Dedicated to: #Julian Assange; #Barry Grossman, Esq., and Chris, Esq.; Capt. William F. Macomber; Hesham Yehya; Daniel C. Davis; Capt. Arthur E. DiPietro, Esq.; #Richie Stallcup; #Dr. David DeSante; #Ed Snowden; Dr. Mahmoud; Professor Richard Alford; #Tom Hayden; #Congressman Michael P. Forbes; #President Jimmy Carter; Peter Knoll; #Poet Sherif el-Hakim; Thomas D. Field; John G. Clancy; Esq., Private First Class #Manning; #Leonard Peltier; Trustee Billy Pell; #Russell Means; Kirk MacDonald Park & Lisa; Jato; Nizar; Benjamin Runkle; Joel H.; Audrey Davis Stephenson; Patty Brown Carrillo; Frances W. Macomber; Rodeina Sheety Davis; Randa & Natalie; John Wesly Stephenson; Aida Kosseim; Barbara Latimer; Valerie Henshaw Gilbert; and, the crew-who-knew and knows, and still do what I ask.
You are each, in your revered vision and sacred deeds, or not, my preferred cloistered heroes – sequestered in my far-out heart.
Dateline: Today, June 14, 2014, Finca Vigia, Alfombra, Costa Rica
It is the murky edgy ages of the digital techno post millennium. Here we wobble with flickering LED light nearly beaten into what might have been glory yet turns out to be a non-civilization of gratuitous greed and instanced insecurity. Over the eons, whatever humanity learned as regards survival is neither positive nor negative. It is a push – no gain yet riddled with pain. Strapped to whirling fake golden rings treated as violated baboons we roll through a shadowy gloom, attached by a global necklace of shackles and shingles. “Shadows never seen to fade away, and the sun don’t shine no more and the rain falls down on my door.”
Every morning the empire launches its next sinister turf war plot to own and pervert Earth. The elite meet to eat to possess each other through fundraisers in The Hamptons summer fading sunshine or they slurp wines and tasty treats sitting inside The Laundry in Napa Valley. The familiarity of guilt stenches these feigned elegant airs yet the oblivious ones of our species feel no remorse for babies nailed to posts in Syria, dolphins slaughtered in the cove, or hundreds of thousands of humans driving across the desert of Iraq to escape they know not what.
The sovereign nemesis of unholy Homo sapiens sapiens = what is mine is mine, what is yours is mine, and to hell with you, as my duty is to protect my own, and you are not my own.
Nothing spoken on the corporatocracy’s piddle stream media has one iota relationship to fact or meaning. Violence is shoved down the throats of TV cartoon watchers dressed in Baby Gap and young lovers brand their bodies seeking tenderness on a date to a movie show or a dope shooting gallery. Quietly, with neither fan fair nor Miles Davis notes, our species plummets further and further down slippery slopes into the abyss of apathy.
Heroin, grown in Afghanistan, guarded, and gardened by New Order World camo dressed killers, is shipped into the bowels of the Midwest of America or the dens of Bangkok. Smack steals former vestiges of kindness and awareness and gives back oblivion. Ayahuasca is drunk in sacred circles by Whities thinking they are finding God when in fact what they are doing is feeding their ids to the point the ego is endless. The insufferable me generation hides away inside the DMT haze to insure nothing changes if nothing changes, but they eat organic and they live close to the land. The paradox is never noticed or articulated.
Potheads, daily smokers, and the cancerous ones cannot wait to line up for their nearest and dearest govt. approved allotment. The empire grins with glee wondering why it waited so long to build generations of stoned zombies with glazed eyed, stupefied giggling and wholly lacking ambition or awareness of what is being done to them. Clever in its massaging the message millions rail across social media in favor of Mary Jane never cognizant this is exactly what the empire wants.
Big Pharma produces as quickly as cad cam possible the next happy pill and the last death delivering injection of morphine, while telling us to eat Aspirin that bleeds our guts and Violox that destroys our hearts. Every second of every moment synthetic lethal maiming poison soups are dumped, sprayed, inhaled, and exhaled across the only planet. Those busy sense no consciousness and no conscience. Corn grows taller than ever intended, bee populations collapse, and dead birds are racked into roadside ditches, forgotten. Out of sight, out of mind, and out of soul.
Some of us are detained in Gitmo or in an Ecuadorian Embassy in London or in a dungeon in Cairo. The rest of us are trapped on balconies inside corrupt systems so effective in destroying the will for liberty and justice even those with a vision must spend most of their time re-igniting the fire of freedom in the belly within. Millions of us turned into lemmings are huddled together in refugee camps while the empire pits one religiosity against another to embitter civil disorder so magnanimous, no one except the slave traders in the global casino take notice. The smartest guys in the room only perceive dollar signs to envision their next trip to Sodom and Gomorra Rio, or purchase a larger yacht as another escape hatch.
