Vagrant Wind

WRITERS WORKSHOPS are such interesting little events…

2006-10-15T11:30:00.000-07:00

WRITERS WORKSHOPS are such interesting little events… quietly exuberant microcosm of human foibles, fancy/fantasy and fascination. Sometimes they kind of bombard the sanity like some sort of literary Normandys and Waterloos; sometimes they nag and irritate like in-laws Inquisition/Torture chambers. They devastate, they pulverize you into crappy smithereens; they tick you off like crazy, they ruin your day, yet you can’t really complain. You keep on coming back for more… But, most of the time, writers workshops are just fun hangout gigs where we could check in our egomaniac trips or check out smart girls who hid erotic fires between seductive cleavages of some oblique but sweet metaphors… You can also survey hot dudes who may be the same exact replica or clone of Lestat The Vampire—mysterious, dangerous but irresistible. Don’t you know that most often than not—writers workshops are disguised as singles convergences or Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club? While the “taken, attached and involved” are busy sipping super-sweet nectars of twogetherness some place more private, the “lonely” seek out writers workshops!
Seriously though, in workshops—we may be able to trip on a cool Dead Poets Society and reap some wisdom along the way, or a publishing agent who’s well-connected somewhere might sit in, that “guest” could be our bridge to fame and fortune. Apart from that, I “accidentally” tripped on a lot of writing/editing side-jobs – including babysitting, dogwalking, housecleaning sidelines — while immersed in writers workshops.
I must say that I learned a lot (of whatever I know about writing) in writers workshops—weekend gatherings and midweek drinking bouts (played up as “workshops”), summer creative writing camps, and literary conventions. For sure, most workshops that I joined in were fun, square room arenas of swashbuckling, duelling egos (masqueraded as “discussion”), unrequited perversions (clothed as “craft” or “art” or “freedom of expression”), super-trashy literary dalliances, and yes indeed, in many instances, I get to discover sparkling gems (that are a lot better and more engaging than what are usually peddled at Barnes & Noble or Borders as “Month’s Bestsellers”).
What’s so cool about writers workshops (at least those that I signed in) is the seductive element of surprise that lurks in there… you don’t know what you’re gonna get.
What I mostly got—during the early years of my own writers workshop saga? Hear these..
“It took me a good 15 precious minutes to ponder rhyme and reason—sanity and insanity—about your little piece of poetic intrusion into this beautiful world of ours. What I’m trying to say is, why don’t you just quit this writing silliness and just wait tables, and be of service to humanity?”
“I’d rather read a Chinatown menu or Wal-Mart catalogue than waste my time over this unrelenting exercise of drab shit stacked up like empty vials of cough syrup clothed with puke sitting beside a stinking downtown commode!”
“My advice – just forget it! Go jump over Verrazzano Bridge, bungee jump down Niagara Falls, eat roaches, wash your grandmother’s apron, buy your girl a wonder bra, whatever—but, please, don’t subject us to this atrocious poetry again, oh please!”
So, how do we deal with those? Well, we have to put up with those amazingly “upfront” comments or suggestions… Although there were moments, as well, when my ascetic patience hit bottom, so I climaxed one writers session too many with a mano-a-mano at a parking lot. (Those were my twentysomething years, I have mellowed considerably.) But then, among these insane piles and heaps of heartaches, bruised egos, and black eyes (c/o the brawl), you’d get one or two good, enticing invite.
“Hmmm, your poetry is very multi-layered, I need to dig deeper, very mysterious… would you have time on Friday night to discuss this? My apartment? Bring more of your poems, I’ll have wine…”
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In Asheville, I thought I only know of two regular, weekly writers workshops. The Tuesday group (with Robert Kelley) and the Wednesday group that included The Indie’s ever-prolific and diligent senior writer, Mike Hopping.
I was told that there are actually more specialized, exclusive writers groups in the city. Writers groups by astrologers, women-only, non-smokers/non-drinkers, lesbians and gays, Baptists/Catholics, fundamentalists, pagans, Deadheads, Goths (divided between those who dig Danzig and those who don’t), vampires and vampyrs (segregated between those who hang out at Waffle House every aftermidnight and those who simply stay home and chow down grits over diet Mountain Dew and watch “Dawg, The Bounty Hunter”), sadomasochists, Weightwatchers alumni, vegans/vegetarians, white supremacists, Hispanic/Latinos, ex-AA denizens, high schoolers, hip-hop homeboys/girls, anorexics anonymous, Crumb&Pekar Fans Club, divorcees and jilted lovers…
And more – writers workshop by men who were disapproved by their in-laws, women whose husbands are honorary members of Man Law sect, weekend lovers of autumn leaves, haters of dandelions, celebrators of the wind and snow, eaters of beef jerky and pickled pig ears… (believe it or not, there’s one like that).
MANY! Many writers workshops!
This is good, you know. Don’t get me wrong…
When I used to go around Filipino-American communities in the NY-NJ-CT tri-states seven years ago (while editing a mainstream Filipino newspaper), I chanced upon a million Pinoy writers groups denominations. All of these are rooted to the Filipino culture back home… but it seems people don’t simply agree the moment they sit down around a circle and open their mouths. So they form their own splinter, semi-splinter, pseudo-splinter, copy-splinter, splinter-splinter writers workshops.
Some of the list that I gathered – a group for writers with northern background (12 chapters scattered all over and around five New York City boroughs), writers with northern background whose parents are from the south, writers with northern background whose wives/hubbies are from the south, writers with northern background whose kids were born in the Philippines, writers with northern background whose kids were born in the US, writers with northern background who’ve been dumped by their wives/husbands, writers with northern background who are applying for American citizenship, writers with northern background who are undocumented illegals or with expired visas, writers with northern background who are actually from the south but don’t wanna say, writers with northern background who are… whatever.
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In Asheville, this cornucopia of writers groups certainly add spice and brew to what we all call (and brag) as diversity.
DIVERSITY.
Well, diversity is good if these seemingly “different” people, or humanity with different points-of-view or “madnesses,” decide to coexist as one community and try to work or unite towards a collective end… diversity won’t work if these same groups of people simply create their own cliques and specialized groupings. Why do we drum up “diversity” and celebrate community while at the same time, we segregate ourselves from the heart of the collective?
Many times I observe that the gap that separates between a non-vegan/non-organic carnivore and a healthy-living, non-smoking, non-drinking person is wider than the space that sets apart a Republican from a Democrat… a lesbian group has their own place in the community, is their a Man Law group around here? How about the anarchists vs the moderates, the hippies and the yippies/yuppies, the babyboomers and the confused young?
It’s not like these people are going to co-exist on a daily basis or watch Glen Beck or “Desperate Housewives” on TV, seated on one couch under one roof. It’s just at least, once a week meeting in a public venue, you know…
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In the last few weeks before this deadline, senseless killings and shootings painted our lives red. Is there a war in America? Why do our kids decide to grab that gun to articulate a point? Who are they listening to, what are they thinking?
It seems like we have more time to figure out the good nutrients in a hummus, ruminate over the dark spirits behind an SUV, hail and glorify the peaceful vibes of an unseen god up in the Blue Ridge Mountains, mused over gender sensitivity and political correctness, or debate whether Dan Brown is a heretic or not, or Oprah Winfrey really has right and authority to pick a good book, or does condoms bastardize the sanctity of Kama Sutra… than try to sit down with our children and, for once, listen to what they’re saying.
What do the children or the young want? Maybe they want to join our good-natured, holier-than-thou, “exclusively for adults” writers groups. Maybe they know better than us… maybe they have more beautiful ideas to share.
Maybe one of these kids are working on a novella that’s actually a blueprint to another Columbine tragedy? Or maybe these kids exude promising auras of future literary greats? Do they have to grab a gun again to let us, adults, listen? The writings on the wall scream like a giant cat’s blank stare. What are we gonna do with these signs? Muse, ruminate, discuss, debate, banter, ponder—over them—behind closed doors, closed to/from the outside world? Our doors that secure and protect our exclusive groupings from the others are so tight and sealed that we can no longer hear what’s going on out there, just a good ten yards away.
I wonder what we have been writing lately…
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Writers workshops are a gathering of people, I believe. People, who—besides a writing passion commonality—are also human beings who want to be heard, to connect, to bond. I don’t believe that most struggling writers—or even published ones—are in workshops simply to polish or break in a draft. They are there because they have a truth to share, no matter how risky or dangerous that may be.
We always mouth the words “community” and “diversity” – seemingly, to trumpet a global, no-walls/no-ceilings wisdom. But we seldom have the courage to open our doors to those who knock just because they don’t measure up to the word, “Writers” or “Part of the Group.”
We write about the world we live in, and the people in it—including us. Isn’t it boring to listen to just one “truth” every Monday or Friday or Wednesday night? Unless, we only want to listen to our own voices and cuddle our own stuffed toys of elitism and exclusivity, then it’s maybe cool to just stay locked up.
As for me, I just want to write… Whether you tear my poetry away and flush it down the toilet bowl, or hang it on your bedroom wall, beside a Van Gogh or three red roses. Whatever it is that you do with my little intrusion inside society’s four walls – the important thing is, I have extended my heart’s spirit. Quash it, burn it, step on it, no matter—no one frustrates, rejects, dumps, disappoints the spirit.
That’s the spirit of the writer that I want to hang out with in a writers workshop. I don’t care whether we do it at Waffle House, at Pritchard Park, or inside my humble abode, beside my fireplace, on 61 Dunwell Avenue.
Bring in the poetry, I’ll have wine and tea.

BONFIRES JOURNAL: Spring Weekend Usher--Cool, Smooth, Easy... but Why Am I Sad?

2006-04-17T14:32:00.000-07:00

GRACIAS ET AMORE. Among past Traveling Bonfires events in Asheville in the last few years, last weekend's shows at UNCA Highsmith Union and Pritchard Park were two of the most successful, well-coordinated, very-organized, methodically-supported, financially-manageable, and less-stressful.
But I don't know what I'm feeling at this moment--post midlife crisis, last strands of Mercury Retrogade whatever, wearied blues. I am simply sad. Never mind...
Thanks to each and everyone.
The program went pretty well with the "THREE INNOCENTS & A SPIRIT" dramatic play/mime by N a Sonje (our Haitian visitors). We set up before 4pm... from Rick, Highsmith's head tech person to John Staversky (sound) to Kevin Innes (projectionist) to opening act (Pure Energy) to SGA's intro remarks to the three-person cast of Carla, Djaloki and Ari. (Rick even donated some PA/sound equipment to the Bonfires.) Heather Duncan was an instant cast member and she did an awesome job on stage!
Overall--no slips, no missing prop, no tech problem, no complaints, we loaded out just as smoothly as we loaded in. I was getting tensed few minutes before the show, fearing that not many people will show up. It wasn't standing-room only kind of event, but it was pretty well-attended, and the audience was very attentive and interested.
There are so many people to thank, but let me pore through my tired memory -- Glenis Redmond, Charlie Thomas, Tim Pluta, Bob Brown, Deirdre Wiggins, Monika (Jubilee community member), Kim Potter, Jackie Bowman, Matt Mulder, Jim Brown, Katie Kasben, John Staversky, Danzig Jr & Misty the Younger O, UNCA Highsmith Union, Marta The Nicer's workmates Alison, Janis and Missy, Rena Wright, UNCA Student Government Association (esp. Anne Walch and the cool dude who introduced the visitors).
UNCA's tech staff was very accommodating, very efficient, very kind... from Rick to Will to Megan to the evening-shift lady who kept on asking me if there's something that we need... The SGA was very nice indeed for juggling their schedule to show support through their presence (aside from the co-sponsorship).

The kickoff event of the third year of the "BONFIRES FOR PEACE AT PRITCHARD PARK" (the following day) was a breeze. Again, we saw beautiful humanity at the park, dancing like spring is just a weekend, seize the moment. But let me give special thanks to Chris Johnson and the entire Touch Samadhi trance DJ family and their friends and relations for the generosity. As usual, everybody's there on time... we started setting up few minutes to 3pm. The DJs arrived around 3:30, and started spinning at 4pm--right on time.
Thanks to Rosetta Rzany for the tent, to Roman Pizza and Mellow Mushroom for the food, Cold River Gallery for the donation, Katie K (again), Dale Hoffman, Ryan Christopher, to the beautiful souls who dropped money at the tip jar... We earned $110. To the Citizen Times columnist who emailed me these words (the same night) -- "You are on a wonderful life/spiritual journey and it was a pleasure to meet you and, later, to learn more about you. I hope our paths cross again in the near future... Thank you for what you are doing -- for yourself and for the planet" ... to the man who's a perennial Bonfires attendee--who stopped me at Malaprop's as I took a 10-minute break to check my emails--to shake my hands and remind me to "Rest sometimes, my son."

AM I TIRED? But my spirit is still roaming around...
Sometimes, my other self asks me--"What are you getting out of this?" I don't know... I told Marta The Nicer as we walked around our West Asheville block last night, "I am tired, I'd like to take a break but I don't want to miss these moments--this is all I got. I am sad that life isn't perfect... I am sad that I have to cut my links with people on my way to forge ties with more people... I wish I'd be happy by just spending whatever we have on a new pair of shoes, or a weekend trip to the coast, but I know what makes me happy. I am happy last night... amidst the din, amidst the crowd--I see people happy. I like to see the peacefulness in people being happy... I miss home, but I see home in those bodies of energy, those people... I'd like you to take the lead, you are on the spotlight, you can't say `I don't know' anymore -- you have to have ready answers to these people that you profess to serve, whatever they say, whatever they accuse you of. Be true to your spirit."
I miss home, I miss familiar faces and familiar moments. I'd like to read new poems this Wed to help me ease my heart. See you at Malaprop's then--I am reading poems with Walter Dinteman, Megan Hislop and Matthew Mulder.
Meantime... salut!
--Pasckie

61 Dunwell Av and “Looking Forward"

2006-04-03T13:00:00.000-07:00

SPRING SUN IS UP but winter froze is still wafting by. The fireplace burns to make up for the currently unavailable heating. Sooner or later, warmth and ease will usher the sylvan grace of sunflowers and mischievous banterings of crickets – and afternoon poetry shall emanate from the front porch and songs will envelope nighttime bonfires at the backyard.
That is the metaphor of the moment.
Let me rephrase the Ecclesiastes. There is a season for the blues and funk, a season for rock and roll. For the time being, we can jazz up time and space, say thanks to winter’s transcendent dark and welcome the gypsy merriment of spring. Life is beautiful despite the temporal misery and intermittent agony.
Procol Harum’s “A Whiter Shade of Pale” saunters in the living room, but my spirit is humming Neil Young’s “Looking Forward.”

GOOD NEWS. We have just moved to our new office and house in West Asheville. No more musty cave-like cribs—bittersweet memories of Woodfin Place and Courtyard/Lexington Avenue, this time out. The exact address—61 Dunwell Avenue, Asheville NC 28806.
The cable and internet connects are already reinstalled but we are still laboring over purgatory and hell trying to get Charter to correctly, obediently, punctually, truly hook the phoneline back up. (UPDATE/04.01--we already got the phone hooked up but it's a new number -- 828 505 0476.) That is the bad news.
In one of the most impoverished societies where I spent years of my impoverished little life, all I ever needed was extra money—something around, equivalent to $15 to $20 to hand under-the-table—to get good, efficient, swift service. In a dreamland like the US of A, it’s not that easy and accessible, no buddy! You see, I made sure that I paid the month’s Charter bill, ahead of deadline, before this current move to assure that we’d get the phone reinstalled fast (as this huge telecom firm promised) but, as of this writing, we don’t have it.
But I don’t want to upset myself any longer. It has been an amazingly tough two weeks! The Blue Sky God/dess will make things happen, sooner or later… Let me enjoy the blessings after the sorrow. It’s good to have a Marta The Nicer Osbourne beside me all the time—she balances my spitfire-dragon spirit. (And she’s the only earthling I know who has the astronomical patience and composure to wait three hours as Charter shuffles her from one staff to the other.)

AFTER A LONG, elongated recitation (or sermon on the mount)—the Blue Sky God/dess wired me enough money to get our bearings back after this latest distressful conjecture that my avowed “rock journey and sublime madness” got enmeshed with. “Grow up! The problem with you is—you can’t live with any human being in this world! You don’t belong to earth! You’re too-bad-to-be-true!”
And so the God/dess revisited the gloriously weird past of the "little man" who nailed three bats on wood panel awaiting for Dracula to emerge after 12midnight, the imp who threw logs and logs of flames on the fireplace to force Santa Claus to enter through the front door instead of the stupid chimney, who stole all the edible contents of the household fridge of plenty to distribute them to all the starving tribal kids up in the hills…
This time, I am sure I am not the doubtful imp or the Dracula-hunting brat no more – I am the “fridge thief.” I was promised plenty of impermanent luxuries by the grizzly courtyard bear and twin rivers muse but there is nothing left for poor, beautiful souls that mill around my bonfires – so, excuse me, we gotta go. They can dance the devil’s boogie under their burnout PBR moonlights, but I am rockin’ with my kindred spirits under the blue sky, as ever. This is the moment when ramen noodles shared with the glorious humanity and pigeons at Pritchard Park tastes a lot better than a lonely, twosome free oyster dinner at Magnolia’s or Lobster Trap. Wisdom, no matter how impervious and odd it is, comes and goes from within the heart—nowhere else.
I don’t regret leaving the Courtyard. It’s a blessing that we left before we got deeper and deeper down in compromise.

OUR NEW West Asheville abode—four rooms (two bedrooms, plus an office, a space for a dark room or library), a relatively big living room (with a fireplace) that could be cool for an intimate poetry reading with two glass windows overlooking trees in the neighborhood, huge basement/garage (cool spot to build a mini-music studio), wide front and backyard (with a garden), side porch for a serious conversation or mid-afternoon reading respite. Yes, there is a kitchen (but I can also make some salmon grill on the porch). Tall trees and greenery surround us.
We plan to do a garage sale/intimate Bonfires show here this late spring. Indeed, I have more than enough space to cook all my—“Who’s cuisine reigns supreme!” culinary magic. The basement has enough room to do a Friday filmshow or summertime open mic. The yard is rife for a chill-out bonfire and acoustic/poetry convergence, or just an afternoon family barbecue.
It’s a block away from/to Haywood Road (Westville Pub, West End Bakery, Digable Pizza, Orbit Video). We share the house with a young couple, Jay and Misty—young enough to be our kids—who look like Marilyn Manson and Kelly Osbourne (no kidding). (I now “baptize” them as Danzig Jr and Kelly The Younger Osbourne). They have awesome, goth, sweetly strange pets – centipedes, millipedes, spiders, geckos, frogs, mice, snake, uhh – but don’t be afraid (these pets are all in their pitch-dark or reddened room), they also have cool birds, a super-tiny dog, black cat, and lots of fishes on aquariums. A parrot stands guard beside the front door and whistles a lot like crazy.
But our roomies or housemates are nice, peaceful, courteous youths. I think I scare them more than they probably think they scare me though… Sweet kids, they eat a lot of cereals, tuna salad, and chocolates. And drink loads and loads of milk and diet Mountain Dew. Danzig Jr also draws (on charcoal) a lot of human body parts, by the way.
We haven’t really properly settled our piles and piles of office paperwork and stuff, and I am not yet fully at ease with table placements, wall hangings, and I don’t know where to display my collection of cheap shades and Dollar Tree sunglasses yet – but come on over and visit us. We have a big TV screen, we can watch movies—enjoy the Final Four on cable, or put up a bonfire outside…

THANKS to Mike Hopping for helping us move (with his ever-reliable pickup truck) last week. Thanks to Janis R who accommodated us (in her Merrimon Av house) for few days after we left the Courtyard in a huff—while we scouted for a place that, at least, isn’t “temporary.” We drove the “pimp van” all the way to Swannanoa and Black Mountain and Fairview and Barnardsville and back to Biltmore Forest and Oakley last week—looking for a place that’ll fit this sweetly eccentric mind of yours truly. (For Marta The Nicer, any place is as good as any.)
“You deserve a better place than Asheville,” Janis said (then she handed me $20, “Do me a favor, buy Marta dinner tonight”). But, the bottomline is, a place, city, town—wherever, whatever circumstance surround them—are all the same to me. These don’t really, actually change—it’s the people that change or matter. And I believe in humanity… I believe that the human heart prevails, one way or the other. I might be angry and running my smart, arrogant mouth these days – but I will be a sweetheart again, few days from now. Promise.

