The Spirit of the Bonfire

On January 14th, 1967, 20,000 hippies, Beats, and Berkeley activists gathered at the Polo Field in San Francisco’s Golden Gate Park around the music of, among others, The Grateful Dead and Jefferson Airplane. The convergence, largely fueled by Vietnam War protests, was called “Human Be-In” and it signaled the start of the “Summer of Love.” Future Rolling Stone editor Ralph J. Gleason described the event as “an affirmation, not a protest. Acid was everywhere, but there were no bad trips. The sun set, the bands played, and the people glowed.” To that, Timothy Leary exhorted and snorted, “Turn on, tune in and drop out.”
So our fathers and mothers, aunts and uncles—and their friends and acquaintances—with flowers on their hair, swirled as the sun set, while rock music swayed with the wind, and humanity glowed. The trip was so cool – so they continued to get turned on, tuned in, and dropped out. This “love vibe” filled the sweet air, like a freefalling dive to nirvana, this pervaded as Lucy kept on dancing up in the Sky with Diamonds – as young soldiers whose limbs were still warm from the comfort of a loved one’s embrace, and rock stars whose heavenly fingers flashed the peace sign before they cuddled the mic and the fretboard – all of a sudden, dropped dead.
The music was still playing, the sun was still rising and setting, but the beautiful bodies of the beautiful souls were now cold and unmoving – wasted and gone.

I was around six or seven years old at that time. I marveled in awe as my aunt danced to John Fogerty’s “Who’ll Stop The Rain” and I dreamed of a beautiful future upon knowing that wealthy rock celebrities could share exuberant music and ethereal words with the average humanity on a grandiose stage that weren’t built by corporate doleout and political sham but through a primitive love for peace and community—in a beautiful convergence called, “Woodstock.”
Many years later, in my country, humanity—rich and poor, young and old, rock stars and street urchins—gathered with flowers on their hair, their wearied fingers flashed the peace sign, called for peace and community, and end to a twenty-year genocidal dictatorship. The flowers and the music, the peace sign and the words—these melted the human hearts that were once numbed by the evil mind that commanded the fingers that pulled the trigger… and so the tora-tora planes, bazookas, grenade launchers, and AK-47s stopped and crumbled like burnt paper planes and dismantled wooden ships.
Like the Chinese youth who stood alone afront a surging tank in Tiananmen Square, like the Filipino Catholic nun who waved a rose afront a soldier armed with submachinegun… these souls turned on, tuned in, but they didn’t drop out. Instead, they made the tanks and guns drop out—and then they made a beautiful history rife with glorious wisdom and spiritual bravery. In those moments, there was no summer of love, no glow, no rock music, no sunset, no acid. Courage was articulated, peace was achieved.

That is my dream and my reality. A grand dream and impoverished reality that converge and find warmth, shelter, and love in The Traveling Bonfires. Words and music – are my ammunition and firepower – in my fight for peace and community. The bonfire is my rest and refuge, my security and my protection, my rage and my redemption. There are no chasers in between. Nothing in between — no irresponsible excess as the deadly trio of weed, alcohol & acid, and corporate blood, and political/ideological bigotry.
This is the Madness and the Mission.
Since the middle of 1980s to late 1990s—amidst the physical danger of Martial Law and emotional indifference of New York City – that Sublime Madness and Quixotic Mission have always been there with me. Under a virulent summer sun, battering storm, gunshots that snuck in from nowhere, a heart that bled like isolated river – that madness and mission was my God, family, community, and relationship.
Manila, New York City, Asheville. It’s all the same to me. The places, faces, phases change and vary but not the spirit.

