I became insane with long intervals of horrible sanity.
The trouble with fighting for human freedom is that one spends most of one's time defending scoundrels. For it is against scoundrels that oppressive laws are first aimed, and oppression must be stopped at the beginning if it is to be stopped at all.
Many people would sooner die than think; In fact, they do so
What I have been telling you, from alpha to omega, what is the one great thing the sigil taught me — that everything in life is miraculous. For the sigil taught me that it rests within the power of each of us to awaken at will from a dragging nightmare of life made up of unimportant tasks and tedious useless little habits, to see life as it really is, and to rejoice in its exquisite wonderfulness. If the sigil were proved to be the top of a tomato-can, it would not alter that big fact, nor my fixed faith. No Harrowby, the common names we call things by do not matter — except to show how very dull we are ...
August 08, 2016 - 8:58 p.m.
I'm home from Falcon Ridge. I've been seven hours. I've showered and tried to nap but I'm still not up to writing a full entry. I didn't take any pictures so I don't have to wait for that. I won't give the play by play today, just the overview of the best 5 days of the year.
There are the things that we all agree on, going to Falcon Ridge is going home. The people at Falcon Ridge are family. This is our community. It is our home; it is our only home; the only sacred ground that we have ever known. There's also music. There's music we hear and there's music we make. Even the unmusical among us make music.
As I'm writing this there's food. Lots of food. People give me chocolate; lots of chocolate. Camp Steeple gives me bacon. Emily and Sarah are my bacon wives. Bacon wives are better than salt wives.
At Falcon Ridge I'm keenly aware of Gordon Privilege. People throw food at me. I don't bring food or cook and I hardly buy any. I get treated like a Festival VIP even though I have no official position. Brianne was my assistant and was promoted to associate. She made the Budgiedome work. In return I'm teaching her to be shameless and get fed. When I feel guilty about Gordon Privilege people tell me that I deserve it. That's more privilege.
The thing is everyone at Falcon Ridge has Festival Privilege. If you need something, people will provide it. It's not just magical Brigadoon but a working utopian society. We can wake up on Sunday morning and hear Vance Gilbert singing Dave Carter's "Gentle Arms of Eden" coming from the Gospel Wakeup Call on Main Stage.
I get to kvell over friends knocking the crowd dead. Some have been doing it for years; for some it was the first time.
There's always The Budgiedome. Great artist after great artists performing 5 feet from me for both my friends and total strangers. If you are not part of our community, you probably have not heard of We're About 9. At 1:30 AM at the Budgiedome they are rock stars; guaranteed to pack the house.
There are so many things I have to talk about. I will probably forget most of them. Today is just preface to my write-up of the Festival. If I told you, "This will be in my blog" please message me and remind me.
I'm going to tell one small story that says so much of what Falcon Ridge is about. Garrett the bass player in the Gaslight Tinkers came up to the Budgiedome in the evening hours before they were to play the Budgiedome accompanied by his ten-and-a-half-year-old daughter. We had met only once before but I had told him quite a bit about the festival. He told me that his daughter played bass too and wanted to know where she could jam. I pointed across the street to Camp Steeple and said right there and walked them over. A group was jamming including Peter and Carolyn. I went past them and introduced Garrett and his daughter to Emily and explained that the daughter wanted to jam. Emily's face lit up and she got excited. She apologized that her daughters were asleep but she was welcome to join the jam and hang out that night and the next day all she wanted to. Garrett's daughter's face lit up. Garrett and his daughter discussed logistics. They walked down the hill to get his car and her bass and amp and drove back up to join the jam. I was back at the Budgiedome by then but heard her playing. She's very good. If a ten-and-a-half-year-old kid jamming with adults that neither she nor her father knew a half hour before is not the essence of utopia I don’t' know what is. Kathy don't you dare say, "Todd Rundgren."
I'm going to try and unpack some things and grab some food and then crash again. Tomorrow the tale begins.
I signed the Pro-Truth Pledge:
please hold me accountable.
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Horvendile August 08, 2016
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