THREE OR FOUR winters ago, when Marta The Nicer Osbourne knocked at the erstwhile Indie Crib on 70 Woodfin Place, Suite 01’s door – torn and shattered, no money, no car, no job, no friends, no relatives – I didn’t know what to do. I knew that I didn’t have the material/physical capability to take her in. But I always believe in what my childhood faith told me, “Whoever knocks at the door, let them in, these are blessings.” I told Marta that I didn’t have money anymore, I don’t even own the lease of the office, I don’t drive, I didn’t even have enough money to get an issue of The Indie out. But God has “given” her to me, I can’t do anything about that—I never turned anyone out of my door. Although the building prohibits it, I had to take Marta in. I will not let her out of the winter cold, I can’t. So we shared my supply of ramen noodles and helped me labor to get The Indie out and the Traveling Bonfires rockin’ with the vagrant wind.
That was three years ago last December.
Last month, at the Courtyard, I had to let a “homeless” friend go—leave on winter’s night—because it wasn’t my premises, anymore. We rented our space inside the vicinity but we were housed within a compound that is governed by a landlord and other tenants. There were rules and regulations. Such is the strangeness and weirdness of that “collaborative” deal that I got into.

ON MARTA’S FIRST event at the “Bonfires for Peace at Pritchard Park” in 2004, she wept like a kid thinking that she’s not worthy of the work and responsibility—when a performer started whining over some technical mishap. Marta was a 42-year-old divorced individual who came from the poor-as-Third World boondocks of Welch, WV—whose last job was a nursing aide. I told her not to cry—it’s not what seemed to be her physical, creative, or academic deficiency or drawback that matter here, it’s her spirit that matters. “Hang on… we are on a rock and roll mission from the Blue Sky God/dess. We are just warming up. Get up and fight!”
So Marta The Nicer Osbourne, like a loyal soldier and obedient friend, followed everything that comes out of my grand, sweet lunacy. We defied the odds, we fought adversaries, we treaded roads less traveled – Vagrant Wind tour up north, two years of Pritchard Park madness, countless gigs and events – the passing of my dear Mother, evictions and unpaid bills, food stamps and Mission visitations, car crash and more “detractors.” She talked and negotiated with Asheville’s police chief, City Mayor’s office, city government officials, business leaders and club/restaurant managers—as well as the rowdy, drunken vagrants at Pritchard Park and rock-star Bonfires performers…
But at the end of day, we laughed as we rested our tired backs—I danced around to Led Zeppelin and Santana and we goofed around Adam Sandler DVDs and continued to spawn new programs and projects each time we seemingly “failed.”

AT THE COURTYARD, we realized that we were on a wrong side of the block. We were maybe assured of a better physical situation (compared with when we were at Woodfin Place) but that’d also mean leaving the spirit behind. I can’t swallow a spoonful of nice Indian dish provided by those who can afford them, in expense for the beautiful humanity outside. To put it simply, I quizzed myself, “The grizzly bear could afford to buy me an oyster dinner, or fly his abundant self to Puerto Rico and Florida for a grand vacation, but he doesn’t have $150 to pay a soundperson to launch his one-man-committee film festival—a festival that unsuspecting young, dreamy filmmakers sent in entries for a fee. The man wanted me to mouth the ideals of the Traveling Bonfires just because we enjoined close to 200 performers to share music and time for free to the community one summer?”
I remember those Pritchard Park nights when I tried in vain to hand Hippie Shitzu’s Mark Anderson $25 earned via tips for his gasoline money for providing the sound to the entire event that day. The night I had to let go off my remaining $10 so we can buy bread for performers because the food donation didn’t arrive on time… The many mornings that Chris Malz picked Marta up for work at UNCA. These beautiful people who gave us rides, shared their food, donated their work, handed us money extracted from their meager pay... I can’t even freely let them in the Courtyard premises on ordinary days because we needed to close the gates all the time.
It was so easy for me to follow my heart when things like this happen.

SO HOW MANY, at least in this town, wealthy people housed me in a condominium room up Town Mtn Road, enticed me with an SUV, a house and an office building, dinners at Red Lobster and Applebee’s – but didn’t have a few dollars to pay the “homeless” to weed grasses on their real estate because the property is a “Bonfires for Peace” hook-up? So how many free pizzas and pastry should we beg from Indie advertisers and Bonfires supporters to feed people to judge a supposedly international filmfest because the man couldn’t afford to pay honorarium to the right judges in town? Is it because the project is an Indie collaboration?
I have been trapped in this kind of dubious drill in my life, I can’t afford to be used and abused again. Time to move on, for the nth time… I don’t mind getting up five hundred times in one month, each time we fall 250 times. My energy doesn’t come from my body, it comes from my spirit…
More than anything else, I can – anytime, anywhere – give up a thousand wealthy grizzly bears and emerald-soaked twin rivers but not my friends out there. Marta The Nicer and the acts and bands and volunteers who play and contribute work to this madness… these people, these friends are the very souls that make The Indie and Traveling Bonfires happen. I will say that again--over and over and over again—like the pesky, little parrot on our front door.

SO WHERE TO NOW? That brings us to the Update… (ahh, as usual, these ramblings…)
There is no significant change in regards the Traveling Bonfires’ spring to fall (or rest of 2006) projects and program, as well as the Loved by the Buffalo Publications magazine/books publishing initiatives. Just a few, minor modifications.
[Check the Update on the other blog site--http://bonfiresindieupdates.blogspot.com/ I know reading this email can be tiring. Get a beer or juice for few minutes, then go to the my other email.]

Gracias et emore!
--Pasckie
West Asheville
March 26, 2006.

PHILIPPINE TRAGEDY: "Help is on the way," the President said

2006-02-19T22:11:00.000-08:00

COLD WINTER MORNING. Waking up to the cold... GUINSAUGON, Philippines - Rescue workers searched a sea of mud in vain Saturday for survivors of a landslide that killed up to 1,800 people. Then, the dearly anointed President said, "Help is on the way... from the sea, land, air." If she could only summon the gods, with the grandest and effective official statements, she would. I am very sure. The PR writer earns a bonus trip to Disneyland next year...
HELP IS ON THE WAY.
Why can't these leaders go sink their holier-than-thou bodies deep down the mud and go tell the dead that, yes, "Help is on the way?" These same people whose grimy, greasy hands they shook during election carnivals in front of overzealous cameras. How many times did they wash and soak and rinse their hands with imported disinfectants after campaign soirees... because their heathen hands need to be cared for, because they are leaders, because they are kings and queens.
Kings and queens dont get buried under a landslide, kings and queens dont grieve. Their tears are made of liquid gold.

I WOKE UP with a barrage of emails from friends and acquaintances from all over, "Pasckie, are your relatives in the Philippines okay?"
My relatives are safe. They are some of the few privileged souls who are able to secure and protect themselves from the deadly mud of tragedy. I am one of the few privileged soul coming from a very poor country outside of the gilded gates of America who is able to secure myself with a heater, salmon grill dinner, 100+ channel cable TV, warm bed, and dial-911 for emergency.
"Devastating typhoons that batter the Philippines almost five months each year kill thousands of my people... it's just February, typhoons usually stop around September, if we're lucky." My heart is so used and abused by these yearly visitations of human misery that I feel that I kind of lost my individual self within a sea of human pain. The reason why ramen soup tastes better than steamed lobster in some instances? The reason why written words and "Bonfires for Peace" mean so much?
It's because I know a few more extra dollars and a few more tired bones and sleepless nights mean a little bit of comfort for those who need them. One day, the words and the bonfiires will cheer and warm the hearts of those who really really need them.

WHEN MY DYING MOTHER insisted that I don't go home because "I am only one life, go and seek the peace that you've long wanted, my son." The dying mother, the magnificently impoverished people in the countrysides, the tearful faces of children who had to wave their fathers and mothers goodbye as they work the deserts of Saudi Arabia and kitchen sinks of London and the freezing canneries of Alaska so they could secure food on the table, sturdy roofs above heads, and a future...
These are the very reasons why madmen have amazing energy and crazy people defy the odds. Should we immigrants come home when what we see when we set foot in our beloved home-country are rows and rows of corpses clothed in mud, rows and rows of GI-sheet shanties sustaining hold of the earth as storm winds shake them, children as young as five selling flowers and cigarette sticks on the streets for measly coins until aftermidnight...
What can we do when they bury a bullet at your back, when they shut your mouth away with a grenade, when they mute your pen with physical torture... We immigrants fly to America, the bastion of freedom and democracy, and say our piece so the miseries and pain from little countries like ours will be heard, so the gods channel aid in terms of sturdy houses, and health benefits, and more jobs that stops parents to work abroad.

SO THEY TELL ME, why do I have a lot of energy to work on multiple projects. Why do I hate the war. I have to say it again... the memories of those places, of those faces--make me cringe at just the mere thought of billions of money spent on bombing villages and killing people, billions of money spent on cutting down trees so they could rev up the economy of those who could build and buy cool houses...

WHAT IS HEAVEN, WHAT IS DEATH? Life is here... What is "heaven," what is nirvana, what is everlasting peace, when you can't do anything anymore to help those who breathe and feel pain and joy, when you can't do anything anymore for humanity? How many years do we still have to consume and waste away, how many dead people inspire and urge us to hit the road and make things happen when the truth is--we can't sacrifice the comfort of the homefront, the convenience of this life?
This tragedy, this pain, this grief... These are the very noise that wakes me up at night, and supplies my energy to carry on. The need to do something, the need to do something, so one day, we may be able to extend one hand, one moment, just one moment to ease the pain of those who didnt have what we have...
"Help is on the way?" What help? Is she going to resurrect the lives of the dead with a box of milk from a Forbes Top 1000 company? Sacks of rice from Washington and the European Union? Plaster band aids to weeping hearts of those grieving relatives?

WHO WANTS to talk about "I going through a lot of emotional shit lately?" Failing heaters or showers without hot water, or vehicles that conk out, or rental back-accounts, or laptops that suck, or "I can't do that gig because..." or "pass that joint, we deserve to chill a bit."
I want to feel that fistful of mud that buried these beautiful people. Just that. That alone makes me want to live longer and longer and longer. One day The Blue Sky God/dess will help me stop that one landslide.
Now I gotta start working on The Indie's March issue... and deliver more Wanders. The weatherdude says temp is 20s. Bundle up, be careful of the ice on the streets, stock up on toilet papers.What the hell...

--Pasckie

Prayers to the Poor & Dear Departed

2006-02-07T14:08:00.000-08:00

JOIN ME and thousands in few minutes of prayer and mourning to the dead of adeadly stampede in Manila. There's no word articulate and profound enough to describe the sorrow and the agony--especially that I know and I feel why did these poor people had to be there, lined up before a TV game show, hoping for some cash and kind. They took vigil in their roughshod collectively-rented jeepneys all night, some walked grimy streets, dined on hot noodles--all hoping to get in the stadium first, closer to the prize, closer to little prizes that are basically spare change in America.

It's poverty, untimigated poverty. When poor people have no visible hope other than a lotto winning, a chance at a TV game show, a day's meager dream--that's all they got. They had to hope, they had to take a chance --in turn, they lost their lives.

This misery back home, the impoverishment, the huge gap between the rich and the poor, in poor countries that I saw and witnessed as I traversed the comfortable streets of America is the bleeding humanity that makes me survive my remaining life on earth. They hurt so they make me live longer because they make me want to heal.

Somewhere people suffer, somewhere people dont care whether they are fed with rotten fish or bad spam meat, dogs or crickets, canned goods discarded by the western world--as long as they're fed. Somewhere where a Bill Gates sweatshop is good job enough to secure a roof over the heads of a family of four, somewhere where entry to corporate infrastructures in the mold of Wal-Mart is like entry to "heaven," somewhere where survival is the day in the life...

That is the world that I know, and the spirit that makes me wake up... always awake.

I say my prayers... blessed are the poor.

--Pasckie

A NEW YEAR JOURNAL: Keep the Faith, Rock the Blues, Spin the Funk

2006-01-03T00:48:00.000-08:00

TAKING THE CUE from Heather Duncan’s email from Michigan.

>>>>NEW YEAR and bright year wishes to you. I'm in Michigan amongst the gloom outside, but there are lots of bright indoor lights. There's a community space in Lansing that is worth visiting if any visits to Michigan ever happen. Magdalena's Tea House hosts open jams on Mondays, open mics tomorrow, and there's an open poetry to visit tonight. Many acts come through here. One of them, Hope for a Golden Summer, also played at Earth Haven in Black Mountain this fall on their tour. Maybe Magdalena's can make it to Asheville one day to rival the Crib/Courtyard, or instead just to join a big conglomeration of good folks and events.
Thoughtful tidings, Heather<<<<

HAPPY NEW YEAR to you, too, Heather--and all of you out there. I know Michigan is all snow--but family/friends' warmth makes it all very comfortable down there or wherever you are. Have you moved back to Michigan, or just on a family Holiday break?

xxx

I made several phone calls to my family and relatives in Manila few days ago. I could hear eager dogs barking, Christmas carols blaring nonstop (esp. Jackson 5's "Give Love On Christmas Day"), rowdy little kids frolicking around the phone, firecrackers blasting, and tricycles and jeepneys roaring by. The sound of gift wrappers being unfurled… the sweet melody of child-like surprise and gratitude. Lots of laughters!
Laughters, laughters for hours and hours—in the midst of real misery (mostly, poverty-related funk)—are the beautiful gifts of life that I severely miss in America. I remember those happy days… in between band or theater rehearsals—each has a standup piece to break in, every weekend gathering by a neigborhood “pondahan” (small eatery)—each has a dish to share, every Saturday morning of backyard pickup basketball game—each has a new move to brag, Sundays following Church mass—each has a new, hopeful week to look up to and thank God, family, and friends for. More than anything else, we spontaneously gather, tell stories of the week that was, we goof around a lot. Not many muddle or darken the fun via gloom/doom stories or problems and miseries that wouldn’t let go. We drop coins and small bills on the middle of the soiree/joust/funhouse table for the soul that needs temporary monetary aid, we read poetry and sing songs for the spirit that needs jubilation and inspiration. And then we walk that sad, blue friend to his/her house and help guarantee that individual a nice, warm sleep… It was so easy to ease someone's troubled mind and broken heart. I miss those days...
I miss those Christmasses, I miss those New Years, I miss those basketball games, I miss those poetry readings, I miss those jeepney rides, I miss those bonfires. In a country and culture that is battered by typhoons and hurricanes four to five months a year, street/political unrest and unmitigated poverty put its humanity at the lowest of the global socioeconomic barometer – but there are laughters that reverberate from dusk till dawn, happiness that overpowers the gloom any time of the day. There is joy that could be had with just a song sung under a blue moon, there is pain that is healed by just two shoulders nudging.
I HAVE four brothers and four sisters. BIG family. I was always the family clown, believe it or not—that my Mom used to remind me that my younger siblings will find it hard to take me seriously if I always goof around/with them. Indeed, most of my family didn’t have a real first-hand view of the “serious” side of my madnesses, unless I wasn’t home—which means, they simply either read news or heard about my exploits and adventures somewhere… At first, my family didn’t even know that I was in the South of the Philippines for sometime, covering segments of the Muslim’s fight/war for autonomy from the central government, they didn’t even know that I lived in a remote village in India for almost a year, or my seemingly random trips to Wales, Ireland, Belgium, Brazil etc.
These things, “crazy” things about my life, kinda fascinate me these days, makes me reflect deeper—what have I lost and gained, after all these years? What should I try to regain or lose this time? All I know is I don’t think I will stop doing exactly what I first did when I was eight years old, in a mining town in a mountain village, upon seeing tribal kids ran around puddles of mud under an incessant rain, their unaffected laughters booming, drowning the downpour’s roar…
It was very beautiful. So I started gathering my friends to a bonfire, we brainstormed community or school projects (that were often rife with mystery and intrigue), read poems, told stories (never mind if they’re mostly “rehashed,” fiction or half-fiction), sang songs to each and everyone, played basketball, soccer or “patintero” (tag) on soft, dusty or muddy ground in between breaks… went around the neighborhood and asked for donations so we could produce our little madnesses.

xxx

[BACK TO Heather’s email]... By the way, Claire Campbell and her band Hope for Agoldensummer almost played for The Traveling Bonfires for our monthly Malaprops gig on Jan 12 but we realized their set-up wasnt conducive to Malaprops' "no-amplification" rule so we may have to book them come spring or summer in other venues (including The Courtyard) instead. This early, a number of female singer-songwriters have already gotten in touch with me for 2006 tour/visits to Asheville -- including Adrienne Nightingale and Malcolm Rollick (she's a she) of Brooklyn NY (May), Jessica Yoakum of Boston (July), and Kathy Moser of south NJ (Sept). Recent Bonfires visitor Deborah Crooks (from Frisco) also plans to return this summer or fall. And, we may also host a Haiti-based performing organization called “N A Sonje” this spring (April).

While the concept of the Courtyard/Bonfires in Asheville and Magdalena's Tea House in Michigan appear kinda "revolutionary" and cutting-edge, this isnt actually a new brainstorm--it's all over us since time immemorial, in downtown Manhattan, in Antwerp, in Dublin, in Manila, in Bali, in New Mexico.

For instance, in the last few years before I left Manila, we had a popular Manila suburb “artists/writers perch” called, "Kasalo" (translated loosely, "part of the dinner, gathering, relations, community")--where we had singer-songwriter shows, short plays, poetry readings, filmshows, art/photo exhibits, writers workshops, artists/musicians/actors/mediapeople discussions and meetings, as well as birthday parties, anniversary celebrations, book launch, lots of food (mostly exotic dishes that the artists/poets cooked themselves). But there were some break-ups along the way, too--primarily since the Philippines was embroiled (as ever) in virulent sociopolitical/ideological debate during those days. I sort of chronicled that "frustration" in my song, "Looking for my Comrades" and a short fiction entitled, “Viaje” (co-written in Spanish, with Ciara Ruiz Cruz), few months before I decided to leave Manila.

When I first arrived in Asheville--or the first few months that I spent wallowing in downtown's diverse humanity—I “discovered” two places/venues that, for me at that time, exuded promise of "community fervour" and collective strength. These were ACRC (asheville community resource center) and a loft/pad at Carolina Lane called The Core Pad, where the demised Mosaic Vortex of Breanna Leslie+friends once held fort. Of course, we all know that both venues have considerably slowed down or closed altogether since the early months of the anti-war/anti-Wal-Mart activism... [I heard that ACRC was again "kicked out" of its temporary loft at C Lane and they're now wombed somewhere in Hilliard Street.]

IT IS HARD to parallel societal/community goings-on in Manila with Asheville, or even with Michigan with New York City. But I feel that ACRC didnt materialize as a "real or true" (to my mind) community center because of the political/ideological exclusivity (read, gruffly exclusivist than politically populist) that it seems to conjure to a very diverse downtown/Asheville community. People saw the dark workings of anarchist defiance behind the leather jackets and multi-piercings and ear-shattering machinegun guitars than the universal outrage against societal discrepancies that screams out of the political messages. I spent almost 90% of my current life being a staunch activist back home--a small contribution to change is foremost and imperative to my being--but this otherwise sublime/noble endeavor comes with reasonable/just responsibilities other than violent police engagements, senseless street clashes or arguments, and forced evictions. Just like anybody else on perpetual compromise with society, I am always faced with these dark stimuli--it's hard not to get provoked but we should always try to cool out.

