A SAD, ANGRY BONFIRES JOURNAL: “Turn on, tune in, and drop out”?

ON JANUARY 14th, 1967, 20,000 hippies, Beats, and Berkeley activists gathered at the Polo Field in San Francisco’s Golden Gate Park around the music of, among others, The Grateful Dead and Jefferson Airplane. The convergence, largely fueled by Vietnam War protests, was called “Human Be-In” and it signaled the start of the “Summer of Love.” Future Rolling Stone editor Ralph J. Gleason described the event as “an affirmation, not a protest. Acid was everywhere, but there were no bad trips. The sun set, the bands played, and the people glowed.” To that, Timothy Leary exhorted and snorted, “Turn on, tune in and drop out.”
So our fathers and mothers, aunts and uncles—and their friends and acquaintances—with flowers on their hair, swirled as the sun set, while rock music swayed with the wind, and humanity glowed. The trip was so cool – so they continued to get turned on, tuned in, and dropped out. This “love vibe” filled the sweet air, like a freefalling dive to nirvana, this pervaded as Lucy kept on dancing up in the Sky with Diamonds – as young soldiers whose limbs were still warm from the comfort of a loved one’s embrace, rock stars whose heavenly fingers flashed the peace sign before they cuddled the mic and the fretboard – all of a sudden, dropped dead.
The music was still playing, the sun was still rising and setting, but the beautiful bodies of the beautiful souls were now cold and unmoving – wasted and gone.

I was around six or seven years old at that time. I marveled in awe as my aunt danced to John Fogerty’s “Who’ll Stop The Rain” and I dreamed of a beautiful future upon knowing that wealthy rock celebrities could share exuberant music and ethereal words with the average humanity on a grandiose stage that weren’t built by corporate doleout and political sham but through a primitive love for peace and community—in a beautiful convergence called, “Woodstock.”
Many years later, in my country, humanity—rich and poor, young and old, rock stars and street urchins—gathered with flowers on their hair, their wearied fingers flashed the peace sign, called for peace and community, and end to a genocidal dictatorship. The flowers and the music, the peace sign and the words—these melted the human hearts that were once numbed by the evil mind that commanded the fingers that pulled the trigger… and so the tora-tora planes, bazookas, grenade launchers, AK-47s, and M16s stopped and crumbled like burnt paper planes and dismantled wooden ships.
Like the Chinese youth who stood alone afront a surging tank in Tiananmen Square, like the Filipino Catholic nun who waved a rose afront a soldier armed with submachinegun… these souls turned on, tuned in, but they didn’t drop out. Instead, they made the tanks and guns drop out—and then they made a beautiful history rife with glorious wisdom and spiritual bravery. In those moments, there was no summer of love, no glow, no rock music, no sunset, no acid. Courage was articulated, peace was achieved.

That is my dream and my reality. A grand dream and impoverished reality that converge and find warmth, shelter, and love in The Traveling Bonfires. Words and music – are my ammunition and firepower – in my fight for peace and community. This is the Madness and the Mission. There are no chasers in between. Nothing in between -- no irresponsible excess as the deadly trio of weed, alcohol & acid, and corporate blood, and political/ideological sham.
Since the middle of 1980s to late 1990s—amidst the physical danger of Martial Law and emotional indifference of New York City – that Sublime Madness and Quixotic Mission have always been there with me. Under a virulent summer sun, battering storm, gunshots that snuck in from nowhere, a heart that bled like isolated river – that madness and mission was my God, family, community, and relationship.
Manila, New York City, Asheville. It’s all the same to me. The places, faces, phases change and vary but not the spirit.
Two of my most effective past assistants in Manila and NYC once echoed in an old Indie Group discussion, I quote, “It seems like he is so simple, uncomplicated whenever he talks, smiles, deals with his life… it seems like you got him all figured out. But Pasckie handles his life and work like a shrewd chessplayer. You don’t know his next move, nobody knows. But one thing is sure—they are all unexpected, shocking moves. He’ll throw gambits and sacrifices all over the board, bite them, it’s up to you. But look out, buddy. He is dangerous—but it’s a different kind of danger, something that keeps you safe and protected. Weird, isn’t it? ”

Many times I refuse to believe or accept those words. It’s because, I do sincerely believe that what I do is not “unexpected”—in fact, these are all very consistent and focused. They are in many instances, spontaneous, but they are “pre-calculated.” My instincts and reflex pretty much vibe with how I generally live my life. It’s like—even when I am drunk, I know my way back to my car. So if I hit a post, I should not blame the beers, I should blame my stupidity. Ergo, if we cant be responsible to our messed up brain faculties and knocked-down posts – then, damn, don’t get drunk or stoned.
What happened in “Harvest Bash” -- from Sept 30 to Oct 1st, 2005 in Mars Hill, NC – is a vivid example. There are some questions that I am sure, will linger around for a quite a time again, why I just decided to drop two community hook-ups/collaborations, following that supposed weekend “fundraise” for The Bonfires.