In a not-so-distant past, in a weekend musicfest—drummed up as “a benefit for The Traveling Bonfires” – held in another Appalachian town, the spirit of the bonfire was caught in a claustrophobic haze of hedonist excess and burnout high. The entrancing mischief of the electric guitar cavorted with the sweet sound of words but amidst the seductive din and unsuspecting glory of the dark, stupor lurked like a devil on overcoat. It was the kind of chill—a gnawing guilt—that bites deep down the marrow.
But, maybe, I was one of the very few who could see and feel beyond the intoxication-induced fanfare. Indeed, the bonfire was beautiful, voluptuous, immaculate. But it was cold—cold like a stinking cadaver splattered with perfumed cosmetics. (I’m not talking about the weather...) Yet, it could have been a glorious convergence by the idyll—a freefalling marriage of peace and love, a synergetic merger of lyrical moondance and rock ‘n soul abandon.
A young man, dazed and drowsy, mumbled beside me, “I admire your poetry… peace!” Limericks flew around us as the bonfire burned. Then he shook my hands. I felt the kneading sincerity, the bleeding honesty—but why the lethargic vibe, why the burnt, clumsy emotion? Why can’t we savor the motherly warmth of this circle of fire, why can’t we exalt the flawless heartbeat of the drums, why can’t we feel with just our naked hearts and comforting spirits—without aid of some alien, volatile substance?
Deep within me, the bonfire is a sacred shelter with an outstretched soul. But why do we disregard and disrespect freedom’s mystical beauty with drunken, spaced-out bliss?

Despite the awry feeling of isolation and alienation, I tried my best to sustain a sense of reasonable system and organizational sanity in spite of the insensitivity of the incendiary sideshow. I knew my oblique wisdom or square-ness, cluelessness were simply out of sync with the moment’s party—but what could have I done?
It wasn’t my gig, it wasn’t my trip, I was there merely as a “doorperson”—I was told to “Let him in, he’s running this show. Yes, that man is my guest, don’t worry about that.” The pitch was BYOB (bring your own beer), but almost half of the campers/concertgoers purchased their tickets before the fact—so when they got in, with huge backpacks and stuff, you don’t really know whether these souls are underage or whatever. So when the bossman said, “Let them in,” you simply let them in. (Besides, at about 11pm, we were told to simply abandon post—so, should I repeat that I was just the “doorman”?)
But then, I don’t want to wax like some adventurous child’s overprotective Dad here or a stiff Victorian preacher. Let them in—tune in, turn on, and drop whatever. So while inside my freezing tent by the river amidst the dark, the only choice I got was to pray that nothing untoward happens.
Nothing bad—like college kids on IV, or trembling hands on cold cuffs—happened. But, still, I’d like to know why these irresponsible, insensitive dalliances had to go unchecked or unmonitored.
I never got the answers. I won’t get any answers, at all—yet I still wanna know why. Is it because—as we all know from Polo Field to Altamont to Rome (NY) Woodstock – that the Learyian dictum of “tune in, turn on, drop out” is more of the rule than the exemption here? Rock `n roll becomes the staple, convergence becomes the cover, “dropping out” becomes the hidden agenda. Where is the spirit?

Since it’s official inception in Manila in mid-80s – to its incarnation in New York City in 1999, then to its relocation in Asheville in early 2002—The Indie and The Traveling Bonfires have been surviving mostly from continuous outpouring of pro bono creative energies and humble funding/donation from wonderful souls who happen to vibe with the spirit.
From time to time, supposedly like-minded, well-meaning business entities and individual initiatives approach The Traveling Bonfires to be the beneficiary of community fundraise projects. Mostly, these “benefit shows” raise dough above the usual pass-the-hat tips and sale of compilation DIY CDs and hand-scrawled poetry chapbooks.
But unlike the usual “pick-up fundraisers” that we stubbornly do on staggering frequency, relatively bigger events where eccentric philanthropists and “compassionate businesses” produce for our welfare aren’t forged on spontaneous kick or instinctive passion. It’s not just a sort of “Dudes, let’s rock the E Train for three hours tonight so we’d raise enough bread to print the next issue of The Indie,” or something to that effect. It’s a lot more tedious, organized, and “legal” than my “hit-it-anywhere-you-want-it” swagger.
Well, it’s not just because of the fact that in those particular instances, my megalomaniac guerrilla-girth is relegated to the background—in favor of a (usually) more systematic, by-the-books supervisory style of the sponsoring/producing/organizing entity, organization, or individual. More often than not, these “hook-ups” require an anal, thorough, careful adherence to the physical givens of a “civilized existence” AKA paperwork, documentation, contracts, proposals/feasibility studies, disbursements/liquidations, valid signatures (yup, no “Flower” or “Butterfly” over the dotted line, please). Whether I like it or not, I just have to behave and follow the rules.

