Sweat Your Prayers - That'll Give You Something to Write About

Image by Gerhard Lipold from Pixabay

Given the intense heat wave that is taking over the Pacific Northwest right now, I thought it appropriate to re-post this blog from early June, last year.

What’s happening now is a far cry from a sweat lodge; but in its own way, this may be another opportune time to sweat my prayers. Hear ye!

Since cultural appropriation has been a hot topic for a few years, I start with the disclaimer that there was none of that here.

A Blackfoot Native taught his tradition, along with songs and prayers in his language to this community of copacetic and lovely Caucasian humans.

The story he told of being a watchdog as a child truly made clear the significance of what I was about to do. He said he was forced to go to the Native boarding school, and that their traditional sweat lodges were deemed illegal by the US government.

But the Blackfoot continued them anyway.

Dillon (name changed to protect his privacy) said that his job, along with the other kids, was to hide in the tall grass while their parents snuck the rocks, sticks, wood, canvas, and everything else needed to make a temporary sweat lodge in baskets to look as if they were going out for a picnic or something.

If the kids saw any government officials coming, they were to blow their whistles to warn the elders of coming trouble, who would then stop what they were doing and hide the evidence.

It’s unbelievable that such a practice was ever illegal. There was no reason for that beyond oppression.

I would have thought that as a Blackfoot, Dillon would take offense at the white people who wanted to use his spiritual traditions for themselves.

But nothing could have been further from the truth.

Dillon made it very clear that he was grateful for communities like this one, where the Caucasian nation wanted to form sweat lodges and do the spiritual practice as it was meant to be practiced.

“With your participation,” he said to us assembled there, “the practice of praying in a sweat lodge stays alive. And that’s crucial for us to keep it going.”

This was my first sweat lodge and I really couldn’t have chosen any better.

I used to be scared of sweat lodges.

Until a couple of years ago, I always avoided saunas, and preferred steam. But then one of my best friends and I started a daily sauna marathon after a retreat we attended together a couple of times.

Maybe the retreat was more arduous than most. All I know was that the saunas I shared with my former roommate burst through any resistance to heat and sweating.

Because now I love the feeling of rivers of sweat pouring down my body.

It’s both cleansing and kind of dirty.

There is something primal about it. It’s even more primal within the womb-like darkness of a sweat lodge.

The heat is even more intense and your sweat pours, all while crammed into a confined space with a lot people who are also drenched with body fluid. Throughout we’re singing, calling out prayers, and setting intentions.

This year, I went to the retreat alone.

A new friend I made there invited me to the sweat lodge the following Sunday, after I told him I was staying in the area for a few days longer after the end of the retreat.

“I’m intimidated by sweat lodges.”

“You should be,” he said. “So are you coming or not?”

I did.

I went to the Wal Mart parking lot early that Sunday morning to meet my friend from the retreat and get a ride to the sweat lodge.

I figured the bearded hippie dude doing tai chi in the empty parking lot was likely headed for there.

I was right.

“Just you wait until the water hits the rocks,” he said. “That’s always my favorite part. There’s something ancient and primitive about it that runs deep for me.”

This particular sweat was special in that it was the inauguration of a new lodge. I found out afterwards that these monthly sweat lodges had been suspended for about a year and a half.

The previous hosts were in their late 70’s, and got tired. They insisted that the next generation pick up the ball, and it was a while before somebody did.

The lodge was already assembled with various sticks and branches nailed together and covered with canvas to make a mound. In the center, a hole was dug out.

This held the rocks — aka the Grandfathers — and we carried them to the edge of the pyre that would later become the fire that would heat them up.

There was an air of excited anticipation as we prepared for the sweat lodge. Doing the work of building up the sweat was a crucial part of being here.

The strongest and hardiest of us split logs of varying lengths, while the rest of us carried them to the pile where others built up the pyre. The fire would burn directly in front of the opening to the lodge.