WHILE I do agree, hands down, with the very principles/wisdom of the activist/political views that ACRC espouses, I was also offended by the very rough, street-punk persona of some of its followers. (By the way, I did "teach" a few Asheville Free School classes and helped out with the radio people's newsletter/zine around 2001/02). I personally witnessed some of these "punk kids" tore apart Bonfires posters just because they looked better to the eyes (hence "commercial?") than the usual DIY-hand-scrawled flyers that they give out? Otherwise, the confused dude couldn’t really explain to me why he tore the poster down and posted his own photocopied flyers over it, other than, “I don’t like your posters! They're so corporate!”

(My companion at that time had to calm me down… otherwise I could’ve ended up at the precinct with a lawyer—because I was this close to smashing my Walkman on the dude’s filthy face. OK, this is the US, this is not the sidestreets of Manila or Rio de Janeiro—and my Mom or family lawyers wouldn’t be here anymore to bail me out of my oft’times uncontrollable rage. We guard and protect our “peace,” but most of the time, confused souls abuse or make fun of them—so sometimes we have to defend our “heavenly peace” with a demon’s wrath. But we are trying, I am trying—to keep the “peace” in me warmer and closer, than the “war” in me colder and angrier.)

The most recent "shove The Indie away and place ours" tactlessness of some of AGR's distribution kids exemplify that "rough textured indifference" to community unity. It's like, "You aint my kind of activist, dude, so fuck off!"

The Core Pad had a different experience though (with ACRC or Vincent’s Ear)... It's a simple case of "kids abusing parental okay." Sometimes we abuse the privileges that a free society offers us. In most countries outside of America, people dont have privileges that we have--they are either shot down right there or simply snuffed out. Nobody sues nobody, you just get even. At Carolina Lane, during those days, kids spilled over the streets at 1am, sniffing weed or drunk and noisy. I heard ACRC (then at Lex Av) freely welcomed just about any "homeless" youth who simply say, "I'm activist..." I think, community kindness/genorosity has limits--we still have societal laws and rules to follow or abide with, otherwise we just join Che Guevara's soul in the Sierras or Comandante Marcos in the Chiapas. I admire a fiery, true-blue activist who cant seem to live with society and government who'll just pack up and head up the hills as a no-nonsense revolutionary. But we're here, we're still paying rent, IRS taxes that go to war budget, and driving to a corner deli to score "corporate" toilet papers.How many of us made a helluva issue over the arbitrary, fascistic closure (in the name of gentrification) of these avowed establishments that we call “community centers/activist fronts” – but then, we knew exactly why we got kicked out. From minors/underage drinking at The Ear and The Core Pad to “homeless” youths pissing and throwing up all over, afront private residences/business shops at Lex Av and Carolina Lane. I mean, even Comrade Che or Sandino or Ho Chi Minh wont tolerate these within their ranks.

BUT despite all these, I dont want to say, "Hey, it's not gonna work." If it's not going to work in Asheville, it's not going to work in any place in the US—that’s what I think. People from other countries leave their families because of economic reality, gut issues – monthly wages aren’t enough to feed mouths, period. In the US, whether you live in Asheville NC or Camden NJ or Piedmont, South Dakota—hour’s salary doesn’t change much, apartment rentals are almost on fixed standard, gasoline prices are almost the same, food are basically it. But these variables aren’t the same in countries like Kazakhstan, Bangladesh or Mexico. It’s almost worlds/universes apart.Why cant “it” work in America? If it doesn’t work in the world’s most “democratic, free” nation, where will “it” work then? "Community" and people-power worked against a dictatorial regime like the Philippines in the 1980s--we were able to kick a genocidal government away--why cant it work in America where almost every problem that I see offer alternatives at solving them?

There is this thing we call "tactical alliance" in activist circles that's geared at motivating/inspiring cause-oriented, human rights, radical/activist groups to coalesce as a unified force in re collective protest vs a common agenda/cause. Gentrification, Wal-Mart issue, "commercialization of public parks," homeless problem, anti-war advocacy, environmental crusade, women concerns etc etc etc are espoused by many organizations in Asheville -- but there is no unified front at all. At the outbreak of the Iraq War, for instance--there were thousands of people at Pritchard Park—it seemed that WNC came out as one.Where are they now?

How many activities do nonprofit/cause-oriented groupings in WNC do on a monthly or yearly basis? There are "bigger" organizations here with thousands of money in the bank or boast of almost 5,000 membership--but where are the projects and programs? They have weekly, forthnightly, monthly meetings... but where are the members, where are the projects? Research, internet forwarded rants, paperwork, occasional activities that required five committees to organize. Are these the output/s that make up an organizational endeavor?

THE TRAVELING BONFIRES never had a weekly meeting at all. I tried to call one or two, about three or four years ago—that was it. My meetings happen right there during an event. There are ONLY two full-timers working here with lots of physical/material limitations (just like anybody else in America) -- but we got game. We never ran out of things to do.

Thing is, we always complain and mope that "there's a lot of things that's going on in my life right now," and then justify/rationalize our indifference, fears, indecisions, flakiness, doubts/suspicious minds to community/artistic endeavors (that dont usually pay) with the "hardships of life and living." I dont think there's one soul in America who doesnt have a complaint about a material/financial conjecture... same with me. I have lots of them, believe it or not, many of them, actually. Like anybody else, I complain a lot, I grunt a lot, I whine a lot in front of Marta The Nicer Osbourne and The Indie pages and online spots--but I dont stop doing things and posing alternatives and new strategies. I whine 12 hours, I work 24 hours.

So now that we have venues to whine and complain with--albeit on a creative, fun, cool, artistic way--why dont we use them? I still grieve the loss of my Mother few months ago, we are still struggling to pay back office rents and phone bills (man, this torment wont stop), we still go to the Mission and food stamp for food... but I never stop trying and giving birth to new projects and programs. Whether I see two people or twenty in a Bonfires show, I shrugged it off and tell myself, "I'll do it again next time, hopefully, better."

Two people at a Bonfires club gig is immediately erased by two hundred people in a parallel Bonfires event on the road or at Pritchard Park, or the many projects that we do. That is why I always whine that some people who profess to be part of this madness spread not-so-good news about the organization than help us promote and publicize the programs. There was even one writer with The Indie before who whined that he’s not too motivated to write anymore because no one seems to read him, anyway. If that’s the attitude that we’re going to carry as we head to chase a dream, then we better go back to the kitchen sink and do the dishes. We write, we perform, we create art--because we love it and it makes us breathe better and enjoy life -- that's all I know. We spend eight hours to work for the money to feed ourselves and our family, what do we do with the rest of our beautiful days?

WHILE we produce community projects, we should also market and advertise/be proud of them. I pissed a lot of people who joined the madness for so many reasons -- but The Indie and The Traveling Bonfires arent just Pasckie. I'm still generally a bad boy, very rude and arrogant, but no one, I'm sure, could contest the beautiful wisdom of these "rock journeys and sublime madnesses."

Anyways...

We only have one life to live, obviously. I treat my life as a gift, something greater than anything that I could touch or feel or physicalize. I'd like to make good use of what I have. You see, mostly those things that I own aren’t calculated in a bank or priced by hours spent/dollars paid. I still dont know why I get around with just my crazy self with few quarters on my deep jeans pocket. I guess, The Blue Sky God/dess likes me... so the spirit provides.

Oh yes, I miss the country where I was born, the culture that helped mold my biases and spirits, the family and friends that secured rooms in my heart. I still cry in the middle of winter, missing the good old days, good old moments... But countries are all the same, peoples are all the same, homes are all the same to me--I belong to them, wherever whatever. I just open my heart wide and let my spirits fix the dinner and my soul read the poetry. It’s fun.

Let’s enjoy the blessings this 2006, a new year. We have The Courtyard, we have Wander, we have “Bonfire for the Indies” TV show, we have more “Bonfires for Peace at Pritchard Park,” we have more Vagrant Wind tours, we have more Indies. We have more reasons, MORE LIFE TO LIVE.

HAPPY NEW YEAR TO YOU AND ALL!

--Pasckie
3:37pm. 2 Jan 2006
Asheville NC

The Spirit of Christmas, The Warmth of the Vagrant Wind

2005-12-26T10:51:00.000-08:00

TO YOU AND THE SPIRIT OF THE WIND...

LOVE the one you’re with – whether that beautiful soul is beside you right at this moment, or somewhere far and beyond the physical confines of time and space. Love the one you’re with – whether that sweet gift of life is right there right now, clearly felt by the human touch—or somewhere far and beyond where only the warm embrace of memory and remembrance could reach.

Christmas is like a dry land in the middle of a sea voyage after a tempest. Christmas is like a bonfire in the midst of the dark and the cold. Christmas is like an icy lemonade shared by two by a railway track while a journey takes a breather. Christmas is the magic of intimacy when humanity suddenly gets lost in a fray of uniformity and daily-grind. Christmas is a hot, steamy plate of food served inside a tent while the storm batters outside. Christmas is family when homes get drowned by motor robots on the highway, when houses are submerged by survival flood, when love becomes a fleeting condiment to circumstantial loneliness.

Christmas is when we allow ourselves to float, waft, saunter and flow like a warm distraction that wouldn’t give in and surrender to the rules of reason and logic, like rain that has to fall and kiss and nourish the earth – without condition, without inhibition. Christmas is when we hug and kiss because we want to nourish spiritual energies within, and not because we want to maintain physical rituals from without.

So love the one you’re with – whether that rainbow of breathing blessing is right there with you at this moment, sharing a quezo-de-bola over chicken broth or deviled eggs over merlot as you exchange gifts – like those gifts become the glorious accumulation of many a-hard day’s night in the past eleven months… whether the one you’re with is somewhere in a wintry desert of isolation and distance. Does it matter? Let us make humanity enjoy the grace of life and living.

Feel the magic of a heart that connects and binds, savor the warmth that reassures and comforts. Dance with the stars all day and tonight… with the one you love.

HAPPY CHRISTMAS TO ONE AND ALL!

--Pasckie Pascua
7:07pm. Dec 24, 2005
Asheville, North Carolina

Patty K comes to town, Lestat Santa, Give Love on Christmas Day

2005-12-11T13:44:00.000-08:00

I IMAGINE—it’s Christmas, and it’s many years ago… When I was two years old, I discovered that Santa wasn’t “real” because he was actually my Dad around 11pm and then she was my Mom the rest of the night, or a few minutes before and after the gift/giving-receiving around “Noche Buena!” So, right there and then, I knew Santa’s white beard and beer-belly weren’t real – and that she/he was a spiritual symbol, not a physical reality. But then, I mean, nevertheless, right at that very instance, the Santa Clause/Phenomenon was, and still is, very TRUE in my heart. He/she exists within me, anytime anywhere, in any given circumstance—as long as I “allow” it to exist in my own reality. Hence, the following Christmas and the ones that followed, I kept on “reinventing” Santa Claus! Siouxie Santa with a new wavish green-and-blue beard, Kwai Chiang Santa with a Mandarin accent, Macabre Santa with an Alice Cooper costume, Crazy Horse Santa with a Lakota native Indian headgear, Cool Santa with Blues Brothers shades…
You see, I really want to be Lestat Santa—with vampire cape and all—this Christmas but I’m just so poor that I couldn’t do it anymore. Well, I will be going to my friend Jenny Greer’s Poor Man’s Christmas Party this Saturday, Dec 17, to hang out with what she calls as Dirty Santa, so I don’t know… I’m bringing a $5 gift, by the way, that’s actually 40 packets of ramen noodles.
But, oh yes, I miss those Santa days—when I’d gather the family together, kids all over, and I call out names and give out gifts…Jeez, I wish Warren Buffett, Bill Gates, Michael Dell, LeBron James or Julia Roberts share me some of their millions, or maybe just a few thousands, and then we’d organize a “Bonfires for Peace” right in the middle of the snow and cold, and just give out the millions/thousands in the form of gifts to children and families… Dreams, y’know.
Right now though, I just need another Santa incarnate to hand me a gift or two. My choice gifts for Christmas—the new Mark Twain biography, any one of the two coffeetable cookbooks at Malaprop’s, the DVD copy of Steven Spielberg’s “Into The West” TV movie, or if Santa is a bit loaded, how about a new laptop or a handheld camera? (So you get the hint…) [Oh, by the way, The Blue Sky God/dess by way of gallery owner Carlos Steward loaned us a van, indefinitely… so that’s one Christmas gift taken cared of.] Don’t forget though – more than anything else, Christmas and New Year’s Eve is family. They’re the greatest gift. Be with them, stay with them, be warm with them. So don’t mind whether Dad assumed a silly Santa gear with whatever he could salvage from Goodwill or the Christian rummage store at Westgate Mall, or whether or not you see Mommy kissing Santa Claus under mistletoe on the aftermidnight… don’t be lonely this Christmas, y’all! My favorite Christmas songs—believe it or not—are Michael Jackson’s “Give Love on Christmas Day” and “Happy Christmas, The War is Over” by the Plastic Ono Band.[Aside—a young girl, 12 year old Margarita Minerva Alcazin, from… check this out, San Juan, Puerto Rico, read my most current lifeasagreyhound blog entry (“JC was a cool dude”), and promised to send me $5 this January as a “good luck charm for 2006.” Sweet!]

MEANWHILE, here’s my “journal” of the previous Bonfires week/s…

Dec 1. Malaprop’s, 6:30pm-8:30pm. Courtyard Gallery, 8pm-11pm.
Oh yeah, Bostonian Patty Keough—such an expostulating conglomeration of hyper-energetic molecules—blew in to town last week as one of the special performing guests to The Bonfires/Third World Asheville weekend! She flew from Boston, Massachusetts to Orlando, Florida then drove ten hours to Asheville, North Carolina! Definitely, she was one sweet avalanche of overflowing, exploding chakras!
Nathan Oliver’s downtown streets-bred, gruffly-truthful, radically humane acoustic folk-rock filled the first hour at Malaprop’s. He had a decently-attentive little crowd… it seemed like they knew his songs, a kind of intimate familiarity that makes you wanna drop a dollar or two at his “love bucket” and lotus-squat right on the pavement. His is the grimy, soulful wisdom of the glorious streets.
Patty K was visibly tired, her guitar missed a chord, she freefallingly let a lyric or two slipped by, but she still did her 1hr bit by way of very-personal, cerebral, journal-like original compositions. She hosts open mics back in her neck of the “concrete” woods in Massachusetts, and that showed as she lovingly worked the few apparently-chillin’ (or warmin’) souls in the café like she already met them two nights ago. [Patty sweetly drowned herself in her performance that she for forgot all other intangibles beyond the barenaked mic. Yup, she forgot her DIY CD demos at Malaprop’s, discovering it only after almost 24 hours later.]
[ASIDE: Our first-ever show at Malaprop’s happened on Oct 17 2002. It was emceed by Denise Ostler, and included, among others, poets Nan Kavanaugh, Victor D’Baptista, and special guest was a poet-activist from the Western African nation of Togo… Since then, we’ve been holding shows at this venue, which I fondly call as my “neighborhood couch,” almost on a monthly basis.
I stepped out of the door—three songs down Patty’s show—to go to Courtyard Gallery. We were kicking off (with Mr Steward’s Courtyard Gallery&Agency and Jarrett Leone’s Pure Energy—Experimental Harmonic Overtone & Percussion Music) the Thursday open mics there.
For a first event, the open mic went good—there were about 11 or 12 nice souls in there, forget about the below 20s temp or the slight confusion which was the right entrance (Walnut or Carolina Lane?) Beautiful holdouts (refugees?) of the Beanstreets/Indigenous open mics—eg Sean, Brian, etc performed, so with Jarrett, of course. Their little, mystifying brass gongs/xyplophone/brass trinkets and improv didgeredoos (right spelling?), throat-singing never fail to perplex and fascinate me. Patty sang few songs, I read poems from the “Aloud” book of New York’s Nuyorican Poetry Café and two of my “old” poems. Carlos showed two short films from Twin River Filmfest’s winners archive before we started the open mic proper…

Dec 2. Cancelled, French Broad Coop’s The Movement & Learning Center.
I moved this event to a still-unknown/undecided date. Based on the last (Nov 17) engagement there (which was meant to welcome Bonfires visitors), visiting performers seemed wearied by travel and the December frost makes comfortable Asheville bodies opt to dwell in their warm cocoons… So I thought that maybe I was pushing it too hard. So, uhh-let’s take it easy. So I just requested/asked Patty K (who crashed in The Indie Crib the previous night) to rest up, check out Asheville this day, instead of having to pressure herself with another “intimate” show—just prepare for the Big Event at the Grey Eagle the following day.
Patty bought me and Marta The Nicer Osbourne’s breakfast at Waffle House (Tunnel Rd)—my choice!—in the morning. And, oh yeah, the Waffle House “gig” was carried out/punctuated by Patty’s long, over-extended conversation/”how-are-you”/chat with the restaurant manager (who, herself, has many sweet, exciting stories from the road)…
We were supposed to meet up at Mellow Mushroom that evening for a Bonfires-hosted dinner but oh-dear-Patty got stuck with another rollickingly-high-and-joyous conversation with some beautiful souls in some Asheville patch somewhere that the evening so time simply slipped away. We shared the dinner with just Kapila Ushana… and talked about more Indie stuff over wine, coca cola (the largest in the universe, found in Mellow Mushroom!), and pizza.

