conifer hearts 2

        The artifacts of his life were collected in a footlocker. Catalogues from the Omega Institute and Esalen. Issues of Ramparts magazine. A maintenance manual for the Indian motorcycle. Political buttons for Eugene and Bobby. A scrolled poster from the New York Arthur Murray studio where he had taught ballroom dancing.
         Even some ticket stubs from Hindi movies. Snapshots filled a shoebox, most of them taken by Sunil "Sonny" Patel with his trusty Instamatic. One showed the chubby hotelier laughing at Artie's Nehru jacket. Sonny's crabby wife steadfastly believed all Peace Corps people were CIA spies. Artie and his friends called their chintzy abode the Hostel of Mango Pickle. 
         Three months In-Country and he was wearing a dohti.


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        What a sight years later he had been, jouncing on his Huffy ten-speed along the Willamette Bikeway in a white gauze dohti. His magnificent Sikh beard bifurtaing in the slipstream. Folks pulled over to watch him whiz past. He was mad with joy.
         "Who was that? Rasputin?"
         "Maybe Gurdjieff."
         Sweet air and wildflowers, the river below, glowing like copper in the slanting rays of the sun. He craved it all. His ecstacy was boundless. He became known as Schwartzbart. In time his dohti wore thin, then fell away into pure essence.
        While his neighbors cultivated marijuana in lean-to greenhouses, he tended a garden of snow peas, coriander, cumin, fenugreek, peppers and chilies, all to benefit his India cuisine. In town he bought imported garam masala and mango pickle.
         Once he hosted a feast, to the delight of his stoner friends. They sated their munchies with chickpea chipatis and other fingerfood. All was going splendidly well until he decided to douse everybody with Easter Egg dye. It happened to be Holi.
         Earth Mamas shrieked and freaked.
         A fellow who looked like Mangus Colorado with John Lennon wire-rims, said, "You're one crazy dude, Artie. How 'bout you coming with us over to Mount Shasta."
         "Be delighted, man. I've heard it's beautiful."
         "Morn' that. You can hear God speak."
         "I don't understand."
         "Yeah, man. His voice comes up from under the ground."
         "Sounds to me like some ergot got into your granola."


                                                                                             *


         One of the Mamas had dusted the van with spraypaint pastels and then fashioned a mural in primary colors. Not terribly original. It was a Zeitgeist sort of thing. The Who had their Magic Bus. Ken Kesey had his Pranksters bus. Everybody was Wavy Gravy. However, this Mama was so ate up with R. Crumb that she felt compelled to channel the guru of underground comics.
         Her Old Man fired up a Mister Zig-Zag and watched her work. He was especially keen on watching her buttocks grow taut within the confines of her white overalls as she stretched high above her head.
         "Y'know, Cherry Blossom. I'd like to see you do a whole wall full o'stuff."
         "Oh, like Diego Rivera?"
         His face was blank. So she decided it need a dab of color.


                                                                                      *


        They were loading for the trip to Mount Shasta when Artie jangled up on his bike.
         "Whassup, Dude?"
         "I'm afraid I can't go. Just got a telegram. My Pop died yesterday. Gotta go to New York and be with Momma."
         "Bummer. No, really. I'm sorry to hear that."
         "Put a word in for me to the Ascended Masters."
         "Wilco."