All the freedoms we fought for in junior high were given us in
high school. A smoking foyer and
the right to smoke anywhere outside the school building. The
freedom to step outside and time we wanted, and to leave school property
during lunch. And, finally, we were allowed nine unexcused absences
per nine week period. We were delivered from bondage, to be treated
like human beings. Almost.
A good many of us left school right there; we just stopped attending.
Fewer still hung out at
school off and on, staying long enough to get our degrees. I
spet a good deal of my time out in the woods. While yet experimenting
with drugs, I was beginning to develop my own ideas--often inspired by
my choice of reading material. Outside of school, I read Shakespeare,
Milton, Homer, Vergil, Ovid, Dante, Goethe, Plato, Herodotus, and books
of history and philosophy. I read an introduction to psychology written
for laymen, and an introduction to ceremonial magic which told me rather
more than a child should know about cabalistic rituals. I turned
on to the Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test (after which I was forever trying
to spark a happening) and Jack Kerouac’s On the Road (which filled me with
a longing to take to the road). Herman Hesse’s Siddhartha was followed
by books on the various Buddhist sects, the tibetan Book of the Dead, vedantic
selections, and the Bhagavad Gita.
As they reached the age of sixteen, most of my friends either
quit school or were expelled. Back in
the ninth grade I had developed the habit of putting my school books
in my locker after they were given to me, and never taking them out until
they were to be returned. In high school I stopped attending classes
altogether, believing I could learn more on my own. Not that there
was nothing for me to learn in school; I had some very good teachers who
could and did help me in various ways, but so much of my time was wasted
in school when it would have been better spent in self guided study.
There was a corollary to this, being that the teachers from whom I learned
the most were generally those who used textbooks the least.
I all but ceased attending school, spending my days in the woods
around the building or ranging
farther afield to explore unfamiliar areas. Sometimes I would
take a book along with me to read from, but most of the time I would play,
or observe nature, or hold conversations with the sky, the earth, and the
trees. While in the woods by myself, I would shun human contact.
If someone happened along, even someone I knew, I would hide and keep a
close eye on them until they passed. This is a habit I still have
a tendency to follow when out in the woods alone. Once, hiding behind
a growth of bush to avoid some people, I ran into a fox which was doing
likewise. The fox fled silently and I stayed put until the people
had passed by. No one ever discovered me lurking about in the woods;
I don’t know what I would have done if I had been found--probably come
out and join them, feeling rather sheepish.
There was one spring day when the winds blew with such force they
nearly stripped the trees of
buds. I skipped school and hiked out through woods and field
into an area where there was neither a house nor a road for a mile round.
Climbing an open hillside which looked out over the surrounding country,
I turned to face the blustering wind with my will. The wind would
roar and I would roar right back, shouting words which were snatched away
with my breath as soon as I uttered them. So engrossed did I become
in this battle, that I lost all track of everything around me. Suddenly
the wind ground to a halt and behind me a voice spoke, saying “Who are
yelling at?” I turned around to find two young men standing close
by, maybe three or four years older than myself, with long flowing hair
and beards, dressed in typical, nondescript clothing. Thinking of
no other answer, I honestly replied, “The wind.” “Oh,” said one of
the men disinterestedly, as though people yell at the wind every day.
I looked into the direction the wind had been coming from and then glanced
back to where the two men had been standing. They were gone. While
I searched the horizon for them, a wind came along and swept me off my
feet. I gave up shouting at the wind
and hiked out of the area.
In a new and used book shop I was drawn to a set of hard cover
books containing the works of
classic authors from Homer to James Joyce, each volume devoted to a
single author. I wanted the entire collection, but never could have
afforded them all. In particular, I was interested in two of the
volumes: Voltaire and Emerson. The store owner kindly said that she
would break up the complete set in order for me to buy individual volumes.
Still, I could not afford both the Voltaire and the Emerson, so I made
a choice and had to wait a couple more years to be delighted by the satire
of Voltaire.
In Emerson, I found something that resonated in my heart and soul.
This volume contained a
generous selection of his essays and lectures, his poems, letters,
extracts from his journals, and of course his masterpiece entitled simply
Nature. It was this key essay, and his poetry, which first captivated
me; only after reading these pieces over many times did I go on to any
of his other writings. This volume became my first choice of books
to take with me when going out into the woods to seek inspiration.
And so I was introduced to the man who I believe to be the founder of the
American school of literature. Emerson called for artists to throw
away tradition and observe their lives and the world around them from a
new perspective, and is this not what great American writers have sought
to do from Whitman and Dickenson, to Thomas Wolfe, Jack London, Henry Miller,
and Kenneth Patchen, on up through Jack Kerouac to the present day.
Is not Kathy Acker a descendent of Emerson? And what of Anais Nin,
Marcel Proust, Louis-Ferdinand Celine? And Nietsche, who so admired
Emerson that he wanted to translate him into German. In the twentieth
century, as literature has become international, so has Emerson’s influence.