Dec 3. The Grey Eagle. 6pm to past midnight.
Ash Devine gave us a lift, ran some errands (picked up some food at Wild Wings, photocopied timeslots at the Pack Library). Things were smoother, less stressful compared with the first event (Nov 18). More food for the performers, more people in the audience (and more attentive and appreciative, too). Performers sold some of their CDs as well, there was a group photograph (by Carlos and Agent Mulder), more money at the door (oh yeah, the $5 for such an awesome lineup was a REAL treat). Some patrons were even saying, “Only $5?”
As I previously posted… Thanks to Carrie Gerstmann for a emceeing the night, tying the program together like lovely beads of diverse passion, emotion, and grace. Thanks to Glenis Redmond for the heavenly words that embraced the cold and grime of the earth--the words that silenced the evening but made us go home with an awakened spirit. Thanks to Laura Blackley for the graceful grit, the beautiful energy, and the sylvan music that spoke of a fireplace intimacy with a heart that rocked our blues away... Thanks to Patty Keough for the lively muse with chakras that celebrate life. Thanks to Martha's Trouble--Ron and Jen Slocumb--for the seductive synergy that makes us all want to cuddle our pillows that aftermidnight. Thanks to Vanessa Boyd for still peacefully, triumphantly dancing with the lovely devil on a lovely Saturday night (thanks also to her hand-drummer Dale Thompson). Thanks to Kimberly Summer for the blue skies that helped warm the chill of the December frost. Thanks to Ash Devine for the infectious beauty of her yet-to-blossom moondance sonata...
Thanks to Marta Osborne, my ever-loyal, ever-patient working-soul buddy... Thanks to the Grey Eagle's Brian and Jeff for sheltering our rock journey and sublime madness for two nights... Thanks to Carlos Steward and his wife for helping us stoke the fire of zeal and anticipation for future Bonfires... Thanks to the sound lady, even her quiet meant a cool poem... Thanks to Burgermeister, West End Bakery, Wild Wings, Greenlife Grocery, and Lenny Dimaio of Noi's Thai Kitchen for the overflowing blessings of food and drinks. Thanks to Amore, Malaprop's, New French Bar and Screen Door for the gifts...
More than anything else, THANKS to The Blue Sky God/dess for always watching... over us. For always providing, for always inspiring... By the way, we plan to hold another all-women’s show at a still undisclosed venue (maybe Grey Eagle again) for February or March. We hope to have the Divine MAGgees, maybe Molly Kummerle, Brianna Lane, and (hey!) Katie Kasben in the next…

Dec 8 & 9. Second Thursday Open Mic. First Friday Filmshows. Courtyard Gallery.
Jarret L was under the weather, cold was still humming out the door, but we still unexpectedly maintained/sustained the 11-12 people attendance. Honestly, it’s unexpected… there was a time during a Malaprop’s-hosted open mic (Thurs, 6pm) when there’s only 3 or 4 people in there. When we were doing Bearly Edible open mics, there was a time when I had to cancel a show because there’s almost no people there. At Courtyard, it’s an entirely different thing. We still managed to pull in a dozen people in there despite the venue being kinda “hidden,” and the snotty winter-chill, and not much publicity (I reckon)… Oh yes, a positive/hopeful/faithful vibe always help – a Buddhist dictum of “when you imagine a good thing happening, it’s happening.” We got people focused on the words spoken, music played – that’s what we need and prefer, right? We have free or for-donations drinks, we got awesome sound/PA (with a film projector, if you want it), cool and colorful multicultural paintings on the walls for the apt ambiance, quiet and warm and cozy… (we also had free pizza from Mr Carlos). When you build, they will come.
We exhibited Akira Kurosawa’s 1948(?) classic, “Rashomon,” the following evening. Obviously, people are still getting used to the venue/schedule—but what’s very inspiring and motivating is the fact that Mtn Xpress’ resident film critic Ken Hanke vowed to review or “preview” movies that are schedule to be shown that week, every issue of the magazine. An older man, very excited and exhilarated, strode in before we started the film rolling and voiced joy and interest over the initiative… a nice woman (who’s a visible presence in many a-Bonfires show) watched “Rashomon” with us.
A lingering objective of these Friday filmshows is to show young and old viewers alike the cinematic values of old classics and films from other cultures/countries… Why show films just for the shallow heck of earning dough or killing time? AshevillePizza&Brewing and Asheville’s Carmikes and multiplexes do that better. For example, “Rashomon” is no-frills, almost “off-off Broadway-ish” like production subtlety. But the moral/spiritual/human kick was all over. A short, non-uptight discussion-on-the-round follows after the showing.

So see you on Dec 16 – it’s going to be Leon Ichaso’s “Pinero” – Benjamin Bratt’s powerful essay of the life and times of Nuyorican poet Miguel Pinero. Mr Pinero’s work is considered as a pre-cursor to hip hop and rap… the sociocultural bite and rough-textured but deeply, gnawingly truthful metaphorical edge of his work is definitely beyond the flimsy rage and smartass trash talk of Eminem and P. Diddy. Tupac Shakur is a lot closer to the Pinero line.
Check it out.

WARM JOURNAL: The Wind Whispers Winter, or revisiting the spirit of the bonfire

2005-11-28T07:25:00.000-08:00

JUDY COLLINS is singing Joni Mitchell’s “Both Sides Now” like a Muse on White Satin, evoking sylvan pleasure by a feathery couch in a forest womb, from inside my PC CD player but I am hearing John Lennon’s words at this moment -- “I see the wind, oh I see the trees, everything is clear in our world.”
Today’s temp--high of 59 low of 56. Not bad, at all. When you see the wind, you only feel warmth in the cold.
In the past few days, I shunned Thanksgiving Day dinners and struggled to seize and capture the right word, the apt vibe… to start, continue, or finish couple of poetry, articles, and reviews. I have tried in vain to craft a poem in memory of my Mother—in time for the Malaprop’s reading last week. I spent two days in my friend Callie’s house in West Asheville—cooking, experimenting on spices, improvising mixes. (Cooking eases my spiritual funk, like “Water for Chocolate,” makes me forget/heal the wounds of the past and only look ahead with joy). In silence, for the nth time, I have tried to fill the vacuums with the dollar-bill justification, grope for comfort that wasn’t there because it never really left me? And then, the memory of Robert Plant/LedZep at Madison Square Garden rocked me, “Does anybody remember laughter?” And then, the ghost of Nuyorican “philosopher of the criminal mind” Miguel Pinero’s poetry woke me up.
“There’s no other place for me to be
there’s no other place that I can see
there’s no other town around that
brings you up or keeps you down
no food little heat sweeps by
fancy cars & pimps’ bars & juke saloons
& greasy spoons make my spirits fly
with my ashes scattered through the
Lower East Side…
I am happy that I am able to regain my bearings again, and finished three articles/reviews in two nights – brief reading of Emoke B’Racz, musings/aka review of Vanessa Boyd’s “Unkept Woman” CD, and my Like a Rolling Stone rumination/rant (all about Jesus Christ bussing Cracker Barrel tables, homey Jude The E filing boxes at Office Depot while The Disciples doing nonpaying gigs in a Spruce Pine honky tonk bar, as Joey Ramone starved on Gray Papaya hotdogs aboard the 7 Train).
The Dec issue of The Indie is almost done (I added four more pages for this edition). I expect to finish my review of Laura Blackley’s two CDs, “When A Woman…” and “Liquid Courage” today, and then submit the final proofs to Iwanna (for printing) tomorrow, Tues, Nov 29. We are right on schedule.

THOSE who have submitted stories/articles, previously unsolicited, your contributions will have to wait till the next (Jan) issue. That is if that is fine with you. I realized that I’ve been very laxed with my deadline bar of late, that it sort of probably made people think/believe that I don’t keep an organized editorial schedule. I do. Still, The Indie couldn’t pay/remunerate writers so those who may have submitted articles/stories/literary pieces that may find easier access and/or financial equivalent in other outlets/venues, please seek that option – that is, if you feel your work becomes passé/outdated by Jan.
Also, I do appreciate those who give me warnings, heads-up, suggestions/advice before they work on specific articles/stories (or even donate time/effort at a Bonfires event/project). That’s the way things should be. It makes my editorial/page-layout planning and Bonfires production/project supervision less difficult and more manageable. Although the world doesn’t look at The Indie and The Traveling Bonfires as day-job situations that pay the bills, I do treat these madnesses as my heart-and-soul – a lot more satisfying, enlightening, meaningful, life-sustaining than a “bread-and-butter” work. Please, let’s communicate our helping hands and kind sharing hearts before we extend them—so we may be able to organize a world that beats under a system but inspired by romanticism. Let’s communicate.
But then, if people treat The Indie/The Bonfires as merely their temporary cushion as they take a break from household/family pressures, relationship hassles, and office fray—it’s hard to connect sincere, good-hearted gestures in such a way that they’d produce synergetic benefits. I don’t think it’s always hard to say “yes” or “no” – or concrete pronouncement of timetables (ie when I’d get the “yes” or “no”). I know we cant possibly equal hours spent with dollars paid, but at least, as Wal-Mart says, let us know “How We May Help Each Other.” I still don’t like unannounced/unwarned/unexpected blessings and curses…

MEANTIME, there are new, inspiring developments in the Dec issue. Among others, we are welcoming back Bunk Nesbit’s “Universal Language” music column and, opening our door (via monthly columns) to NOW (Nat’l Organization of Women)-Asheville’s Debbie Metcalf and Teresa Christenbury and Coven Oldenwilde’s Dixie Deerman (Lady Passion). Mike Hopping, aside from his Dec banner story scoop (nuke waste dumping in WNC), has also tried food writing by way of a lunch visit at Noi’s Thai Kitchen down Merrimon. On the lighter side, Jason and Camella Klein share us matrimonial bliss via a real syrupy but poignant “dialogue,” Marta The Nicer Osbourne had a morning chat with Emoke B’Racz (for a Q&A). On the heavier side, Gaither Stewart reports/synthesizes France Burning from his window in Paris (“letter from paris”).
I also received email and snail-mail contributions. One came from one Dave Rowe who wrote an interesting short piece about Ratdog/Bob Weir’s recent gig in Asheville. Next issue, housewife and mother-of-two Carrie Brannon starts an advice column, and hopefully, Dale Allen Hoffman doing a series of “spiritual pieces” (a cool counter-spirit to Lady Passion’s?) Local spoken word luminary Glenis Redmond is also waiting to be interviewed.
A new Indie/Bonfires soul came on board, Laurie Smith, who spent few years in the south of the Philippines. It feels good to hear someone (not a Pinay) ask me, “Kumusta ka?” and “Ano’ng tunay na pangalan mo?”

NOW, I’d like to talk/report about the first half of the Third World Asheville launch event/s at the Grey Eagle and the “little” shows, before or after.
First of all, thanks to Heather Duncan and Kapila Ushana for picking up and dropping off our visitor (from Frisco) Deborah Crooks to the airport in Arden. (Kapila offered help just as when I was about to do a raindance plea for rescue to The Blue Sky God/dess… so thanks, bro, I owe you lovely foams of cool brews snaking down your sweet, kind system at Mellow Mushroom!)
A big warm hug of thanks, also, to perennial angel, Katie Kasben, for her super-generous heart in accommodating Deborah in her apartment. [Thanks, as usual, to Chris Malz, Rachelle Arrowood, Rena Wright, Matt Mulder, Mark Anderson, Jarrett Leone—for being there, as ever.] Rachelle, thanks for the dinner plates and flowers & fruits although I was absent… Jason/Cam and Dale/Loretta, thanks for having Marta for a night and moments, and the errands. [Thanks Brian Kaiser for the poster/flyer “reinforcement” work/donation.]

NOV 17, Thursday. The little “welcoming” night at the French Broad Coop’s The Movement & Learning Center. Ash Devine, Jarrett (who emceed the night) and friend Sean, and visitors SJ Tucker with Kevin Wiley, and Deborah C—“quietly” performed, quiet evening, below 30s temp. The “gathering” was meant to say hello to SJ and Deborah, so it was really intimate and low-key… Mark A loaned us his PA but we couldn’t get it to work, so we just went unplugged and slumped on the very cozy, neat floor—shared some bread/food from Paris Bakeshop and West End Bakery and flavored water c/o Greenlife Grocery. [Kevin W “accompanied” SJ’s music with that awesome fire—uhh, “calisthenics”? But I was so scared he’d hit the ceiling light/bulbs, ah! But it’d be really cool to have SJ and Kevin again—do that number—in next spring/summer’s “Bonfires for Peace” event/s at Pritchard Park]
I guess, I made the right decision to move this Nov 17 “event” to FBC from Fred’s Speakeasy. Club situations, naturally/reasonably, demand crowd draw and bar earnings… I wasn’t on that mindframe, so for mutual benefit of both parties, we moved to FBC. We still paid rental fee but that’s more livable/easier for me and Marta than having to worry about attracting paying customers and stuff. Surely, life and living need tangible graces like money to score dinners and pay household bills—but I don’t think I can make these “warm distractions” consistently happen if I always think about profitability and return-of-investments. That money should come from somewhere beyond the bonfire, trust me… like real, income-generating jobs. No matter how I wiggle my commercial antennaes over my Bonfires lunacy, I know I wont be able to generate monthly income to pay The Crib’s rent or Indie printing—unless Ani DiFranco commits us one gig a month, which is… OK, you get my drift.
(Let’s continue to find moolah as we boogie with our sublime madnesses. Ergo—Marta and Rachelle should be cruising downtown this week to scout for that café space, Sonny my bro has already secured Dept of Trade and Industry tax/tariff/shipment permits in Manila, my friend—who maintains anonymity—starts renegotiating my novel with my longtime NYC agent, I have begun working on writings that at least secure one bill-paid a month… believe me, I am trying my best to nourish that Indie’s bank account, but then—I just’ve to maintain the spirit of the bonfire in all Bonfires dalliances. First of all, let’s be happy and not let the dollar-stress-pill cloud the fun.)

NOV 18, Friday. The Grey Eagle, 1st concert of a 2-night event. There will always be that “intimate fervour” in all of Bonfires gatherings, something that I cant do without. What do I mean?
A bonfire gathering—we initiate a fire in the cold, light in the dark, then we invite friends and relatives to share a word or two, poetry, music, dance, food, gifts. Some strangers and new acquaintances may come over, but that’s a blessing, so whether new souls drop by—the bonfire happens. It is a given of life, in fact—I treat it as a gift. The venue is a gift, so let’s use it to showcase good deeds and cool work.
What frustrates the spirit of the bonfire? If the power/force/entity that supposedly owns the land charges me huge money to build that bonfire—because I am poor—I couldn’t do anything about money. So I either ask friends/relatives to pool resources (including money, food, gears) together, pay up the land owner, voila—we have a show. So in the case that we already met these requisites/standard, there’s no reason why we should feel sad or disappointed or stressed out—whenever a Bonfires event happens. We paid the GEagle management rental dough, downtown businesses/restaurant helped out with some food and drinks, like-minded organizations (NOW Asheville, Courtyard Gallery) filled up some of the physical space, all bands/acts played—before that, we had a two-day/1hr WNCW spot, a nice coverage by a leading newspaper/magazine (Take Five/Citizen Times) on the same day. All these were blessings. Enjoy.
Whether we earned or not at the door, that’s beside the point, that’s not the major reason why we build bonfires—let me and Marta devise other ways to keep the bills attended to but my sadness will only come when people in there are sadder than I am. I don’t usually listen to sad notes when I am having fun—that is Erik Satie’s music and Coldplay’s moneymaker, not mine. There are moments for tormented ruminations—no, not when I am enjoying Vince Junior’s blues-and-hillbilly jig over a free PBR.
Moreover, I had a cool $7+ salmon dinner c/o of Two Cousins Restaurant (within Grey Eagle), we gave free shirt to manager Brian Landrum (+ full payment of the night’s rental obligation), another shirt and few dollars tip to the soundlady, some pizza and wine (c/o Noi’s Thai Kitchen) for everybody, Kapila did a fine job as the night’s emcee, some of those who promised food donation didn’t come, but I don’t think that mattered a lot. We will bug them next time.
I was happy that we had the Hippie Shitzus again (after all these months), and was able to squeeze in SJ Tucker (as replacement for Mica Lee Williams), and all acts were able to perform their repertoire.
So—the Bonfires is first and foremost, a community ritual, the old primitive tribal/village convergence, like a prayer to humanity’s rainbow, it’s faith in life. That’s one reason why—whenever I get an invite to watch a friend perform, I never went if I know or feel that I have some baggages in my heart—ie family problems, that stuff—it’s not fair for my friend to have me when my heart/mind are both confused and broken. I’d like him to enjoy the gift of what I can give on that particular moment. It’s because the Bonfire—the songs, poetry, vibe—are not alcohol, drugs, or something that were there as “escape” devises. They are there to perk up the funk and blues with some rock n roll, man!
So this Dec 3, the next Grey Eagle show, let’s be happy. Leave our loads behind or let them sail away French Broad River, far down the Mississippi River. Life is beautiful. That profit-box at the door is under the care of The Blue Sky God/dess—I don’t want it to distract my fun, your fun, our fun.

NOV 19, Saturday. Malaprop’s will always be The Bonfires’ neighborhood couch (refer to my article this Dec issue). I am never affected, EVER, whether we are able to entice 50 people or 2 attentive next-of-kin in there. One focused, intent listener to a poem is a lot better than a roomful of insensitive, non-caring chatters and babblers while a poet or singer-songwriter share their truths and glories on the mic. But that night, we unexpectedly almost filled up all the room… (thanks to early Wander contributors Al Fazio and Karen Nilsen for separately dropping by. Jarrett and GF and friends, and more).
SJ was a warm, lively jewel—cheerful performance over a sober, freezing evening. Just what we exactly needed before a capucchino or Bailey’s cream. We needed that (but, of course, Kevin W didn’t swing those dancing/lights in there)… So you said, you are older than 25? We’d like to have you again—maybe in Vagrant Wind’s 2006 spring-to-summer road journey.
In contrast, Deborah Crooks’ precocious depth and world-worn musings offered food for the wearied soul. Now, it’s easier for me to “access” or navigate the spiritual terrains of her words/music that I was able to watch/engage her live (and, yes, after a quick dinner/chat—with Marta—at Rosetta’s after the gig).
Oh yeah, Kapila bro, I love those poems—although you didn’t read that awesome “the CIA, the FBI were looking for my poem” poem. So see you again this Thursday at Courtyard Gallery?

So that’s my Chilly Day and Monday journal rambling. I pause as I listen to “Il Barbiere di Siviglia, overture.” Salut!

--Signore Pasckie
The Indie Crib
9:40am

BONFIRES JOURNAL: The Vampire Froze, Bonfires Burned

2005-11-01T23:41:00.000-08:00

THIS IS supposed to be a “thank-you” rambling to the acts/bands and performers who joined the Bonfires for Vampires event at Pritchard Park last Saturday, Oct 29—our last “Bonfires for Peace” event in downtown Asheville for 2005. So, before I rant, ruminate and ramble on—THANK YOU, GRACIAS, MARAMING SALAMAT, Aja & Vashti Hamden and friends, Ash Devine, Hippie Shitzu, Dashvara, Sunshine, and emcee Jarrett Leone, soundperson Mark Anderson, and the food providers and children’s Halloween gift bag donors.
We started the show/event, as scheduled at 1pm via a brief one-hour rally by PARC activists (opposing construction of a huge parking deck in downtown Asheville). [There’s a slight confusion with the PA/sound equipment because Mark A couldn’t get a parking spot(!) downtown so he got to the park just as rally organizer Charlie Thomas who ran to a friend to get a backup PA beat him by 5 or 10mins!] Local activists and City Council aspirants Robin Cape, Brian Freeborn, Brownie Newman, PARC president Julie Brandt, and two elderly downtown residents spoke before a crowd of maybe close to an hundred. The first act in the Bonfires concert proper, Aja and her UNCA friends, started playing at 2:30pm. We closed the night at exactly 10 past 10pm – with the Hippie Shitzu doing a one-hour encore.
Before I revisit/talk more about that cold-warm, poignant night at Pritchard Park… let me rant about The Indie’s Nov issue.

