With World Cup 2010 rapidly approaching, I wanted to talk about the state of soccer in America. About this time, every four years, the haters in the American media begin crawling out of their dark holes and proclaiming their dislike of the world’s biggest sport and why we shouldn’t watch it and why we should instead focus on MLB, NFL and NASCAR. No other sport illicits such negativity. No other sport seems to generate such venom within the ranks of a few media stooges. No other sport uncovers the fear and ignorance of a select few of sportscasters. Let’s explore the facts and see if we can dispel the myths, and enlighten these towering juggernauts of intellect, the American sportswriter.
Firstly, we are 3 billion strong. More people in the world watch soccer by far more than any other sport. NFL has about 400 million fans worldwide. Baseball has about 250 million fans.
Secondly, if the writer has actually experienced the sport and understands it, and has lived it, and God forbid, actually tried playing it, they would realize, what the rest of the world does, that soccer is the most physically demanding, requires the most creativity, agility, overall skill and total athletic ability, more than any other sport…by far. Now this is not coming from an American sportswriter, or and broadcasting personality who has never played sports (I won’t name names). This is coming from someone who has played all sports in some organized manner; played high school varsity and college athletics and played two sports at the pro or semi pro level. I’m not knocking other sports which I know also take tremendous skill and ability to play at a high level, no matter what it is. I love all sports. But I know what it takes, from a sheer skill point of view, to play soccer, and play it well and be a “total athlete”…the only thing really coming close is MMA. This point will remain eternally debatable.
Thirdly, soccer is the most democratic sport on earth. Everyone on the playing field is equal. Everyone gets to touch the ball. Everyone can score, at any given time. Other American sports have a certain hierarchy where certain players are limited to certain tasks that restrict not only their function in the game but their overall playing time. So during the course of an entire game, which may last 3 hours or more, you have some players that may never touch the ball for the entire game. As a matter of fact, they may never touch the ball for a number of games. They may never touch the ball the whole season. This is what has always irked me about certain American sports – there is no equality of functions. Everyone is limited to his specialty task which swallows any creativity and joy of the game and reduces players’ positions to the functions of an automated machine rather than a creative individual playing within the confines of a team unit.
American media always complains about the lack of contact in soccer. If they would actually watch a game, especially a live game, they would see and understand that there are far more injuries, brutal, horrific injuries, and even deaths, in soccer, than any other sport. Soccer players don’t where helmets or pads. They only wear protection on their shins to keep from breaking their legs (which happens quite frequently anyway, even with the guards.). In soccer, you can kick, punch, elbow, trip, head-butt, tackle, push, hold, stomp, the opposing player and often not get called for it. This is just part of the standard flow of the game. Yes, often players overreact to falls or injuries, but this is only to generate a penalty against the opposing team and gain favor toward the win. I would challenge any reporter or sportswriter to find a local park kick-around and give it a try and not find any violent conduct. He is far more likely to get hurt or even annihilated playing soccer in a local park than he is at the beer league softball game or pick up basketball.
Soccer as a live sport and as one watched on TV in the U.S. has gained great strides in the last few years with the rise in popularity of MLS and the greater access of matches on select cable stations. Five years ago I would be lucky to see a soccer game on TV. I would have to wait for the World Cup to see any matches. Now I have ample choices of games I can watch and tournaments that are covered. New stadiums are being planned and built, and current stadiums are seeing healthy crowd turn-outs, even in a depressed economy.
I understand that much of what motivates the American media when it comes to soccer is fear. They are scared of soccer. They are scared of soccer taking away the fan base of American sports. They are scared of lost advertising revenue because soccer is continuous play, without constant breaks for commercials.
My plea is – SAVE THE HATE. There is already too much hatred in the world right now and often these reporters sound like the Taliban, wanting the American public to only believe what they believe and watch what they watch. As Americans, we distance ourselves even more from the rest of the world by spewing negativity, putting down other people and denouncing what they love and embrace.
If you don’t like soccer, don’t watch it. Don’t cover it. We don’t need you.
For some fans around the world and here in America, soccer is joy and soccer is God. Don’t tell us our God doesn’t exist and we must believe in a different God. We don’t want to hear it.
For those who don’t know soccer and want to understand it better, watch the “NIKE SOCCER COMMERCIAL - TAKE IT TO THE NEXT LEVEL” on youtube.com
Showing posts with label Native American. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Native American. Show all posts
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Feeling Connected Pt. 2
I float up, a hundred feet off the ground.
I extend my arms and drift up to the zenith of the teepee with the smoke that is ebbing out into the night air, curling toward a coyote moon blazing orange and diaphanous like the devil’s iris in a parlor of twinkling diamonds.
