As the human world proceeds down its track of self-annulations, those of us who prefer life, ring-less freedom, and justice continue to sling the arrows of sustainability, truth, and humor.
How can one maintain lightness against the mega ominous cells coming across the plains of human stupidity and greed?
If you are O-Bomb-O you surround yourself with ego and bullshitters. If you are Morsi, you surround yourself with god-specialists and aging military. If you are Jerry Brown you find the brightest and most intuitive and do the John Kerry – marry a really rich broad. If you are I, you write, you have funky dialogues with like-minded folks, you keep the light on over the gate, and you peacefully soldier forward.
My spin is neither new nor especially significant. I am another nosey noisy nigga in the rotting woodpile except I am white skinned and a female. My rhetoric is not married to any specific ideology or political bent, anymore. I out flew these parameters. Some years ago I pitched every existing piece of cargo stored in the hole and headed up the ladder for the best view on the ship’s brow. Titanic or Queen Mary one goes to the top of the hill for the best view. Finca Vigia is the best outlook and it is a million dollar observation platform.
Living here a transformation occurred releasing crappy patterns of deadline addiction, fixing dumb cane politicians in a beautiful hometown American community by the sea, dragging my cross around contending politics are helpful and the other myth – shopping at Price Club was healthy living. I do not easily understand what has happened to me living here at Finca Vigia. Because of circumstances beyond all our control (death), I am the one who is going through these cosmic hula-hoops with three dogs, 342 species of birds and four troops of Golden-mantled Howlers. These and an ancient Egyptian disguised as a whack job are my teachers.
As an Internet survivor (been blocked on FB and been blocked by people I thought considered me kinda cool) human communication some days is exclusively digital. This may account for the advent of local interspecies communication becoming the real deal. Birds fly over and we talk. Monkeys come by to munch on wild nutmeg leaves and we hang. Thunder rolls around the Jungle Mountains and we thump. Anarchy and synchronization is happening in this jungle. No one is following any precept science is selling. Darwinism is not the order of the day or creepy nights. In the darkness snakes slither, roaches organize and spiders the size of my hands come out to hunt moths the size of my feet. Marlena, Dewey and Snooky Pants Rabalo (the canine corps) and I stay inside after dusk and do not come out of the cabina until the Chestnut-mandibled Toucans announce day is underway. We know how small we are in the greater scheme.
Lately, I am encountering men who some how cyberville materialize after beddy-by time. This last week there are three widely different human specimens. I push out the same caca I have spouted through my blowhole the last four decades, so why now? I am not being braggadocio, men sniffing around have always been part of my life. What is evident is that the current living threesome are trapped in their circumstance, or at least they have bought into living in a neo-purgatory of their own selection process? Wondering why we are the focus of midnight communications is superfluous to any real deal issue at hand. Let us say, I think it is because my initials are at the beginning of the alphabet and time changes. Any analysis is as valid as the one of your dreams.
One of these men squeezes my heart. I am pissed this poet was able to capture it when I apparently am trying to rise-up above the 19th century concept of living life as the newest widow on the hill. For the record, my husband is orchestrating the on-going movie from the other side. It took me awhile to figure out what is happening because grief moves in reverse slowing down forward movement to where the best one can do is forge ahead on a lateral. Sluggish is beyond the pale, literally. Senor Que Sera Sera is she-whore trapped in Brazil and spends 24/7 sopping down potato juice while ragging on about his home country under siege – Egypt. After midnight when she-w is safe in her coffin, he comes out to play with me. Sometimes the fun is too much to handle other times I instant chat as sweetly as possible when in reality I want to climb through the screen and smack the crap out of him. True cross culture love soaking with brutal honesty does this? I am a newbie to exposing myself thinly via the ethers plus we do not get Ann Landers down here at Latitude 9. As humans under a set of values and antique horseshit history, we do stuff when we love folks, and I am no enabler (anymore), from the edge of compassion. I cannot change Dr. Stoney. Love is the answer because there is no other option. Ride the wave, dude.
The second very recent entry makes me laugh with his right-on commentary. I click thumbs up on his ongoing FB bombastics and for the life of me cannot figure, why he does not have his own talk show. He is a funny funny guy with a wordy wit to match my husband – a gigantic compliment. Sardonicus is the name I bestowed upon him. He survives in Italy transforming from Zen’ish beatnik to parental caretaker and then back again. He and my husband carry the Italian gene and as such could be the wellspring and basis of an astute attitude with drollness. Like me, he too contends O-Bomb-O is a con artist in black face. There are now at least six of us seeing the light. It makes no difference what party in power in America or Egypt; they are prostitutes and pimps for the corporate colonizing of Earth.