WAS IT because the printing press manager moved The Indie’s print schedule for tomorrow (Thurs afternoon, Nov 3), or the culprit was Kinko’s? The only reliable graphic/print shop in town—which is, yes, a local franchise of a giant nationwide business—decided to de-program (whatever the word is) their laptop stations. That means, accessibility equals AmEx or pre-paid cards (just like the others shops in Manhattan, Boston, and Chicago.) But the real problem is—for some reason, I couldn’t print The Indie proofs through my notebook, with or without the 10cents a minute card!
To cut this short, I had to go back to The Indie Crib and download the IOmega zip driver from my desktop, stock it up in my notebook, then save the entire 33K kb pagemaker 7.0 file on a zip disc (loaned out by the nice Kinko’s employee), then go back there this morning and print the final proofs via their service PC. Then drive to Iwanna (with Rachelle Arrowood) and submit the proofs for offset printing; hopefully, as Bill Taylor (production manager) promised me, we could pick up The Indie tomorrow around 1pm. (I’m beat and bushed—I had to send Marta The Nicer Osbourne to Malaprop’s this morning to do the interview with owner/founder Emoke B’Racz, for the Dec issue.)
Okay, let me cut/paste a part of my column article (“The Spirit of the Bonfires”), my longest so far(!) for your indulgence.

xxx

LAST OCT 29, during the last few hours of the “Bonfires for Peace at Pritchard Park,” amidst the freezing below 35 temp—hungry, tired, cold—common sanity says, it’s time to load out and call it a night. But the last band, Hippie Shitzu, told me they still want to play—because there were still people at the park, dancing and happy, although almost half of the crowd that were left were drunken, ecstatically joyous homeless amigos.
So the band played. I sat there, with Marta, quietly, peacefully. One of the drunken vagrants approached me and said, “I like this party that you do, man. I am happy! Oh yeah!” Then he took off his shirt and continued running circles like a man possessed. The band kept on playing. Then, it was 9:50pm, 10 minutes to closing time, we saw two policemen attentively waiting for us to end the show. But then, suddenly, about a dozen young men and women jumped in and started dancing with the homeless, as the band segued to the last song’s verse. Marta looked at me, I said, “Let them play, it’s okay… people look happy. Let them enjoy. We’ll find money later to pay the fine.” The cops didn’t approach us, thanks a lot.
Then I noticed that we still had a number of Halloween gift bags that we should have given out to children at the park… I saw two young women, maybe 18 year olds or younger dancing in the dark. I let Marta give them two of the gift bags.
When the music finally stopped, we have already dismantled our tent and all our stuff were all bunched on a bench. Again, we realized we didn’t have a ride back to the office. We were so tired and hungry and cold. Cabs refused to give us a ride.
The day’s soundperson, Mark Anderson, said he’ll give us a ride back to the office. I tried to hand him a post-dated check for providing sound and PA to the show. We just got two ads for The Indie but the checks will only clear in three or four days. Mark refused to accept the check, though, saying he doesn’t expect to get paid. So I took out a few dollar bills from my pocket and from the day’s concert tips, and insisted that he take some, at least to cover for his gasoline. He took $10, instead, because I forced him to.
That little episode has always been the poignant staple of many a-Bonfires event and thousands of Indies and Indie-incarnates in the last 20 or 25 years of my life. I know that scene will be repeated again, again and again. I don’t want the bonfire to end just because I couldn’t pay for a PA system or there’s no money anymore to pay the park permit, or there is no vehicle to ferry us from here to there, or I couldn’t get an advertising placement or donor support anymore. The absence of those material/physical givens didn’t stop me from pursuing this “rock journey and sublime madness” for many years now. I don’t see any reason why I have to stop. I am not about to end the bonfire. It is so beautiful… it is a gift that will stay in my heart until I die. And when I am gone, the spirit will fly out of my body to stoke, to start, to enflame another bonfire in the cold, in the dark.

xxx

FEW HOURS after we arrived at the office, even before I could start my late-night dinner, I got an email from a very furious bandmember whose group I cut out of The Bonfires roster following the sad, loathsome “benefit bash” experience three weeks ago. The email contained unprintable, slanderous accusations and pronouncements that, well, what should I do? I just have to consign it down my memory’s drainage system. What else is new?
There is something within that I couldn’t deny, though. When I saw the drunken vagrant frantically dancing, gobbling ¾ of the park area that Saturday night, I wanted to stop him, throw him out of the park – I wish I could have prevented him from taking in whatever he had that night, but that wasn’t my job. But, on that instance, it was my responsibility to keep the show alive and well, and the bands and audience protected and safe. So when he started scaring women away and was about to cross that little demarcation line between crowd and performers, I had to step in. I just looked him straight in the eye.
He stopped.
Around 8:30pm, Sunshine’s lengthened set was over. I whispered to Marta that I was already tired and very cold. But there were still people in the park – yes, the drunken reveler has subsided and put back his shirt – but the people wanted more music. I asked Mark A and HShitzu if they still wanna play. Mark said, it’s up to me—I’m the producer. So I said, okay, let’s play till 10.
Three homeless couples, two or three rowdy vagrants… they wanted to dance to the music amidst the cold? I don’t know them, why the hell should I care? But, you see, I do care—I don’t need to investigate or dig in why they waste their lives away with alcohol or some volatile substance. But on those very moments—45 more minutes of rented time and space – those moments may not be there again, the chance to make one soul happy for 45 more minutes may not be there, anymore. I had to give those moments away—it wasn’t mine, it was for them…
Hippie Shitzu—who provided free PA/sound to The Bonfires at the park for most of 16 weekends last year—stayed on, played on. Then more bodies and souls joined the dancing, in the dark, in the cold, and then it was time to close out the night. One young woman asked, “What, no more music?” In my heart, I knew there will be more music, somewhere sometime… but society has rules that we have to abide to, for the meantime.
I was cold, I was hungry, I was tired. But my heart was warm, very warm. That’s all I ever needed to win a day’s joy and justice.
I’d like to do the bonfire again, again and again – from downtown Asheville to Lower East Side, Manhattan to Hampden, Baltimore to DuPont Circle in Washington DC to those little heavenly rooms of music and poetry of my difficult but beautiful past in Manila – again and again and again.
So thanks to all of you. Toksa Ake.

--Pasckie
The Indie Crib
2:33am. 2 Nov 2005

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

2005-10-09T11:48:00.000-07:00

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

Phuncle Sams, LAAF.Organicfest, Malaprops

2005-09-11T17:07:00.000-07:00

FORGIVE MY GUILT. I guess, my abject aloofness has sunk me deeper down my internet limbo and 70 Woodfin Place shell. I dont know if that's good though. It's not that I'm hiding in the dark--of course, you still see me at Beanstreets on a Thursday night open mic, sharing new and old poems--with Jarrett Leone, Matt Mulder, Kelly Lee Phipps, Rena Wright-Daugherty, Joshua Watson, among others. And I still am present during our Bonfires coffeeshop gigs at Malaprops, recent downtown festivals tent/tablings, Old Europe early-evening coffee chill-out, one or two PBR jaunt at Bearly Edible, and my consistent Pack Library-Blockbuster Tunnel Rd visitations, and regular inspection tour of Indie outlets. As usual, I'm not the hang-out buddy... whenever Indie/Bonfires business is the subject, people seek out Marta The Nicer Osborne. I like it that way, as usual--I'm more peaceful when I'm quiet, "noisy" with my written words.

So let me share some notes in regards Bonfires "madness" experiences--in the past month, or so. Of course, you are aware that I prefer to do this because I simply am not the formal/organizational-meeting kinda dude. Besides, I get to share what's going on with Indie/Bonfires souls from all over, not just in our neck-of-the-Appalachian-woods brainstorms and updates -- without getting through the drained motion of agenda, debates, marked-out calendar dates, endless-waiting-before-we-preside-the-meeting bullshit. You see... I had a first "meeting" with new volunteer Heather Duncan yesterday--while we did personal errands at Blockbuster and Ingles; I gave out Indie assignment to new UNCA-based intern Brett Alders and Courtney Allen while Phuncle Sam was performing at our Bonfires gig at Malaprops last Thursday night. That works better for me...

Okay, first, let me thank the entire Phuncle Sam homeboys--esp. Woody Henkle--for all the wonderful help that they've done, so far, and have been selflessly doing for The Traveling Bonfires. They did a late night show for us last Aug 20 (am I correct?) at Bearly Edible--on that surreally humid night when a witch dropped by the counter and caused a bit of a hassle over a one-dollar-worth of PBR, but it's okay. To tell ya the truth--I've encountered a whole lot more of weird souls in Asheville than I did in New York City, notwithstanding the East Village! But I'm not complaining... a graffiti down Lex Av says, "In downtown Asheville, being normal is weird." How true... Anyways, that was a hot August night (at Be), I was so tired, down, and still, apparently, emotionally slowed down (I still am) by my Mom's passing... so I went back to my cave after a Pabst or two...

Oh yeah! While Katrina was wrecking havoc in New Orleans, some ghostly kick messed up my laptop and crashed it as I was rushing the Sept issue of The Indie. Now you know the story... friends Rachelle Arrowood and Stephanie Morgan have generously lent their hand, equipment, and heart to the problem, so things went smoothly, we beat the printing deadline--the Kinko's midnight guy didnt even charge us for printing 35+ Indie proofs! As usual, Bill Taylor and Iwanna's efficiency and professionalism help us a lot.

We had a great time at the Lexington Avenue Arts & Fun Festival last Sunday, Sept 4. It was a LOT MORE exciting, fun, enlightening than Bell Chere--and I am not just saying that because I obviously hate the corporate halo that dictates Bell Chere. Man, it's so colorful, so diverse, so downtown! Woody H drove us to the site early in the morning (near-autumn chill and all) and loaned us his new tent, then Agent Mulder drove us back in the night, apart from bringing wife Mary Beth's dinner food, esp. cooked for us...

We gave out close to 100 copies of Sept Indie, excluding back issues, we had a page-ful of new names in our mailing list, and we even earned $60+ in tip jar donations. Friends dropped by to say hello and hang out a bit: Julie Umanova, Cicada Brokaw, Claire Hanrahan, Aja Hamden, Noah Wilson, Chris Malz, Thomas Humphrey, Malaprops' Andrew, Rosetta's Drew, Dale and Loretta Hoffman and kids, Debbie Athos, Sarah Benoit, Coleman Smith, Ian Bryan, Vince Junior, Ash Devine, Jarrett Leone, Susan Williams, Marta's UNCA student buddies, and a number of beautiful people whose names I never seem to memorize, some of them we just met--most of them know The Indie/The Bonfires, and just dropped by to say that they support us... Today, Sept 10, is Organicfest at Pack Square, so we expect to see more friends, acquaintances, homeys, supporters--and create new ones.

Oh, by the way, Marta has already officially resigned from her cashier job at UNCA, last Friday (Sept 9), to transfer to a better-paying job with a cleaning service. Ah, some UNCA student buddies of hers, gave her a well-wishing $25 gift... She will be visiting the school, anyways, to distribute The Indie and continue the hook ups with student groups.Phuncle Sam's first Malaprops gig turned out good, and the bookstore people loved it. Intimate crowd, intimate moments... As I said, we do monthly shows at Malaprops, it's like our "coffeeshop home"--we held our first Traveling Bonfires show at Malaprops in Sept of 2002. The store's owner, Emoke B'Racz and her right-hand person, Linda Knopp--as well as its longtime employees like Andrew and Gary--remain as some of our most consistent supporters in Asheville.

So these days, organizational work has been confined with marketing/planning/organizing for our big fundraise events for Oct, Nov and Dec: the "Harvest Bash/Bonfires for Peace in Mars Hill" (Mark of Bearly Edible as coproducer/organizer) from Sept 30 to Oct 2, the two-concert/event "Bonfires for Peace in Manila" (Jaja Campos as line producer/organizer) on Oct 14, and the Nov 18 and Dec 3 shows at the Grey Eagle. But all these will be updated later...

So it's 7am, a Saturday here. I just cooked a chicken stewed dish with mushroom paste, Chinese style. Woody just emailed me, he's supposed to drive us to Pack Square this morning for the Organicfest. I expect Heather, Dale, Loretta etc to join us there... So, see you. Gracias!

--Pasckie
The Indie Crib
Asheville NC
09-10-05

dc insurgency visit, phuncles blessings, vagrant wind resumes

2005-08-15T09:31:00.000-07:00

WRITING IS ALWAYS my bestfriend. So whenever sadness and misery cast a dark shadow all over my world--I turn to my "pen" and pour my heart and spirit out like rain that heal as they pour. It has always been like that... Although the deepest cut that could be inflicted in my being has just been executed, I know that life is still a gift and the sun shines after the rain. (I am writing this right after CSNY sang "Looking Forward" and "Sanabel"... beauty and wisdom in their simplicity.)

With that, let me put down notes from the week or so that has passed...

I hope that although publicity and preparation for their visit took only a few days, the Asheville sojourn of the Washington DC's Guerrilla Poetry Insurgency went well. Save for my impulsive-compulsive, antsy/shaky nature--Shahid Buttar, Laurie Blair, and the rest of the DC souls assured me that their visit was great... cool, warm, satisfying, and productive. Reminds me of the visit, last year, of Kokoy Severino and Kayumanggi from Houston, Texas... their days were all booked, highlighted by a great show at the "Bonfires for Peace at Pritchard Park." Tiring, but nevertheless, fruitful.

Danny Joffe (bassist for Phuncle Sam)--and his roomies/housemates--were so gracious and kind enough to open their humble abode's door to the entire Insurgency entourage, on short notice. AGAIN, THANK YOU SO MUCH! That's when the supposed accommodation up in Candler didnt materialize because of miscalculated planning (on my part).

Another miscue (both my and Marta's doing) that I need to admit is I forgot to remind everybody that we will be using only one (volunteered) drum set for the (last) "Bonfires for Peace" event at the park. It got mixed up, forgotten, as we were already at the park... Chris Malz (of Sunshine) didnt bring his drum kit, thinking that another band was bringing theirs. They didnt... only until they were about to play.

I actually commented to Chris during the July 16 park gig that I kind of didnt like the sound of his new electric drum set--when he played for Hippie Shitzu and The Savage Project--compared with his acoustic/traditional kit. As usual, most people take my words seriously... well, I was serious but I am always pointblankly honest but that doesnt mean that what I said is the rule of the day, I might be wrong... Unless I actually hammer things out, insist and all (I do sometimes). Like, during one of the past Vagrant Wind gigs in Baltimore when a poet insisted on reading through his laptop--I said, NO, and it's a NO... Anyways, Chris ended up driving back to his house to get his electric drum kit... Chris is a consummate artist more than an engaging drum-shuffler, he'll creatively weave around his new instrument and prove that the new set is better, I am sure. He's definitely one of the best, most passionate drummers that I've ever seen--like a meditating shaman on ivory sticks.

Anyhow, all bands used their own drum kit. Dashvara came late so they only played about 40mins. Josh, their drummer, sets up for about 15mins. When Sunshine and Large Lewis played, playing time went well, despite running like 15mins late previously... I was very worried about time because, as we all know, the Parks&Recreation charges $25 or so for an extra hour of park use. That amount is like $250 to The Bonfires... As the Buddhist dictum whispers--like the wind that ebbs differently at a certain moment, as though without any significance or meaning, we should be prepared that something might happen. Besides the fact that we had a band called Sunshine and the sun actually shone from morning till around 7:30pm, rain fell as Large Lewis unwinded its set, as Phuncle Sam prepared to go on board... So, sadly, Woody Hinkle, Danny Joffe, Bill Evans and the rest of the Phuncles, who were there from 12noon till the rain fell, werent able to play. (Woody, by the way, donated not just most of his gears and soundperson services, but also money for that particular park event...)

Despite the rain making me pause (well, you know...) it was a great, family-vibed "Bonfires for Peace" that time. Laurie started initiating drawings at the park ground... colorful chalk scrawls, kids joining in, downtown friends. Jarrett, the mild-vibed Beanstreets host, joined The Insurgency with his deejeredoo (misspelled?) and some poems. I also read two of my poems ("Nameless" and "Black Poem..." as expected). Food was ample, as usual--cookies from Old Europe to kids, vegan/non-vegan burgers from Burgermeister, vegetarian platter from Bearly Edible.

We all proceeded to Bearly Edible to continue the unfinished "Bonfires" ... but everybody seemed already tired, including Mark (the owner). Kind and accommodating and supportive as he's always been, he offered Marta the cafe's key and to just handle the night and lock up, after the scheduled gig by The Insurgency. At that point in time, I strode back to The Indie Crib (to get Laurie's folder of poems that she left with us). I got the nerve-wracking phone message from Manila, it was unclear but I felt my Mom just passed away... I still had the energy to walk back to Bearly Edible to hand Laurie her poems (as they performed) but I had to leave and just asked Marta to take care of the show, and let everybody know that I had to call Manila due to serious family situation.

After the Be show, most of The Insurgency, I heard, went to Bobo's Gallery to watch/mingle around. One or two of the organizers (Graham, Michael Leahy), initially, invited The Insurgency (via Nina Collins' hook up efforts, from Chapel Hill) to join the night's show, "Poetix." I however reckoned that we didnt have time or opportunity to formalize everything. It was all emails--and we didnt want to redirect/regroup their show... they had a full/tight program (including a guest spot by popular Ashevellian poet Glennis Redmond). Besides, the Be show was already set.

But it's a small town. One of the organizers/readers at "Poetix" (Emily aka Ylem) was actually one of the new tenants of the Writers Block in Carolina Lane--where The Insurgency was scheduled to do a short late morning workshop and poetry show. This hook up at WBlock was initiated by Coleman Smith of Arts2People for The Bonfires/The Insurgency... Shahid and the rest of the DC friends conducted the short activity, the following morning, although very tired. I insisted that Marta go and be with the group, although she said that she wanted to be with me as I grieved and mourned.

Despite the personal tragedies... commitment to work, as The Bonfires (a "madness" that I never taken so lightly), should always be there. Just like last year, when my Mom slipped into a coma--we had two shows scheduled on that particular day/night (Bonfires at the park and one at Shotzy's, featuring visitings acts/bands from Boston, Atlanta, and Raleigh). I strode to the park (but the rain fell so I went back to the office), but Marta took care of the Shotzy's gig. I believe that's what makes my synergetic/functional relationship with Marta works effectively, we also vibe on the spiritual aspect of the "madness." She doesnt have to understand my oftentimes, beyond-the-grain, moves and decisions--but she respects them. That's what matters... I always dont have the patience to explain why I do this and that--but I allow my co-worker to grow within the "madness," and let wisdom blossom, I know it will. I treat my work like the wind takes care of the sea... it'll move, it has to move to give way to ebbtides and the continuance of life. It will always be that way... my Mother understood. I am the "craziest" son but Mother always understands, not necessarily with her mind, but for sure--with her heart.

SO THE MADNESS that is The Traveling Bonfires carries on...We have also started communicating with a lawyer in regards the legal wisdom (such a word, indeed...) of our endeavors. Marta has initially discussed issues (primarily related to Parks&Recreation dealings) with Bruce Elmore, whom I met in one of the WNC Peace Coalition meetings before. He provides legal perspective/advice to most activist organizations in Asheville. We have exchanged emails... he expressed condolences to me, and said great words to our efforts for the community, and is willing to give us advice whenever we need to. I have instructed Marta to provide him with paperwork and stuff about our organizational transactions.

Meantime, I have started to draw up the resumption of the Vagrant Wind Road Journeys. It will definitely include Chapel Hill NC, Richmond VA--and of course, DC, Baltimore, and New York City. As of now, I am looking at Oct 14 to Oct 22. That might change and might come sooner. Meanwhile, Gino Inocentes is also organizing a "Tribute to Mothers, Pasckie's Mom" concert at the C-Note (NYC) this October, while Demi Pascua works out parallel concerts, "Alay kay Lola Conching" at 70s Bistro and Conspiracy in Quezon City, Manila, with help from longtime friend (and Bistro co-owner) Helen Reyes and, possibly, Cynthia Alberto... I will discuss all these in my usual Updates later, or check, http://bonfiresideprojects.blogspot.com/

I will also be meeting with Laura Blackley this Wednesday, hopes to meet up with Ylem... Rosetta (Rosetta's Kitchen) is coming over to the office early tonight for an interview. I dont feel like I am ready to chat with people, face to face, as yet--so Marta might do the interview, or I might, not sure. Rosetta (I dont even know her last name... it's not "Kitchen," for sure) is the Sept Indie's featured Asheville entrepreneur/downtown soul. Oh, Marta The Nicer Osbourne and Chris Malz are back at work at UNCA... and how they worked, 14 hours/day since Friday (including Saturday, Sunday)!

So that's it, for now... At this minute I am listening to John Denver's "Sunshine on my Shoulder..." A peaceful song.