Back in NYC in late 1999 – when I severed ties with a left-leaning organization that was supposedly the East Coast wing of the same umbrella coalition that I gave many years of my advocacy/countryside/media work in the Philippines – questions were asked, why? I cut my ties right after a grant (amounting to couple of millions spread in 4 to 5 years), that I basically wrote myself, was approved. Before approval of the grant and after I finished the final draft, I essentially spent my three or four months co-organizing cultural shows and gatherings, including a huge 32-artist art exhibition in Soho, not to mention a barrage of magazine/newspaper articles (to help prop up the projects/grant up)… My quiet arrogance and playful confidence were flying high, “This grant proposal will be approved in two month’s time,” I beamed as I downed a Corona or two. The grant was approved in three months time. I told myself, my work is done, so I resigned.
Before my first flight to the Appalachians in the winter of 1999-2000, a very wealthy Jewish gallery owner provided The Indie and myself a loft in Westchester NY. It was the classic Big Apple romantic adventure. But it didn’t take me another cold, lonely winter to head out the door again, and seek warmth in Greyhound backseats and Motel 6 single beds. A friend thought I was the stupidest prick in the world for giving up that “heaven on the 7th floor.”
In the summer of 2002, I ran out of money and, I thought, my madness was over. I left Asheville after a one-year Indie anniversary concert at Pritchard Park, where I gave out practically all my clothes to the homeless. I stayed nine days in my brother’s 7-room house in the Jersey shore. That was the last time that we spent time together -- sadly, it was punctuated by a big argument. He wanted me to stay more weeks near the beach—vowed to feed me and help regain my energy, and gave me ample, comfortable moments to rethink my journey. But one morning, after just 7 days there, I woke him up and asked for Greyhound money for a midnight trip to Albany NY so I could fix The Indie/The Bonfires nonprofit paperwork. After a huge shouting match, I won—but the compromise was, I’ll let him drive me from Atlantic City to Albany instead of the Greyhound.
“Where are you staying? “ he asked, while we’re on the road. “In my friend’s apartment.” My friend, Audrey Smith’s, house was a couchless, $200/month room within a dilapidated building located in downtown Albany’s fearsome Clinton Avenue. Audrey shared it with her 13-year-old daughter, Autumn. Audrey lost her car and house after a nasty divorce.
My brother, I could feel that love as he hugged me, handed me $300, and just said while shaking his wearied head, “I don’t understand, I don’t think I will ever understand, but I want you to take care of yourself. If you need my help, call. I’ll be there.”

After a few weeks in New York, I went back to Asheville. A friend, Rita Knighten, who lived in a trailer park in Oteen, promised to help me out by providing me a warm room, food, extra money while I struggled to re-publish The Indie, and make something out of the basement office that I just got on sublease, which I now called “The Indie Crib on 70 Woodfin Place.”
That was wintertime. Rita supplied me food, her daughter Kristi did my laundry, Emily and Matt helped on the restart-up/organizational Indie/Bonfires tasks … then my brother called and informed me that he was moving to Las Vegas (for better financial opportunities), and that he will visit me on Nov 6 (his birthday) to either pick me up or drop me a new TV set, computer, and new winter clothes (because I’ve already given out most of my clothes to the homeless of Pritchard Park that summer).
I couldn’t muster the courage to face him, and let him see my musty, freezing basement of an office, and Indie pageproofs that were still waiting for funding. I couldn’t take another brother-to-brother argument, or words like, “We love you, I am responsible to whatever happens to you. Mom is very worried.” So I let Emily, my assistant at that time, to face him… The only words that he told Emily was, “Please, don’t let my brother smoke inside his office, and please tell him, when he decides to leave, don’t allow him to give out all that he owned to his poor friends.”
I think he left me a few hundreds for food. Plus, promises of “We will help you finance your magazine in the West Coast… you don’t have to suffer here. Why do you have to eat noodles when I am living a pampered life in Navada?”

A few months after that, two months before The Indie was “resurrected” in Jan 2004, Marta Osborne knocked at my door and volunteered to help, in exchange for a place to crash, until she get herself a job. It took Marta six months before she got a cleaning job at Days Inn.
We didn’t have a car, we didn’t have money—my friends Rita, Kristi, Elizabeth, Jenni, Paige etc practically fed us. A month or two after I moved in The Crib, I got a phone line hooked up. Then I started writing friends from all over—as far as Ireland and Japan and Mexico and Florida. Few cash came through the mail. Rita Knighten wrote me a check to get the Jan 2004 issue out. Food simply came dropping by The Indie’s frontdoor.

