“So if we’re doomed, why go on?”

Ever seen Field of Dreams where a voice outa nowhere says “if you build it, he will come”, starting that film with the biggest WTF moment in movie history. Well the other day found me strolling around, purpose free when the opening quote echoed around my noggin like a sonar ping.

Wandering around here brings a certain empty state of mind, which at times gives a feel for the presence of some sort of subliminal dialogue subsuming every form of flora and fauna. I speak a smattering of worm but barely know a word of “Bugme” (primary exo-skeleton based dialect). Brown decaying leaves speak more soflty than the green ones, even though they are more brittle and the hanging fruits just seem to lord it over all the rest like, “it’s all about me mutherfuckers, so feed it and water it good”

I was intrigued, so sank to the ground and sat real still. Was right between the trees, ears perked, mind athrob. The longer i sat, the more the ground all round me twitched with leaves upturned slightly by a passing water bug or a sleeping bufo conjuring night hunt strategies (sit still, flick tongue).

Some little while passed and i had started dreaming about a dream i was almost remembering when “can’t seem to stop” came over the wire. First message from my left, then from my right. At that moment, a white sapote hit the ground directly behind me and at the base of my spine. Had it been four inches forward, it could have crushed my skull and torn my spine out where i sat, leaving the meat sack sitting cross legged, stupified grin, as though i had just done some yogi hoohaa and left this veil of sneers with impunity. Not so, my friends, not so.

What happened instead was that for the first time in the recorded history of Rancho Relaxzo (all rights reserved), interspecies “Arborbabble” was being plantslated into English. It was a full blown miracle. Its one thing to become conversant in Fowl language but an entirely nuther ball of silly putty to be thrown into this sort of United Nations scenario where every language possible is brought to you in English. I almost peed.

Granted I was getting a bit carried away in that moment, so i reeled myself in and focused. “If we’re doomed, why go on?” Not so much repeated as resounding. Another fruit hits the ground. To my right, “can’t seem to stop”, like waves overlapping. Fig tree, while in the final stages of losing its leaves is beginning to push out. White Sapote, dripping fruit, leaves akimbo and hanging on to let go. Fruits pissing and moaning about this and that but mostly sensing their journey to market or dirt and on to be digested by the great and awful Kali. Both, on their way out, on their way in. I did pee. I peed the golden stream of revelation which entombs duality in compassion’s grasp.

Turns out, this exchange is what has fueled all the worlds philosophies, grand and tweensy and is batted around by the butterflies and carried on the wind. All we can stop is our mind.

Breaking news: A team of psychiatrists from Scotland attending a seminar down Wailea way has, after cruising the island and rubbing elbows with some of the local color and burning some herb while blazing on shrooms up at the crater, come to the conclusion that Maui is the largest minimum security mental institution in the world. A lacrimose Fern Mctavish said it brought her tears of joy to see so very many people just letting it all hang out and that RD Laing would be creaming his jeans. This, i think says it all.

And lets face it, we do have a lot of brass living the way we do, as if life was actually fun and cool and inspiring. As if we could make a difference. As if hope was just hiding under some rock waiting to be turned¬† “If we’re doomed, why go on?” “Can’t seem to stop.”

The grand matron of clan Pollock has now been ensconsed at the Rancho since late June. She has transmuted long established fears with ingenuity and attitude. Had a bit of a problem with a cane spider that had a hankerin’ to cuddle. Saw it all over the bedroom and did her best to act her age. Then, as it sat there on her bedside table one evening, she was struck by inspirations finger lickin’ goodness. She tiptoed out of the bedroom, so as not to disturb the fuzzy demon and brought the full wrath of her dustbuster to bear on an utterly innocent and unsuspecting prayer wheel. For a Jersey girl transplant, that shows true progress and empathy for keeping her surroundings battle ready. She is on track to be fully indoctrinated in the art of Chillax by years end, armed only with nail file and dustbuster.

The Rancho has been joined by two long termers. Jesse the kid James and Sparky McHighbeem. All I can say is that i will be putting their exploits on display once i swim their souls for awhile. Suffice to say there is the sustainable scent of well being around these parts and the good folks at Rancho Labs are working on weaponizing it in aerosol form to be sprayed on unsuspecting hedge fund managers and other less deadly pathogens. We plan to give it away on the internet under the condition that each recipient gift a homeless person, anything.

I was gonna tell you about renaming my penis. Going from El Capitan to Ginger Peachy. Born of my deep contemplation of the feminoid proclivity it is my unsupported opinion that the penis is the most feminine part of a mans anatomy and that when given this new relevance behaves much more sanely. After all, likes repel and when Ginger Peachy becomes imbued with her deepest identity, well that’s when the knish hits the fan. This may seem like a radical departure from my usual common sense approach, but believe you me, its very very well though out.

I’m celebrating my ninetieth blog post with a can of sterno and a hypodermic needle. Here’s to you Mr Zappa, here’s to you.

The more you show, the more we’ll grow. Peace, Jp



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