#Egyptians Prevail? One More Day to Go

Dateline: Somewhere in the Jungle, Costa Rica

A Western Woman’s Point of View

Thumper for Participatory Democracy is one of three lines on my business card. Today, I need new engraved cards made. Why? ‪#‎Egypt‬ has fashioned NON-Participatory Democracy.

By boycotting a faked election for a little man who has no relationship to a free society, the Egyptian people have done what many predicted. They have led the world down a different path of non-violent political activism. A new improved non-violent civil disobedience serving the greater good and slaying the corrupting evil.

By not voting, they send a blaring message to every #coup leader, every thief of #liberty, every #foreign policy advisor, and every #despot Egyptians prefer a democracy, and not some trumped-up psychopath junta murdering, arresting and spreading fear.

Those who refuse to vote stand taller than ever for #freedom, #justice and #bread. To say I am proud of Egyptian brothers and sisters does not come close to the respect I hold in my heart. I join with you in prayer to bring peace, not bloody revolution.

The Sea Eagle is the majestic bird symbolizing #Egypt. #El Sisi is a fallen crinkled star made of rotting Felucca sails and blood soaked Galibias of his own doing.

The world is watching while most ImageAmericans are sunk in an abyss of apathy. Egypt could well be the phoenix rising, the one holy men and women envision and billions of humans seek. God knows, not you, nor me.

Yet, honor yourself and your encompassing passion for your homeland by the Nile. In the years I have observed the body politic, Egyptians take the cake, the donuts, and the whole bakery for a culture die-heart in love with their remarkable land of ancient mysteries and mystical understandings.

Many healings, many joys, many strong hearts . . . and to the innocent, release them El Sisi – return them to mother Egypt and then go into exile with the rest of the power drunkards.


US Govt. Exports Terror, Regularly, with Gusto

The omnipresence expansion of terror around the world is not emanating from Islam, rather it is the direct action of an operating uncontrolled unaccountable entity, I label the United States of Hillary.

It is unclear how most Americans (ever-blinded by a daily grind to sustain themselves and their families?) still cannot see the blood and gore in foreign streets, the magnitude of rain forests gone MIA, or DU[1] radiated bricks in the wall defining a guileless global wide pattern.

A systemic disordering of human cultures perpetrated by generational administrations of the Untied States government from Proxy Wars to feigned protective battles is the never ending expansion of dirty oil imperialism. It is a story to be shared, over, and over again – via social media, blogs, and postings. Reuse what you want from this piece. It is free for the taking.

The US Govt.’s repetition of planned raging terror rears its grotesque GOP/Democrat Party duel head around the world. Its modus operandi to finance the business of permanent war while emerging freedom is beat down is simple. Stealing the American workers taxpayer dollars to finance civil disorder via coup d’états while selling investment bonds to China is the US Govt.’s OPM (other peoples money) funding stream. American worker bees’ taxable income specifically furnishes and feeds coups and false flag wars. A homeland corporate deep state uses OPM to expand its greedy basturd self. Droning to death Arab kids and wedding parties blended with meta-data surveillance provides the corporate establishment with security justifications. OPM is the fodder for war budgets. Ignorance and arrogance consumed by fear stifles any possible inner rhetoric based on values and right action.

Because of a seething collective unconsciousness seated in current cultural acquiescence, Americans continue to slave away on the plantation. They work to provide the harvest the 1% needs to build greater wealth and separation from the shackled masses. 9/11 and the banking debacle of 2008 were tandem-planned tipping points to carry forward the charade. Fear derived from false flags means the American populace is more easily hog-tied, rubber bulleted, and media manipulated by fear. American workers’ hard earned monies become faster and faster available to re-finance Wall Street’s next huge nosedive, or pay for an up and coming necessary coup of a foreign govt. daring to become value-prone and humanistic. Oppression is first, and foremost a colonializing of the mind.

The following information is based on factual research. Yet, I witnessed a couple of these revulsions working as an on-the-ground free-lance journalist (stringer).

There are far better detailed studies of American corporate imperialism in Latin America. What is offered below is a historical synopsis, with footnotes, to hopefully blow some doors off apathy by proving to the readership exactly what monies deducted from American pay warrants are used for – as in, the war chest for coup intercessions on bequest of the exclusive corporate state.

The U.S. government’s current abuse of tax-payer monies to fund right wing, anti-labor forces in Venezuela is consistent with its lewd and dishonest history of intervening in the affairs of Latin American and Caribbean countries.  Washington’s overriding aim for more than a century is to install and fortify dependent terror-bent regimes to support and sustain multi-national corporations and certain so-called economic incentive projects. 

Grandiosity delivered by the World Bank (WB)[2] and InterAmerican Development Bank (IADB) [3] – by way of proposed projects to ensue geo-political pressure, or locked in battles with natives, or up and running screwing with Earth’s tilt and destroying habitat and wild species – are devilish deeds. These disgusting development projects in the name of progress include: Dams, transmission power lines, ports, cement manufacturing sites, mines, oil and gas exploration and commandeering of same plus refineries (land and maritime), along with aluminum plants, salmon farms, covert military bases, and construction of offshore tax haven corporate headquarters. All these activities directly benefit American military industrial complex avarice agendas while undermining the third world from crawling up out of American corporate made gutters. These international bankster schemes almost never benefit the people living near the foreign conceived and constructed ventures, yet, they kill off locals (human and otherwise) from pollutants and destruction of eco-systems.

The inter-linkage between dirty oil development and Wall Street robbery is at the center of the cyclone of American hawk politics. A tiny core body politic, more psychopath-like than even Hitler’s regime, gained control over America. This happening is not a conspiratorial series of events.

My WTF? analysis of what is going on is far simpler. My understanding stems from thirty years in American politics. The body politic takes on a life of its very own. Policies barely considered become universal bedrock because they fill an expanding void of inaction and paranoia. Analysts, academics, media pundits, and other suits, like plastic bobbing hula dancers glued on dashboards, in unity, side with prevailing powers because they all feed at a trough filled by their masters. Sloth, greed, and ennui spew across a political landscape like oil from a train of tankers wrecked by a herd of confused wild critters attempting to escape a cancerous dirge of fracking rigs, be it Alabama or North Dakota.

Most of the third world projects funded by the crooked WB and IADB were devised with faux directives to alleviate poverty in poor countries. They are stinky to high heaven deceptions doing nothing but stealing resources, firing-up polluting manufacturing, and  Image

snorting up minerals, forests, and fossil fuels. Abusing the native populace for cheap labor is written into the scenario. The installation of these projects further fatten and burp inherent Latin political corruption of ruling families going back to the conquistadors. Some projects eventually bankrupt governments (establishing even greater controls by foreign powers). All devastate the precious tropical environment displacing indigenous peoples while destroying budding hope for freedom and justice.

