Pick an object, any object. Does it look very different from the inside than from the outside? Well, yeah, like…duh. A box, a ball, a belly. A galaxy, too. Inside may be dark. Or pink as an albino’s ass. Outside may be round, sensual, sharp, or shiny. Or highly convoluted. More or less inanimate objects qualify, too. A corporation, a cabal, a calculation. If you need to ask about a government, any government, you’re not paying attention.
There are so many reasons why all major human institutions are oppressive by design and suck so hard. Practice, practice, practice. There can never be too much practice of calculated subterfuge if you want to get a good false start leading to a distant somewhere, anywhere. Take the advice of those in the know, the real insiders.
A finish line merely functions as a canned cherry atop a mound of atrificial whipped cream to a real insider. It serves as a reminder that the next race has begun. Cheating is standard operating procedure when and where called for, as required. Internally, that makes its own perfect sense. Artificially, too. Otherwise, outsiders may enter unscathed.
On the inside, institutions have walls to constantly maintain in order to keep out outsiders. Maintenance requires whatever is deemed necessary. Sadly, necessity may not ever be sufficient, and thus must never reach any logical end. Lines are invariably used to draw on these walls. Lines tend to become straight and get straighter when drawn on flat and unyielding surfaces like walls. Insiders rule with big yard sticks delineated by more and ever greater straight lines.
Outside the lines there are gates that swing open willy-nilly, often in graceful arcs, sometimes wide if not very deep. Swinging may become dangerous to exposed asses that are stuck in lines when arcs bend and curve too far in any unauthorized direction. Grace is an unwelcome intruder. No better than chaos to some assholes. Especially to a flat and determined straight line. And especially when the wall is not strong. That’s where hurt comes in hard. It doesn’t hurt if you don’t think about it, though. Or so it is said by insiders. So don’t. Think so hard, that is. Best to put a stop to that. Best not to stray too far from a single objective. Best a straight line than a sorry ass. Best to keep inside assholes safe from penetration. Better make the walls strong.
So when wild pigs moseyed down from the Santa Cruz Mountains in order to gorge on a buffet of munchables during the early rainy season, I was not surprised. Wild pigs are regular seasonal visitors. The grub can get pretty irresistible after a storm in these foothills, fat yet superficial roots, slinky worms, wild mushrooms predestined to pop, fruit fallen from perfumed trees. The sun was out after a torrent in the morning and the mud was slipping and sliding like Ike and Tina Turner behind a pair of blackout curtains.
The distinctive sounds emanating from a hairy wild porker are nearly impossible to miss. Classically, when captured on eight track tape, they have been employed by modern armies in training exercises designed to disorient the enemy. It could be any enemy, anywhere.
I knew for a fact, sort of, that there were a few rotten apples lying on the ground next to the fence where the porcelain wife of the professional techno-yup from Silicon Valley enables her venal white cat to murder beautiful birds. It is another well known fact that when not off on a scheduled shopping jaunt to her favorite fake replica of a pseudo-Italian piazza beneath flattering indoor light in Palo Alto, she was cloistered inside her off-white walls on a sectional sofa where the sun never shines, stroking the pampered fir of the venal white cat while bidding for new stacked pointy boots on E-Bay. Thus, either way, she was not available to be disturbed by mere pigs. Multi-tasking requires concentrated focus if not much else. Plus, there was yellow squash infested with green worms next door to that.
I was thus able to ascertain due to deductive reasoning, without the requirement of actual observation, or a lot of weighty thought, that the wild pigs were only passing through. Or at least to my own satisfaction. Nothing wrong with that. How could rampaging pigs just doing their thing possibly be construed as trespassing? Wild animals are free to do it in the road, right? To jab, stick, bop, and jive. Wave some tail. Weave webs. That’s what free means, right? It made perfect, harmonious sense to me, a rarity.
I paid my respects to the age of bygone reason by cuing a golden oldie on the ancient turntable, and opened the windows just a little crack wider.
wild thing, you make my heart sing
wild thing, you make everything…groovy
Later, after preliminary results yielded correct perspective, as they will, sort of, I said to the tawny owl, “It was an odd confluence of events that occurred containing all of the above.”
The tawny owl, who does not acknowledge the existence of mere coincidence, said, “Pigs, pffft.”
“How can you scorn dirt diggers so severely when dirt protects the roots of your sacred trees?”
“You mean ‘scorn’ as in what I do to you.”
“That’s weak. That sounds like something I would say.”
He didn’t deny it. That was something new. I had no idea where such thoughts might lead.
He said, “That’s one of the reasons I keep you around.”
I said, “Now, you’re just trying to blow my mind again.”
As it turned out, and naturally unbeknownst to me, the tawny owl had been keeping careful track of unfolding events from the top of Mt. Umunhum. My assistance as a traitor to my species was not required.
