Once Upon a Time in a Sauna

Once upon a time in a sauna.

My dad had shaven half of his beard and the paint was almost dry.

Being able to live life on credit because of accumulating sweaty physical actions in a no longer

existing past, we are part of a lucky breed makin’ our second hand pants meet the sand, the sun our

sleepy eyes and our slippery feet the slidin’ sea.

Our dad’s blood is flowing through our veins as well, fully beardedly freeing us from the worries of

society’s judgement giving us the ability to live. Opportunity taken. In my mind we’re going to Paris,

we are Paris, and underneath the stars we are sharing a glass of cabernet sauvignon with Mona. In

the physical part of reality oil has been extracted from lord knows where, refined and as diesel been

put into Joe’s van by Joe himself, self-made-man, burning and explodingly pushing us past pink cows

and halfly shaven summerfields from down the beach to Joe’s farmy home. No wonder Neil Young

called it Harvest.

One can only be as free as one’s own mind lets him be. Captivity by the own brain is very common all

around the globe and publicly unknown as humanity. Cagebreakers like alcohol and drugs are quite

effective medicine, perfect medicine even, just like every weight watcher knows the best French

fries are made out of controversial potatoes. Be careful with overheating, but unlike most drugs

being a prescriptionless remedy, one may as well try. Seventy degrees Celsius has proven to be

highly efficient especially for fifteen minutes straight accompanied with eucalyptus-shot-burning-

nostril-sixty-per-cent humidity and several baby bottle temperatured beers flowing through your

skin, three times over only to be interrupted with a bucket of icy rainwater and the questioning

necessity of our naked nakedness. It came to me as surprising as this must now come to you, but

nature, the heathenish vivacity, has just like she’s done with every damn thing else, chaoticly given

different sizes - and shapes(!) – to the penis of man!

For we had now seen what only the sacred eyes of Catholic Holinesses are entitled to see, we agreed

in nudity with no clothes on whatsoever, naked you might say, after dancing the sirtaki and of course

some Mongolian throat singing, that it was time.

We now clearly had a full understanding of the cosmos; of ourselves, and of ourselvy us being the

cosmos. Freed for the very first time, we finally managed to drop our everpresent occupations of

survival and awakenedly decided to hit the road. It is in this very moment of steamy hot masculine

male energy Joe became Joe, Lee became Lee, Eazy became Eazy, and Flo became Flo. The Medley

Brothers were born and instantly on the rise, only delayed a mere five minutes by the Iced Tea lovin’

scooter driver makin’ affectionate thursday mornin’ love with the back of Joe’s white castle. Do not

wear flip-flops ridin’ a scooter. Or do wear them, only however if your desireless mind knows how to

smile scrapin’ your toes back together. North of France, here we come!

Lee is a brilliant guy, reading long before he found out there’s a way of gaining knowledge more

reliable than president television preaches, or of living stories far more adventurous than teacher

Fairy bleaches. Anyway he knows more. Information of course, has too polluted his brain – polluted

being an indifferent word one too many people are afraid of, as once the recycling process has

started the pollution becomes the indispensable resource turning knowledge into understanding in

no time. Full understanding that is; looking around in an ignorant world sightseeing slavery without

losing your smile and awareness of the here and now and the irrelativity of our own trifling self and

feeling the continuous satisfaction of life. Achievementless. Just like parking our vehicle here on the

1side of this little French beachvillage road on this overpleasing late summer day. Facing mother

ocean Belgium is clearly visible to the right, and the end of the world clearly visible to the left,

wordly disguised in the name of Gravelines; nuclearless though “severe”. Haaa fresh air and French

humour. On this breakwaterless shore too, there’s many remnants of conflict in which courageous

individual sheep fought for peace because shepherds back then already blindly stated fucking for

virginity as the ultimate attempt or even solution. Eternalized in bunkers, easily a dozen, reinforced

getaway blasters facing the salty waters holding England, Iceland, the Arctic, the Americas, and their

own backyards once the realization globe means borderless spherical ball broke through. Pity gun

technology is still not as advanced as shooting at the horizon getting your own bullet in the back of

your own head five shooting star minutes later. Damn gravity. Also makin’ these bunkers easier to

climb than to jump down from, especially with contemporary minefields of drunken glass

strategically scattered all around. There must be a certain technique… Of course, Lee knows!! That’s

it! Not hidden in the girly hesitating run-up, not hidden in the physiology of the stable feet leaving

the concrete, nor in the athleticly fluent summersault upon hitting the dune, though far more

complex, nuclearly compressed by his intestines of steel only to be perfectly released short and high-

pitch-powerfull during the rolling on the sand cracker facing the sky after the geometrical flight of a

lifetime! What if the Germans had found out about this infallible gassy-jet-landing technique?