Earth is pissed. If this is news to you, spend some time observing, in the flesh, any current climatic change from hail storms to bird migrations. As a noisy eco-warrior, I see the whole tower of crud toppling over, yet I wonder, do you? We did not get here without coups and ruling prurient special interests. The American way of putting on blinders and going shopping when the road ahead is too much to handle is a given. Well-trained by marketing departments Americans prefer new pickup trucks and the geography of nowhere than clean air and walkable villages surrounded by green space.

Furthermore, in a bizarre international double whammy (read con game) of trade agreements (NAFTA and CAFTA), there is a massive mowing down of both Latinos and Americans in the wake of profit margins and escalating marginalization. Those stuck in honey-less hives are trapped with no way out except to contract with coyotes in cahoots with anti-immigration forces.

Costa Rica, known as the Switzerland of Central America, dismantled its military in 1948 preferring free national medical care and education. When Nicaragua blew up over the Contra War[4], Costa Rica became a permanent refugee camp for 600,000+ Nicas to the chagrin of US policymakers.

The pervasive US govt.’s foreign policy of puking out coups is concocted from squeals railing up from corporate rat nests – lobbyists and backchannels. The linked agendas of these bow wow greed masters flow right into the septic chambers and backrooms of the US government. Snazzy tweeting backchannels launched by meta-national corporations regulate NGOS, rheostat think tanks, and abuse foundations as propaganda mechanisms.

Each of these more shit for brains pieces to the republic’s crumbling cookie are cloned shelters for a bleated lying public mission statement. Yet, all continue to opaquely assert a ruling agenda of corporate greed and control by disseminating the fakery of promoting democracy and the predictability of “securing America” with zip accountability or public scrutiny.

Foreign polices (read an unregulated industry) are specifically geared to disguise both inhuman exploitation of workers and resources, in country after country. Foreign polices are designed to foster profit for Wall Street lining the pockets of dirty oil, mining, warmongers, and war manufacturers. Herein is the acceptable corporate norm lurching and belching, not the exception, protected by an idiocy of a US Supreme Court.

Consequently, U.S. foreign policies, overtly and covertly, underpin the development of right-wing opposition groups to overthrow independent governments. Governments seeking to actually assuage poverty, legislate positive reforms, and nurture consistent basic rights to support the greater good of its people, both indigenous and not, while working to safeguard the environment are collapsed via coups. Monopoly games aside, rogue freedom-rising governments are pushed aside by strategic dispensed coups.

Once a coup is installed the quality of valued family life and local small business, inherent in Latin American and island economies, is literally bulldozed down to make way for big box America. Pepsi, Coca Cola, and rag (clothing) factories, Wal-Marts, Intel, Microsoft, Ford, GM, GMO fast ‘food’ franchises, meta-national owned banana, salmon, coffee, and palm oil, and much more, replace rich biodiversity, sustainable communities and local markets.

Like a country-wide spraying fest using Roundup all other elements of Latin American economics are infected. Corporate ‘providers’ take over urban environs and American intrusion of mono-culture plantations married to nitrate fertilizing companies, dirty oil and gas, mining concerns, cement factories, and other global intertwined corporations trading in the global casino. After dirty oil, the number two commodity traded is coffee. Stakeholders, such as smalltime artisanal coffee farmers, are trampled as nano-second bets are laid down, selling long or short, depending on the rat pack immaturity condition of the traders.

Below is a fat and factual list of US Govt. interventions defining a sordid and obscene record of interpolations. Purposely, there is no mention of another interrelated US govt. policy, the War on Drugs (read War for Drugs). This debacle is another subterfuge to control the people of Latin America (and North America) by capturing resources and turf to put troops and war equipment inside the boundaries of Latino countries. I will provide specifics surrounding this permeating US Govt. intercession in Latin America and the Caribbean in another posting.

I have deleted coups/invasions/American corruption in the countries of Mexico, El Salvador, Granada, Panama, Nicaragua, and some of the island nations, also. They are absent not because they are less than what is listed below. I decided to break down this post into manageable info chunks as attention spans are shortening faster than burning wicks on the Vatican’s altar candles. 

Coups are interpositions and fester in various formats, yet geographical landscape and targeted culture sets the tone for every junta. But every junta is dressed in identical China-made riot gear driving Russian tanks and using US Hummers to scare people and murder children. Ukraine is the number four arms dealer in the world, America being numbero uno, of course.

After closely observing the dynamics of a few coups (had to pitch this slider), most of this interventions follow a recognizable format as the junta musters its way onto despot’s throne of power. Seen one coup/junta, seen ’em all.  


Inventory of US Govt. Supported Coups


1. Guatemala – June 18-27, 1954 (inception date)

U.S. financed and backed a coup[5] (the footnote numbers are lies) against elected Guatemala’s President Jacobo Arbenz, June 18-27, 1954, opening the doorway for a nearly 40-year-rule of a bloody dictatorship[6] estimated to have murdered over 200,000 people (83% of Mayan heritage speaking 22 different native dialects) while destroying local eco-tourism based economics advanced by aspiring creative Guatemalans. Any positive move to establish a middle class of familial merchants and professionals was thwarted by horrific acts by the CIA. CIA installed Castillo Armas in power, and supported Armas’s corrupt to the core regime using American trained forces to instill fear and shock by torturing and murdering any dissenters including babies, burros, and grandparents. The CIA forces torched neighborhoods, crop fields, forests, and pueblos in revenge attacks against guerrillas seeking freedom and justice. In certain areas of Guatemala City, and the remote highlands, a reign of terror and tyranny slowly steams and will eventually boil over and erupt, not unlike the active volcanoes of Latin America.


2. Cuba – 1960/61

U.S. customized its imposed embargo on Cuba in 1960 enforcing its sanctions[7] against the Cuban people to this very day. In 1961, the U.S. government launched the Bay of Pigs military invasion of Cuba in a failed attempt to overthrow the Cuban government.


3. Brazil – April 1, 1964

U.S. financed and backed a coup[8] against Brazil’s elected President Joao Goulart, April 1, 1964, festering a bloodstained horror show – another repressive dictatorship. New documents published in Brazil on the 50th anniversary[9] of the despotism reveal a far more direct and sordid U.S. involvement than previously known or suspected.


4. Chile – September 11, 1973

U.S. financed and backed a coup against Chile’s elected President Salvador Allende on Sept. 11, 1973, opening a period of bloody totalitarianism under Augusto Pinochet[10]. The period of Pinochet’s madness included the arrest of 130,000+ Chileans, the torture of 29,000+ and the killing of additional thousands of innocent people as his autocracy allowed for an invasion of mining companies, polluting salmon raising companies, demise of the rainforest, and drill baby drill for oil and gas on land and offshore.


