mine was another lone female traveler. Her name was Natasha.

The food here is incredibly beautiful in its presentation, and she asked me what dish I got – Duck Pancakes – and we fell to talking.

When asked “so where are you from?” Natasha answered:

“Originally? I’m from Florida.”

“Me too,” I answered.

“Really? Where?”

“Orlando.”

“Shut up!”

“What high school did you go to?”

“Boone,” she replied.

“Edgewater,” I answered.

For those of you not from Central Florida, Boone was originally Orlando High, but when the town grew large enough to need a 2nd high school, Orlando High split into Boone and Edgewater.

So yeah, small world. We shared an OMFG moment and she joined me for dinner.

Isn’t that the craziest coincidence? It didn’t stop there.

Not only were we from Orlando, but we’d been gone from there for so long, we really weren’t psychologically Floridian anymore. That’s a good thing, btw. My experience of Orlando is that it’s conservative with a stifling way of life, especially for women.

That was one of the first things we’ve talked about. Another that we talked about was how the quality of travel changes when you’re no longer in your 20’s or even 30’s.

I was reminded of this a couple of nights ago when I tried to get some writing done at Utopia – “Zen by day, groovy by night” is its slogan – a really lovely outdoor bar/café with floor pillows and cushions, etc. on bamboo floors above the Nam Khan River about a ½ mile before it feeds into the mighty Mekong River.

Anyway, I chose a spot on a lower platform with a gorgeous view of a river at night. It was all peaceful and chill, or “zen,” until the group of 20-something travelers next to me kept growing and expanding and encroaching on my space.

They were there for the “groovy.”

It was obvious that these folks with varying accents speaking English and introducing themselves, probably met at one of the nearby hostels, and the invite of “Hey, we’re going out drinking! Wanna come?” was all one needed to make new friends.

Because that’s how easy it is to meet people when you’re traveling at that age. I remember that phase fondly and well, and I’m grateful I got to enjoy that.

But that’s not where I’m at now. I fully enjoyed hostel traveling for a generous length of time, and hostels saved me from excruciating loneliness during my DIY booktour/roadtrip in 2005-2006.

But not long after that, I realized I wanted the privacy of my own room and a place to write, as well as a sense of safety that my laptop wouldn’t get stolen.

Eventually, even the most young-at-heart of us outgrow hostel travel.

So meeting people is more random and less guaranteed.

There’s also the barrier of language. The Laos accent is really difficult for me to understand, so it limits the potential for connection.

So I appreciated that run-in with Natasha who was raised in the same parts where I was, and there with no language barrier. She was easy to connect with because we already had a lot in common. Dinner with her last night was the first meaty conversation I had had in 4 days.

Natasha has lived in China for the better part of 20 years, 12 years in Beijing and the last several in Shanghai. She works for the Montessori school system as a consultant.

Montessori in China. Who would have thought?

Anyway, she’s on a multi-stop trip back to St. Augustine – where she lives for a couple of months a year when she is in Florida – to sit out the coronavirus.

She said living through SARS in 2003 had been bad enough. She told me that everybody in China had to self-quarantine for 2 weeks back then, with groceries delivered to your door.

She also talked a lot about how social media made this thing blow up and the Chinese government doesn’t have a handle on this. She said shops are closing all over China, not just Wuhan – and everybody has to do a 14-day self-quarantine so the virus doesn’t explode exponentially, which it’s starting to do.

“Yep. Did that with SARS. Don’t need to do that again.”

(Ha! That pales in comparison to what we’re going through with the Coronavirus - I originally wrote this on January 30th.)

The panic has spread to Laos too. I showed up this morning at one of my coffee houses and couldn’t recognize the staff because all of them had on blue surgical face masks.

I’ve been seeing more and more face masks on folks as the days have gone by. I asked even though I already knew the answer.

“We’re worried about that virus from China,” said one. “We have Chinese people coming in here.”

Oh yeah, by the way, I’m still in Luang Prabang. I’ve changed my travel plans so many times, I’m embarrassed to admit it. What can I say? I am a lazy traveler.

But I also really fell in love with this town and wanted to stay long enough to truly absorb the VIBE of this place. I’m finally leaving on Saturday, and by the time I go, I will have been in SE Asia for 4 weeks, and will have spent half that time in Luang Prabang.

Now that’s magic.

Seems like Luang Prabang snuggled between the Nam Khan and Mekong Rivers is a vortex that SUCKS YOU IN! People have chuckled with every ticket change and extension of where I’m staying. I even changed hotels for 5 more days.

That gives me the impression that this happens a lot. That people come for a few days and end up staying a while.

One thing I’ll say about this trip is that I feel like I’ve definitely made some new friends. It’s always such a joy and a pleasure to meet new sisters when you least expect to.

Queer or straight, I’ve found that women are not only imprisoned by conformity, they are also the prison guards and the enforcers of the conformity that holds us down and back. I could write several books on this subject because this shit has caused me problems, heartache, and anguish for most of my life.

So, every time I meet a woman – anywhere - who lives on her terms instead of from standards imposed by outside forces, especially when she approaches life with more lust and more hunger and more passion, I do back flips and squeal WHEEE!!!!

One of the greatest blessings of this trip is that I believe I’ve met quite a few of these free-wheeling soulsisters.

Angela and I really connected in the time we hung out in Chiang Mai and Luang Prabang. I also met 2 or 3 women at the Tantric Shitshow with whom I hope to stay in touch. (Obviously, Quixotic Sierra is not one of them.)

And who knows? Maybe Natasha will be a new friend, or that meeting was nothing more than 2 ships passing in the night. Asia is more her turf than it is mine, and she doesn’t need me.

If that be the case, I had a lovely, rich conversation with her last night when I needed it, and that will probably keep me sustained until my next random meeting with a kindred spirit.

Speaking of kindred spirits…

Thanks so much for the letters, notes, texts, and calls (WhatsApp). I especially love it when somebody reaches out for the first time. These contacts, however brief, are priceless and nourishing. I need that right now, so please keep it coming.

Peace,

Mana

The Quixotic Quest of the Great Queer Hope I - Tantric Shitshow Part 1

Image by KiraHundeDog from Pixabay

Hey y’all,

Well, that was a disaster.

I love being open. I love the results of being open most of the time. It’s a state that makes life more interesting, and jumping into the unknown has landed me in some spectacular places and experiences.

But every so often, I would be wise to exercise the caution of taking a closer look of what I’m jumping into.

And this Masters Workshop Tao Meets Tantra, with Sierra Levy (no – excuse me, I mean Doctor Sierra Levy, naturopath and acupuncturist), allegedly as the head of Queer Tantra was definitely one of those times.

I should have researched.

I should have asked questions. I should have asked a lot of questions.

But I didn’t, and that’s on me.

To get y’all up to speed, I left the Masters Workshop on Sunday, while it ends today, Wednesday. I came to Pai with Kip on Monday.

Right now, I’m sitting in a lovely little café on a dirt road with a lovely view of a small farm between this café and the place where Kip and I are staying in our respective mud huts.

Roosters are crowing, birds are chirping, the morning sun is bright, and it’s not too hot yet.

Photo by me.

Oh, and there’s a white Buddha statue on the hill above us.

There are lots of Buddhas on hills around here, and lots of temples.

I have this gorgeous little cappuccino set up in front of me, with a tiny cup of flower water on a small wooden tray, with a wooden spoon to stir as much brown sugar as I desire into my cappuccino.

In other words, I’m good, life is good, and I’m in a good place.

Photo by me.

I’ve also had some time to process long enough to find the humor in what I just left behind.

It’s fabulous when everything goes smoothly in life and travel, but the really good stories come from conflict and chaos, when everything goes to hell and all the drama that ensues.

So please excuse the length of this email. For those who want to dive with me, it will take several letters to tell all this in digestible chunks.

On that note, back to the shitshow and how I landed in it.

I met Sierra last summer at the first Cascadia Tantra Festival on the Olympic Peninsula. I almost didn’t go. I had finally gotten back in my house and I was exhausted. But the guest coordinator convinced me to come, insisted this would be so healing and nourishing after a breakup.

So I rallied and went.

This was one of those times when jumping off the cliff into the unknown was a gorgeous idea.

Five weeks after my split with Morgen, I was numb. The healing from the CTF was desperately needed. At the end of those few days, I was able to feel again, without feeling horrible. And to give credit where it’s due, Sierra Levy had been a part of that.

Sierra and I were 2 of 3 queer women there. The 3rd, Grace Bryant from Seattle, was one of the presenters and her 2 workshops – “Deconstructing Gender Identity” and “Non-Binary Tantra” - left little doubt as to what she was about and what she had to offer in this workshop.

On the last day of CTF, Sierra and I had paired up for an exercise in letting go through sending some love to those who had hurt us and who we hadn’t forgiven.

Sierra said: “I don’t need to do this. I’ve already done my work, but I can hold space while you release. I’m in bliss about 97% of the time.”

Looking back, that statement right there was a red flag.

But I went with the flow. In the exercise, we sat across from each other and held hands – left palm up and right palm down, left hand receives and right hand gives to make a circuit between us.

It was intense.

Energy coursed through me as tears streamed down my face.