“That’s the fire line. It’s very important to not cross it when you’re coming in and out of the lodge.”

A woman explained to me the points of significance once she knew this was my first time.

Pointing to a small mound to the right of the entrance to the sweat lodge, she explained to me that was where we leave our offerings and prayers, and that the four sticks with long, narrow ribbons in different colors represented the four nations of the races of the world.

“Yellow is for the Asian nations, white for Caucasian nations, Red for Indigenous nations, and black for African nations.”

That lady was very kind to tell me all this.

“The rocks are the Grandfathers, whereas the fire and the lodge are the Grandmothers. The lodge in particular is the womb of the Grandmother, and the heated rocks are the Grandfathers and Grandmothers united.”

“How long does it take for the rocks to get hot enough?”

“At least an hour.”

Finally, it was time to light the fire to marry the Grandfathers with the Grandmothers.

The air was festive on this Sunday. More than 70 people showed up to this and I couldn’t believe it when most of them were able to fit inside that sweat lodge.

Their elation and joy was palpable as the people chatted and waited for the grandfathers to get hot enough and the first round to begin.

“There will be 4 rounds of about 15–20 minutes each,” the kind lady explained. “Each round has a theme.”

During the 1st round, we called in the Great Spirit.

During the 2nd round, we called out our Intentions.

During the 3rd round, we asked for Healing.

During the 4th round, we offered our Gratitude.

There were only a few minutes between rounds to leave the lodge — which a lot of people didn’t — to stretch, pee, and drink more water before going back in for more.

Each sweat got more intense than the last.

I’ll never forget my awe when I saw those fiery rocks, smoldering like wood embers in those moments the Grandfathers united with the Grandmothers came into the womb of the sweat lodge.

They came in one by one, in groups of eleven, at the end of a pitchfork to be dropped in the hole in the middle of the sweat lodge.

We called out each time:

“Welcome, Grandfather.”

Once the eleven for that round was gathered, the door to the sweat lodge was dropped, all was dark. The water poured and the steam rose.

The time had come to sweat our prayers.

The Saving Grace of Good Friends Yet Again, and Great Ideas From Total Strangers - On the Road #24

Image by Bessi from Pixabay

Hey y'all,

I’ve been hanging out with good friends in Bellingham and as nice as it is, not eventful, exciting, or eccentric enough to write about.

Isn't it odd how that works?

I also my first official event in the lower forty-eight Wednesday night at Village Books in Bellingham, and it was my biggest audience yet.

But I must say, I'm fast losing patience with the brick and mortar bookstores. So far, it's a lot of effort with very little reward. This was a gig set up by one of my best friends while I was careening around the Interior.

Just the kind of thing that keeps me motivated, you know? But being fortified with the support of Susan and Markis, I was going to feel like a rock star even if I fell flat on my face.

Village Books is an awesome venue, the best I've come across for doing my thing because they have a corner space with podium and folding chairs with funky brick columns and whatnot. 

It has a very underground vibe to it. 

They have readings every night, which brings with it a built in audience. I think that there were plenty of people who just come to the readings because it's free entertainment. 

As the storytelling progressed, I had people showing up consistently, which felt gratifying.

Especially since they listened and didn't walk out...but I don't know, maybe I offended many with the concept of God and the Devil playing backgammon in Purgatory every Friday night. 

Susan was the only one who laughed at all, and she even laughed in the right spots, but nobody joined in.

Except for her, I felt like I was surrounded by Puritans. Giving me the stare with their mouths clamped shut. Susan said the energy felt tense out there when I went into "Divorce of Vice and Virtue."

You would think Bellingham wouldn't be so uptight, but apparently not.  

When I announced that the books were $9.95 and I'd be happy to sign copies, there was a mass exodus.

But two ladies, who had come in separately and on time, stayed behind. 

