Asheville, NC, is a place where people go when they’re on their way somewhere else. Practically half the population (at least among the people I’ve met) is transient: young hobos hopping trains across the country; traveling musicians and artists; even a man who, inspired by the Bible, gave up his larger-than life in California and has lived on his bicycle ever since. The people I’m staying with have hosted over a hundred couch surfers since October, as many as thirteen at one time, and they are only a few hosts among over a hundred who live here. On the whole, the city is a traveler’s paradise.
Beside its friendly and outgoing population, Asheville is notable for being surrounded by mountains and beautiful Appalachian forests. These, I am told, are the oldest mountains on Earth – they were formed when Africa collided with America and have been eroding ever since – but the spirit that fills the air is of eternal youth and renewal. On the solstice, after a pounding, ecstatic drum circle in town and a perilous nighttime bike ride on acid, I found myself at a party in the countryside with a bonfire and lots of hippies. Some were singing old-time folk songs in harmony while others chatted and offered up pot smoke to the cloudheavy sky. Among this I wandered, half-crazed and filled with joy.
Under the influence of the psychedelics I had taken, the meaning of the solstice suddenly came into sharp focus: here was the eternal core, the very essence, around which the rest of the year revolves and we with it. I perceived a connection between this temporal nexus, the sun, and the campfire around which we like planets orbited. No matter what else happened, this core of love and celebration would persist forever. I smoked tobacco as I wandered, and, as if in playful reference to my thoughts of eternity, it seemed as though my pipe was never empty no matter how much I smoked.
At last it occurred to me that this summer should be commemorated in years to come. The hippies had their Summer of Love in 1967: simply by getting together and celebrating life en masse, they created a historical event – literally fun so large it ended up in the textbooks. Why should posterity not also remember the summer of ‘08? My future, or a possible future, unfolded before me: I saw myself as an aged author, well-known in certain circles, telling everyone of what happened that summer so long ago and how it changed the world, how it changed me, forever.
It’s up to us, of course: we just have to celebrate. Shall we make it happen?