5. Argentina – March 24, 1976

U.S. financed and backed the coup against Argentina’s elected President Isabel Peron March 24, 1976, opening the way for a blood-spattered dictatorship. The Dirty War (Spanish: Guerra Sucia) was the name used by the Argentine Government for a period of state terrorism in Argentina against political dissidents, with military and security forces conducting urban and rural guerrilla violence against left-wing guerrillas, political dissidents, and anyone believed to be associated with socialism. Victims of the violence included an estimated 15,000 to 30,000 left-wing activists and militants, including trade unionists, students, journalists, Marxits, Peronist guerrillas, and alleged sympathizers.  Some 10,000+ of the “disappeared” were believed to be guerrillas of the Montoneros (MPM), and the Marxist People’s Revolutionary (ERP). The guerrillas were responsible for causing at least 6,000 casualties among the military, police forces, and civilian population according to a National Geographic Magazine article in the mid-1980s. The ‘disappeared ones’ of the pro-socialists lot were considered to be a political or ideological threat to the military junta and their disappearances an attempt to silence the opposition and break the determination of the freedom fighting guerillas.[11]


6. Venezuela – April 11, 2002

U.S. financed and backed a coup[12] against Venezuela’s elected President Hugo Chavez April 11, 2002 — but failed, as millions took to the streets to foil the coup-makers (who had arrested Chávez) and then the people reinstated Chávez.


7. Haiti – February 28, 2004

U.S. financed and backed the coup against Haiti’s elected President Jean-Bertrand Aristide February 28, 2004, opening a period of chaos and occupation by MINUSTAH troops.


8. Honduras – June 28, 2009

U.S. financed and backed the coup against Honduras’ elected President Manuel Zelaya June 28, 2009 — under Obama’s watch, attacking and reversing gains of agrarian reform and other social democracy policies under Zelaya.


9. Egypt – Now

The ubiquitous pattern for the US govt. ‘style’ of civil disorder (coup leading to a junta) to foster a deep state is flourishing in #Egypt, under the El-Sisi/Sawiris/Mubarak redox. Over 21,000+ pro-democracy partisans are in jail including children along withaward winning journalists, and members, sympathizers, and leaders of the Muslim Brotherhood (MB), including the deposed elected President, Dr. Mohamed Morsi.

The rule of law has vanished as a corrupted judicial arm proceeds to hand down death sentences by the hundreds after two-hour trials. The Anti-coup movement continues to protest even with the military/police marching onto university campuses and a concerted crackdown by the junta to wipe out the MB.

If Egypt, on the balls of its arse now propped up by the highest bidder[13] degenerates into a full-blown civil war, it is predicted the region – Middle East North Africa (MENA) will shortly unravel into splinters be a wildfire of implosions. Many contend the US Govt. is at the bulls-eye of the daily encompassing disasters reeling throughout the land by the Nile because of its allegiance to Israel and the desert princes (Sauds). Puppet of the junta, Abdel-Fattah ElSisi was trained and educated in America, at a military war college.



It is with a heaving heart and battered soul I submit this information. Sitting inside or velcro’d to the outside bubble of the American body politic arena, I learned a trio of acrimonious lessons:

            1) Stupidity is rampant;

            2) Herd mentality rules; and

            3) An overwhelming number of humans have neither balls nor ovaries powerful enough to standup to repression as acted out                 by authority. Like spent palms in a hurricane, folks bend over and take the subjugation rather than work in solidarity to over                 turn the chain-link of despicable events. There are exceptions. Yet, active movements of justice and freedom (Occupy,                           Robinhood Tax), at least in America, seep so far underground they disappear off the radar.

 (To Be Continued)

[1] http://www.publichealth.va.gov/exposures/depleted_uranium/

[2] http://web.worldbank.org/WBSITE/EXTERNAL/COUNTRIES/LACEXT/0,,contentMDK:22500340~pagePK:146736~piPK:146830~theSitePK:258554,00.html

[3] http://www.iadb.org/en/inter-american-development-bank,2837.html 

[4] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nicaraguan_Revolution

[5] http://www2.gwu.edu/~nsarchiv/NSAEBB/NSAEBB4/

[6] http://www.pbs.org/newshour/updates/latin_america-jan-june11-timeline_03-07/

[7] http://www.cfr.org/sanctions/list-sanctioned-countries/p13084

[8] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1964_Brazilian_coup_d’%C3%A9tat 

[9] http://www.washingtonpost.com/world/the_americas/as-brazil-marks-50th-anniversary-of-the-coup-more-people-open-up-about-the-dictatorship/2014/03/30/ea259678-b6ae-11e3-8cc3-d4bf596577eb_story.html

[10] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Augusto_Pinochet

[11] http://travel.nationalgeographic.com/travel/countries/argentina-facts/

[12] http://www.theguardian.com/world/2002/apr/21/usa.venezuela

[13] http://english.ahram.org.eg/NewsContent/1/64/101742/Egypt/Politics-/Egypts-ElSisi-meets-with-Saudi-Prince-Bin-Talal.aspx


Rats under Beds as Jungian Analyses?

A buddy, Peter Ludovico, served time in #Leavenworth after convicted of various crimes associated with the RICO Act. Behind bars inside a stone and stoned federal prison Peter learned how to paint ‘art’ from another political prisoner, #Leonard Peltier.


Peter got out of prison after about 14 years, and he continued to use oils to express himself plus he group founded a club called the Goodfellows of Long Island, New York. These talented men found cars forgotten and destroyed by societal norms gone amuck and turned these wrecks into trippy hot-rods. The stories of the cars are more than symbolic of the life stories of the guys.


Leonard remains in prison because he is an outspoken Native American leader who the govt. cannot abide having him raise consciousness on the Rez, and off. All-hail-piss-on the fascist state making sure the Redskins play football but not tell truths to kids in the fourth grade in Gringolandia traveling to soccer games via Cherokee SUVs.


I am friends with Leonard, in the social media swarm, today. Some years ago, Peter and I personally met after he started his life over, in the outside, free to be. The specifics of this sidebar are not shared. I was a NYU Law trained private attorney’s wife (now widow) with a vowel on the end of my married name, too.


Pete and I established our relationship based on me being called Doll this, and Doll that. We drove around in one of Peter’s latest hot rod creations eating lunch at starred restaurants discussing his website, twin adult boys, and his Irisher wife’s steadfastness. Why do married men exhibit an incessant need to tell me about their wives?


Peter’s NYC streetwise style, incredible raspy mobster voice, and larger than death attitude engendered the finest in service when we dined out together, never Dutch because, “Ole school is bout da respect, Doll.”


Between car restorations, Peter had a mini-gig working as an advisor to the TV series, The Sopranos. During an autumn leafy day in upstate NY, the director asked Pete to show an actor in tow how to use a baseball bat. Peter’s performance got a little too real deal and scared the rep from the Actors Guild (SAG) to the tipping point he threw-up on the set, in several spots, as he bolted for safety from Scene-Five, Take-One.


One luscious summer Saturday evening in The Hamptons, Peter and I attended a gallery opening of Leonard’s artwork in Southampton, NY, (an old money enclave going hedge fund haven). Here Peter and I stood with our Italian Sparkling waters (his contribution), me Scottish-lady sipping and him Mafioso-slurping from the venue’s rented champagne glasses. We watched the parade of the non-brave in their latest summer season duds. We discussed, too loudly, Leonard from a highly prisoner personal point of view few knew, including Leonard’s devoted family. The fundraiser was a success for several reasons including the possibility of it doubling as a laundry?


