The astral-traveling beavers, Berton and Burton, were having barrels of belly laughs inside their intricate lodge located above and below Fall Creek in the Santa Cruz Mountains after the rain stopped. They had been having fun during and before the rain too. Beavers understand the depths of angles in deep breathing while rising to splash. Especially this enterprising pair. Astral-traveling takes it from there. The party never ends nor begins. They were understandably too immersed to acknowledge my existence.
I had been folding the waxy paper once protecting a delicate pork banh mi into rectangles and squares, admiring the spare aesthetic. Then I stuffed it neatly into a pocket. It may have looked as if I was doing something else, craning my neck like a deranged stalker. But, I could not help but stare at the spectacle with magenta eyes that watered. I had never personally witnessed that much angular fun in that way, sort of. And those masterful fig-8’s. I don’t think I was being too creepy.
The aloof behavior of beavers who are capable of astral-travel, which trumps me quite resoundingly on a level of consciousness I will never be able to reach, like duh, is to be expected. I continue to hope, though, that someday, when I am just far out there, they might acknowledge my existence.
Though the rain had stopped, fat drops off of the trees continued to fall on my head. I was surprised, and should have been suspicious, when Lt Guv Gav Newsom changed our secret plans and wanted to meet after midnight under a redwood tree and not in a cave near the top of Mt. Umunhum in the Santa Cruz Mountains. But then I thought, nah.
It was probably too dark in the cave and creepy. Caves are cool in summer. I felt more comfortable under a dripping redwood tree anyway. And at one with the shivering essence of freedom. My copy of the initial speech written in defense of freedom to smoke weed and ingest edibles that was soon to be vivified by Lt Guv Gavin Newsom in support of the Adult Use of Marijana Act, AUMA, was staying dry next to my skin. That’s what mattered most.
I am familiar on a nodding basis with two caves on Mt. Umunhum, much of the dirt and mushrooms, the purple sage, many of the adorable yellow warblers, green tree frogs, and red-tailed hawks, and most of the prominent redwood trees. The Thee Tawny Owl Institute of High Flying and Rising Consciousness, where I matriculate often, is located under one of the more enlightened redwood trees. Many of the less successful trees still suffer residual trauma from the Catastrophe of 1949. It must be hard to tolerate clear cutting savages still stomping on sensitive ground. How can you blame them? I don’t.
I was sure Lt Guv Gav Newsom was going to see it my way once he absorbed the implications of the hard hitting speech I had written. The speech incorporated a fucking shit load of blame. Blame can’t be beat when it comes down to the nitty-gritty of hefting political tools in hyperbolic battle. It’s so easy because the other side, no matter the side, is not only inherently wrong, hypocritical, inept, loathsome, and corrupt, but so clumsy and obvious that it becomes nearly impossible to miss when slinging mud. And the Santa Cruz Mountains are sweet home to a lot of mud. I had fashioned a sweeping indictment of the menacing clique of jack-booted douche bags and thugs who stood in the doorways and blocked up the halls in order to suppress and strangle freedom to smoke weed and ingest edibles for those who desire with pure hearts to rise higher in a multiverse with no beginning and no end. Even gooey mud packs from an exclusive spa would stick against guilty clods like that. Who else deserves more blame than the power-mad apparatchiks serving robots at the helm of religions, governments, corporations, and faceless bureaucracies? What a cruddy bunch who deserve to be crushed like a gooey beige paste into the quicksands of current events by the enlightened exponents of AUMA, The Adult Use of Marijuana Act.
After the rain stopped I became inspired by the many piles of mud oozing from shallow pools like fifteen second promos on basic cable. You better believe I named names too. No mere insinuations accompanied by eyes rolling like fuzzy dice. Without names blame fizzles. No compromise from my side in that area. My politics have to retain solid principles to withstand.
I was certain that Lt Guv Gavin Newsom would appreciate learning the snowballing truth once it could no longer be avoided, along with the entire united front of pioneering weed farmers from Alaska, revealing how Sarah Palin’s handlers got that misbegotten moose to stand still and be shot to death by her on Payola TV. As a hard hitting speech writer in the struggle for freedom to smoke weed and ingest potent edibles, who else was going to undertake such a task upon thin shoulders like mine? Do you really believe with evangelistic faith that Sarah Palin just happened to be there on the tundra showing off her latest push-up bra and smoking leathers? Did her handlers just happen to come across a moose dumb enough to stand still and watch as she aimed? Wasn’t in fact that peaceful nature loving moose simply chewing organic grass and leaves in order to attain oneness and alignment within the multiverse prior to his murder? Or were illicit pharmaceuticals employed in a shady and underhanded manner to sedate the dumb moose? I’ll bet so. I’ll bet it took more than one shot loaded with a sedative to keep that moose standing on the mark as camera angles changed. I believe with all my might that Sarah Palin needs to accept personal responsibility for that atrocity. Unless, as sources allege, she has been lulled into the old private equity sac by the unscrupulous forces of Neiman-Marcus and Big Pharma. What kind of crooked platform is that for freedom to be built upon? It’s all starting to make its own sense, isn’t it?
While I won’t deny that pharmaceuticals may have a small role to play in the self-centered pursuit of higher consciousness against the ceaseless resistance of gravity, I maintain with my now characteristic hard hitting attitude that private equity robots are the kiss of death for freedom. Plus, the price to pay at Neimain-Marcus is just too needlessly marked up. I beg of you before it’s too late not to make the same mistake that I did and sell out so cheaply to The Man. Why I did not do a better job of fleecing The Man I’ll never know. I’ll bet I could have received a virtually endless supply of roast pork banh mi for me and mine had I played a better hand with more bluffing.
That was a big bite to ponder as the rain returned once again to soak my conflicted head and ass. Lucky for me I had another pork banh mi loaded with hot aji peppers to keep me warm as I continued to shiver with the harsh implications.