--Pasckie
12:06noontime.
Aug 15, Monday.
The Indie Crib

For My Dear Departed Mother

2005-08-07T21:16:00.000-07:00

THE RAIN, again, grieved yesterday. Almost at the same time last year. Dark clouds suddenly enveloped the sky—and rain made The Bonfires stop a show at the park. Indeed, The Blue Sky God/dess “exclusively” owns the sole power to make me pause from my beautiful madness. So that I can deal with my own personal, private life.
Last year, the rain poured as we prepared a concert at the “Bonfires for Peace at Pritchard Park.” That afternoon last year, my Mother had a stroke and slipped into a coma. She labored and suffered in the next 12 months or so…
Yesterday, again, the rain poured as we approached the last number/the last band of the concert. I had to pause and visit my personal, private life. And so once again, the rain halted me and The Bonfires… I walked to The Indie’s office to kisten to a long distance phone message from Manila.
MY MOTHER PASSED AWAY YESTERDAY—almost at the same moments when the sky begun to give way to dark clouds last year, also at Pritchard Park, the rain once again made me pause and stop and look within.
I just lost the one original, untiring source of my life line—theheart where my spiritual umbilical cord is connected.
Right at this moment, I can only feel pain and emptiness.
I don’t know how am I’m gonna be in the coming few days or weeks. I haven’t lost an immediate family before. All I feel and know right now is -- The Traveling Bonfires and The Indie will continue to flow and venture on. I promised my Mom -- and humanity that. The dream lives on.
I offer aftermidnight prayers to my Mother. The strongest woman—deep within—that I’ve ever known in my life; the woman who knew how to love like it’s all that matters—up to the limit of her human existence. Or beyond existence.
A life passing is worth another live coming. Let us live life like it’s a gift, not a calling or a privilege. That’s what I learned from life as I continued to see wisdom in my Mom’s everlasting love for just one man, her husband, my Father. And one formidable respect and love for family—she has chosen to die around most of her loved ones back home in the Philippines, than in America. For her, family is family -- all through life and death.
To my Mother… Today—as you head somewhere not within human life… my wandering spirit comes home in your memory’s selfless love. THAT will keep me stronger, stronger… stronger.
No goodbyes, Mom-- only parting. You will always be within me!
I love you.

--Pasckie
2:30am. 7 Aug 05
Asheville NC

Wanna hop in The Traveling Bonfires' road journey?

2005-08-05T05:48:00.000-07:00

(1) EXPECT TO GET lost but don’t expect to be late for a Bonfires gig. Being lost is a given. But that shouldn’t be the reason why you’re late for a show-that’s unacceptable. So no excuses about being late. But then, common sense says we should avoid getting lost - so let’s try our best not to. You see, if we don’t drive extra, unnecessary miles-we save gasoline money, therefore we don’t spend more than what we budgeted for a trip. And, of course you are aware that being upset before a show (as a result of being lost or late) produces dark, negative vibe that adversely affects an otherwise cool performance. You get my drift…

(2) WE WILL try our darndest best not to starve on the road/destination-so we EAT! No ramen noodles or lotsa Mickey Dees, Arby’s, or Hershey bars this time around, definitely. I usually eat seafoods-the rawest, the better-but if you don’t, that’s okay. We can check out a Waffle House, that’s fine with me (just be careful with the slimy syrup). Remember what our grandmothers remind us as we head to an out of town trip-DON’T GET HUNGRY! BUT EAT GOOD, NO JUNK FOOD!

(3) EVERYBODY gets equal, democratic chance to play individual/personal CD preferences via the vehicle’s CD/tape player. But the Bee Gees and Eva Cassidy should be played, every 4 hours, unconditionally-yes, I am the boss, so no complaints (yes, that’s dictatorial, so?). I have three Walkman CD players-different colors-for you to use, just in case…

(4) OBEY ROAD signs like a wrong turn means firing squad. If you are the designated driver, and doesn’t know where you’re going-be humble, be honest. Pull over at an Amoco pitstop, take a leak, get a Coke or beef jerky, inhale-exhale, and then, courteously ask the deli/store counter girl that you can’t find your way (no, this is not the right time to hit on cute cashiers, hokeydokey?) Or call the hospitable souls waiting at our destination/Bonfires venue and ask for the right direction/s-that’s okay, cars don’t have brains-we do, we can follow directions. Even before that, let me remind the car owner/driver-it’s your homework to study maps and mapquest.com directions before we hit I-240. Please don’t experiment-a runaround/roundabout in Asheville might not be the same as in Fells Point, Baltimore or Lower East Side, Manhattan. And, yes, in the event West Virginia’s dreaded highway patrol flags us down - no, we can’t drop names like, “Thomas Wolfe is my greatgrandfather and I am Thomas Wolfe IV! Let me off this one, Sir?” or “Uhh, you see, Asheville’s Malcolm Holcombe is my uncle - and he’s the next president of the US of A, so please give us a break, officer?! Here’s his CD-you can keep it.” Look, with blaring, GOP-unfriendly car stickers like “Bush is a -!” or “Stop The War!” and Indie copies that virulently, consistently question US foreign policy nestling in the trunk - we don’t expect Washington DC cops to give us high-fives, either. We should be really, really careful about not breaking road rules. Remember, we aren’t going to be busted for a “I Hate War” bumper sticker. Ignoring a red light or getting a speeding tix do delay an otherwise cool journey, unfortunately.

(5) PLEASE, no overblown cellphone conversations with girl/boyfriends while we are on the road. I hope you aren’t joining the trip because you had a big fight with your lovey-dovey, and you need a some kinda break. But it’s always okay to call parents (or respond to their worried calls) - that’s a very admirable gesture. Don’t forget this - moms and dads might leave you inheritance money and/or the 40-year-old coffeemaker or Sanyo TV but your boy/girlfriends only leave you unpaid Blockbuster Video accounts, broken promises to pay his/her share of the rent, and dirty socks.

(6) SUBSTANCES THAT elicit cool trip but illegal/unlawful hassles should be discussed openly and agreed upon in a matured way-before the trip, if need be. There are no designated mothers/fathers in a Bonfires trip (who will remind us the do’s and dont’s or morally-sound, lawfully-smart existence) but only responsible human creatures who easily gets pissed but don’t necessarily bitch at you right there and then. A BIG NO-NO: We are relative strangers in our gig destinations/neighborhoods. Don’t wander around town while gigs are ongoing and go looking for a hot mama or superstud, or some awesome herb to sniff-please watch our shows while other performers are playing. Common courtesy, you know…

(7) THERE ARE NO superstars or rock stars in Bonfires shows, all performers are billed/drummed up/treated equally. Acts are placed in certain timeslot sequence as per individual time constraints and realities, advanced notice/request, and planned with a collective okay. I will cut your playing time to smithereens if you consume one-freakin’-hour tuning your Stratocaster or soundchecking your precious gears/equipment. We usually allow more than two hours for load-in/soundcheck - before the show - so be at the gig site. Otherwise, deal with it - 10 to 15 minutes soundcheck in between bands is all we have.

(8) DON’T EXPECT to earn money, but expect to have fun. Some shows earn, some don’t. But we should all come out in one rock and rollin’, fun-filled piece-with full tummies, satisfied hearts-after each tour. There are other cool stuff that your art/band/performance gets while on the road-other than the dough… of course, you know that. Paul Simon washed dishes down Bleecker Street while hustling a 20min gig in The Village, and Jack Kerouac hitchhiked coast-to-coast to gather materials for his novels and stuff, on the road. Let’s learn from those who survived it all to tell their tales… Experience with humility is the best, most effective teacher.

(9) DON’T EXPECT 5-star amenities in travel crash-pads. Sometimes I crash in a doghouse (dogs sometimes are better roomies than whiny human beings, you know.) I sleep in subway cars, terminal depots, backseats. If you want to get yourself a Holiday Inn suite, go ahead-but be at the gig site at least 30minutes to 1hr early. Refer to Item #7.

(10) IF YOU ARE performing, please rehearse, prepare your materials (print or memorize your poems, but don’t-damn, DON’T-read from your freakin’ laptop! in front of the audience!) Girls/boys in the audience aren’t impressed - they wanna listen to your poetry, so respect their time, please. Based on experience, I get the coolest girl in the crowd because of the humble nakedness of my words, not because I wrote my verses via an iMac. Also, prepare your handouts (chapbooks no matter it’s DIYs and photocopied a-la punk ‘zines, neat postcards that give leads to your website and upcoming gigs, demos/CDs if you have them)-we aren’t doing Bonfires shows as a one-time thing, promote yourself-they might wanna see you again. Remember, Anni DiFranco passed through this route before.

(11) REMEMBER, this tour is a Bonfires tour and NOT a tour to a voodoo museum or a moshpit date to a joint Barry Manilow/Motley Crue gig. We are hitting the road because the tour is both work and fun-a Traveling Bonfires tour. If you want to bring your boyfriend/girlfriend/partner/grandparents/nannies with you, that’s fine, if we still good room-but oblige them to work and enjoy with us. I don’t expect to see couples rendezvous-ing somewhere, making out like virgin highschoolers, while the collective travelers are busy with the shows. This is NOT a date trip or a tourist jaunt, okay? If we want to visit a 399-room museum or reminisce at a fountain park where you made out with a girl/boyfriend many years ago... we can do that, that’s understandable - but without compromising the show/s.

(12) IN THE EVENT OUR HOSTS invite us to hang out with them, let’s try our best to oblige-not because it is a duty to do that or we are nice. We are doing it because we mutually enjoy the company. Let’s go hang out at a bar or coffeeshop. At their homes/houses, let’s wash the dishes, cook some dinner, fix our bed etc etc. Respect their sleep time. That’s spontaneous humanity.

(13) WHEN WE ALL travel as one, the person who owns the vehicle gets $50 upfront (for non-performers) and $30/negotiable (for performers). The Bonfires pays for the gasoline. The Bonfires pays for food (only if the co-traveller is jobless or student); if he/she has a job to fend for-let’s be one and share our individual food allowance together. And car/vehicle-owners, please remind yourself to check your oil, transmission fluid etc before travel day (that’s your car, y’know-hello?)-but if you don’t have ready cash for that, call Marta The Nicer Osborne, we will find remedies like we can dial The Blue Sky God/dess’ nokia and ask for last-minute loan… and, last but not the least...

(14) ONLY HAPPY souls join The Traveling Bonfires road trips. The Vagrant Wind Road Journeys aren’t therapy field trips or sororoty/fraternity initiation joyrides. This is the coolest gig on earth this side of the blues brothers mission. So don’t worry, be happy! Hop in! Right here, right now.

LINKS, other references

2005-08-04T22:35:00.000-07:00

We are currently upgrading/contructing a new website. www.travelingbonfires.com
Meantime, please visit the following weppages, free webs, blogs, articles, google leads for more info and details.

[ ] Most recent article written about The Traveling Bonfires and Pasckie Pascua
http://www.mountainx.com/ae/2005/0112bonfires.php

[ ] Pasckie Pascua's "Like a Rolling Stone" column articles
http://lifeasagreyhound.blogspot.com/

[ ] Updates of Traveling Bonfires/Indie programs/projects, brainstorms and plans, negotiations and transactions, and some more ramblings in between
http://bonfiresindieupdates.blogspot.com/

[ ] Current, immediate, upcoming shows, events, trips, concerts, projects
http://recentbonfiresevents.blogspot.com/

[ ] Notes, announcements, updates, and other infos regarding sideprojects
http://bonfiresideprojects.blogspot.com/

[ ] General info, vision-mission/objectives, staff and volunteers, historical background of The Indie and The Traveling Bonfires
http://indiebonfires.blogspot.com/

[ ] Pasckie Pascua's blog, or something like that
http://raindancesixty.blogspot.com/

[ ] Pasckie Pascua's poetry and other writings
http://pasckiepascuapoems.blogspot.com/
www.freewebs.com/pasckiepascua

Traveling Bonfires posters and visuals:
JUSTIN GOSTONY: http://home.ptd.net/~justin85
MATTHEW MULDER: www.freewebs.com/drawingblacklines
JON TEEPLE: http://www.threesheetstothewind.com/bonfireposters/

Go to google.com and type in Pasckie Pascua and/or The Traveling Bonfires in Asheville, NC or The Indie in Asheville, NC

weed of peace, smokes of war

2005-07-30T03:22:00.000-07:00

THE TRAVELING BONFIRES / VAGRANT WIND, Leg 5 (sort of). June 30-July 5. West Virginia, Alexandria VA, Washington DC.

IT HAS BEEN a week since my poignantly disturbing, eerily fascinating visit at the Rainbow Gathering somewhere in the Shenandoahs, deep in the woods of West Virginia. Just a couple of days since I got back here in Asheville NC—the world news ripped through me like a numbing slug of angry steel. Scores dead in bombing attacks in London.

Two extremes of human condition incessantly counterpoint, cut through in my head – almost in-trance physical bodies dancing around a bonfire, dancing for love and peace… bloodied faces and anatomy on lifeless stretchers being carried to safety. The chant of ecstatic, physical peace… the cry of unmitigated pain and human sorrow. Weed of peace, smokes of war.

But how do we keep the love dance, the peace hug from sustaining the aura, the mantra that may infect a universal vibe of joy and justice? How do we stop the bombs from falling, how do we keep the rage from claiming one more life? A day in the life? An early-morning deadline’s entry as we sip the best coffee in town, “I heard the news today, oh boy…” What was it all about? Did “love and peace” take a breather, a weekend holiday in a West Virginia backwoods; did “war and hate” visit the city, bringing with it, human devastation, on its layover? Meanwhile. Hurricane Dennis makes his way to the glade and onto the limbs and hearts of the human condition. War or peace—when Mother Nature visits, we take heed. Can we activists stop the wind, can the G8 halt the thunders?

RUMINATIONS in West Virginia… I thought out loud… a “rainbow gathering” happens in many little islands in little countries in little cultures, every day, every minute, outside the great first-world empire of tax payments, government permits, insurance accounts, and fossil-fuel tickets to the forest. It’s no big deal. A “rainbow” vibe—dancing around the fire, foods shared, hugs and handshakes and smiles distributed and nurtured like poems and songs sung by a gleeful collective throng. Nothing heavy. It wasn’t a special day-off the jungles, not a preplanned chill-out time to the forest, not a tent-and-sleeping bag foray during summer—“rainbow” convergences is translated as “community,” translated as “life” in some faraway land thousands of miles from the backwoods of West Virginia. It’s a day-to-day life. No one even talks about it, or write about it.

Meantime, gunfires slash through the night, bombs pierce on 7-year-old flesh, hunger and poverty sweep like thunderstorm. Like “rainbow gatherings,” these unfortunately also happen in staggering frequency in some little cities and villages in little countries in little cultures—somewhere where CNN and global media choose not to notice.

In those hidden jungles where souls pray a-front a wooden idol, where the rain means harvest, and a journey means footwalks towards a long and winding road. In those places and communities where the people look and act and behave so different from us… in those jungles and forests and islands where they eat dogs and cats, and women don’t cover their breasts, and people don’t know what “organic” and “vegan” means, and families stay together most times of the day—we see joy in their eyes and music in their laughters…

How do we sustain the little-island dance and the first-world drumming? How do we link them up and produce a global mantra that may stop the little-village bombing and the first-world terrorist tragedies?

Last Friday—for two consecutive Fridays—I witnessed hundreds of jovial, hyper, cheerful, beautiful bodies undulating to the musical heartbeat of downtown Asheville’s drum circle. Why do they dance? What happens after 10pm when the dancing and drumming stop—as each of us head home or head somewhere where no one sees us? A long time ago, in the mountains of the Cordilleras where I grew up, village souls dance during rice/palay sowing season, a dance-prayer for rain commences like a breakfast ritual. They gather around a bonfire, they sing and they dance, then they sit and talk about how to stop the bombs from falling and the hunger to stop by protecting the earth that feed them.

A few years ago, I stayed in a Cherokee village in Tahlequah in Oklahoma—in gentle, strong words, I was told, “Are you going to write the spirit, publish them for a corporate ad? Or are you going to return to the spirit and live with us with your beautiful words on paper, my son? Your body is your home and your church, and this spirit that I hand to you is the force that will make you write the spirit… You will always be welcome.”

As I sunk in my floor-bed in 70 Woodfin Place, I asked, “Why does a peaceful dance of love should be equaled by a destructive act of terror?” I need to find the answer to that… But I remember as I lay my tired body down on that cold earth in that forest idyll as I watched the dancing by a bonfire—I felt a distant ache of indifference. I tell myself, we can do that everyday, we can chant the mantra every minute, we can praise the Blue Sky Goddess every hour—do we have to check the oil to the car, do we have to work 25 hours in a day to fund a trip to the woods, do we have to look at this as a “reality TV” fare? I wouldn’t be surprised if one day, the day-to-day life of a young Michigan man caught in the Iraqi war becomes a reality TV blockbuster, and
we wouldn’t even notice or understand the misery within because we are all busy working day jobs and that, that TV gig, is just a way to ease the wearied bones and mind…

What if there are no vehicles lining down on long stretches towards the entrance to the rainbow gathering? Would that mean that these beautiful souls will walk to the woods or cancel the trip—would they still start a fire and dance, cant we all do this in our own community, in our own
backyard? Why do we have to travel, why do we have to “prepare”? What if the firedance means a good harvest and food at the table, and not a “way to shake the work-weary anatomies?”

What if a morning sharing of songs by a circle means a collective stand toward a real, safe houses for those who don’t have them? What if a “rainbow gathering,” a “drum circle,” a “bonfires for peace” actually means the continuance of the life of the village, the nurturing of the heart of the community? What if all these aren’t just occasions, events, festivals, and spectacles to save credit card money from and a weekend in all our 365 days?

The Blue Sky God/dess has a way at telling us to wake up and do something to stop the pain. But are we listening? Am I listening? A long time ago, in a remote in village in India, I left my friends as they meditated in the woods, they meditated no end, believing the meditation will stop the war. I left them to go back to the city and continue a young journalist career—as a
genocidal dictatorship continued to claim more lives and make more people hungry. Many of my friends perished, some joined the status quo, I survived two near-death experiences… but here I am, still dreaming.

I ask myself how many researches and data have we done to alleviate the pain? How many college degrees have we consumed money and time on—so we could possibly understand the human condition? How many millions of funding have we consumed in twenty years to help save this earth? How many rock stars gathered in baseball fields and concert halls so they could infect the vibe? But look at “Brother Sun and Sister Moon and Mother Nature”—they have deteriorated in staggering, stunning, monstrous proportions in just less than five years? How many woodstocks and live 8s and star-studded concerts and 15-committee-preplanned street marches have we produced and organized to stop the greed and bigotry? Yet how many wars have destroyed the heart of the community in the last twenty years?

But on that one day, few days ago, were the bombs that ripped through the innocent or were the rock stars who performed for peace and love in 8 cities of the world the ones actually responsible, for the almighty G8 to sign a billion-dollar voucher to the poor people of Africa? Do we have to go through all these… so that one sleight of hand could sign the paperwork that
equals the continued breathing of millions of humanity somewhere?

It’s a Monday morning. I apologize for the morning sermon in the mount. I’d like to thank Lacy MacAuley for picking me up in Asheville (from Alexandria VA) on June 30, and the ride to the Rainbow Gathering, then to the July 4 Dupont Circle protest in DC. Thanks for the accommodating heart, and I am sorry for the oblique self-righteous words though… Thanks to Laurie Blair, Shahid Buttar, Kristen Arant, and The Rhythm Insurgency for making me feel
at home with the vibe…

Thanks to Morgan Clarke, the young woman who helped me find my way in the dark as I almost collapse on that one night in West Virginia. This is a belated “thank-you” though because it has been a week since that weekend trip, I’ll return your call one of these days… Thanks to Marta The Nicer Osbourne for taking care of The Indie Crib while I was gone… Thanks to Drew of Rosetta’s Kitchen for donating his time as cook and for his very helpful advice/s on how to go about the benefit dinner (The Indie’s 3rd birthday) on July 17…

Thanks to 21-year-old rock organizer/producer Jaja Campos of the Philippines for your fire and zeal in helping me and Demi Pascua in putting up the first “Bonfires for Peace” concert in Manila… Thanks to The Blue Sky God/dess for watching over me. Good morning to all!

--Pasckie
8:08am. July 11 2005.
Asheville NC

pinoy chill-out moments, fells point evenings

2005-07-30T03:07:00.000-07:00

THE TRAVELING BONFIRES / VAGRANT WIND, Leg 4
May 24/25 to June 13. Alexandria VA, New York City, Jersey City, Baltimore MD, Washington DC.