There were other Native American leaders from AIM (America Indian Movement) present to lend an imbalance to the Pilgrims and wanabee Euro trash in attendance. The handsome warrior star of the teardrop ad campaign was not present, but others more real and certainly not co-opted stood unlike cigar Indians around the gallery. They sported no overt regalia but dressed more for a few rounds of golf at the nearby snooty Shinnecock (famous traditional Scottish moors style golf course) except for Eagle feathers woven in long double braids and beads strung of wampum and bear teeth proudly displayed around the strong neck of authentic braves.


I like the vibes of sober Indians, because I spent a summer at karma purgatory. While inside the gates of hell, I worked as a crisis intervention worker on the Hoopa Indian rez – the turf of Big Foot. In our vain attempts to defuse the combo insanity of firewater and black beauties (speed) my other agenda was upping the ante for a doctorate in humanistic Jungian radical psychology. My goal was to become an Art Therapist for the walking wounded under the age of 10 years.


Call me a selfish bitch? Yet, I challenge you to disarm a screaming family holding deer knives at the throats of each other inside a rotting trailer of squalor overrun with broken every things while the Bee Gees’s Melody Fair blasted away thumping their Aussie inferno beat stuck in a warped eight-track.


Back to the past present – Peter’s paintings were flashy illustrations about what happened to him as an Italian kid in Harlem who ended up as a crew boss for one of the NY mob families. Peter ran after-four AM nightclubs for the bigga Boss, and other stuff.


My forever-favorite painting of Peter’s is a courtroom scene where the parties are fairy tale cartoon characters, oversized, rendered in high detail in a rich palette of dissonant colors. Below the hardwood floor and under the chairs and tables we see gigantic rats with head portraits particular to those who had ratted-out Peter, the Boss, and others. Unless you knew the players, the rats were more dressing than main meal.


The judge was a looming giant kangaroo with a white wig fashioned of dangling dead roaches, sniggled teeth, and hundred dollar bills. The District Attorney was an even larger rendition appearing as Daffy Duck whose gigantic orange webbed feet seemed to be standing in pools of blood and guts. DA Daffy’s protruding left wing was a grotesque hook pawing at the courtroom air space as if in 3-D.


Peter portrayed himself in this milieu as a respectful Timber Wolf wearing a bride-white sheepskin suit tailored by Armani. He was sitting calmly behind the defense counsel’s table with the rats sniffing his Italian pointy shoes. Pete’s bebop tie was migrating Monarch butterflies gathered, resting. The defense counsel was a team of wooden soldiers armed with laser swords.


The jury sat high up the canvas behind an1880’s style fern bar with faces and bodies rendered as various characters from childhood horror stories yet distorted with expressions so out of it they reminded me of the girls in Island Records’s music video, Addicted to Love.


I am sharing this because I wish Peter were here to paint the board of directors of the Council on Foreign Relations (#CFR), in executive session.


In my revolutionary politically sideways view from the cheap seats, I envision #Hillary as Francis the Talking Mule with too many facelifts. Her comrade is #Kerry as a gawky giraffe wearing camo boxers carrying under his limber leg a gigantic squeeze bottle of Heinz catsup with the cap as his wife’s bobbing head. Yet, this ménage a tois floats above the other characters sporting extended wings made of mini-drones instead of feathers. Gases as blue flames are spurting from Hillary’s breasts and burnt American flags and white crosses are flaming out of Kerry’s Boston Brahmin arse.


Moving on, the jerks below sitting at the horseshoe conference table are faces you will never recognize. They are mega-corporate overseers whose meta-special interests from piss stream media to investments to the gun trade of producing stealth war machines are basically not in our world view of skew news. Unless you belong to a too private snooty field club or your family has at least eight second home homesteads worth hundreds of millions you will not recognize these folks. This lot spends hundreds of thousands in payola in what I term ‘reverse PR’ – to insure they and their families remain nameless and faceless.


Abduction and holding policy ransom conferences are what they do to our rights and freedoms. Consequently, they prefer no public identity. In fact, they are over-privileged. Resident on their iPads are contact numbers for Interpol (in various languages) and the current season’s haute couture designers along with a favored inside trader in tune with the week’s latest debacle/invasion on foreign soil. War is profit margins on the digital field of battle stock trades and merger and acquisitions in the boardroom. Such shared secrets are married to each other like mute Siamese twins.


Of course, these leaders of the non-free world rise way above the undulating heap of humanity slaving away to raise families, pay mortgages and taxes, and make a little extra for their smarty kids to attend any ivy league university (like what happened to me).


What is revolting (or should be) is how these valueless back channelers are as power-makers behind thrones of faked democracies, nepotism monarchies, and several real operating juntas (definitely include #Egypt). Too busy with global war economy bunker-bombing and droning while rescuing feigned kidnapped girls thousands of innocent die and are tortured anywhere in MENA, and beyond. Their ABC/Reuters report no facts leaving you and me to tell others WTF is actually taking place, everywhere.


Throw in Earth destructo-derbys to ferret out (read more is never enough) natural wonders while watching (in person) California Chrome win the Kentucky Derby, wire-to- wire, we note a typical day in the non-life of the bigga worms in charge.


How they got and get to rule over the Sheeple worm farm is a blistering Jungian analysis for another installment, Prof A. Yet, in a personal campaign to behead same by naming them – including their latest unpublished selfies, trumped up bios, and actual contact numbers with emails – more will be revealed.


Rats under your bed, or scurrying around a courtroom, are live-feed ire-symbolic statements not to be ignored. Choice of removal for the vermin varies, depending on climate and impending timeframes necessary to be free from the corrupting intruders.


Rats come in packs as we learned from Frank Sinatra and Vegas movies. One must move quickly to put down the point guard to not be over run by an impending gnawing rat stampede in unity singing and dancing, My Way.


Rice rats, roof rats, and field mice have attempted over the last seven years in Alfombra (not Tibet) to take siege of the mini-kitchen. This fourteen foot-high ceiling region is patrolled by an expanding troop of geckos. Reptilian in nature, the lizards take no prisoners consuming moths, roaches, flies, and other insectoids if they dare enter the geckos’ munchie zone. Rats are not on their menu. Occasionally a feeding frenzy occurs on the cement sand finished walls above the kitchen counters. A scurry flurry over an invasion of Mayan stingless bees pushes up the number of geckos present. The battle begins with one, then three, and jumps to six to end with nine geckos of different shapes and color patterns working out a solution who eats what, when, and where. Too frantic, tails of relatives are bitten off to sprout again – such an adaption.


My first rat appeared one late evening peering over the door. The Little Temple on the Mt. cabina is open under the eaves. The visiting rat’s appearance activated black Cocker Spaniel Dewey to go into attack mode. After three nights of Dewey stakeouts, the rice rat decided to go for it and catapulted him/her self from the top edge of the closed door onto iron racks sitting over the stainless steel stove’s top. Dewey could not see his prey, but he could smell it getting closer. The deaf rat now in frozen mode waited while silent Dewey also waited. It was silent movie mammalian Mexican standoff.