You see, the moment my burnt skin of soiled banana and boiled white rice crashlanded in the US of A, it was like, every bit of sweat trickling down my slim chest or each block that my immigrant feet negotiate need to be documented, assessed, and taxed. And that, my cash was no good, credit card is the favored legal tender. You see, in my life, I never had a wallet sticking out of my bony ass — to neatly keep bills and cards or girlfriend’s pics. My money is all over my backpack, between book covers, and jeans pockets — or I simply let my super-loyal sidekicks and assistants do the money thing for me, I’m not good at it.
But in America, it’s different, I later found out (this, after maybe a century or so of my family’s love affair with Uncle Sam). When my greatgreatgrandfathers ventured the high seas and sought their fortune in Alaska’s salmon canneries and California’s railroad constructions, they felt belonged and cared for – and, yes, they felt “home” more – when a Cheyenne, Lakota and Cherokee traded smoked trouts and windpipes with their boar-skin boots and rattan hats. They could understand and relate to that beautiful, spontaneous primitivism than the complex rap of the Morse Code or the dizzying array of paperwork needed to be filled up just to get a dinner stub.
Alas and behold—I live in the 21st century! I couldn’t barter my grilled trout for two reams of bond papers at a corner deli anymore, or y’ know, I simply can’t just recite a poem in exchange for a hot, spicy mushroom broth. Isn’t it so absurd to be wasting a neatly-printed, meticulously-crafted bank check — to write a $5 payment for a latex condom at a Target store? Weird.
Living in America is like skinny-dipping at a dimly-lit public pool inside a Wal-Mart on a Friday 5pm with a Gene Simmons make-up, you know what I mean? You seem “private” except that your primal parts and vital statistics are showing right there.

Even before the advent of the dreaded Patriot Act, my family has been really nervous and stressed out with all these “crazy” things that I do. They’ve been diligently paying attorneys’ retainers fees—to simply remind and advise me that “Don’t bet on it, boy, every breath you take in America is being taped,” or “You don’t want to be audited, do you?” Be careful, be careful. Geez, come on – I don’t even jaywalk in downtown Asheville or dye my hair green on a Drum Circle night, or make a pathetic pass at a young woman at The Orange Peel on a Friday night. Am I someone who’s going to break someone’s window, or allow Marta The Nicer Osbourne to illegally park in front of the Federal Building? Gimme a break!
You see, I don’t really believe in being careful CAREFUL, you know what I mean? What I sincerely, deeply believe in is, I need to be smart or, I should just take it easy and let common sense takes its course. I mean, if I beat a red light or jump over a subway turnstile, what do I get? A free strawberry ice cream or $15 gift certificate to Waffle House? It’s like, should I quarrel with an Ingles salesclerk because the poor soul insists that a Koolaid is a water jug or a summer drink, and that’s it? In the same way that—when a piece of 8.5x11 bond paper that says, “For the benefit of Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band,” is used to pitch business sponsorship support or pre-sell concert tickets, well, what must Billy Shears do when the Men In Black start knocking at his door, and start quizzing, “Where’s the bread, dude?”
Common sense, right?

I believe that The Traveling Bonfires’ “legal” involvement in aforementioned “for-the-benefit-of” events start upon submission of our 501c3/nonprofit paperwork to organizers for use in regards sponsorship solicitation letters or media publicity feeds. So, being the main suspect, it’s my responsibility to report to each and everyone what transpired in all those frog and squirrel concerts – whether we lost, we earned, or whatever. I always make it a point to announce – via Indie/Bonfires yahoogroups postings and weblogs updates, apart from individual emails to people concerned – the details about what happened in all Bonfires or Bonfires-related events.
Oh yes, I don’t give out The Indie/The Bonfires’ legal papers or allowed my organization’s name on some poster with a grand pitch such as GLOBAL PEACE – just like that. I am not hooking up a crack deal by a grimy sidestreet over a shot of spiked tomato juice or hustled Marlboro lights, got it?
When it comes to stuff like these, I’ve always been very careful (almost anally/compulsive-impulsive CAREFUL) about my organizational/business dealings. Oh yeah, that’s the time when I define common sense with carefulness… so I make it a point that, at least, I solicit legal consult. That is, in the event that my usual “reliable sources” fail to convince me that, “OK, Pasckie yo, we’re doing it. No problemo, the dude is clean.”
I may rebel against the paper chase, paper moon, or paper trail – and all these “civilized” transactions sealed via inscriptions countersigned by the agreeing parties – but I’m not dumb either to break rules when I know I gotta hit deadend as I make the next turn.
Despite these though, there are still few instances when I simply loosen up and take it easy, and rely on deeply sincere instinctive reflex. I hand out The Indie’s 501c3/nonprofit papers so supporters could use them for whatever it’s worth – sponsor solicitations, media feeds, tax exemptions. That’s all that I could offer in exchange for the wonderful gesture/s to help the “madness.” So I just categorize these seemingly nonchalant moves as “calculated risks.”

