The jester and plant were both there, under the auspices of things that are best left undisclosed in this public forum. Suffice it to say we had a blast, but let’s stop with the introductory ramblings and actually dig into the heart of the monster shall we?

Is there a better way to start off one’s experiences at a huge hippie-fest than getting stuck in the mud? Well, I can think of a few, but I wasn’t that lucky, so mud it was. And there was plenty of mud about for the stalwart cognoscenti crew to drive through as they attempted to figure out where in the hell they were as opposed to where in the hell they needed to go. Not being the driver, it fell upon me to doff shoes and socks and sink up past my ankles into the mud to shove at the vehicle in futility. Luckily, hippies are friendly sorts, and have this weird attraction to mud, so we got some help shoving and were soon free.

Rothbury was the first major music festival that your humble narrating jester has ever attended, and while I’m certainly not old, I have been accused of being curmudgeonly, and the crowd that plant and I found ourselves wandering through had the both of us feeling our not-all-that-advanced ages. Sadly, neither one of us are idiots, which left us in the terrible position of understanding precisely what the primary focus of the hordes gathered in the parking lot was. Comments about dentistry and an eye-popping assortment of helium balloons on nearly every corner of the festival site is a far cry from subtle, and before the drink started to take hold, I was beginning to get the fear.

Wandering around this instant city that was composed of far too many fucking RV’s for a festival that was attempting to paint itself green, surrounded on all sides by people who had gained an elevation that the jester himself was nowhere near, and utterly stunned by the lack of people playing guitars, the fear began to creep in.

Just who in the fuck were these people, and dear lord, did they actually compose my peer-group?

In hind-sight I will admit that the fault that first night was mostly my own, I have this problem with an over-active imagination that I’ve somehow managed to boot-strap onto my sense of doom-fed optimism (if that makes any sense to you at all, get in touch with me, you’re probably as bizarre as I) and the combination of these two fairly benign elements conspired to lead me into drawing up all manner of wild and far-flung fantasies in regards to the scene that I was to encounter in Rothbury Michigan.

Did I actually expect to be greeted by intelligently bizarre humans who had finally found a place where they could let down their hair and act out in all the manners that our straight-laced society would ordinarily never allow? Probably; more the fool me.

And in a sense that is exactly what I found, if you surgically remove the word ‘intelligent’ from the preceding statement. But why all these goddamn balloons? Is this really a generation so detached that the old stand-bys of alcohol and marijuana are not enough to allow folks to cut loose in their peer-group?

All signs pointed to yes. The next morning, you could find areas of the grounds positively littered with deflated balloons, sad reminders that John Lennon’s dreams of people coming together is still best accomplished with hard-core help.

In defense of this crowd I will have to drop the whole balloon issue and relate that once I’d managed to drain a goodly number of aluminum cans and gotten myself worked up the point where I would talk to absolutely anybody, the folks were cool.

And they came from everywhere, we met folks from both coasts in our perambulations that first night. I even found a couple people playing guitars, which pretty much killed whatever residue of the fear that had outlived the alcohol. With the jester’s ‘I don’t give a shit, I’ll talk to anybody’ persona taking the lead, plant and I talked our way into a bunch of crowds and were well received, despite the fact that said persona only manages to settle into the driver’s seat when I’m on the verge of falling over from beverage.

That first night, after the rest of the cognoscenti crew had passed out, I even managed to get myself involved in a great game of ‘throw the glow-sticks’ with some of our camping neighbors. And to offer up another defense of the Rothbury crowd; anytime you can have people climbing on other people’s RV’s without any sort of ugly scene breaking out, you must be in decent company.

I even managed to find my way into a circle where they were passing some sort of peace pipe around.

And as I’m sitting here, drinking beer and getting more and more tired as the moments pass, I realize that this is no place to get into the ins and outs of Rothbury, so let’s start condensing, then we’ll wrap with a few tales of a Saturday night that I can almost remember.

The grounds were gorgeous, the festival organizers had gone out of their way to provide exactly the sort of playground that people who walk around with balloons are likely to enjoy. Sherwood Forest was simply magical, and if various reports are to believed, there were a good chunk of folks there who believed in magic, be it aided by substances or not.