I watched snuggled behind mosquito netting on the Bali-style bed with a direct view of the mini-kitchenette. This space is illuminated with four psychedelic LED lights I purchased from IKEA. I might be straight and sober, but this does not mean I do not appreciate a light show as a nightlight.


More unimportant Intel: I was an organic snotty chef in another life. Yet, I no longer need a huge food arena to produce tasty treats. Thus, I have no problem having sleeping quarters not separate from a food prep area. Such open space design will probably shock my sister-in-law, if she dares to visit the wilds of Finca Vigia.


After what seemed too many chapters of reading a book, the rat really went for it. He/she leaped from the top of the stove towards a three-tiered hanging basket of hushed avocadoes, fragrant garlic, bagged dog treats, and Elizabeth Arden glossy red colored peppers. Miscalculating his/her landing, Dewey pounced and adroitly administered his death bite onto the rat’s neck as it bounced onto the terracotta-tiled floor.


Proudly Dewey retired to his sleeping basket satisfied he had finished his workweek. I took a paper towel and administered retrieval while wearing a headlight carrying Dewey’s trophy out to the veranda. I pitched the limp body over the bamboo railing into the vast darkish jungle below. The idea of immediate organic composting is learned local jungle knowledge. Within minutes, zillions of certain classified voracious ants will consume anything with warm blood as long as it has no breath.


Today, I sleep on a different bed. I moved the Bali-style king-sized bed out to the bamboo cabina I call Bali-Who. A husband dying next to you at 4 AM in the morning during the setting of a full moon demanded certain rearrangements. The latest bed is modern in style. It is a Wenge wood platform bed with a memory foam mattress, too low to the floor but truly stylish for a jungle hermitage. The only stuff this bed traps under it – doggie hair dust bunnies. Any lurid rats are imaginary or sending Troll notes on Twitter?


Dewey moved onto the big rat hunt in the sky, while I was away, two times ago. I sorely miss his sweetie pie security protections. He provided a rat/mouse free interior environment in exchange for cuddling during thunder and lightning storms. Events like these where the boomers are beyond brash rattle the roof over our heads. It is frightening if at the same time an earthquake occurs. Such localized planetary disturbances cause the entire gecko army to retreat to safer accommodations between the bamboo inner roof and the outer metal roof.


Today, during increasing global warming deluges Marlena, my trained German girl canine, finds refuge glued to me. Snooky Pants Robalo, a rescue from a rescue, takes to his safety digs, his rattan basket. Because of his street smarts (not unlike Peter the Painter), he exhibits no fear of storms outside. Yet, Snooky is agoraphobic and cannot go out from the cabina unless accompanied by gorgeous guard dog Marlena.


I interject doggie stories to inform you I am not totally against the millions of cat and dog Menes on Fedbook.


At night, none of us ventures outside from the safety of the cabina. Most of what is naturally happening is taking place during the dark hours in the rainforest. This is not to say there is not an immense amount of constant going on during daylight hours. Here at latitude nine on the Monkey’s Bridge we survive with 12-hours of daylight and 12-hours of starlight interspersed with moons scary-larger every 28 days. Nearing full wax, moonlight offers so much off-world radiance across this section of the spaceship the entire tropical landscape turns into an impressionistic deep violet purple and lavender vision. Such a romancing is as surreal as a painting by Peter, but without human faces on rats or crazy corrupt characters deciding one’s fate.


If you identify with my blabbering, may your gentle life from this point into a possible future become soul food jazzy inside a rat-less abode. Further, I wish for you simple satisfactions while watching moonlight cha-cha across an expanse of newfound freedoms, within and without.


From elegant less is always far-out beautifully more (modified Hippie girl talk), I offer true to life non-fixation writings for those suffering from the tyranny of power mongers. What is prior or yet to be is not an escape hatch, but a micro peace offering for our plight.


Humanity deserves a re-boot even with the atrocities we wreck havoc upon each other, the wild creatures, and this glorious third rock from the sun. At times, I realize my crystalized cynical rants are tough to chew-on. Yet, I ask for your consideration. Not because I relish your acceptance, rather I see no other way out a Moriches Inlet* for emotional well being than nailing it, the way I see it.


Ya know, what I mean, Barry? Right or left politics makes no difference in manifestation.


The way out is through a maze of our own Maya. Jung taught me the living constancy of intimacy. Life clarified naïve me not to fear authority or buy into bull corn bubbling up from my Scottish sea captain gene pool. The whole act could be over with a cosmic strike of a Yucatan-sized asteroid, a small piercing bite to the throat, a rogue wave in high seas, or an earthquake registering a 9 for too long.



Being the Teflon Dona

Earlier this evening I was told I am taking orders from London and I am irrelevant – meaning I work for the Muslim Brotherhood (MB) and no one reads me anyway. I do not work for the MB. As to my social media readership I started with zero, The core goal is not to engender marketing stats. I know something about marketing communications as I was a VP of Creative Services for JWT, one of the largest ad agencies on the planet. I left JWT because even with a 22nd floor corner office, the view was getting putrid and my soul was being speared to death, centimeter by centimeter.

The only orders I took was when I owned and operated our organic espresso cafe in Westhampton Beach, NY – Cafe HeBird SheBird. I am not good with orders and probably why I was a creative director in a field of endeavor few have a clue or a view.

Then, ImageI went free-lance. I paddled by kayak along and rafted up when projects were underway and fought with those above me to maintain integrity of creatives and their concepts. Some would whine and others would threaten or attempt put downs. I stood my ground as a professional not allowing personal stabs to my gut, side or back to bother me while acting like a shield to the sensitive ones on staff (practically everyone in creative). 

Earlier today, on Twitter I tweeted a short opinion of a blog about #Egypt. The blogger and a guy who has written a book on the Egyptian revolution personally slammed me in their tweets as someone with an IQ of 60. My response was to lay low and then launch tweets about professionalism and ethics in journalism. 

When people take an evaluation of their political ‘punditizing’ as a personal attack they suffer from a weak ego and lack necessary components to a basic human kindly foundation, at least this is my life experience. 

I use to tell people when I worked as a free-lancer in Manhattan I have been rejected by the best. Some folks get my left coast joke and others do not. It serves as its own evaluative sifter. 

The gist of this post is some people are so insecure they act out by projecting their fear onto another via personal attacks. Usually folks of this ilk lack serious reflective time doing the work of watchfulness bringing about honed maturity in deed and word. Sometimes being mood altered screws up their perceptions. 

Raising the bar of appropriate human conduct is not an assignment I seek. Persons who do not know me who fling out petty comments about the level of my IQ – well, it says far more about them, than it does me, BE.

My job is to shift and slog through what is out there, in a timely basis, to keep the pedal to the metal to offer a colorization and perspective original to my set of values. 