Moreover, while I usually cut across as unaffectedly cool, even to the point of being misread as meekly naïve, I am not stupid. The Traveling Bonfires’ name—nonprofit status that translates to formal letters and sponsorship help and tax refunds and exemptions—is a marketing pitch, a legal token, a lawful device, a publicity come-on. Whether that “paperwork” produced one dollar or one million dollars, or two attentive spectators or 100,000 sea of humanity—the name was still used to suit or serve a business entity or individual intent or political advocacy’s benefit.
We don’t hustle a Name, we don’t even buy a Name, or treat it like a black market ticket to a ball game or a hash deal at Washington Square. We RESPECT a Name. Many times, it’s all we got to protect our wisdom and honor.
More than anything else, The Traveling Bonfires’ name is NOT Pasckie Pascua, Marta Osborne, or any one of the names in The Indie’s staff box or Bonfires posters. The Bonfires is the pride and dignity of the many people who freely gave their time and energy and love to The Madness and The Mission. It is my calling and my responsibility to protect that spirit, whether I end up rotting in jail or starving with a pack of ramen noodles.

I built the “bonfire” as a sincere human gesture to gather people together to heal, communicate, merge, live a life rife with beauty and wisdom. The “bonfire” is not about heat in the cold when the alcohol isn’t enough and cover for the deluded mind when the evil substance wouldn’t kick in.
What I saw in that fateful, sad weekend is more of a private party that dances and whirls with “turn on, tune in and drop out” than a peaceful gathering of community souls. An ugly reminder of irresponsible recklessness that killed the music, murdered the vibe, and consigned the spirit to a puddle of vomit.
Why do we scream in protest and accuse the status quo as fascists when the uniformed hurl us to the ground because we had a drink too many and the “highs” went too high? Why do we blame our mothers and fathers each time we take a deadly step on the wild side? Can’t we be responsible to our own demons—don’t unleash it if you can’t control it?
I can’t allow irresponsibility and neglect to ruin a young soul’s dance of peace on another holy night, the spirit of the bonfires will not allow another bloody dollar bill to snuff out the flame’s glorious warmth with a shot of burnout potion number 9. When one body falls down, we shrug it off as collateral damage, unfortunate conjecture? Insurance and pensions gauze up the wounds, right?
Tsk, how much did the “doorman” earn at the gate, “for the benefit of The Traveling Bonfires”? Was it $700, $50 or $10 M? My spirit isn’t for sale, my fear isn’t up for bargain, and my word can only be equaled by a free wind’s whisper, nothing else.
I still do believe that those beautiful people drove few miles to the woods and willingly handed me hard-earned dollar bills at the “gate” to partake of the lovely rock `n soul gathering by the river—no more, no less. I still believe that they won’t venture beyond what their mortal anatomy and lawful discretion would allow if they weren’t coaxed, incited, lured, or offered what they should not. That is why there is system, organization, and “doorpersons”—as much as possible, we won’t let an iota of chaos and mayhem steal the fun and glory away. So, tell me, what is an insurance fee, green/orange hand bands, and concert stubs for? Were we just fooling ourselves?
A breach of trust beyond the paperwork (AKA contract), the bastardization of the word of honor between two supposedly decent individuals beyond presence of physical evidence—are still miserable displays of betrayal and deceit. Even anarchists, rebels, atheists, and the most staunch lawbreakers and nonconformists—even the devil and the angel—follow certain rules and regulations to advance their respective intents. We’re no exceptions.
The fistful of dollars resting on my emaciated jeans pocket beat for those immaculate souls who crave for peace and glory within the misery and pain, wearied bodies that find solace in the healing grace of music and convergence. I am not going to hand that money back to those who thought they haven’t got enough of the party favors—the money goes back to the spirit of the bonfire. Back to the next gathering where the wind and the pigeons and the beautiful people gather and redeem ugly memories of the reckless ghost dance.
I didn’t muster the cold for two consecutive nights and entrusted the stubborn integrity of The Traveling Bonfires to play a game that my own temporal body and wounded soul would not tolerate or accept.