I let go of so much shit inside of sorrow and the sorrow inside of shit about Morgen and her daughter, Yseult. Then they flowed out, and Robert (my late brother) and Keckley (his ex-wife) came in, and then my older brothers, then my parents, and I think you get the idea.

A powerful release like that is vulnerable and sets up a lot of trust.

After this exercise, Sierra and I continued talking, and agreeably lamented the lack of queer women who were also interested in studying Tantra. She then told me about this intensive Workshop in Thailand, and to spread the word to other queers who I thought might be interested.

“I’m heading up Queer Tantra,” so said Sierra, “and I want as many of us there as possible. There are only about 20 spaces left.”

“Are you teaching classes?” I asked.

“Maybe. My role hasn’t been fully defined yet.”

She friended me on Facebook and sent me the link. I kind of had a picture of her playing a role similar to what Grace Bryant had at this one.

I thought: “What the hell. I’ve never been to Thailand, and what better way to celebrate my freedom after ending a stifling, oppressive relationship than to go to SE Asia and start that journey with a Tantra adventure.”

So I signed right up.

This is the part where I should have done some research.

To be continued…

Peace,

Mana

Coming Home. A Day of Subtle Wonders, Part 2

Blue Temple, Chiang Rai, Thailand. Photo by me.

Hey y’all,

After another splendid afternoon at the Once Café, I walked to the Blue Temple in time for sunset.

As the guy at my guesthouse had said, the place was far less crowded. The falling light also made the temple more beautiful. But it still felt like the Disneyland of Buddhist Temples.

On the way back though, magic happened.

Walking in Thailand is an experience of watching where you step. When traveling with Kip, he pointed out the many perils along the way with efficiency.

“Don’t trip here,” he’d say at an unexpected step that could have easily tripped me up if I hadn’t paid attention.

“Broken concrete.”

“Broken glass. Watch your step.”

Although not as shocking as in India, there was always trash, and I even came across a couple of logs of human feces freshly shat right on the sidewalk.

That was a couple of days ago.

So spacing out in my own little world, as I often do on walks, is not a good idea here. Pay attention to my surroundings or fall flat on my face or step in shit.

The Blue Temple was almost 3 kilometers away, on the other side of the river from my guesthouse.

I wouldn’t have noticed this place had it not been dark.

As I approached the stairs to the walking path of the bridge, I heard the clink of dishes and silverware – sure signs of a nearby restaurant – on my right. Through the lush foliage, I saw a tall white building and the glass enclosure of what looked to be an elegant conservatory.

That made me curious. I wandered over and sure enough, it was a restaurant and a bakery.

I walked into something that was straight out of French Colonialism.

This place could have been in New Orleans with the soaring ceilings, soft wood floors, verandas, and columns, and just the way the space was made.

I didn’t expect that in Thailand, but Chiang Rai is so close to the Laos border, it’s definitely possible this area had had French settlers.

This place was a jewel.

Very romantic with seating both inside and outside before the river. With the classical French architecture and the lush growth of the tropical environment that is Thailand, the atmosphere was stunning and romantic and very relaxing.

Of course, there were a lot of couples dining there, and most people I saw were Thai.

I wasn’t super hungry, but there was no way I wasn’t going to have dinner there. The best tables were reserved, but the host sweetly guided me to a place on the lawn near the river.

Dinner was delicious.

Tamarind vermicelli noodles baked in a puff pastry with a small soft-shelled crab on top, I even had wine with that. For dessert, I indulged in a creamy panna cotta with a decadent strawberry sauce, and a honey-mint limeade to drink.

But the food doesn’t matter near so much as I felt dining there.

Nothing brings my soul to life faster than spontaneity.

That is one of the treasures of traveling – especially alone because there’s no negotiating with somebody else. The chances to follow curiosity where it takes me are abundant, and I love it when I’m rewarded with discovery.

But there was something about what happened here. Finding this gorgeous place where I had a gorgeous dinner because I followed my curiosity filled me with so much joy.

I didn’t care that I wasn’t part of a couple. I didn’t mind I wasn’t there with a new travel buddy. The gift for me in that moment was the spirit of celebration in the experience of solitude.

Photo by me.

I’ve dined alone many times. But last night, I was so happy in that. Before I left, I knew that I had finally come back to center.

Without going into too many details, something happened about 18 years ago that pulled up a lot of repressed memories and pretty much set off PTSD.

Before that, I had always been comfortable by myself, doing things on my own, and spending time alone. That’s not to claim that I was healthy when I was young. I was shut down, but I thought I was healthy.

Anyway, one of the more painful side effects of that thing that happened was this terror of being alone - specifically going through life alone.

I lost my balance, my sense of who I thought I was, and fell out of my center. I became “needy” in a way that humiliating.

I had never been “that girl” before. And suddenly, I had no control over the emotional cyclone that had taken over my psyche and wreaked havoc on how I interacted with the world.

I did everything I could to get back to center.

Years of therapy, energy work, getting initiated/attuned to Reiki, workshops, hot springs, being in nature, dance, hiking, snowboarding, kayaking, tantra, breathwork, Ayahuasca…the list goes on and on.

The journey of healing was a long and winding road, and I had some amazing experiences. Everything I tried had its gifts. I gained some tools and became stronger and healthier.

I got closer and closer to center, but not all the way.

“You don’t take a trip. A trip takes you.”

Given that this particular journey was fueled by a post-breakup-freedom-drunk, I knew SE Asia would give me plenty to write about.

Last night, while I reveled in that gorgeous solo dining experience, I realized this trip took me back home to myself. And that was the last thing I expected.

How's that for a subtle wonder?

Thanks for reading.

Peace,

Mana

A Day of Subtle Wonders

White Temple, Chiang Rai, Thailand. Photo by me

Hey y’all,

I don’t know if I made it up – I’d like to think I did – or if I read it somewhere and forgot the source, but the phrase stuck.

“You don’t take a trip. A trip takes you.”

I’ve found that to be true often enough that it’s my philosophy around travel.

Like yesterday, I intended to write the next travel email because I’m starting another workshop tonight/tomorrow, and I was trying to be done with it.

But I simply couldn’t do it because my environment at the time was too wonderful. This is what I wrote in that moment.

“And I can’t write about this right now. I’m in that sweet spot of the Once Café, and there are lots Thai people around me. Women and a child at one table, a couple of Thai youths playing guitar and singing across from me, and a group of young people outside practicing archery. I got a dish simply because I saw it passing by and it looked good – spicy spaghetti noodles made with peppers and bacon, and it was delicious.

This place is overflowing with community.

This scene is so sweet and peaceful, I can’t bring myself to write about the murky bowels of sexuality. It’s so fresh and innocent and happy right now. Why spoil it for myself?

It’s not often that I wander down a road into a local scene. Most of the time, I’m surrounded by other westerners.

This is officially my favorite spot in Chiang Rai.”

Once Cafe, Chiang Rai, Thailand - Photo by me.

My first full day in Chiang Rai, I didn’t do any sightseeing.

I landed in the gorgeousness of the Once Café, where I wrote for hours. And I got the bulk of my piece done while there. I stayed from late morning to late afternoon, ordering cappuccino and snacks as needed.

Except for a couple of teenagers who played guitar and sang, in spite of the jazz playing from a cell phone and a speaker, I had the place to myself on that first day.

It was awesome.

The woman who owned the place took my picture while I was working.

That was beyond flattering because 1) she recognized I was working, and 2) that she found a white woman working in her cafe unusual enough to photograph the experience when I’m the one who’s a tourist.

I noticed her husband was stringing a pretty bad-ass looking bow on my way to the toilet – which had toilet paper! (Yay!)

I asked if he was a bow hunter because my brother was.

“American?” he asked.

I nodded.

“It’s illegal to hunt in Thailand.”

Then he pointed out the archery range they had made of the yard.

I went back a second time, and the It started with the White Temple first thing in the morning. Since the White Temple is about 14 kilometers from Chiang Rai, the guesthouse boss drove me and waited until I was done, and drove me back.

I had gone to the Blue Temple the day before, and although beautiful, it could best be described as the Disneyland of Buddhist temples. It didn’t inspire the reverence of Buddhism in me that the more traditional temples did - especially the simple temples.

It was also packed with people. A sweet guy who worked at the guesthouse shook his head when I told him what I time I had gone.

“That is the worst time,” he said. “That’s when all the tour buses go. The best time to go to the Blue Temple is around sunset. There aren’t as many people.”

He also mentioned that his boss would take me to the White Temple, which is how I lucked out with an early morning ride.

There was nothing subtle about the wonder of the White Temple.

Like the Blue Temple, the White Temple did not inspire the reverence of the Buddhist faith. It’s not intended as a place of worship, really, so much as a stunning work of art. It’s pretty much a giant, intricate sculpture of white plaster and chunks of mirrored glass.

But the White Temple inspired my awe – that was for sure.

Driving up, the place glistened and sparkled, the pieces of mirror reflecting the light of the morning sun.

“Wow,” I whispered.

“Yes…” murmured the boss who delivered me to such a wondrous place.

I’m pretty sure my jaw dropped, and that was before I even got close up.

Talk about a place that survives its hype and even the crowds.

Even first thing in the morning, there were plenty of people there. I’m thankful I wasn’t there later because I’m sure the crowds must have been out of control.