I am beyond grateful for role models and mentors who were spectacular human beings. Their sense of honor, innate acuity about life and problem solving quotient led me to believe human interaction no matter if in a love relationship or foreign policy follows identical tenants. And, I not talking about neo-con soaps of moralistic hyperbole. It goes back to what my mother taught me as regards the mettle of a person. Strength is based on right action, humility, compassion, and taking a stand against injustice and inequality. Not an edge or a pinpoint of inner resolve is gained by stepping on the back or toe of another living entity, and that includes Earth. 

Smart Phone App for Peace?

One more tear in the ocean of no peace – No smart phone app for this, yet.

In answer to a query earlier today: Yes, every icon petard I post (see below) from birds to ancient art and contemporary graphics to lists of make believe political parties in #Egypt has meaning deeper than its honeymoon consideration. 

I am not a K-Mart blue light special blinking and blinging wisdom. Even those absorbed and infatuated with kitty kat photos are delivering a message of neo-import if one is willing to view the world through aging eyes. Be kind, allow me an admission you will not throw up in my mug at a later date – my energy axis is bent by a non-working thyroid melted down by nukes (and Owsley outlaw laboratories) providing an upside refraction (read not reflection) few understand or seek. Here take this bite of my apple. I am a small jungle tree on a wind swept slope. My fruit is in the shape of wings.

We each have our specific presence in civilization’s (your word Sherif El-Hakim, not mine) comedic drama. I prefer to stand near those with a humor bone and a creative light burning away deception, stupidity, and the suffering of others. Folks on my bucket list are those who intrinsically possess what my mother labeled, mettle. 

My teeth gnash away tearing through what is happening to help build an ark of awareness. Why? Dunno. Except for a preferred selection of our species, my general regard for fellow humans is lower than Exxon drilling off the west coast of Africa.

I hold nada counsel with the yogi, those who think killing yourself using smack makes you a cosmic wunderkind (thinking Alan Watts here) to dote on, or a cyber list serv of wannabes longer than various fake political parties of #Egypt or the two-headed monster ruling America. 

I am a humble scribe beamed in from a temple so long ago it apparently has no GPS coordinates. Birds are my teachers. Love is effusive and too illiterate unless it arrives in music or art or poetry or literature or cinema or faith or nature. My refuge in the rainforest is ideal. Golden war machines and fat greedy egos are better Swiss cheesed with words from a cyber-ized persona hiding under a remote canopy Google Earth has not uploaded since 2001. 

The total wormy pucks sitting in the hallows of injustices will never surrender to their insanity and stop war. Trust me on this one. We can post gorgeous pictures and conspiracy watches and pathways to the Buddha up our ying yangs in social media. It will be nothing but self-absorbed dribble to push off impending global madness. 

What must happen (again trust me on this one). If we actually seek to honor ourselves and Earth with enough mettle (there is that word again), to prefer peace and brotherhood and sisterhood and babyhood and animalhood and livinghood and planethood, the fix is easy. Stop picking up war machines and donning camo slavery duds. Simply walk away from the killing fields (including day trading) by going AWOL as the world army for the arseholes.

Social liberals go on inside way too many intellectual and social engineering venues about the holy significance of empowerment. How stakeholders need to empower themselves to accomplish their goals of justice, freedom and bread. I am veteran of these wars. So far, no go. The sea change is not happening. (See #Egypt, #Syria#Iraq#Detroit#Ukraine#Sudan, and so forth).

Without one single Peru vine vision, or prophetic pinch of my left butt cheek, I offer the opposite. Stop empowering the system of the status quo murderers. Ignore them by boycotting their products, their attitudes, their lies, their wars, their politics, their infestations, their media, their linkage to your brain, your hearts, and your shriveling pocketbooks. 

Reach across the micro-divide of the meta-matrix and become friends with persons who do not speak your language without acting out some asinine agenda. Emotionally and spiritually we are are the same helix. The miracle of the Internet is ours, not the jerks at the NSA or CIA.

If you want to believe in the divine pattern, okey dokey, yet for Earth’s and humankind’s precious sake, do not try and foist your religiosity on anyone. Be your own shaman. Pray your heart out but do not wage war against anyone who is not of your faith’s ilk, Follow the universal creed of the golden rule. Inside this universal genie of human compassion is the code to survival and redemption. 

In the meantime create smart phone apps for peace, for Occupy, for participatory democracy, for human rights, for love, for kindness, for paying it forward, for boycotting the war mongers, for incoming drones, for emergency medical assistance, for whistleblowing, for Earth watching, for life giving, for the oceans, for architecture, art, crafts, and music, for ancient wisdoms, and so forth, and for God, if this is your calling. 

The revolution is this simple. Trust me on this one. Your grand children and great grand children will be actualized in a peaceable kingdom where war no longer exists. 

Lay down your prejudice, your insecurities, your fears, your arms and turn away from the insanity of the nut job deviants who would sacrifice us, themselves, and Earth to meet their quarterly profit margin. Come on, you know who said this first (hint: give me your bla bla). I am rewriting it in reverse in contemporary vernacular in my normal whimper.

You wanna know what’s up with me Doc? I am a sappy ole fashioned American who believes in this:


Tick tock. Tick tock.

Tom Hayden emailed me, I am a great writer, now what?

A comment I repeated when roaring around insider Silly City, Washington, DC., “I think i am beginning to get this town. There are at max. 25 players on the field with no referees. The cast of thousands in the stands and the arena are made out of sticky paper mache. Circulating overhead are blimps of slathering lobbyists pelting down frog pelts (money) to put out fires of public awareness, freedom, and justice.” 

Needless to say my cocktail hour to luncheon jibe was not particularly successful in generating a life-long cartel of trusted DC sources. No matter where I went, or whom I spoke with, the same core lot came up on the wheel dancing the marionettes. Eventually, I decided my goal in life was to find one decent, honest, brave, independent free-thinking elected by the people (and not special interests) public servant. All hail testy positive news!

Hiding in this guy/gal’s leaky boat’s backwash I would concentrate my story lines around such an unique individual. You know the end of the non-epic tale. Three brutal winters pouring bland lattes over icy bushes in chic Georgetown while smooching and munching inside overheated red, blue, and no pink parlor politics the road never attempted – came to a hellacious halt. I exhausted myself and several pairs of Italian high heels and second hand cocktail dresses. My return on a self-inflicted fart finding forensic was nada (nothing). 

Trudging the hallows of the unholy capitol and related orifices and troughs not one elected public servant popped up sans a dirty oil burnt crust and/or layers of peeling corporate veneer. IT was then I decided to take a long summer Cheasapeake sail and consider the meaning of America gone cuckoo. None noticed or seemed to give a crap. 

Shortly, thereafter, I made a career tack toward an Earth-filled reality with few consequences – politically or socially. I started doing image marketing for a maritime museum (The Hamptons, NY) which somehow led to becoming a landscape designer active in local politics and finally – designing, building, and owning (God knows why) operating the first organic espresso house in NY. Going small is beautiful, planting pretties for birdies, and making magic with organic dirt and tasty fair trade coffee seemed viable. It was a happy time alternative to trying to jump over mega monuments in American politics. 

