https://a.co/d/0dgJxL3Q
Published a volume of pieces on Amazon
[This Book is dedicated to my friend Steven.
He may be no longer with us, but who may really say
what is with and what without.]
The timelines in this narrative sprawl sporadically. Relative to thought, like Time maybe.
We were children of The Cold War, the nuclear age,birthed into the era of a world controlled by The Military Industrial Complex.
1 This story is about lives in the first push of youth, a story of being born of rebirth and of dying, of dying to live, of failing and succeeding. A story of Steven Fancy and Indian Joseph, Carzillo Hermanando so many others interested, invested only to be divested and retested as unique beings. These are those that may be lost and found within the pages of a paper into an expanding electronic world and universe. It is a story about being incredibly young, gifted and still naive. It is about rebels and pilgrims, monsters and angels. It is about seeking the door and the way,Inhuman and humane. Oh the humanity.
It is before the electronic cloud hardwires all humanity into bytes of data,into pre information mind programming prisons..
In native Behind The Scenes days illusion dreams of freedom still floated in genuine wine blue Summer skies.
Spirit world of childhood follows closely. You don’t see it. You recognize yourself but you don’t really know what is what who is who, The words we said, the things we saw.
[Walks on set from somewhere doesn't exist
Wearing only unseen wings to try to rise
Occasionally a ghost may clap no need to buy a ticket
Box office closed centuries past
Passed the theatre in a driverless car
Spirits looking through drifting curtains of dust and light
Reading acts of a play]
In part this journey begins and centers around a Park and a full sized replica of The Parthenon within that park. A decorative cement stone wall surrounded the Park separating the inner world of Park from the bordering streets. Young people would meet to sit and talk and vibe on this wall on weekends. It was our San Fran, Market Street. It was a thing ‘The Wall’ that’s where I first met Steven and others that became my tribe during those far gone times of Western myth, The Market Place was on The Boulevard next to the Park and Wall. Steven and Indian Joseph were two young guys that became friends and had many adventures and misadventures in and around the aura generated by the places, people and events of that time and circles of time into the stormy geography of adulthood.
Being of the youth tribe as the sixties segued into the seventies was figuratively and literally a trip.
The pop culture of childhood, British invasion, American drive-in pop morphing into West Coast psychedelic rock
bands. The Grateful Dead, The Jefferson Airplane, The Doors with Jim Morrison a for real voodoo shaman poet,
and don't forget to mention the great Jimi Hendrix playing purple hazes through manic depression brains.
In England The Beatles and The Stones were evolving into their next era sound. Cream smashing the bar for what rock sound could be. Traffic was rising with a rock,jazz, folk fusion
playing to the multi coloured skies. Oh yeah, The Byrds were still flying high in days of yore.
There was a lot going on, too much to ever recount. This narrative is a sort of Pollock, a colorful smattering of abstracted details trying to reach a depth that is always pulling one to center like a holy dreadful great magnet that can never be accurately described.
Steven and I were around 15, 16 years old at the time living in a mid south American city stereotypical Country Music capital of the world. We hung out unconsciously conscious icons of a period piece, part of a young hippiesque tribe in a place we mostly referred to as ‘The Park’ . In this park was a full size model of The Parthenon, an ancient Greek classic building. The steps of this Parthenon was a destination gathering place for the local hippies as well as those who were stopping in Music City for a while or longer on their journey quests..
Johnny Cash was the patron outlaw saint of the country genre at the time. He was a close friend and supporter of counter culture hero myth maker Bob Dylan who happened to be the spokesman of my generation.
Those old country music heads partied hard and long, had quite the lives, made colorful names for themselves in those halcyon days. Folsom Prison Blues meet John Wesley Harding. The pop culture icons of all persuasions had a fun time back in those golden years. Many stars were walking the earth then with lots of new ones emerging from the wings, (more about that later.)
The mid south was usually about ten years behind the pop culture curve back then. Woodstock with its after blast pop fall out was in the near future. We didn't know that the West Coast Summer of love was falling apart,was a decadent, subversive experiment engineered and sponsored by an intelligence branch of the Big Fed that fed upon us all.We were new to the world, to the game and we were here to play.
