As some have noticed, I’ve not had a whole lot to say lately. I guess not a whole lot has been happening since seeing Plan 9 from Outer Space.

Since then, I’ve been working, so there’s not been a ton of time to do a lot of things. That didn’t stop me from a visit to Mighty O’s with Ryan and family.

Work has been better (or I’m growing more numb to it). I’m learning more about the store and am able to help customers more. It really bugged me when I was told to not really help anyone, just sit there and let customer service take care of it. That’s fun, but often they’re not there or busy, so that leaves me sitting there looking at a phone that doesn’t ring all that much.

But this past weekend, I was a problem solver and customer disarmer. Some customers get amazingly upset over the lack of service that this store provides. We are understaffed and make too many promises to customers. The “if more than three people are waiting at a register, we’ll call up more cashiers” idea is taken to heart. Customers really do expect them to show up. Funny, eh? And they really hate when someone promises them that something will be done “around noon” and it’s not done even by the end of the night. I had to clean up that little mess.

I’m fairly good at keeping customers from flipping out. Who knew?

I guess maybe I am good at retail. Not at selling, because honestly, you’d probably be better off if you’d not spend your money, but at helping people not be angry. Nifty.

Aside from work, I’ve been reading “I Rode With Stonewall” by Henry Kyd Douglas, which I thought I had read before, but now I don’t believe I have. I’m enjoying it. Douglas was an aide to Stonewall Jackson and his retelling of events is well done.

I also tried to read a couple of books full of essays about the big “what ifs” in American history. Like, “what if Washington didn’t cross the Delaware?” and “what if America lost the battle of New Orleans?” I should love stuff like this, but the book Almost America is completely unreadable. Horrible writing, poorly researched history and just really really bad.

In other news, I’ve discovered two shows that really aren’t half bad. The first is a new one called Glee about a teacher who takes over a Glee Club that covers classic rock songs. It’s quirky and doesn’t quite have its center yet (there’s only one episode), but I hope it takes off. It could be really good.

Another show that surprised me is the one with Molly Ringwald playing a mom. Secret Life of the American Teenager. I had only heard the title before and wrote it off as a reality show about teenagers – not something that would really interest me. Movies about teenagers are one thing (RIP, John Huges), but real life teenagers are a little scary. I’ll pass. (No offense to teenagers, of course – you’re a good lot.)

Oh, and the show Community with John McHale and Chevy Chase is really really funny. I hope it makes it.

I guess that’s all I have to say. Smartz returns from Pennsylvania on Tuesday. I’ve not really taken advantage of the otherwise empty apartment. No keggers, stag parties or scooter rallies so far. I have one more night to make it happen. Wish me luck.

When I last wrote about I Can See By My Outfit by Peter Beagle, I wrote of the guilt that comes from stopping too soon or going too fast. There is another side to that guilt, perhaps the physical manifestation inside your body. It’s similar to how your stomach can turn due to unpleasant thoughts, but still, there’s another essence to it.

We always stop driving before sunset, partly in order to set up camp while it is still light, but partly, I think, because the hour before dark is a strangely lonely time to be driving something as small and open as a scooter as far away as we are. The thin orange light is going away so swiftly, and yet our own lights seem so feeble against the thickening air. Coldness begins to bloom inside both of us like a night flower, and each feels as alone as though the other were not there, and more deeply homeless than being a long way away from home should make him.

Even when I had just started, I was aware of that hour. The first night truly on my own, somewhere in Ohio, I raced against that hour and against the first of many rain storms. My original plan was to camp, but since the dark was quickened by the clouds and covered in the rain, I chose a motel. Though I would pick a motel over a campground more often than I’d like, I would never flirt with that hour before sunset again.

Just as the hour before sunrise is beautiful and sacred, the hour before sunset, if you pay attention, is solemn, though somehow almost profane. The splendor of the deep reds and pinks hover and slip under sparkling amethyst mountains as the last fingers of daytime lose their grip to the darkening east. You will never feel more widowed than riding west, always failing to preserve enough light to usher you to day’s end.

That lonesome vacancy that guides you though till dark is unhurried and I’ve found it is best find your home for the night before dusk.

As I would ride, I would become hyper-aware of everything – sometimes to the point of becoming unconscious to the road itself. Each town and each farm held lives that I couldn’t touch, but somehow touched me.