Beyond the snooze news, today, I sense what I flick out into the ethers makes contact yet not much spark. Strange of late is how taking a loquacious stand for freedom is applauded by an expanding group of unrelated Arabs and Egyptians, Egyptologists, Himalayan birders, a couple of far fetched Canadians, and a five finger handful of retired Americans. Who knew my quest would go international, global, or mostly MENA? 

Any engaging audience in my home country has not dwindled. Rather, it has vanished as folks are busy tending IRAs or backyard chickens and front yard veggie gardens. Much of the effluent pumping out as political social commentary (I peruse while munching on mangoes) is awful tweak, sh*tty-written, and boring as doing a broad reach in the doldrums (sailor talk). 

When I keyboard, Never Give Up, Never Give In, I am elbowing my own third eye? Did I find an honest politician? Yes, a keeper. I married the classy brilliant angler lawyer dude and now am proud to be his surviving widow. 

Somedays, not all days, I know Capt. Arthur Esq. (and/or his legacy of service above self) releases me from an emotional dungeon festooned with midnight chats with my muse. I keep hearing Arthur standing at the wheel of the Sea ‘N Aye Dog calmly offering, “Stay the course, Bon. Keep your eyes on the horizon. A safe harbor is near.” Hoopoe, my muse, lights the way by making me laugh like thrusters on the bow of a boat.

Surrounded by God’s jungle, fantastic green and Pacific views with two sleepy dogs, constant buzzing and bird tweets, and mucho monkeys there is time to write with zip zero interruptions. I burped and bitched this for eons, “When will I get to write what I want?” 

Ya know the one, be careful what you wish for, eh?


My Egyptian Wing at Hotel California

The difference between Islam and Gringolandia is not as complicated as blabbered via the telly or in piddle stream media or by way of an academic class of #MENA pundits pedaling the latest in rounds of dis-information, stupidity, and blatant back channeling.

During the last three years, I observed my friends in social media fall into a category no one on Earth is tracking.  I am connecting to people who follow the faith of Islam.  Until recently, my estimated reason for the why of these friendships is I simply report on #Egypt.  Today, the LEDs went into a spin-cycle of color patterns any 1977 disco would have gladly installed to enhance Saturday night fever.

Friendships with the followers of Islam are certainly non-serendipitous – although I never say never because God’s humor is superior.  Do to my daily digestive researching input and subsequent flittering output regarding Egypt I appeal to English speaking creatives of the land by the Nile.  You can take the 60s freedom seeking revolutionary out of the fracas but the freedom freak revolutionary remains a prickly pinpoint on the small screen?

Yet, as time slugs along a buoyant doggedness layers an inspiring air to my Islam-based friendships.  Viola!  We, even with experiences swirling from diverse universes, are both sober and clean.  We soberly – sometimes with funny one-liners – discuss issues and communicate.  There is almost no mood altering substance drifting like Chinese killer smog over our connections.

An intrinsic poetic nature of learned Egyptians along with a genetic predisposition to be unfettered in emotion and opinion is to my cynical liking.  It was setup by my brother marrying (circa 1977?) into a Lebanese brain trust with an intersecting Egyptian gene pool.  In-between a Christian minority majority of five prayers per day is a societal dignity beyond western colonizing comprehension.  While many review our western Protestant work ethic as planetary hip, it is in fact, funky rue.


Fetching a dimension of additional clarity, not all my Egyptian buddies are moderated practitioners and scholars of one of the trefoil Abrahamic faiths.  A couple of my cyber buds are pot smoking seculars with one in particular a diabetic in alcoholic denial, or vice a versa.  As I am a recovering addict and alcoholic closing in on 29 years of sobriety, I, of course, tenderly gravitate toward dysfunctional Egyptians.

An Egyptian man whose plaintive social media postings support his sanely insane trap in a circumstance making purgatory look good  is one of my favored and valued sources.  This politico refugee wrote his suicidal short story 14 years ago while looking down on the Nile from his high-rise ormolu apartment.  He is a seer of what will be in Egypt.  My dear friend collects Egypt’s sociological remnants and has done so for decades, yet the last few years he collects via his YouTube channel and Fedbook page.  In his hard drives and memory is a lifestyle he fashioned as a self-made business guru and raging hedonist.  The prior life is today dust in the White Desert while the later is not a cyber fantasy.

Although there is statistical improbability, my oracle political-slugging friend unwittingly started me on this journey of knowing the loving followers of Islam.  I made a statement somewhere on the web about my buddy the prophet’s amazing alabaster LED art.  He invariably sent me a blind chat via Fedbook, opening a door for our exploration of a deep diving alliance.  He is in his bell chamber in South America.  I am a Costa Rican jungle hermit, the widow on the jungle hill, with panoramic views, monkeys for neighbors, birds as teachers, and clouds for cover from Google mapping.

In my Egyptian friend’s wandering abyss and my predictable ignorance, our intensifying rapport is an ancient fortress for a smorgasbord of mutual understandings.  Chat by chat we lay a stonework for me to know other astute creatives who are Egyptian.  Because you are typical Americans you probably know no one who is from MENA or in MENA, or what MENA, the acronym stands for – I offer a whitey primer on Egyptians.  Educated Egyptians are the utmost creative, talented, seductive, intellectual, craft-driven, worldly, scholarly, and super polite people on the planet.  They are also beyond jealous of someone else’s camels, Arabian horses, ideas, tales, and emotions.  They are centered in a worldview of desert poetry, whirling music, and roses sprinkled with jasmine and the blue lotus.  The Nile and the ancients are their wellspring.

You bet cowgirl my mother’s Rosicrucian mystical leanings and a vague possibility I would become a curator of ancient art attract my hard drive to the Land of the Nile and its inhabitants.  Yet, there is another layer to the siren calling. When I communicate with Egyptians, male or female – they get me, and I in return get them.  Who knew?

Writers need a readership, no matter if one, 323 on YouTube, 860 on Fedbook, or millions, who relate/identify to the writer via stories, read.  Abstinence is not a handy cloaking device for most writers.  While writing inside sobriety, wonders come forth.  These attributes arrive as true to one’s self-assuredness, and clear headedness.  There is an unsaid willingness to listen and follow (highly signatory) a story to its climatic, or not, conclusion.  The basic requisite to creatively act with compassion, brutal honesty, quick intuitive analysis, and moderate humility is inborn not artificially instilled. Writing is of the same seed.

Channeling and scribing is not a joke.  I mean I regularly yoke this joke yet it exactly describes my writing.  I sit here at my MacBook laptop or Korean android with no pre-conception or wanting.  What flows are essential to my well-being in hopes I suppose wispy aerial seeds land and take root somewhere near yours, dear reader.