{Kids from broken homes, but I didn't get them broken bones, not physical ones at any rate.}
And btw this story will most likely go the add route, minus the adderall and or ritalin, there were lots of other substances though which may or may not get mentioned and described at exhaustive length.
Was all long ago in a semi mythic past but you have to love a good story, (even if some things turn out to be actually true.)
In the beginning we were a rather colorful tribe looking back from now to then that was now then. In a telescopic lens of present to past things often film over into a haze of dream-like quality trying to recall specific details may blur.
Were we really there?
Yes someone was it may as well have been our lot.
Around 1968 there was a hipster coffee house named The Market Place on the 2nd floor of a row of circa 1940’s or so old wooden commercial buildings spanning a corner block next to this big public park in a mythic city in a mythical state and country located in a surrealistic world.
Wild and rebellious precocious youth from around the local area and beyond who were now discovering the illusory freedom of adolescence were being drawn to an emerging beatnik/hippie scene there. It was a trip. The Market Place featured Folk Music, Coffee, Tea and talk, maybe some other not so legal substances were in play. Who remembers ?
There was an aura of the metaphysical about The Market Place then, hints of a dream state.
Groups of shadowy figures emerging from nothingness into something, from something back into the great nothingness. More on this perspective later.
Behind The Scenes:
A black curtain divided the main big room of The Market Place from a smaller private storage area in the back where color filled characters would go to imbibe the current vibes.
One evening as Indian Joseph walked out from behind the curtain wearing a new old costume of imaginary native attire luminous in the dim bluish lit underglow he encountered a high school crush sitting at a little table with her date. Some cat was singing a Leonard Cohen tune on a postage stamp shadowy stage. Suzanne takes you down to her place, near the river.
Hi Dalia, what a trip seeing you here.
Joseph, this is a surprise. What’s behind the curtain?
Oh, that’s Behind The Scenes. Where we go to escape this world.
Dalia just looked at Joseph, already a collection of images imprinted on a fictional past.
He never saw her there or anywhere again, except in the multiple magic mirrors of memory that is. (She was of Nordic descent,pale blue eyes, cheekbones, auburn honey blonde hair, a tall girl, swaying when she walked like a fragrant wind rustling silk garments through the branches of lyrical summer trees.) We can journey anywhere we ever were or ever will be in this mind. It is indeed magic traffic.
Even as it is written, paint begins to melt in this simulation of experience.
Flashback Picture Frames:
Time is always jumping. Go with it, wormholes, accretion discs, cannot stop for the world.
How Much Farther Father?
1961 in a black 1958 Dodge Sedan driven by former Air Force Master Sgt Benito. Benito, who was this mystery man? What are his origins? What has he done, what is he capable of doing? Just a few questions, no facts to be found.
The passengers are Edwina and 8 children all under the age of 13. Four kids of Edwina, three girls and one boy.. Four kids of Benito, three girls and one boy. A total of 10 people in a museum piece vehicle leave from a ghost card souvenir neighborhood in Music City for a destination somewhere in mid-state New York. (More about New York flashback vignettes generating on the back burners.)
They are not a married couple. The man Benito had recently met Edwina at work, she and children moved in with Benny and children ala The Brady Bunch.Hmmm. A fast shift in family life for the meantime. Now everyone was in the Dodge, covertly leaving town.Why? The future Indian Joseph happens to be the oldest child of Benito. This is one of those magic mirror traffic memories. Eerie and odd how one may be among the ghosts even while suspirating in the newness of what is Now.
A couple of years into the future Benito and his four children would be living in a quaint farm house on a picturesque piece of land located in The Catskill Mountains region of New York State. Edwina and her children had moved back home to ancestral burrows of the South not long after having arrived in New York. Things had not worked out well between Benito and Edwina. Newness worn out. The charm extinguished.
Young Indian Joey walking, running and taking flight through pine forest hills where glaciers had carved Lovecraftian landscapes. Just a young healthy animal alien boy.Climbing cone clad pine trees,swimming in shadowy sunlit vast pools of ink his mind was born to inhabit. Cue adolescence.
Back to Park Wall world. We gather in our folk costumes in the lazy dusk of Summer. There is a form of excitement in our blood and young brains. No one knows what or who we are. It is all a make-believe fiction. This is life to us now. All we know is what we are. We still don’t know what that is.
