The most recent gathering of the loosely affiliated millionaires who smoke weed in Santa Cruz County, not an organization in any ordinary sense of the word, but a coalescence of copacetic spirits, sort of, in which the looseness absolutely rules, was originally scheduled to take place during one of the equinoxes but had to be postponed several times. It’s hard to remember all the way back at the beginning which equinox was the one meant to be recognized and exalted, because both are cool, and memorable, or how many postponements there had to be, precisely, but no one much cared about so-called precision except the astrophysicist who had calculated an optimal time and setting to smoke weed while loosely spiraling close to low rising Venus that he had presented in a power point presentation that was remarkably boring.
Although no one in this loose local affiliation would disagree that the group is theoretically dominant over the individual, the astrophysicist became frustrated, if not out and out histrionic and unhinged, in dealing with the particulars of the first delay. He suffered from many well documented control issues due to highly erratic levels of frustration over nutritionally based reflex disorders, not his he maintained stridently, that had been observed by several of the millionaires who smoke weed on previous occasions.
“The dude could benefit from aligning his spine on an axis with his water meridian for better flow.”
“What can you expect when you eat partially hydrogenated food products out of a cellophane bag?”
“I can’t say enough good things about water.”
Need for the first delay was precipitated by the moderately acclaimed academic poet who became a millionaire who smokes weed via the tried and true real estate method, lock and load. He suffered residual effects, however, from frequent on again and off again bouts with a form of irritable bowel syndrome, and/or a rare form of intermittent colitis, that slowed him down. It was hard for his gastrentologist to make a definitive determination based upon the clinical evidence alone. The poet was expected on innumerable visits to shit into a paper cup with a lid that did not fit snugly for laboratory analysis. That may or may not have been a contributing factor to the delay, but was absolutely not the cause, he insisted. It was easy to forget what he said after that. All absolutes are a turnoff and established academic poets no less than astrophysicists tend to be astonishingly dull. Luckily for him, the University of California, his employer, provided an excellent medical plan that covered fees for all laboratory analysis with no deductible. The next delay I don’t remember at all.
The third delay may have been due to a lack of communication. There was another delay that had no cause other than ennui, perhaps. Before long, another equinox came around. The crumbling sandstone cliff overlooking the surf at Pleasure Point that was initially calculated by the astrophysicist to be the ideal location for the loose coalescence to merge based upon his observations through the big telescope lens at the Lick Observatory atop Mt. Hamilton that he claimed to be cutting edge, though everyone knew that the telescope at the Keck Observatory in Hawaii was more so, became less desirable due to fog. But then that changed. Like, duh. Then change begat more change. That’s how shit gets so hard and twisted. Any idiot or dolt knows that. Once the time flies out of one galaxy into a less specific and examined nether realm, the space better follow.
The importer of carbon based bicycle parts from China, for one, was relieved. He had undergone a bad experience that still resulted in painful flashbacks at Pleasure Point with some territorial surf scum several years back. So what if he was slightly overweight and somewhat menacing if not clueless the first few times up on his longboard. He admitted it soured his judgment for a considerable time after. That, plus getting married. Unless it was the reversal of the time following the space into the nether realms that mattered more.
At my suggestion, we finally met to smoke our communal weed deep within the Forest of Nisene Marks, in a grove of second growth redwood trees, near a creek that used to trickle on a somewhat predictable schedule before it dried up in the drought. I won’t deny I had obvious ulterior motives. I was hoping to receive insightful analyses on our postures with special emphasis on hips and shoulder from the tawny owl, who was observing the loose coalescence from a perch nearly two hundred feet above. And I won’t deny that I expected to stand out in all comparisons. Who else was going to come close to demonstrating such looseness in the area of hips, if not impressive advancement in the areas of shoulders as well? I customarily based my figure-eight rotations on the visualization of two red tailed hawks soaring in synchronicity. Hard to beat that. There were times when the poet was so stiff he appeared ready to crackle.
The astrophysicist who spent most of his time looking through that big microscope on the top of Mt. Hamilton, which was Santa Clara County, not Santa Cruz County, and thus problematic if for no more reason that that, agreed to the location deep in the forest with great reluctance. He refused to say why. The implication was supposed to be daunting. Numerous eyes rolled back in several heads. He was supposed to be an expert on the implosions of black holes. I won’t say it figures, but it does.
“What a douche.”
“Isn’t that one of those mean spirited words that has been axed from the accepted list of mentionables and are no longer fit to be uttered?”
“I thought it was ‘mean spirited’ that had been downgraded to an elitist smear tactic.”
“Maybe I’m wrong.”
“Maybe, it’s both.”
“Or I simply lost my bearings for a second.”
“It’s hard not to get mixed up.”
“According to the latest middle school update from my yang twin, all words are fair game for smearing, even the worse words that ring a bell and make you cringe like a Pavlovian dog, or else why bother?”
“That’s out there, dude.”
“He’ll get over it.”
“Why should he?”
“When you say’ my yang twin’ you don’t really mean to imply ownership, do you?”
“As if,” I said,
“Cool,”he said. “Then we’re cool.”
“Not according to my yang twin.”
“What’s he say this time?”
“Way uncool. And not just this time.”
“No doubt for sure.”
“And all the time.”
“Well, what do you expect?”
“That, pretty much.”
“What about your yin twin?”
“She’s pretty much the same way.”
The next day, I could hear hoots originating from the tawny owl before I could see him. He sounded like Ornette Coleman on trumpet, not saxophone. I called but there was no response. Then, I knew enough to shut up. I sat under a redwood tree and waited. A wispy thread of fog dripped on my head and kept me alert.
When the tawny owl finally showed up, I heard, “What a douche.”
I knew he could not be talking about me. I was clear on that. The fog was no factor. Confidently, I said, “He has issues.”
He said, “Not that one. The other douche.”
I said, “Which one?”
“You know you all look alike to me.”
I hated when he said that, even if it might be true. I rushed into the vacuum to fill the void.
“But, not me,” I countered. “I know you don’t mean me.”
“You know I mean what I say.”
“There was a wee little one trying to blend in wearing all neutral colors.”
“Oh yeah, the Pole. There’s more there than meets the eye.”
He said, “I gotta go.”
That’s when I started to worry. Could he really mean me? I thought I’d moved past that. What if more than revolutions in shoulders and hips are required? What if a shimmy and a shake is only a beginning? What if I have to go back, dig deep, gnaw my meat raw, embrace an ugly essence? Could what’s at stake be most or all of the above? I know it can’t be him. Where does that leave me? Stuck again with my fucking expectations? Fuck that shit. I hate those fuckers. How could I make the same stupid mistake again. That’s like so nowhere. That’s like where I’ve been stuck so often before.
How hard can it be to remember that expectations are nothing but murder?