The Gods Have Ears - Full Moon In Yelapa
By: Christopher Moses- Page One
The following is an editorial written and published in 1994 for the Voice of The Path (aka: Hola Amigos) a small local newspaper in Mexico of which Chris Moses was the editor. It concerns the full moon bonfire, which used to take place at a particular spot on the beach every month.
I had blisters on my fingers, so I went for a walk.
Down on the corner, I stepped on a piece of chewing gum. I tried to scuff it off as I walked, but it seems that this piece had already laid down first, and last, and deposited itself in the grid of my sole. As I walked on, the gum began to flatten out and I thought I might be in the clear. However, a small breeze was blowing a scrap of newspaper across the street towards me. The corners of this flotsam were folded down so that it hugged the ground as the wind pushed it to it's rendezvous. It hopped the curb, scuttling sideways like a crab over the cracked sidewalk and into my path. Forecasting only the tip of the inevitable, I made a clutch decision and stepped on the paper for the good luck of random geometry. I looked at the sky and whistled a strain of some long forgotten tune, as though anything were possible.
I was several steps down the lane, when I realized that the piece of newspaper was stuck to my shoe- or stuck to the gum which was stuck to my shoe. I bent down and retreived this scroll, and held it up before my eyes. I saw the advertisement quite clearly.
"EXPERIENCE COUNTS!" it proclaimed. "IT PAYS TO HIRE THE LORD."
"Hmmmmm" I said.
So I bought a ticket down to Yelapa, and had a smoke.
Somebody spoke, and I went into a dream...
As you may have guessed, we're not allowed to tell you the juicy stuff. There is no paper trail. It makes us squeam to think what you could find out, what you would do once you knew. But we do want you to know (some of our best friends are squeamish). The stabbings and the stealings, the fondlings and the feelings, are mulched in private conversation, and held to piquant fermentation till the moment is ripe for intoxication.
We catch a stray now and then. A wanderer with no certain root, may chance to hear vague reference. In stooping to learn more, this fortunate vagabond is lured into the surf opera, becomes enmeshed in a cinematic fabric, and becomes part of the machine. In this way, warp is added to weft.
Anarchic, theatrical, misty-eyed, down to earth, zany, conniving, besotted, and very occasionally wise, our oral literature is not to be missed. Do set a spell.
The translation to page, of course, is quite another matter entirely. It is a mask, a glance, a reflection in a curved brown bottle. Something barely.
I am so far away now, from the frogs and the phosphorus, but here in another world, in a little room, gobbling gigabytes in front of a glowing screen, like millions more. I could use a story of some sort to pull me from one dream to the next. This humming box will process.
Being a typical boomer, I guess I don't have to tell you, that kicks just keep getting harder to find. As the sands shift, some things cannot be repeated. The American dream followed me to Mexico, so I scout for frontiers. The story unfolds as you lose your brain to the beat. Love makes you stupid.
As I cruise the path in Yelapa, I sometimes take along my musical instrument. It makes a pleasant sound when it bangs against the rocks as I walk. This noise also serves as an alarm, a reminder that I might give a little more attention to my walking. Like as not, my feet would be in one place, my head in another. As it should be.
Being thus equipped, any such person as I might happen to meet or go visit who might want to hum in tandem, or slap their flanks and yodel, will be able to receive service from my strumming strings.
Though not enshrined on precisely the same pedestal as the pleasures of the great Priapus, the mysteries of music have their own holy highs to quicken the pulse and throw back the head. And in this I can be promiscuous. Society will turn the other cheek if I step behind a building with some compatriot and rut like an alley cat through another quick chorus of La Bamba.
Yo no soy marinero.
I might exchange my most soulful notes with good friends, or with strangers, perfect for their ability to provide a new moment, who pass through this little town. We can go "all the way" without fear of disease or reprisal. We can give our all to song after song, without having to rest in between. I can get together with several others for a swinging group experience and share that primal, rhythmic, give and take that leads to sacred spaces. Music is multi-orgasmic. Or I am. Take your peek.
Each waxing month, the nights grow lighter and brighter, until one day I can stand it no longer. I pack a bag full of things that make noise and wait for the sun to go down.
I think, "I must make a journey. What are my avenues?," but I know there is only one.
Before embarking, I am fortified with foodstuff, and substance strange and sacred, to provide energy for the reach ahead.
Sunset finally gone for good, through the palms I peer and see a knife of searing silver light appear in the young sky. I feel the shafts of her terrible love. Drama introduces itself to the night.
Fully emerged, the mother moon makes a perfect blazing circle of her creamy churn, hanging full and bulbous just above a notch in the mountain. The light spills out, and I am drenched. She is so close I can almost touch her, and my eye carves an intimate vibrating tunnel between this heavenly body and my heart. Suddenly the sky is singing, and the world is swimming in reflected glory and beneficent adjustment to higher frequency.
With my pack hung on one shoulder and my trusted musical instrument strapped over the other, I set upon the colored walk and out the bamboo door. From there, down. Down stone steps, to the deep shadows of the great path. I turn to the East, and head toward that narrow strip of beach, which separates the river from the sea. To the vortex. Where the energies meet. Where the fire burns. Where the Gods go. The cliff is steep.
It furthers one to cross the great water.
Forms are gathered around a fire throwing sparks in the sand.
The scene is often pathetic. Strewn and bedraggled, the pantheon straggles to the windy circle, disguised in motley, almost embarrassed by their divinity in this day and age. Each deity arrives and greets the burning bush, extending palms toward blaze in traditional greeting and acknowledgement. As the participants compare notes and prepare to put the puzzle together, much ordinary activity is observed.
More: Page Two
AT THE VORTEX
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BOUND BY WILD DESIRE
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The Eyes Have It