Yesterday, the vog was so bad that my eyes wept sulphurous tears. West Maui became an apparition in the toxic mist. The winds out of the south being in cahoots with Kilauea and its relentless belching of partially digested magma tar-tare. We live in a stage four geofart zone. This is sobering news.

Statistically we are more likely to develop respiratory complications such as  hot vog drip, crumble jaw, donkey whoop and epoxy mucus.  Because of the high mercury content, neural networks could experience crashes and rerouting which would require the downsizing of various life functions not vital to survival, like those icons on your desktop that rarely get used.

So don't be surprised if you start forgetting what comes after seven, or the name of your dog or where you parked when you went shopping at Krispy Kreme, or why you were shopping at Krispy Kreme. Don't bother consulting your doctor. Their judgement has long since been impaired.

We are, of course beyond grateful for the karma that dropped us in the outpost that is Maui. At the same time it is one of those wonderful ironies that in order to be here we must  endure an inkling of what it might be like to be stuck in Satans waiting room, getting ready to interview for an entry level position and weeping over the scent of the receptionists body odor.

Clearly we don't need all the brain cells we are given so no sweat, and neural networks are easy to build. Go take a math course or crochet a birdcage, memorize the first thousand numbers in the Fibonacci series or write a song in a language you don't know using notes no one's ever heard. Toss in a little Gotu Kola and Ginko Biloba and shazayumm, good as new and on to the next challenge as the merry goes round.

Speaking of which, the pace of life at the Rancho continues to involve routines that take us ever closer to a subject/object synchronicity. Feeling like the moves we make support the vitality and productivity of our little project and gently and joyously urge us onward to ever deepening perceptions and connections to the whole, being human thing. Turns out that acts of selflessness light up the same part of the brain as acts of satisfying sexuality. So go fuck yourself.

The farmers market in makawao has got all the elements of the world in microcosm. There's a bunch of ex-patriated haoles gathered together from various parts of "never goin' back there again". There's Uma from India and mamasita from Whatamala and Gabriella from Brazil and tita from Paia. There's coconut boy and the guy with the live plants. There's neo hippies and bruddah uncle. One can make the rounds and leave with shopping bags brimming with everything from plant material to lush green vegetables to organically grown tomatoes to honey to fruits of multiple and rare varieties to home made soaps and freshly sprouted seeds and the mouthwatering samosa's of Uma.

The Rancho welcomed nurse Caley a couple of weeks back and turns out she plays guitar and uke, writes songs and sings like a freakin' angel. Her voice can be heard ringing out (and I know she's holding back) in this little grassy parking lot, bordered on one side by a building and on the other by Baldwin avenue, leaving two sides adjacent to vacant lots with grass and tall trees. There's a big avo and a lychee that overhang the back fence line and a tangerine tree that produces fruit sour as a spinster on a man-rant. We're gonna bring some percussion instruments this week and see what we can whip up.

Speaking of which, we've been whipping up new House of Yumm treats. Thanks to Dinah's can do attitude, tinged ever so slightly by the notion that we're all doomed, we began experimenting with dehydrating the white sapote, which is the fruit that bears the most poundage of any in the orchard and has three fruiting seasons.

Sure enough with a little experience a process emerged which made it easy enough to dry the buggahs, an so we sent some money through cyberspace, got a slick little commercial unit, an jus' li dat, in bizzness.

So far the biggest hit is the Banana Buzz Bar, otherwise known as turd wafers. Its just bananas mashed up with raw cacao powder and extruded in wide strips on to the backs of naked tourists at little beach. There they sit until almost taffy like at which point they are peeled off, cut into three inch squares, dipped in a mild solution of salt water and psilocybin, bagged up and sold at the farmers market or wherever covert Philipino cock fighting can be watched.

We've had some success, but mostly the process has opened up an enormous area that deserves, nay requires study. That of Food Science. I'm mostly a hit or miss kind of person in the kitchen. You won't find fancy tools or cook books or measuring devices. Would probably be mashing the bananas by hand over a bowl in the sink with the look of mighty Joe Young rubbing one out if my step sister hadn't sent me a Cuisinart food processor (a miracle on par with the Sham wow, by the way).

Along with these exotic extrusions, we’ve also been managing our excess papaya, atemoya, mango and sapote in addition to the occasional fruit leather roll up blends that we intend to market as vegan spliff holders. You can burn the herb as you chew your way through a sweet satisfying dessert. The beginning stages of  a new enterprise are always the most creatively exhilarating. We're looking to the newly sanctioned medical user demographic. High munchie potential.

Speaking of which, I was chatting with Dinah the other day and she was sitting there on the couch, legs all akimbo in her shorty shorts and a few seconds went by and she said, "why are you staring at my crotchel topography?" And I said, "because of the glowing fuchsia aura, flecked with gold particles which seem to dance within and radiate out to about here (I indicated a spot about fifteen inches above her tummy). And also because your vagina is reciting Hamlets famous soliloquy in the nunnery scene:"

To be or not to be – that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles
And, by opposing, end them. And so on...

"Don't you hear that," I asked. She demurred in an off handed and casually sexy kind of way as she slowly crossed her legs. "That better," she asked, batting her eyelashes.

"Still glowin' and the speech is just muffled, I said, but that's o.k. because whats really interesting here is that you've taught your vagina to recite Shakespeare. Your splendor is beyond measure."

She looked at me deep and wagged her index finger slowly as she lowered her head to mine. All at once her finger came to rest across her lips and she said, "Ssshhhhhhuushhshhhh!"

Then I woke up and ate a goofy smile for breakfast.

The more you show, the more we'll grow. Big kiss, Jp