O.k., show of hands. How many of you have had the gosh darned honor of being interrupted during your early morning, calm, quiet, peaceful yoga session, where the dawn is breathed in and human life is honored with each exhale,  by the gosh darndest noise comin' from a small machine designed to buff the cement on oprahs road. Really??  Only me............. I was easing myself into paschimottanasana, breathing my way into a more relaxed and stretched forward bend, sensing my oxinium hips being more fully embraced by the surrounding muscle, when the sound erupted. Inhale, hmmmmmm. The front door was open to the morning chill so I just had to kind of roll to my left to see out across the deck to the road. The tops of the west maui mountains were glowing pink as the dawn crept over a cloudless crater and shattered the last remains of early morning muted tones. The chickens were including the intrusion in their wake up cluckings by looking over toward the noise and then at each other for a little chat n' scatch. When I figured out what was going on, I thought that her nibs must be onboard and so will have nothing to do with dirt or cowpoop stains on her road. Seriously. I then rolled back, breathed, stretched, rolled to my right and checked under my meditation pillow for a set of car keys. Heard it took seven thousand gallons of simple green. I was browsing a wonderful book by the remarkable Vonnegut, his last in fact. "A Man Without a Country". Don't usually share the stage here at blog central what with the massive case of swelldheaditis, however I would like to share the following: " Do you know what a humanist is? My parents and grandparents were humanists, what used to be called Free Thinkers. So as a humanist I am honoring my ancestors, which the Bible says is a good thing to do. We humanists try to behave as decently, as fairly, and as honorably as we can without any expectation of rewards or punishments in an afterlife. My brother and sister didn't think there was one, my grandparents didn't think there was one. It was enough they were alive. We humanists serve as best we can the only abstraction with which we have any real familiarity, which is our community. I am, incidentally, Honorary President of the American Humanist Association, having succeeded the late, great science fiction writer Isaac Asimov in that totally functionless capacity. We had a memorial service for Isaac a few years back, and I spoke and said at one point, "Isaac is up in heaven now." It was the funniest thing I could have said to an audience of humanists. I rolled them in the aisles. It was several minutes before order could be restored. And if I should ever die, God forbid, i hope you will say, "Kurt is up in heaven now." That's my favorite joke. How do humanists feel about Jesus? I say of Jesus, as all humanists do, "If what he said is good, and so much of is absolutely beautiful, what does it matter if he was God or not?" But if Christ hadn't delivered the Sermon on the Mount, with its message of mercy and pity, I wouldn't want to be a human being. I'd just as soon be a rattlesnake." I'd probably choose aardvark at Tin Cup's driving range. Not feared, but armored. For those of you familiar with the goings on here at the Rancho, you know that we bring meat birds in about three times a year. Give you two guesses.... The little pufflings are growing in leaps into adolescent eating machines. Running around like a Stuff Smith solo. They seem to show a fondness for slightly shredded blue tarp. I think it gets them loaded because they just stand there pecking at it and staring like they just walked into Winterland. Approaching two weeks now and about the same amount of time in the shed before allowing them into the massive forest of looming banana trees and the shade of the Inga and the tasty leaves and stems of the honohono grass. Did I mention a world of bugs? Think for a moment, if you will as to what it must be like to be a plump little broiler let loose in field of greens to find a papaya on the ground that it can't see over. Maybe a bit rotten on one side, kinda soft. Beak gets buried, covered in orange. Bird senses the frenzied rush of sweet fruit. Natures smacrack. No longer settling for bagged starter and straw floor the stomping minions wade through the tall grass to find tasty hono morsels and bugs running for their lives. Talk about a rave. We look forward to attempting to reduce the measure of food to bring them up to proper plump by keeping the grow out area succulent. The week in brief: road wash out after monumental, cesium soaked rain, missed Grimes party. DAMN YOU GRIMES. Don't remember the rest of the week. Looks like we got some stuff done though. About to order liner for the "lower" pond which is being prepped as we sleep. I put seventy two air breathing grass carp in the bottom to see if they would work their way up and out, get to weighing about eighty pounds each and feed us for about two and a half years if we dry it and salt it. Anyone want in? O.K., G'night. And good night to you Mr. Vonnegut. The more you show, the more we'll hide. with love