| BIG SUR |
Stevan Orescan
The early morning Greyhound from Berkeley to Monterey arrived to the clatter of pinball
machines and rapid fire Spanglish as drivers and baggage handlers herded destitute old people and
Mexican farm workers to their waiting buses…weary souls trying to stretch their hard earned
dollars a few more miles, tired and humble people whose fatigue was more from life than from
traveling. Woe to those with thin purses in this great land of plenty.
Walking up to the main highway I caught a succession of rides within two hours that left me on the
desolate coast road that goes through Big Sur, land of the super cool. Hoisting my pack I stepped
out, the beginning of a journey that had been in various stages of dreaming and planning since
childhood, a voyage of the spirit that would take me around the globe, a wandering pilgrimage to
the shrines and temples of the world, to the mountains and villages of Asia, to see and feel the way
others answered to the mystery of life, how they lived and loved, how they talked to God.
Suddenly the sun dropped below the horizon and it started to rain. Panic set in as I think of my
meager food supply for I thought I would arrive at Nepenthe, the local hot spot restaurant and bar
and former home of Orson Wells and Rita Hayworth, in time for dinner and had only packed some
trail mix and a few candy bars for emergency shots of quick energy. I made a quick assessment of
the terrain looking for an overpass or bridge underneath which I might secure my night’s lodging,
and seeing nothing whatsoever that would even partially protect me from the elements, decided to
go a bit further and enjoy the wetness… the universes way of washing clean it’s creation .
I recognized that this was the beginning of a new road of trials, a landscape of ambiguous tests
that would confront me throughout my journey with ordeals and obstacles tapping the depths of my
strength and resolve as I descended into the labyrinth of my being. I couldn’t stop, for once the
first step was taken, there was no going back, only death and annihilation or freedom lay at the
other end and the choice was mine alone. I had to go on.
As I walked along the darkening and drizzly highway I thought of the lives and dramas that were
unfolding behind the doors of the scattered and distant houses, and the warm glow of their lights left
me with a feeling of melancholy, for they reminded me of the life I had left behind and brought forth
memories that were still fresh in my heart. I was now on the outside looking in, a homeless
wanderer on a lonely road searching for some meaning in a strange and alien world.
The wind whipped my poncho around my legs, the rain bit my face and as I rounded a bend in the
road I found myself on a point overlooking the sea. Pausing for a moment to ponder the power of
the crashing waves below I realized that I was also standing in view of a house that I had almost
owned sometime back in that other life. There below me on a ledge overlooking a black and angry
ocean was another existence that I had almost participated in and as I reflected on the events that
led me to my present point in time and space, I became aware as never before of the power that
was guiding my every move, that had led me from the time I had opened my eyes as a new born
babe. Listen to the hum it said, don’t fight that tiny voice that whispers ever so softly, and all will
unfold before you like the perfect petals of a flower.
Suddenly the hum became a screech and a big white Cadillac careened around the bend and
slammed to a halt, interrupting, to my glee, my wet and lonely meditation.
“Jeffo’s the name, music is my game, man, you looked so cosmic standing out there in the rain I
just had to pick you up and find out what your story was.”
Tall, blond with twinkling blue eyes that radiated love, Mr. Big Sur himself had come to my rescue
and within minutes we were barreling down the slick wet asphalt reading our poetry to one another
above the blaring stereophonic of Captain Primo’s Magic Band, smoking Acapulco’s finest and
heading for the famous sulphur baths.
This is a dream, I said to myself fifteen minutes later, as I sat up to my chin in the steaming waters
of Esalen’s natural sulphur baths, one eye on the naked ladies that moved silently between the open
air massage tables that overlooked the Pacific, the other on the misty horizon that was still visible
behind a dark sky splashed with streaks of brilliant red. I sat tingling all over as two people in the
next tub made love to the chanting of OM coming from another part of the bath house, as sweetly
and melodiously as I had ever heard.
After dining on fried chicken and avocado sandwiches that Jeffo miraculously produced he took
his leave and left me to stroll the grounds of what was then the center of the new age human
potential movement.
At the time the presiding guest guru was Fritz Perls, a psychiatrist of German-Jewish extraction
who had made it out of Hitler’s Germany just in time. He came to America bringing with him
Gestalt therapy, his system of self discovery and liberation that was a combination of self analysis,
self expression, realism and existentialism based on the concept that the organized whole was
something more than the sum of it’s parts.
Perls was a chain-smoking, acerbic, confrontational type of healer who bore into his subjects
mercilessly, usually sitting in a high, throne-like chair smoking one cigarette after another and giving
no quarter. I wandered into his seminar-encounter group that night and sat for about half an hour
and watched his performance but found his style a little too abrasive for my relaxed frame of mind
after the soothing state the baths, and the arduous hike had left me in. The rains had abated so I
took my leave, found a comfortable spot on the grounds beneath tall conifers and unrolling my
sleeping bag on top of soft and fragrant pine needles, fell asleep to the mellifluous gurgling music of
the nearby brook. Early the next morning I was once again on my way, heading south to the border
of old Mexico.
machines and rapid fire Spanglish as drivers and baggage handlers herded destitute old people and
Mexican farm workers to their waiting buses…weary souls trying to stretch their hard earned
dollars a few more miles, tired and humble people whose fatigue was more from life than from
traveling. Woe to those with thin purses in this great land of plenty.
