Thursday, March 12, 2009

The Thread of Heaven: in memory of the Domies


I was excited we've found each other via the Internet. This is to my friend, Heaven:

your bountiful homemade yarn supply is going to the service of generosity in the coming week. This is how we can be close: let me tell you about the Journey of the Thread of Heaven (which is TOTALLY what the name "Vado Bujinka"'s name means in her culture; see, the person who inspired Vado and her novella most directly & originally is going to receive the first purse made from this dormant thread you share with us. This bit about the name could not have occured without a person who helped create that character in the dormant recesses in my adolescent mind: smart, strong, rebellious, yet with a bohemian austerity and something undeniable as class. A very attractive package.

Now flash forward so many years later, when my unorthodox friends introduced me to their lives openly, in a way dignified, earthy, and enormously stimulative to the imagination. The Dome was a place romantic in character, secreted in the woods, the casual brain child of my friend C. J., who saw it for what it was: the perfect place to create a flesh and blood facebook for anyone cool enough simply not to squeal. It was a nexus to every hip idealized American scene: early 60s New York City, late 60s San Fransisco. Rock and roll---but indeed every kind of music, poem or film, interesting book or personal experience related in the unforgettable sense of his breath and body wash---never had a better friend than "C.J.", who passed on What It's All About, as likely to hit you with a question as a diabtribe there beside San Fransisco concert organizer Bill Graham's larger than life poster, there beside the workstation where he did his jobs and his labors of love with passions that seemed to dictate to him as much as he seriously pursued their scheduling. He was annoyed with the bullshitters who just didn't get how well this world could easily run, but he never believed the world had no place for we the dreamers of the dreams.

His amors throughout life carried on as friends, some living there, others knowing it as a place of safe haven. It was also home to the most earth friendly, spirit-balancing parties I ever found, a more manageable Woodstock of sorts on special days and a quiet place to cycle souls or take in a movie or everyone cook, draw, read, play instruments, whatever the several acres could do to accomodate. No one I often found myself out there, in a place that was the road map of Cool Itself, a place I wanted to live, many times, and my spirit will touch forever. I see why only a few could ever live there at a time: keeping everyone out there spread in homes and lives and opportunities kept an anarchic spirit alive, free from ego trips and cult seige mentality.



I never saw someone
so wounded explore the possibilities of love with greater abandon; I was privileged to have been befriend by so free a spirit. I met science & language students, musicians, travellers, jewelry crafters, activists, babies, families and freethinkers, all blending beyond labels, with conversations full of exploration, punctuated with laughs, windows to the yards where played other ways of life.

One summer a Domie left to explore the language of native Arubans, and I took the occasion of her trip to begin creating for her the first draft of my fantasy, featuring Vado Bujinka, about whose name much could be related, involving Italian and Ninjitsu, and my gentle student experiences engrossing myself with a version of first hand knowledge of both.

Brother Hawk's spirit watches over and communicates mind-to-mind with Vado, particularly as featured in the first five chapters, written as themed by the chakras. His role occurs more on the spiritual plane, encountering more nebulous, analogous types of malevolent beings, as she enters the crystal bearing cave beneath the earth in the sixth and seventh parts. I was inspired by Homer, Conan comic books, and the ecletic music handed to me by Brother Hawk himself for the sake of passing along its sacred power to set a background of joy in our existence.

Strangely, there was an instant of Vado's prayer for her grandmother, which was too painful for my muse; in fact, such a great many of our friends had the story at the disposal, she was at some point convinced her pain had been exploited. (My own maternal grandmother died the November before). There were complexities at work beyond me and my intentions, yet we found some way to talk about it. She encouraged me to keep the story alive anyway, and I believe we may have stayed friends yet another summer. We'd learned so much about giving and how good, the feeling brought by its unattached form.



