Banh Mi Me Where The There’s There

deepsea     A message carrying depth, to depth and from depth, not a simple blip on a flat screen, was broadcasting from latitude 36.89, longitude -162.44, 9807 feet below the surface of a hot spot in the Pacific Ocean. That’s on Earth, where every creature in the know knows salt water rules. Only a few of the fried brains getting crispy on the surface don’t get what’s plain to see from where it’s at, deep.  Multiple planes were crossing intersecting paths with few scrapes or hangups in-between. Who needs fucking friction? One beaming year became another. Where else would red blood be coming from but salt? Not long, not heavy, not thin, not shallow, no problemo.

As long as the Earth was busy getting dragged into a dervishing vortex by the ruthless Sun, which is what it is, and was in need of a second wind for the ninth or thirty third time, depending on context and point of view, it was in no position to resist. Besides, change is not such a big deal to a grown-up orb consisting of spinning cosmic dust. And salt water never fails to refresh. Who among the sentient among us could not use a good boost in the deep recesses at times? I know I tend to respond well to a shot of stimulating liquids when overwrought. It wasn’t so much that the thrill was gone for the Earth, or the annoyance of all of the willy-nilly spritzing going on as a diversion, but as a small to medium sized planet of minor distinction, the Earth was ready to be shook by something big, something to really feel where the Sun shines bright. Bring on the heat, no problemo. Just don’t bite hard with those sharp teeth anymore.

heavy equip

On the other hand, raised in the cold desert by opposing rules of thumbs famous for trapping skills and skinning alive, with hyenas and wolves drooling nearby, many of my so-called kind often feel as if they are just getting used to what is, not was, or will be, laid out neatly flat and cutesy here on the surface dabbling in self-help proctology and innovative hair colors, which should be immediately gratifying and last forever. Because we know what we need and don’t. Mama and the booger man told us what to expect, God forbid, from false messengers porking pigs.

I tried to tell mama her expectations were known to commit casual murder but she repeated the thirteen sanctified steps to follow while on the lookout for strangers offering sweets. No parking, no buildings, no boners, no straitjackets, no chains, no problemo, were a few worth remembering. Too bad she had to go too far.

“No liquids.”

What’s next, I mulled reflexively in total recoil, the revitalization by religious authority of a flat earth syndrome featuring exalted virgins shtupped only in heaven? An airtight case can be made against a plethora of boners, sure, along with chains and parking lots as leaders in the cause of destruction, but  c’mon, leave enough well alone where it belongs.


“I don’t know about you mama but my body consists of 57% liquid and I’m not ashamed or sorry. I would be proud to have my juicy DNA come from a long line of graceful dolphins. You’ve went and gone too far.”

“How can you wantonly behave like that in opposition to the intimidating lies, distortions, and manipulations of your one true sanctified mama?”

I get it. A decent message to be understood requires time as well as depth, often centuries at a minimum just to locate the source, not simply some spur of the moment result, opportunity, or scam, like a dumb blip. The beautiful birds know it, crocodiles know it, orangutans, ladybugs, coho salmon, eels, crayfish. There’s no rub. The scars will wash away. No beginning, no end, no problemo. It’s liquid. So hang loose dudes and dudettes. To show there’s no hard feelings from the Pacific Ocean, surf’s up. Except for the biting.

sea message

I am also not ashamed or sorry despite the complex persecution perpetrated against me and the rest of my other so-called singular kind to have skimmed the surface of the Pacific Ocean in search of the humpback whale who appears to be light taupe, unless he more accurately represents dark ecru on the eternal color wheel, in order to apologize for prior transgressions imposed by me and my original kind while disordered. So what if concrete results fall short so far. Failing not so deep at sea is remarkably easy. I have learned to cherish shallow breathing in the course of coming up short. Shallow may not be as bad as it appears to look in the mirror. Look at the great job it helped me attain in the campaign for freedom to smoke weed and ingest edibles in California. Shallow has also helped me to define win-win, which like other nuggets such as less is more, and hip is cool, is technically incorrect, to advantage. Not a contradiction, just a mistake. It happens, don’t you know? Now, I am trying my dutiful best to pass it on in my job filled with perks like roast pork in politics where shallow is not only sanctified in trenches, but enforced by troops of lawyers with long arms trying to keep me and mine at a distance of some length.


My political handler in the campaign to enact AUMA, the Adult Use of Marijuana Act, who had been assigned the bounteous task of keeping me straight in line by our lead proponent, Lt Guv Gav Newsom, believed I had to become even more shallow in order to better relate to the slew of least common denominators in need of pointed directions to follow. She did not want me chasing whales in a national marine sanctuary that might publicly disturb still waters. She disapproved of my use of many unwieldy adjectives. She wielded the foul judgmental word “inappropriate” right in my face. She demanded obedience. Yeah, right.

I said, “What it is what it is.”

I had plenty of my own raw beefs, but did I get all uppity in her grill? No fucking way. I stuffed my no good attitude where the blazing Sun don’t shine. I disapproved, for example, of the diluted message Lt Guv Gav was sending out in areas of guns, sexes, taxes, toxicities, that deflect from the only issue that alleviates suffering in all solid forms of cosmic dust, the freedom to smoke weed and ingest edibles leading to rising consciousness and greater freedom on Earth. Greater freedom on Earth, that is, until the rockets to Mars are ready for loading. Freedom is all there is when you see it my way. Whales, too, crave freedom. Graceful dolphins and red-tailed hawks. Why can’t we all agree to be free to do whatever? Listen to the beautiful birds sing. Then do it. Drink and swim in it. No more problemo.





About marclevytoo

writer of fiction
This entry was posted in animals and birds, humor, legalize marijuana, Monterey Bay, satire, writing and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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