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Here you will find poems and stories from the heart. Loving, tragic, kind, angry, and all inspired by life. They were written by DaVinci over the years. 
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Spirits Awaken at Bald Rock
A Story of Inspiration and Spiritual Awakening
Bald Rock is a granite dome that bulges a few hundred feet out of the pine forests of Northern California's Butte County, a few dozen miles southeast of Chico. Many years ago, a group of young people, who had been close-knit friends for years, planned an adventure there, inspired by faith and their love of life. That adventure turned out to be the source of legends, songs, poems and drunken myth for years thereafter.
It began on a warm autumn night during one of those simple yet beloved gatherings where friends drink, laugh, sing, flow together and tell all. We were in the poorly lit living room of our rented college house, with torn paper lamp shades and a worn out couch. I fiddled with the last six threads that held the stuffing in the arm of that couch. We passed around another bottle and threw the empties into a virtual snow drift of predecessors piled in a box in the corner behind the TV. One of the boys from the "Looney Tunes" gang, with tousled hair and three days beard, exclaimed that a total eclipse would be falling upon the harvest moon in two weeks and we should make plans. In those days "plans" consisted simply of deciding where to go, who would go, and who would drive. This was going to be special. Our imaginations filled with primitive powers. We conjured up ancient Shamans waving their staffs, bonfires, rituals and sacrifice.
In the days leading up to the eclipse, the word was spread, and by the morning of departure about thirty people were all packed up and ready to go for an overnighter. In those days, I drove an old '65 Ford F-100. It was light blue with a homemade camper shell. The camper was plywood, stained dark brown, with windows on both sides cut by jigsaw into the silhouettes of oak trees. A large American flag was draped down to close the back and there were bullet holes in the left rear fender. Bruce and I had put those in one day, in the orchard, when we ran out of tin cans to shoot. So there we were, rusty pickup trucks loaded with wood and blankets, food in boxes and sleeping bags. Volkswagen Beetles with missing tailpipes and curb-crushed hubcaps, five to a car. We had musical instruments since many of us were musicians. We anticipated the heavens opening and we all brought charms and tokens that could capture the spiritual power, hoping that they would be imbued with the energy we intended to find.
In the past we had all opened up at some time, to expose our beauty, our fears and frustrations. We had literally saved each others lives once or twice: Saved ourselves from loss and confusion, sought the truth like "Dharma Bums" and laughed at the world until our sides hurt. At one time or another, we had all been naked together, swimming in the cold rivers that fill each canyon in those mountains, sunbathing on the warm rocks, worn smooth by centuries of sun and ice, wind and rain. These people were connected together through such experiences and everyone agreed that they felt a sort of psychic catapult being drawn back.
We drove southeast out of town and the road cut into the red clay of the hills which climb steeply up under the dry grass. The scattered oak trees rose and fell on those changing golden slopes. We continued a few hours with our rag-tag caravan into the pines and wound ahead to the forest road that came closest to Bald Rock. It was about a half mile walk through the forest to the foot of the granite dome. We didn't have proper gear for carrying and hiking so everyone grabbed a box or a bag. There was more than we could carry in one trip so some stayed while others came....back and forth. Everything was brought to the foot of the dome and then we ran up to scout for a "trysting place". There were crevices and large boulders everywhere, with short drop-offs and those loose sprinkles of gravel that required a good eye and alert footing. After a short search, we located a spot that was flat over a circle of about thirty feet, with fingers that pointed outward on the southwest side like a hand. The other side was bounded by a rock face about eight feet high. There were no real trees here. Just some tough, scrubby little bushes that lent some visual relief to the mottled grey granite. We looked down at the sea of tree tops from which this great bump of stone emerged. Bob-the-Barber named the place "The Hand of God".
All of the packages and provisions were set around, wedged into niches in the rocks, some were used for sitting, some for makeshift tables. A fire ring was built and wood was laid in. Since there can never be too much firewood when camping, some gatherers went out to increase the supply. People were also scouting around for places they would sleep, clearing stones, and claiming their spots. There was no soft earth, leaves or needles to lay on, just the hard rock slabs. In about an hour all the preparations were made, it was early afternoon and everyone was ready for food and refreshments.
So the merriment began. Drinks were poured, and the fire was lit. Guitars, banjos and harmonicas started up and we played bluesie riffs. We had a thing where we'd start a simple melody, then everyone would have to make up a verse by the time their turn came around. The rhymes were simple and ranged from uplifting to down right down and dirty. It was a kind of group expression where everyone shared what was on their mind through a few simple lines of song. These were thoughtful, creative people and the lyrics were filled with inuendo and hidden meaning, hints, sidelong thoughts and devilish grins. Everyone listened, nodding when they understood, asking for more when their turn came. When someone got stuck, we didn't let 'em off the hook. They had to sip Wild Turkey, while the tune just idled, until something came to them. It was an hour before dusk and the time was right. Some swallowed "particular" materials. The die was cast, no turning back.