THIS IS CERTAINLY a belated Vagrant Wind Road Journey, Leg 4 “journal/report.” It has been a full two weeks, 14 days, since I got back here in Asheville. Today’s June 27th, Monday, 5am—just a few days to my next trip to Richmond VA. I have just finished watching a longer version of “Woodstock,” following dinner/DVD-watching in Dale Hoffman’s family’s new house up in Candler last night. Truth is, I am about to freak your inboxes out again with my usual, elongated, ramble-on Updates, as me and Marta The Nicer Osborne busy our ever-crazy systems with pre-prod concerns leading to the next “Bonfires for Peace at Pritchard Park” (set on July 16 and Aug 6), and a dinner evening/intimate show 3rd year of The Indie benefit at Rosetta’s Kitchen on July 17. (There might be a “weekend” Bonfires engagement in Chapel Hill NC on July 8 and 9.)

Aside from a self-imposed 3 or 4-day “wavelength-realignment” jaunt somewhere in the woods near Fairfax, Virginia – from June 30 to July 3 or 4 – I haven’t drawn up the supposed fifth leg of Vagrant Wind yet. Although there is a looming “Bonfires for Peace in Manila” and a “Loud & Peaceful” rock extravaganza in Chapel Hill or Winston-Salem this August or late July, nothing is really concrete yet. (I will be discussing this in my Update, so wait up.) (I realize that there’s a more significant need to stay more days in Asheville this summer, than the road—but let’s see…)

The last road trip (May 24 to June 14?) was my longest, more than three full weeks or almost a month – away from my home-turf—but it was, nonetheless, the most intimate yet the most wearisome (albeit no Bonfires gig to supervise). I decided to cancel at least three previously booked Bonfires shows to focus and concentrate on rekindling old friendships, build new friendships, acquaintances, and networks, and hopefully, fortify previous connections and hook-ups.

My first stop was Alexandria VA—I just basically rested in Lacy’s house for couple of days/nights, sort of “refuel, pump up” energies and motivations before attending the Soweboarts Festival in B’more (May 29). Karla Mancero and Brian Langston picked me up almost noontime of that same day at the Greyhound terminal, downtown Baltimore. The Traveling Bonfires secured a space/stall at Soweboarts. I invited new buddy, Iris, to join me in handling/supervising The Bonfires spot—she, in turn, invited Andrew Byrne of/and Red Emma’s Bookstore to join us, with books, brochures, t-shirts etc.

About 5 or 6 other Red Emma’s staffers were also there, but it was Iris and myself, with intermittent help and fiery, inspirational words from Matt aka Counterfeitmatt and Andrew, who took charge at The Bonfires space. Iris supplied me with steady stream of beers and Food Not Bombs food… and warm and playful chit-chats (“I’ll be staying in a forest in upstate New York this summer... let’s get in touch,” “I just graduated and my parents threw me a party last night!” “How long you been traveling?”)

In between, I read three poems at the Poetry Stage that’s got drowned by a Rock Stage just a few yards away. Hmm, quite an experience… but, at least, a Maryland suburban couple and a young girl from Philly (“I can play the ukulele with violin, I call it ukulin!”) took serious notice of my poetry (and “strange cheekbones, are you Thai or Cherokee?”) and went on to buy my chapbook and CD. Very cool.

Familiar friends, cafes, vibes, and Bonfires performers: Estella Ramirez and Audrey didn’t-ask-her-last-name, Julie Fisher, Steve (the Aaron Neville-baritoned dude who openly sang love songs “for her, but she’s married” during Bonfires nights at Wydeye in Fells Point), Sarah Pinsker and Stalking Horses, Ocean May, Chris forgot-the-last-name-again, Peggy and Minas of Minas Gallery, Matt’s homeys, Ryan Coffman, Melanie Bazensky etc etc.

There was an after-event party at a nearby art gallery, me and Karla/Brian hanged out for an hour or so. I came across more familiar faces and Baltimore friends: Kelly Richmond, Justin, the-girl-with-colorful-beads, nameless souls that I saw in past Bonfires events, Jim Hickey, Steve of The Whole Gallery, etc etc… I realize I have already made many friends and acquaintances in Baltimore. I had a few minutes chat with Justin (“My band, Locust Grove, will be visiting Asheville again this summer…”) I met new people, new network. (I spent the night in Karla/Brian’s apartment near Hampden. Thanks for the homecooked late dinner and breakfasts…)

Second stop. Back to Alexandria VA—May 30, 31. Stayed/rested/planned things up in Lacy’s apartment. While here, I replanned and regrouped…

Third stop. New York City, Jersey City. June 1 to June 11. I decided to cancel/move a couple of shows and instead decided to cool things off and spend more time with longtime friends--Renrick Pascual in Jersey City, Kate O’Haley in Brooklyn, and my Pinoy rocker homeys. I wanted to dig in deeper about producing options, business perspectives. I have waited for a prospective (Charlotte NC-based) investor/business hook-up(?) to communicate but no words came. So I decided to chill, re-strategize, relax.

During these days, my Mother was again rushed to ICU in Manila—I simply stayed more to myself and walked, hanged out, pondered, ruminated all over East Village and midtown Manhattan. (My Mom, once again, survived the ordeal, thank God!) In between, I went and saw one of Sarah Blackman aka Ophir Drive’s gigs—the one at Paddy Reilley’s on First Avenue, was it? (I hanged out a bit, with her, at Grand Central Station…) Had a very serious conversation with Jason B, (his wife) Mitos, and Renrick—all about the, as ever, fragmented Pinoy community, oh well… Then, that weekend, I tagged along with Renrick to Westchester for that “wedding gig”—that time, I was a journalist cum roadie.

Nothing really physically draining, that time. I already reported, rambled about Gino Inocentes’ successful 10-band gig at Tribeca Rock Club in downtown Manhattan, I think, few days ago… well, that was a cool experience—to see and chill with my longtime friends again, Hmmm, all those bloated beerbellies, and stuff. Seems like everybody’s domesticated, all of a sudden. But, hey, the real story here—was Marta The Nicer Osborne’s awesome, productive stewardship/handling of The Indie Crib and Indie/Bonfires affairs while I was away… Of course, again, I’ve already reported that last week.

June 12, Philippine Festival in Towson, MD (or Baltimore), with Lacy. I just basically spent the day drinking San Miguel beer (Pinoy beer), chatted with Filipino pals (Jimmy, Eric, Marco, Jun, Anthony etc etc) about concerts and all that stuff (including possible new concerts in Virginia)—while Lacy attended to her $1-a-minute massage therapy service. (I sold some of my CDs, too, cool!) The event ended relatively early, at 6pm. Lacy treated me to a beside-the-waters dinner at Fells Point…

And so that’s the fourth leg. It's more personal, than Bonfires-related, right? I think I gotta do my own blog... Do I sound like I am still tired? I don’t know. I really need a break this week—so I’ll be somewhere in the woods of West Virginia starting Thursday night. But I won’t be reporting details of that rendezvous when I head back here on July 4th or 5th.

Gracias!

--Pasckie
5:34am. June 27 05.
Asheville NC

george washington univ, c note bar, wydeye coffeehouse

2005-07-30T02:55:00.000-07:00

THE TRAVELING BONFIRES / VAGRANT WIND, Leg 3
May 7, 11, 13, 14 2005. New York City, Baltimore MD, Washington DC.

GEORGE WASHINGTON University's indoor Hippodrome struck--or eeriely snuggled up--at me like an insistent shot of tequila snaking down my chest. It's warm but it's also intoxicating. The venue of the event--"Students Taking Action Now for Dafur"--where I read two poems with DC's The Rhythm Insurgency cozied up on me like chill out time by a Hard Rock Cafe. There was a pretty decent row of neat bowling lanes on the same floor, various TV screens with the NBA playoffs beaming like sugar-coated enticements counterpointing fiery, sublime passion exuding out of the students spirits... and we had comfy Jennifer couches to lounge on, not rough-textured street gutters. As I read "Black Poem, Blue Ink, Red Blood" and "What is Peace?" -- I knew, I felt that the words connected like a flaming bullet conjectured deep, deep down.

That--THAT--is what Paul Simon eulogizes, sermonizes as "the sound of silence," the aching contradiction that magnifies, articulates, empowers a sociopolitical kick. That is where we exuberantly, persistently separate the dark from the light, the black from the white--and scream out the true, sincere message of humanity. We have been pretty comfortable lately... we should switch off the TV, mute the bowling alleys, dump the sofa bed, and head out the streets. Rock it!

THUS I BEGUN the Third Leg of the Vagrant Wind Road Journey. After an energetic, sweetly-tiring mini-tour of Washington DC's Adams Morgan and DuPont Circle neighborhoods with Lacy McAuley -- climaxed by twin, half-nervous swigs of Jose Cuervo at a park bench afront Uncle Sam's seat of power -- I joined Laurie Blair, Kristen Arant, Jessica Philie, and the rest of The Insurgency's spoken word/drumming ensemble with GWU's student performers on a 3-hour wake-up advocacy for the beautiful but sorrowful, famine/genocide-stricken kindreds in Sudan.

After spending two nights and a day in Lacy's pad in Alexandria VA... she drove me back to the Greyhound on the 9th (morning) for my trip to New York City, where the second "Leg Three" show happens at the C-Note in The Village. I didnt make it to the first two sets--by Sarah Blackman aka Ophir Drive (7-8pm) and The Atomic Grind Show (8-9pm)--but I was able to stride in the fully-packed club as Mambola started its set. "We'd like to thank Pasckie Pascua of The Traveling Bonfires for organizing this show," Ruben Austria interjected on the middle of their set. "He traveled 18 hours, North Carolina to New York, to watch a one-hour show."

That's all I ever needed to soothe my aching backs (walking from 1st Avenue all the way to Thompkins Square to Avenue A to C, with my laptop wearing me down like a payloader on my left shoulder). Sarah was there, alright... I said hello for about 7 seconds, shook hands with AGS's bassist Geoff Zink, then I slid back to the bar and finished my $5 Corona--that's all I could afford for the night, I guess. I wanted to talk more with Sarah and exchange pleasantries with the The Atomic Grinds, but... maybe it's the relatively expensive beer (yes, dearie, no PBR or Natty Bo in downtown Manhattan), my nonchalant snobbishness or aloofness at it again, or I was just plain-and-simple tired. But Sarah promised to buy me ten beers the next time I get to New York so...

AFTER THE C-NOTE show, I spent few hours at a pizza joint, chatting (or listening) with Ruben and the rest of the Mambolas and their friends, including sister Liza and bro John. As usual, Benrubs made us all squirm and/or laugh with his surreal, grim, crazy subway stories ("This middle-aged Chinese woman caught this subway rat by her foot... on her white Nike shoes, then stomped at the poor fella and then squashed the dude dead, eekkk, eeekkkk, then picked the lifeless thing up, and dumped it!") Oh well, dont mistake it--it was more of a joke, okay. I think I'll book Ruben as a standup comic next time...

My next day in New York, I spent with longtime friends Kate O'Haley in Brooklyn, Renrick Pascual (across the Hudson River to Heights, Jersey City), and Lally Cenabre in Manhattan. My couch-moments with Kate, as expected, was sisterly/brotherly consumed with me listening to, "Pasckie,why dont you get a business manager? Why do you keep on eating these crazy foods? Why dont you rest for three straight weeks, at least... Stay, I'll fatten you!" but it was all very family, very warm. Then, in Ren's house--although I didnt feel any semblance of him coproducing a CBGB gig with me soon--he was, as usual, my soul bro ("Sleep good, man, I'll wake you up when lunch is ready, pare, I will cook your shrimp broth and beef dish.")

Lally bought me a Japanese dinner near 42nd street, as we talked about a future nonprofit project for elderly Filipinos in NY, NJ and Connecticut, a big fundraise featuring enduring Pinay diva Carmen Patena ("She has sung for many a-presidents of many countries...") who talked with me on the phone ("Yesssss, I want to visit Asheville!") ... the rest, we simply talked about community gossip.What's so touching about chillin' and hangin' out with my Filipino buddies, every time I hit NYC or New Jersey, is that--I feel I just "came home" to my most intimate soul, I spend moments with friends who are more concerned with the amount of sleep that I take or the "healthiness" of the junk food that I swallow than the "success" of my American journey... or "...whatever it is that you are searching for" (as Kate puts it).

It's not that my other non-Pinoy friends arent concerned about these endearing, heartfelt intimacies... they do, they really do, especially Marta The Nicer Osbourne (who never fail to email me every two hours), and for this particular trip--Lacy (who even cooked/prepared my travel food and dinners/breakfasts, gave me massage---well, she's a pro massage therapist--and picked me up in Baltimore from DC and VA on the last night and day of this particular leg... she was already so tired as she drove that last night that we had to make a quick rest stop so she could take a nap), and Daniel Stuelpnagel who provided my crash bed for almost five days in his new apartment near Fells Point's waterfront neighborhood in Baltimore.

The C-Note show... It was one of those gigs that most talent buyers and booking agents call "successful." Mike McHugh of New Century Productions--the booking mainman that I deal with in New York--was so pleased with The Bonfires bookings at the C-Note that he again offered me more spots at the club this summer. (So Mambola and Ophir Drive--with new find, the two-sister Albany NY duo Sweet Bread--will be back there at the C-Note on July 5, plus in hopefully other NY clubs, this summer.)I wish I still had time. I wasnt able to meet up with promotions consultant Mabel Arenas and club owner/manager Nell Castellvi in Queens (in re paying club gigs and concert hall shows for Mambola)... artist Jennifer Larkin in the East Village (in re NY art exhibition and just to hang out)... and radio host Jason Baquilod in New Jersey (more conversation and another radio interview). All these will have to be followed up on the upcoming trips.

MAY 11, WED, BALTIMORE. Daniel Stuelpnagel (himself preparing for a twin art exhibition opening that week) picked me up at the Greyhound. We didnt have much time so we drove straight to Frederick MD... I was a featured poet in a monthly writers gathering by a community group called Dreamers, on invite from its head honcho Daniel Armstrong. It was a very attentive, intimate audience, mostly older than the usual crowd (that listen to my work)--held in a relic/landmarked coffeehouse. An Indonesian woman shared her poetry in Bahasa and Mandarin (her fiance read the English translation) and an older man read a poem about my home-country (Philippines) that he wrote when he fought with Filipino soldiers in the Pacific during WWII. Another man read a rhyming verse about chickens as the cappuccino machine supplied the background effects. It was so cool... I was also able to sell two CDs and three chapbooks.

On the 12th, I just spent chilling by Fells Point waterfront, watching swans glide as rain poured down... when rain started to fall harder, I consumed the rest of my afternoon at Wydeye Coffee House, writing and checking emails. (Thanks to owner/manager Jay for providing the internet connect.) I didnt realize that Karla Mancero and Brian Langston were holding their Thursday poetry workshop that night... she invited me to join in... Darlyn Horgos (who will be reading with me there at Wydeye the next day) was there, "I was at Daniel's studio..." (I realized that I told her that I will be there, too, but I always forget things these days...")

FRIDAY THE 13TH, The Bonfires third show/gig for this leg--The Royal, Federal Hills, seven acts, including two high school bands from Gaithersburg MD--Crease and Payoff, who brought their parents and cousins and other relatives to watch them rock ("Take my breath away..." / "Oh my love, my darlin'...") The owner (a guy named Mark, who looked like Simon of American Idol) was very hopeful about a huge turnout for the night (based on our cool turnout precedents at Frazier's). The City Paper had three cool mentions about the show that week...

We had a pretty within-minimum draw for the night, but I guess, we just expected too much. On a given night, it was fine--but the hype wasnt cool, sometimes The Bonfires is so hyped up that I felt like a superman-who-cant-lose-a-kryptonite, you know what I'm saying? What if it wasnt The Bonfires organizing, what if it's just a three-act gig that's booked on random? I mean, a 50+ draw for the night was within-expectation, but when people hear that we had 200+ on two consecutive gigs/dates in a Hampden club, well, that's too stiff an act to follow (considering that it's our first gig at The Royal).

Yes, I was silently frustrated with the turnout, and friends who were there felt that (the following day, Marco and Gino sent me warm words of encouragement). Well, Eric Pepa (Angie's dad) and Jimmy Almario supplied all my beers that night (so thankful about The Indie/Dale Hoffman's short review of Angie's EP) + a t-shirt and a 1/4 first-ad in the next Indie issue, so why am I sulking? And yes, Darlyn was there again (it touched me so to see friends show up in almost all of my invites).

However, more than half of the acts and their crowd were below age limit (to drink alcohol), so that's bad news to club business. So no matter how Eric and Jimmy, and Gino and Marco, consume more beers, the bar's aint gonna be happy. The door earned its beyond-$150 cut (but the club also gets 30% cut on top of that)... honestly, I was so saddened by the relatively slim turnout that, to this date, I havent actually found out if we actually earned anything. But I did hand a couple of 20s to at least three acts as a gesture of support. (Kate: "No, Pasckie, you dont do that... you dont have to spend for their gasoline if the gig didnt earn, you always do that, man!")

FELLS POINT, THE 14TH. It was the Wydeye show, the last show on this leg.I didnt expect it, but our rollickin' Bonfires Beatboxer, Shodekeh, suddenly showed up. It was a rainy night... quite the ambiance that asks for intimate poetry, I guess. But Dominic aka Shodekeh fired it up first. Wydeye has a very cozy, comfy living-room feel, by the way. As usual, the two couch/seven-to-eight chairs were all occupied. Darlyn (I can call her Darlin', I guess, for always being present) read her "hometown/bedroom breezy" poetry straight from a neatly-collected journal... Texas-born Estella Ramirez, the other featured performer, arrived with three, I guess, schoolmates at Johns Hopkins Univ--Chinese, Filipino, American--at around 10pm (as she promised, soaking wet, coming from a marquee rockfest featuring Coldplay and Foo Fighters). Her voice has a kneading, warm rawness to it, very warm... and yes, as she promised me, she sang "Cucurucucu Paloma." Nice, warm evening. There were three sets of couples, focusedly listening (one--the young woman sat by her boyfriend's lap)... there were young Latina girls there. Estella's friend Audrey (who was with her, when I asked Estella to sing three songs in between two bands at the last Frazier's gig) was also there.

As I walked back from Aliceanna Street all the way to Fleet Street towards Canton where Daniel's pad is located... I felt that the minor sadness of the previous night's gig at The Royal was over, it was just a night, it was over. And to culminate a quietly satisfying evening, Daniel's second-day of exhibition opening with friends Cinder Hypki and Naomi Sullivan was a huge success ("I didnt expect it, I am overwhelmed!") He also sold two paintings...

THE FOLLOWING DAY, the 15th... I was supposed to attend another invite from students of Goucher College (a personal invite from Iris who was at my Red Emmas reading last month) to an event by an environmental activist group (BuGs) at The Jerk Store near The Harbor. But I was just so tired... I consumed the morning in Daniel's pad, catching up on my emails and Indie writings. In the afternoon, I again went near the waters of Fells Point and wrote a few poems, had some beers and chilled oysters at The Admiral's Cup, later had dinner with Daniel... and then engaged him to lengthy conversations as I waited for Lacy to pick me up at around 11pm.

Again, I spent another night in Lacy's pad in Alexandria... before noontime, she drove me to the Greyhound for my trip back to Asheville. I was supposed to read poems in another invite from a group called Word Works (c/o Yvette Moreno) based in Chevy Chase MD, near DC, I think--but, yes, I overshot/overbooked myself, I gotta rest, so I didnt go. As I strode inside the terminal towards ticketing, Lacy called out with a bag of food and a jug of water... Yes, again, I forgot these things.