I peer down at the little circle of celebrants beneath me who look like squatting ants around a cigarette spark. The flaming eagle flaps his wings in dreamy slo-mo. Whoosh. Whoosh. I feel my face wafted by the wind of his great wings, cool, breezy, even though they are made of millions of tiny, cherry-red coal fragments. The eagle hovers close to my face and I look into his eye that transforms from flaming ember, into a real eagle eye, full of wisdom and deep knowledge, unblinking, eternal, the Great God of Light and Air, the Protector, Vanquisher of Darkness, Giver of Eternal Peace. He conveys to me, through subtle intuition, that I am at one with the natural world, this earth, this realm, created by God for our majestic quest for truth and to find ourselves which is really only finding God again.
My God it is so simple, so radiant.
For one brief shining moment I achieve absolute knowledge, the realization that I myself and the universe are one and God is everything.
Then the Great Spirit Eagle shows me atoms. And I see atoms in my bed while I sleep. I see the atoms of my bedspread, my pillow, my sheets, spinning, constantly turning and bouncing every which way. Then I am in a trawler off of Anacapa, my hook skimming the reefs for rockfish, bat ray, guitar fish, barracuda, sea scorpions, thresher sharks and I see atoms too. Then I am running in a forest on Mt. Rainier, chasing mighty elk through dense thickets and there are atoms. Then I am riding the Bonzai Rapids on the Kings River in a flimsy pool raft and there are atoms. Then I am at work, amid the boredom and monotony of my little desk, chair and computer, and I see atoms. Then I am chasing a ball on a playing field and people chase me with atoms. And I am floating in the blue waters of a cinote in Chichen Itza, swimming amid the hundreds of tiny brown catfish and I see atoms everywhere. And then I am in a vast sea of cars on the 405 moving along endlessly in a gigantic river, millions upon millions of cars, and I see atoms too. And I am walking amid the throngs of people at the fair in Ventura or at a football game or soccer match with a crowd of ninety thousand at the Coliseum who are atoms. Then I am sitting alone, at night, on my living room floor, in my silence and everything is atoms. Then I am a child lying in the snow of Olympia, Washington, waving my arms to make a snow angel and it is all atoms. Everything atoms always.
The flaming eagle drifts back, smaller and smaller, floating down to a distant mountain a thousand feet below, disappearing behind a snow-capped peak, at the bottom of the teepee.
Holy Shit! They slipped me something in the tea. I dodged the peyote and still mind has conjured up multifarious visions. Sneaky Indians.
Eight hours into the ceremony, I am no longer at one with the burning eagle, the atoms or anything else. I’ve had it with the damn absolute knowledge. Screw the freakin’ eagle.
My knees ache. My ankles ache. My stomach aches. My back aches. I only want to get the hell out of the friggin’ teepee.
When Randy originally told me about the ritual, I thought, alright, maybe an hour or two, your standard ceremony length, get in, listen to the sermon, say some chants, dance around, we’re good. We went into the teepee around dusk on Saturday night. We didn’t get out until around eight a.m., the next morning. Let me repeat that: eight a.m. the next morning! No wonder you need the peyote -- you’re in a teepee, sitting on your laurels for twelve hours! TWELVE HOURS! Sitting! I haven’t sat anywhere for twelve hours. It’s hard enough for me to sit for an hour let alone twelve, on the floor. I couldn’t sit for twelve hours in a Lay-Z-Boy with a remote watching the World Cup. I’d have to get up, move around sometime, step out for a drink, grab some chips or something.
With the heat of the sun warming the teepee, the Fire Man covers the smoldering embers with dirt. People make their way into the open air. I stand up, my knees creaking, ankles sore and aching, and the chunks of peyote scatter over the dirt floor. I freeze, looking around to see if my iniquity has been detected. Everyone is collecting their things, oblivious. I drop my sweater on the scattered pieces and coolly stuff them into my pocket.
Randy and June are disappointed with me when I complain to them in the refreshing sunlight.
“That was absolute torture. I had no idea it was going to be so long.”
“You didn’t take the peyote,” are the first words out of June’s mouth.
How did they know? Everyone was spaced out and it was semi-dark in there.
“I drank the tea.”
“It doesn’t matter. The peyote was very vital to the ritual, Jay. That’s why we call it ‘Father Peyote’”, says Randy, accusingly.
“I didn’t feel comfortable.”
“Then why did you come in the first place?”
“I really thought I could connect without the drug.”
“It’s not a drug. It grows in nature. It’s natural.”
“I still just didn’t feel comfortable.”
“You disappoint me, Jay.”
“I’m sorry, Randy.”
“Until you learn to have courage and take chances and face your inner struggles, you’re never going to get where you need to be.”