Most of the buildings were white and glistening, but there were a couple of ornate gold structures as well – the bathroom (not sure what that was about) and the Ganesha temple, filled with the OM symbols, pictures and statues of the Hindu Elephant God. I’m still in the dark about the connection between Buddhism and Ganesha in Thailand btw – but they love him here.

The contrast was dramatic, between glistening and glimmering, silver white and yellow gold, which incidentally was the color scheme for Tao Garden’s yin/yang symbols.

This whole trip has been an immersion into the spirit of yin and yang. But for yesterday there was mainly the brightness of yang.

However, there was a creepy, macabre side to this temple as well.

Souls in Torment outside White Temple, Chiang Rai, Thailand. Photo by me.

The dark side was represented, the hunger and torment of those souls who have no faith, don’t believe in enlightenment, much less work towards it, was evident in the hanging heads of angry-looking people and superheroes – or maybe they were supervillains.

At the start of the temple, desperate hands reached out to us, one hand with one painted red nail shot us the finger. Some of the hands clutched skulls. Lots of torment and anguish from those who fell between the cracks of grace.

Then we crossed the bridge of that hell and approached the divinity of the Buddha.

My only grievance with the place was that I had to go on a mission to find the Thorani. I now do that at every Buddhist temple I go to. No temple is authentic without her – at least for me. I was getting pissed before I finally did at the end, but she had a place of glory.

Phra Mae Thorani at the White Temple, Chiang Rai, Thailand. Photo by me.

I was back at the guesthouse by 9:30.

I shipped a box of stuff from the post office, visited a traditional temple nearby and felt the reverence of Buddhism once again, then took a nap before my return to the Once Café that was filled with the liveliness I described at the beginning.

There were lots of subtle wonders to be found in that experience. The live music was pretty good too. The older one had a beautiful voice.

This experience was completely different.

Not that I mind.

I’m glad the Once Café, bustling with people and brimming with life, was a part of my yesterday.

Yesterday was one of those days filled with subtle wonders.

Peace,

Mana

The Gentle Grace of Luang Prabang

Photo by yours truly

Hey y’all,

The one thing that really strikes me about the people in Laos is how gentle and demure they are, even many of the men.

It’s been lovely.

Luang Prabang is an odd mixture of elegance and gritty 3rd world primitive. There are charming and picturesque guesthouses, restaurants, and cafes; yet a few doors down is somebody’s basic living, where people are cooking over open fires and eating with their friends and family on the sidewalk.

On one side of the street are spendier restaurants clearly for tourists, while on the other a Mom and Pop stop where the food is delicious, basic, truly Laos cuisine, and MUCH CHEAPER.

The best place to see the early-morning monks going past was the guesthouse at the end of the road where locals set up to give them the rice they cooked with intention and blessing.

I stayed there for $10/night, where kids played in the streets and at the convenience store, they made fresh Laos-style tortillas every day and hung them on racks to dry in the sun.

Yet a block away, at the lovely and comfortable hotel, the people giving alms were tourists. They got their rice from the store across the street – but I’m sure they blessed their rice.

On the main road a block up, it was obnoxious.

Somebody told me the monks put the tourist rice in a different place and fed it to the dogs, because they don’t want to sully the holy rice with crap.

I heard about that from a guide who had been a novice for 7 years.

Orange Robe Tours is a sweet company that gives former novices and monks a place to land when they leave the temple and have some time to adapt from the culture shock.

My tour guide’s name was Sounan. He had been out of the temple for a year, and said the transition had been difficult.

He said novices can join as young as 9 years old, but nobody can become a monk before they’re 20. He also explained that those wearing the orange robes with an open shoulder were novices, and those with both shoulders covered were monks.

I asked him if it were true that the monks can “give their vows back” if they decide they want to be a part of the world again. Yes, they could in Laos. But not in China.

He explained that in Laos, Thailand, and Cambodia, they practice Theraveda Buddhism. In China, Japan, and Vietnam, they practice Mahayana Buddhism.

Sounan explained that the 4 rules for everybody were: “Do not lie, do not steal, do not kill, and no sexual.”

The novices and monks have a lot more rules: “No play sport, no ride motorcycles, do not sit or stand ahead of monks (if you’re a novice)” – are the ones I remember.

Sounan said that many families send their sons to temple because they get a better education and to make them good people. The kids are on trial for a week before the decision is made. He also said that most of the novices came from the villages, that kids from bigger towns and cities like Luang Prabang and Vientiane didn’t want to go to temple.

He said he loved his time there, and still meditates every day twice a day.

I asked him a lot of questions about the similarities I had seen between Buddhism and Hinduism, and he’s the one who said: “Oh, we’re also Hindu.” But he didn’t elaborate.

I asked him about the fierce-looking Nagas – the serpent-like creatures I saw guiding people up to the Buddhas and the temples. Sounan explained that they were the guardians of the temples to keep out evil. And in China, the guardians were dragons.

He told me a legend of how the Naga became the guardian of the temples. Well, sort of. Storytelling here has a rather abrupt quality.

When Buddha was alive, a Naga really wanted to become a monk. So he transformed himself into a human and joined the temple as a novice.

The Buddha knew about it, but chose not to say anything.

But somebody, maybe a monk or another novice, knocked on the naga’s door and walked in, caught the naga in his serpentine form, and yelled foul.

Somehow, the do not lie rule translated into the Naga not allowed to become a monk, but to protect the temples he loved so much.

There was not much of a segue to get to the end. I asked Sounan if this was how the Naga became a temple guardian and he said yes.

There’s an awesome organization here called Big Brother Mouse, where travelers meet with Laos youth so they can practice their English.

I went once.

At first, I started with a bunch of teenage novice monks between the ages of 16-18. Many had been in the temple for 7 years since they were 11 years old, and when I asked if they wanted to be monks when they were 20, one of them said: “I don’t know.”

There was one who knew he wanted to be a monk. He didn’t join the temple until he was 14 (he was 16). It was hard for his parents because he was an only child.

“I miss playing sport,” he said, when I asked him what he missed most.

He’d only been studying English for a year, and he spoke it very well.

I was surprised to hear that the novices went to the regular high school with the other kids. With all their strict rules, that has to be pretty challenging.

“Remember that they can’t touch you or shake your hand,” said the guide who led me to the back patio with a half a dozen novices.

I went to a couple of dance performances where they did their traditional dances as a form of storytelling. This was in the Royal Ballet Theater within the gates of the National Museum. But really, this could have been a performance from a high school.

The costumes and masks were remarkable, but also kind of mismatched, and the dancing was very subtle. I would say it was more a form of physical theater than what we consider the athletic, acrobatic art of dance. They moved their arms and hands a lot as a way of communicating the story.

The women’s hand gestures were very delicate, and a couple of them seemed almost double jointed with how well they stretched their fingers out.

They were telling an epic saga with a different episode each night for a total of 8 or 9 episodes. If I’d known about this soon enough, I would have been able to go to all of them.

But it was just as well. As delicate and interesting as it was, 2 performances were enough for me. Again, very random and abrupt storytelling.

Differences of culture. I’m sure the people of Laos find their storytelling very lyrical and poetic in their own language.

Peace,

Mana

Cave of 1000 Buddhas and Badly Treated Elephants

Photo by yours truly!

Hey y’all,

For my last day in Luang Prabang, Laos, I had the grand adventure of kayaking on the Mekong River for a few hours. The main goal was to see the Pakou caves that were well known for having over a 1000 Buddhas, many of which were hundreds of years old, and many of which were headless. They were made of earth and fell apart over time.

Before we got there, we had the unfortunate experience of having lunch with some poorly treated elephants. That was not part of the tour description by the way.

Activism for the humane treatment elephants has spread far and wide, and has really impacted elephant tourism in Chiang Mai and Thailand. Most of the tours advertised are caring for the elephants and feeding them, but not riding them.

That kind of awareness has not fully reached Laos. I would say what is offered is about half and half. There were still tours advertising a chance to ride an elephant, as well as the humane caring for them.

Not the place we stopped for lunch, however. It was actually pretty frigging awful.

As we were walking up the hill, I heard a rustling in the bushes to my left. At first, I was excited to see an elephant coming out of the brush, swinging its trunk. Then I heard some guy yelling at it, and then I saw the elephant was being used as a beast of burden and dragging a couple of logs.

Photo by yours truly!

Song, our guide, warned me to be careful and to steer clear. I hustled up the hill and past the maligned elephant. But there were 2 more where we’d be eating.

Where we ate, the elephants were chained up and not given much space to move. They seemed restless, swinging their trunks and fluttering their ears, while taking what steps they could to move around. There was no water and no food nearby for them, and they were pretty much hanging out close to their own feces.

Song, our guide, told us to be careful because you never knew when the elephants would be calm and friendly, or angry and aggressive.

Well yeah.

Photo by yours truly

The elephants were clearly not happy. I could hardly blame them. The only kindness extended to the two near our lunch was that at least they were chained up in the shade.

The bitter irony of this was that the eco-touring company’s name was “White Elephant Tours.”

The German kids I was the kayaking tour with were aware. One of them said: “I’m not spending any money here. Elephants are such intelligent animals. They know what’s happening to them.”