2.A Friday evening in early June 1968, the tribe begins to arrive at The Wall around The Park.
Characters drifting in. Young people, joining the transient culture of Hippie, children of the well to do, children of the well adjusted, children of the desperately poor but honest, children of the saved, children of the damned. We the young confused, blessed tortured transcendent savants and fools.
Indian Joseph is grooving on a corner of Park Wall near The Market Place. Passing the moments vibe surfing as evening falls. He will be a junior in high school next Fall. An explorer of his own adolescence and endocrine system. The jumble of hormones and brain.Young ancient mind taking flight, angel, avatar,mortal child, a young male changeling on a shining treacherous path. He is all of sixteen years old.
Simply sitting here thinking about everything and nothing in particular as individuals begin to appear along the wall. When someone is speaking, open an ear to the brain
.
What, who is that? Someone around the same age, a peer in the ambient culture petri dish of the place and time. He appears with a big poofy halo of hair, colored beads necklace, wide handmade gypsy belt, hippie rock style.
Haven’t seen you around the wall before. What's your name?
Joseph
You look like a native american Joseph, are you ?
Am I what, Joseph or a native american?
Hahaha, funny, I like that.
Do I look native american?
Well, you do. Those high top fringed moccasins you have on really look brave.
Ok, I am then. (Indian Joseph) Who are you?
Carzilla Hermanando or just Car.
That’s a cool name
I'm Cuban, to escape persecution by the regime my parents fled to the US when I was small.
Have you been to The Marketplace yet?
I was up there earlier, (Behind The Scenes).
I saw a girl I knew from my old high school across town.
We used to talk on the phone some.
Is she a Head?
Don’t think so, she and her date looked like straights.
Anyway, they weren’t behind the scenes like me.
Behind the scenes is a mental stage man.
It’s for whomever wants to go there, only found It because It found you first.
A young thin guy with long straight brown hair carrying a guitar case is walking towards the Wall .Multiple perspectives converge in the metaphor of a human body.Youthful innocence mixed with songs of the ancient ones somehow conveyed in human form kinetic motion.Steven approaches. He is friends with Carzillo.
Hey Steven, have you met Indian Joseph?
Joseph, this is Steven Fancy, he’s a great guitar player.
Do you sing? You guys could start a fantastic band, I could do the Light Show.
[At a time in the not too distant future Steven and Joseph would be at a nearby university campus music concert watching Carzilla perform day glo amoeba petri dish light shows to the music of Pink Floyd’s Set The Controls For The Heart of The Sun.
I’m probably not musical. I do write some though. Poetry.
Well, you have the Rock look man, that’s the thing.
[The mind is a time traveller, an organic time machine. It grows in you. It grows on you. Being everywhere at once with a key to go.
Steven and I used to talk about such things a lot. In some ways we still do, in a detached phantasmagorical fashion.
Youth was a fanciful, harrowing journey of illusions, pitfalls, minefields and joyous exclamation points. Questioning without question we were artists and we were escape artists which has more meanings than immediately appears upon the surface of things.]
Kings Of Oblivion
Carzilla had met an exchange student from Thailand at a local university. This student named Tam as luck would have it had a direct connection back home for the most potent varieties of Asian smokables available to those ingenious and reckless enough to figure out a way to get the stuff from Point there to Point here.
Carzilla as it so happened was enough of both.
There was this other guy who used to hang out at the Parthenon, went by the name of Tappy T. Tappy was always down for a new connection with fire stuff to be had. Carzillo got together with Tappy and Tam on this little project. Before long massive potent smoke clouds began to appear on our young horizons.
Tappy was a Stones fan fanatic with a taste for contraband traffic and cultivating a cool beat street hustle aura. Hell, we all had a flair for cultivating auras in those bygone multi color tye-dyed, electric pink elephant days. We were bright and young, incredibly gifted and ignorant.
There was bliss to be found if you could find it. Indian Joseph, Steven Fancy, Carzilla Hermanando, Tappy T. With a little help from our foreign exchange friend Tam we found a ton of the stuff. Yeah, we were real cool traders in the currency of our time.