Bottom line, I was a bad Indian.
I tell them I am tired and need to leave. Everyone has brought food and this is the potluck/socializing time but I want to duck out, go home and sleep. That’s all I can think about.
I catch Rick, the Road Chief and his sister Glenda’s disappointed looks as I shuffle to my car. I try to strike up small talk with them but they give me the cold shoulder. I try to tell him about seeing the Great Spirit Eagle and being carried a hundred feet off the ground and seeing everything as atoms but I am still a dick because I chucked the peyote in the weeds.
One other guy also suffers the humiliation of the outcast. This is the only guy who left the teepee early that night. He is a young white guy with glasses who looks like a carbon copy of myself. He also says he had the vision of being carried off the ground. Everyone seems to avoid this guy like a leper. He is worse off than me because he left the teepee prematurely and broke the sacred hoop.
I drive home, trying mightily to keep myself awake and almost dying about seven times from dozing off and drifting over the center line and getting in near head-on collisions with eighteen wheelers.
I never see Randy and his wife after that. I try to call but he avoids me. I want to apologize and tell him that maybe it was too much for me but he should have for-warned me about the twelve-hour-on-your-ass-in-a-teepee-Indian-ritual-thing. Would have been nice. I was thinking it was going to be camping in Ojai with maybe a one hour ceremony, dancing chicks, head dresses, the whole nine yards. Right now, I don’t have the faith or stamina for twelve hours in a teepee. Get back to me in about twenty years.
`
I extend my arms and drift up to the zenith of the teepee with the smoke that is ebbing out into the night air, curling toward a coyote moon blazing orange and diaphanous like the devil’s iris in a parlor of twinkling diamonds.
I peer down at the little circle of celebrants beneath me who look like squatting ants around a cigarette spark. The flaming eagle flaps his wings in dreamy slo-mo. Whoosh. Whoosh. I feel my face wafted by the wind of his great wings, cool, breezy, even though they are made of millions of tiny, cherry-red coal fragments. The eagle hovers close to my face and I look into his eye that transforms from flaming ember, into a real eagle eye, full of wisdom and deep knowledge, unblinking, eternal, the Great God of Light and Air, the Protector, Vanquisher of Darkness, Giver of Eternal Peace. He conveys to me, through subtle intuition, that I am at one with the natural world, this earth, this realm, created by God for our majestic quest for truth and to find ourselves which is really only finding God again.
My God it is so simple, so radiant.
For one brief shining moment I achieve absolute knowledge, the realization that I myself and the universe are one and God is everything.
Then the Great Spirit Eagle shows me atoms. And I see atoms in my bed while I sleep. I see the atoms of my bedspread, my pillow, my sheets, spinning, constantly turning and bouncing every which way. Then I am in a trawler off of Anacapa, my hook skimming the reefs for rockfish, bat ray, guitar fish, barracuda, sea scorpions, thresher sharks and I see atoms too. Then I am running in a forest on Mt. Rainier, chasing mighty elk through dense thickets and there are atoms. Then I am riding the Bonzai Rapids on the Kings River in a flimsy pool raft and there are atoms. Then I am at work, amid the boredom and monotony of my little desk, chair and computer, and I see atoms. Then I am chasing a ball on a playing field and people chase me with atoms. And I am floating in the blue waters of a cinote in Chichen Itza, swimming amid the hundreds of tiny brown catfish and I see atoms everywhere. And then I am in a vast sea of cars on the 405 moving along endlessly in a gigantic river, millions upon millions of cars, and I see atoms too. And I am walking amid the throngs of people at the fair in Ventura or at a football game or soccer match with a crowd of ninety thousand at the Coliseum who are atoms. Then I am sitting alone, at night, on my living room floor, in my silence and everything is atoms. Then I am a child lying in the snow of Olympia, Washington, waving my arms to make a snow angel and it is all atoms. Everything atoms always.
The flaming eagle drifts back, smaller and smaller, floating down to a distant mountain a thousand feet below, disappearing behind a snow-capped peak, at the bottom of the teepee.
Holy Shit! They slipped me something in the tea. I dodged the peyote and still mind has conjured up multifarious visions. Sneaky Indians.
Eight hours into the ceremony, I am no longer at one with the burning eagle, the atoms or anything else. I’ve had it with the damn absolute knowledge. Screw the freakin’ eagle.
My knees ache. My ankles ache. My stomach aches. My back aches. I only want to get the hell out of the friggin’ teepee.