Every event of The Traveling Bonfires is done under legal bounds of the law—whether our PA system growled whimpers or our persistence to string up shows after shows are consigned as laughing matters.
We try our best to be lawful, fair, and legal—given physical limitations and uncooperative circumstances.
Oh yes, I also protest and complain but I make it a point to adhere with what the law says. Otherwise, I will take to the hills, in the same way as a Che Guevarra or Geronimo did—because I already lost belief in what society is saying. But I am still here—I am still paying rent and I am not buying any herb or any substance discreetly—I can still walk freely on the street without fear of being cuffed or interrogated.
Many times, in this town, police cars pass by me. But I never felt the fear anymore—the deadly fear that stalked me many years ago when a vicious dictator’s claw crawled all over my system like a wild centipede with copperhead fang. Somehow, in this town, I feel protected and secured because there’s no reason why I shouldn’t be, anymore.
I have been a fiery, non-compromising activist many years ago. I have experienced many a steely truncheon hitting my weak backbone and tear gas almost rendering my lungs shot. I have experienced torture, both physical and emotional and mental, but still I seek peace. I don’t want to hate anymore, or even be angry. My past suffered so much, the heart profusely bled until the body got immune to the torment.

But it’s not easy to protect one’s inner peace. Somewhere, somehow someone’s going to strike from behind, from the shadows—and all you got to do to defend yourself is be true to yourself. Don’t get fazed, don’t get intimidated, don’t get swayed—remain standing, stay fighting.
Many have questioned, berated, made fun, disrespected, maligned this stubborn journey—just because I am still standing despite the apathy and funk, just because they don’t understand why we do these “crazy” things. I got accosted and accused of many silly, slanderous, ridiculous ways and means – that I am a trust-baby with a hidden, unknown agenda, who’ll take off after my “madness” has grown boring and passe, that my assistant (and past assistants) will not work for me if I don’t sleep with them so I force them to loyally, blindly fulfill obligations, that I am using Americans to free myself up of tax duties, that I pretend to be poor just to look cool, that I am a thief who used people’s “kindness” to keep The Indie and The Traveling Bonfires alive for my own sake.
But then, here I am—I am still standing, and I am still continually giving birth to new projects and programs. I am still here…
Last Oct 29, during the last few hours of the “Bonfires for Peace at Pritchard Park,” amidst the freezing below 35 temp—hungry, tired, cold—common sanity says, it’s time to load out and call it a night. But the last band, Hippie Shitzu, told me they still want to play—because there were still people at the park, dancing and happy, although almost half of the crowd that were left were drunken, ecstatically joyous homeless amigos. (I even had to confront one homeless dude for being uncontrollably rowdy.)
So the band played. I sat there, with Marta, quietly, peacefully—it always felt so great to see people happy with the music and fun that you helped to be shared for free. One of the drunken vagrants approached me and said, “I like this party that you do, man. I am happy! Oh yeah!” Then he took off his shirt and continued running circles like a man possessed.
The band kept on playing. Then, it was 9:50pm, 10 minutes to closing time, we saw two policemen attentively waiting for us to end the show. But then, suddenly, about a dozen youths jumped in and started dancing with the homeless, as the band segued to the last song’s verse. Marta looked at me, I said, “Let them play, it’s okay… people look happy. Let them enjoy. We’ll find money later to pay the fine.” The cops didn’t approach us, thanks a lot. They have been so kind to the spirit…
Then I noticed that we still had a number of Halloween gift bags that we should have given out to children at the park… I saw two young women, maybe 18 year olds, dancing in the dark. I let Marta give them two of the gift bags.
When the music finally stopped, we have already dismantled our tent and all our stuff were all bunched on a bench. Again, we realized we didn’t have a ride back to the office. We were so tired and hungry and cold. Cabs refused to give us a ride.
The day’s soundperson, Mark Anderson, said he’ll give us a ride back to the office. I tried to hand him a post-dated check for providing sound and PA to the show. We just got two ads for The Indie but the checks will only clear in three or four days. Mark refused to accept the check, though. He said he didn’t expect to get paid. So I took out a few dollar bills from my pocket and from the day’s concert tips, and insisted that he take some, at least to cover for his gasoline. He took $10, instead, because I forced him to.
That little episode has always been the poignant staple of many a-Bonfires event and thousands of Indies and Indie-incarnates in the last 20 or 25 years of my life. I know that scene will be repeated again, again and again. I don’t want the bonfire to end just because I couldn’t pay for a PA system or there’s no money anymore to pay the park permit, or there is no vehicle to ferry us from here to there, or I couldn’t get an advertising placement or donor support anymore. The absence of those material/physical givens didn’t stop me from pursuing this “rock journey and sublime madness” for many years now. I don’t see any reason why I have to stop. I am not about to end the bonfire. It is so beautiful… it is a gift that will stay in my heart until I die. And when I am gone, the spirit will fly out of my body to stoke, to start, to enflame another bonfire in the cold, in the dark.

