The pumped-up hot spot in the Pacific Ocean 2123 miles west of the nude beach artfully concealed by the upside twist of the down slope undercutting Cape Mendocino at 40.44 degrees North, the most westerly edge of western civilization, where cuddly kittens soon to become venal cats who murder beautiful birds are given away to all comers by clueless human enablers in long skirts theoretically protecting plump hairy thighs from exposure to incipient earthquake weather, was bubbling with raw energy. It wasn’t just the Pacific Plate rubbing shamelessly up against the North American Plate causing that fractious heat to rise locally either. The patient San Andreas Fault was standing by, waiting to strike back.
The whales frolicking at the hot spot emitted a pungent spray that traveled at an exalted elevation east to Dry Tortuga bypassing arid El Paso. Poignant bubbles percolated before popping. Then classic repercussions headed south. Tiny bubbles tend to tickle spouts in the most invigorating of ways. Whales cruising in the Gulf of Mexico dug the sprightly bounce deep at the liquid core. Then the party gained speed, thrust, and trajectory. Cutting edge currents curved gracefully around Santiago de Cuba, circumventing friction in Port San Antonio, Jamaica, before retracing steps west. Invisible gas from bubbles reached several curious kin of the marauding scorpion stolen by bushwhackers out of a banana tree in the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta Mountains of Colombia, who was wreaking such mucho havoc in the Santa Cruz Mountains overlooking Silicon Valley. Now they at least knew what calamity had befallen him, although he always seemed to end up squarely upright. It felt a like a gas and a half was speeding on the mono-retrograde curve. Many well-heeled swells as far south as the Atacama Fault cracking the mountains of the Chilean Coastal Range let loose a bunch of big waves with a fuck of a lot of oomph.
When once buoyant bubbles burst, as they must, in order to become wholly fulfilled in the grand manner of any cosmic wazoo, not only contradictions, the second most basic building block of the multiverse become heightened, but mistakes, the third most basic building block of the multiverse, become released. Then, in addition, though not sequentially, unintended consequences, an independently fourth most basic building block of the multiverse in my opinion, not merely a subset of mistakes, along with a slew of rapturous free roving radicals, the next most basic building block of the multiverse after that, no matter how the categories get stacked, are set free to twist, mingle, and roam. Wispy strings shimmy like the young Tiny Turner. Time and space get bent out of shape like a pair of exposed wannabes with sore scarlet assholes. Formerly prevailing winds trail behind to dwindle with the ebb tide. Nothing wrong with none of that.
The humpback whale who appears to be light taupe, unless he more accurately represents dark ecru on the eternal color wheel, had been making the jaunt to the swinging hot spot from his adopted home in Monterey Bay for most of his current lifetime. He never failed to bring back a passel of insights from the deepest trenches. In the current transitional phase, like previous and parallel transitional phases, in the areas of heat, bubbles, and popping, he was swimming free, deep, and wide. Nothing beat deep, in his opinion, not even high. To me, though, that old hat issue had turned into little more than a classic false dichotomy. Why either/or? Why not both? Although that was not the reason I was attempting to follow in the wake of the humpback whale with such determination.
I had been repeating a seminar in the fundamental nature of red dirt mixed with brown shit at the Thee Tawny Owl Institute of High Flying and Rising Consciousness for the third time to the best of my recollection, though it might have been more than that, like duh, due to persistent issues of misdirected focus and underwhelming aptitude while sitting under a redwood tree in the Santa Cruz Mountains, when the urge to right wrongs hit me hard. The issue was larger than any mere acorn or an apple falling on my head. I sat up and gravely rubbed harder.
If seriously profound and lofty creatures such as high flying owls and deep diving whales can become misdirected by the pursuit of false dichotomies into mistaken areas of pedantic excesses leading to unintended consequences, what about me? I felt with something akin to new hope as if the possibility existed for me to receive some sort of residual permission to carry on at my own level of consciousness, such as it was, is, and will be, and at my own speed, to my own destination. If A then B, right? If not why not? In a zero-sum game, what’s so bad about turning out a zero? Nothing negative in that.
As a result, I continue to feel confident that my pursuit of the humpback whale who appears to be light taupe fits no category better than the up and up. Sort of. None of the voluminously nit-picky categories delineated for billing efficiency in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, 4th Edition, Text Revisions, (DSM-IV-TR), fit any more securely. I refuse to vouch for the heresies in DSM-5. Not in my sector. As if. I can pretty much say that with authority, sort of, even though my automatic reaction when I hear someone other than me ask to be believed with precisely that flat out intonation, manner, and mode, is, I don’t.
But that’s not why I continue my search for the humpback whale either.
As the glare attacking my eyes continues to bend like a phantom limb jerking off after the amputation has been completed, nothing could be easier to do than blame the fucking government, all the fucking governments, for a long list of unwashed dirt. And that is what I try so hard to accomplish most days with ease. And often, it works, But the humpback whale, who appears to be light taupe when distinct evening hues of dark ecru are not ascending, still beckons from deep and wide. Lines dividing lying sides determined to be right run in the wash and fade as the light fractures. One side bites and the other side blows. Blah fucks blah. Unless that’s both sides simultaneously sucking. Meanwhile, a new shit load of free radicals gets loose and goosey to ramble down deep where the nitty-gritty crust crumbles deftly to the touch. So, why not me too? I feel as if I am eminently qualified to respond to a good beckoning. I too am filled with salt water. I’ve proved I can take a dive along with a punch. The bubbles that get crammed up my nose burn like a red hot mama from the days of yore. I am able to remember because I’ve been there and done it all before. Why not more, again? So what if I’m never satisfied. Not even Mick Jagger gets satisified. I might even be able to pass go and skip the filthy lucre this time around. What better time and place to dive right in than here and now? I’ve got myself good and convinced that the indelible splash I make might be my own.