Thank God I've had the experiences I've had - everything from selling spaghetti dinner tickets in my Catholic schoolgirl uniform (when I was a kid, that would be appalling now), to tending bar, to being a hiking guide for the illustrious Gastineau Guiding.  

This event was the equivalent of the busload tourists who did NOT like me, and I did a couple of things any guide with a lick of sense would do.

Image by OpenClipart-Vectors from Pixabay

First, I focused only on the friendly faces in the audience. Then plowed ahead and let if roll off me like water off a duck's back.   

I mean why torture myself? Besides my reward was quality, not quantity.

The two women who stayed behind and chatted with me and my friends both bought books, and it's always a reward to sell to total strangers because they got it because they liked what I did. 

One of them, a introverted, young woman named Laura - one of those types who really takes in the world around them without giving anything away -  gave me a great suggestion which I think might save my ass. 

Because two books an event really sucks and I have 700 more books to move.

While chatting, I mentioned the complimentary tarot card reading I offered for those who bought books at certain fairs and festivals and  she asked me if I really read tarot cards. 

I said yeah, I make no pretensions to being a psychic, it was just a gimmick I did to sell the book. 

Then she said she read tarot cards too, and traveled around the east coast doing readings at flea markets.

Flea markets? The light bulb went on in my head.

“Are the booths expensive?” I asked her.

“No,” she said. “They're really cheap.” 

Doing my research on the Internet, there are flea markets everywhere! 

And the rent is cheap....

I'll be at my first one in Seattle manana. Wish me luck! 

Peace,

Montgomery

This letter was from a DIY booktour/roadtrip I did in 2005-2006. I had forgotten about this event, and how that went until I re-read this. Wow. Memories!

The Rock Lady of Santa Cruz - On the Road #23

Image by Paul Brennan from Pixabay

Your friends will know you better

in the first minute you meet

than

your acquaintances will in

a thousand years...

"Illusions, The Adventures of a Reluctant Messiah"

by Richard Bach 

Hey y'all

Well, I've just had an experience like the one described above. 

At the moment, I'm in Ketchikan for a few hours before the ferry carries me to Bellingham. 

The ferry is always an experience, especially the three to four day milk run between Juneau and Bellingham. 

And of course, I'm sleeping on a lawn chair in the solarium with a toaster oven heater hanging six feet above me to stay warm. 

I met Lili Rose due to a reluctance she had to break a promise to her husband. We had several hours in Sitka, and we became hitchhiking buddies on that stop because he didn’t want her hitching by herself, and the town of Sitka is several miles from the ferry.

She was based in Ketchikan for a month. Visiting from Santa Cruz, CA while her cousin was on a diving trip. While he was gone, Lili Rose took a four-day roundtrip on the ferry from Ketchikan to Skagway and back to Ketchikan. We crossed paths as she was going back.

"I have a gift for healing," she said, as we strolled around the church in Sitka.  "I'm known as the Rock Lady because I do so well with stones."

Like many people from California, she was very open in sharing her story, and at first I wrote her off as a New Ager, but she was good company. We got a bottle of wine and two brandy snifters at good will to drink wine in the solarium later. Because of course, she was perched up there too.

I had to admit she even looked the part of a mystic. Petite, with long reddish brown hair, and large crystal green eyes, Lili Rose has a vivid presence.

And then she told me she was only 74 pounds a few months ago, and that she had died and been brought back three times in the last year. 

Having four disks in her neck fused together, complications with her medication affecting her health, she had run the gamut of a modern-day medical nightmare.  She had a food tube forcing nutrients directly to her heart at one point before she figured out that it was the pain killers she was taking for her neck were affecting her system, and got a medical license for marijuana to stop so she could take in enough calories to not starve to death.  She gets high, so she feels okay enough to eat, and if she's not in too much pain, the food stays down.  Since she had stopped taking the painkillers, she had gained forty pounds and was healthy enough to take this trip to see her cousin and twin soul. 