For seven months recently, my creativity went from a flurry to a slowly grinding, sporadically brilliant performance of less daily consistency. I was happy, but something was very out of tune after August, 2008: I thought we'd come out of Comic Con strong, still creating from completed issues and songs. For me, this gaze into the viscitudes of fortunes in the material world was something to be broken: I tried by putting my stalled interests on hold to become the assistant of Joe Phillips, whom I'd met at Comic Con.

That experience, while yielding some shared meals but no pay and some discouragement, would've been different perhaps if I'd found facebook a week or two earlier; but eventually, that empowered me to great effect. But some ill mystery haunted me when I was alone and not feeling inspired (chalk it up to trying to do it straight all the time). Try as I might, I could not create a comic book, record an album, or write an actual story!


Seven months after the fact, I received the news that the man who'd introduced me to the concept of building a World Access radio channel of brilliant Americana and world music and independent voices, who'd taught me about polyamory, Heinlein, commercial mediocrities and wicked centralization schemes circa 2000 had died without pain of a heart attack in the arms of Vado's mother.

She shares Vado's keen insight and search for lost language (a lost language was the "maguffin' at stake in her solo journey), someone who stuck out grad school and made time to help Brother Hawk grow organic gardens in their new little earthship made by their own endeavors, in the years after the geodesic domicile fell into other hands.

Angela cycled souls with her, loved her as did I, and thanks her for opening the world by her side in a beautiful time. She will make a new purse, after we heard in our reunion with the inspiration for the figure who roamed the Time of Timeless Time with the onomatapeia tongue of Dinkadoo present in the sounds as she climbed and explored the flesh of the Living Land. The purse is meant to carry whatever needs to be remembered.

to d'n'a:

I really hope we can collaborate on the Spanish chapters of my sequel (of sorts; it diverges from ch. 58 on, but incorporates themes that finished the 13 final chapters of Cervantes' original sequel.

I just found our girl S_______ again; that magnificent friend and quasi-adopted family member was wife, in custom, to the one man i considered my older brother, the man that carried the spirit of the 1960s in his life till it ended on a magnificent date, 8-11-08, a beautiful palindrome that spoke volumes about a man who loved to observe dates,who had a heart attack in her arms and left this plane without pain, save for that in wake of his passing.

On 3-11-09 word finally arrives at the Apartment of Ideas, via a facebook "re-friending", to paraphrase my pal Grant. heaven's thread is not only part of a comforting gift, but inspiration to revisit the novella they inspired in 2000, and see the lead character's name, in her own culture, as "Journey of Heaven's Thread", perhaps a more fitting title, even, than the original "The Remote Chance," as in, perhaps, "The Remote Chance she'd end up our girlfriend!

Well, as I've never quite said before, intention, especially while intoxicated with muses and mysteries, plays a lot of tricks like the Coyote Spirit, yet I've never failed to live to see a day when it again all makes sense. you only need look at your daughter to see that proposition take flesh and blood, amen? Things result in our amazement, and life reveals itself to be a happy surprise. But that, is another lead character.

Chivalrously Yours, Cecilbered, and through it will be weaved the Thread of heaven.


Finally, to Vado:

Thank you for letting me see into your world! Thank you for telling me to be bold and open up! Thank you for sharing with me the Dome Tribe.

3 comments:

Smorg said...

Vado really lived, man. It takes someone really having lived to leave behind such a deeply etched remembrance. Thanks for sharing him with us, Cease! :o)

cease ill said...

Wow, it was seven moons until I was meant to know...I think Seven Moons is a fitting return vehicle for vado's further adventures: extraterrestrial vetinarian/ linguist Vado Bujinka explores seven moons capable of sustaining life, revisiting the chakras theme, but allowing collaboration with my experienced vetinarian friend to aid me in seeing her animal encounters. He is the one for whom I wrote this first blog. Vado is the one, it seems, who wanted this one. She will be a gentle environmentalist and an indefatigable explorer; this seems like a time Vado Bujinka can come back, but without concern for continuity, but rather, something that rewards and inspires curiosity.

Randall57 said...
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