Poetry by Chaucer Whethers
Read 121 times
Written on 2026-05-30 at 14:58
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Published a volume of pieces on Amazon
A Brief Excerpt
Behind The Scenes[This Book is dedicated to my friend Steven.
He may be no longer with us, but who may really say
what is with and what without.]
The timelines in this narrative sprawl sporadically. Relative to thought, like Time maybe.
We were children of The Cold War, the nuclear age,birthed into the era of a world controlled by The Military Industrial Complex.
1 This story is about lives in the first push of youth, a story of being born of rebirth and of dying, of dying to live, of failing and succeeding. A story of Steven Fancy and Indian Joseph, Carzillo Hermanando so many others interested, invested only to be divested and retested as unique beings. These are those that may be lost and found within the pages of a paper into an expanding electronic world and universe. It is a story about being incredibly young, gifted and still naive. It is about rebels and pilgrims, monsters and angels. It is about seeking the door and the way,Inhuman and humane. Oh the humanity.
It is before the electronic cloud hardwires all humanity into bytes of data,into pre information mind programming prisons..
In native Behind The Scenes days illusion dreams of freedom still floated in genuine wine blue Summer skies.
Spirit world of childhood follows closely. You don’t see it. You recognize yourself but you don’t really know what is what who is who, The words we said, the things we saw.
[Walks on set from somewhere doesn't exist
Wearing only unseen wings to try to rise
Occasionally a ghost may clap no need to buy a ticket
Box office closed centuries past
Passed the theatre in a driverless car
Spirits looking through drifting curtains of dust and light
Reading acts of a play]
In part this journey begins and centers around a Park and a full sized replica of The Parthenon within that park. A decorative cement stone wall surrounded the Park separating the inner world of Park from the bordering streets. Young people would meet to sit and talk and vibe on this wall on weekends. It was our San Fran, Market Street. It was a thing ‘The Wall’ that’s where I first met Steven and others that became my tribe during those far gone times of Western myth, The Market Place was on The Boulevard next to the Park and Wall. Steven and Indian Joseph were two young guys that became friends and had many adventures and misadventures in and around the aura generated by the places, people and events of that time and circles of time into the stormy geography of adulthood.
Being of the youth tribe as the sixties segued into the seventies was figuratively and literally a trip.
The pop culture of childhood, British invasion, American drive-in pop morphing into West Coast psychedelic rock
bands. The Grateful Dead, The Jefferson Airplane, The Doors with Jim Morrison a for real voodoo shaman poet,
and don't forget to mention the great Jimi Hendrix playing purple hazes through manic depression brains.
In England The Beatles and The Stones were evolving into their next era sound. Cream smashing the bar for what rock sound could be. Traffic was rising with a rock,jazz, folk fusion
playing to the multi coloured skies. Oh yeah, The Byrds were still flying high in days of yore.
There was a lot going on, too much to ever recount. This narrative is a sort of Pollock, a colorful smattering of abstracted details trying to reach a depth that is always pulling one to center like a holy dreadful great magnet that can never be accurately described.
Steven and I were around 15, 16 years old at the time living in a mid south American city stereotypical Country Music capital of the world. We hung out unconsciously conscious icons of a period piece, part of a young hippiesque tribe in a place we mostly referred to as ‘The Park’ . In this park was a full size model of The Parthenon, an ancient Greek classic building. The steps of this Parthenon was a destination gathering place for the local hippies as well as those who were stopping in Music City for a while or longer on their journey quests..
Johnny Cash was the patron outlaw saint of the country genre at the time. He was a close friend and supporter of counter culture hero myth maker Bob Dylan who happened to be the spokesman of my generation.
Those old country music heads partied hard and long, had quite the lives, made colorful names for themselves in those halcyon days. Folsom Prison Blues meet John Wesley Harding. The pop culture icons of all persuasions had a fun time back in those golden years. Many stars were walking the earth then with lots of new ones emerging from the wings, (more about that later.)
The mid south was usually about ten years behind the pop culture curve back then. Woodstock with its after blast pop fall out was in the near future. We didn't know that the West Coast Summer of love was falling apart,was a decadent, subversive experiment engineered and sponsored by an intelligence branch of the Big Fed that fed upon us all.We were new to the world, to the game and we were here to play.
