How to Kill Us, by Barack Obama

As we close this year, 2013, and jump to the next chronological one there are a few conclusions the world can draw without going on-line or talking with a neighbor for the latest local smews (my made up word for . . . come on, you get this, please tell me you get this). 

 

Here is the sharpened end of the 2 by 4 to our third eyes, fellow humans.

 

Let us being with what the president of the United States purports and end with what he is doing to destroy our planet in the name of control freaks currently making oodles of faux minted profit on Wall Street.  Twitter is my favorite example of Looney Tunes, Inc.

Twitter, a company with a zero profit basis, is now “worth” $45 billion but it is beginning to fall back to Earth.  “The company may have the highest market value of any firm that isn’t generating any earnings since the dot-com bubble of 1999-2000.” Barrons.

 

Another episode from Looney Tunes, Inc., is an Obama quote from 2008, “Time to end the tyranny of oil.  In my administration, the rise of the oceans will begin to slow.”

 

What Obama has done is the exact opposite to satisfy his guy buddy dirty oil industry, to feed his fat false flag drone prone ego, and to make sure the 7th generation probably has no friggin’ chance of existing.

 

If I sound like a fatalist, I am pissed off today looking back on 2013 and seeing how much systemic damage and irrevocable destruction you and I wrecked on Earth these last twelve months.  Catch a grip.  I would not keep posting in social media, ‘pen’ articles, or write this blog if I thought all hope was lost in the madness.  Will I personally see you rise-up and shake the foundations of the fracking industry or end the obsessive piercing of our one and only spaceship before I take a hike into the big jungle in the sky?  Doris Day and Hoopoe may have the answer – Que Sera Sera.

 

I surrender there is probably not a chance in hell or heaven, or walking the moon, you are going to get your shit together humanity to thwart the tyrannical destruction of ourselves. But, I keep my birdy petard swinging above the jungle.  Why? I am an optimistic fool, and I am not talking about the major arcane card in the Tarot, or maybe I am – more is to be revealed?

 

My emotive response to every single fracking unit, every single pipeline, every single transmission line, every single offshore rig, every single painful intrusion of this precious planet to drain it of its blood (gas and oil) could send me into an epic rant. I am not yet frothing at the heart with twenty-four simultaneous toothaches of the mind. I am getting damn close.

 

Most of the oil and gas underground has to stay there if were are going to slow climate change.  Look at this double whammy.  Dirty oil needs dirty oil to drill, frack, and drill some more, baby.  As island nations begin to migrate off their lands to continents America exported the equivalent of 55 million cars last year (2012) in the form of oil and gas.

 

The follies of Obama’s energy policies are the end game of our species.  Boasting his pet industry is encircling the globe with pipelines he is all in favor of making an American dirty oil industry independent of OPEC to feed the greed of his major contributors. Uh? Going independent does not change the paradigm.  My homeland nation’s gubberstand is now responsible for more pollution on Earth than even China. You will not see these stats going viral.

 

Obama’s support of Shell’s development of what is under the Arctic Circle makes up the largest pools of carbon Earth.  If this drill baby drill happens, it is game over folks for the climate.

 

What is not told to you is this and I hope you take this news and scream it from your cardboard box under the freeway to your estate in The Hamptons to your gasoline station in Yountville, Napa Valley, California.

 

Oil, gas, and shale oil are exactly like the additive fluid you pour into in your vehicle’s radiator.  These systems of interlinking underground planetary-wide fluids keep Earth livable for us.  It is the miracle of billions of years of life for our sorry asses to breath, eat, and mate.

 

In other words every time you fire up your vehicle, take a plane ride to Costa Rica, smoke a cig, or drive over to Costco you are killing yourself, draining away any chance of our species seeing 2204 (read or sooner).  Each of these acts additionally destroys the wild worlds of both land and sea, and consequently forces Gaia to respond in dramatic survival attempts like mega storms such as Sandy, the highest wind havoc over the Philippines, and whatever is going to take place in 2014, and beyond.

 

We have a choice.  But, if you expect Obama or the snots in Saudi Arabia or the jerks in the Canadian parliament stepping up to plate to call major foul, you have an innate yet active death wish.

 

The solution, if you can take your head out of the tar sands, your arse out of the drilling rig, and show courage in spite of your combat assignment to protect dirty oil is very, very simple – walk away from the madness.  Stop the self-fulfilling merry-go-around and believe your brain muscle can activate to stop climate change by ending the bleeding to death of the fluid system our planet deploys to keep us a beautiful blue marble.

 

Big oil must end its strangle hold and it begins with you.  My job, until the day I no longer breathe, is to keep hounding you and bitching at you the realities of what our species is doing to the mother ship.

