We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploration
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
This current cycle of voyages of the figurative bloody, snake chariot began when I left Mystic, CT on July 1, 2005.
Geographicaly I have gone as far as Honduras. But in this great adventure of consciousness I am freely and joyously moving through the wonder world. I am in that place that Rebbi Yeshua called the kingdom of heaven.
Those of the wonder world are known by their rhyme, their rhythm, by their song, their synchronicity, omen, periodicity, presage and magic. They are known by their embrace of the invitation of their divinity, by their acceptance of the invitation of the wonder world.
When I was on the Pirate/Garifuna Coast of Honduras and in the Lacondon Jungle of Chiapas I was well into the process of going native, taking on the color of those places dust and dirt, becoming immersed in the local non-local circumstances, accepting the invitation of the wonder world as it was revealed there.
But then there came an invitation to do the wild, outlaw cultivation in Colorado.
I had a bad feeling about this invitation. There were these disturbing parellels between this invitation and the invitation I received nine years ago when I was also in Central America, which, when accepted, became the tragic, comedic, fall of the North American Wildlife Association (see The Jah DEP at www.libbyhome.blogspot.com).
Again I had premonitions of dark, disturbing things. But the mission of the bloody, snake chariot is to go there. And then to go beyond.
Going to Colorado immediately connected me to the wonder world of my young musician friends and their beautiful, wonderous song which was also going to Colorado.
And then I was on a high ridge in the Rocky Mountains about to be a steward of a secret garden of very potent outlaw plants.
The friend who had extended the invitation had large resentment towards me. And yet I was the only person he trusted to have charge of his house, his business, his dog, his cats, his house plants and his garden of potent, outlaw plants while he was gone.
He had just become estranged from his in all ways certifiably lunatic girl friend.
I knew her. I knew her history. I knew she was a fucking lunatic. And yet she was a lot of fun.
She lived in a Jerry Springer kind of universe. But I had believed, as did my friend, that you didn't have to be in her universe to be in her company.
I connected with her. And I soon realized that her life had slipped a few circles deeper into Jerry Springer hell.
She drove me up the high ridge to my friend's home. When my friend saw the two of us together he went into a murderous rage, spewed every iota of his resentment towards me - on me.
But there was good, something cathartic about this.
After the rage had abated we spoke as friends for the first time in a long time.
He asked me if I thought she was going to rat him out.
In that instant I had a bad, sinking feeling about my friend feeling the necessity of asking that question. I thought about the question for a long moment.
She had told me in great detail about her resentment towards my friend. She had told me of plans to do pay back on my friend. But these plans for pay back did not include, fell far short, of ratting him out.
I told my friend that I didn't think she would rat him out.
For a week and a half I diligently and successfully attended to my friends home, business, dog, cats, and garden of potent, outlaw plants. On the last day he was suppose to be gone, on the day he could have been returning, I heard the knock on the door.
I immediately knew who it was. I immediately knew it was the police.
There was no place to run. There was no place to hide.
When I opened the door there was a detective and five local police, every cop on duty in the small mountain municipality.
The detective began by asking me if I knew why he was there.
In all honestly I told him I didn't. And I still don't know why. I don't know how this society can justify the persecution and imprisonment of anyone for growing plants that have been cultivated by people for at least 12,000 years.
The detective then told me that a friend of my friend had told him "everything". He knew my name. He knew who I was. He knew why I was there. He knew exactly where in the house the garden was.
Although he never gave the name of my friend's girlfriend, there never was a question between the detective and me that she had been the one that ratted.
The detective then said that if I "cooperated with the investigation" and let them search the house I would be out of this.
I then realized that the police did not have a search warrant. I told the detective, with all respect, that I would not let him into the house until he produced a search warrant.
The detective said that would not be a problem. But that if I made him get a search warrant then I would be involved.
I told him, be that as it may, I would not let him in without a search warrant.
I watched from a window as the police returned to their vehicles and drove away. I watched as the vehicles disappeared around a bend in the road that led to the bottom of the ridge.
I grabbed my friend's dog and fled with nothing but the clothes on my back. When I was about a hundred yards down the road I remembered I had left on the light in the flowering room of my friend's secret garden. There was a moment when I considered turning back. But I kept on going.
It just happened that my musician friends were playing a gig in Denver. I went to the music venue. And was immediately in the refuge, in the sanctuary of the wonder world.
For the next 36 hours I attempted to call my friend and warn him. But my friend did not check his phone messages until he arrived at his house around 3 a.m. in the morning.
He suspected something was wrong when he didn't see his car in the driveway. He knew something was wrong when his dog was not there and he smelled all his fried plants.
Only then did he check his phone messages.
He removed everything, cleared his home of the legal situation. And then called me to tell me to bring his dog and vehicle home.
At first he was grateful. But then he was resentful. I got very little material compensation.
But I departed with a feeling of grace, of dodging a large caliber bullet, glowing in my chest.
I returned to the company of my friends and the wonder world. And then we were in the shute returning to Oklahoma, then the Mulberry Mountain Music Festival in Arkansas, then arriving in Mystic, CT., and knowing the place where I had started as if it was the first time I was there.