The tawny owl had been surveying the lower animal realms prior to a late night of moderate carousing with some pygmy pals from the Berkeley Hills. He observed the slick black Porsche of the techno-yup who owned property rights to the porcelain wife under a binding pre-nup as soon as it left its preferred parking place. Numerous fallen apples, including the most rotten ones, were included in all standard fine print. Whiny children, too.
Understandably, with his keen insight, the tawny owl seized upon the opportunity to engage in a bit of tactical guerilla theater. Along with his high flying brethren, and the lovely wife Thee Mrs. of course, he had been engaged in a simmering war of attrition with the human enablers of venal cats who murder beautiful birds since before the official declaration following the anniversary of the Catastrophe of 1949, when in my role as a traitor to my species I had aided and abetted to the best of my ability, sort of, leading to another broken nose, a night in jail, and additional difficulties in short term breathing for me.
As the tawny owl followed the path of the black Porsche out of Silicon Valley he sent light bending signals to the troops. The lovely Thee Mrs. cued her music and began to sing with some real fucking oomph. The highest flying birds swooned with pure delight as the shit started to get righteously stirred in the darkening skies above the Santa Cruz Mountains. I heard later that the lovely Thee Mrs. sounded a lot like Big Mama Thornton back in the day when she soared that high.
Far below, the techno-yup keyed his self-activated timer as he accelerated into the first curve on mountainous Highway 17. He was pursuing a new personal best for speed over his standard commuting distance. Nothing wrong with that. The first shit bomb splattered on his windshield seven seconds later
The black Porsche was shit bombed by eighty-four bulls-eyes within the first five minutes. That included thirty-seven direct hits on the windshield causing him to flinch. The techno-yup felt forced by fear to drop below the speed limit more than nine times. The stench of failure was unbearable, inside and out. No personal best for him on this day. Who knew that red-tailed hawks had the devil in them like that?
Each direct hit seemed to open a wound deeper inside the delicate flab surrounding the heart of the enraged techno-yup. His foot more than once slipped from the clutch. Ironically, he began to respond to the seemingly uncontrollable events in a behavioral pattern that assumed the form of an inversion of an algorithm trail blazed by a colleague of his that had been tested with huge success in sales of Clinique pancake, moisturizer, and blush over the counter at Nordstrom’s in Cupertino, and ultimately proven foolproof.
When the splattered black Porsche finally arrived within sight of the stucco sprawl in which it was garaged, the cutting edge gate failed to open on command. Not only was the blood pressure of the beleaguered techno-yup climbing, but his ass began to feel as if gravity was excavating a new black hole. Some of the prior luster was no doubt gone from black high gloss paint everywhere. Those damnable command modes were becoming a real nagging issue,too. Something had to be done by someone. He was thus forced to get out of the car to jimmy the electronic gizmo with a screwdriver. That’s when the motion triggered lighting sensors illuminated his formally vast artificial lawn. Alas, it was no more. The timed sprinklers were operating full bore. The mud glistened crudely like oil. The wild pigs had been thorough, that’s for sure.
Understandably, the sorrowful techno-yup began to claw at his chest as if trying to get inside where it was safe. Before he fell, he screamed. Unless those screams crossed an uncharted line and became amorphous shrieks.
I was home alone rolling a dose of prescribed medicinal marijuana to benefit my health at the time, and though I no doubt missed some of the nuance of his screams, I was able to capture the gist. Unless that was where the line into shrieks had been crossed and I’m all wrong again.
The grieving techno-yup, who remained down in the dirt well past the mandatory count of eight, was soon surrounded by a passel of his concerned and gawking children. They ranged in stature from shrimpy to middling to geeky and awkward. He did not stand politely to greet them.
I did not see what precisely they did next because I was trying to take a selfie of my inner twisted essence in which my hips were becoming unlocked. The smoke indoors was too thick to permit a clear picture to develop but I was told by the tawny owl, whose accuracy can’t be seriously questioned, that in unison the children turned to my house where I might have been standing had I not been stoned out of my gourd, and pointed. Even though we all know it’s not polite to point. Perhaps it was simply a rote auto-mechanical response aiming to shift blame. Perfectly understandable.
Later, the tawny owl said to me, “You should have been there.”
I said, “I was, wasn’t I?”
He said, “Hah.”
I said, “I really thought I was. I know I was close.””
“Your name came up.”
“Doesn’t it always?”
He said, “You think?”
I said, “Well, maybe I wouldn’t go that far.”
He said, “Well, yeah, like…duh.”
I said, “I was busy trying for the here and now?”
He said, “What about all of the above?”
Now, it was my turn to look out with my eyes big and say incredulously, “C’mon, a man’s only human.”