Good to see this kind of awareness outside of Portland. Apparently, elephant welfare has spread far; but in Luang Prabang, Laos, it still needs to spread further.

I don’t understand why the elephants were treated so poorly. Luang Prabang used to be known as the land of a million elephants.

Also, from what I’ve seen in the temples, the elephant is one of Buddhism’s sacred animals. In India, the Hindus treat their sacred cows and bulls like royalty. They go wherever they want and do whatever they want. So it’s baffling to me that the mentality would so different in Laos and in Thailand in the recent past.

This was a bit of an unusual trip in that I joined a small group who had been trekking for a couple of days. I had signed up for a sole kayak tour earlier in the week, but couldn’t make it because I woke up with a headache.

Photo by yours truly

Financially at least, White Elephant Tours was very nice. The cost of the tour was $450,000 kip (about 50 bucks). Since I dropped at the last minute, they couldn’t refund my money, which I didn’t expect anyway. But to join this group because everything had already been set and paid for, I only to pay $100,000 kip (or a little over 10 bucks). So I rode in the back of a tuk tuk for 1 ½ hours to pick up three German students and their tour guide, Song, who had been on a 2-day trek and the last leg of their package was to hit the water of the Mekong River in kayaks. We started with 2 guys and a girl. But apparently, the girl didn’t take care of herself during the trek. She didn’t drink enough water and by the 3rd day was so dehydrated that she felt light-headed and nauseous. She didn’t make it to the Pakou caves of 1000 Buddhas. She had the tuk tuk driver pick her up at lunch.

Photo by yours truly

The caves were cool with all the Buddhas, but my favorite part was the kayaking. The Mekong River was far more beautiful the further we were from Luang Prabang.

I love witnessing the world from the level of the water. To see this area from the river is such a different perspective. The water buffaloes at the river’s edge, the fishermen fishing and harvesting river weed. (It’s the river version of seaweed, an acquired taste. A bit more bitter and pungent than seaweed.) The limestone cliffs where there was a pause before the echo were pretty spectacular too.

Photo by yours truly

I love kayaking.

And this was the perfect last adventure before I left Laos.

The bottles of lao lao whiskey with baby cobras and scorpions and green snakes were pretty creepy and macabre. According to Song, they were for medicinal purposes. By absorbing the essence of the snake or scorpion, certain ailments could be healed.

Photo by yours truly. Really, how could I not include a picture!

That puts the voodoo doctors in New Orleans to shame.

Peace,

Mana

The Exquisite Loneliness of Travel

Photo by Kip Wheeler

Hey y’all,

I gotta say, Kip and Angela have been my travel angels.

They’re leaving in a couple of days and that means I’ll be on my own. So pretty please, send me some love in the form of writing back.

A few people wrote me letters after my last email, and that made me feel really good and connected to my friends back home. But even a short hey-things-are-great-digging-your-updates (at least I hope you do) note does the trick.

The mistake a lot of people make about travel is only talking about travel as an adventure. Of course, that’s true. Travel is as exciting and stimulating and educational and mind-expanding as it’s made out to be.

But it’s also hard.

Travel by its very nature is unsettling and throws people off-balance.

It’s vulnerable to be in a country where I don’t know where I am, where I don’t speak the language, don’t know the customs, or how to find my way around. I need help immediately on arrival. I need help getting around and getting what I need – like food and shelter.

That can be frightening, especially because I take pride in my independence and self-reliance.

And dare I say it, I like to be in control.

I don’t consider myself a “control freak” as the saying goes. Yet that’s not to say that I don’t like having a measure of it – or at least the belief that I have that measure (which nobody really does). However, there is no control when I’m far from home. There’s not even room for the illusion of control.

Traveling can also be very lonely.

Photo by Kip Wheeler

Years ago, I kept an email journal when I was on the road for a year, selling a book of original fairy tales out of my Beast all over Alaska and the West Coast.

Although my friends enjoyed the emails, my biggest regret was that my email journal was incomplete. At the time, I was writing to entertain and thus, was showing off.

But I regretted not writing home about the long stretches of gray – the loneliness when I wasn’t meeting all kinds of people, and the isolation of being in constant motion.

After a point, the only people I could really connect with were others who were also transient.

If I had included those times, I would have kept a more honest record of that experience. This was really one of the greatest and most challenging adventures of my life – and I had that experience on home ground.

Enough of that. Back to my current travels…

I knew nothing about Laos when I got here on Saturday. Kip said Luang Prabang was really chill, really cool, and that we’d enjoy it.

When I got to Chiang Mai, I didn’t expect it to be such a crowded city. I expected it to be more like Luang Prabang.

Maybe it was the happy shake we drank on our first full day here, but I fell in love with Luang Prabang on arrival.

This town has a charm and ease, a beauty and grace that’s irresistible and very romantic. The French influence is very obvious in the architecture here, especially our first guesthouse.

But what really wins me over is the intense presence of spirituality. Luang Prabang is where the boys come if they want to be Buddhist monks.

Whether they stay in that life or not, it is a way for them to get a better education, and many of the novices come as children.

I saw this in Thailand and India as well, but spirituality is such an intrinsic part of daily life, I see it EVERYWHERE. The devotion and reverence to their system of faith – whether Buddhist or Hindu - is truly awe-inspiring and commands respect.

Maybe because nobody is trying to shove their beliefs down my throat?

There are temples and statues on every block it seems, definitely on every street. I think every home and every business has a small shrine on the premises, and many “spirit houses,” a place for the departed to live and hang out.

Our first night, we heard a small group of monks chanting in one of the temples as we went past.

“Let’s hang out a minute,” Kip suggested. “This is the real thing.”

Photo by Kip Wheeler

Angela and I went in and sat for a few minutes. Kip couldn’t join us because he was in shorts.

Remember the “Please dress politely” signs I saw in Thailand? They are even more strict about that here, and want shoulders and knees covered if you enter the temple gates.

Luang Prabang is an early town. Last call in the bars – there is a pretty lively nightlife scene here – is 11:30, and everybody is in bed by midnight because most people want to get up in wee hours of the morning to care for the monks.

Every morning before sunrise, the drums start beating around 5:30am, and not long after that, lines of monks dressed in their orange robes and baskets come through the streets of Luang Prabang to collect alms before going to the temples for their morning practice of meditation and chanting.

The locals sitting in rows with their baskets of rice, and possibly other food, are every bit as much of a sight to see as the orange-robed monks and novices streaming past in their bare feet and their baskets to collect their alms.

It was a few mornings before I got up early enough to see them. It was well worth the effort.

The first morning, I followed them along my street and around the corner to the main street, and watched the variety of locals and some tourists serving the monks.

One group of ladies brought the offering to their foreheads before putting it in their baskets.

The further along the main street we went, the more obnoxious the tourism became. When the monks disappeared down the street lined with tour vans, I turned back.

But this morning, I woke early and perched at my guesthouse.

That was so much easier, much more relaxed than chasing down the same group.

Photo by Kip Wheeler

At least half a dozen groups of monks streamed right by, and I took pictures as they stopped at the group of 4 women lined up to the end of my block. One of the bigger temples is kitty corner to this guest house, which costs less than $15/night.

Of course, Kip found this place.

By 6:15am, it’s done. The monks had all gathered before sunup to start their chanting and meditation practice; the Laos people gathered their baskets and headed home; and I was left with the morning to start this email to y’all.

I must say, I’m loving this budding morning ritual.

Yesterday, at one of the temples, I came across a photographic exhibition of Buddhist meditation. There were even some photos of nuns and laywomen – which were really rare.

Although other forms of meditation are practiced here, Vipassana meditation is huge in Luang Prabang. And that was the primary focus of the photographs.

That gave me pause. Several friends have done 10-day Vipassana retreats in North America. I have yet to gather my courage and willpower to do it, but I’m sure it would help with my out-of-control monkey mind.

Pretty cool, huh?

Such a big world and a small village at the same time!

There is so much more to tell, but I think that’s enough for now.

I’ll have plenty of time to write more after Kip and Angela leave on Friday, which is my tomorrow. Anyway, I’m staying a few more days to do the things I’d like to do that didn’t meet with consensus.

I really fell in love with this place, and I can’t stand humidity.

Peace,

Mana

The Reprieve of Pai, Thailand

Photographer? C’est moi!

Hey y'all,

For the sake of keeping things somewhat current (and to prevent y'all from the impression that I'm doing nothing but weird, twisted, sex cult stuff - don't worry, I'll get back to that), I just spent 4 days in Pai with Kip, and I’m going to Laos with Kip and Angela today.

That Mekong river trip Kip mentioned became a 1 hour flight to have more time in a city with an ancient history, a strong influence from the French colony days when Laos was part of Indochine, and apparently a lot of Buddhist monks and temples. Should be pretty cool.

Anyway, Pai was gorgeous and very sweet, and the only thing that went wrong was that I was horribly sick on my last day and couldn't go on a tour to see the hot springs, pai canyon, maybe get an explanation of the bizarre mural I saw in the temple near the white Buddha, etc.

This is the 2nd time I've been sick since I got here. I got sick at the Tao and Tantra shitshow, but that paled in comparison to everything else that was going on there.

