An Alcoholic’s Journey from Near-death to Nirvana
This is the memoir of a life-long "seeker" (a term meaning one who searches for Ultimate Truth), a hardcore alcoholic, and a forever finger-snappin' beatnik. Like cool, daddy-o!
Enjoy over 400 pages of memories of fabulous folks and famous peeps.
Includes poems, photos, drawings, and various illustrations.
Two-books in one! Another Country and The Fountain of You.
About The Book
This little sketch is by Esteban Villa, an original founder of the famed Royal Chicano Air Force. Dr. Villa was a muralist, printmaker, and a dedicated activist for Cesar Chavez' United Farm Workers Union. What a nice little gift from this visionary vato as we sat reminiscing about political art, beautiful women, and the old days in The Valley. He was from Tulare, a stone’s throw from Fresburg.
What they’re already saying about this book
My outrageous style often brought me into serendipitous contact with wonderful friends, great ideas, amazing support, and even intimate experience with that which jazz giant John Coltrane refers to as "A Love Supreme".
I am grateful to be alive, grateful for a handful of marvelous friends, and grateful to the Big Guy for going out of His way to love me in spite of my countless shortcomings and trespasses…Mea culpa! Mea culpa! It appears He’s not such an uptight cat after all. I know, “He” could well be a "She" or an "It"…but more like all of the above. Hey, go with the flow, dude…or dudette. And He, from a Zen standpoint, might well be a moot point.
But I must say, it is Spirit that has so often lifted me out of the unmindful and deadly morass while I languished in the lush life, Spirit who has come to my rescue.
Years ago Carl Jung, the founder of analytical psychology, insightfully pointed out the irony that the way to overcome alcoholism (alcohol being dubbed “spirits”) is through the Holy Spirit, “Spiritus contra spiritum.” In essence, to conquer our addictions we need our higher power—a transcendent intervention—to lovingly swoop us up and fly us out of our downward spiral. We need to humbly ask, though sometimes She just gracefully embraces us.
Oedipus Mex, 1948
The very first event that I can recall was when I was about four. It took place on the porch of our home at one of the Mosesian orchards where we were pickers and packers. This very old but reasonably well-kempt house, with wooden floors that curved from decades of many a wet mop, had a back porch without glass windows, just screens to keep out the countless fruit flies.
I was playing outside in a puddle of mud when I decided that a very fine thing to do would be to go and kiss my mother, my newly acquired foster mother. I quickly found her. She was doing the wash, by hand, using a washboard in a cement sink. I pulled at her dress and asked for a kiss. She picked me up and kissed me. She didn’t even mind my muddy hands all over her clean white dress.
More from the book
All of us farmworkers ––
Chicanos, Filipinos, Blacks, or Whites—all of us overworked and underpaid field workers were so very fortunate to have such a dedicated and compassionate leader as was Cesar Chavez. Que viva la huelga!
I wrote the poem below when I returned home from the César Chavez Memorial March, April 30, 1993, in Delano, California.
El Camino Real
In the sacred field of roses,
in the scorching fields of summer,
In the frozen soil of winter and toil in the fall,
May the Spirit of the Harvest bless the hands that feed you,
May the prosperity of Heaven be shared with us all.
Ticket from Alleys of the Valley, a music and poetry event I produced in 1972 in the iconic Glide Memorial Church in San Francisco…but of course! Artwork by Anton Perales, also of Fresno and later San Francisco.
Impressario Tomasso
Producer of hick town poetry readings, to the biggest damn Poetry Festival in the Nation, to the largest Environmental Expo in the World!
Event production was a big part of how I met so many wonderful people along the winding way.
This poem is written about that astoundingly beatific period
A Thousand Years Ago
I lived in the wilds of the city lights
when madmen howled throughout the nights
wrote naked poems on Vesuvio’s walls
protested in the Berkeley halls
painted old buses with neon blasts
synaptic zaps on tie-dye grass
I hitchhiked to heaven and left my past
a thousand years ago.
He’s not heavy, he’s my Buddha.
Above is a 1995 photo of my 40-poind Buddha. The altar design was by moi. It was during that time when I took a 16-week Vipassana meditation course. Soon fter completion of the training, it was one morning while reading The Sutra of Hui-neng (the Father of Zen), that I came to discover my Original Face.
Here’s a piece using eight consecutive haiku-style poems
The Concrete Buddha
The concrete Buddha
wet and cold the moss grows old
at his lotus feet.
The concrete Buddha
quiet in my busy mind
sits just sits and sits.
The concrete Buddha
sounds of city in his ears
spiders spin their webs.
with an array of fascinating characters…
I’ll be darned if there ain’t even a few synchronistic events, symphonies of the soul, and a whole slew of truly incredible characters I’ve had intercourse with (intellectual, that is, and sometimes not), many of them you might have heard of if you’re over forty, like Della Reese (Touched by an Angel…and she was!), sassy songstress Sarah Vaughn, poet Allen Ginsberg, Country Joe McDonald, and Cuckoo’s Nest novelist Ken Kesey … mustn’t forget The Smothers Brothers and a bunch of kooky others.
Did I mention Miles Davis, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, William Burroughs, Charles Bukowski, “The Laureate of Low Life,” and a drink with Bill Murray who wasn’t in a hurry? How ’bout Sir George Shearing (good on the hearing!), Rev Jesse Jackson for social action, oh, Janis Joplin and Richie Havens, too, and was it Cheech and Chong and who knows who with whom I had a toke or two? Yep, dinner and doobies with those two … make it three. Well, it all happened, yessiree, fine, just truckin’ down ol’ 99.
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