That has been the life of The Indie and The Traveling Bonfires in Asheville. A rich realtor who owned a condominium in Town Mountain Road gave me the key to her place, a vagrant at Pritchard Park walked to the Mission to bring me canned goods and cookies one winter morning, Hippie Shitzu supplied sound system, free, to “Bonfires for Peace” at the park for most of the 16 weekends of family fun and community convergence, Sarah Benoit and Matt Mulder spent their own cash and credit card to drive to and from New York City so I could reconnect with my business/organizational/personal links there, Elizabeth Mason and Jenni Roberts never failed to come over with just about anything to “make me smile”… all these were handed out with an outstretched hand of love and friendship.
Ramen noodles are still intact in our drawer, Mission goodies that Loretta Hoffman regularly gives us are still carefully stacked up in brown boxes in our storage, Emily and Dale’s and Ann Dunn’s office equipment and tables are still here, Kevin’s piano, Rena’s printer, Rachelle Arrowood’s coffeemaker, Jonah Lipsky’s books, Matt and Justin and Jon’s posters are all pasted on the walls, cool inspiring emails from friends are all printed and compiled in a folder… more than anything else, more than these things that were handed our for free, what makes this Crib a “home” are the things that no one, not even me, could see or touch. That spirit extends from the mountains of the Cordilleras and the streets of Manila and the subways of Manhattan and Queens and the cold benches of Pritchard Park, and those cities and jungles in four continents where I dragged and carried The Madness and The Mission.

I don’t want to feel bitter about what happened in Mars Hill that weekend. But I am hurt with words thrown at us, like “You should be thankful if The Bonfires earn $200,” among others. Was it about money? The Traveling Bonfires’ name—nonprofit status that translates to formal letters and sponsorship help and tax refunds and exemptions—was used, whether that produced one dollar or one million dollars. You don’t buy a Name, you RESPECT it.
The Bonfires’ name is NOT Pasckie Pascua, Marta Osborne, or any one of the names in The Indie’s staff box or Bonfires posters. The Bonfires is the pride and dignity of the many people who freely gave their time and energy and love to The Madness and The Mission. It is my calling and my responsibility to protect that spirit, whether I end up rotting in jail or starving with a pack of ramen noodles.
What I saw in Mars Hill is more of a bloated private party that dances and whirls with “Turn on, tune in and drop out” than a peaceful gathering of community souls. I wanted to leave but I also honor the word called responsibility. I have freely given out the name of The Bonfires to the event—so if that event goes down because of obvious recklessness, I go down with it. The warrior in me still exists – if I join a comrade or friend in battle, I will fight to the death but I will not leave him/her behind. If that event went down, The Bonfires name and my name go down with it—and it will take years and even forever to erase that ugly conjecture. That wisdom, that dignity, that responsibility—no $200 or $2 M or $2 could buy that.
I have cut many friends—even relatives and relationships—nice, wonderful souls who helped and were part of The Indie and The Traveling Bonfires since middle of 1980s. I have resigned and cut links with many individuals and organizations whose ideals seem in parallel with mine. Why?
We know, you know…

Meantime, I just hope that the main organizer of the Mars Hill event visits this Indie Crib of ramen noodles and old books with a responsible documentation and financial statements and receipts of the three-day event, then I will sit down and give him what he thinks is due him. Every event of The Traveling Bonfires is done under legal bounds of the law. Contrary to what many may think, The Indie/The Bonfires has a lawyer in New York and Asheville, and we do file taxes without cheating the paperwork. I also protest and complain but I make it a point to adhere with what the law says. Otherwise, I will take to the hills, in the same way as a Che Guevarra or Geronimo did—because I already lost belief in what society is saying. But I am still here—I am still paying rent and I am not buying any herb or any substance discreetly—I can still walk freely on the street without fear of being cuffed or interrogated.
I am cool, yes—and I may allow you to sniff that weed in my room but people should be responsible enough to take the consequences of their recklessness or “coolness.” A Bonfires event is not a “private room session.”
No one could take the name of The Traveling Bonfires in their posters and business letters and simply get away with it. I didn’t go to a concert because I am stoned Deadhead or whatever we call it. The Bonfires is about primitive peace and traditional community – not “turn on, tune in, drop out.” And it’s not about $200. I offered to split the proceeds to all people involved in that project because, this gig, is NOT about proceeds—it’s about what I just ranted about. There was great music—one of the best local music gatherings that I’ve ever been with – but I absolutely don’t agree with how it was handled. It was a public “private party” and I feel The Traveling Bonfires was used.
Our phoneline is still cut but it will be back by Tuesday or Wed this week—not with the money that we supposed to have earned from the event—but with the money that a new volunteer got from an ad from an Asheville shop that was just voted one of the best in WNC, an Asheville resident like us, who professed belief in what we do. I respect these people. My responsibility with them doesn’t start with signing of the ad contract and ends with the expiration of the deal. That is how I survived my Madness and my Mission for almost three decades now.
Our last “Bonfires for Peace at Pritchard Park” for the year 2005 happens on Oct 29. A “Bonfires for Peace in Manila” happens this Friday, Oct 14. Repeat, it’s not about the $200 rental to Parks&Recreation, or the beautiful rock n roll from any band, or the donated tent or PA system, or 8,000 pesos to a named act, or free beers to a responsible designated driver for the night. It’s not about Pasckie Pascua, Marta The Nicer Osbourne, Ozzy Osbourne, The Grateful Dead, or The Beatles.
See you there!

--Pasckie
3pm. Oct 9 2005.
Asheville NC