Do, Do, Do, Do… Do, Do, Do, Do,… Jan/Feb 1998

Imagine if you will, ladies and gentlemen, a lovely green meadow nestled in the bosom of a forest of evergreen splendor. Imagine it as the eagle sees it, soaring overhead. Today he looks down to see his meadow filling with bright striped awnings, and tents. Great, he thinks – a regional art festival with lots of food strewn for his animal friends to scavenge. But it only takes a few hours to understand it’s that strange group of humans who make dust and eat all available food. He flies on.

Now imagine that same scene on a warm July evening, moments after the sun’s graceful plunge into the abyss of night. Darkness nears, and as the stars begin to appear, so do the first arrivals of The Night People. The Night People are made up of individuals who, by day, appear every bit as normal as their fellow symposia attendees, but by twilight their strange internal clocks become apparent they have an aberrant resistance to going to bed the moment the sky becomes dark. Sit down, try to relax, or take one of your meds. You are about to spend an evening in The Stone Zone.

Imagine again a constant beating of drums – not exactly tribal, definitely not Gene Krupa, Buddy Rich or even Maynard G. Krebs, but constant. Imagine, (or try harder – you’re artists for God’s sake) one of The Night People, a person like myself for instance, standing on the only remaining bare spot on the field waiting for darkness. She can’t possibly face going to bed. She would only lie sleepless for hours, fantasizing about the dawn when she may flush her toilet again. But does she want to wander aimlessly here among the ruins of a wanton carnival? Awnings are now yawning caverns in the dark, endless yards’ of electrical cords become more snake-like as the light fades, tent stakes and rope slowly hide from view to trip her up as she walks, waiting for drowsiness. Slowly she turns trying to locate the drummers, when over by the cow pasture to her delight she sees the beckoning light of the first lit citronella candle. The candle draws her and all the insects in the area. She knows she, must hurry if she wants a decent lawn chair. This is July in Washington. By 10:30 it’s damp and cold If she doesn’t hasten, she may get the dreaded low-slung chair. Its seat is two inches off the ground, so you’re chapping by 11:00. “Please deity-of-choice, if you let me get a decent lawn chair, I promise not to ruin the campfire game tonight” Her racing mind travels back to last year when someone asked “What city would you all most like to get lost in?” Her response “I feel lost at home – why travel?” only brought the crowd way down.

As she walks faster she considers knocking her good friend – the owner of the coveted Barcalounger of lawn chairs – to the dew-spewn grass to get the really good seat, but guilt takes hold before she does something she’ll regret. What’s wrong with her? Only one sin a night she reminds herself. Staying up past dark should be heady enough she tells herself as she flings herself into a normal waffle imprinting chair. Her ass is a good foot off the ground, so she won’t freeze, but all is not perfect. She has the one chair that is downwind of all four candles. The carcinogens and green haze are worth it though. Not only will no living things fly into her mouth on that night, but she has found her comrades. The Night People of The Stone Zone.

Visualize a group of dozens of artists huddled around four candles for warmth and companionship. Reminding each not to laugh too loud, a lead sculptor, usually a male, begins the conversation with a deep and meaningful question. This night, however, it will not be answered No, I didn’t ruin it by telling a lewd joke. This night a doe-eyed girl from across the sea (not Bremerton) asks if we would help her to understand English better. Considering ourselves to be every bit as warm and friendly as The Worm Gatherers (those up at dawn’s first gasp), we are more than happy to help. But before we can, the air is pierced by a yelp in the black distance, and one less drum can be heard. We relax knowing that the drum will be found safe in the morning, hung cocoon-like in a nearby tree by one of the Worm Gatherers who has been trying to sleep.

The girl finally begins, “When I first learn English, I think I know what ‘big’ mean. Big is opposite of small, etc. But in this land, ‘big’ means something else. Why in my country miniature is special art form, tiny, requiring special skill and here 30 pound sculpture can be called miniature?” Is there no end to the madness of this night? Someone stop her. Not the dreaded “bigger” conversation. Her unrelenting gaze searches our faces until one of us breaks and begins to say, “In America, bigger…” Gasps, someone screams, another drum silenced. The men cross their legs and the women pull their jackets around them. The Stone Zone.

So Worm Gatherers, if you ever feel like an evening of adventure, join us. You’ll have to bring your own lawn chair though, because you can’t have mine. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Welcome to The Stone Zone.