It is the Summer of Mystic Love, 2007 - but, of course, it isn't in any like the image of the Summer of Love, 1967, of course, it isn't in any way like what could be pre-imagined, predicted.
And in the same way it is The Mutiny.
Almost miraculously, I haven't yet been expelled from the garden of Phil. And, in all ways miraculously, Phil is communicating with me as I abide in the shed in his garden.
As already noted (see 'narrative of da voyage of da bloody, snake chariot,' www.libbyhome.blogspot.com ) after a friend pursuaded him that it was terribly arrogant to consider yourSelf to be cheese-us, Phil (who was a fucking lunatic) would describe himself as being John Da Baptist. In this office he would meticulously maintain this beautiful, but structurally unstable bird bath in the middle of his garden.
About two weeks before he died, because he was having trouble walking, he had me, in the middle of the night, attend to the baptismal font of the birds.
At the time I was not sensing the honor that was being confered on me. But while passing the bird bath several weeks ago, Phil made me sense this, insisted I attend to the bird bath, keep it's waters sparkling clean. And while I was at it, I too could be baptized - for a Human is reborn in water and spirit, and I could shower with the garden hose - and keep my ass clean.
As already noted (see 'narrative of da voyage of da bloody, snake chariot,' www.libbyhome.blogspot.com ) I am intermittently employed at a brewery that manufactures fine, locally made beer and ale. I am paid in Americano dolars and a shit-load of brewery-reject bottles, cases of beer.
I like this beer so much that I drink it even when I'm not working. When I return to this village of Da Mystic with a shit-load of brewery reject bottles, cases of beer, it is like the revolution, the mutiny has begun, like it's Christmas in June, July, or August, like the workers have seized the store houses of beer and the feast has risen to a new level.
I freely distribute the beer and ale, in love, to those of Da Mystic who are over 21, who I know or don't know.
I recognize this as I thing of grace. I am grateful to those who have enabled these circumstance to contribute to this moving feast that is Da Mystic. For the Feast is (if not everything) pretty high up there. The Feast of the engagement/integration of the Other. The Feast of the Song. The Feast of Love.
For as Thorton Wild Sez in 'The Bridge of San Luis Rey': "Now learn, learn at last, that anywhere, anytime you may expect grace...the world is ready...love is enough; all these impulses of love return to the love that made them. Even memory is not necessary for love. There is a land of the living and a land of the dead and the bridge is love, the only survival, the only meaning.
and as Willy sez: Drink and Smoke Responsibily.
Don't make Beer a GateWay Drug to heroine, crack or prescription anti-psychotics.
And Enjoy Da Feast!!!.
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