Slocan
A sprig of oregon grape
Bobs by the jack pine.
The slow rain snaps
The clammy tent walls.
Low clouds drape the slopes
Hide the summits.
After an all-night busride
I nestle in my sleeping bag,
Doze and wake
Jigging for dreams,
Phrases, sounds.
The third week in August
And summer still hasn’t arrived.
Bethal Phaigh’s house
She picks me up at the Castlegar Café at 7:00 A.M. in her ’59 pink and maroon station wagon, gives me a highway tour of dams and canals, passing “the Valley,” the community center which opens as we turn north. The legendary Slocan: Doukhobor farms by the fast, smooth river, green mountains on either side rising to low clouds. Old log barns chinked with plaster, new pastel stucco houses and pickup trucks—all immaculate with large vegetable gardens, each with a row of blooming sunflowers under the grey sky. When you visit a Doukhobor there are always two bowls on the table, one for sunflower seeds and one for the shells you spit out. You chew during the conversation. Doukhobors shun hippies, the other inhabitants of the 80 mile valley, because they fear their children turning on to dope.
Bethal’s house up a 200 yard footpath among the small pines above the river. A nine-sided little silo, ten feet high at the central peak, twelve feet in diameter. Built out of approximately vertical peeled poles set next to one another, windows set in crooked but tight—the whole place giving a sense of both crudeness and delicacy. Mosquito netting at the front door, an old nylon kitchen curtain held down by two rocks tied in the corners, a turned-over carpet on the floor, a home-built table with five legs and a plywood top, papers and items stored on shelves in cardboard boxes with photographs and prints taped on their sides, a rocker, hanging kerosene lamp, oval mirror, propane stove, electricity but no running water. Plastic barrel under the eaves to catch rain. Picture of her son and grandchildren in gilt frame: man in blue suit and horn-rimmed glasses. They came once to visit, only stayed a day.
She lives on very little: charges ten dollars per person for a one week group workshop, most of which goes to a dates coordinator. We eat mango I brought. I go to my tent for a nap and journaling. Bethal fixes lunch and then we sit and read and write.
Midnight Tuesday
By the light of the Coleman lamp in the teepee surrounded by 12 people warmed by the fire in the middle, Leslie screams for her mother who holds her in her arms. I remember screaming at Jan on the farm, needing comfort, screaming on the Burrard Street Bridge after seeing The Last Picture Show and thinking we were breaking up. I crawl out of the teepee and look at the stars and think of her 400 miles north and west. Now the gracious young girl who cooked at the helicopter lodge screams, “No, no, no, no.” I think of the pool of pain in The Primal Scream. Bethal says she’s ready for more. Earlier she picked up the stick and beat the mat because of her anger with Peter.
Valley View
The valley of Beth El
Sky grey, white, blue,
Brilliant, swirling
Your hair
The peaks, rock,
Gullies, ravines your forehead
The hillsides treed, steep
Rounded, deep green expanse
Your shoulders
The roads
Houses, barns, fences,
Your hands
The meadows and fields
Your breasts
The river flowing, deep, green, blue, grey
Swirling, calm, sinuous, straight
Always moving, always still
The center, the conduit, the course
The creator
Your eyes.
Wednesday afternoon
Sun is out, clouds moving fast, creek flowing. I sit along the road to get away from the tepee. I’m tired of S. and don’t want to hear more of her pain. Should I tell her this? I fear Bethal’s disapproval. I must go back.
Three hours later
I’m out of the tipi again. Tired now of D. My response keeps oscillating. When I watched W. working on finding his deep pain or M’s amazing face in tears or watch Bethal’s unflagging concentration and involvement, or look up at the shadow of the aspen leaves on the tipi, I feel I’ve chanced upon one of the best uses for a week’s holiday I could ever imagine. But when I’ve had my fill, I feel that I’m wasting time. The reason I gave for coming—that I wanted to release blocked memory in order to write—is BS. I could have taken the week to write, simply borrowed or rented a cabin somewhere.
But my own feelings here—acceptance and admiration by these folks—aren’t they of real value? They love my plastic recorder playing: “Would you please play to wake me up—what a wonderful way to greet the world.” Since this and my cooking is appreciated I no longer feel the need to engage in the “work” to please them and fit in. But I would like to participate and share and have something significant happen to me.
Libido is in abeyance. Unlike last year, I feel no need to be loved or prove my sexuality. I treasure Janet in body and soul. It’s her I want to make love with, to see and hug and see smile and hug and talk and play with.
Thursday 5 pm
Raining all day. This afternoon I “worked” a little while—on my pornography problem. Bethal got me going nicely—had me play Peter V. (and J.) giving and withholding—then had me answer. How did I feel in the porno movies? What did I like? Everything, I answered—more all day, every day, more more more more and beat it out on the mat, and the group egged me on and cheered. I felt like a performer pleasing the audience, but I enjoyed making myself a spectacle. Afterwards I got a lot of positive feedback—people opened up: they all love porno.