"I choose to be happy," she said.  "It is all a choice, so why choose suffering?" 

A healer in pain all the time, a giver who can't receive, Lili Rose gave me a stone she had carried for almost twenty years.  A clear piece of quartz with copper filaments  threading through it like angel hairs, she described it as "rutile quartz."  She had it with her when she was holding people's hands as they passed from this life, or brought new life into the world.  She swore by it.

"This stone is very powerful," she said.  "It'll send your messages

directly to God."

Since the stone was important to her, the agreement at first was that I could carry it until I came to see her in Santa Cruz, and then we would trade out for a stone with gold filaments.  But by the next morning, she said that it was my birthday gift. 

"My dear, what is the point of giving a gift if one does not also treasure it oneself?"

This classic quote by Colette - the French writer, not our beloved slinger of hash and singer of songs - was the last sentence in a short story by Truman Capote.  I was so impressed by it I recorded it in my journal years ago and thus, have never forgotten it.  So the significance of this gesture by a woman I had known for three hours was not lost on me.

But the best gift from Lili Rose to me was the missing piece in the puzzle of forgiveness.  Without going into the details of the conversation that led to this - anybody who's done any living at all has been stumped on this issue at least once in their lives - we were treating ourselves to a less-than-mediocre dinner served in the swanky ferry dining room when Lili Rose dropped this pearl of wisdom on my plate.

"When you truly forgive, you give up your right to retribution."

Now that's some profound shit, but she went on.

"When you wait for an apology, an acknowledgement, or a punishment to forgive, you are still giving up your energy to a situation, which is what somebody wants who does things that hurt us.  When you give up that right to retribution, no matter how justified, you take back your power."

Wow.

Something tells me this leg of the trip is going to turn into some mystical avenues.

If I ever lose that rock she gave me, shoot me.

Montgomery

Suckers for Cutsie Poo and Unexpected Good Dates - On the Road #19

Hey y'all,

Before I get too carried away, let me just say one thing: next time any of you are in Anchorage, you must check out El Tango on Tudor behind the Holiday gas station. 

If you've gone to Hooters, you have definitely gone too far! 

El Tango has a fantastic menu of Latin cuisine - Columbia, Argentina, and Puerto Rico - a very friendly staff, and a small dance floor. 

It's only been there for a year. The location sucks; but if you like your ambience refreshing, then this is the place for you. 

How did I get there?

Last night at the Cook Inlet Bookstore, I was crushed to find that I was one of a cluster fuck of writers. 

Needless to say, the four of us were overcrowded at one small table. So we got another one and two of us sat there. 

I figured I’d stake out the front door in the hopes I’d get more attention. But everybody still herded around the schoolteacher at the other table.

She had a mountain of books and a generous target audience. Her book, “Recess at 20 Below” was full of pictures of her students having FUN in her class and adorable narrative about school life in Delta Junction. 

It was both cutsie poo and Alaskan at the same time.

Meanwhile, I misread a potential fan, Sheila. And I found out she was anything but when I told her the first chapter of Ella Bandita. I included the dirty old sorcerer, the cold-blooded daddy, and the eaten heart. 

 Sheila scrunched up her face and let me know that she was a fan of the Walt Disney version of whitewashed fairy tales. She also said that she used to have a friend who would have been into my writing because she wrote a lot like me. 

"But she's dead now," Sheila said. 

So heartwarming of her to tell me that. 

Do I sound bitter? Really, I'm not. Even though the night was a dud.

At this point in my road trip, I have had enough successes to not sweat the flops. 

Besides, last night was a quality, if not a quantity, experience. 

I ended up with a date. A good one, too with a nice guy.

Go figure. That practically never happens to me. 

I usually gravitate to the those-I-cannot-or-should-not-even-consider-wanting-to-have types.  

This guy has a steady job, no addictions ( at least, not obvious ones ), courtly manners, a good body, and blue eyes that are awful purty to look into.