This last is possibly from something I ate, but it occurred to me that the viruses and yuck percolating in Thailand are completely different from the crud in the States and I have NO IMMUNITY.

Awesome!

I guess I'm building some up.

Anyway, I'll spare the ugly details except to say it started at 2 in the morning on Thursday, and my entire body was on fire all day.

I hurt everywhere and I was so bummed out, because I was scared I wouldn't be able go back to Chiang Mai yesterday and would miss the plane today. (Today in Thailand is Saturday, btw. It's so bizarre to think that today here is yesterday for y'all.)

I guess not eating anything and drinking water all day and sleeping for 2 days straight did the trick.

Except for a caffeine deprivation headache, I woke up feeling all right yesterday and was able to come back.

Pai is definitely a backpacker's destination.

It's kind of trippy in that it reminded me of Portland and Bourbon Street in New Orleans in a hippie, international backpacker kind of way.

There's tons of vegan cafes (Sabby, this place is your dream!) and bars that are completely set up to appeal to Western travelers.

But at the same time, it's also very Thai. I'm not understanding the fascination with Superman and Captain America that I saw on the road stop to Pai and then in Pai.

I asked Kip about it, and he didn't have much to say except that people like the superheroes there.

Photo also by me.

There's this odd, kitschy, childlike wonder about Pai.

For example, I took some obscure stairs from the road up to the temple site, and there were Buddha statues and whatnot, but also these joyful kid statues saying welcome.

It seemed out of place, but I guess it's a thing here. Cause I've seen them more than once.

I didn't know this, but apparently, modest dress is required at the Buddhist sites.

There are signs asking us to "Please dress politely" before entering.

I inadvertently broke that rule going into the temple where I saw the weird mural.

I hope I don't go to one of the Buddhist hells for that - but it was an innocent mistake.

Photo by me. Gruesome, huh?

Before I went up the stairs to the white Buddha, a couple of Thai women started shouting at me from their booth, where I had to rent a skirt.

I was wearing denim shorts, which is a no-no.

They were very sweet as they wrapped that skirt around me and it didn't even cost a dollar.

I said this on Facebook, but I really wish I had a knowledgeable tour guide with me.

At the reclining Buddha, many of the murals reminded me of the Hindu pantheon of gods and goddesses, and since they didn't look like hellish scenes, I wondered what the connection was.

Maybe I'll find out eventually.

Apparently, around here, the style of Buddhism is Theraveda, and sometimes even Tantric Theraveda Buddhism.

These differ from Mahayana Buddhism and Vajrayana Buddhism - which is another form of Tantric Buddhism, which I did not know existed until this trip.

What that lets me realize is that there is so much I don't know about the history of Buddhism, and that our Westernized, watered-down version of it probably doesn't even come close to the truth.

Travel is another form of education.

Tantra is following me everywhere, it seems. Not that I'm complaining.

Anyway, wasn't that a stroke of luck that Kip reached out via Facebook as I was enroute to Thailand?

If that's not a sign that somebody upstairs was looking out for me, I don't know what is.

His presence made it very easy to leave a situation - that although there were some gifts there - was really fucked up and triggering the hell out of me.

Kip's an interesting cat.

Running into him again brought back a lot of memories of that time in my life in SE Alaska, and truth is, I only met him once when he came through Juneau on his way to Skagway.

He's been good medicine, even if the reasons why are surprising.

Kip is a great guy and he's loved and admired by all his friends for the gifts he brings. He is not, however, somebody you can go deep with. He is not somebody you go to with your troubles or when you have things on your mind. His housemate, Angela, confirmed that.

"The thing with Kip is you can't talk to him about anything negative. That's just who he is. But he'll keep you in the present moment."

Angela's description of him as on point.

He does keep one in the present, and he is a wealth of knowledge, especially when it comes to traveling on a shoestring budget. In that, the man is a machine.

For example, he found a flight from Tel Aviv to Paphos, Greece (birthplace of Aphrodite) for $15. That is FIFTEEN dollars!

This is while planning his route back to Alaska, taking a few days in the birthplace of Aphrodite before doing an overland train trip across Europe to Paris, where "there are some great deals there," - all of this hypothetical as he's considering his options.

If I wonder about a tree or shrub, or the bright orange, climbing, flowering plant, he will research until he finds it, and then send me the link. (It was the orange trumpet vine.)

He found our fabulous mud huts, and figured out the back road, scenic walk past the long neck Karens into the bustle of touristic Pai rather than the busy road that was kind of nervewracking, and the possibility was constant that I need worry about being hit by a car or a motorbike.

When I was sick, he brought me sugary ginger tea and a packet of electrolytes. I'm pretty sure that's why I was able to kick it after another night.

There's a lot to be said about receiving the natural gifts somebody brings to the table and being thankful for that.

Kip has definitely been my travel angel since I got here. I would have been in a much worse state if I didn't have friends to go to when I left that workshop early.

Kip and company also made for a very POSITIVE start to this journey, because my trip began with them.

If I hadn't dragged my jetlagged butt into town right after getting here, it would have begun with Quixotic Sierra and that mess.

"Well, I guess it depends on how you want to spend your chi," Sierra had said when I told her I was leaving to meet Kip.

Yeah, I think that was a good use of my chi.

So here's to Kip in all his glory!

Peace,

Mana

The Lucky Traveler

Buddhist Temple

Hey y'all,

So I'm in Thailand.

After 2 days of exhausting travel, this trip is already off to an incredible start. Except for the Tantra workshop that starts today, I came here with no plans and no itinerary, just freewheeling it as I go along.

It's one thing to do that on home ground where I speak the language with my own vehicle to get around. It's another to do that on the other side of the world when I've never been to SE Asia before.

For a change, Facebook actually served its original purpose of connecting people to each other. I know Kip from my time in Alaska, and I haven't seen him in over 10 years.

Anyway, he saw my posts about traveling to Chiang Mai - and since he is conveniently in Chiang Mai - he reached out via FB I spent my first night in Thailand wandering around the night market with Kip and 2 new Alaskan friends - Angela and Nate, who are both taking 2 week Thai massage courses.

We ate a yummy vegan (you would have loved this, Sabby!) Thai dinner on wood plates (they even had wood straws) in a hole-in-the-wall gem of a place.

What do we eat?

I may even take a cooking class there when I'm done with my Taoist and Tantra Sex, Energy, and Ecstatic Love workshop.

Anyway, Kip and Angela are going to Laos on a Mekong River trip after she's done, and I've already been invited to join them. They mentioned interest in hearing all about this workshop, especially after I read to them the course descriptions.

Of course, I'll join them because the timing is perfect and because I can, and I'm here to have spontaneous adventures.

These are the advantages of traveling solo with no itinerary.

And I'd be an idiot not to.

Kip is one of those people that you hear about before you meet him. He's a legend among his friends. He works out of Anchorage now, but was part of a gorgeously wonderful group out of Skagway when I met him.

The people who called Skagway home were unbelievably warm and friendly, not to mention incredible fun. The year round population there is maybe 300 people in the winter, but it goes way up to more than 1500 when the summer people come back. Many of the summer people travel like lunatics in the winter before coming to Skagway to work for the summer - and they come back every year and some eventually settle down there.

My first impression of that town was pretty vivid.  A group of us from Juneau went to Skagway for a weekend of partying someplace that wasn't Juneau. The main drag of Skagway looks like a movie set of the mining days and the wild West or Wild Alaskan days.

But Mo's was the local bar that was too plain to draw in the tourists. This is where the locals went when they were done entertaining the tourist fantasy of the last Frontier.

So we hung out at Mo's and watched the locals as they let their hair down and came out of character to be themselves, drinking and smoking, etc.

Then "Get Together" by the Youngbloods comes on over the sound system and magic happened. The locals all stopped their conversations, started bopping their heads back and forth to the music, and with happy, smiling faces, sung the refrain:

"Come on, people now,

Smile on your brother,

Everybody get together,

And try to love one another

Right now."

 

And they did that with every refrain. It was surreal.

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XRbTvoxRNxM

 

Alaskans are amazing people, and some of the strongest souls I've ever known I know from my time there. However, they are not warm and fuzzy. Skagway is the outlier.

I don't know if Kip was at Mo’s that night, but he and his posse would have fit right in with bopping heads, smiling faces, and singing voices.

I didn't meet him until a few years later when one of his friends, Paul, was in my Tlingit Culture and History class and became one of my friends. His Skagway friends came to see him often in Juneau, so his friends became my friends, and that was how I got to know just how awesome Skagway folks were - and I'm sure still are.

Paul and friends had done some pretty impressive travels, but they all claimed to revere Kip as The Man when it came to high adventure. And they were only half joking.

He was not what I expected when I met him. I was expecting somebody more studly and less odd, but Kip was as awesome and joyful and free and larger-than-life as his friends described him.

He still is.

If you can imagine a Generation X Dean Moriarty of On the Road - much healthier, less drug-addled, but with the same high energy who has been everywhere, that gives a pretty accurate image of Kip. He really is a restless soul with a gypsy heart, who never met a stranger and is in constant motion.

This man has been EVERYWHERE

"Haven't you traveled all over the world?" I asked.

"Well, I've never been to the Philippines," Kip answered.