When Randy originally told me about the ritual, I thought, alright, maybe an hour or two, your standard ceremony length, get in, listen to the sermon, say some chants, dance around, we’re good. We went into the teepee around dusk on Saturday night. We didn’t get out until around eight a.m., the next morning. Let me repeat that: eight a.m. the next morning! No wonder you need the peyote -- you’re in a teepee, sitting on your laurels for twelve hours! TWELVE HOURS! Sitting! I haven’t sat anywhere for twelve hours. It’s hard enough for me to sit for an hour let alone twelve, on the floor. I couldn’t sit for twelve hours in a Lay-Z-Boy with a remote watching the World Cup. I’d have to get up, move around sometime, step out for a drink, grab some chips or something.
With the heat of the sun warming the teepee, the Fire Man covers the smoldering embers with dirt. People make their way into the open air. I stand up, my knees creaking, ankles sore and aching, and the chunks of peyote scatter over the dirt floor. I freeze, looking around to see if my iniquity has been detected. Everyone is collecting their things, oblivious. I drop my sweater on the scattered pieces and coolly stuff them into my pocket.
Randy and June are disappointed with me when I complain to them in the refreshing sunlight.
“That was absolute torture. I had no idea it was going to be so long.”
“You didn’t take the peyote,” are the first words out of June’s mouth.
How did they know? Everyone was spaced out and it was semi-dark in there.
“I drank the tea.”
“It doesn’t matter. The peyote was very vital to the ritual, Jay. That’s why we call it ‘Father Peyote’”, says Randy, accusingly.
“I didn’t feel comfortable.”
“Then why did you come in the first place?”
“I really thought I could connect without the drug.”
“It’s not a drug. It grows in nature. It’s natural.”
“I still just didn’t feel comfortable.”
“You disappoint me, Jay.”
“I’m sorry, Randy.”
“Until you learn to have courage and take chances and face your inner struggles, you’re never going to get where you need to be.”
Bottom line, I was a bad Indian.
I tell them I am tired and need to leave. Everyone has brought food and this is the potluck/socializing time but I want to duck out, go home and sleep. That’s all I can think about.
I catch Rick, the Road Chief and his sister Glenda’s disappointed looks as I shuffle to my car. I try to strike up small talk with them but they give me the cold shoulder. I try to tell him about seeing the Great Spirit Eagle and being carried a hundred feet off the ground and seeing everything as atoms but I am still a dick because I chucked the peyote in the weeds.
One other guy also suffers the humiliation of the outcast. This is the only guy who left the teepee early that night. He is a young white guy with glasses who looks like a carbon copy of myself. He also says he had the vision of being carried off the ground. Everyone seems to avoid this guy like a leper. He is worse off than me because he left the teepee prematurely and broke the sacred hoop.
I drive home, trying mightily to keep myself awake and almost dying about seven times from dozing off and drifting over the center line and getting in near head-on collisions with eighteen wheelers.
I never see Randy and his wife after that. I try to call but he avoids me. I want to apologize and tell him that maybe it was too much for me but he should have for-warned me about the twelve-hour-on-your-ass-in-a-teepee-Indian-ritual-thing. Would have been nice. I was thinking it was going to be camping in Ojai with maybe a one hour ceremony, dancing chicks, head dresses, the whole nine yards. Right now, I don’t have the faith or stamina for twelve hours in a teepee. Get back to me in about twenty years.
`
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Feeling Connected Pt. 1
I follow Randy and his wife June, up the winding highway 150 to Ojai. His wife drives like a lunatic and I have to be Mario Andretti to keep up.
Randy is an actor friend and aspiring writer who attends a bi-monthly peyote ceremony in the Ojai valley for his Native American religion. He tells me this is the most profound spiritual experience of his life and urges me to check it out. How can I resist the invitation?
I have always loved and respected Native American pathways and appreciated their tradition and deep connection to the earth and nature. I do harbor a bit of trepidation at the thought of ingesting peyote. I am generally a person who avoids drugs and alcohol, not because I am a prude or a square, I just never liked the idea of that kind of unnatural escape and always thought it would hamper my creativity.
As Randy’s wife, June, Nascars the highway, I begin to feel nauseating fear building in my guts. I am concerned I might be socially pressured to take the drug or fall victim to some Indian faux paux if I am not careful. I don’t want to embarrass Randy and make everyone feel uncomfortable being the only one who doesn’t fully partake in the ritual.
On the drive up, Randy and June pull along the side of the road and Randy tells me he saw “Coyote” cross the road which is a good omen for tonight’s ritual. “Coyote” symbolizes good fortune and a safe trip. A red-tailed hawk is also spotted on the drive which means favorable blessings and self-awareness. They fail to mention though what the omen means for all the flattened bunnies, squirrels, raccoons and other small varmints June leaves in her relentless wake.