 

In August, of 2013, the largest forest fire in the history of Sierra Nevadas was burning in Yosemite National Park while the US Bureau of Land Management hoped to auction off 316 million tons of taxpayer coal in Wyoming’s Power River basin.  The emissions from that sale equal the carbon footprint of 109 million cars (even with the new Detroit standards).

 

Then there is military and dirty oil exploration via sonar and the largest human machines on earth (marine based ‘bombing’ using remote sensing), coupled to govt. sanctioned insanity destroying marine species. These human stupidities are at such a fast clip it is likely the next human generation will only know about Flipper and Blue Whales from Netflix movie clips or the Nature Channel. This is not science fiction. Well, it is a new agie spiritual hate ourselves staving splinters into our human souls. No amount of eating raw foods, going on DMT sacred vine trips, or living in a Teepee are going to manifest a human collective consciousness of action. You can decide this for yourselves but as a weak knead student of history futuristic prognosis is not good. We are the most selfish, self-absorbed, narcissistic, drunk on our ids species to probably ever walk upright, hereabouts. 

 

Positively, we have been able to beat back 100 new fossil fuel plants in America the last few years but fracking is every day destroying the North American continent’s ability to manage the climate.  China is help bent on its economical goal to rule the world willing to sacrifice millions of choking Chinese lungs and the entire African continent if necessary. 

 

During the 2012 record of the greatest Arctic melt on record Obama said, “Our pioneering spirit is naturally drawn to this region, for the economic opportunities it presents.”

 

What more do you need to know? I use to write about how the world is going to look back on Obama’s record. Today, I do not 99% believe our species is going to live long enough to experience such reflection.

 

The 59th minute is here for humanity and nadakind. The lowest barometric pressure was recorded off Cape Hatteras, North Carolina, during Sandy, a mega storm I began to warn my friends on the East Coast two weeks before it hit America. How did I know? I am no seer. The birds told me so.

 

Signs are everywhere if you want to pay attention.  We have crossed over the threshold.  No one is going to give me a National Science Award for ringing the bell at the monastery for predicting our species will be stopped dead in its horrific tracks by a power greater than ourselves – Earth.

 

You have one more minute.  Use it wisely, and as The Diggers hero, Peter Coyote, recently emailed me, “be careful.” Thanks for the heads-up, Pete. Ditto to you, and yours Image

Zen-priest.

 

 

(And, then she was NSA’d, no longer able to sing her song.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Life Barks Along

Shadows in the jungle are where sol does not shine but life continues to pulse and prey. 

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Returning to the finca, a widow, riddled with emotional bullets to the heart is not for the weak in the knees, or the gut.  Too many memories of what could have been . . . living in a smirch of a dream state inside the next twenty hours spin on the blue marble. 

 

Putting one’s human non-status quo into the here and now is a focus difficult to procure, at this stage of non-being.  I float below, more than above.

 

Maybe I am lost forever or maybe I was always lost and Arthur was my sea anchor?  Dunno know how to extract myself from doldrums except by paddling my pithing birch bark canoe around the barrel of pity potting and purge/write about it.  Venting it here could be the singular therapeutic value of my blog, and every blog?

 

I am not alone on this pond of grief.  As bumper cars at the carnival, the waterways of humanity are littered with the walking wounded, some with no idea how to rent a pair or oars let alone launch their craft or give the Carnie guy their ticket to ride.

 

Thank God Hoopoe is attentively cyber here with his arms under mine, keeping me afloat from going under as rogue waves twirl around the barrel.  Family is Skype waving from the shore.  Friends, the real ones, keep throwing out a line with a life preserver on the end, none alike in form or shape, yet each just misses my bow.  Stuck in a cosmic spiral/whoop whirlpool, me and my canoe spin and spin, slower and slower, not faster and faster.

 

The mantra this too shall pass – what a friggin’ lie.  Woe never leaves us if we give a shit.

 

My self-induced consciousness is this – it is God’s plan to remind us that stripping our human arrogance to micro sheds is part of the dance.  This funky neo-process defines how thick is our mettle and how deep is our soul.  No karmic-matter what we do, or think, or create, or build, or share, or love, or hate, or make, our species is actually a spiritually wimpy ass one.

 

When we unexpectedly get left behind, a macro rip cuts through the center of our innards.  It is nearly unbearable for a distinctive miserable reason.  The too private way to close the bleeding wound is to find a larger than life needle and thread and ask God to sew the f**ker up.

 

Heart-felt humans mourn for lost countries, lost family, lost lovers, lost friends, lost works, lost pets, lost faith, lost civilizations, lost philosophies, lost faith, lost inspiration, lost lives, and even lost politics.  Lately, in unison with Hoopoe, we envision a beautiful path set with alabaster stepping-stones conveniently LED lit (read if cognizant).  These stones are a mixed bag of shapes.  The laser incised ones are decorated with ancient symbols and others with arabesque designs glow electric Nile blue. Follow the Alabaster glowy road as the way to the other side?

