Creation’s Daughter: The Story

Creation's Daughter
Stoned on a Stone

I literally was stoned on a stone. My road dog, Sleepy Brian, loaded a pipe with ganja salad and hash dressing. There we were in the late summer sunshine, a few Alaskan road trips under our belt and an adventure in front of us. I'd left my four jobs, girlfriend, and community in South Kona to follow the flow again. It had been a good first year on the island, but now it was time to explore. I had a ticket to Burning Man, my dad's Subaru, and an atlas. Now, in the big picture of the story, this particular song is one of the ones that outdates my commitment to the 18-21 time frame. This song is just after the fact, but entirely necessary to build the foundation overall.

I was still dreaming of the woman I'd said goodbye to in Hawaii. She was a good woman, the kind of woman you try to hold on to. But, she was good at being free. And she taught me how to feel that way. I called her Creation's Daughter. She was fire, earth, wind, water. When I left the island, I didn't know when I would be coming back. It was a sacrifice I doubted at times when I felt alone and uncertain of the way, which was often in those days.

So, there I was, high as a kite, sitting on those big granite rocks in the middle of the Truckee River considering the journey I had just been on. I'd met my mother, spent a week with her, then headed south to meet up with two girl friends of mine. We'd driven to Burning Man together, only for me to then spend it alone with Sleepy as my friends went back to their respected camps. I wasn't Nahko back then. I knew no one except Sleepy Brian and our trusty vehicles. Our steeds, our home. Funny how a big chunk of metal can become your closest friend.

Dust filled every pore, every orifice. It permeated the surface of my body and all I owned. There was a strange loneliness that would fill me up as I wandered through the crowded desert. Aliens, all of 'em. I would wake up in the morning and ride my bike over to a cafe I'd found that served chai. There was an old piano under their tent that beckoned me, and it became my routine to sip cold chai and hide from the sun playing on those ivories. There was a dead, dried out carcass of a cat laid atop that piano. And it seemed like every time I sat down on that bench someone would give me some LSD. I don't recall the songs that came out of me that time, but I reckon the title of this story is one of them. There is always an origin story to a song. Where the muse pushes, and the writer jots. For us crazy ones, it's hard to keep track of all of them, what with the tracers, fractal visions, and sound waves that chart each course.

The moment the sun went beyond the hill, I was sure the playa became the landing pad and a beacon for all beings unseen. There was no way we could all be there for any other reason. We were moon walkers, explorers and we were asking for a sign.

I slept under my car, wrapped in a tarp. When the water truck would pass by in the morning to settle the dust. I would run out beneath its falls and wash in its brown messy sparkles.

When we finally made it out of there, we went straight to the river; It would take days for the layers of dust to peel off our skin. Brian and I parted ways; he had a trim job waiting. So did I, but I had my dear lady friends to catch up with first. I did find them after a few days. My Subaru would be the aircraft through Reno, Lassen, the portals of Shasta, Weaverville, and onward to the Mendicino County Line. We found work together, and I began my new work as a digger of gold in the wild west. Those weeks spent with two jungle mountain sisters shifted my perspective on many things. The teachings of Kerouac were the teachings of a lonely man, disillusioned by the world, who found solace in alcohol, tarmac, and poetry. Sleepy in turn offered the ropes to psychedelics, indie rock, and fending for oneself alone on the road. These were important lessons and skills. It was only a matter of time before the ways of the witchy women reached me. These two brought me a gentleness and a sisterhood I had been missing. It was a rounding out that was needed. Those two listened to my songs and gave my self-esteem the biggest boost I didn't know it needed, I'd found my audience. I'd found my home. They taught but eat healthily. To soften my blows, to think with compassion before acting with aggression, to give more and expect nothing in return. They reminded me of the power in Aloha. Truly. In a time where I could have wandered aimlessly and ended up anywhere, I was captured by two daughters of Creation and lifted into a new chapter.

There's a sense of longing drifting between bars here. A feeling of loss, yet not without a int of redemption. To me, all the best road/love stories are filled with these sentiments. Walking through those old grandfather trees in Jedediah, I knew it was unlikely that my lover would return. Certainly, never in the same way. 'None of this will bring you back. As a wanderer, I must expect that.' Once again, the consequences of that endless highway and my commitment to it provided great lessons, but not so much the lover. I was old enough to know better. I was young enough to keep trying.