Randy is small and wiry with an enormous head. His acting skills are unparalleled but his writing is average. His wife is a very plain, blond woman with a low, subdued energy level and she seems to hold in a lot of emotion, perfectly contrasting Randy, who is very flamboyant and outspoken. I had originally assumed he was gay at our first meeting and was rather astounded when I learned he was actually married to a woman, with real parts and everything.
At a rural site off the highway, we collect long timber poles to construct the teepee. Randy ducks out of the work by talking incessantly with anyone who will listen or by making himself look busy by kicking around in the dust and removing things from the soles of his shoes. His wife vanishes for a while, also opting out of the hard labor which is reserved for the men of the tribe.
We share a peace pipe as we construct the teepee, to appease the spirits. It is not actually a pipe but a small, flat cigarette tied together with string. I am the fifth in line to take a puff. I have never smoked anything so I am clueless how to do this. I just play along trying my best to look reverential so as not to piss of the Road Chief, Rick, a massive, kindly man with a barrel chest and giant brown hands and calves. He appears quiet and humble when you meet him on the street, but at this ceremony he is larger than life, a gargantuan personality who seems to spiritually come alive in his element and drift back into obscurity when trying to re-assimilate into the white man’s world.
The teepee is constructed and other attendants begin to trickle in. It is an earthy crowd, many of the people not looking like they hold down regular jobs. Besides the Chief, his daughter, the Fire Man, and the Drum Man, I think everyone else is white.
I roam off by myself to walk along a river and get in touch with nature and God. I sit quietly by myself and do some simple meditations and prayers. I want to be open and humble for this experience to get the most out of it. I know my cynicism is my own worst enemy and don’t want it to spoil the experience. This is obviously a very sacred ritual to these people and to harbor negative thoughts has always been my undoing.
Alone, out here in the forest, away from everyone, I feel peaceful and connected.
I notice a spotted hawk perched on the roots of a tree that has been swept over in the recent rains. I remove my shoes and cross the river, climbing up on the opposite bank to get a closer look at the hawk. He doesn’t fly away. He doesn’t seem to mind my approach at all. I think to myself, maybe this is another sign; this great bird telling me everything is okay and I am actually close to nature and connected with Mother Earth.
I walk right up to the hawk, and strangely, he doesn’t move, just looks at me. I peer around wondering if this is someone’s domesticated pet. The hawk is massive and beautiful, with a white tail, spotted wings, and bright yellow eyes.
I “pish” at him to show I am not here to harm him. Pishing is a high-pitched, squeaky sound birdwatchers use to connect with birds. The hawk tilts his head sideways inquisitively, when I make the call. He doesn’t show even the slightest ounce of fear.
I look at his wings and talons to see if he is injured but find no signs of external damage.
I gaze around again wondering if this is some joke or someone is taping a hidden camera show. I actually expect the owner to come around a corner yelling, “get away from my bird, jerk!”
I move a few inches closer, making another pishing sound. He stays in that exact spot, only shuffling his talons a little on the branch.
I hold out my index finger as you do with a parrot when you want him to perch on you. I think of the majestic thrill of being connected to this great raptor and having him sit on my finger. He just watches my finger, deeply interested. I move it toward his spotted white belly, pishing quietly again. He looks into my eye as if he has known me for ages. He sees through all my insecurities, my limitations, my human frailties. For him, I am only another creature of the forest. I represent no predatory threat or challenge. I think of the great St. Francis of Assisi and his amazing spiritual advancement where he could commune with wildlife and they would follow him around like Dr. Doolittle. I understand that when you are in tune with the Divine, nature automatically obeys. I was beginning to sense that I, myself, despite my failings and cynicism, was perhaps truly a spiritually advanced soul who had finally attained mastery over beasts of the field and birds of the sky.
I move my index finger right up to the spotted hawk’s belly, pressing it against the downy feathers. My eyes are like poached eggs; like a kid at his first big Christmas.
Then he pecks the shit out of me.
He freakin’ annihilates my finger.
He grips it in his razor-sharp beak and doesn’t let go for what seems like forever.
The hawk issues a piercing shriek and flies off, brushing my cheek with his wing as he goes.
For a moment I am stunned. I can’t believe he did such a thing. We were getting along so well. My finger is throbbing. The bird instantly shatters my delusion of being at one with nature. I look up and catch a glimpse of him disappearing over the tree line. What an asshole. You build up a man’s hopes like that, then yank the rug out from under his feet.
I hold my bleeding finger under the freezing water of the creek. There is a gash right at the joint that oozes blood. The pain continues to throb dully.
I am not really sure what my intention was at having a wild hawk perch on my finger, and after about twenty seconds, after I get over the shock of it, the whole idea seems really rather idiotic. Completely idiotic, as a matter of fact. What the hell was I thinking?
