...
And it seems the Six Rivers feds will have a heck of a time turning the Grape Fire into a conflagration.
I've been adding a pound of magnesium to my nightly regimen to help me sleep. I gotta cut the monster horse pills into eighths to get them swallowed, and it turns into a lot of powdery bits and a little pile of chunks. I down the little chunks with water and lick up the powdery bits with a little aspirin and more water. This is helping with the dreaming, too.
So I got up from a fairly long dream about 86, who was supposedly 86, but was a blend of Dean the Dream, who was my useless pretty boy boyfriend in my early twenties, and Danny Thornton, who was my biker pool ace heartthrob in my late twenties, and this all took place down in a sort of fictionalized version of Mendo World.
Fort Bragg was more like old town Petaluma and I was trying to get stuff handled to set up a way to wire money to my mother, who had moved to China. I was at the bank and then down the road to Jon Rappoport's newspaper office. He gave me a white t-shirt with big red lettering. And then I ran into 86.
We were, somehow, a little south of Elk, on a street with a few houses almost falling into the ocean, and a school bus had zipped up and let off a bunch of children and adults who were all hurrying to get home. I asked an Asian guy what was the fuss, and he said the tide would cut him off if he didn't scoot. So I saw that if I did not scoot over the rocks back north, I would be stuck there until the tide changed. The spume from the waves was hitting me as I did, and 86 came after me.
I was living at the very north of "Fort Bragg" in a long skinny building that had once been a business. It was full of boxes and crates of ancient shit that was covered in dust, but my spot was at the back, where a living space was cleared. It was like a building on the main drag of Downieville, looking out over a river.
I didn't mind 86/Dean/Danny coming back there with me because it would be nice to catch up with him, find our connection and loll in it for a spell, but he was wanting to get into his sports car to go pick up his "old lady". I was flummoxed that he'd sold his truck in favor of a stupid little sports car, but fine, go pick her up and I'll meet you at the bar down the block.
She was supposed to be the woman he'd been with before me, but now she was blond and looked 35, even though she's 70, and she was doing all the talking, all the saying shit women say that never means ANYTHING, just vanity and materialism twaddle, and he was making affable faces and, of course, enjoying his cocktail.
We were supposed to go somewhere else, but I nixed going to my house because it was too full of dusty old crap and no room to have a comfortable visit, so we walked further down the street and back to Jon Rappoport's Newsroom. I was still wearing the t-shirt he'd given me earlier, but now he was paying full attention to the young-looking older woman and they were going on in some serious business sotto voce. I noticed Jon's right hand was quaking violently and he didn't seem to be able to control it. I felt that he was not long for this world and was saddened badly.
Outside again, she began yammering about too bad the tide was in or we could go to her and 86/Dean/Danny's house, and I told her I'd always wanted to live near where Peter and Darcie live, north of the high tide cutoff rocks and inland, up in the hills, because of the silence, the blessed, coveted, beloved silence.
...
I know this won't convey it to you unless you know how much I love. My humans and my home, and how important the ancients and tellers of truth are to me... to the future of life on earth... which is the only reason I was born.
People tend to think this is why you have children, that having children is the ultimate wish for the future, but I think maybe even it is dawning on a lot of us that having children isn't a tenth of it... does no good if they are too dim or dimmed... and does more harm if they are bright and greedy.
I remember my hormones beating me over the head with planets back in my thirties to have a baby. They no longer gave more than one fruitful fuck for father material. It was driving me mad. Every single time I was ovulating I was seized with urges to knock ANYONE male right down in the middle of the street and blend some sperm into the tidal wave. Every month it took drawing myself up into an Herculean incarnation of sanity to audibly proclaim, "This world is no way to treat someone you love," to hold back the tsunamis of idiocy trying to wash me away.
The love and the reason for being did not cede their ground.
The world isn't a place for that, even as it must be... or perish.
...
This still isn't telling you what you need to know. That can't be said. It only passes mind to mind and if your mind isn't clear of conditioning, you won't receive it. You can meet thousands of people who think their liking of the notion of enlightenment qualifies them to communicate in sage cadences. Pigs. Every one of the. You can meet hundreds of people who have put a shingle out because they have studied some books and rituals and like wearing goofy costumes. Pigs. Nearly every one of them.
Now you can even listen to them hold forth online, people, mostly men, who inveigle young people with money to exotic retreats where their workaday world mind is bathed in mystical-seeming spa waters with lavender or coconut scent, humble brag stories that deepen the trance, leave them feeling giddily entertained, refreshed and optimistic until their first day back to work... their first day back to saving up for another hit next year.
I'm not supposed to mind, because that is your karma. All mindfucks and all charlatans are your karma and karma is ALL that ever gets through, and then so rarely it could leave me sobbing in the corner of an abandoned building until I died.
pipe up any time....