Jetlagged me struggled to keep up my first night. But he kept me up and running, so I didn't sleep during the day. Thus I became acclimated (sort of) to Thailand time.

I think it's an auspicious sign that my journey started with Kip.

 

Peace,

Mana

Let Me Just Say One Thing...AAIIGGHH!!! - On the Road #17

Angry New Yorker dude made this guy look mellow.

Hey y'all,

 I have seen the future I could have had and it just scared the shit out of me. 

I never, ever thought I would say this, but…I am - with great humility - profoundly grateful for the eight years I spent slinging booze, cussing out drunks, throwing grown men out of bars, and sighing helplessly while at the mercy of women in the throes of alcoholic switch-bitch psychosis.

But goddamn! Tonight has shown me that my time spent as a bartender were not only years not wasted, but they saved me from possibly becoming one of the people I just met at a workshop on self-publishing. 

Cool mask. Never wore one while at work.

I’ve been holed up in an accidental cabin behind the Brown Bear Saloon in Indian, Alaska. This place is a spit away from Anchorage, with its own itty-bitty town vibe. The owner of the place said he learned everything about what not to do in constructing a cabin while he was building the one I’m staying in. 

I didn’t care. I had to have it for the loft and the windows, but what he said about the wiring made me a tad nervous. One of the disadvantages of being on the road, sleeping in the Brown Beast, in hostels, in my tent, etc. is that the creative juices really start to pump and there's no place to spill them. 

Since what I'm doing does qualify as a business trip - hee-hee, haw-haw - I could write it off on my taxes to give myself that precious writer's space while fulfilling my storytelling/bookpeddling commitments in the greater Anchorage area.

Well, last night’s storytelling event at the Oasis was especially demoralizing. It’s been a while since I've hit a low, and I know it's all part of the process. But it still sucks. 

So, tonight I decided to do something different. So I went to Border's to a workshop on self-publishing.

This photo is much more stunning than the group of people I sat with.

Incidentally, Border's here in Anchorage is pretty right-on. Jess French found a way around the corporate structure to give me a reading/signing. Since the critical mass was narrowed down to those who liked to read, I had no problem approaching the people my gut instinct told me would be open to what I had, and introducing myself and what I was doing. My gut was on the ball that night. Every person/couple I picked listened to a story. All of them, except the respite provider with her client, bought a book. One couple even bought two.

But back to my self-publishing workshop story…

Since the weather's been stunning and I was on a writing roll, I almost didn't go. But I managed to finish the rough draft of a new story and headed to the workshop. I was surprised to see several people at the table. They had already started even though it was not yet the start time of six o'clock.

I took my seat and sized up the characters around me.

The guy giving the talk had self-published his book as a Print-On-Demand project. He had eyes that seemed to swim inside his sockets. 

Then there was the 50+ New York-to-Anchorage transplant. His hair was dyed black and slicked-back in a ponytail. He also had eyebrows Anton LaVey would have envied. When he introduced himself, I could just hear the tension in his voice. He was angry. Angry and frustrated that he had never been published. 

Looking around at the others as the workshop dude did his talk, I had the sense that everybody there was on the New Yorker's page. 

This was one serious, tight-assed group of people. It seemed as if this was a core writer's group that had workshops at Border's on a regular basis. 

Oh, Chicks with Bics – this night made me miss you so. We actually have fun when we get together. We laugh every time. I don't think any of these people have had a good chuckle in years.

Chicks with Bics enjoyed strawberry chocolate pizza and wine, but these ladies give off a joyful vibe.

 This was the most joyless group of intellectual idiots I've met in years. These are the kind of people who give intelligence a bad name.  

Most of the people there were in their 50’s and 60’s. I had the impression that they had lived mostly inside their minds, and hadn’t lived nearly enough in their bodies, much less the world beyond. 

Chances are, they probably wouldn't understand the value of living for the sake of enjoying yourself. 

The pursed lips, the fidgets, the jerks, and the insistence on sticking with the program – I guess they wrote and shared at these workshop? Even the workshop dude felt the need to get on with it and wrap things up with his particular talk, so the others could get going with what they wanted.

On the upside, this only took a half an hour of my life because I left as soon as workshop dude was done. No way was I going to write with these folks.

Every single one of them - male and female, young and old, plain and pretty, gay and straight – reminded me of the maxim: “You need to get laid.” Every single one of them probably needed to get laid really, really badly.

Have sex. You’ll feel better.

 The men needed to cut loose and be so obnoxious they might get 86ed from a bar. The women need to get so shnockered to end up sobbing hysterically in the ladies room of the local karaoke bar, struggling to get into their painfully tight shorts while their string bikini panties get tangled around their crotch. All the while testing the patience of the female bartender who had to babysit this embarrassment to womanhood who couldn’t remember her name, much less her address. 

It is impossible to recreate an image of that hot mess, but i was grateful and surprised to find this on pexels and pixabay.

For the record, I was the bartender in that sordid little scene, not the drunk bitch. 

But that's not the point. The point is that the people at that dismal self-publishing workshop really needed to actually have some life experiences that would inspire stories other people might actually want to read.

For instance, the workshop dude told his tale of self-publishing through a small POD publisher that charged him for their services, but got him distribution on Amazon and his one year contract. It cost him more than he made, and in one year he sold 300 copies.

“I didn't have to lift a finger to do it," he smirked.

Anyway, workshop dude with the swimming eyeballs moved on to greener pastures. He got some reviews from total strangers on the Barnes and Noble site; and a bigger small publisher (at least I believe that’s how it was) that had formerly rejected his work, has now picked up his book. He felt successful and good for him.

It all comes down to perspective. 

I received my books in early July and it's now late September. I've probably given away about 80 books, and mailed 20 (my mother said she can sell them). But I've sold just under 200 books in less than three months. I have spent way more money this way. I've also lifted many fingers, some in obscene gestures.

But the experiences I've had doing my little grass-roots book tour have been the stuff of dreams during the best of times, and the content of nightmares at their worst. Most, if not all of these vivid experiences, became the subject of my emails to you.

I don't know if I'll sell or give away all 1100 copies, but I'm sure I'll outsell 300 books in 9 more months. I'll also have more fun doing it.

Maybe I’m an optimist. Maybe I'm out of my mind. If nothing else, this DIY booktour/roadtrip has given me plenty to write home about. 

Don't forget to check out www.juneaumusic.com for all your social butterfly needs.  And while I'm plugging Jason's site, I'll plug myself. "Ella Bandita and other stories," is sold at Rainy Day Books and Hearthside Books for 10 bucks. I'll be in town for a few days in October. Call me and I'll sign it for you. 

By the way, would anybody like to review my book for the local paper? 

Peace,

Montgomery

PS My oh my! How self-publishing has changed since 2005. Much of this story is now outdated to the point of unrecognizable. But it’s fascinating to see how Amazon was a player in the Self-Publishing World even then. And Border’s has been out of business for years. I’m still sad about that.

PPS I have less than 150 copies of the original 1100 left. So, in all I did pretty well.

PPPS If you’d like to read the blog post about my times at the Brown Bear Saloon, click here.

I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry... On-the-Road Loneliness Nobody Talks About - On the Road #15

Hey y’all,

I wanted to show off. At the time, I wanted nothing more than to entertain my audience of friends and family.

Strangely enough, that is what I regret the most about the email journal I kept of my DIY booktour/roadtrip in 2005-2006.

That yearlong odyssey was one of the most incredible experiences of my life. That doesn’t mean it was easy. I only wrote home about the fun stuff, and therefore, I wasn’t being fully honest.

I never wrote about the loneliness. Those long stretches of desolation only came out in hints here and there that only the very perceptive picked up on.

I was so lonesome a sensation of grayness permeated everything.

Isolation has a relentless quality. 

From what I remember of that trip, there were many chunks of time when I was so lonesome a sensation of grayness permeated everything.

After the excitement of the first weeks wore off, and as summer gave way to autumn, the other travelers had gone home. That’s when I realized that in the “us vs. them” mentality of most Alaskan small towns, I was one of “them.”

Even though at that time in my life, I had lived in Juneau/Douglas for enough years that I had earned my Alaskan spurs, I was not an integral part of the places I passed through in the Interior 

I sold books pretty consistently. Since I had several hundred books in the back of the Beast, I was always “ON.”

Alaskans are very big on community. Contributing to the village is a core value of this state in a way that is lacking in many others.

Travelers and vagabonds don’t invest themselves in the communities they visit. We’re there for our own experience. If we’re cool and awesome about that, we come and go without impact, and are always welcome to come back.

Travelers are there for their own experience.

 The locals were very nice. People talked to me readily at the bar or the coffee house, and seemed curious about this journey I was on. But nobody invited me home for any dinner, nor to any potlucks that happen as the darkness comes and the summer goes. 

I could hardly blame them. Even in my chats with people, I couldn’t connect with them any more than they could connect with me. The locals were settled and on home ground, while I was on the road.

Constant motion does something to a person.

A few months later, when I would be in Colorado, a college friend told me that I seemed very ungrounded. She was right. It was impossible to stay grounded when all I had to do was pack up the Beast and move on, and that created a here-today-gone-tomorrow mentality.

I remember when the switch flipped in my mind. It was around the 3-month mark.