Ever notice how lots of things don’t seem that idiotic until you actually do the idiotic thing and look back and go, “hey, that was really freakin’ idiotic”?
Sometimes it’s too late to know you were an idiot at the time until after you are an idiot and realize it. Words of wisdom. You can write that down if you like.
Later that night, inside the teepee, the Fire Man burns wood in the center of the dirt floor with cedar incense which is supposed to curb the feelings of nausea which can accompany ingesting the peyote, the key ingredient being mescaline.
We sit in a wide circle around the fire. I was told to bring a few pillows and a blanket but I have forgotten. I use my sweatshirt to pad my seat. For now this suffices.
Rick, the Road Chief, starts off with a short prayer: “I am going into my place of worship. Be with us tonight, oh Creator.”
I end up being seated right next to Rick and his sister, Glenda, a heavy-set, simple woman who smiles a lot but doesn’t say much. She passes me this tea that tastes like clay and I take a sip and pass it. They begin chanting as the Drum Man beats the drum. The tea is passed again and I take another sip. This tea seems to have a relaxing effect as I can feel my pulse rate slow, the thrumming of the blood in my veins at my neck keeping beat with the steady thud of the drum. A warm, mellow feeling washes over my body blanketing every fiber of my frame.
Glenda passes me peyote which looks like slices of a dark-colored mushroom. I notice everyone wolfing this stuff down like it’s going out of style. I look at Randy as he sways and chants, his eyes closed, in some kind of deep trance.
The humming vibrations of the chanting bore deep in my chest. I can feel my ribs quivering. I try to play along as the Fire Man is now using the flaming coals to fashion amazing designs on the floor of the teepee. He creates a flaming mountain. Then he creates what looks like a coyote. Then an inverted deer. Glenda keeps passing me peyote and notices my constant squirming as the pain in my knees and ankles from sitting for so long in one spot grows unbearable.
“Take more peyote. I will help relax you,” she says quietly.
I am relaxed. Don’t I look like I’m relaxed? She didn’t know I am stuffing the peyote underneath my sweater. After a while I have a big pile of the stuff under me and I am worried how I am going to dispose of it before the Road Chief sees me and gives me a sound boxing to the ears.
It is about at this point that alarming numbers of the congregation begin to vomit into the dirt in front of them. Randy had explained this is people upchucking their sins and impurities, a direct result of the peyote ingestion which forces everyone to face their own hidden demons. For right now, I am okay with my sins, demons and whatnot just so long as I didn’t have to hurl my guts out in front of strangers on the dirt floor of the teepee. This only proves to heighten my fear of eating the drug.
The drum finally reaches me. Each person has a turn to pound on it and do their own personal chant. Everyone gets into the groove and knows the lingo, letting the Great Spirit guide their words and song.
When the drum comes to me, I kind of look around for some guidance but no one seems to offer any. The Chief’s sister motions to the drum as I sit in dumb silence holding it between my knees like my pecker. Finally I belt out the only Indian chant I know from childhood, “Hiawatha! Hiawatha! Hiawatha! Hiawatha!” while banging on the drum like a cretin. A few white people shoot me scornful looks like they think I’m not being serious. No one else seems to notice or care or are too embarrassed or stoned to look at me and make a scene. Some are busy vomiting, and for a moment I think this is a direct result of my pathetic chant. I look at Randy to make sure he isn’t giving me the stink-eye, and fortunately, he is whacked out of his mind, swaying too and fro and humming something unintelligible.
I am not sure if it is the strange tea or the chanting or the drumming or the smoky ambiance of the cedar incense but there are rare moments when I am taken away and feel I am in touch with that deeper place I saw on the mountain when I looked inside myself in deep meditation. I suddenly feel at one with this motley group of white people who want to be Indians.
Then I begin hallucinating.
The Fire Man spins an incredible flaming eagle on the floor that rises up like the Phoenix, out of the ashes and hovers in the center of the teepee. I look around to see if anyone else notices this apparition and everyone is off in dreamland, chanting and swaying. Then I am suddenly lifted off the dirt floor!
Randy is an actor friend and aspiring writer who attends a bi-monthly peyote ceremony in the Ojai valley for his Native American religion. He tells me this is the most profound spiritual experience of his life and urges me to check it out. How can I resist the invitation?
I have always loved and respected Native American pathways and appreciated their tradition and deep connection to the earth and nature. I do harbor a bit of trepidation at the thought of ingesting peyote. I am generally a person who avoids drugs and alcohol, not because I am a prude or a square, I just never liked the idea of that kind of unnatural escape and always thought it would hamper my creativity.
As Randy’s wife, June, Nascars the highway, I begin to feel nauseating fear building in my guts. I am concerned I might be socially pressured to take the drug or fall victim to some Indian faux paux if I am not careful. I don’t want to embarrass Randy and make everyone feel uncomfortable being the only one who doesn’t fully partake in the ritual.