Everything I see interests me, and if I don’t stop and dismount to look at every pattern of branches against the sky and down every dirt road, still, some part of me stays behind each time. I see a house by the highway, and I put myself into it in the seconds it takes me to go by – difficult, because very few houses, seen as you pass, seem big enough for people to live in – and not all of me catches up with me before I am out of sight. A car passes Jenny and takes a fragment of me wherever it is bound. I wonder if many people above the age of five are this caught up in what they see around them, this aware every day and every night for all their lives. I don’t think there’s enough of me to keep it up for very long, unless you can grow yourself again from a single morsel, like a starfish, but today I would scatter myself along the road like a handful of seeds, if I could, as far as I could.

This is something only the strange solitude of seeing everything so plainly, yet so quickly, can give to you. It is, however, the kind of loneliness that you welcome, that you long to experience. The loneliness of the road, especially of being on a scooter, hundreds or thousands of miles away from the place you most remember as home is a loneliness you crave long after it’s gone, replaced only by the loneliness you’ve seen in other folks living and unmoving in the towns you’re slid through as you wander.

Everyone talks to us this afternoon. One of the things that has struck both of us deeply on this trip, in spite of – or perhaps because of – the fleeting contacts we have made, is how badly people want to talk to someone. They cannot make anyone hear them unless they scream, but they seldom really scream. Instead, they put letters in bottles and throw them into the sea of strangers, and the letters always seem to say, “Save me, save me.”

Like Peter and Phil, the travelers in I See by My Outfit, I’ve seen this across the country. Those who say that people are the same everywhere you go, have not actually been anywhere – or may as well have just stayed at home. But those who perfectly deny it, as I used to, are failing to see the thread that runs through us all. While we are not all the same, we all yearn to be heard, to not have to scream and to break those bottles holding our dreams on the rocky shores of each coast and upon the mountains, prairies and towns across all the land we’ve ever wanted to see.

There is a book by Peter Beagle called I See By My Outfit. It’s a memoir of two guys riding scooters across the country in 1963. I read it a couple of years before I did the same, in 2008, and am reading it again.

The first time I read it, about two years ago, it nearly made ride off into the sunset. This time, it’s like rereading my own thoughts (put down better by Beagle than I could ever do). There are some passages that I’m not sure you could get if you hadn’t actually done such a thing on a scooter.

Peter and Phil, the scooterists in this memoir, are taking this journey for different reasons. Peter is seeing Enid and will ride from New York to California to do so. Phil is along for the ride, to draw and paint what he sees along the way.

As I did with Ruby, they name their Heinkel motor scooters. Peter’s is Jenny and Phil’s is Couchette. Before either of these lovely ladies was Margot, a Lambretta.

Whatever we know about scooters we learned from Margot: how to clean mufflers, decarbonize pistons, install rings, adjust brakes and clutches, and, most important of all, how to start her when she wouldn’t go, and start her again when she stalled immediately after. You take out the spark plug, wave it around, look grave, scrape carefully at it with your special spark-plug file, blow on it, and put it back in. This satisfies her that something is being done, and she usually starts. It works with most scooters.

Though they were on early 60’s scooters and I was on a modern Vespa, the experiences were often the same, even as far as planning the trip went. They opted for the old AAA Triptik, but poured over it like I did with my own routing.

Our journey as been plotted on a AAA Triptik, requested with the idea of keeping us away from turnpikes and tollroads; and we have spent a a lot of time this past winter following red arrows and blue lines from one strip map to the next, telling ourselves the trip over and over until it almost seems that we traveled that blue road long ago, to the happy ending and whatever after.

I remember doing that. I remember thinking, “why bother riding it? I already know every street name, every highway along my route?” But there is an answer less obvious than you’d think. The street names and route numbers, counties and states are what we imposed on the land for us to find our way around and to not get too lost. Their true purpose exists only to guide us. If we look straight ahead, all we will see is the lines we’ve plotted. But to our left and to our right exists everything off the map.

I had forgotten through the long winter how good it is to be driving a scooter on a warm day. You become painfully aware of how much there is in the world to be smelled, tasted, listened to, looked at, touched, and comprehended before you die – a lifetime in every blink of the eye – and you find yourself twisting the throttle until she surges under you like a river, wanting to get to it all, all at once. You begin to fear death on the prettiest days.

