Burning Man Festival: the freedom writings
For the interest of the Burning Man Festival attendees, these excerpts are from books by Jack Haas.
    ...Indeed there was little more vivifying at that time in my life than a gathering of like-minded, reckless and restless, unrepressed individuals with bellies full of grog and psychedelic mushrooms, minds full of grass, and a growing hunger amongst the crowd to revisit the land of Pan and wash away the veil of this profane earth.
    There is much to be said for those all-out, uninhibited, intense years of debauchery which we enjoyed to their fullest, with as few or as many other willing folks as we could cajole into joining us, or who could cajole us into joining them. To be out in the raw world, hyped and opened up and obliterated from the mundane plane, on a pharmacological cornucopia of narcotics, booze, and hallucinogens, and to throw yourself into that midsummer night's dream, to tear your clothes off and go running uncontrollably through the bush, to stand far off on a hill and bellow out a call of indescribable euphoria and intensity, and to hear it echoed back to you in a chorus of intoxicated and charmed hoots, howls, guffaws, and acclamations, and then to trundle back down to the focus of the crowd, all souls in invisible communion with their extra-selves, and bouncing off of each other's vibes, and to pass a bottle of whiskey around, then a joint, to devour a plate of barbecued salmon, a baked potato, a hash brownie, a chocolate mushroom, and then off again into the twilight zone, without plan or concern, always lost and always found, leaning suddenly against a giant spruce, or yellow cedar, gasping in disbelief, rolling about in the moss in blessed depravity, then sitting down in a circle of jocularity and repose, hearing the ribald laughter of another group somewhere off in the night, stopping to stare into one of your mates eyes for a brief second of siblinghood and contact, and then out and away again, another beer, another hug, or kiss, a wrestling match, more tom-foolery, singing out at the top of your lungs nothing in particular but for the inability to any longer squash the earthquake of delight and gratitude that cannot help bursting forth in your every word, move, and offering. The hallowed madness of it all.
Excerpted from IN, AND OF: memoirs of a mystic journey, by Jack Haas
    ...I do not hold the image of Christ as an inhuman character, who came down to earth to castigate and admonish humanity for being what it is. I see Christ as absolutely, painfully, and courageously human. I see Christ as the essence of humanity in all of us, which includes our confusion, agony, inebriation, abandonment, philandering, and lust. I see Christ hungry for love, for sex, for orgasm, and ecstasy. And I see the guiltless bravado to which he gave himself in every act he ever did on earth.
     I can see Christ insatiably slopping about in Magdalena's loins, shamelessly enjoying her honey pot, and then licking her slowly from her clitoris to her tits. Why would he not have done such? A man alone amongst men, bound to the earth as much to the sky- the Lord of the Dance- wild and broken open to the loss, the agony, and the rapture. Why would he not have given himself to the joy and mystery of the tantra of sex? A wine bibber, a glutton, and a rhapsodic lover, who dove down deep into the Earth Mother's womb, and into the open legs on Mary's welcoming bed. Son of a vision, mate of a whore, Bridegroom to God, Christ came to dance, to drink, to love, and so much more.
     Let them call me a blasphemer, a heathen, a pagan, or lost. No matter. I see Christ full and purging all that belongs to and runs out of the flesh. I see him after a night of wild revelry, bent over on all fours, emitting vomit onto the dark stones of a cobbled alley. I see him spraying warm urine against a lone olive tree on a desert hilltop at twilight. I see him clearing his nose like a barbarian, onto his weathered sleeve. I see his shit curl in all-too-human coils as it exits his hairy rectum, and I see his cum launched euphorically out of his pendulous member and into Mary's welcoming caverns. I see it all for I do not deny Christ, nor the flesh, nor the earth, nor the heavens. I do not deny. I say this and a mad glee overcomes me. I do not deny.
     I see Christ and Mary engaged in every act imaginable, from cunnilingus, to felatio, the sixty-nine, the wheelbarrow, spanking, probing, petting, jerking, sucking, and screwing. I see it all, for I will not deny Jesus the pleasures of the flesh.
     I see Christ standing naked in the warm wind, guzzling from a bottle of wine, while Mary is guzzling from him. I see him behind her, his teeth buried into the back of her neck, and his proboscis buried into her quiff.
     ...I see Christ in all the sordid ecstasies which humanity both desires and denies. I see him dancing a mad dance, because the world is not enough for him, and because God is too much, and the cup will not be removed but that he has drunk it dry. And so he is unleashed in a wild and euphoric, desperate dance of acceptance and abandon, a tortured and uncultured, ignoble and redemptive dance of the flesh, because he is here and now, the maker and breaker of mankind, a son of mankind, a created God, gripped in the feverish passion of one who has nothing, is nothing, knows nothing but that to be alive is a mystery and a miracle worth enduring through no matter what, no matter where, be it in the harsh confines of all the cities on earth, in the lone sorrow of the endless wilds, in the arms and hearts of his brothers, sisters, and enemies, in the rain and sun and snow, in the hunger, the satiation, the awe and tribulations, in all that it is to be a man, to be on earth, to live, and love, and take up your song and sing for the glory of creation, even unto the cross.
Excerpted from ROOTS AND WINGS: adventures of a spirit on earth, by Jack Haas, "The Kerouac of the new millennium." (Frank Wolf, author of Blind Bay).





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