The music was absolutely incredible, the jester got to see Modest Mouse again, and they gave me shivers, the jester got to see Primus for the first time, and I now have empirical evidence to back-up my long-held conviction that Les Claypool is a mad-genius. I got to dance alongside a beautiful girl while Spearhead had the crowd feeling funky, and essentially I got swept up in the ‘good vibrations’ that perhaps can only come from that many people gathered peacefully together.

The organizers of the festival had even done a phenomenal job in their efforts to make Rothbury a ‘green’ festival.

But the tale that needs to be told is that of the Saturday night which the jester can hardly remember and has made him vow that never again shall he go full-throttle into the wilds of conversing with crowds lest he has some form of recording device concealed upon his person for the purpose of being able to recreate at least something of the magic that descends after the proper amount of alcohol has been ingested.

To set the scene, plant and I had made it to the start of the Dave Matthews set, only to wander away into Sherwood Forest in search of bizarre souls, and we found a few who helped us up that step-ladder so we could get a proper view of the grounds. Sat and had a pow-wow with a Michigan native and talked about the economy, which was a lot more fun than it actually sounds.

When plant crashed, the jester, being of ‘sound mind’ and wavering body made his way into the wilds of this instant city of tents and RV’s.

And now we can only provide fragments, which is sad, because Saturday night had a magic that had little to do with substances. Saturday night in Rothbury I made the momentous discovery of a brazen new way to associate with my fellow humans at festivals.

Basically, the conceit was this; I wandered about, calling out in the matter of a street-vendor . . .

“Intelligent conversation?!? Intelligent conversation, just a dollar a minute,” or variations on that theme. Anyone who laughed, or even giggled, I’d run to and engage in conversation.

To the best of my admittedly spotty recollection I made two dollars, (said dollars came from separate, attractive females that I totally failed to get anywhere with, besides feeling like a bit of a gigolo for selling my mind) was given approximately six beers, got myself invited into at least four smoking circles, didn’t have to smoke a single of my own cigarettes (because apparently cigarettes are a great trade for a spot of conversation that, while I won’t swear was intelligent, had to be entertaining [god I wish I had a recording device on me]) and put a pretty fierce dent in a bottle of Jack Daniels, which I have to say was a wonderful reward for the ten or so minutes I spent conversing with those two kind-hearted people who didn’t chase me off even when I began my drunken recitation of Dr. Seuss’ ‘The Lorax’.

On the notion of odd findings, I spoke with at least four people who had come to Rothbury from as far away as New York City and who hadn’t even made it into the inner grounds yet, being oddly content to sit in tent-city and profit from their illicit wares. What really surprised me was how open they were about it, and how nice they were to the drunk individual who suddenly came upon them and began interrogating them about their reasons for being in Rothbury. And before you ask . . . yes, I did try and talk my way into some free samples, but none of the dealers I spoke too that evening was that nice.

In the end, I have no idea how long I spent out in the wilds, mingling with my peers. But in the end, I think I walked away even more optimistic than I had been when we first established a foothold in the festival grounds.

Looking back, my recollections are colored by the news that has been trickling out about the two individuals who died at the festival, the fact that the Double JJ Ranch is descending into all manner of legal issues surrounding its fiscal solvency and the pessimistic side of my personality that keeps insisting that should Rothbury resurrect itself next year for another festival, it will have an almost impossibly hard time coming close to the fine high-note that was managed to be not only hit, but sustained over a good chunk of days.

And so, to close, all I have to say is that while I’ve always considered myself a lucky son of a bitch, the fact that I made it to the inaugural Rothbury, saw what I saw, conversed with the people I conversed with the people I conversed with and etc . . . why it would be enough to make a lesser mind believe in god . . .

As for me; the possibility of another Rothbury, the idea that humanity can actually make the needed changes to save ourselves from the brink of oblivion, the idea that there is some benevolent force watching out for all of us silly fuckers here on earth . . .

I’m staying agnostic.