But no matter how much you know this and how much you avoid this, sometimes beauty, nature and society ride bitch to speed and time. When this happens, all that can exist is the line on your map.

At Erie we pick up Interstate 90, one of those sleek divided highways that say by their very appearance: Pedestrians, Bicycles, and Motor-Driven Cycles, Off. Ordinarily we avoid these as much as possible, but both of us want to make time now. An odd mutual guilt forms between us when we either gain too much time or lose it. Phil knows that I have seen Enid once in the last eighteen months and that I couldn’t have waited the two weeks more to leave, and i know that the trip is worthless to Phil if he cannot draw; at the rate he’s been able to work so far, he might better have stayed in New York with the pile-driver and the subways. But this particular afternoon the vague guilt is his, and we roar along the faceless highway all the way to North Madison, Ohio, where we make camp.

I remember that guilt, though I couldn’t share it with a compatriot. If I spent too long in a town, or too long talking to an old guy, I would feel guilt – I could have made better time. But if I’d pull into my stop for the night before 5:00pm, that same nagging guilt reared up – I could have taken my time, rode down that farm lane, explored that town, checked my oil level.

Like me, when heading west, Peter and Phil had to deal with the wind. When the wind is at your back it will push you along. A strong wind can up your speed by 10mph if you’re heading with it. But that same strong wind will kill your speed, wreck your time and, if you’re not careful, can blow you off the road or into oncoming traffic. Actually, I’m not sure if that has ever happened, but it’s a thought constantly on your mind if you ride with a cross-wind.

On the highway, for the first time since we left New York, there is no headwind against us. I discover this by stepping out to pass a slow-moving truck and glancing down at the speedometer in time to see the needle slide past sixty and hold at sixty-five. Margot never went much over fifty for very long, and we haven’t been able to coax the Heinkels to do over fifty-five. As I stare at the speedometer Phil comes along side and passes, yelling “Seventy! Seventy!” like a Sabine woman trying to keep score. We race at speeds between sixty and seventy for about ten miles before we slow down to drive abreast and stare at each other. “We’ve been babying them,” I say weakly, and Phil nods. Seventy miles per hour isn’t much for a motorcycle, but it fills our minds with wonderful estimates of time gained and long pauses for drawings – perhaps even watercolors. The wind will resume the day we leave Ann Arbor, and the scooters will never go that fast again until California, but our speed makes for a triumphal drive to the Rodriguezes’, even though we do get lost for an hour in Ypsilanti.

I remember the first time Ruby pushed 80mph. I was stunned. Not by the wind rushing past me or the thought of what would happen if I dumped it, but by time. I imagined how much time I’ll gain! Maybe I’ll get to Chicago faster. Maybe I’ll be able to explore an old alignment of 66. Maybe I can relax for a bit at a sketchy Chinese Restaurant. But, like Jenny and Couchette, Ruby did that only a handful of times, especially heading west. Whatever ground and time was gained by her at 80mph, was certainly lost in Arizona where headwinds slowed us to 45mph on an interstate, in the rain and then snow, surrounded by 18 wheelers and pure, blinding terror. That is, until I learned about drafting and “surfing” the vacuums created by trucks shielding a crosswind.

Then the unsullied terror could be mixed with adrenaline-induced buffoonery. Maybe you begin to fear death on the prettiest days, but on the ugliest, you fully realize that this could be it.

I’ll post more entries from I See By My Outfit as I read on. Maybe it’ll inspire someone to read it, or better yet, maybe it will inspire someone to ride.

“Spiritual realization is a process of learning who we are and what we are not. It can take years to throw off the yoke of social condition, but the reward is in realizing your eternal constitutional position as a child of God, not as a pawn in the game of racial identity politics.”

A lot has been done with the Gita in our little movement. And I think that’s great. Take the Legend of Bagger Vance. Not bad. I totally don’t get the golf thing, but that’s not important here.

What’s important is that yesterday the book The Bhagavad-Gita in Black and White; From Mulatto Pride to Krishna Consciousness came into the bookstore I own. It’s authored by Charukrishna dasa (Charles Michael Byrd) who is, bodily, of black, white and Cherokee heritage. Charukrishna, before becoming a devotee, was a proponent of mixed-race pride.

The book is laid out into 18 chapters, each titled as the corresponding Bhagavad-gita chapter (Ch. 7 is Knowledge of the Absolute). Charukrishna prabhu then picks out a verse or two, gives a very nice explanation based upon Srila Prabhupada’s gita. After he finishes his purport, he then explains how it relates to our society’s perception of race.