Secrets are the foregone inclusion of Egypt.  The ancient cultures left you and I with too many clues, and not enough.  Our current vast array of tech tools, expanding brain and cyber networking, and an unending passion to uncover the past (to not repeat its human horrors?) pulls us along a faceted linkage of nether awakenings.

Egypt is a mystery, a place, a culture, and a geo-political state that also resides in millions of hearts who have never been there (maybe in former lives?), and if so, only as 30-day tourists.  Droves of humanity trooping around and in pyramids, boating the Nile, standing in awe in chambers 6,000+ years old are pulsed by a feeling the Sphinx is essentially their personal icon.

Magical thinking is not necessarily a negative viewed from the Hubble telescope or waiting in line at a checkout desk in Lord and Taylor considering the meaning of life holding chic garments and an armful of votive candles.  We are human.  We are overwhelmed by wonders if for no other causation because our wonky spirit senses something grander than ego.  A prerequisite experiencing an epiphany sober is an acceptance of the mythical unknown materializing in the here and now.  For those who only find the rickety pathway to a new improved download to life by an upload via a sacred vine I laugh.  Not out of righteousness or a need to play one-upmanship.

Religious experience, the doorways to perception, finding oneness, seeing God, being re-booted happens for the residents of Hotel California in hours and once addicted these minted betas keep taping the lever for one more hit. For those bathed by a religiosity where prayer, study, and memorizing translate into a honest-driven culture where nobody charges interest, where nature is God’s gift, where sacred texts are illuminated inside hearts while helping brothers and sisters extending into concentrated circles of right action – well, it is a not a distinction of decrees nor methodology.

Do not presuppose I am thumbing my homey Napa Valley girl culture and going camel wild for MENA.  I am not covert converting to anything.  I am merely standing in my regular too wordy cornfield.  Here scanning a 360-view, I discovered a life-affirming stable of folks who are sober and clean with sweet hearts and astute brains that hail from the land of the Nile, not AA/NA groups.  Who knew?

Those who contend Ibogaine cures heroin addiction and pot gets them off crack and Ayahuasca brings maturity enlightenment I offer this not as a lecture or a Ms. Know-it-all.  Please take down your shields in this singular likely ineffective intervention.  I took a lot of Owsley LSD, ate peyote milkshakes, and puffed up opium soaked hash as if every day was my last day getting high.  I have a valid perspective of been there and done way too much of that in my flaky, five-act play with its somber prologue to find God.  Consider this writing an echoing schematic from the top of the mountain 5,000 miles from the paisley undulating landscape of colors, shapes, forms, and bliss.  I am calm from solemnity the path of peace set my course.

Prayer, maybe going to Mecca (Dunno, never been there), living a life very real, not mood-altered surviving on leftovers or a wished for encounter of the spirit life is a working stability thousands of years old.  Taking magical natural drugs to instantly get there (read on) while skipping over the shaking out of life is aberration disguised as self-awareness.  Druggie hallucinatory events may break open an emotive intellectual logjam yet what keeps a soul in balance is daily practice of being in a state of sober well-being.  For me, such soul gravity is writing, communing with birds, expressing my inner caca, and meditation while under no induced drug.  I have mediated my stage presence since the age of 18 years.  After three years sober and clean (8/8/1988), it morphed into a 28/9 clear satiated consciousness.  I take no credit. What defeats my spiritual Linus blanket is firing up the body/mind/spirit with bad combos of food stuffs, letting my brother get under my skin, not sleeping well, or succumbing to an incessant drive to get you dear reader to value working for freedom over posting kitty kat memes.

Balance is an odd set of scales for any human.  What we put on one side of the weigh bridge compared to the other is never learned in years of being mood altered.  It is daily understood with diligent installments of surrendering to sobriety be it through practiced faith, a 12-step fellowship, the miracle of grace, or some rockin’ combo.  I know almost nothing and why I keep paddling my kayak toward the waterfall of knowledge draped by jasmine.

What is curious about the followers of Islam I meet is they see sobriety as not a goal.  It is another part of the way, period, end of discussion.  An acceptance of God’s will rather than one deployed by humankind and/or nadakind is a given.  Extremists inside any faith are like every nut job on Earth – riddled with bullets in their hearts. These sad cases are desperate for an illusion trolling for justification. I edit these mistaken fallacies and stick with the winners.  It is about people, places, and things – trigger points.

I offer friends who join ‘sacred’ druggie circles on a regular basis one challenge.  Go one year without taking your preferred drug, or any others.  If you cannot be absent from the lure and allure then you have taken not a room at Hotel California, you have booked a wing.  Ring for room service and your next smoothie of drugged reality is delivered.

For those who see clearly I am sorry to report there is a whole she and he bang of drug dealers. Most of these black barred souls are not living in Mexico as drug lords rather they attend Envision (recent Costa Rica drugged Bacchus event) and other faked orgasms of living.

Breaks my heart into a cosmic field of energy yet it could be our species is doomed by its own dopey doing. Our species swept up by ever more consumption of drugs (be mind expansion, medical marijuana, or happy pills), accepted slave states, and where more is never enough in goods. The suffering we deliver each other in the name of the empire is the norm (Syria, Egypt, Gaza, Detroit, and so forth). In addition any operating drug culture is a lurid mistake the empire is so pleased with today. The rulers are making it legal, a tax collection, and prodigious.

When the day of reckoning arrives, and some portend it is peeking out from behind the sun (or maybe Jupiter), my hope is to stand up, not be forced to bow down.  Petite in stature looking at life squarely with courage derived not from a drugged state, within or without govt. organized, I plead to accept our karma.  My preferred insight, while holding hands with a cadre seeing the whole deal without stoned lens, is we move to the next plane.  Anything else may be more of the matching crapola Americans and a certain flash of Euros are famous for – subsisting as elitist escape artists.

To those whose sobriety is fashioned from Islam or the 12 steps or some an unknown sober well-spring I cannot begin to thank you enough.  To those hiding within an enabled enticement of drug inducements – grow the f**k up.  A Kiddieland of repeatedly getting high is childish self-absorption our species can no longer endure.  You are prey for the slave state because your non-reality perception is askew imitating a primitive’s worldview. Dropping out, stoned, secures the slave state and another 50 footballs of Amazonia jungle are eliminated (every second).

A conceptual howdy duty is a wondrous perspective if you are a native shaman in the Amazon. Yet, it is an absurd level of active denial if you are a Gringo of sacred circles.  You wonder why round-eyed blood prodigies are drug addicts slipping into insanity?  Karma is a bitch.

Stoner sheeple are more dangerous than smack addicts on Wall Street.  Why?  At least the jerks selling voracity are not claiming and selling the next trendy cure for humanity.  The arbitrage greed-masters wield only as much power as we buy from them.  Can you hear the drum roll?

To the kind-hearted followers of Islam who provide art designed perspectives and softly spoken critiques please pray for borderless western, eastern, northern, and southern enlightenment that is bloodless and drug-free.

If I have offended anyone taking drugs, and/or using ‘sacred drugs’ with this rant, then hallelujah buddies.

Tick tock.  Tick Tock.