 

This new, yet old as the pyramids coordination, is a sign even I can get back up, off my green and blue knuckles, and proceed into the next stage of God’s plan for this jerky over sensitive persona (read the author of this stupidity, me). 

 

Walking up banks of forty-eight shades of greenery and down into arroyos of violet blue shadows eventually leads one to a crystal light.  It is a humblizing[1] act of faith, if not a measure of love given.

 

Putting one Guatemalan booted foot in front of the other is at times worse than taking bamboo splinters out from underneath one’s exposed toenails, but what other choice is there at twenty-eight years, nine months, and eleven days of trudging along being sober and clean one day at a time?

 

It is like the Mets (read baseball team) fan chant – “Ya gotta believe.”  

 

Is this not the exhaling truth of making a re-invented life charitable, elegant, and secure, Hoopoe? If not, then please smoke signal what is.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


[1] Humblizing = one of my made-up words. If you need a definition, best you move onto someone else’s blog.  Capiche?

Reading America’s Fear Quotient

After several weeks in the United States of Hillary what is evident, after a two-year absence from my birth country (this time around), is civil society’s uncomfortability/fear level is heading up the bell curve faster than a Roadrunner going for its lizard lunch.  Without any references or prompting, I sensed a pervasive concern for the now and a rampant insecurity of what is or maybe a future.  Paranoia is not in my vocabulary along with conspiratorial horse dung so gauge accordingly as you read on, or don’t. It is up to you Hoopoe.

Current American apprehension is fed by non-stop negative news casting from Internet major media to local TV.  The worse happenings are regularly programmed at an audience numbed down enough to passively view the madness of these reporting horrors.  I will not contribute to such insanity by listing story lines spread across the evening news segments like smeared burro caca.  Faced with a diet of disasters during every 24-hour period is a way to keep the masses from noticing true invasions like the destruction of inalienable rights and dragging the drone wars into oblivion, as in on and on and on.

While Texan Americans are motoring along on six-lane highways inside the latest automobiles due to the Fed’s bailout of some car manufacturers and the dismissal of others, their eyes appear sad, and their hearts distant if not excused from contact to their souls.  The stand-in-line human cattle never question. Why do they not move over to the idling checkout stand with no waiting remains a mystery to this shit disturber.  Apartment complexes and master communities are sprouting up alongside intersections four cornered with the same corporate pharmacies, the same corporate fast food, the same corporate markets, and the same favored Federal Reserve corporate banks. This merge is spreading from Northern San Antonio to the surrounds of Austin (in every direction).

The Texas prairie oak-lands morphs into the more are never enough dirges as a faux community plugs along constantly beseeched by an ever-expanding sprawl of the geography of nowhere.  A nearly cancerous encroachment on ranch life is underway as Homo sapiens asleepnis migrate into the Austin, Texas area at full bore total tilt overbearing boogie.

With Xmas counting on the Advent calendar, corporate stores zoned within identical shopping campuses are laden with the newest gadgets and clothes cheaper than foodstuffs. Why? The rags were made in Nicaragua, Bangladesh, and Guatemala.  Stuff is the ruler of style, attitude, belief systems, and consciousness?  Can one say these asleep at the wheel humans are cognizant of a consciousness, ever but maybe in their dreams?  Mostly it is manufactured stuff controlling the market. Yet, since the handmade movement is within my family original created stuff was in my purview. The keep it Austin weird is losing ground faster than fracking in Pennsylvania.

The quicken speed at which people move is another indicator how disconnected folks are from the world around them.  I had to sweetly yelp at my brother to halt and pull over to see Scissor-tailed Flycatchers, Bald Eagles, Roadrunners, Waxwings, and sitting grebes on the lake.  Yet, he too often did not give me the opportunity to stay still to bird spy as we had a schedule to meet not of my making.  My go with the flow, take time to see not just look at life, and general Costa Rica pura vida m.o. was nearly ignored.  This act was not malicious. It is merely how the merry-go-around spins on its crooked broken down spirit axis in I want what I want now Gringolandia.  Yet, when he did let me out of the vehicle (he power locks the doors from his driver’s seat position) to get a view of Texas birds I found him later on reporting to others what WE had seen.

For six decades, Bro Dan and I are classic examples of sibling rivalry between an older male (him) genius and his younger radical artiste tree huggin’ female sister (me). I adore my brother. I get him far more than he does himself. I am the one who stopped the mood altering substances and went to recovery in 1985. He is the one who ended his love affair with Johnny Walker Red in 1985 yet never walked into the rooms of AA. Stubbornly sober, I would not get back into the SUV or Jag until he saw the birds in question.  Later, his bird watching tales to others seemed as if the experience was a prideful memory (“my sister has such a fantastic recall for bird labeling”) than the actual experience in the here and now.