Walking up to the main highway I caught a succession of rides within two hours that left me on the
desolate coast road that goes through Big Sur, land of the super cool. Hoisting my pack I stepped
out, the beginning of a journey that had been in various stages of dreaming and planning since
childhood, a voyage of the spirit that would take me around the globe, a wandering pilgrimage to
the shrines and temples of the world, to the mountains and villages of Asia, to see and feel the way
others answered to the mystery of life, how they lived and loved, how they talked to God.
Suddenly the sun dropped below the horizon and it started to rain. Panic set in as I think of my
meager food supply for I thought I would arrive at Nepenthe, the local hot spot restaurant and bar
and former home of Orson Wells and Rita Hayworth, in time for dinner and had only packed some
trail mix and a few candy bars for emergency shots of quick energy. I made a quick assessment of
the terrain looking for an overpass or bridge underneath which I might secure my night’s lodging,
and seeing nothing whatsoever that would even partially protect me from the elements, decided to
go a bit further and enjoy the wetness… the universes way of washing clean it’s creation .
I recognized that this was the beginning of a new road of trials, a landscape of ambiguous tests
that would confront me throughout my journey with ordeals and obstacles tapping the depths of my
strength and resolve as I descended into the labyrinth of my being. I couldn’t stop, for once the
first step was taken, there was no going back, only death and annihilation or freedom lay at the
other end and the choice was mine alone. I had to go on.
As I walked along the darkening and drizzly highway I thought of the lives and dramas that were
unfolding behind the doors of the scattered and distant houses, and the warm glow of their lights left
me with a feeling of melancholy, for they reminded me of the life I had left behind and brought forth
memories that were still fresh in my heart. I was now on the outside looking in, a homeless
wanderer on a lonely road searching for some meaning in a strange and alien world.
The wind whipped my poncho around my legs, the rain bit my face and as I rounded a bend in the
road I found myself on a point overlooking the sea. Pausing for a moment to ponder the power of
the crashing waves below I realized that I was also standing in view of a house that I had almost
owned sometime back in that other life. There below me on a ledge overlooking a black and angry
ocean was another existence that I had almost participated in and as I reflected on the events that
led me to my present point in time and space, I became aware as never before of the power that
was guiding my every move, that had led me from the time I had opened my eyes as a new born
babe. Listen to the hum it said, don’t fight that tiny voice that whispers ever so softly, and all will
unfold before you like the perfect petals of a flower.
Suddenly the hum became a screech and a big white Cadillac careened around the bend and
slammed to a halt, interrupting, to my glee, my wet and lonely meditation.
“Jeffo’s the name, music is my game, man, you looked so cosmic standing out there in the rain I
just had to pick you up and find out what your story was.”
Tall, blond with twinkling blue eyes that radiated love, Mr. Big Sur himself had come to my rescue
and within minutes we were barreling down the slick wet asphalt reading our poetry to one another
above the blaring stereophonic of Captain Primo’s Magic Band, smoking Acapulco’s finest and
heading for the famous sulphur baths.
This is a dream, I said to myself fifteen minutes later, as I sat up to my chin in the steaming waters
of Esalen’s natural sulphur baths, one eye on the naked ladies that moved silently between the open
air massage tables that overlooked the Pacific, the other on the misty horizon that was still visible
behind a dark sky splashed with streaks of brilliant red. I sat tingling all over as two people in the
next tub made love to the chanting of OM coming from another part of the bath house, as sweetly
and melodiously as I had ever heard.
After dining on fried chicken and avocado sandwiches that Jeffo miraculously produced he took
his leave and left me to stroll the grounds of what was then the center of the new age human
potential movement.
At the time the presiding guest guru was Fritz Perls, a psychiatrist of German-Jewish extraction
who had made it out of Hitler’s Germany just in time. He came to America bringing with him
Gestalt therapy, his system of self discovery and liberation that was a combination of self analysis,
self expression, realism and existentialism based on the concept that the organized whole was
something more than the sum of it’s parts.
Perls was a chain-smoking, acerbic, confrontational type of healer who bore into his subjects
mercilessly, usually sitting in a high, throne-like chair smoking one cigarette after another and giving
no quarter. I wandered into his seminar-encounter group that night and sat for about half an hour
and watched his performance but found his style a little too abrasive for my relaxed frame of mind
after the soothing state the baths, and the arduous hike had left me in. The rains had abated so I
took my leave, found a comfortable spot on the grounds beneath tall conifers and unrolling my
sleeping bag on top of soft and fragrant pine needles, fell asleep to the mellifluous gurgling music of
the nearby brook. Early the next morning I was once again on my way, heading south to the border
of old Mexico.
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