They
say, “Old hippies don’t die, they just move to Eugene.” You will see them all
gathered throughout the year in any number of places. There is the Oregon Country Fair
in late Summer, the Naked Bike Ride in late Spring or early Summer, and the Hempfest as close to
April 20th as they can get it, at least in spirit. There are also plenty of smaller events
sprinkled throughout the year to provide evidence of a fading subculture
merging with a modern version of fringe freedom.
Beginning
late Spring, and lasting through the Summer, we have a tradition in town which
dates back to the late ‘60’s - The Saturday Market. Each weekend, on that designated
day, vendors of hand-made crafts, goods and food gather down town to
collectively peddle their wares. It is always a festive atmosphere. There is a
decorative fountain in the middle of the park area - a staunch and unyielding
expression of free-flowing refreshment. At the corner of the block occupied by
the courthouse is the Wayne Morse Free Speech Plaza, where there is a drum circle continuously creating an invigorating rhythm. There is tie-dye
everywhere, and you can buy everything from tie-dyed onesies for the babies, to
tie-dyed underwear. The smell of exotic
foods fills the air, mixing with incense and patchouli. There are dreadlocks,
new age healers, tarot readers, beeswax candles and all forms of glass creations
to take in. It was at the drum circle where I met “Seight Byproxy,” aka “S8-BP.”
There
are two general types of people who visit the market besides vendors - those
who add to the atmosphere, and those who are there to take it all in. Those who
add to the atmosphere walk the walk. Some of them have long dreadlocks,
carefully created over time, these keratin stalactites of expression. Others
have dramatic piercings and outlandish artificial protrusions of steel jutting
from a variety of places in their skin. Most of these pierced people have any
number of inked markings winding their way around these anomalies, intertwining
with them in a macabre dance of artistry which can only be expressed by the
most dedicated of individuals. And still others wear hemp ropes for belts,
usually clad mostly in khaki or tan, with a backpack containing all of their
belongings never out of reach. Their discussions are of vegan diets, chakras
and the vibrations within crystals. These are the people who create the
backdrop for the Saturday Market.
The
rest of us wear our eye-popping tie-dyed shirts, touristy hats of all kinds,
and socks with sandals. We attempt to mingle, while comforting ourselves with
silent words regarding those so different from us as we attempt to wander
outside our boxes once a week. We are truly taking it all in, admiring and
questioning from afar those so different from us, as we attempt to prove to
ourselves we are open-minded and accepting. Our conversations are along the lines
of shouting to our offspring to stay out of the fountain, and finding ways to
converse with the vendors. Many of us never make it to the drum circle, or find
time to ask a hairy giant of a young man where he had his piercings done, or learn
where the homeless street kids go when the market is over.
I
like to straddle both cultures. Having been a people-watcher all of my life,
this mix of humanity serves me well. I am not one to have much money to begin
with, so shopping isn’t my thing. I like to chat with vendors and artists, and
find out what makes them tick. After a few who are eager to share a pleasant
conversation, I will usually bump into one who is arrogant and snotty, and who
may feel that their angst is theirs alone, and there is no way anyone else can
possibly relate. They harbor prejudices and biases which they contemptuously
display, after labeling me as undesirable in some materialistic way. At this
point, I usually head over to the drum circle at Morse Plaza.
I
will sway to the beat before I get there, crossing the street with my head
bouncing. There is a feel of wild frenzy
the closer you get to the drums. The musicians are entranced in their rhythm,
hypnotizing a small crowd of dedicated whirling dervishes. Most are shirtless,
intensely concentrating on their merge with the music. The dance styles are far
from choreographed, and display a true release from anything contrived.
I
take in some of the artists who set up without permits, displaying their wares
from makeshift locales, many with only a sleeping bag or blanket on the ground
to mark their “booth”. There is plenty of glass - handmade beads, “tobacco”
pipes and multicolored amulets. There are also painters of life, crafters of
wood, and makers of jewelry, all sharing the same free space. After a few who
are eager to share a pleasant conversation, I will usually bump into one who is
arrogant and snotty, and who may feel that their angst is theirs alone, and
there is no way anyone else can possibly relate. They harbor prejudices and
biases which they contemptuously display, after labeling me as undesirable in
some materialistic way. At this point, I usually call it a day, and head back
home.