But then is he not part of a general call by many artists of all art forms
down through the ages to urge that we should open our eyes and live our
own lives.
I ended my first year of high school with a grade point average
which was practically nonexistent.
Nor did I care, being only glad to have the summer’s freedom.
I didn’t even want to return to school for driver’s ed., and was quite
happy to be kicked of that for failure to learn. I hated cars and
did not want to drive one. Though I was told that a car meant freedom
of mobility, I knew that a car was an enslaving possession and a cage on
wheels. Cars may transport you over distances, but they also encase
you and separate you from the world you travel through.
I could get to wherever I wanted by foot, by bike and by thumb,
and along the way I would meet
many different people and find many diversions which would not have
been possible if I drove a car. By foot, bike, or thumb you are more
intimately connected to the world you travel through, and your
disposition is more open and friendly; by car you are separated from
everything, and easily stop caring about anything other than finding the
most direct route to where you want to go. In a car speed becomes
essential, and angry tempers are easily provoked. Cars are civilizing
devices: they take you only where there are roads, to homes and places
of business where you must be a participant in society. They focus
interest on activities condoned by culture; cars paved the way for shopping
malls. And, to be privileged with the freedom of mobility acquired
by owning a car, you must work to pay for this car, to pay for gas and
maintenance, and for insurance. To own a car is to be a card carrying
member of society. I went without a driver’s license until well into
my eighteenth year, and in many ways life was much happier and I was a
better person then. But the necessity of cars in our civilization
eventually forced me into the driver’s seat, where I have never quite felt
that the gains balanced the losses.
The eleventh grade passed by rather uneventfully for me.
Most of my friends and left school for the military or full time jobs,
those who remained--though wild by any normal standard--were of a more
sedate character. I had a better choice of classes, concentrating
on the music and theatrical departments, and those classes which I did
not care for I simply stopped attending. Such was the case with United
States history, a required course taught in a college manner in a large
lecture hall. I found that US history as taught in this class did
not jive with that which I had read and studied on my own. And the
senior teacher and I (we had three teachers who took turns lecturing the
class) rarely saw eye to eye about anything. When we reached the
expansion of English settlers along the Ohio River leading through the
Revolution and up to the War of 1812, I paid close attention to what was
said, as this was the time period and area with which Allen Eckert’s book,
The Frontiersman, was concerned. Indignation and contempt were my
reaction when the class was told that Tecumsah was a savage huckster who
went around stirring up the ignorant Indians with false prophecies.
How far from the truth could you get? Thus I learned that history,
much as everything else, is a matter of opinion. Shortly thereafter,
I stopped attending the class and had to take a remedial course the
next year.
I did enjoy myself at parties, and went to many of them.
I fooled around with a number of girls,
though I was not serious about any of them. And I was well liked,
having many friends and many close friends. guys and gals sought
out and enjoyed my company. But, because I stood on the fringes of
my peer group, an atypical high school student, many did not understand
me and so they ridiculed me. I cared not what others said about me,
knowing that pointed individuality always attracts rumors and resentment.
What mattered to me was not how others looked at me, but how I felt about
myself. A strange attitude to have among teenagers, who normally
care very strongly about their appearance to others. But in some
ways I never was a teenager (while in other ways I still am).
Through the summer, I read with a vengeance. One book which
struck me with force was Woody
Guthrie’s autobiography: Bound for Glory. This self portrait
of the last great wandering minstrel fired up my soul and made my feet
itch. Because of his life, I set aside the keyboard and learned to
play my grandfather’s mandolin so that I would have an acoustic, easily
transportable instrument to take with me whenever I decided to travel.
Few of my musical friends cared for my choice of instruments, and so I
stopped playing in garage bands. I did not mind; my taste in music
had never been shared by them. I began writing folk songs, playing
for myself and the few people who cared to hear me.
I tried to stir things up and promote a happening, but most of
the people around me were neither
inspired nor responsive to my urgings. They were busy being teenagers
and preparing to lead the sort of lives which would later earn them the
name ‘yuppies.’ How could I hope to compete with a culture so pervasive
that no matter where one turned, on television, in books, in rock music,
even in the most popular forms of counterculture and the avant garde, one
was exposed to cultural indoctrination. Even I was sucked in and
could not escape, no matter how much I refused to admit it. There
are only three ways to stay outside of our culture. Death is the
great emancipator, the final solution should all else fail. To become
a hobo was as much to escape our culture as it was to become a victim of
it. This leaves a return to nature and self-sufficiency.
And here is why our country is not free, nor has been free since
the days of the frontier ended: you
cannot live off the land anymore. To farm, to raise livestock,
to hunt and trap, it takes money to buy seed, animals and ammunition.
