Whenever parched seekers drink from the sacramental Dunite chalice, cannabis-infused wine conjures purple and green illusions of nirvanic wonder.
Whoa, dude.
Can you repeat the question?
Weed.
Wine.
Magic.
Three primo ingredients invoke pure California bliss. Vinified in a cauldron of peace and love this cryptic recipe creates a soothing elixir designed to comfort wandering souls. Long before Haight-Ashbury’s psychotropic head trip, intrepid Dunite adventurers guided kindred spirits beyond golden primal mysteries hidden in mountainous Central Coastal dunes. Pioneering wanderlust that defines the future of creativity, Dunites left a sand trail of sparkling enlightenment and sacred animal tracks for us to follow.
In October, the season of the witch, Avventura Press will release Weed Wine Magic, my new novel and sequel to Blood Red Syrah. My publisher Lee Sebastiani blessed this wayfaring mission with wisdom and guidance. Multimedia gurus James and Kristin Callahan provided kaleidoscopic front and back book covers that rival some of the famous psychedelic Fillmore rock posters from the Bay Area’s countercultural heyday. Hippie editor Stephanie Bressler (whom I married in a secret San Francisco City Hall ceremony) continues to summon plans for a metaphysical book launch, readings and signings next month on the West Coast.
What role did I play in this radical literary genesis? I tunneled deep into the sand mountains, mining underground images as a modern-day Dunite prophet channeling mystical Mexican spirits of peasant hero Jesús Malverde, death saint La Santa Muerte and Maya moon goddess Ixchel.
Set in contemporary Central Coastal California, our saga follows a curious commune of mind-bending nomads into the caverns of their psyches. Plagued by the bloodlust of an invisible psychic demon who calls herself Syrah, a loco south-of-the-border drug cartel, Big Tobacco executioners and a white neo-nutsy militia loner, these voyagers face evil and satori in ancient sand dunes where an aging hermit grows the most potent pot plants on the planet to make his unique cannabis- infused weed wine.
Despite mounting chaos the tribe finds solace in the spirit of the Dunites, an underground society of true-to-life bohemian visionaries who once found refuge in the mystical Oceano dunes, unlikely crusaders who join forces to realize their saintly dream of harmony in a world gone mad.
Hoocha Weed is the gift recluse Mel Moyle and the rest of his newly-adopted family call Mel’s cannabis super strain. Hoocha Weed is the pot that calls the kettle potted. Hoocha Weed fuels the search for good karma. Hoocha Weed defines cosmic gospel beyond the beyond.
I had no plan to write a freaky California cannabis country chiller sequel to my gruesome California wine country thriller. Instead I banged out Paddy’s Day in Trump Town, a second novel jammed with surrealistic American wingnut politics and democratic chaos, a challenging read loaded with right-wing fascism, fear and hatred based on hardcore bigoted reality.
How was I to know somebody put a spell on me? How was I to know Malverde knew La Santa Muerte who knew Ixchel who got along with my Blood Red Syrah characters and others hiding out in the sand dunes? How was I to know the spirit of Wally Wilson, the most lovable serial killer antihero you’ll ever meet, influenced the reincarnation of the story as well as his own rebirth? How was I to know Mexico offered the refuge of another motherland to match my maternal and paternal familial lineages in Germany and Ireland?
Witches reign in all three nations where countless mortals respect and fear cultural magic.
Germany boasts pow-wow, a traditional form of Pennsylvania Dutch healing and retribution. When I was a teenager my mother shared with me the eerie tale of a baby in York (where I was born) who viciously bit her mother while nursing. The mother sought out a “Braucher” who practiced folk magic.
“Do you know who might have cursed you?” the German witch asked.
“Ach jah,” said the young mother. “Yes.”
Steal an article of clothing from the suspect’s wash line, the witch instructed. Fold the garment over the edge of an open dresser drawer and slam the drawer. As soon as the young mother followed orders she heard screams from the jealous woman next door who hexed her. The rosy-cheeked “Dutchified” baby never again bit her loving mother.
Dark Celtic curses also help and harm. Despite the passage of more than 50 years I still see the young woman I encountered standing alone by the lake on the rugged West Coast of Ireland where my roots run deep in the bog. As a powerful wind whipped thick black hair around her shoulders and face she shrieked for me to turn back from my solitary walk and leave her alone in the cold, misty fog.
When I told the tale to stunned country cousins they blessed themselves and said the young woman only spared me because I looked like her prince who died in battle a thousand years ago. Three other young American men, visitors to the lake like me who didn’t resemble her warrior, had disappeared over the years when the heartbroken young woman spirited them away as prisoners to hold forever in the dungeon of the night.
My personal brand of mystical literature should also be respected and feared. My subconscious images offer redemption if you are open to their power. Take heed. I am a sentence shaman born of darkness and light. I hold the power to exorcise and raise the dead. I levitate and fascinate. I cast rich spells. Never underestimate the power of a daring word witch.
Prepare to meet the Dunites.
We’re ready to meet you.