It
was near the drum circle in May of 2010 when I met “S8-BP.” I saw an 8x10 water
color propped in a meager collection, which was set up on a gathered piece of large
driftwood. The art piece reminded me of one of my own works. I struck up a
conversation and shared a picture of my work, which I had stored on my cell phone.
I commented that I always thought my humble work would make a great book cover,
but I wasn’t sure what kind of book that would be. S8-BP then told me a
fraction of the great story which became the manuscript “Destiny Unfulfilled.”
I was intrigued. One of the reasons I would migrate to the Free Speech Plaza
was for this very type of interaction. The beliefs concentrated in this small
plot of real estate were sometimes mind boggling. Sometimes they were the silly
and unbelievable rantings of someone who seemed suspiciously high or deranged.
I
must admit, I skeptically eyed the small cluster of fat dreadlocks and homeless
visual cues. This wouldn’t have been the first time a wild story crossed my
auditory channels from such a source. My nostrils instinctively sampled the air
for an aroma of liquor or pot. I locked our gazes, searching for some lack of
lucidity. After a minute or so, I was convinced that the story was true. At
least, S8-BP was convinced of its sincerity.
We
chatted for quite some time. I kept asking questions designed to poke holes in
this unbelievable belief system. I wanted to know that this story was just
another incoherent rambling of a person clinging to the edge of sanity. I did
not want to wander THAT far outside my box. And yet, I walked away from that
discussion with two words in my head: “What if?”
We
exchanged contact information. I made a deal with S8-BP. I said that I was a
writer, and that I needed an excuse to learn how to publish books online. Would
S8-BP be willing to write this story down and allow me to edit and publish it?
I would even throw in my art as a book cover.
At
first, S8-BP was not sure. After all, this personal belief should not be
desecrated by charging a fee. The message must be spread, and to materialize it
might amount to blasphemy, marring the reach and credibility of this new
gospel. I countered that the reach and credibility, at this point in time,
extended only to the sidewalks of the Free Speech Plaza, and included only
those who received the message directly from S8-BP. I knew this would be a hard
argument to contest.
There
were a few conditions, but we agreed to work together in this unlikely
partnership. One of the conditions was strict anonymity. I readily agreed that S8-BP’s
name, gender, and complete identity would be protected at all times. This is a
sensitive matter, and S8-BP had already felt some pressure by others with
different beliefs. There was no way the message should destroy the messenger.
My
conditions were that even though this would be my first attempt ever at
self-publishing, at some point, I need to get paid. I was intrigued enough by
the story to believe that it had sales potential. Even though S8-BP’s only goal
was to “spread the word,” my eventual goal is to make a living at publishing
online. The trade-off was that in exchange for presenting the message to an
untapped slice of the world market, I would have the ability to create a
marketable product which would teach me the ways of internet publishing, and
possibly result in a paycheck.
I
must admit, the learning experience has been worth more than a paycheck, even
if the book sells no more copies than it has already. S8-BP and I have had a
couple of occasions when we did not see eye-to-eye regarding the book. For
example, I wanted to have a copy of some kind available to me by the end of
that Summer. I did not have a workable copy until February. Then, once I had a
copy, I realized that S8-BP was not skilled as a pure writer. The editing
process has been intense, and by God if I include editing in my services, going
forward, I will make sure I am aptly compensated. Combine that with keeping “the
message” as pure as possible, and you have a situation where compromise was
king. Without a way to come to an agreement, this book never would have gotten
anywhere.
Although
too polished for S8-BP’s liking, and at times too clumsy with technical speak
for mine, what we have combined to create with “Destiny Unfulfilled” is nothing
short of an accomplishment we both can be proud of. S8-BP once told me that at
least before dying, the message has made its way to the rest of the world. Easy
for S8-BP to say! S8-BP’s work is, for the most part, done. Mine continues, but
not without merit. I have a product. I have a desire. I have knowledge and
information which increase each and every day. Even if the payoff isn’t at the
end of this rainbow, sooner or later I will catch the leprechaun. And when that
happens, I will make sure the little bastard pays plenty in back taxes.
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Stephen L. Wilson
Smashwords Author/Publisher
Smashwords Home Page
Like me on Facebook
@wilsonstephenl