- finite

should things be this obvious?

and then this…

-begin e-mail-
alright, so i’m eight days into this nonsense of trying to write a
book in a month and a problem that i’d never bothered to consider
has reared one hell of an ugly head, namely that instead of not
enough material i’m going to have way too fucking much,
being deprived of cigs i’ve been putting in some hard-core time
pacing about and behaving in ways that are irrational even
for me, but i just did the math on my current pace of word
out-put and instead of coming anywhere near 50,000 i’m going
to wind up with something like 117,330 which is going to be
400 + fucking pages, and i’m already having to fight with the
fact that it’s getting harder not to go back and fix shit, i’ve
already decided that if i go back and it’s just utter dreck i
might just have to burn the goddamn thing, because who in the
hell wants to edit something that fucking long if it’s a
complete and utter mess. my fucking story arc keeps shifting,
i just went through two brand-new scenarios of what the climax
and ending might look like, and i already had one figured out,
plus, i have absolutely nothing going on in terms of sub-plot,
yet i keep thinking of various scenes i could throw in there,
but that means going back, and i don’t want to go back yet,
because i don’t even now what ending i’m trying to get to,
never mind if i can or cannot get there yet
and now my neighbors are hooting at me,
they’re probably seeing the storm clouds from my over-heated,
nicotine deprived brain come drifting out the fucking window,
and the bastards hoot as if this is some kind of joke,
maybe they’re not hooting at me, i’ve been reading the doctor
again and it’s starting to affect me
jesus christ this e-mail is almost as much a mess as this
novel thing i’m trying to write . . .
oh yeah, i did figure out what my hero’s primary weapon is,
which perhaps partially explains why i’ve got a tent-pole with
a blue handkerchief wrapped around it for a handle stuck in
a sort of canvas sheath that i’ve safety-pinned to my pants,
goddamn it’s all coming together, or is that apart, i’m
confused by now,

so what are you up to fer memorial day,
i’m a hell of alot of fun at parties
and no, i do not want a cigarette
-end e-mail-

it really is a wonder i have any friends left at all
haha

i mean, without an outside viewpoint, can anything be truly beautiful? maybe it can, but i’m not interested in entertaining only myself, i want to share beauty with anyone who will appreciate it, or even those who won’t, because there are perhaps few things more terrifying than beauty that is not understood, or if we felt like polishing off an old chestnut that lays truth and beauty in a comfortable overlap, truth can be terrifying.

but what’s so beautiful about terror? well, if it is honest reaction to a truth, those moments of terror can certainly be more finely cathartic than any sort of hum-drum moment.

but dammit, i sat down to write about beauty, i want to create beauty, but obviously there is still this part of me that feels as though the world doesn’t deserve beauty, that ol’ boogie man of an ego that i keep under wraps of the sheerest gauze is poking his head out once again and casting about with all-encompassing statements, flying me to my mountaintop and pointing my eyes back towards humanity with these arrogant blinders,

to hell with you all!

imaginary people who aren’t even reading this, even if you stumbled here unintentionally, you gave up long ago and i’m not going to reach you and in the steam of my rage i’ve completely fogged over my initial intent

honestly, i just want to make beautiful things

honestly, i took the time tonight to tape together some sheets of clean white paper, i didn’t know what i wanted to draw, but i wanted to draw something, i’m not much of a visual artist, but i was in the mood to give into that gentle childish instinct to get out my crayons and scrawl out a pastoral, but in the mess that is my apartment, i couldn’t find my crayons, so instead i sat down at the keyboard and hammered out this . . . yet another convoluted metaphor for modern life . . .

sigh, i just want to make beautiful things, all i can find is my scissors

Every once in awhile I find myself reading a book that is just so impossibly true that it depresses the hell out me and compels me to continue reading non-stop thru the day until my eyes are strained, my nerves frayed, and my sense of indignation has been brought back to the forefront to the point that I feel like screaming at people. I imagine you’re currently scratching your heads and asking how it is that someone can actually enjoy this process. I loved this book, because it’s not just a book; it’s a weapon.

Ideally it’s the kind of weapon that one could employ by combining it with Daniel Quinn’s Ishmael and Wendell Berry’s The Unsettling of America and using the resulting heft (hardcovers work best) to bash at the shins of anyone who refuses to see the inevitable result of our ‘advanced’ agricultural practices. Well, in all fairness it’d probably be better to try and get these people to read these books first, but having just finished a cathartic chunk of hours being made suitably miserable by the raw and uncompromising beauty of Wolf Totem, I’m in the mood to lash out a little bit.

But allow me to back off the harshness a little bit and attempt to give you a decent reason or two to read the book. Well it’s an award winner and what’s more heartwarming, it has apparently outsold any other book in Chinese history except for Mao’s little red book, which looked at from the context of the novel is pretty god-damn hilarious, at least if you’ve got a sense of humor anything like my own.