As the sun began to drop to the horizon, I climbed to the rock above our camp, breathing deeply and taking in the beauty of this expansive view. I could see to the horizon in all directions. The central valley to the southwest, the layered ranges of the Sierra to the North and East. Mt. Lassen rose from it all in the distance and I realized that in eons past, this Bald Rock had been one of the long shoulders pushed up by that mountain to form the ridges and valleys that guided the pleistocene lava flows. The magnitude and timelessness of it all was wonderful, and instead of feeling reduced in some way by this power, I felt a part of it. I felt as though I was integral, a meaningful element in this eternal fabric. Time blurred, it could have been any lifetime. It was somewhat hypnotic, staring over the world, I imagined that I could see the curvature and judge the size of the planet from where I sat. As I surveyed the scene, I noticed the moon coming up to the East. The sun was not yet down and it was curious, astounding really, to see these two heavenly bodies, huge full discs of pale white and burning red, sitting on opposite horizons. Within a moment, the sky flashed with color over the sun. Descending from dark violet above me, through deep indigo, blue and turquoise. As this brilliant rainbow streaked down toward the sun, the richest greens, yellow, orange and crimson red settled on the rim of the earth. It was a spectacle. The full moon and full sun just touching the ends of the earth. They seemed so close I could almost walk to them. They both appeared much larger than normal and my head swung from East to West trying to capture this momentary vision in a single view. I was completely taken in by the power of this astrological alignment, raised my hands to the sky and, with a single tear rolling down my cheek, acknowledged and embraced my undying faith and love for this earth and everything on it.
In moments the vision was past, the palette faded. The sun set, and the colors changed to shadowy purples and gunmetal bluegrays. In another fifteen minutes the eastern ranges began to appear like a darkening ocean as one crest swelled into the next. The warmth faded into a cooling wind that carried the daylight up out of the valley and into the Sierras. I rejoined the camp which was held in deeper darkness by the rock ledge that formed the heel of "The Hand of God". The fire had been stoked and I looked into the flickering faces of these friends, I was quite under the influence by this time and they looked different now. Each face was somewhat translucent and under the skin was another face similar but different, wiser and older than the one I was used to. Behind that, but more faint, was another and another. Like many past lives or aspects of each person were represented with diminishing clarity. The illusion was like standing between two mirrors but each reflection changed a little. Everyone is like this, I thought, so much more within, so much below the surface. I thought about so many hopes and dreams and how we all had an image of how our lives should be. I realized that the entire dream is never completed at one time, it seems like one part of the dream comes true as another falls apart. I looked into the multilayered faces seeing perfect laughter at one level, perfect prosperity at another and perfect sorrow even deeper still.
The bottle came around, and some smoke, and I snapped out of my philosophy and into a lighter spirit. I stared into the fire, watching the embers white hot. Surveying the scene, I felt comfort, my Kharmic cup was being filled. I needed a stretch, so got up to walk around the fire, checking in on folks. Lots of glassy eyes I thought. But Cooper, Eric, Bob the Barber (and his dog "Dave the Dog"), Gallagher, Steve Cook, Sue, Mark, Diney, Vern and a few others were still sparkling and singing. My dog "Bottles" was my constant companion back then. She commonly wore a red or blue bandana. Her name was from a character in a comedy routine by the Firesign Theatre. She was an Australian Shepherd mix I nicknamed "Ms. Reality" because whenever I froze, questioning human behavior, I would look to her for a reality check. If she was comfortable, I knew things were OK. Anyway, she loved to chase sticks, play tug-o-war and talk to me. She was tugging on a long stick and started to bark when suddenly, in a huge "Whoooosh", a thick cloud of bats flew in through our camp. Up through the spaces between the rock fingers and over the ledge in a swarm of thousands. The huge full moon was glittering through the flurry and the air all pulverized by their wings. I walked to the edge, and forward in the midst of them. I knew they would not touch me and they didn't, but the awareness of all that instinctive guidance, that sensing and avoidance within the chaos was incredible. The sound was one I've never heard before or since. It was like being rolled under a soft ocean surf but the turbulence was atmospheric and alive. The air pulsed and hissed around my ears. Then the sound faded to a dry, dithering, hum and was gone.