That's how I ended up at El Tango. Because Nice Guy With Pretty Blue Eyes took me there.   

Besides the food and the Argentinian staff, they had a keyboard player whose keyboard created a symphony with every note, and the staff would get up there and sing. 

Since they didn't have the TV screen that enabled bad singers to massacre mediocre lyrics, it wasn't really karaoke. But it kind of felt that way even though the staff were the main singers.  

Most of the songs were in Spanish, so it was very cool. It also helped that they could...oh, sing. 

Hugo, the owner who was from Argentina, played kind of the Latin version of a bluegrass washboard - a weegel ( I don't know how to spell it, and the closest he could come to describing it was a plant, kind of like a zucchini, that's dried and then hollowed out - if you want to know what the hell I'm talking about, go to El Tango and you'll see), while the bartender had maracas.  

I love Latin folk. They really have the happy-to-live mentality down pat. Hugo gave us free drinks, calling us amigos and that we are family. 

"When you are in Anchorage, this is your home."  Hugo said.     

Nothing is perfect, however...

Hugo is a sucker for Celine Dion, because his daughter, Lilly, belted out "I Will Always Love You," and he sat there, looking emotional and teary-eyed.

Lily sang beautifully. I simply don’t like Celine Dion’s music. 

But other than that, the night was awesome.   

I was going to come back on Tuesday. But my good date asked me out again, so…it’s good to explore the possibilities.

I'm coming back to Juneau roughly sometime before I head down to the lower forty-eight by November 1st. 

Does anybody have a housesitting gig or an extra room? 

I rented my place out and I don't know about crashing on my own couch for almost two weeks. 

It'll be good to see the Vagabond - my cat, that is.  And of course, all of you. I’m really excited to see all of you.

Peace, 

Montgomery 

 

 

I LOOOOOOOOOVVVVVVE FAIRBANKS!!!!!! - On the Road #13

Hey y'all,

I Love Fairbanks. I love it, love it, love it!!!!!

Let's color this email happy, baby!

(No color fonts in SquareSpace, unfortunately, hence the colors in the photo.)

Just when it seemed as if I was burrowed in the vat of discouragement, eating bitterness for breakfast, I came to Fairbanks. Never mind the drive up with the fall colors lighting up the tundra - that was beautiful! - but at Fairbanks, I arrived.

Granted my trip was not just sneers, you're-weird-looks, and other unpleasant run-ins - I have met so many wonderful, supportive, and amazing people at every stop...but in Fairbanks - at least from the college side of town to Ester, it wasn't just random individuals here and there, but packs of people in general. We all know that there's safety...and strength in numbers.

And coming here on the tail end of the Alaska Fair was just what my spirit needed to keep going.

I could feel from the first that Fairbanks would be different. At Gulliver's - awesome bookstore! - I ran into an acquaintance I met in Juneau - several of those up here - and was bellyaching about the trip and the difficulties of selling my own work, and myself, etc. when a friend of his sat down and after hearing what I was doing, offered to buy a book.

That night, I was at a dinner party in Ester when Jen, an artist I'd met in Girdwood, suggested that I go by this coffeehouse and if they didn't have anything scheduled, ask to do a storytelling there. Sure enough, one night was open, so I managed to set something up at the last minute. She also challenged me to "creatively visualize" a hundred people waiting in line to buy my book.

"If you do that every day for a month, I promise you, things will happen."

On the same day, I was at Gulliver's again, waiting for my turn for free computer usage when the manager came by and said they'd take five books to start out.

I also sold three more to acquaintances that I ran into and a stranger I'd just met.

The next night, I had a couple of groups, Jen's friends and people that I met at the hostel show up for the storytelling - one man bought five books, a Japanese lady bought two, and yet another bought one. Better yet, Ethan, a high school English teacher bought one and asked permission to photocopy it, so he could teach it.