The intimacy of this neverending journey, not the seeming physical/material "success" of the tiring efforts and "sublime madnesses" are the beautiful gifts of humanity that, I know, make The Blue Sky God/dess watch over me, and supply me more energy and inspiration to carry on... The food prepared just for me, the warm hands massaging my beaten-up spinal column, the 3-second recognition said on the mic before each song, the free beer handed to me as I remind the soundperson to fix the bass amp, and the words... the words..."...

I had not glanced at your photo on my mobile phone, but I did notice your long dark hairs on my pillow, and shared with you a distant smile... Remembering your fiery warmth..."Yes, the journey has just begun... it never ends, it always begins. The fourth leg has started in Chapel Hill NC last Friday, May 20th. See you this weekend, somewhere in Baltimore...

Gracias!

--Pasckie
Asheville NC.
1:20pm. May 23.

breakin' barriers--the sweet sound of highway freedom

2005-07-30T02:48:00.000-07:00

THE TRAVELING BONFIRES / VAGRANT WIND,
Leg 2April 20, 21, 22, 23. Baltimore MD and Washington DC.

ALMOST 30 hours have elapsed since last aftermidnight--when we arrived here at The Indie/The Traveling Bonfires Crib on 70 Woodfin Place in downtown Asheville, wearied by aching backs but comforted by well-fed spirits, from Baltimore and DC. A sober but warm Mozart sonata gently wafts, pacifies--in the quiet of this basement office where the Vagrant Wind summoned my spirits one winter night, whispering the sweet sound of highway freedom where sincere, honest recitations of big city struggles converge with small town glory in a peaceful marriage of poetry, music and handshakes.

Vagrant Wind's second leg has slowly but surely broke a barrier, built a bridge that may connect peoples together through musical ambivalence and beautiful words and hugs and how-are-you's -- but this time, the spirit cushions the emotional setbacks and physical strain. It was a five-day journey that was as human as a mother torn between the silent joy of performance and the glorious duty of being a parent to an amazingly hyper-exuberant kid, all bunched in a 500-mile journey away from home -- and as intimate as a singer who shares heartaches from a love lost and had to be graciously asked to stop because the cafe was already closing...

Few days before April 20, the night I hopped in a Greyhound to Baltimore, a Filipino-American friend Jason Baquilod, a radio deejay in Elizabeth NJ, called me and asked, "Why cant we be one? We are all Filipinos in America?" He called after I wrote a long letter to my Filipino friends--all involved in organizing/producing/performing in a little vibrant world we call Pinoy Rock Scene--in New York City in the midst of a brewing tempest... The gist of the letter was, "Let's not fight anymore, let's just rock and have fun."

Almost six years since I founded the organization that soon became The Indie/The Traveling Bonfires in New York City--at that time, with a quixotic resolve to usher a venue from which the hugely-fragmented Filipino-American community could possibly unite or dialogue as a community... almost four years since 9/11 when I left New York for Asheville NC, wounded but hopeful... I can still feel the persistent need to dream of peace in unity, agreement in diversity, community in crosscultural divergence. The challenges keep mounting but I still believe the journey is heading on the right direction.

Last Saturday night, at Frazier's on the Avenue, a young white urban-bred woman who calls herself Hop Along Queen Ansleis broke the silence by beautifully (musically) screaming her truths out in a male-dominated world and society. A shy smile and a brave heart, this lovely soul, who's apparently still too young to score Natty Bo but old enough to know better--sang her heart out and we all paid attention.

Then another young soul--Counterfeitmatt--with a virulent energy enough to break barricades (much less his guitar strings) pierced the night even deeper with some help from (Blue Star Kachina's) Phil Swaby's counterpointing fiddle. But a heart was revealed when he acknowledged his parents in the crowd who came to watch him perform. However, it was when Dominic aka Shodekeh, whose dark African-American skin shone amidst the club's dim lights, who got us all in a kind of "multicultural, cross-genre interface" via his mystifying, rollicking "beatboxing" talking-mic numbers. The dude is a one-man drum machine, spin wiz, and Chris Rock minus the motor mouth and/or any techno instrument, whatsoever.

Queens Ansleis jammed with Shodekeh, then Joe Fernandez (of P.I.) and Justin (of Blue Star Kachina) alternated on the drums, then Kelly Richmond danced along with The Beatboxer, then Dave Cipriani had Shodekeh supply the rhythm section to his Eastern-vibed guitar. Then, another lovely young woman, Estella Ramirez, whom I invited from the crowd to sing three songs jammed along with Shodekeh's awesome "musical mic." Oh well, how my Pinoy buddies (from the bands The Moonbugs and P.I.) relished the "karnabal" ambiance.

It wasnt planned or scripted, it just happened, and it made the night a success... Well, if only that urban jungle demarcation line called "cover charge earnings" dont steal the glory away, if only... So, what the hell, I shared my beer budget to one or two or more friends in there, shot some pools, had fun emceeing the show, met quite a number of new people. There were many instances in my life when a mere $10 got me from Queens NY to Harrisburg PA to West Palm Beach FLA and back--while reading my poetry, organizing a show or two, and cooking my salmon cheese grill for my hosts... It can be done, the Blue Sky God/dess provides.The Frazier's gig was a more "vibrant" version of the Cafe Mawonaj show the night before. Although the show was filmed by Ken Meyercord of the public access TV show, "Songs of Significance," we werent able to pull in a crowd--as what/how we did in the March Bonfires show that was co-organized with the local group, The Rhythm Insurgency.

New friend and Bonfires believer Lacy McAuley and her sister and friend were there. (Lacy also watched the March show). Another new friend Darlyn Hergos--who shared a beer with me (with Daniel Stuelpnagel) at Bertha's in Fells Point after the Wydeye show on Thursday--drove from Westminster MD to DC to watch the show, too. That was pretty cool--when someone follows a Vagrant Wind from one show to the other, forget about the traffic. Daniel did that last March. There's another guy who was also at Red Emma's (Wed) and Wydeye (Thurs). So although we had almost the same lineup of performers in all four shows--it was indeed so cool to witness a few people watching at least two of the shows.

Unexpected moments never fail to touch me -- such as when I saw Nicole, a wonderful woman whose physicality is demobilized by a wheelchair but whose spirit is as daring and bold as a storm... she was at Frazier's. Her body was immobile but her face exuded a smile that was more articulate than my most intense and passionate poetry.

A bearded guy approached me, reminded me that I gave him my CD at the DC show, and that he liked it despite not understanding my Filipino lyrics--he asked if he could burn a copy of the CD for his female friend. Moments like these mean a lot--a smile and nice words from Estella R's friend, Lacy's presence amidst the slim turnout at Cafe Mawonaj, Dawn Humphrey's son Jed's exuberant aura making us all nervous, but, no doubt, back to the point of itall--The Traveling Bonfires is all about family.

Wednesday, April 20, Day One.I walked like three miles from Sowebo district (from Kelly R's house where we stayed) to St Paul street, where Red Emma's Bookstore Cafe is--and enjoyed the feeling of being alone filled with open-ended expectations. When I arrived at the cafe, I was told that we cant use a microphone, no amplified sound. Ouch! But as the night wafted along... we somehow managed to hooked up a guitar plug or two, and... I was surprise that we had such a great turnout for a small venue. The cafe earned some donations; the show earned some, too. I expected to earn money for the performers at Frazier's--but it was at Red Emma's where I managed to at least hand the performers gasoline money.

Red Emma's "steward" for the event, Kate Kathib, helped me set up and advised the "intimate crowd" about donations and, uhh, I guess, I gotta have that persuasive aura next time I host a show. I hope to book another Bonfires show there. Well, we must have broke some "noise" barriers there, but the cafe's staff seemed pleased with the event, so...Day Two, April 21, Wydeye Coffee House, Fells Point.It was very inspiring to enter the cafe--after Kelly R dropped me off--to be greeted by the owner/manager Jay ("What's up, man!") and to see Daniel Stuelpnagel already there. He bought me a latte and then we had a cool conversation from Toffler/Orwell to government devolution to the lost of humanity/identity in the midst of technological upsurge to self-marketing your artwork.

The show was actually a shared (intimate) event with Karla Mancero's poetry workshop. Wydeye is a small gallery/cafe that is like an average single individual's living room. When you see all the couches and seats occupied, that is crowded--so that's what I meant, it's intimate and crowded. We never ran out of performers here--Steve had to be told to stopped singing so we can all go home and that isnt bad at all. J Ryan Coffman was always ready with his dark, intriguing, mysterious, mythology-inspired poetry--which he preludes with a recitation longer than the actual poem--which isnt bad at all, it's just different.

Marta Osborne and Dawn Humphrey were to pick me up at Wydeye that night--from a long drive from Asheville NC. There was still time to kill so I had a beer with Darlyn and Daniel. Then Marta and Dawn arrived--and, yes, time to get lost finding our directions to Kelly Richmond's house. That's always the staple of the Vagrant Wind tour, anyway--getting lost. It's okay.Another side-moments to the entire experience were the sweet, friendly vibe that the venue owners/managers have extended to us.

At Frazier's, night manager Marty was always very nice, "No problem, I will take care of you guys" and sent the other manager home. (Did I complain about the bartender and the manager?) It's also cool that manager/booking person John Hill always arrive at the venue as we unwind the show to see if things went just fine. At Cafe Mawonaj, owner/manager Concei didnt show any disappointment for the slim turnout and even had to bring his computer down to the club so I can use it ("I need to check my emails every after four hours, I am sorry.") It's only after the shows were over that I paused to ruminate, was I being a brat? (I am sorry...)

There were also great, lasting, inspirational conversations--early morning talk with Kelly Richmond (about Hopi Indian mythology), aftermidnight chat with violinist Phil Swaby (about being a journeyman musician), early evening joust with artist Daniel Stuelpnagel, "homebound" poetry with Darlyn Hergos, and the young Filipino musicians who looked at me with buddy respect as an older statesman or a grizzlier rocker. I thank VeeGee Pineda of the band The Third Element for driving all through the traffic to Frazier's just to tell me in person--all in about 7 minutes--that he is donating half of his sound management earnings to The Bonfires fundraise on May 21.

Yes, I was mildly shattered by the news that the City Government of Asheville has refused to give us access to the power/electricity source for the supposed "Bonfires for Peace" concert at French Broad River Park... but I usually tend to feed my heart and spirits with the good news, such as new friends, new believers who offer help as I hit the road with whoever wants to share the sweet madness--than dwell on the bad news.

Eleanor Crowe of The Mountain in Highlands NC mentions, through her email, about friends who could help me organize shows in Boston... and/or who might provide me a crash couch as I lay over in Chapel Hill NC as a featured guest in an open mic at Branch's on May 20--the start of the third leg of the Vagrant Wind tour. And, yes, Justin Gostony's assurances that we will have Bonfires t-shirts and merchandise very very soon! And, Athens GA-based band Lionz sending out a new mix of their song that they're contributing to The Bonfires CD compilation. And Matthew Mulder letting us borrow four of his paintings to help liven up the TV-covered show at Cafe Mawonaj. And, Kelly Richmond and Justin (of the band, Locust Grove) offering their humble abode and respective rooms to us travelers...

And not to forget, there was also Jim Hickey, current Chair of the Soweboarts Festival in Baltimore, personally submitting The Bonfires application for a free stall at the festival on May 29.When I left Manila in 1998, it was partly because I felt that the Philippines has become too small for my spirits to soar, and yes, the military government (and even after that) wasnt too accommodating to my "rock journeys and sublime madnesses." So in New York City, I continued the journey, the community thought my efforts were admirable but intimidating--until 9/11 sent me reeling towards the South. Then I found Asheville... It was very cool, until they snuffed the bonfires away. Or have they?

But PEACE is within, not without--whether it's in a park or in a coffeeshop, afront thousands of souls (as in Manila in the 80s) or within an intimate coffeeshop with a crowd of 10 (as in Malaprops Cafe in Asheville or Wydeye in Baltimore)... As long as peace resides in the human heart, the fire will burn and it will grow into a bonfire where people will gather, converge, connect... the vagrant wind will always be traveling without a home because as I write in my poem, "I do not have a country because all countries are mine... the journey is my home."See you on the third leg!

--Pasckie Pascua
Asheville NC
3:11am. April 26 05. Tuesday

beaumont street warmth, unchained melodies, punk-rock guitars

2005-07-30T02:41:00.000-07:00

THE TRAVELING BONFIRES / VAGRANT WIND, Leg 1
March 10, 11, 12. Baltimore MD and Washington DC.

IT'S A FEW MINUTES past 3 in the morning of Monday, March 14. We have just concluded the first leg of the Vagrant Wind up-north spring-to-fall tour for 2005. I am back in The Indie Crib. I initially planned to write my sort of "road report" when I wake up early this afternoon, after a much-needed rest--but I couldnt sleep, so I am back in front of the desktop. I have just watched an MTV-like Dutch movie, "Siberia" and I am having my third Miller Lite. Silence... We had a pretty easy, safe, jokes-filled 9-hour drive back... Sarah McLachlan, The Doors, Jim Morrison's "An American Prayer," Deep Purple, Korn, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Cake, Eva Cassidy, Leonard Cohen, Bob Dylan etc accompanied us on the road, 513.14 miles of cold and hot concrete, with some rain. A brief early-dinner at a Cracker Barrel near Hickory NC was pretty nice...

It was very enlightening, inspiring, and motivating few days road trip to Baltimore and Washington DC. Before I ramble on--I'd like to continue sending my peaceful and very-thankful vibe to Tim and Joyce Wheeler of Baltimore, for continually accommodating me (and my Bonfires companions) in their very warm and comfortable house in Beaumont street near Towson. Next time, in my next trip, I promise to (again) cook my seafoods dish/es for the Wheeler family (I wasnt able to do it this time though)... Even their two house dogs were very cuddly and friendly; I cant help missing the Wheelers each time I head back to Asheville after staying with them, a wonderful family.

The poets that performed at Wydeye, certainly, have very diverse thematic lines. J Ryan Coffman's was dark, deep but very human and passionate; Cinder Hypki's were very familial and poignant, as well as aesthetically sharp; Riley Schilling's mirror the screaming inner power of a young soul itching to break his truths to the world at large... same with Karla Mancero's and Brian Langston (who also sang some of his original work); counterfeitmatt's (or, simply Matt) street-smart, straight-out unplugged punk/rock guitar interwoven with Baltimorean angst and sensitivity was a sure delight. Then, of course, those who joined the open mic (Steve, Kelly Richmond, Jacob) made that Thursday evening chilly waterfront air so warm.

The Cafe Mawonaj show was a blast, a party. It could be one of the most entertaining spoken word/drumming shows that I've been part of in the last few years. Laurie Blair, Kristen Arant, and The Rhythm Insurgency certainly feel so peaceful and at-home with their craft--the political power of the words, metaphors, and the drums were so overpowering yet so subtle. The Princess of Controversy was superb, her voice/stage presence reminded me of the Nuyorican poets of the mid80s in New York City. It was a very endearing multicultural event: Jorge Gomez from Bolivia, Men Maa Aim Ra, Bobby Ben, Riley S, and myself--I simply dont get tired reading my "Black Poem, Blue Ink, Red Blood"--especially that I am sure the words touched so many hearts.

Although, we again were late to start the Minas Gallery show (where is north of Cold Springs Avenue, west of Falls Road?)--I was amazed to see that the small gallery/reading space was decently filled when I arrived to emcee the show. There were new people there, too, who came over to listen, intrigued by The Bonfires. Kevin Son-of-Nun was awesome (one day, I'd love to memorize my poems, too, and try to emulate the way spoken word acts do their verses and rhymes), counterfeitmatt broke his guitar string but that youthful intensity is simply very touching, and yes, Ryan Coffman again read his well-researched poetry (Medea, Odyssey etc).

And, oh yes, the all-Pinoy bands show later in the evening... is all about community, it's a fiesta! Families with their kids (7 or 9-year olds) enjoy the ambiance while some cool Pinoy rock n roll from The Third Element and Worst Case Scenario, highway-to-boardwalk double-barrel punk from P.I., and a nice, cozy pop-rock by the almost (except the guitarist) all-girl Crease. Hmmm, covers of Berlin's "Take My Breath Away" and Righteous Brothers' "Unchained Melody"--what else do you want over buffalo wings, broccoli and spring chicken, white rice and sweet-and-sour pork, and Buds?

I HAVE TO persistently, redundantly admit that I am still very perplexed, surprised, and mystified that the short Bonfires tour is a huge success. I told myself before the trip that--if the DC (Cafe Mawonaj) and Hampden (Frazier's) shows get a good turnout, then I'd be so happy. Laurie Blair and The Rhythm Insurgency did a great job in helping us make the wonderful Cafe Mawonaj ("Vagrant Wind Cries Peace") event something to remember. I however didnt expect that the other "satellite" poetry readings/acoustic gig at Wydeye Coffee House in Fells Point and Minas Gallery in Hampden (despite us being late--lost again!) will gather such a decent number of "intimate" audience.

Daniel Stuelpnagel, an artist, was present in all three poetry readings--he's one of those who responded to the small "Vagrant Wind" that were circulated around. Melanie Bazensky, who was here in Asheville last summer (when MD-based bands, Locust Grove and Platoon, visited the mountains), was also on attendance in both Wydeye and Minas shows. I'd also like to thank these two young ladies--Lacy Macauley (in DC) and Claire (of Baltimore)--among the others (forgot their names) who personally approached me and pronounced how they enjoyed the shows, and are expecting the upcoming Bonfires gigs in their city. Another Asheville visitor last summer (with her ex-band Platoon, which played for the "Bonfires for Peace at Pritchard Park")--Kelly Richmond--joined the performance at Wydeye.

The manager of Wydeye, Jay, said that whenever we want a gig there again, just to call. Same with the very friendly Concei of Cafe Mawonaj (oh, I love the goat dish!). As usual, Marty and John (Hill), managers of Frazier's on the Avenue, were very pleased with the very enthusiastic crowd in our rock concert later in the evening of Saturday. Oh well, I had a swell time emceeing the show! Too bad that we decided beforehand that the 4-band show end at 12:30midnight (instead of 1:30am)--because the bands still wanna rock. The DC-based P.I. did two small sets, but the crowd still wanted more. I plan to book 7 bands/acts at Frazier's for April... If I am able to fix my accommodation in DC, I'd be glad to visit the city again and experience their very vibrant and dynamic poetry community. Karla Mancero also expressed interest in coordinating (with me) an outdoor event in Baltimore this summer.

OF COURSE, me and Marta and Riley are tired and all. But we cant deny the fact that aching bones and wearied head are made warm and rested by the thought that we made lots of people happy in those shows. The Bonfires books Mambola (the bossa novva/jazz band by Indie founding member Ruben Austria) in New York City's C-Note in Manhattan on March 22 and March 29. (On May 9, The Bonfires books for 4 hours at the C-Note.) I have cancelled my NYC trip from March 18/19 (for March 22 gig) to the weekend before March 29. I might have a few days stop/layover in DC. Major part of the NYC trip is related to the possible publication of a Filipino community version/edition of The Indie for May, June and July. I will be talking/meeting with NY-based marketing people, Mabel Reginio and Lally Cenabre.

Meantime, here in Asheville, I am contemplating of doing a regular Bonfires open mic at Bearly Edible Cafe downtown. Riley has also booked an all-teens slam poetry/spoken word show at Port City Java in Candler-Enka for March 31. Bonfires artist Justin Gostony is also working on the new, refurbished and improved Bonfires website (www.travelingbonfires.com, we already own the domain). We hope that the new site will be available for viewing in a few weeks or a month. Paul Clarke, Scene Editor of Asheville's daily Citizen Times, is also writing a features story about the youth poetry scene in WNC--dovetailed on the Port Java show on March 31, and The Traveling Bonfires' initiatives.

Okay, I guess, I gotta hit the sack now.

--Pasckie Pascua.
3:14am. 14 Mar 05.
Asheville NC