I started picking through the book last night, figuring that since I’m white and have very little experience with the black community, I couldn’t possibly relate. But after reading a bit, I’m really getting it.

It’s amazing that even through all this social conditioning that I, a white boy from farm country, was having the same realizations about race, racism and race pride that a mixed-race fellow from Virginia turned mixed-race pride advocate was having.

A lot of what he is saying in the book is fairly politically incorrect. But I challenge anyone to say he’s wrong about how the race card is used against us (“us” meaning all people).

For example, in his Bhagavad-gita 7.5 section, he first explains, exactly as Srila Prabhupada does, that living entities are of a superior energy of the Supreme. He also quotes the same Srimad Bhagavatam verse (10.87.30) as Prabhupada. He discusses false ego and how to become fully Krishna conscious. Just like Srila Prabhupada’s purport.

He next applies this to race-consciousness. And this is where it can get a bit dodgy for the liberals amongst us.

The clamor over hate-crime legislation is a perfect example of how competing racial and ethnic divisions – brought about by impious souls diverting their minds to illusory pursuits such as racial pride and superiority – are tearing our country asunder. In the aftermath of the vicious dragging death of James Byrd, Jr. in 1998 by three white supremacists in Jasper, Texas, NAACP President Kweisi Mfume said the case “clearly shouts across the world for the urgent need of this Congress to move quickly to strengthen and to pass anti-hate legislation.” As I wrote in “A Guilty Verdict in Jasper,” Mfume’s remarks border on the preposterous, as if to say that Byrd would still be alive today if Texas had anti-hate legislation on the books and if his killers knew of it beforehand.

Although anti-hate legislations may result in courts meting out heftier sentences after the face, these laws won’t resurrect the dead. Why is there no emphasis on reconstructing race, on teaching our children, from first grade on, that it is a social construct, that difference between human beings – whether between white and black or between Serb and Kosovan – are largely perceived? ….

Once this country’s race leaders cease exploiting the gross and subtle inferior energy (matter) for their own financial and political purposes, the superior energy (the living entity) will have a better chance to remember its real spiritual mind and intelligence and transcend this senseless race-consciousness. Only by developing htis spiritual insight will we be able to co-exist on this planet and gradually work toward understanding our common source, God.

And folks, that is one hell of a Bhagavad-gita class.

My one critique of the book is that he doesn’t connect this enough. He doesn’t link this as much as he could to our philosophy. For example, at the end of the last paragraph, he could have ended “…whose identity is firmly ensconced in a racial essence, a racial consciousness, a bodily concept.”

Doing that would not only link what he’s saying directly to Srila Prabhupada’s words, but would also give devotees a better understanding of what he’s talking about. Not that we’re too dim to get that racial consciousness is a bodily conception, but seeing it there on the page really drives it home.

In the final paragraph in the section above, he does, of course, connect the two, but, at least to me, it seems clunky. While he explains what inferior and superior energy is, he doesn’t really let on how it relates to what he’s talking about. In race-consciousness, the superior energy (the living entities) is manipulating superior energy (other living entities) by using inferior energy (bodily concept – in this case, race).

He then jumps right back into a Bhagavad-gita purport, writing “Continual study of the Bhavad-gita leads to the firm understanding and realization that Krishna alone is the ultimate limit of para-tattva (the science of understanding the highest truth), the Supreme Absolute Reality, and that there is no more exalted knowledge than knowing Him. Only by surrendering exclusively to His lotus feet can one become free from the bondage of maya.”

While I certainly agree with that, it seems to almost come out of nowhere.

Now I didn’t come here to rip apart this book. Not at all! I’m really excited about it. This is my new favorite thing ever! Sure, I have a few critiques, but overall, the whole of this book is amazing.

Take, for example, his critique of Jesse Jackson’s “Keep Hope Alive!” campaign from Chapter 9 – The Most Confidential Knowledge.

Inasmuch as “hoping” is the same thing as “postponing” – i.e., it is not “doing” for oneself – what is Jackson actually advocating that black folk do? Think about that, won’t you?

That quote alone speaks volumes. Hoping is postponing. When taken in light of something as heavy as revolutionary thought, that’s some pretty scary stuff. Just who is Rev. Jackson working for?