On the drive up, Randy and June pull along the side of the road and Randy tells me he saw “Coyote” cross the road which is a good omen for tonight’s ritual. “Coyote” symbolizes good fortune and a safe trip. A red-tailed hawk is also spotted on the drive which means favorable blessings and self-awareness. They fail to mention though what the omen means for all the flattened bunnies, squirrels, raccoons and other small varmints June leaves in her relentless wake.
Randy is small and wiry with an enormous head. His acting skills are unparalleled but his writing is average. His wife is a very plain, blond woman with a low, subdued energy level and she seems to hold in a lot of emotion, perfectly contrasting Randy, who is very flamboyant and outspoken. I had originally assumed he was gay at our first meeting and was rather astounded when I learned he was actually married to a woman, with real parts and everything.
At a rural site off the highway, we collect long timber poles to construct the teepee. Randy ducks out of the work by talking incessantly with anyone who will listen or by making himself look busy by kicking around in the dust and removing things from the soles of his shoes. His wife vanishes for a while, also opting out of the hard labor which is reserved for the men of the tribe.
We share a peace pipe as we construct the teepee, to appease the spirits. It is not actually a pipe but a small, flat cigarette tied together with string. I am the fifth in line to take a puff. I have never smoked anything so I am clueless how to do this. I just play along trying my best to look reverential so as not to piss of the Road Chief, Rick, a massive, kindly man with a barrel chest and giant brown hands and calves. He appears quiet and humble when you meet him on the street, but at this ceremony he is larger than life, a gargantuan personality who seems to spiritually come alive in his element and drift back into obscurity when trying to re-assimilate into the white man’s world.
The teepee is constructed and other attendants begin to trickle in. It is an earthy crowd, many of the people not looking like they hold down regular jobs. Besides the Chief, his daughter, the Fire Man, and the Drum Man, I think everyone else is white.
I roam off by myself to walk along a river and get in touch with nature and God. I sit quietly by myself and do some simple meditations and prayers. I want to be open and humble for this experience to get the most out of it. I know my cynicism is my own worst enemy and don’t want it to spoil the experience. This is obviously a very sacred ritual to these people and to harbor negative thoughts has always been my undoing.
Alone, out here in the forest, away from everyone, I feel peaceful and connected.
I notice a spotted hawk perched on the roots of a tree that has been swept over in the recent rains. I remove my shoes and cross the river, climbing up on the opposite bank to get a closer look at the hawk. He doesn’t fly away. He doesn’t seem to mind my approach at all. I think to myself, maybe this is another sign; this great bird telling me everything is okay and I am actually close to nature and connected with Mother Earth.
I walk right up to the hawk, and strangely, he doesn’t move, just looks at me. I peer around wondering if this is someone’s domesticated pet. The hawk is massive and beautiful, with a white tail, spotted wings, and bright yellow eyes.
I “pish” at him to show I am not here to harm him. Pishing is a high-pitched, squeaky sound birdwatchers use to connect with birds. The hawk tilts his head sideways inquisitively, when I make the call. He doesn’t show even the slightest ounce of fear.
I look at his wings and talons to see if he is injured but find no signs of external damage.
I gaze around again wondering if this is some joke or someone is taping a hidden camera show. I actually expect the owner to come around a corner yelling, “get away from my bird, jerk!”
I move a few inches closer, making another pishing sound. He stays in that exact spot, only shuffling his talons a little on the branch.
I hold out my index finger as you do with a parrot when you want him to perch on you. I think of the majestic thrill of being connected to this great raptor and having him sit on my finger. He just watches my finger, deeply interested. I move it toward his spotted white belly, pishing quietly again. He looks into my eye as if he has known me for ages. He sees through all my insecurities, my limitations, my human frailties. For him, I am only another creature of the forest. I represent no predatory threat or challenge. I think of the great St. Francis of Assisi and his amazing spiritual advancement where he could commune with wildlife and they would follow him around like Dr. Doolittle. I understand that when you are in tune with the Divine, nature automatically obeys. I was beginning to sense that I, myself, despite my failings and cynicism, was perhaps truly a spiritually advanced soul who had finally attained mastery over beasts of the field and birds of the sky.
I move my index finger right up to the spotted hawk’s belly, pressing it against the downy feathers. My eyes are like poached eggs; like a kid at his first big Christmas.
Then he pecks the shit out of me.
He freakin’ annihilates my finger.
He grips it in his razor-sharp beak and doesn’t let go for what seems like forever.
The hawk issues a piercing shriek and flies off, brushing my cheek with his wing as he goes.