Wolf Totem is set in Mongolia in the 1960’s, during a period when the lives of the indigenous nomadic herders is being upset by the needs to meet production quotas for the cultural revolution. Our narrator is a Chinese student who has been exiled into this community for some subversive something or other, and after two years has begun to take an interest in the beliefs of the nomadic people, specifically how their lives on the grasslands are held together by the wolves.

The dramatic thrust of the novel is held together by our narrator’s decision to raise a wolf cub, and the struggles he encounters in trying to maintain his position in the community despite bringing this very unorthodox idea to fruition. As the impossibility of attempting to ‘domesticate’ a Mongolian wolf becomes increasingly apparent, the entirety of the nomadic way of life come under attack by ‘well intentioned’ outsiders who only want to increase production, regardless of the cost that must be assumed by the ecology.

Outside of the two books I mentioned earlier, I can’t recall having come across a more lyrical and poignant portrait of the costs of short-sighted ‘progress’ and Wolf Totem has them both beat in terms of readability. It’s also a good deal thicker, more damage to the shins of idiots, and perhaps even better, it comes at its themes much more obliquely, which can be of great use in subverting the minds of those idiots in question. I will admit that it is often better to lead people into their own conclusions without beating them across the brow, or the shins.

If there is a fault in the novel it would be that it does tend to get a touch didactic, but given the subject matter and the beautiful descriptions of the countryside and the ways that the lives of these nomadic herders are held together, it’s a very forgivable fault. Our narrator is in this village with several other students and as they are awakening to a new understanding of the world it is only natural that they would carry on repeated conversations delineating their new-found convictions. The author himself was actually in this very position during this time period, so his voice rings with authority about the subject matter, which also lessons the problematic nature of some of the ‘sermonizing’.

Anyone who is a fan of wolves should read this book, as it contains some fascinating theorizing about the way that wolves have shaped not only Mongolia, but indeed the entire course of human history. Anyone interested in putting some more poetic arrows into their quiver of weapons against the ludicrous practices of industrial agriculture should read this book. And anyone who is still convinced that humans are doing just fine in the ways they go about living their lives on this planet need to be forced to read this book, or maybe just whacked across the shins with it.

Anyway, I’m standing there looking at a radio-flyer tricycle, we all know the one, classic design, I had one when I was a kid; but I’m standing there looking at this ubiquitous piece of childhood paraphernalia and it strikes me that this particular example has, very much like my own as a child, a marked difference between the aim of the handle-bars and the alignment of the front wheel.

I learned it at a young age, and I think it’s rather helpful . . .

Regardless of your best efforts to steer, sometimes you find yourself drifting to the left or to the right, and just because your efforts don’t always work out exactly as you hoped, you’ve got to keep steering anyway, because you have to keep moving forward.

at least this time i know what i am looking for
before it was only knowing that i needed…

…something

it is only after we have lost everything
that we are free to do anything

so i am going to go into the woods with one intention

i am going to kill myself

I am going to die.
i’ve know this for a while

and i am terrified of the thought

but aren’t we all? (i think that most of our problems and accomplishments come from this fact)

there is no birth without death

they are intrinsically linked

so i go to death with the hopes of finding myself

and becoming the phoenix

to rise up as my new self

i am going to the woods
i hope to find me there

wish me luck

goodbye

Last night my friend and I went out on a beer run to the local market, and as we’re standing in line, I notice this container on the counter. It was a plastic tub that originally held a nationally known brand of margarine, but now the top had a hole cut in the center and there was a hand-written note on lined paper taped to the side. I will make no claims to be able to reproduce the message word for word, but the main thrust was quite simple, and the note read something like this . . .

‘Please help my friend #$@$^#&, she just died of a stroke at age 26. We all miss her, whatever you can do to help her out will be greatly appreciated.’

What the?!? I mean seriously people, while the passing of this person is almost certainly tragic, how on earth is pocket change going to help a dead girl? The dead don’t need our pocket change, they really don’t. I’m still fairly bewildered by the whole thing, at best this money is being raised to defray the cost of funeral expenses or help out the family members who are going through a rough patch due to this young woman’s passing; but the note made no mention of any of that . . . the entreaty was not to help the living, but the dead. At the worst this is someone attempting to profit by tugging with a rough and uncultivated hand at the heart-strings of the public.

There was a good chunk of change in that container, and if their actually is a dead girl tied into this whole situation, I can’t shake the feeling that she really doesn’t care.