However, my critique of his work comes back in Chapter 10 – Opulence of the Absolute. Charukrishna prabhu writes “America’s success is by the grace of God, but our nation tends to neglect this truth. Moreover, we seem to ignore our virtues as a nation and prefer, instead, to break into small factions and warring groups.”

This is true. But the conclusion which he’s hinting at is, in my opinion, flawed and simply not spiritual. He is saying that instead of being a united America, we are splitting ourselves into groups according to (among other things) race. But isn’t America, or any nation, inferior energy? Isn’t patriotism a by-product of bodily consciousness? Essentially, we are not American or Russian or Chinese anymore than we are Black or White or Mulatto. These labels are illusions. And our so-called leaders use these labels, these illusions, to manipulate us. It is true of black leaders, it is true of national leaders.

He goes on to say, “Whenever one sees some extraordinary power, one should understand that it is derived from God’s power. It logically follows, therefore, that America’s predominance in the world is due to God’s favor.”

But this is faulty logic. A rapist, for example, rapes to have power over his victim. Is this power, this predominance over the victim due to God’s favor? No. It’s due to the rapist’s freewill and misuse of God’s energy. This is an extreme example, but I don’t see how either could be from God’s favor.

In the next paragraph, however, he and I are back on track.

Recall the dismay expressed by many Africa-Americans when the Census Bureau reported in 2003 that Hispanics had surpassed blacks as the largest minority in America. Observe also the increasing warfare between black and Latino street gangs in many of our nation’s largest cities – particularly Los Angeles.

This is due to a depraved devotion to race-consciousness. In fact, it would not be far off to say that in our country – and throughout most of the modern world – race-consciousness has replaced God-consciousness.

All this is true. But all this could be extended to national-consciousness, patriotism, as well. His book isn’t about that, so I wouldn’t expect him to draw that connection. However, I didn’t expect him to so awkwardly bring up that America’s power is due to God’s favor.

Again, I feel as if I’m criticizing too much. This is a very important book. I think it should definitely be read. Not only that, I feel that books like this should be written more often. We always talk about spiritual solutions to material problems, but we never see examples of them (aside from a few here and there that often seem pointless and very out of touch). But this book really is in touch with its audience. It’s grounded enough in Bhagavad-gita philosophy to please nearly any devotee and its critique of the equal rights movement is, often, brilliant.

And maybe that is where my own problems lie. I have little to no interaction with the equal rights movement. While I’ve always felt a comradery with black culture (starting way back with Sesame Street and continuing through the 80’s hiphop movement), I’ve not actually worked hand-in-hand with these folks.

Maybe my critique of his nationalism is premature. Maybe his audience is nationalistic and not yet ready to throw off the yoke of that particular social condition. Or maybe it’s Charukrishna who is not yet ready.

And maybe my ignorance of the inner workings of the Nation of Islam and Louis Farrakhan prohibits me from understanding why Charukrishna prabhu slags on Farrakhan’s February 2007 speech where he states “How come we, the people of God, cannot embrace each other?” The author criticizes Farrakhan for not being realized enough. Farrakhan doesn’t see Krishna as supreme, only Jesus and Muhammad. But shouldn’t Farrakhan be praised (at least in this respect) for coming as far as he has?

Charukrishna praises Malik El Shabazz’s (Malcolm X’s) transformation at the end of his life. Malcolm traveled to Mecca and realized that he no longer believed in the separation of the races. Farrakhan, now, seems to be preaching the same thing. Charukrishna’s politics again seem to get in the way. Or maybe my own politics are getting in the way of me seeing what this devotee is actually saying.

I did, however, particularly enjoy this quote:

We should school our children from kindergarten by teaching them that race is not real, but we won’t. We’ll continue to focus on battling racism, race-based violence and race-hatred, but we’ll be content to leave the construct of race standing as if it has a basis in reality. It sounds good and noble, but it’s akin to fighting the symptoms of a disease without giving a damn about combating the root cause.

His spiritual conclusions are perfect. They are directly from Srila Prabhupada’s Bhagavad-gita: As It Is. He explains the Gita in usually common terms and is very clear and concise.

However, what he is also saying is very politically incorrect. It will take some amount of understanding by those of us who have been brought up believing in the equality of races. But Charukrishna explains that races don’t exist and therefore cannot be equal. Why waste times trying to equate zero to zero?