Yes, I am dreamer. I wish I could have stopped the war, or a bullet from hitting its human target—in the same way that I wish that I could have stopped that deadly substance from reaching the fragile hands of a nice, college kid with a beautiful song of love and peace.
But life isn’t simple as a song sung afront a bonfire, or a warm hug amidst the cold. It is, oftentimes, a tragic, challenging juxtaposition of trials and tribulations. But despite that, we persevere, we struggle, we fight to defeat our demons. As long as we live, we fight to protect our honor and our name. We fight to protect our peace.
There were dark, sad moments in my past when I believed that the only way to defend and protect peace is to grab a firearm and wage a violent revolution under the perceived cloak of ideological invincibility. Why can’t we sit down around a bonfire and negotiate, dialogue, discuss? Why can’t we try to follow a certain straight line first on our way to a preferred destiny, before sidetripping via a crooked, jagged line of nonconformity?
Peace, for me, is like a dog that seeks equal space on an open field with wildflowers and grasshoppers. It’s the dog’s right to cavort with the flirty whispers of the wind and the soft comfort of falling rain—just like any living thing. But if some power forcibly takes that right away from the dog, the dog reacts – the dog will fight even to the extent of injury or death.
In other words, peace should defend itself when its spirit is threatened or harmed.

Yes, there were no bad trips on that fun weekend. There was “peace,” it seemed. The sun set, the bands played, and the people glowed. The beautiful people turned on, tuned in… and threw up all night. That’s all I saw. The cuffs didn’t lock, the truncheons didn’t fly, the nightmarish blue-red glare didn’t flash.
I could still hear the blues and the fiddle and the haunting Joni Mitchell tunes. And I could still remember how one young lady swayed and swirled and sweated all night around and within the sweet sound of rock and roll. It was beautiful, it was so beautiful.
Until Lucy played deadly games with the Blue Sky in a god-less night with phantom Diamonds. And as the ghostly Man in Black strode under a naked moon, the cold seeped through the marrow, and then the ethereal words and heavenly music were swallowed by the dark…
We still don’t have a car, we still don’t have enough money for a decent dinner. Each time we are able to earn money—beautiful thoughts of a new Indie issue, a new Bonfires project wake us up at night like the sweet sound of angel symphonies. That’s the trip that I always get high with. The feel of newly-printed Indie, the sight of dancing bodies in a Bonfires show—seem to be more heavenly, more urgent than the promise of comfort of a new vehicle, or a warm couch.
The “Bonfires for Peace at Pritchard Park” (aka “Bonfires for Vampires”) last Oct 29 is our last in Asheville for year 2005. A “Bonfires for Peace in Manila” took place last Oct 14, the first of three Bonfires concerts in Asia this year. More Traveling Bonfires shows and events are still coming up before 2005 says goodbye.
Repeat, this madness, this bonfire—is not about the $$$ rental to Parks&Recreation, or the beautiful rock n roll from the coolest band in town, or the donated tent or PA system, or the $300 or $7 M earned from a weekend benefit bash. It’s not about ramen noodles shared by two, either. It’s not about the drunken, rowdy vagrant or the beautiful young women dancing to Dashvara’s jazz and funk.
It’s more than all of those… things that we can see, hear, taste and touch but still there, out there, elusive and far but beautiful and glorious within us. It’s all about the spirit. The only gift of life that will not die.
I would like to say a prayer to the Vagrant Wind and chant poetry to the Blue Sky God/dess. Toksa Ake.