For a moment I am stunned. I can’t believe he did such a thing. We were getting along so well. My finger is throbbing. The bird instantly shatters my delusion of being at one with nature. I look up and catch a glimpse of him disappearing over the tree line. What an asshole. You build up a man’s hopes like that, then yank the rug out from under his feet.
I hold my bleeding finger under the freezing water of the creek. There is a gash right at the joint that oozes blood. The pain continues to throb dully.
I am not really sure what my intention was at having a wild hawk perch on my finger, and after about twenty seconds, after I get over the shock of it, the whole idea seems really rather idiotic. Completely idiotic, as a matter of fact. What the hell was I thinking?
Ever notice how lots of things don’t seem that idiotic until you actually do the idiotic thing and look back and go, “hey, that was really freakin’ idiotic”?
Sometimes it’s too late to know you were an idiot at the time until after you are an idiot and realize it. Words of wisdom. You can write that down if you like.
Later that night, inside the teepee, the Fire Man burns wood in the center of the dirt floor with cedar incense which is supposed to curb the feelings of nausea which can accompany ingesting the peyote, the key ingredient being mescaline.
We sit in a wide circle around the fire. I was told to bring a few pillows and a blanket but I have forgotten. I use my sweatshirt to pad my seat. For now this suffices.
Rick, the Road Chief, starts off with a short prayer: “I am going into my place of worship. Be with us tonight, oh Creator.”
I end up being seated right next to Rick and his sister, Glenda, a heavy-set, simple woman who smiles a lot but doesn’t say much. She passes me this tea that tastes like clay and I take a sip and pass it. They begin chanting as the Drum Man beats the drum. The tea is passed again and I take another sip. This tea seems to have a relaxing effect as I can feel my pulse rate slow, the thrumming of the blood in my veins at my neck keeping beat with the steady thud of the drum. A warm, mellow feeling washes over my body blanketing every fiber of my frame.
Glenda passes me peyote which looks like slices of a dark-colored mushroom. I notice everyone wolfing this stuff down like it’s going out of style. I look at Randy as he sways and chants, his eyes closed, in some kind of deep trance.
The humming vibrations of the chanting bore deep in my chest. I can feel my ribs quivering. I try to play along as the Fire Man is now using the flaming coals to fashion amazing designs on the floor of the teepee. He creates a flaming mountain. Then he creates what looks like a coyote. Then an inverted deer. Glenda keeps passing me peyote and notices my constant squirming as the pain in my knees and ankles from sitting for so long in one spot grows unbearable.
“Take more peyote. I will help relax you,” she says quietly.
I am relaxed. Don’t I look like I’m relaxed? She didn’t know I am stuffing the peyote underneath my sweater. After a while I have a big pile of the stuff under me and I am worried how I am going to dispose of it before the Road Chief sees me and gives me a sound boxing to the ears.
It is about at this point that alarming numbers of the congregation begin to vomit into the dirt in front of them. Randy had explained this is people upchucking their sins and impurities, a direct result of the peyote ingestion which forces everyone to face their own hidden demons. For right now, I am okay with my sins, demons and whatnot just so long as I didn’t have to hurl my guts out in front of strangers on the dirt floor of the teepee. This only proves to heighten my fear of eating the drug.
The drum finally reaches me. Each person has a turn to pound on it and do their own personal chant. Everyone gets into the groove and knows the lingo, letting the Great Spirit guide their words and song.
When the drum comes to me, I kind of look around for some guidance but no one seems to offer any. The Chief’s sister motions to the drum as I sit in dumb silence holding it between my knees like my pecker. Finally I belt out the only Indian chant I know from childhood, “Hiawatha! Hiawatha! Hiawatha! Hiawatha!” while banging on the drum like a cretin. A few white people shoot me scornful looks like they think I’m not being serious. No one else seems to notice or care or are too embarrassed or stoned to look at me and make a scene. Some are busy vomiting, and for a moment I think this is a direct result of my pathetic chant. I look at Randy to make sure he isn’t giving me the stink-eye, and fortunately, he is whacked out of his mind, swaying too and fro and humming something unintelligible.
I am not sure if it is the strange tea or the chanting or the drumming or the smoky ambiance of the cedar incense but there are rare moments when I am taken away and feel I am in touch with that deeper place I saw on the mountain when I looked inside myself in deep meditation. I suddenly feel at one with this motley group of white people who want to be Indians.
Then I begin hallucinating.
The Fire Man spins an incredible flaming eagle on the floor that rises up like the Phoenix, out of the ashes and hovers in the center of the teepee. I look around to see if anyone else notices this apparition and everyone is off in dreamland, chanting and swaying. Then I am suddenly lifted off the dirt floor!
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