Politically, he is a Libertarian (note the capital L). Libertarians are generally capitalistic isolationists. However, in this book, he is arguing against isolationism, at least on the basis of race. I personally don’t feel that devotees should enter into the political spectrum. We do not belong in Washington DC. Just as Srila Prabhupada said about the Mantra Rock festival in 1967, “This is no place for a brahmacari.”

But, as is the nature of his book, Charukrishna prabhu must be political. It’s a book about politics. However, sometimes his arguments seem contradictory. In one chapter, he’s down on Marx, but in the next he praises the idea of empowering the nation’s poor and oppressed (though not with “venomous diatribes” or “separatist ideology”), which is a Marxist idea (albeit, more Marxist than Marx).

These lead me to believe that Charukrishna had a spiritual crisis and solved it with the Bhagavad-gita and Krishna consciousness. That is, naturally, a great thing. Who among us will object? But he also seems to be having a political crisis. Maybe he didn’t work through it prior to becoming a devotee. I personally didn’t either. I was a social democrat, but that never sat well with me. I dabbled in the libertarian thing, but capitalism seemed too creepy and directly opposed to what we, as devotees, fundamentally believe (that everything, including wealth, is Krishna’s). That’s when I figured out that I was an anarchist and it fit perfectly within the Krishna conscious philosophy.

And my critiques (the political ones anyway), come from my anarchist background. My critique of his patriotism, especially. Of course, I feel that most anarchists miss the conclusion of the “we are not this country” philosophy, which is also, “we are not these bodies.” But that’s for another time.

In conclusion, I’ll let Charukrishna take us out on a high note…

Our highest calling is the clarion call to return to God. We do ourselves a disservice to think in terms of race and ethnicity. We do the world a disservice to think in these terms, too. Violence begins at home, and if we identify with our bodies, we commit the greatest violence to ourselves and to others as well. Unless we recognize our spiritual birthright, our relation to every living being in existence, we cannot recognize our common Father. If we do not recognize Him, we recognize nothing.

-

The Bhagavad-gita in Black and White; From Mulatto Pride to Krishna Consciousness by Charles Michael Byrd (Charukrishna) is available from Powells for $16.95.

With this book project, I’ve really had no time at all to do or think of much else. So for the past two weeks, I’ve been eating, sleeping, working and whatever-elsing this book. Luckily, my good friends have helped me with it, otherwise, I wouldn’t have seen or talked to anyone at all.

Sarah did an amazing job with the covers and tshirts. The covers blew me away. I got white and black paper and I was totally convinced that I was going to hate the white ones. Sarah did them up and I am pretty sure white is my favorite. She was there for pretty much the entire process. Obviously, I couldn’t have done the covers without her, but the book as a whole wouldn’t have come together like it did without her. Hey, thanks!

Jeff was a delight and basically came up with the design for the books. He helped a whole hell of a lot with folding and collating and binding. The same thing is true for him. I couldn’t have done it with out him (god, that’s cliche).

Speaking of the books, I sold a couple today. It’s a slow start, but I usually don’t sell any here. I’m VERY crap at self-promotion, so I’m trying to get better at it, but we’ll see.

So thanks, Jeff and Sarah. And DJ too! He helped out with collating. Woo!

All but a few of the books are bound and finished. There are technically 13 copies that need to be put together. See, I accidentally didn’t buy enough paper for the covers. I’ll get that Saturday or something. I really want to put this behind me. It’s not that I’m unthrilled that we did the book. Not at all. I love the fucking thing. I’m just sick to death of it.

But I’m ecstatic that it’s basically over. I’ve even been writing some. I’ll post the four new ones soon. Not really sure of the direction I’m heading in with these, but it should be fun.

If this sort of thing is fun for you.

Is it?

Hm.

We finally got them all bound up tonight!

If you would like a copy, they are $8 a piece. You can stop into Page After Page and pick one up or you can do it via mail order.

I take paypal at sitproperly108 at yahoo dot com.

Or you can send cash (at your own risk, blah blah) to:

Eric Swanger
c/o Page After Page
336 Market Street
Lewisburg, PA 17837

If you’d like to throw in an extra buck or two for shipping, that would be great.

Yay!

We got five of them bound tonight, after much heartache, waling and gnashing of teeth.

The final print run will be 108. 54 in black and 54 in white.

More on this later.