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ROGUES: TALES FROM THE VALLEY Part 16: Howling good time at a wolf moon conclave Comment By Lyda Woods DailyTidings.com By Lyda Woods Posted Jan. 5, 2015 at 6:12 PM Updated Jan 12, 2015 at 2:48 PM By Lyda Woods Posted Jan. 5, 2015 at 6:12 PM Updated Jan 12, 2015 at 2:48 PM » RELATED CONTENT • Part 15: Into the belly of the Black Sheep • Rogues story series: Dawn channels her inner porcupine • Laying out the dots, looking for connections • Sibling rivalry spices lunch, but affection sweetens it » Social News Part 16 of the fictionalized adventures of two sisters, Sherry and Dawn, one Medford-bred, the other Ashland-loving, and their adventures across the Rogue Valley. Find prior chapters at www.dailytidings.com. After speaking with Kenny Green at The Black Sheep last week, I decided to infiltrate the Rogue Sirens, a secret political art group, to see if they were connected with the house bombings and Sherry’s abduction. Kenny had let slip that both he and Druantia were in the group and their next meeting was tonight, celebrating January’s wolf moon. In preparation, I’d searched among my friends for some connection to the Rogue Sirens and found one among the murder mystery actors I’d worked with over the years. Ray Zachary, an elderly man who was a magician, handyman and sometime actor and who had joined me for Thanksgiving, was connected to the group. He had agreed to take me to a meeting. He was coming over tonight at 7 p.m. to pick me up. We were going to Valentina Wilson’s home and pot farm in south Ashland. In the car, I quizzed Ray about the group. I’d told him that I wanted to join but not my motives. “So what happens at these meetings?” I asked, dressed in my best bohemian Ashland, long flowing skirts in green velvet, a patchwork vest and, underneath, leotards. “We all share; Valentina talks and then we focus on certain people, and then we smoke, sing, and drum.” “Cool.” “So you never told me why you want to join.” Ray asked as he pulled into a dirt driveway surrounded by a high stone fence. “I want to feel less isolated. I want to make a difference somehow. So many crazy things happening in the world. ” All true. “You’ll fit right in.” He parked the car in a dim lot that contained about 25 cars. From the house, the flickering yellow lights radiating out into the darkness, the scent of wood smoke, and the hum of chanting drew us to the front door. Inside were about 40 people, mostly women, mostly older, milling about, drinking wine, smoking dope, and catching up. The large living room had raised ceilings and a roaring fireplace, surrounded by pillows and chairs in a circle. A tall thin woman with graceful posture, who looked to be in her 60s, with long white hair, clapped her hands to silence the group. “Welcome everyone, it’s time to start.” Valentina walked over the fireplace and the group followed her, taking seats in a circle. "Tonight, we’ll start a bit differently and save shares for the end. We need to get started on our next social project. So let me ask you, what ideas did you trust in, growing up?” People trotted out their childhood beliefs: Study hard, save your money, succeed through hard work, integrity pays off, everyone is equal, the government cares, cops are good, and education is always a good investment. “And now that you’re all grown up and your rose-colored glasses have cracked to let in the light, what do you believe?” The energy in the room surged, people sat up and shared with gusto: our aged parents are forced into poverty; student debt is never-ending; lifetime healthcare is out of reach; tuition is impossibly expensive; banks are predators; cops kill; and politicians are inert. As the group shared, key members wrote responses on flip charts around the room. “Thank you all for sharing your truths. Now let me share mine.” Valentina’s voice became deeply resonant. “The middle class is deceased, cannibalized. We are the living dead. We think we are living but we’re already dead. Everything eats away at us but we have less and less to give. Our guts twist with debt and despair. We’re sucked dry, pissed off, gobbled up and dying on the vine. So if we are zombies, let’s embrace and use it. That, in essence, is our next art offense. Any questions, my dear fetid folk?” — Next week: Giant papier-mâché puppet heads are prepared for a flash mob event at the Ashland city meeting. By Lyda Woods DailyTidings.com By Lyda Woods Posted Jan. 5, 2015 at 6:12 PM Updated Jan 12, 2015 at 2:48 PM » Comment or view comments Reader Reaction » STAY INFORMED Email NewsLetter Sign Up Today Sign up for our newsletter and have the top headlines from your community delivered right to your inbox. Southern Oregon Directory Featured Businesses Loading... 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