Okay, we will have to find alternate path up the mountain or through Wimberly (town in the hill country under attack by retirees with bucks (frog pelts and the kind with big ears and swishy tails).

My general estimation is an overabundance of my fellow Americans are lost in parking lots both real and injected into their virtual smart phone mindsets. Even some of the smarty-pants are beaten down by workload with savings earning nearly zip interest. A fixated micro focus on bending over to pickup any discarded receipt to plug into their tax filing excel files is like the bird flu in ramification.

At least in my family we are semi-secure because we take each other’s back and by tradition are in the upper middle-income levels in attitude and business acumen.  Charitable works with conservative spending patterns based on purchase power intuitively researched and planned delivers quality and creativity.  The Scottish and Arab gene pool necessitates astute application.

My familial unit is not nuclear.  It is more akin to a corporate scheme imposed upon a third sector (non-profit) operating structure.  We conference together over major decisions via iPhones and at the dinner table or sitting comfortably sipping tasty beverages while popping homemade gourmet goodies in our respective mouths.

We low or high key express ourselves dissonance to the elders seeking advice without overt commitment to follow through yet covert listening intently to a wisdom’s backboard. Since, I am now in the elder category, several in my family asked me about some concerns filtered in from a nine-year old to a 55 years old. These loved ones solicited my take on a particular issue kinking up their happiness. Time will tell if the encounter was fruitful.

We take surveys (personalized pollings) amongst family members by reiterating the same story and asking a bevy of questions.  Dialogues like this are right out of the creative teamwork playbook of any innovative research and development business in Silicon Valley or garages in Mountain View, California.  My favorite this trip to the motherand was a discussion with my six-year old grand-nephew. He was exceedingly worried Santa Claus is too tubby for the family chimney at Circle C and with furrowed brow asked the biggie – Will Santa live forever? My nephew’s final solution is to leave low-fat milk and sugar free cookies. After tales about Santa’s lifestyle made up by me my nephew decided and affirmed (with Trooper, the family rescue Cheaspeake Retriever) Santa is for all time, forever, even if he is a realllly fat guy.

I suppose love; concern, respect, intelligence, values, and procedure are segments and floating chunks within an unified mettle of how we evolved into a contemporary family. Our making personal far-reaching changes after consulting with our delegated wise ones goes back as far as I can recall. These seeking-answers endeavors are coupled to serious individual research.  We ask too many whys beyond the age of four.  We bank our knowledge.  We freely give support when sorely needed and when sensed as such. The outpouring for my dire straights as the most recent widow in our lot is at cosmic ratios, if not monumental in a familial desire to see me go on with my life happy, and ‘keeping busy’.

The way we operate could serve as a modern healthy model for the Next New America? Our work in progress builds and enhances self-esteem as an inner wealth and not surprisingly putting in the footwork while turning over the results to a higher power fosters monetary quasi-security.

We invest in each other.  We participate (read not too much enabling) in each other emotionally, spiritually, and financially supported by a foundation coming from love not greed.  The base is not what one would suspect.  My brother’s in-laws are Lebanese and Egyptian.  He and I hail from Mayflower descendants.  The glue is devotion and love.  I would also venture bigga brains in tune with their hearts, no matter what, or in spite of Neiman Marcus sale-a-thons.  The pegs in the interlocking pumpkin pine floorboards of our modern sustainable structure are well-honed patina hardwood.  The design is about as high tech as consumer possible. The Arabesque rugs are soft and cushy hand made into real sturdy beauty so delightful many generations will know their comfort. The food is five star. The tears are stuffed (mine mostly) but hey like I ranted – it is a work in progress family.

I dunno know about the income or outcome for America because as long or short sell as the Sheeple accept corporate cookie cutter headquarters war and Wall Street will be the pin prick at the top of the ruling basturds’ ormolu pyramid. Let freedom not chime when the techno-ring is through your nose AND your ego is twenty-first century slavery?

As to my family, we will proceed with a rare combo of watchful caution; an innate belief in a better world is made by what you give away not what you acquire, and a silly ole fashioned notion called family values and ethics = Lies of omissions are lies. Treating others as you would like to be treated. Passive aggression is war mongering on a vis a vis micro-battlefield. Loving others without controlling them until they love themselves. Reaching out and giving because you truly only get what you give away. What comes around goes around in a nano-second. Smiling is not a mask. It is an expression of human kindness recognizing another of our species. Pay it forward in every single moment of one’s day, or Saturday night, is not a mantra. It is how to keep the faith playing hop scotch through a Western culture no longer respected by the rest of the world. We lost this title when we let dirty oil become the economy.

(And she was left in an oak tree on the ranch wondering why the African Antelopes kept blinking their enormous eyelashes at her standing ten feet below her boots.)