For all these activities you must own land, and once you have purchased
the land you must pay taxes on it. After World War I, all United
States citizens were transformed into slaves and serfs by the institution
of property and income taxes. Sure, a few individuals might manage
to evade this situation, but how many and for how long?
So I can only limit my intercourse with society, weighing everything
carefully and making my
choices wisely. I must keep a watchful eye, and try not to be
misled by the latest sales techniques. It is only by way of ignorance
and greed that I am vulnerable. Remember, possessions--be they either
physical items or mental beliefs--are limitations; each possession is a
link in the chain which binds freedom. Forge these chains with care,
and try to use only the lightest of materials.
In accordance with Emerson, I began developing my own thoughts,
starting with basic concepts
and then working from them. I did most of this thinking while
hiking in the woods, the physical action of walking seeming to stimulate
the progression of thoughts. First of all, I realized that if I took
myself, my family and friends, all mankind through the world, all animals
from microorganisms to whales, all plants from plankton to redwoods, all
minerals and material substances, the very earth, the moon, the sun, our
solar system, the galaxy, the universe, everything that is--ever was--or
ever will be, the very air we breath and the vacuum of space, and everything
abstract, every though and feeling which ever was and ever will be, and
everything which almost was and almost will be, if you take all these things
so numerous and diverse, and add to them something more--something which
will always be incomprehensible--then you will have some idea of what God
is.
From this I realized that, every animal, plant and mineral--indeed
the very air--all being a part of
God, all have the same rights of existence which we humans normally
accord only to ourselves. And I learned that all these things share
their existence: the air is breathed, plants and animals exchange oxygen
for carbon dioxide you want to give a plant the gift of fresh air? exhale
on its leaves), plants take nourishment from the earth and the sun, animals
eat plants and other animals, decomposing animals enrich the earth and
feed the plants, and by all this God flows through the creation.
Only man tries to break this pattern, due to his ignorance and selfish
greed. By deciding what will and will not grow, what will and will
not live, we disturb this life cycle and throw it out of balance.
By treating our bodily wastes as sewage, by burying our bodies in caskets
or by cremating them, we try to keep ourselves out of the cycle of life
through which God flows; we should process our wastes into fertilizer,
grind up our bodies and mulch them into compost. Then would we return
what we have taken back into the cycle of life; but, as I can very well
see, this will never happen. By our continued interference, we shall
lose our souls, and we will lose the earth.
And I came to realize that trees and animals form a gestalt with
the earth, a gestalt which the
ancient people shared in and knew of as forest spirits. From
this we have the nymphs and dryads of
mythology, the fairies and sprites, the gnomes and elves. When
man divorced himself from the cycle of life, he divorced himself from these
gestalts. As he stopped believing in them, they stopped appearing
to him--until he has even come to doubt the existence of his own soul,
thus robbing himself blind. There are probably human gestalts as
well, though, because mankind does not believe in them, they must wander
around blind and mad--like betrayed King Lear’s--easily led, and easily
enslaved by any who have the power and ability to do so.
All these revelations came to me during the summer after the eleventh
grade, and before starting my
last year of school I was to make a discovery which confirmed these
thoughts and expanded upon them. In Doug Boyd’s book about his experiences
with Shoshone medicine man Rolling Thunder, I found brilliantly repeated
all the concepts which I had thought out on my own, and the further expression
of ideas I was just leading up to, as well as a few concepts which were
novel to me--though in no way surprising. As a framework for my own
experiences, I embraced Native American Shamanism like nothing else; I
was fully at home with this system. These views coincided so well
with my own, that very little adaptation--if any--was necessary.
In a short time, I could not distinguish between the ideas I had developed
on my own and those I had learned from the native shamans. We shared
the same regard for nature, and the same fears of what would become of
mother earth. Through what I learned from them, I was better able
to face these fears and
understand them, and to begin doing something about them.
The Native Americans are much closer to the spirit of this continent
than are we relative
newcomers; many of them upheld the old ways, retaining their place
in the cycle of life. Their wisdom could help to save this planet
and breath life back into our souls, if we could only put aside our ignorance,
our greed, and our egotism long enough to hear what they have to say.
And yet our numbers could crush them and this earth, if we were to overwhelm
them with our blind enthusiasm. Carefully reined, our enthusiasm
could provide the impetus to turn things around, while--left ungoverned--we
could ride roughshod over everything we seek to propitiate. We cannot
allow ourselves to overrun their reservations in a search for someone to
teach us their ways; it is quite possible that--except for a chosen few--their
ways cannot be our ways. We have a different history, and haven’t
we stolen enough from them. They are quite happy to share their knowledge
with us, knowing this must be done in order to save the earth. But
perhaps, while graciously accepting their guidance, we should be looking
for our own way--a white American way, related to both the Indian ways
and the ways of our European ancestors. Or maybe we should transcend
all these paths into a global way, which should also be an individual way
for each different person.