The Medley Brothers is more than just a cool name. Arriving in charmingly conserved Flemish French

Cassel forty fingers transform internal vibrations into one energized sound of troubadouric

remembrance, and it is Nicolai’s vagabond heart that instantly picks it up reverberating from down

the medieval alley. Amongst the happy rhythms and vibes, also French words are exchanged, some

Flemish, some English, and two hours later we say goodbye to his beautiful wife with golden chest

and golden smile, the champagne, the most noble house we’ve ever entered - opening the front

door we see, feet still on the street, gates of renaissance melt into romantic garden pathways and

curly bridges curling all the way down to the horizon of their sunsetting garden through a manor

house corridor of love -, the female statue beside the dinner table, the former horse stable kitchen,

the purple sky and the silver cutlery. The heartiness and kindness this couple has got to give is

warmly reflected in their faces, in the historically caring oral expressions, in their thirty-ninth

wedding anniversary which happens to be today but does not mean it is a day not to invite a

stranger, let alone four, in their wealth, and in the prominent attention in their eyes. Brightly. And all

we had, to offer, was grace and music. But all we had, to offer, was grace and music...

There is always someone who has caused the place to be the way it is. Many times it is a man on a

horse, though not so many times the statue states the name of this great horse. Mostly, however, it

is a nice place to intoxicate your brain at night or at least to play some fine music. Own dream

stating creations are suffused with white wine makin’ us feel over-fine and play some spontaneous

hippy-medley-music in prime, takin’ us higher and higher the only thing to be captured now standing

ostentatiously flaunting fifty million stories tall straight in front of us, is the blues. The one and only

big black bloody blues. Mighty. Here we go. Opening deep and slowly, while cars and stars and all

sorts of arty crafts are hissing by our windows. Four windows, turned inside out, facing the other

side of reality, eyes closed imagination, fed on life and information raised on listening and grown on

understanding expressed with plastic strings and plastic skins though of excavating purity straight

from deep down inside openly presenting each little self to the slaughter, for i have sinned; to the

recruiter, for i am ready to go to war; to the mother, for i could cry; to the fields, for i am the wind;

2to the city, for i am the bullet; to the sound, for it is she who leads; and to life, for it is she, rhythm.

The Blues.

Eazy holds twenty fingers to himself bending notes that’d make B.B. King’s eighty-eight year old

bones shiver in his eternal daydream; Joe made even his yellow jacket turn blue, and Lee is gently

killing his base drum hitting golden hi hats on a golden darbuka in a golden dream covered in gold.

Gold, gold, gold. The Blues. Golden.

Down the far south of our own country sweet where brothers speak Roman while sisters dance on

wooden chairs a gorgeous girl in orange of sun throws her mouth open wide and waves with playful

enthusiasm through our trembling front window. Car parked we easily find our way back to each

other, magnetically blindfolded in the heart of the village. She smiles of purity with the ease of

floating, moves unnoticeably with a flow of fluently being, and talks of a musician who happens to

be our uncle who once designed a shirt for what used to be a new album his name hidden in letters

of white on my purple chest underneath a Mexican jumper of brown and black and world and joy,

before guiding us to the festival that geographically brought us where we are, here, that is.

Time to feed something, to play some music and to guiltlessly tranquilize our brains without any

form of meditation. Not knowing what to expect from this festival, having only vaguely read the

drunken flyer high on life well over a month ago, this feast meets all our criteria and is indeed

nothing like we expected. The gypsy has turned to punk, went tattoo shopping in the basement of

Johnny Rotten, and shaved some sides of his dreadlocks, but anyway is feeling free and smiling and

welcoming so in we go as well as the three liters of fermented white grapes. The very best thing

about filial virgin festivals like this, is by far the metal structure of the concert tent. Some fifty meters

in length eighteen meters wide, the stage on one side the PA on the other, simple triangular roof

frame upon vertical posts which are interconnected with light metal beams above your head as well

as on the floor. Temperature outside being all right, some of the plastic walls are slid open to make

air and people-flow easier and the ambience more pleasant. Bingo. While the instrumental words

make people see lights they didn’t know existed, limbs take control for their own and dance around

spastically in a hazy resistanceless world. What one of these shakers will never know, is the

groundbreaking funniness of his presence. Dancing backwards into the darling pleasant breeze

between those plastic walls of white, attracted by the delightful coolness through the sparkling

sweat behind his ears, his meditationless enlightened brain did not register the touch of the back of

his dancing heel with the little-innocent-bottom-metal-frame beam of the tent engineer who loves

yoga. Putting the registration process in function of speed and time also did not really work out in

mister anarcho-punk’s advantage, so after back-heel meeting metal-beam this dance rocking party

swiftly found himself to be airborn upside down and backwardly flying freely into outer-tent space.

Not followed by Lee’s smooth gassy-jet-landing technique at all.