"I love your book!" said Kliff, a drummer who is a friend of a friend. And apparently, he has raved about it to everybody he knows, because the Ethan the teacher was a friend of his.

At the Pub that night, I sold two more. I also met a radio dj who wants to interview me when I come back to town - because of course I will!!! - and one of the women who bought a book and was at Jen's dinner party - is a natural at marketing and is already cooking up ideas for a dinner party with a story segment in between courses. I had been wanting a venue to do "Ella Bandita" as a combo dinner theatre/tableside storytelling, and here Sarah was just handing it to me.

"Fairbanks is a place where a lot of people are trying to create something," said Jay, a musician who lived in Juneau briefly a few years ago. "So people really try to support each other here."

Jen said her art has just taken off since she moved here. Her friend Heather, who makes hats does quite well at the Farmer's Market.

I don't know what it is about this town, but after weeks of people's walls, boundaries, suspicion, and all other forms of attitude, the feeling of openness, generosity, and support was like the nectar of the gods. I sold twenty books in a few days without even trying and I have a posse in less than a week.

Hope everybody has patience with my bragging rights, but hell, this was long overdue.

Did I mention that I love Fairbanks?

Montgomery

This is from the DIY booktour/roadtrip I took in 2005-2006. This stop was one of my most joyful, and I still have cherished memories from that time. The DJ ended up being a total dud in the long run, fyi.

If you’d like to read the previous On the Road post that strongly contributed to the relief of this journal entry, click here.

Who is the Critical Mass? On the Road #12

Hey y'all,

Although it was a stroke of luck to get any space at the Alaska State Fair since I didn't get on it until the very last minute - and I am grateful to Denise of Non Essentials (homemade natural skincare) for giving me that space - I am nonetheless exceedingly relieved that I wasn't at the State Fair every day, much less paid exorbitant rates for a booth there.

There was something about the fair that made me think of the Celestine Prophecy and the Critical Mass, those select individuals awake to the spiritual journey of their lives, and will thus raise the human race to a higher level of existence.   

Even if this is an act of love for all of humanity, one could still argue the concept of a Critical Mass as another form of elitism - sugar-coated and with the new age stamp of approval - but still a statement that some people matter and most people don't.

Although I found the message to be inspiring, hopeful, and way groovy, The Celestine Prophecy is also one of the most badly written books I've ever read, so I couldn't take it completely seriously. Yet, some of the most intelligent people I know have eaten it up, and I don't know what to make of that.   

For those heartfelt idealists who really want to believe in the potential of all humanity, but feel the pull to...get in touch with their tendencies towards elitism…I suggest you go hang out at the State Fair. Even better, try to pursue your dream at the State Fair, and you'll get in touch real fast with your inner snob. Anybody who has ever spent any time in any customer service job knows just how awful, stupid, and downright annoying people can be.  

And at the Alaska State Fair, as I was commiserating with Denise, the lovely woman who let me set up a table on her "porch" free of charge, about the oblivious rudeness of those who come into her booth, I was struck by all the people. Swarms of people streaming by me with their hair spray-painted in rainbow colors, outlandish designs that will take the better part of the night and next day to wash out, designs painted on their faces, in tight hip-slung jeans in varying stages of fat and thin, with quite a few Mabelline cosmetics covering teenage faces that don't need make-up, and the scruffy teenage boys in their shapeless clothes. Not to mention tourists with their sparkling white, comfortable, "walking shoes" and their name tags. This sea of humanity walking back and forth was striking in their ordinariness, and there were so many of them. It occurred to me how few of these people really seemed interesting or vivid. Denise agreed and remarked that she was shocked that so many young women looked tired to her, and even more haggard than she was in her early fifties. 

"When I was young, I was young," she said. "These girls I know are young, but they already seem old."

