For countless years, I’ve wanted to stop and snap a photo of this sign pointing visitors/victims to the Jim Jones Shooting Range here in Guyana, Arizona. Oops, I meant Payson, Arizona. I was 15 angry years old when I learned of the People’s Temple and their White Nights event in a South American jungle where Jim Jones led over 900 people to commit mass suicide/murder. The following year, I found the audio recording from the last hour of the camp. It was called The Last Supper and was the grimmest thing I’d ever heard. Forty-six years later, I can’t see the name Jim Jones without thinking of the sounds of those dying and the pictures of dead people bloating in a jungle, hoodwinked by a charismatic cult leader under the guise of religious devotion for economic salvation.

Now, here I am, 45 years, seven months, three weeks, and one day (or 16,671 days in total) later, having watched countless sunsets in between, celebrating life. Cults of various types have become the norm, and many people are prepared to sacrifice their lives for the megalomaniacal musings of captivating and persuasive sociopaths inspiring devotees through twisted ideas of what freedom, god, guns, and evil mean. While some have an unhealthy preoccupation with influencing others or being followers, Caroline and I take our passion for self-discovery on the road and interpret what life means to the best of our ability when gazing upon whales, looking into the sunset, and basking in the beauty of what others are creating in the various arts.

Mind you, this is not always the easiest of journeys. Not only do we grow older and maybe a bit tired, but society would prefer us to comport ourselves with the symbols, cultural icons, zeitgeist, and conformity afflicting the masses. That won’t do, as here, at 61 years old, the anger of the 15-year-old still seethes against the machine of subservient consumerism and commercial religious zealotry that drives insecurities and uncertainties. Having only returned home 72 hours earlier following our month in Oregon, we must remain relentless in our push to experience life on the terms we brought to the game ten, twenty, thirty, and forty years ago. So, tonight, we pulled into the Wigwam Motel once again. We’ve lost track of how many times these ancient concrete bungalows have welcomed us.

What’s the occasion, you might ask? We are on our way to the 20th anniversary of the International Folk Art Market that welcomes artists, creators, and celebrants of world culture to the semi-arid mountain desert city of Santa Fe, New Mexico.