Yet, the call of wildlife from nature proceeds in almost every instance against odds in the human card game being dealt. Life in its remarkable intensity means preying mutated wolves roam the Chernobyl wilderness where no man woman or child can for the next 20,000 years. Nesting birds, once numbering in the billions, are rarities as migratory pathways are littered with human endeavors from transmission power lines, fields of poisoned ‘food’ stuffs, to cell towers, to glass fitted skyscrapers. Those who make the journey find little habitat and food for their young yet they persist in the regeneration of life.
Guided by human ignored planetary magnetics melted to the placement of the stars feathered creatures fly right into infrastructures of humanity to die in mass. Birders go out into the field dressed and armed with over the top expensive optics equivalent to a campeniso’s three years of hard hard work to grow and harvest coffee. The same coffee dilettante birders, Target workers, and schoolteachers sip to jump-start their mornings. Rez Indians, ghetto Blacks or faux ones in the White House live an existence with a ring in their noses, their souls neutered.
Millions of marine mammals have their ear bones cracked by military underwater sonar and submerged deep dragging of seismic bombing so dirty disgusting oil can find more of itself so it can drill more of itself to make more of itself so it needs more of itself and then must go and find more of itself.
I sit in my Malabar woven comfy chair, drinking ice cold coconut water, munching on Mennonite-made homegrown popcorn drizzled with their jungle finca grown raw sugar and butter. Butter churned from pretty tropical cows they tend and adore.
My suffering is above the fray centered in empathy. Personally, I agonize only in my wailing heart and sunk soul. Somehow, I broke-out from the plantation.
Amongst many sobering dreams and clean and non-mean concerns saturated in consideration and intellectualization, I hope and pray my out of control compassion makes a difference. Words are benign swords. Phrases are turns and twists to deliver understanding probably known yet cast aside in the mud and scum of nadakind’s next 24 hours.
God brings the sun up in the East and sets it the West. Is there any greater iconic symbol of our outcome? The moon phases and the tides expose, spit and roil. The planets spin on their axis in sync to our solar system in a vast cosmos connected rotating within the spirally Milky Way. Is there any greater iconic symbol of our beginning with a near end? The Milky Way every moment is consumed and integrated into a far larger galaxy. Is there any greater iconic symbol of our outcome, or karmic return?
Our species is a failed experiment listening to The Band sing Up on Cripple Creek. We traipse across the land and motor across the seas in near 100% arrogance. The aura dust behind us is toxic, the watery wake behind us churning with pollutants both chemical and vibes.
Machines we drive in pre-dawn scoop up the never-ending garbage on the beaches of Bali so as not to disturb the illusion the privileged’s holiday world is perfect and pristine.
Under the Indochine sky corruption not only rules it is a primary economic generator. In an archipelago of 13,000+ islands where sixty bucks a month is a generational guarantee of poverty, palming off $700,000 over eight years to the police, the govt., and the gluttonous judiciary keeps a truly good man tied down with his family in shame and his business inoperative. This is regular style not only in Bali. It is a global dis-ease our species depressed by its own dysfunction and avaricious, sinks itself, taking all with it.
Now crank up The Band’s The Weight, and remember I do love this life, I truly adore the wild creatures. Without the sustaining joy of nature and a shit load of help from my friends, I would have gone before the age of twenty.
There is a handful few of you I would lay my life down in joy if it would mean our species finally got it. If this is surrender, it is cloaked in love. You guys do not need to ask, cause I know, “you need to take a load off for free and ya can put the load right on me. There is nothing you can say. Luke is just waiting on judgment on day.”
Van sums up the biggie for us.
A kinky portion to our feathery broadcast has manifested in the Nilo light. Instead of my regular cheap shot analysis of one more backchannel this post I am telling you what too many decades in the political arena burned into my third eye:
1) There is no existing socio political economic system on Earth worth much more than a plate of Siamese cat turds. These not-working matters of social organization stretch out across a continuum of failures from a historical fantasy like Marxism to the drill baby drill, drone on of the United States of Hillary. We need a borderless sparkling civil society paradigm for our lame species and for Pachamama’s sake – and fast.
2) Unless we practice principles above personalities, social media (and life) is tar baby whining.
3) Freedom is given. For Buddha’s sake never ask me why not.
4) My agenda is straightforward. Its bleeps along with no planning, no marketing, and no subservience. Plus, I do not need to wheel out cupcakes at bake sales or used crap on E-crave. I served my time. No, I will not send you money. Being barely solvent is not a negative. It is freeing. I am a few degrees above there. I am a land owner in a social democracy where legally anyone can come onto this finca and claim some portion of it as there own if they daily live on it for ten years, and I am not here. Being free and clear is not an ad for a fancy arse line of cosmetics. I live in a jungle by the ocean in paradise as long as you are not in a hurry to get anything fixed.
5) Writing is how I make it through 28/9. Without concepts, research, communications, phrases, words, politics, and birds I become invisible.
