At the spiffy new educational digs of the recently contrived non-profit California corporation, the Thee Tawny Owl Institute of High Flying Wisdom and Rising Consciousness, which had been artfully carved with a spade and a rake out of a scrubby semi-circle formerly consisting of prickly wild strawberries and diabolical poison oak that resulted in major necks spasms for me, I consecrated the pinkish tan dirt with yellowy beige suds from a nearly emptied bottle of the red chili fortified brown ESB I brew in my laundry room snuggled in the irregular space between the washer and dryer.
In response, the other members of the Board of Directors, who had signed on the dotted line as required by the State of California, clapped, stifled a yawn, and snorted in disdain.
The yang twin, who had provided the snort prior to muttering something under his breath that I had no doubt was entirely uncalled-for, said, “Can I go now?”
I had convinced him to become a member of the Board of Directors by means of a considerably smaller inducement than the hand-shaped Pearson Arrow surf board he originally demanded. Clearly, the young tween had a lot still to learn about unmarked boundaries in the timeless process of ebb and flow. That the straight shooting pedagogy offered by the Thee Tawny Owl Institute would be there for him in the future was a blessing. Philology, too. Where else was the fuzzy cheeked lad going to learn the rarely spoken truth about maelstroms of conjoining loops spiraling through hollowed out holes into elongated portals of panoramic thought ellipses?
I said, “I was thinking of hanging a rope from a tree and you could climb it.”
He said, “Dude, you’re not funny. What makes you think you’re funny? When are you going to give it up?”
I replied, “Which it is it now?”
He shook his head as if he was the one forced to tolerate the copious quantities of shit he unloaded on me on a semi-regular bi-weekly basis. I held on to my shovel to assist my standing.
The yin twin said, “I have homework.”
I said, “No, you don’t.”
She said, “Anyway, my phone is vibrating.”
I said, “No, it’s not.”
She said, “Whatever.”
The remaining member of the Board of Directors, my friend the Unpaid Internet Content Provider, who not only did not require a bribe to ensure his participation but willingly offered up his mother’s credit card to pay for an extra rake, said, “Are you going to add a roof?”
“No roof, A roof would get in the way of the rising.”
“What about walls?”
“That may be a different story.”
He said, “I could use another beer.”
I said, “Smart.”
As the spasm in my neck migrated into the left wing areas abutting my left shoulder, forcing me to tilt waywardly like a quaint Communist in the direction of Mecca, I opened another large bottle. That elicited a stab of the kind of pain in the oppositional right hip that tends to leave no prisoners alive to spill the beans. I knew I could likely trace the source to both hamstrings but I was too afraid to go there. Unless that was Jerusalem.
I poured. and said, “This is my quasi-standard IPA with a spoonful of coffee added very late in the process.”
The Unpaid Internet Content Provider said, “Fair trade, I hope.”
I picked up a local grapefruit from a sustainable tree in the Santa Cruz Mountains and stabbed it with a sharp steel knife. Steel, the most famous child of iron, maims millions yearly. In the scant four thousand years since the beginning of the Iron Age, half the species on Earth have disappeared.
I examined the skin of the grapefruit and said, “I’m going to add some of this next time.”
He said, “I don’t know about that.”
I said, “Try not to make so many assumptions.”
The pivotal event in what silly humans without perspective refer to as history came when the first European trader returned from China with a passel of firecrackers in his sack and a good buddy turned a bunch of them into a bomb. Then they added iron to the powder and forged some guns.
“I’ll say I told you so when the time comes.”
At the Thee Tawny Owl Institute serious pedantic research will be conducted into the sad philosophical fallout from the human inability to fly high. Willing students with no obviously loaded drawbacks will be able learn from the ground up. Ropes and ladders will be provided. No crumbums solely attached to digging in the dirt for performance enhancement purposes will be knowingly encouraged to matriculate.
The Unpaid Internet Content Provider said, “You never told me why exactly we were raking all that dirt.”
“You know I don’t countenance a lot of exactitude.”
“That’s not always so clear.”
“It’s a new idea just beginning to develop. I can’t talk about it yet. I don’t want to jinx anything.”
“I don’t usually sign documents without being able to read them.”
“I”m having most of the impactful words translated from the Cree into English. It might take some time.”
“It’s a good thing I trust you.”
“So the dirt is just going to stay there.”
“We disposed of a lot of nasty stickers and thorns, too.”
“But you’ll tell me when the time is right.”
“When it’s safe, sure.”
I had self-diagnosed my condition as a pinched nerve. The next question became what drugs to self-prescribe. I examined a fruity red one and a minty blue one. Unless that was green. I’ll call it teal. The combo worked pretty good.
“I’m planning to mix up a batch of a medium brown ale with Louisiana hot sauce.”
“There’s got to be something morally wrong about that.”
At the Thee Tawny Owl Institute, the indigenous beavers who hang so admirably loose in the Santa Cruz Mountains will be cited in scriptures as exemplars of rising above. Beavers are tolerant of less evolved creatures not only because it feels good while floating, but collaterally aids fulfilling digestion, and keeps the waters cool. The giant beavers who ruled the Santa Cruz Mountains until the latest Ice Age were one of the few creatures willing to give humans the proverbial benefit of the doubt. Only termites agreed it was an idea worth trying. That was primarily the cause of the rift between beavers and scorpions that still exists to this day. Humans learned several rudimentary building skills from some especially tolerant giant beavers, but failed to achieve a similar level of consciousness. It was not an unexpected result. Scatological jokes about twisted humans all bent out of shape are still relayed via legendary underwater fissures in contemporary beaver lodges amid much laughing of furry ass. Cree is the only human language that beavers will condescend to speak.
Beavers are able to calculate not only simple quantities, like mere humans, but dynamism without weight, proportions in vacuums, dimensions that lead beside following. Then they fraction in relevance, interest, bifurcation, comedy, procreation, angles, feints, screws, elongations, trajectories, gaps, contradictions, impact, simultaneity, misses, loads, rebounds.
In the multitudinal war against clueless human enablers of venal cats who murder beautiful birds, beavers are stalwarts on the side of rising consciousness. Like, duh. Where else would highly evolved astral travelers reside? To any smart beaver, which is every beaver unknown to any human, unleashed domesticated animals, especially those that shit indiscreetly without cover, much like unleashed terrorist religions, belong best behind crumbling walls of mud and stones, and inside of dank closets containing washable filters and drains, where they can dump their loads, have at it, lick away at unmentionables, and get it on dryly in private.
Less harm, fewer fouls, decreased reproduction of wee dicks.
I said, “I can make a pretty tasty salsa out of that grapefruit. It goes good with the beer.”
“Sure, why not?”
I asked, “Have you ever truly looked a beaver in the eye?”
He said, “Huh?”