After finding back our breath, we find ourselves sipping chai in a little tent of flowers on pillows of

soft and soon all will be clear and we’ll remember why Lee is fully called Crazy Lee. Off his feet,

warm-heartedly open for the surroundings input Lee gets up and is in for some rockin’. Half an hour

after nearly hitting his head on the way out on one of mister tent engineer Yoga’s innocent metal

beams, Lee still rocking crashes into one of the tensioned wires dropping the main light of this cozy

teeny tent and is in for some more wine. Squeezing every little last drop out of the goon neglecting

the cup and accompanied demand for a little sip of the unknown smiling stranger he’s off rockin’

once more.

3There’s an artist, tryin’ to break free, ununderstood, but like many forgotten that one has to

understand in order to become understood. Learn to forget, but forget not what you have learned to

forget, would seem to me the easiest way to enlightened dreams for every individual ever feeling

lost or being off rockin’ who masters the information of awakening. One does not have to agree on

all Pirsig’s Quality to see that life quality always refers to “feel-good moments”; moments where we

do not experience time but true life that is. Therefore, (life)quality is always timeless, and time is

always (life)qualityless. And “always” is only an indication of time until one understands the moment

is eternal. This is how living a life of quality - or so happiness – connects with the timeless now;

without firstly being diagnosed cancer and having a doctor tell us to enjoy every single moment of

our so called lives. Not forgetting that we have learned to forget our size as well, it is not summer

campfire necessary either to look and stare at the starry cosmos to feel small. Remembering our

relativeness through each eternal moment instead might shine some light into our black holes, while

supplementing herewith the knowledge that good and bad are purely perspective related, we can

keep our preferred mood seeing whatever is happening on the street, triggering pure irrelativity of

judgement too, makin’ it possible for anyone to live however he or she feels like, to ultimately, live

free. And die free. Or so, truly BE free. With this in mind there is never a need for alcohol nor drugs

to experience the judgementless moment of creativity. Though this too, gives us the freedom of

getting guiltlessly wasted. Simple really, life.

In the meantime John Lennon is playing the drums and has become fluent in French. He must have

gotten away fakin’ his own death before the CIA got to hím too. Still preachin’ reachin’ and wakin’ up

people in style. The scattered crowd is lovin’ it, everybody except for Lee, who finds it tasting worse

than dog shit and hates the world. Back at the campsite we’re tuning our own instruments. “It is

hilarious how you are but love one moment, and but hate the other” says Eazy. “I’m not hate, i’m

the love of order right now! I’m gonna hang all these barking dogs in their hippy vans and stab their

fucking tyres! Now c’mon let’s play faster! Faster!”

I’m the last one to crawl out of our spacious single space double double bedroom van into the new

shiny day. Joe is playin’ some tunes. Peaceful as always. Peaceful Joe. Eazy is preparing breakfast for

the group. Tranquil Eazy. Not always here (like me), but always there. For many. What a brother to

have. What a brother to be. Lee is laughing once more, fraternizingly making conversation with our

Walloon brothers whilst hitting both the djembé and the darbuka with one of his four magical

drawing hands. I hope this line makes him smile and feeds his colourful ego, for we are who we are,

we don’t matter, we won’t matter, so why not at least be a little gutsy crazy?

“Andz dzid you like dze concertz yezteurrdayy?” “Oh yes, of course! ... It was really a great energy

last night!”... – But love...

After Eazy and myself had tranquilly dropped our morning-golden-brown faeces in the cornfield, Lee

too decides he is going to lighten himself grasping the full flowering potential of this fresh perfumed

day. It is the moment once more however, which enlightens that life is but a joke, making the

pathway of one jolly-anarcho-punk-cornfield-dwelling individual meet the pathway of one crouched-

squeezing-groaning-in-between-his-shoes-aiming Lee. I love you, life.

Enough rocking for this trip, time to sniff some fresh forest air! On a lush green trail underneath the

trees we throw around some stones, some sticks and some thoughts, partly because it’s our main

feeling, but mainly because we feel part of nature, as she too likes to randomly throw things around;

the size of the penis of man, for example. After rolling some finely cut and over-nicely stacked ultra

4heavy tree trunk pieces down the trailside slope back into the jungle of laughter where they belong -

worst case scenario disappointing the children of the orphanage waiting on their to be freshly

crafted wooden statue of hope -, we hit the road.

By the end of the day Joe guides us through a city where strolls a man wearing only half a beard and

whose genes are electronically flowing through this neurological ink. The evening breeze is steadily

blowing while we park Jean-Pol along the shoreline and run towards the setting sun who’s just about

to set. Haha, two times a form of “to set” in one sentence. How foolishly ridicule. “To drown” just

sounded so deep and dark and sad and lonely... So; positively warmly setting, a colourful inferno

gets reflected from our eyes while voices and hands musically accompany each other once more to

express our grace to this wonderful moment. Isn’t it the purest freedom to be able to oceanly see

the sun go down? Or better maybe, to oceanly see the sun go behind...?

And what is good, Phaedrus?

And what is better?

Need we ask anyone to tell us these things?

Of course not.