{Kids from broken homes, but I didn't get them broken bones, not physical ones at any rate.}
And btw this story will most likely go the add route, minus the adderall and or ritalin, there were lots of other substances though which may or may not get mentioned and described at exhaustive length.
Was all long ago in a semi mythic past but you have to love a good story, (even if some things turn out to be actually true.)
In the beginning we were a rather colorful tribe looking back from now to then that was now then. In a telescopic lens of present to past things often film over into a haze of dream-like quality trying to recall specific details may blur.
Were we really there?
Yes someone was it may as well have been our lot.
Around 1968 there was a hipster coffee house named The Market Place on the 2nd floor of a row of circa 1940’s or so old wooden commercial buildings spanning a corner block next to this big public park in a mythic city in a mythical state and country located in a surrealistic world.
Wild and rebellious precocious youth from around the local area and beyond who were now discovering the illusory freedom of adolescence were being drawn to an emerging beatnik/hippie scene there. It was a trip. The Market Place featured Folk Music, Coffee, Tea and talk, maybe some other not so legal substances were in play. Who remembers ?
There was an aura of the metaphysical about The Market Place then, hints of a dream state.
Groups of shadowy figures emerging from nothingness into something, from something back into the great nothingness. More on this perspective later.
Behind The Scenes:
A black curtain divided the main big room of The Market Place from a smaller private storage area in the back where color filled characters would go to imbibe the current vibes.
One evening as Indian Joseph walked out from behind the curtain wearing a new old costume of imaginary native attire luminous in the dim bluish lit underglow he encountered a high school crush sitting at a little table with her date. Some cat was singing a Leonard Cohen tune on a postage stamp shadowy stage. Suzanne takes you down to her place, near the river.
Hi Dalia, what a trip seeing you here.
Joseph, this is a surprise. What’s behind the curtain?
Oh, that’s Behind The Scenes. Where we go to escape this world.
Dalia just looked at Joseph, already a collection of images imprinted on a fictional past.
He never saw her there or anywhere again, except in the multiple magic mirrors of memory that is. (She was of Nordic descent,pale blue eyes, cheekbones, auburn honey blonde hair, a tall girl, swaying when she walked like a fragrant wind rustling silk garments through the branches of lyrical summer trees.) We can journey anywhere we ever were or ever will be in this mind. It is indeed magic traffic.
Even as it is written, paint begins to melt in this simulation of experience.
Flashback Picture Frames:
Time is always jumping. Go with it, wormholes, accretion discs, cannot stop for the world.
How Much Farther Father?
1961 in a black 1958 Dodge Sedan driven by former Air Force Master Sgt Benito. Benito, who was this mystery man? What are his origins? What has he done, what is he capable of doing? Just a few questions, no facts to be found.
The passengers are Edwina and 8 children all under the age of 13. Four kids of Edwina, three girls and one boy.. Four kids of Benito, three girls and one boy. A total of 10 people in a museum piece vehicle leave from a ghost card souvenir neighborhood in Music City for a destination somewhere in mid-state New York. (More about New York flashback vignettes generating on the back burners.)
They are not a married couple. The man Benito had recently met Edwina at work, she and children moved in with Benny and children ala The Brady Bunch.Hmmm. A fast shift in family life for the meantime. Now everyone was in the Dodge, covertly leaving town.Why? The future Indian Joseph happens to be the oldest child of Benito. This is one of those magic mirror traffic memories. Eerie and odd how one may be among the ghosts even while suspirating in the newness of what is Now.
A couple of years into the future Benito and his four children would be living in a quaint farm house on a picturesque piece of land located in The Catskill Mountains region of New York State. Edwina and her children had moved back home to ancestral burrows of the South not long after having arrived in New York. Things had not worked out well between Benito and Edwina. Newness worn out. The charm extinguished.
Young Indian Joey walking, running and taking flight through pine forest hills where glaciers had carved Lovecraftian landscapes. Just a young healthy animal alien boy.Climbing cone clad pine trees,swimming in shadowy sunlit vast pools of ink his mind was born to inhabit. Cue adolescence.
Back to Park Wall world. We gather in our folk costumes in the lazy dusk of Summer. There is a form of excitement in our blood and young brains. No one knows what or who we are. It is all a make-believe fiction. This is life to us now. All we know is what we are. We still don’t know what that is.
