On the first day dubbed Spring in the northern hemisphere of the minor planet Earth, acres of ecstatic Pride of Madeira overtook the western slopes of the Santa Cruz Mountains, echium candicans to savage imperialist Europeans used to subjugating bipedal animals with buttery pastries, thin euros, oppressive Latin, and sharpened steel. A billion sweet and pure petals peaked prematurely in dizzying shades of deeper purple. Silken blossoms saturated the hilltops with the sheer joy of release as their buoyant jubilation spread across the land. The harsh ordeal of the repressed flowers was finished, spent, sprung, and done. The next phase of the moon flipped its tight, crushing lid, and the greater glory of balance and alignment within the multiverse was restored once again. Cosmic dust was able to flutter, float, twinkle, and spin. No destination whatever, wherever. Free at last, free at last.
When you think about it, which few of us will openly admit to doing due to fear of an overreaction from reactionary agents of The Man, it can’t be easy for a loaded cone that tall to keep from coming too soon for so long. How many of us are truly able to feel the depths of such pleasure and get it while the getting is good? How much empathy is really out there in common usage? Sure, gravity may seem cruel at times when viewed through the inadequate eyes of myopia. But isn’t the message really clear? And why should the union of high climbing plants meet some arbitrary standard established by and for the benefit of unfeeling creatures who know no better and settle for less anyway? Sure, rising higher in the multiverse is its own grand reward. But, still. Who’s claiming to be aping what ugly bosses around here anyway, a bunch of robots? It’s not as if misfit humans were honeybees, with a keystone role to play in a buzzing bigger picture.
As an objective observer with my feet firmly planted in the early morning mud that insists upon mingling in seedy ditches with the churning late night rain, I was able to verify with no nagging doubt that bees were swarming in the Santa Cruz Mountains. Moreover, the buzz was amped with a haunting new reverb that seemed to reach out beyond land, seas, stars, skies. I became sufficiently dumbstruck at one juncture to misplace one foot. Then I lost my prime spot in a sodden swamp. Don’t forget that mistakes are not often made for no cause for no reason whatsoever. Unintended consequences need freedom to breathe, too. And yet it would not occur to me until later why so many red-tail hawks were roving in synchronized bands. Or why stealthy ants were marching and charging so hard. It was only when all of the green lawn mowers steered by wan week-end warriors sputtered at the same moment above Silicon Valley that I knew something was surely up, and going down fast. The crude stench of mowed lawns that caused the pure blossoms to cringe fizzled flat. Pink cement walls began to crack at surveyed boundary lines. Butterflies in a mass stupor flitted out of kilter. Luckily, the bees were there to settle them down. Bees can always be counted upon to provide advanced organizational tactics. Soon, a chorus of owls in the forest began to hoot like John Lee Hooker, croon like Sam Cooke, and moan like Nina Simone. What else could it be but HHUMH Thee Tawny Owl seizing the savvy moment, leading his Santa Cruz Mountain troops into an orchestrated assault in the just war against clueless human enablers of venal cats who murder beautiful birds?
Sadly, the grasp and reach that only a rise in the elevation of consciousness can provide did not carry as far as the vast dry valley of flatter California. Little rain gained ground. And then quickly evaporated in the gulches lickety-split. By lunchtime, the same stolid aridity reigned.
In the valley, Lt Guv Gavin Newsom was busy mouthing the latest oratorical flourishes I had provided to his campaign, neatly assembled subjects and predicates in a tall row, enabling him to spin the important platitudes needed to assure passage of the Adult Use of Marijuana Act, Prop 64, in November. I received my fair surfeit of pork banh mi and filthy lucre in exchange so it was a win-win for me. That allowed me to devote the greater parts of my innermost personage to my singular role as a committed traitor to my species in the just war led by beautiful birds. I was no less determined to be the best Benedict Arnold I could be than Lt Guv Gavin Newsom was determined to ride the coattails of the innate freedom to smoke weed and ingest edibles into the seat of a higher power. Together, that made us a cutting edge team. While I stayed put, he arrived charmingly decked out in full opaque regalia at the grand opening of a ground breaking finger-painting program for recovering wayward youth in tough Modesto. Remarkably, the carefully unconsidered vote of a snarky eighteen year old reprobate still counts as much in the voting booth as the X stroked wisely by some crotchety codger on the Social Security dole.
I had been advised in advance by my professional political handler in our vital campaign to boost the freedom of all living and dying organisms aloft in the multiverse, which could only take place by assuring the passage of the California ballot proposition, that Lt Guv Gavin Newsom was prepared to step up volume and pressure on the gas pump attached to the silver spoon from which he fed. If the time was previously not now, then when? Or what?
“As the big boss man would say,” I said in reply, “No problemo, bro.”
She said, “He’s not so big.”
I said, “I’m just saying.”
She said, “You can see I’m a sister,can’t you?”
I said, “I’m merely quoting verbatim.”
I relayed the message of need to my sub-contractor in charge of the explanatory hunting and gathering on the keyboard, the Unpaid Internet Content Provider. I arrived with ample banh mi to share, xu mai and cha lua. Words come cheap. He was happy. We sat comfortably in his basement and chewed slowly. His mother was not around to show off her new tits. Ain’t no stopping us now.
I said, “We need a bunch more medium sized words that appeal to the lowest common denominator of likely subjects to get high without the heavy overload of a telltale saccharine aftertaste.”
He said, “No problemo, bro.”
I said, “You’re starting to sound like him.”
“There seems to be something caught that I can’t seem to get rid of in my throat.”
The words I put in the mouth of Lt Guv Gavin Newsom seemed to start out travelling well in the valley among the former young thugs. Many would be appearing above the fold the next morning in The Sacramento Bee, the Fresno Bee, and of course the Modesto Bee, still the number one source for sordid current events among geriatric church groups from as far away as Lodi. Until one punk with a ring in his snot nose asked the Lt Guv the one question too many.
“Yo, you smoke weed a lot every day dog, or what?”
Because we all know, like duh, coincidence does not exist anywhere in the multiverse, it must have been due to mathematical chance on a level more advanced than base ten when the translucent telephone rang loud in his pocket at just that propitious moment. Nimble on his toes, the Lt Guv answered the phone first, and fast, but plenty good enough to strategically stall. He listened organically to first things first because what else gives? The greasy kid stuff in his hair appeared to start gleaming with potential. He posed in profile, and a tad atilt. No opportunity beats trouble for potential gain. When those many grave words from the calamity occurring above the rim of Silicon Valley arrived, maximum impact changed everything.
He proclaimed loud and proudly, “I gotta go.”
And that was before any certifiable witnesses were to hear the approaching buzz from a bunch of pissed-off bees.
Ain’t it funny how it works like that? What goes around still comes around. The buzz was so big it reached out on the infallible Internet all the way to San Francisco. Orders for cheap words in bulk poured out of political hellholes from Salinas to San Luis Obispo. Freedom to smoke weed and ingest edibles benefited big time with spin. Filthy lucre streamed in to fill the already full coffers of the campaign. Plus, all the replacement parts needed by the lawn mowers added up to a big boost for the post-industrial economy. That helped to meagerly underfund the losing side that every big winner needs. Soon, points on graphs were shot through roofs like massive boners. All the reasons to say yes would not take no for an answer. Tell me what on one minor planet could be better than that?
I felt close enough to justified in repeating the same old, same old, again. “Ain’t no stopping us now.”