The smart clouds arriving in front of a storm from the Sea of Japan were carrying fast pigeons strapped with a message that skipped like a flat stone across the Santa Cruz Mountains. The rain carried the promise to become sweet and tangy with acid soon. The message carried essential loft, weight, logic, reconnaissance, the standards. The pigeons were looking pretty funky by the time they touched ground and were glad to return to pecking. Looking down from the top of Mt. Umunhum, the high flying raptors absorbed the essence of the message in an instant, from one to all. Dangerous humans were lurking as usual but not out of sight. Many high flying owls of risen consciousness had only recently returned from astral travel to the spiral galaxies NGC3314 and NGC3314a and were open to kinetics from new spins. I was caught unaware, however, out in the cold.
The top of Mt. Umunhum does not take it easy on thin, porous skin. The majority of my clothes were missing or useless due to an unfortunate incident at the local bus bench commemorating the site of the original Acid Trip in 1965 where Allen Ginsberg howled and Ken Kesey and the Merry Pranksters mooned. The clothes had appeared to suffer from a crisis of identity anyway and I can’t say I’m sorry. But, how does it get to be my fault when a synapse snaps? I had been breathing cold air into a tight muscle that was putting up resistance. The air by the time it escaped and lammed out of my lungs lacked oomph. I blame it on a prankster. To me, my breathing, if not deep, was at least above shallow. It helped me to feel important. How was I supposed to know any better? I was all wet, though it wasn’t yet raining, and there were thorns sticking to me that were not easy to pull out. I was dragging excess baggage that weighed a lot and I bet I probably looked pretty darn funny and dumb. I wasn’t giving up, though.
As the dual wars for freedom in which I was fighting so fucking darn hard converged indivisibly into the fog of Summer, illuminating clouds from the Sea of Japan were rare. The hardest battles continued to rage in tough dirt against robots, lackeys, and thugs who hate freedom. Cheaters and thieves with politicians in pocket were still making out like bandits at the cash store and the slog in the mire was tough on a flatfoot soldier. But freedom was worth it. Freedom was getting strung out and hung up by wires from a massive gallows outlined in neon. It had to be saved at any cost. I was willing to pay any price, bear any burden, to win big, you betcha.
I returned home to no warm welcome, however. Slogs through mud leave unsavory tracks on the backs of weary veterans. My wounds of war were open, oozing. It still hurts to admit I was made to feel shame like less than a whole man.
The yang twin did not stop snickering when he declared, “Dude.”
I said, “Don’t say it.”
He said, “Some role model.”
“Go to your room.”
He came up with a smarter solution and went surfing at Pleasure Point instead. The waves were just okay, which was plenty good enough. I was lucky to be included by proximity. I can get smart too if given half a chance. Maybe he would get knocked for a loop by a big wave and I would be able to get some extra rest. I had consumed my fill of fighting for one day. I figured I deserved to take the rest of the day off for retrenchment purposes.
I was not expecting the endgame in the dual wars for freedom to be regaining heat for the stretch run before September, when middle school also restarted, an annual holiday to which I was looking forward with all of my mighty might. It’s not that I am unaware of the death toll racked up by unfulfilled expectations when embraced too seriously. But, still. I found myself in a compromised position due to the familiar tyranny of material conditions. Speeches had to be prepared in advance for preferential Labor Day picnics specific to gender, race, religion, pathology. Lt Guv Gav Newsom was going to be a man on the move. How would it play on the viral internet in Fresno if he slipped and called a Latina lesbian biker gang a spade instead of a club? That would make for one sticky Summer of discomfort. Which would impact autumn in a big way. Unless this was going to be the autumn when the teen twins start high school?
I started to brew a new batch of brown beer to help regain lost equilibrium by deeply inhaling the essence of whole organic grains that are good for long term rethinking. I was going to be brain-storming any day now with the Unpaid Internet Content Provider to reach conclusions on an array of subjects, predicates, and adjectives conducive to political pandering, either the next promising day or the next day. Lt Guv Gav needed plenty of time to learn his lines.
When we met, the Unpaid Internet Content Provider seemed to be overly excited. Or flummoxed. Or recoiling from horror. He said, “Did you hear what he said and she said that changes everything?”
I said, “No.”
“That is going to be repeated by all of the talking heads who have nothing more substantial to do than hiss during an election year and will soon try to change everything all over again.”
I had been previously informed by a licensed professional in her field that doing the same old thing over and over again while expecting a different result may constitute a necessary and sufficient condition for an insanity defense. Except, it would appear, when the same old thing is sponsored in an election year by your local oil, corn, drug, and ammunition dealers.
I said, “No.”
He said, “The numbers are going through the roof.”
I said, “I am going to anesthetize my weary head about now.”
Later, when I next encountered the yin twin, she was in her room, painting a spotless picture with many shapes and colors.
I said, “Superlative.”
The yin twin did not need any outside boosts to her self-esteem, but it had become habit forming for me. If my knee jerks involuntarily am I to blame? What if it’s due to a recurring spasm or tic? Then don’t I deserve cultural absolution along with free drugs from the government in a separate but equal bathroom?
She said, “It’s not finished.”
I said, “But, still.”
She said, “You got that one right.”
“So is this the year you begin high school?”
“You mean you don’t know?”
“You know I try not to pry.”
She said, “You have no clue.”
I said, “I’m going to clean up some of this dirt clinging to me now.”
I can’t deny that here on the edge of the vortex in which the earth is dragged by unyielding gravities it’s darn hard to fight dual wars on multiple battlefronts and keep so much strategic information straight. Every time I go out into the mud it ends up that I fall down and get dirty. How much more dirt can there be to keep piling up? Isn’t seven billion bodies slipping in the dirt too much? Won’t eight million tip the fixed scales and slide off the edge? If I’m not mistaken, that was how the original wormhole by which soulless robots entered my dingy old school picture came around. They are supposed to be good at remembering. But now look at this mess.
In the course of my attendance at the Thee Tawny Owl Institute of High Flying and Rising Consciousness under a redwood tree in the Santa Cruz Mountains, the root causes of the just war against the clueless human enablers of venal cats who murder beautiful birds in which I served as a traitor to my species became more clear to me once I saw the enemy up close. It turned out to be the same low down fucking enemy scourge of soulless robots and totalitarian lackeys who oppose the freedom to smoke weed and ingest edibles as championed by the Adult Use of Marijuana Act in California, AUMA. Now it was beginning to make its own sense. Only Prop 64 could be our lord and savior. What was I thinking? Like duh.
I asked the tawny owl the next time I found myself muddied under a redwood tree in the Santa Cruz Mountains if he could send some pointers my way. There had to be be a way to get rid of some of this dried up, crusted mud. After all, he knew all about spatial alignment that I did not.
He came right to the point, and just said, “No.”