2.A Friday evening in early June 1968, the tribe begins to arrive at The Wall around The Park.
Characters drifting in. Young people, joining the transient culture of Hippie, children of the well to do, children of the well adjusted, children of the desperately poor but honest, children of the saved, children of the damned. We the young confused, blessed tortured transcendent savants and fools.
Indian Joseph is grooving on a corner of Park Wall near The Market Place. Passing the moments vibe surfing as evening falls. He will be a junior in high school next Fall. An explorer of his own adolescence and endocrine system. The jumble of hormones and brain.Young ancient mind taking flight, angel, avatar,mortal child, a young male changeling on a shining treacherous path. He is all of sixteen years old.
Simply sitting here thinking about everything and nothing in particular as individuals begin to appear along the wall. When someone is speaking, open an ear to the brain
.
What, who is that? Someone around the same age, a peer in the ambient culture petri dish of the place and time. He appears with a big poofy halo of hair, colored beads necklace, wide handmade gypsy belt, hippie rock style.
Haven’t seen you around the wall before. What's your name?
Joseph
You look like a native american Joseph, are you ?
Am I what, Joseph or a native american?
Hahaha, funny, I like that.
Do I look native american?
Well, you do. Those high top fringed moccasins you have on really look brave.
Ok, I am then. (Indian Joseph) Who are you?
Carzilla Hermanando or just Car.
That’s a cool name
I'm Cuban, to escape persecution by the regime my parents fled to the US when I was small.
Have you been to The Marketplace yet?
I was up there earlier, (Behind The Scenes).
I saw a girl I knew from my old high school across town.
We used to talk on the phone some.
Is she a Head?
Don’t think so, she and her date looked like straights.
Anyway, they weren’t behind the scenes like me.
Behind the scenes is a mental stage man.
It’s for whomever wants to go there, only found It because It found you first.
A young thin guy with long straight brown hair carrying a guitar case is walking towards the Wall .Multiple perspectives converge in the metaphor of a human body.Youthful innocence mixed with songs of the ancient ones somehow conveyed in human form kinetic motion.Steven approaches. He is friends with Carzillo.
Hey Steven, have you met Indian Joseph?
Joseph, this is Steven Fancy, he’s a great guitar player.
Do you sing? You guys could start a fantastic band, I could do the Light Show.
[At a time in the not too distant future Steven and Joseph would be at a nearby university campus music concert watching Carzilla perform day glo amoeba petri dish light shows to the music of Pink Floyd’s Set The Controls For The Heart of The Sun.
I’m probably not musical. I do write some though. Poetry.
Well, you have the Rock look man, that’s the thing.
[The mind is a time traveller, an organic time machine. It grows in you. It grows on you. Being everywhere at once with a key to go.
Steven and I used to talk about such things a lot. In some ways we still do, in a detached phantasmagorical fashion.
Youth was a fanciful, harrowing journey of illusions, pitfalls, minefields and joyous exclamation points. Questioning without question we were artists and we were escape artists which has more meanings than immediately appears upon the surface of things.]
Kings Of Oblivion
Carzilla had met an exchange student from Thailand at a local university. This student named Tam as luck would have it had a direct connection back home for the most potent varieties of Asian smokables available to those ingenious and reckless enough to figure out a way to get the stuff from Point there to Point here.
Carzilla as it so happened was enough of both.
There was this other guy who used to hang out at the Parthenon, went by the name of Tappy T. Tappy was always down for a new connection with fire stuff to be had. Carzillo got together with Tappy and Tam on this little project. Before long massive potent smoke clouds began to appear on our young horizons.
Tappy was a Stones fan fanatic with a taste for contraband traffic and cultivating a cool beat street hustle aura. Hell, we all had a flair for cultivating auras in those bygone multi color tye-dyed, electric pink elephant days. We were bright and young, incredibly gifted and ignorant.
There was bliss to be found if you could find it. Indian Joseph, Steven Fancy, Carzilla Hermanando, Tappy T. With a little help from our foreign exchange friend Tam we found a ton of the stuff. Yeah, we were real cool traders in the currency of our time.
Poetry by Chaucer Whethers
Read 121 times
Written on 2026-05-30 at 14:58
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text