6) Birds are my teachers and some other stuff.
7) Suspended under The Hubble watching the hands of our human mistakes tick tock toward oblivion does not mean I am a fatalist, a conspiratorial guru, a mandala sculptor, or i have thrown in the towel. Being here in SM (social media) proves I am carrying a petard. It says, GET IT?.
8) I believe in God yet know not a clue exactly who or what or where God is, was, or will be. This is called faith. Oneness is its recipe.
9) As a jungle hermit nature is the path set in right action. I believe in all religions, and none.
10) If you are rankled, or say to yourself, Oh now I see, I must be doing something right-on.
11) Take what you want and leave the rest. Contribute or not, just keep it tolerable.
12) Egypt is where my mystic nut gut is. My heart is none of your business.
13) There are several enlightened individuals in my friends and followers list (bemacomber.com, Twitter and Facebook) who are worthy of the short description – gentle, brilliant, actual human being. I implore you to join ranks with these free-thinkers.
14) As societal and soul alienation becomes the reality, the antithesis is social media. Lets not f**k it up. We are only as significant and wondrous as our lowest common denominator.
Lady of the Waves, Birder, and Goof-Monster.
Yes, they scream louder and louder until the leaves on the banana trees tremble.
I co-exist with Chestnut-mandibled Toucans. They were here eons before moi. The especially noisy males are about one third larger than the females. They are the largest toucan species on Earth with the tallest guys nearing two feet in length from head to tail. When grouped up screaming out into the world they can make the leaves on banana trees tremble.
One more note about cocks (see my blog post Tail of Godzilla posted here). Human neighbors have chickens so I procure organic brown eggs from them. Although, I am thinking about getting a cadre of adult Guinea Fowl as they act like turkeys – deterring snakes. Then again, unless penned up at night these feathered domestics could become fodder for puma, jaguars, and other nocturnal predators.
My goal at Finca Vigia is to creatively live here in beauty and harmony without making any big footed intrusion while letting the finca goes as wild as possible. Today, one of the local howler monkey troops came by to forage in an endemic nutmeg tree – a favorite. Their golden backs glistened in the morning sun as they hung like furry trapeze artists picking only certain leaves. In the last week I have spoken to two humans, for about five minutes, otherwise my contact is with nature or here in social media. The alpha male of this troop and I are buddies. We talk through our eyes and silly lip motions. He likes my songs I sing to him.
Writers, cosmic adventurers, Earth freaks, artists, philosopher kings and queens, and reclusive politico ex-pats are use to being alone. Most of us of this tribe are alone in our heads and hearts, anyway, even if bombarded by screaming toucans or watching re-runs of Star Wars or 1950s Egyptian movies or the Amazonia psychedelics of undulating awareness.
When Arthur was alive we gave each other plenty of space – what I call ‘alone together’. Unless you hail from a family of sea captains, jungle hermits, creatives, inventors, or thinkers and understand the so simple it is complicated creative experience it can be daunting to those around you. They feel abandoned by you if they do not possess their own full life. We artsy types may be physically present yet our expanding imaginations are non-stop wondering around the universe.
I sorely miss conversations with fascinating Arthur. We could talk about anything relevant hour by hour and never re-trace our routes. My role as the widow on the jungle hill is not to be pitied, please. The wild creatures, beauty, and innate grace of Finca Vigia sustains my ailing heart. A power greater than myself and friends arrive to offer emotional support and advice. I am really shitty at grief, like every other human being.
A personal shift is drifting around in the airy breeze. I might miss what I use to call ‘some action’. Many of us are treading water knowing where the home is for our heart yet not there, exactly at this moment in the here and now. There are many missions underway some with sails and spinnaker set and others bopping along cork like, motor-less.
Creative introverts who are communitarian extroverts are a rare subset of humanity. Arthur exemplified service above self while living life like a buddha. He never was off-centered in his loving fuller version orbit.
Extroverts who are insightful introverts do not happily exist, at least none I have encountered. Many artistes who I know who drink and write/paint/create I have let go from my karmic circle. I no longer can stomach someone killing themselves self loathingly* slowly with booze and/or drugs. My empathy is too complete. I sense their spirit shriveling to the point I emotionally collapse, wimpy soul that I am.
Today, I barely handle a one wise wonder of The Nile who rides his two hump three legged camel through sloshing muds sticky with potato juice. He is a special case, in more ways than it is anyone’s business.
Besides being noisy and semi-aggressive this toucan species has medium cobalt blue colored feet and a red feathered arse they flash at each other. Throwing their banana sized beaks up into the air they can go on for sometime at dusk.
Toucan Visual Arts, was my design studio at 833 Market Street, San Francisco I opened in 1974. Today, real toucans sleep in the tree canopy not far from my bed. I am a lucky woman. Blessed, are we women of the jungle as my buddies Val and Tricia would say. I believe a brand new friend, Claudia, would concur.
* made up word.