After that, the only people I could relate to were other travelers looking for the next place to live. Although they were filled with excitement and a sense of adventure (which for me, was like cool water while dying of thirst in the desert), they were as unsettled as I was.

I learned to make the most of every genuine connection, however brief. Every chat and every conversation gave me the nourishment I needed to stay somewhat tethered to humanity, and kept the relentless grayness at bay, and for that sliver of time, I felt relief.

I can’t believe this is my life I’m living. I am so blessed.

And then something would shift. The next adventure would begin, and I was off on another limb of this odyssey. I would be so excited I would forget the loneliness. All I could think was:

“I can’t believe this is my life that I’m living. I am so blessed.” 

Peace,

Montgomery

 

PS: This post is from memory, written now about the DIY booktour/roadtrip I was on for a year during 2005-2006. To see the previous post, Lazy Hiking and Positive Omens, click here.

Do You Know What it Means to Miss New Orleans? - On the Road #11

I was on the road in Anchorage when Hurricane Katrina hit New Orleans. That catastrophe hit me hard because I had lived in New Orleans for two brief stints before moving to Alaska. Even though I was so immersed in my DIY booktour road trip, all I could think about was my time in New Orleans, so I couldn’t help but write to my friends about it, even though that wasn’t a part of my road trip. Many of my friends found this piece to be one of their favorites from the trip. For previous journal entries from On the Road blogs, go here and here.

Ah, the decline of the city of debauchery!  That spit in the face of nature, a major port city built with a swamp as the foundation, a place that has suffered through being changed to the rule of differing countries like a spoiled brat being tossed back and forth between reluctant parents who never should have had kids to begin with.  That inconvenient city that has been neglected, corrupted, bought and sold, taken over, all the while home to murder, slavery, the birth of the "free people of color." The latter were the offspring between slaves and white plantation owners who became so widespread, they became their own segment of New Orleans society. The free people of color even had slaves to serve them. They threw octoroon balls, so the beautiful daughters of the free people of color could meet privileged Creole gentlemen, and be set up as their long-term mistresses. Not to mention the recurring presence of the plague brought on by the innocuous mosquito wiping out populations making the Nile Virus look like the common cold. Not to mention voodoo, everybody in New Orleans takes voodoo seriously, thanks to the 19th century mulatto free woman of color, Marie Laveau. She made two fortunes before and  after the Civil War, when everybody there lost everything. Then the arrival of Yankee Irish carpetbaggers who came to scavenge Louisiana and other parts of the south, showed up on her doorstep due to her reputation as a powerful sorceress.

It's hard to believe that so much richness and wretched beauty existed in such a thoroughly whacked-out place, and you have no idea how much it hurts my heart to see the pictures and read the reports of the destruction of that city. 

Although it had been pimped out to common tourism (we in Juneau know nothing about that, now don't we?), New Orleans never lost its mysticism or its magic. I could write a book about the short time that I spent there, and it's impossible for photos, news reports, or writing to do that city justice. New Orleans to me was one of those places that really made an impact on my psyche, even if I didn't spend years of my life there. My parents went to college at Tulane where they met. They even married there. Without New Orleans, I wouldn't exist, so there's always been that connection.  Then, of course, there was the writing of Anne Rice and Truman Capote...

Mysterious, fascinating, decadent, violent, New Orleans never should have existed except for the megalomaniacal vision and ambition of man; from the day le Sieur de la Salle saw that space in the swamp, and the access of the Mississippi River into the Gulf of Mexico, and was consumed with trading glory for France. De la Salle never found that spot again; he got lost in Texas and was murdered by his crew before they ever found it, so Bienville and Iberville were the brothers given credit for founding this city built on a swamp. 

"So what's your story?" 

This is the usual go-to when meeting new people. And the superbly fucked up story of La Nouvelle Orleans was unstable from the word go. It’s part of its charm and mystique, and nobody can do dysfunctional with the same expertise and panache of those who were born and raised there. New Orleanians revel in their dramas, and always welcome newcomers, so they can perform their story for a fresh audience. The one thing I remember about that city is that lots of people helped me stay, but it was like extricating myself out of molasses when it was time to go.  Let's face it, anyplace built in a swamp is going to encourage stagnation, not growth.

But there's no place like it on earth. The vibe of that town is mysterious with its decadent homes where 11 foot ceilings are considered stunted, with wrought iron gates, magnolia and jasmine trees scenting the night, and the hanging oaks insuring the privacy of the doings inside the houses. It's a city of sin and secrets, masquerade and carnival, even if Mardi Gras has been degraded from nudity and body paint, fucking strangers while in mask to a frat boy street party where "Show your tits!" and fresh-faced twenty-something teeny boppers pull up their shirts is the pinnacle of thrill.  

There's nothing quite like being drunk in New Orleans. It is literally a different kind of high, all the ju-ju, mojo, and mysticism must get in the air and permeate the alcohol. A town where seeing people smoking joints in the street is not an uncommon sight and of course, taking your drink with you when you leave the bar to go to the next, whether in the French Quarter or any other part of town, is legal. 

Lawless.

"No human being should be in New Orleans during the months of August and September."  So said Laura, my lunatic roommate in the neighborhood known as "Uptown," when we were discussing the humidity of New Orleans.  

The heat and humidity still live in my memory. I was raised in Florida, no slouch in tropical weather humidity, but in New Orleans, it's worse. But from the first weekend visit before I moved there a month later, the beauty and the vibe of that town knocked me out, and I absolutely loved it.  I found a job and my first place to live within a week.

"Five fifty?!  For a beer?!" (This was in 1996. Nowadays, $5.50 is normal.)

I worked as a bartender on Bourbon Street during my first run there; and well, it was a vivid experience. I've never worked so hard or so long in that profession as I did at that particular job, the only bartending job where I worked fifty to seventy hours a week during busy times - Superbowl, Mardi Gras, and Jazz Festival - for a very colorful family. I didn't make the “bank” that one would expect, due to appallingly over priced drinks, but I had to stay. I worked for the "Jewish Mafia" as one of my co-workers put it, the last of the old families that ruled the French Quarter from the old days before corporate companies brought Californication to the Big Easy and put the smiley-face, homogeneous smear on the place. The kind of people who "bought" the employees they wanted, instead of "stealing" them. The Karno family was a hold-out from a different time; they were gleefully corrupt, unapologetically greedy, and cheerily abusive. I was definitely out of place there. Being the cog in the machine, I got yelled at every day for three months until I adapted to my surroundings and became a part of the "There's us, and then there's them" mentality they had towards outsiders.

"Larry, is your name motherfucker?" Gail, the manager, shouted to one of the cocktail waiters at a meeting geared towards building teamwork in time for the Superbowl/Mardi Gras season.

It was not a warm and fuzzy environment, being that I was working amongst a bunch of self-admitted hustlers, and stress ran high. Squabbling, fighting, cursing each other out were daily occurrences. And as I said, I would have made a lot more money in half the time spent if I had worked at any of the other bars on the street. Most of my friends and family thought I was crazy working there, but I had to stay. 

The Karno’s owned these bars, worked their employees like plantation slaves, and played the nastiest head games with us because they could.  They were the last of their kind and I knew I would never meet anybody like them again. Face it: they would have been sued out of business anyplace else but New Orleans. Their psychology was shaped by the absolute power of the good old days, when the bosses of the French Quarter could have people black-balled, and one really didn't want to piss them off if one wanted to continue to make money there. Their core employees were still a part of that mentality, and it kept them frozen in time.

Even then, I knew it couldn't last. Modern times were catching up with that swamp city of decay and decadence. I had a feeling my employers would eventually lose everything, but I never imagined anything like this.

"Yeah, one good hurricane coming up the Mississippi would wipe us out, we'd be living underwater," joked Sammy Karno. "It hasn't happened in over two hundred and fifty years."

This isn't the first time a hurricane has wiped out New Orleans, the only difference was that the first buildings were last minute shanties.  It wasn't the architectural marvel and fantasy it's been ever since.

"What keeps it up? Technology, or dumb-ass luck?"

"So far," said Sammy, "it's been dumb-ass luck."

It just hit me in the last day or two that many people that I knew and cared about are going through this misery of Hurricane Katrina. The folks I worked with were under-educated, ignorant (some had no idea the corridor between New Orleans and Baton Rouge was known as "Cancer Alley" due to the pollution of the Mississippi and looked shocked when I told them. I was equally shocked at their shock, I mean what do you say?), and living from paycheck to paycheck or tip day to tip day.  If you wait tables in Louisiana, your base pay is about $2 an hour. Apparently you can pay bartenders as low, but since Miss Billie, my boss, was paranoid about stealing and the bartenders had access to cash, she paid us minimum wage - I think I made $5/hr when I worked for here nine years ago (1996-97).

"Hang in there, baby," said Gail and Dawn, my managers.  "The Karnos will take care of you." 

I didn’t stick around to find out, and left after less than a year to continue my happy trails of the vagabond bartender phase of my life. But many musicians, entertainers, cocktail servers, and other bartenders did not evacuate before Katrina hit.  There's no way. They can't afford to go and leave everything behind. 