Everyone was agitated and wide-eyed now and after the bats left we all were on our feet. A dance started around the fire. We picked up rocks and sticks and empty bottles and started to chant. At first it was contrived from the stereotypical indian chants we'd seen on TV. With a fraudulent, mocking tone we circled around, mimicking the ritual. It wasn't long though before, one by one, the percussions converged. The sounds that had spilled idly from our throats came from further down, we began to resonate. Slow intonations, reverberating off the rock wall, mingling with the long, distorted shadows of our swaying dance. It was beautiful and complex, our hands and arms touched rhythmically as we moved. Sometimes our eyes connected to renew the contact or to start an eddy in the beat. Our feet stamped and slid to enrich the sound and everyone was tuned in. The fire roared and even its crackle was part of the music. Occasionally the smoke would fill my nostrils and burn my eyes giving me a watery look at the already surrealistic images I saw. I fell into a trance and looked upon the dance now from a perceptual viewpoint far above the canyon. I was flying with the cloud of bats looking back at this small cleft in the mountains where a fire burned and people danced the night away. Clapping their hands and beating sticks together as if an ancient tribe was reincarnated there. Time was an instant, five minutes or five thousand years were all the same. This rock had stood here always, waiting, drawing people to tap its roots, to feel the core of the earth rise up in this small granite stump.
Days later I wrote this poem:
A thousand wings
Then the eclipse began. I don't remember who first noticed a tiny bite cut into the left edge, but immediately we all started to chatter and point and conjecture and tell all we new about the movement of the planets. I wanted to have a clearer look at the moon and stars, so Mark and Sue and I walked away from the bonfire and scrambled over a few ledges to a good viewing spot. It is amazing how bright the landscape is under such a full moon in the mountains, it was a crystal clear night, no clouds at all. We could walk over the uneven ground, easily avoiding the drops and outcroppings along the way. The Milky Way was a bright splash of stars bursting across the sky and I imagined the arms of our spiral galaxy spinning off in space. I love to stare into the night sky. Putting the stars at distances, studying the fine points of their color and brightness, picking out the planets. The earths shadow was growing and as it did there was a chill, only in my perception. As the moonlight faded, the rocks felt colder and a little sharper. Still, we were enthralled by the eclipse unfolding above us. We sat down and leaned back to relax our necks and find comfortable viewing postures. Conversation rambled on at times, then went silent, as we studied every detail, lost in our own thoughts. The moon slipped into a tiny sliver, to me, it's most beautiful shape, and then went black.
As bright as the world had been a few moments before, it was ink black now. I could barely see my two companions just a foot or two away. Mark was obviously agitated and trying to regain his sense of direction. He wanted to go back to camp, to the firelight. He stood up to go and I clutched his hand. My reasoning was not clear but I knew that his was not a good idea. The return path was invisible and the terrain treacherous. I told him to stay and assured Sue that we must remain at that spot, together, until the moon reappeared. Mark continued to fret and started into a mild panic that was amplified by his altered state of reality. I wanted to calm him so smiled and said, "Somewhere, God is chuckling happily at our predicament. He's teased us with all this heavenly display into forgetting where we are." I raised my fist in mock defiance, cursing the moon for her trickery (although people speak historically of the "man-in-the-moon" I think of her as a woman). I swore that we would stay together and keep our senses and that by our unity we would not fall into her temptations. Mark laughed at my demonstration and was ready to sit back down and wait this out. Continuing my sarcasm, I assured him that the moon would indeed reappear and that God was not punishing us for our sins by permanently obliterating her. Just a few minutes, I said, and the universe would be right again. The world would find its proper place beneath us.
Momentarily, that reassuring sliver shone from behind the earth shadow and, after a time, we could see sufficiently to pick our way back to camp. We realized, frighteningly, that three of the four directions Mark could have chosen would have dashed him off the cliff and into the craggy, rock filled gullies below. I have always trusted my instincts and this was just one more confirmation. By this time some people were already down and out for the night, but most were still up and talking and rehashing what they'd seen and how they felt about it. The fire was burning lower but was hotter than ever. Each new log burst into flames immediately as it was thrown in. I was hungry, and found some bags of food, rummaging and munching. The camp was developing a familiar feel, the voices that had been all excited and thrilled earlier were mellow and quiet now. I remember feeling my face and legs all hot from the fire while my back seemed chilly. We wrapped in blankets and sat close. Mark and Sue and I still hung together, a residual from our earlier encounter I guess. The last thing I remember is going to find my sleeping bag and wandering around a corner to find a place to sleep. Sue snuggled her bag up beside mine and I nodded off to another dream.
The next morning I woke up and smiled as my movement rustled her out of sleep. We looked around in the dawn and realized that, somehow, we had found the only sandy spot on the mountain. A small depression in the smooth slabs where the granules had collected. It was just barely big enough for two to lay slightly curled. My back was sore and I was stiff but felt very happy and contented. She expressed her amazement and admiration at my pathfinding abilities. I counted it as pure drunken luck, or some basic instinct.
I never saw Mark again after that day. He had been an acquaintance only, and we didn't cross paths by coincidence. I saw Sue several times in the months that followed and although we were never "more than friends" we were very close. Many of those people remain my friends even though I haven't seen them for years. I know that they think about the times we had. We can still reach out and connect in a very special way that needs no reply, no response. I know that this night was knit forever into the fabric of our many lives.
Peace and Love, DaVinci
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