The third male entity briefly beamed in from the Netherlands. Trolling on Skype, he sent an outreach. My name on Skype is Alice B. Toklas. Are you getting the alphabet soup connection, now? His occupation is so counter to my environ-ranting perspective I think God’s sense of justice and humor is expansive like her universe. He actually has a real job unlike the other two. His history of destructing the mothership is engineering oilrig platforms. As I write, I am seeing in my third eye the BP’s exploding 30,000 feet deep rig annihilating the Gulf. Yet, I attempt to teach myself tolerance and listened to the Dutchmen’s tale of woe. It is a horrifying story of Karma – lawyer wife murdered over a familial land deal and four years later, he can only connect to women who “want to have fun.” Barbie meets Ken at the Dutch smoking pot café? He keeps his son in a private school in London because he travels to Africa to exploit its resources. Does nothing change on the Dark Continent? He also pals around with the Sauds. Don’t’ all dirty oil types hang with the third level sheiks, and vice a versa?
Nit-plicking along it is important for you to understand a premise not readily visual or audio available. I live in the middle of the jungle. I do not get off the finca much except to deliver carloads of money to my mechanic. The Land Rover, Rachel, works three weeks out of 52. As a jungle hermetic, I am not seeking these encounters. Flotsam and jetsam floating into my digital world with no agenda on my part I must admit these encounters pique my scrawny brain.
Maybe I am starved for storylines? You know how us writers hang like geckos on the wall watching the world go by. I swear on a stack of Egyptian Books of the Dead, I am not putting any karma in motion. Okay, well, I am lying about trying to release Senor Nilo, the outdated Egyptian, from his self-imposed potato juice incarceration. He LED illuminates in from an ugly third world kitchen in a village so remote he cannot have Skype and Gmail up on his screen at the same time. Besides air-fighting his projection, Hesham gets the EMMY for drama-tortured sexiest brilliant artistic man I have ever met, on or off the little screen. And, I worked in San Francisco and NYC – the artsy fartsy capitals of the world. Of course, he is only one of three men I have bothered to continue contact in cyberville excluding regular friends, neighbors, and family members. OE (outdated Egyptian) and I have been playing getaway closer now for maybe a year or one thousand years. I do not know. When one is in the blender of lost and loss, your natural sense of time on the continuum begins to warp and go colugo (Google it to improve your vocab?).
Male cyber-traveling partners on SDSers & Leftists FB closed group are part of the team of mules and red diaper babies trudging up the mountain but they do not count. They never unseal their enclosures or spin the dial of yin yang. Interference or influence of 1969 precludes them getting cyber-real.
Why bother, as my brother Dan would snort and retort? Our dim species is reaching the point of no return. The thunder-persons, the birds, and the monkeys are announcing a prognosis for Homo sapiens and instructing us to make arrangements. One hint is to be on the ship sitting by guys and gals who actually have something to say. The on-world ark trip is lengthy so why spend it in suspension when you can breath while one’s heart beats with joy yakking away the truth.
Anarchy is stomping thru the streets even though the Sheeple are not hip to what is happening. How do I know? The Internet told me so. Senor Nilo, Sardonicus, and Oily Dutchboy are not personal amusements. They are glorious living examples of the power of the Internet. If we let the machines take over our humanity becomes so clogged-up and plugged-in our charkas go ape shit and our brains bleet inside distilled jars.
Spontaneous and serendipitous are paper towels to clean up the messes in our nest. I prefer the natural recycled brown manufactured pieces of flying carpet to the cubic-corporate types. However, again I live in a world of amazing wonder surrounded by beauty, art, books, and a subset of our species – Ticos – who spill out genuine happiness like psychedelic dressed tree frogs at a gang-bang in a pool beneath an Alfombra waterfall.
For me, to be able to establish any form of enlightening communication with another species is a blessing. To create a connection with three men in three different countries while I am in a fourth is a miracle of the age, the antithesis of a Laffer curve (again, vocab building).
As I portend, two out of the three cyber-pals I write about h/w will read this. Those are damn good Sports book odds for our asleep at the wheel species making quantum leaps toward higher consciousness before we f**k up so badly Pachamama throws us lame ducks off the spinning orb.
Salute the wonder of a cyber age but for freaking sake, do not make it your god. It is another element, crystal, or dream catcher, in our medicine bag. Use it responsibly and let it go loosely around your bode and your brain. The monkeys and the birds think we are very silly cause they do not need the two-dimensional apparatus of an Internet. Their dulcimer is strung via para-normal simplicities.
Our waddling along Donald Duck species needs to hurry up and start deploying, again, the old way of seeing and being in the flesh (I know I am preaching to myself and the choir). I really believe this is our best shot to bring about a humanity where justice prevails and hearts (read human emotional system) exist inside a love-centered life. Diminished spiritual capacitors are at this instance attempting to short circuit our innate etheric antennae of the heart. Paranoid? Naw. Observant and concerned means I am prudent in my exemplary state from the view from Vigia.
Name the dog, Hope, Hoopoe?
B. E. Macomber