Both times I left New Orleans, I was so thoroughly exhausted - physically, emotionally, mentally and psychically. It was a place that I loved, but it was impossible for me to be healthy there. Also, I can't stand limbo and being stagnant was unbearable. My friends and community there were shaped by decadence, drama, and various forms of abuse. I loved them, but they were draining. They loved me and they didn't want to let go...

In New Orleans, lots of people will help you stay, but nobody will help you go. You gotta pull yourself out of the swamp. 

The second time I left, I cut all ties and never looked back.

But I can't stop thinking about them lately.  

Peace,

Montgomery

 

Picking Up Strays - On the Road # 10

Hey y’all,

Again, this is a letter written 14 years after the DIYBTRT in Alaska, the summer and fall of 2005. So Joe and I decided to go to Valdez first before heading to McCarthy for the Blackburn Festival. We were curious to follow the pipeline all the way to Valdez. But Joe slept on that drive, which I couldn’t believe. Maybe he has since experienced the incredible beauty I did. But the drive between the Wrangell/St Elias range and the Chugach range is known for a low cloud cover ALL THE TIME. On that day, the cloud cover lifted and what I saw was all kinds of jaw-dropping-stunning-gorgeous! The jagged peaks, glaciers that stretched almost to the road (or so it seemed) and the deep, rich, emerald green that was both vivid and surreal, I felt like I was driving through a mythical land. Where I lived was plenty beautiful, but this was the most exquisite part of Alaska that I ever saw. And that was only from the road. That was not the backcountry.

Joe decided to stay on in Valdez in the hopes of getting another fishing job. He didn’t and joined me at Blackburn, where we stayed in my half collapsed tent. Shannon, the friend from the peanut oil bus, saw Joe entering my tent and was about to deck him, when I showed up and reassured her that he was a friend of mine. The Festival happened, and the blogs about it are here and here for anybody who’d like to read about it.

Another friend joked that I picked up strays along the way and took them for a ride of a brief spell in my road trip, and that was true after this Girdwood party in Kennicott. I don’t remember how this happened, but after the Festival was over, there were a handful of us who stayed in the parking lot for another night. A photographer from Girdwood who had a passing resemblance to one of the Bee Gees in their prime, he had long hair and a beard, and a similar mindset to somebody who came of age in the Disco era – and no he was not of that age. I think Girdwood’s random lesbian, a cute girl with a pixie blonde haircut and large heart shaped sunglasses, a responsible looking woman and her husband, and me and Joe. Anyway, the Bee Gees photographer dude caught a ride with me and my Beast filled with books, and Joe in the backseat. The drive was several hours to Anchorage and then around Turnagain Arm to Girdwood. The photographer lectured Joe about his attitude about something or other, which pissed Joe off to no end. We still had a place to crash, and Bee Gees Photographer Dude showed us the pictures he had taken of all the belly dancers gyrating near the rusting ruins of a defunct copper mine – because of course, he took a lot pictures of the belly dancers. He didn’t get ANY shots of the magical moment when they danced spontaneously. I doubt the essence of that dance could have been captured in a snapshot though.

Anyway, that catches up the gaps in that particular squeeze of time that I neglected to write home about.

Peace,

Montgomery

On the Road #5

Hey y'all,

In Anchorage to give the Brown Beast the medical care he deserves.  Apparently, the BB has many leaking wounds, but according to the doctors, if I keep giving him transfusions on a regular basis, the BB should be good to go, for a long time...how about that? 

Joe has joined the tour for the rest of the summer and he's set a goal to sell all the books in my truck. It is definitely more empowering to be a team of plural than a mission of singular, and the books are definitely selling.  At Chair Five in Girdwood, I had people following me to the bathroom to buy a book - yippee!!!  It is so much easier to have somebody else promoting me as a dreamer who is trying to manifest fantasy into reality.  When I do it, I sound like a geek.  At least for the next month, I don't have to endure the surface polite nods of those who can smell blood, while underneath the kitty sharpens its claws...okay, so I'm blowing things out of proportion.

Done with the Kenai Peninsula, and manana we're heading to McCarthy for the Blackburn Music Festival where we'll lay out a blanket and sell books.  Heard good things about this festival, so it should be good, and then we'll be heading up north - we may even go to Prudhoe Bay just so we can say we did because I doubt a bunch of republican oil-drillers will be into fairy tales featuring my heart-eating seductress, but you never know.  Then we'll be meandering on down to Fairbanks, and then...who knows.

Joe asked the I Ching a couple of questions...about chicks of course.  And one said the great departs and the small approaches - after he made the decision to not spread himself thin to go see a gal on the other side of the world  and the other was "The Marrying Maiden" with "The Arousing, Thunder" as the upper trigram, and "The Joyous, Lake" as the lower.  Since that girl already compared him to a flower, because he's "sweet," that made Joe's day.  He's been referring to himself as "I am the Arousing Thunder" ever since.  And he's totally sold on the I Ching. 

It's like traveling with my kid brother. 

Anyway, my journal list is starting to get bloated, so I have a request of everybody...if you would like to keep hearing of what's going on, drop me a line and let me know one way or the other.  If I hear nothing by the end of the month, I'll assume the answer is not and you're too considerate or too chicken to say so.

Anyway, hope all is well... 

Montgomery

PS This is the 5th email I sent to my friends of what are now some cherished memories of my DIY booktour/roadtrip in Alaska in the summer and fall of 2005. It was literally called “I don’t know what to call this one; this is the fifth email.”

Eternal Novicehood and the Saving Grace of Good Friends - On the Road #4

Hey y’all,

This road trip was shaping up to be an exercise in humiliation until Joe showed up. For instance, in Homer, at my first open mike, I had right in front of my stage the Christian kiddie contingent. They were there to play cards, talk loud, and make smart-ass speeches after different musicians played just to show how cute they were, while the folks that were actually listening attentively were behind them.  

I was lucky though, they got even more obnoxious when the guy after me went up to play his guitar and sing.  

At the Land's End in Homer, my first night was the exact same time and date as the post-Memorial service for Drew Scalzi, a former state Representative, so everyone there was going to that. One couple tried to get me to go upstairs, have some food and drink and let people know I was there, but there's just something about going to somebody's funeral, especially someone that I'd never met, to hustle some business that is...distasteful to say the least. The same couple came down and bought a book - probably out of sympathy because nobody showed up that day, and the wife suggested that I should come in the winter when people are looking for things to do during that time.

The next day, a couple of acquaintances and a couple of total strangers showed up. I sold two books. All I could think was that it was a mighty fine thing that I did not pay a dime for that space and that my beginner's luck had run out. And I'm back in the time and space of being a novice...again.

I packed up the Brown Beast (that is burning through the oil, but other than that is running beautifully) and headed for Seward.

It seems like every year I decide to do something different that I know nothing about, just so I can be a novice all over again. Perhaps Zen Buddhists would applaud my embrace of Zen mind by constantly being a beginner; but given that I learn by making sooooo many mistakes, the novice/beginner period can be agony.    

In Seward, at the Resurrect Art Coffee House – an old church that was converted into this little gem, I had set up a tableside storytelling for the sake of promoting my book. The owners are every artist's dream come true as they support the arts and would let me do whatever I wanted. So I set up for three days, hoping positive word of mouth would help.

Day one: I told several stories and sold...nothing.

Granted, I'm sure it could have been worse, I could have been insulted on top of it. But to be in a place for four hours and have people nod politely at my efforts is...awful and humiliating.

Why would any sane person put herself through all this?

It didn't help that I had a Homer friend tempting me to go back to Homer, go charter fishing and party. It was so demoralizing, I almost went, but I made a commitment and as much as it hurt, that commitment must be kept. I gritted my teeth to bear it on Thursday, where at least the day would be mercifully short.

Day two: I told two stories to four people...sold two books.  I perked up a bit. I've survived painful learning curves before and it was always better. I even sold two more books to a waitress and one of her followers at the bar where I refreshed myself with a beer after hiking.  

And then came deliverance...

Friday brought the arrival of Joe, who has absolutely no boundaries, and therefore, no inhibitions. A born balls-to-the-wall salesman type. For those who know Joe, after fishing in Bristol Bay, his dreds got inflected with fish bits, which shouldn’t surprise anyone. He said every morning when he woke up his head smelled like fish and he couldn't take it anymore. What should surprise everyone was that he shaved them off, along with his beard. And damn! He now looks like a respectable young man. He’s not, of course. But at least, he now passes.

Joe listened to a couple of stories, and even stopped being a smart-ass half-way through the first one. A Colorado woman who calls herself "Soozie Creamcheese," bought a book, and the two over-friendly studs I'd met at the youth hostel bought none. Then Joe took it upon himself to take a few books and hit the bars. He took four books, and within 45 minutes, came back with forty bucks, and left with ten more books. By the time people were only caring about getting drunk he sold seven more books. While I stayed put at the Resurrect Art Coffe House, told more stories, and sold two books.

I couldn’t believe it.

Here I am, busting my butt telling stories and recommending myself to strangers and all Joe has to say is: "Dude, you should REALLY buy this book," and he’s usually chatting up a female.

And it works.

I just might have to pack up Joe in my luggage...

Thank God for good friends.

Peace,

Montgomery

PS These were some great memories of my road trip book tour in the summer of 2005. FYI, the Resurrect Art Coffee House is still around. If you’re ever in Seward, go check it out!