There are other cultures than the one Dianne caught in her fine words. i was swept up in a wave of one last night. It is framed by the reading of Walt Whitman's "Song of Myself" - which concluded in the slightly over crowded hot tub, standing in a soggy circle arms around each other.

"It is time to explain myself - let us stand up."

i shun the encyclopedic approach, favoring in its place an antidotal one, thus hugging but a corner of our many cultures. Never one to apologize, i am clear of the limits.

"I know it will in its turn prove sufficient and cannot fail"

Ours is a culture of small transgressions. Ironically, McCune must yell several times and the rowdy tubbers to be quiet - in part because those still soaking do not hear him, for he has insulated the place so well.

"Voices of interminable generations … of thieves and dwarfs"

Mario not recognizing McCune's voice calls back for identification.

"Who goes there? hankering, gross, mystical, nude."

Ours is a culture of chance encounters and instant microfests. The poets club migrates to Tupe for the infamous midnight quesadilla. The night air lies about the season as our wet hair appreciates the warm fluke. We wander off the road - experienced guides Andy, Catch, River - navigate the trees for our small bundles of sojourners.

"i am the mate and companion of the people all just as immortal and fathomless as myself."

We arrive in waves at Tupe. Hilke and Todd chatting in the living room are pulled into our melee.

"This is the city and i am one of the citizens."

Andy flicks a chair shop rope scrap and magically ties two knots in it - we demand a repeat performance. Dennis V. spins an egg, stops it momentarily, and we watch it restart from its internal momentum. Turns out Delilah's servants cut Samson's hair. A dollar bill is burned so we can examine the fireproof ink in the ash.

"Not one is dissatisfied, not one is demented with the mania of owning things."

But the parlor tricks of these rural rats fade into the metaphysical ramblings of these same philosopher-kings [sic]. Pete discounts the thesis that Whitman embraced Buddhism reminding us of his more western admissions ["I accept reality and dare not question it. Materialism first and last imbuing"]. i query the nature of the title of a following poem "I sing the Body Electric" and Mario informs me it need not be explained for everyone else understands it.

The clock tries to tire us, but none wishes to let go. The fluke weather kicks up a sprinkle.

"Logic and sermons never convince, the damp of the night drives deeper into my soul"

Hair is discussed and while we confess the performance was extraordinary, it is the aftershocks of that night which feel closer to the weightless bulk of our culture. The cross-generational dance after the show, with teens and pensioners boogying to the contrasting tunes of the Stone and Liz Phair. And the not so private party in my room with Mortimur lingering like a ghost. Not quite random foot rubs amidst the rumpled props. Gigi initiates a flower fight and the tiny space becomes a flurry of petals and giggling. Here is our culture - thick but invisible.

"The atmosphere is not perfume, it has not taste of distillation, it is odorless"

Ours is a culture of pocket dramas
of screaming in the products office
of charged chats in the child dining room
of crying at the care group meeting
of dozens of honest mistakes
of the heart felt gossip of this hyper village.

"Vivas to those who have failed
and their numberless unknown heroes
equal to the greatest heroes known."

My mind drifts to Halloween and another hot tub in the back yard of some unknown millionaire. The house is larger than Kaweah, yet only three people live there and them only part time. It is nearly dawn. i splash and ponder my unstarted project on sharing and gifting in this opulent setting.

"This day i am jetting the stuff of far more arrogant republics."

Ours is a culture of isolation. We make the cover of the Post magazine, but we are oblivious to the stories on page 1 of the newspaper. Dissatisfied with what is we create our own. From the economics, to the language, from relations to rituals.

"I do not dispute you priests, all time, the world over, my faith is the greatest and the least of all faiths. Enclosing worship ancient and modern and all between ancient and modern."

… a culture of humility.

"The scent of these armpits aroma finer than prayer."

But the clock ultimately triumphs. Morning tofu shifts and other obligations beckon some to bed.

"I understand the large hearts of heroes."

Dennis V. helps me surf in the aftermath of our collective cultural concoction. i steal Devon's bed (giving mine to Dennis). Having chatted with her boyfriend earlier in the evening, i know she was off to C'ville and she would not mind.
It is a culture of sharing.

… and it is a culture of hope.
Tom is right, the commune itself is movement support enuf -
almost.

"i know perfectly well my own egotism, know my omnivorous lines and must not write any less"