I am not done with Mount Shasta.  One can never be done with such a place.  It haunts you as the psychic paradise in which the touch of the mountain is so close and so many things go on there that you will never see.  The huge woman that gives us directives, all the players, the keeper of the exploritonium with his thousands of percussive units, like the scientist that listens to the magma at kileua.  The virbrations will come.  The universe will speak.  We will hear the sound of the pleidians.  We will bask in the light.  This millions of light years away in the the center of aldebron.  Yet, it is in the very fiber of our thought, buried beneath the programing.

Breathing in the morning or eating dates, or, singing with michelle, or, fearing the fumes of the kerosene tank, or, desiring physical love from some female purveyor of lost civilization.  Mt. Shasta stays in your perception.  The devine feminine courses over the snows, through the trees, caressing the rocks, swirling in the door to the kitchen, entangling in your hair, and smelling of garden herbs, fear, lust and completion.  It wrangles your ego.  It brings to you oriental mistresses that you cannot touch.  It gives you views of the California hood awash in spring snows, drumming, fantasies, desparate seekings, ignorance and pure food.

What did the thin Patricia mean when she referred to the Grand Masters.  Bring faith into your life and it will all come clear.  You will be saved.  Abandon your grasp for the material and all will be given.  Dance with abandon.  Shed the slimy carapace of civilized death.  Patricia, you vamp of the 6th dimension, you squeky voiced goat from the rocky climes, you scavanger, you herald, how could you banter us with the words of gods who shift in the ultra violet like commanding vibrations.  How can you give this to us in a voice so swept of emotion and so thin that one’s doubts are doubled.  Patricia, who once dressed in blue, in the may evening, with spring at peace, the eternal itch disipated by slanted sun and ancient tree people.  We rode together, her and I, to Dunsmuir, to the ceremony, like the arrived contingency without a leg to stand on.  We praised mother mary and and mother nature.  We chanted with the indian, the high priestess, the nuns, the builders of Kuan Yin sacred garden.  We stood among the frocked and bejeweled messengers of future time and we secretly lusted after the taste of each other.  It would not be right in the disembowelment of wanderers, in the feminine sanctuary.  Other may take, but, we may not, as it couldn’t come to anything but debauchery, mistake, and agony.  So, Patricia moved on, back to the red place.  I would see her again in the strange world though I know notion of how, for, my memory had not yet acknowledged her, and, I could be so patient.

The old cookie magnate peddaled his bike through the mountain town streets up to the blue house.  It may have been raining, but, this was better than handing out flyers at super markets in some bay area suburb full of dead or mesmerized worker bees.  Maryland’s gollum, the slithering one, who had fallen for too many maidens on his way up.  Now he was at the blue house and so anxious to start something for the good of mankind.  A TV show for kids or something.  The trigger sprung before he could get there.  The demonds arose in his heart and there was not but to take him to the monastery for he must chop wood like all the rest.  He must hear the splitting ax echo throught the forest until there is naught else but sleep, food, and wood.

What of the wonderer who had appeared.  He fit in strangely enough.  The paranoid poet musician in the grips of torment, birthing, new world christening, agonizing separation from his heart and soul.  What path did he choose.  Who was he that had shown himself at Wesak, another taurus, another bhudda to ring the gong, chant, dally in the garden, and kiss the dreamy maidens and their heads.  This ashen, snow swept land had received the fallen with its  prickly connifers, its strange silences, its winds and waters and cold bright stars, its horse drawn maidens of loins so unattainable delicious and reserved for the enlightened only, the quiet men of the mountain, who but for the cord wood had naught to warm their skin but the lovely idea of earth goddess pubic hair hidden in velveteen, sacred rocks, semi precious jewelry, tibetan carpets, rose cheeks, dark loins, horse drawn organism and delightful laughter parting lips.

All of this existing only in the proper mineral content of the water, in the esoteric dissertations of renegade scientists, of rejected geniuses.  We do not know how they got here.  America did not want them anymore.  Yet they had souls.  The clang of the cymbils did not excape their sharpened ears.  Their empty pockets jangled with philosophies to twist a good night sleep out of bunk, or, a meal out an overstuffed refrigerator.  They were the ever thickening plot to overthrow time, and, the government.  They were the arms of the stars, the finger nails of the planets, the eyes of Jesus, the rare pollen of mountain lillies.  So be it.  This is where it will start, in the trickling headwaters of California’s great river.  In the strange land between heaven and earth, where old woman never cut their hair and adolescents attended high school with aliens, where people swim naked in the summer.