On a positive note, a beautiful mother/daughter duo got my attention as they approached Denise's booth. I noticed them immediately because they had the same eyes - large and almond shaped, slightly Asian, and bright green. The mother was in her mid forties with her hair short and her clothes practical; she wasn't trying to impress anybody. Her daughter had her long hair in a ponytail, no make-up. She was about fifteen and absolutely beautiful in an effortless, natural way and her manners matched her looks. They spent quite a bit of time in Denise's shop and made her day, not only because they spent some money, but because they looked over her products with appreciation.  They stopped at my table for a minute. They didn’t buy anything but I didn’t care. They were not only pleasant and respectful, they were very present.

If I had to pick shoo-ins to the Critical Mass of those who are truly alive, I’d definitely choose these two. 

These ladies were a vast improvement over the stout dowager clad in a pink sweat suit with a goofy cartoon character on the front. She announced that she didn't read fiction, only the Bible; and she certainly didn't read fairy tales since she was a Christian.

"But I have many friends who do and I don't hold it against them," she puffed up.  "And I don't hold it against you for writing them."

I'm sure she felt the greatness of her spirit as she told me that and reveled in the righteousness of the narrow world of those who do not think. Perhaps she's an eager participant in book burning parties. 

Shortly after that exchange, I found myself thinking of the Critical Mass and wondering if maybe there wasn't something to it.

I'm sure this lady was certain that she was part of the Critical Mass of those who had been saved by Jesus. She certainly believes she's right and maybe she is...Who am I to say otherwise? Maybe we all are supposed to be mindless dogma junkies who live by a checklist of good behavior and see the Devil in fairy tales. Perhaps they really are the saved. Who knows?

If they are though, I will gladly go to Hell. Who wants to hang out with people like that for all eternity? 

So, who are those who make up the Critical Mass?

Call me selfish, call me vain…but in my world, the Critical Mass are those people who say:  

"Oh!  I would love to buy your book because I believe in supporting local artists."

Peace,

Montgomery

This is from a journal I took of a DIY booktour/roadtrip I did in 2005/2006. You can find the previous entry here.

 

Ode to the Brown Beast, King of Resilience - On the Road #1

In 2005, I was extremely blessed to receive a grant from the Rasmussen Foundation in Anchorage, Alaska to self-publish a collection of original fairy tales and hit the road, telling stories and selling a book out of the back of my truck. I was on the road for a year. It was one of the greatest adventures of my life. I kept an email journal that I sent out to my friends, which eventually became a blog due to one of my friends being into it on Juneaumusic.com. I don't know if that site is still up, but if it is, my blog is not there. And self-publishing has changed a lot since then. We rely far more on the internet and more people are doing what I did now. Whereas no other writers were then. Anyway, it seems fitting as adventures in self-publishing continue to resurrect those stories from that time. Enjoy!

Ode to the Brown Beast
King of Resilience
(At least, I hope so)

Cursed be the blockhead that twisted the oil cap too
lightly,

The Brown Beast lost precious blood on the first run
of his long journey.

Clanking its death rattle into Tok, Alaska,
the rider of the Brown Beast was alarmed to
receive the news from a twelve year old with braces
that the Brown Beast would be lucky to make it to
Anchorage...

The Brown Beast would need bypass surgery, if not a
transplant...

"It's got an old heart, and old hearts get tired," 
said the shaman grandfather of the boy.

The boy offered to buy the Brown Beast, if the rider
cared to sell...

No, the rider most certainly did not.
Fear not! 

The Brown Beast rattled and rolled its way out of Tok,

determined to make its way to the City of Muck.

The death rattles wound down to an occasional clank on
slowing to a walk and stop, and the rider was
reassured. Sort of.

The Brown Beast made its way to the city, coming to
life when called upon to do its duty.

But the need for a doctor is imminent, if not
immediate...

Will the Brown Beast ride again, valiantly to the end
of the road, holding out for the Carnival?

Or is it a terminal case?

Either way it sucks that my emergency fund is needed,
oh... immediately.

At least I had a place to crash...

Peace,
Montgomery