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Uncharted waters: Vapids ahead

While hard to believe, I must simply face the fact that after all these years, it broke. It no longer functions. There is no movement. There is no life, where once there was. Caput.
Approximately twenty three minutes ago, the Bullshitometer in my secret mancave died. I watched as its perfectly balanced sphere, tilted at the angle of the earth and suspended invisibly as if by an other worldly force, a sphere which had turned first one way and then back, powered by nothing and always returning to the same point, a sphere that had never failed, Failed.
All at once the turning radius began to diminish as this dip stick to the nether world lost the beat. Howwwww Coooooood this Happen? On its final turn a whisp of greyish blue smoke, looking for a passing moment like the profile of Richard M. Nixon, belched skyward.
It began last century when, in a small Austrian village, Hans von Heffle-verfen dreamed his dream. It was a dream in which truth inspired trust and trust engendered compassion and compassion healed the oppression. He had a more than passing knowledge of physics and was deeply spiritual in outlook. This inspired his understanding of the works of the great Serbian wildman, Nicola Tesla, and his fascination with Mahatma Gandi.
“If only I could fuse the essence of clear selfless compassion of the Mahatma with the ubiquitous energy proven to be circulating in the tropospere”, he would muse. “That would be an environment so transparent in its goodness as to tolerate no bullshit”, he thought. The seed for what would grow to become the bullshitometer was planted in fertile soil. The soil of the soul. He saw it as his dharma to bring this creation to life. And so he did.
The full story is as long as it is horrific and time forbids its telling, but suffice to say he was drawn and quartered in the Vatican courtyard for posing a “foundational risk” to all we have been told to hold sacred.
A total of four spheres were manufactured in all, and each placed on the planetary cardinal points so as to be complete in their full spectrum bullshit data mining capability, utilizing the unified field energy to form a perfect holographic representation of each and every instance of bullshit, worldwide. Stunning.
Up until now, while the poops have been on the rise, all appeared to be within the acceptable limits. The only anomalous downward trending behavior being Bernie Sanders.
The entirely covert Dept. of Bullshit (D.O.B.) employs more people worldwide than all the intelligence agencies combined. In fact it is those agencies that keep the D.O.B. busiest.
How, you might ask did i come to own such an exotic object and why does its demise bode ill?
It is rumored that after being drawn and quartered, the body parts were taken to the local zoo to provide feast for the carnivores. Several people reported that the disembodied head blinked with regularity, as if to say, “ask me a yes or no question”. After an exhaustive night  of simple questions, Von Heffle-verfen’s plan was made plain and put into action by a small but dedicated group.
A charming and mesmerizing beauty known only as Clarissa was rumored to have had an affair with the “Heff”, as he came to be known, and later took possession of one of the spheres. Turns out that she was the triple great grandma of this pot head friend who had inherited the sphere and traded it to me for some of the bukkbukk stickyicky. I said, “where does one put the batteries”? He said, “ahdunno”.
Turns out this sphere had been displaced. Also turns out that my place is one of the cardinal points, so the darn thing found its way back home. Well, as you can imagine, when it commenced to rotating and giving off this slight glow and tingly feeling, I repaired to my mancave for further investigation. That’s when it happened. Something like what happens to that x man guy in the wheelchair with the helmet thingy that sees all the other mutants. The room became lit up and i found myself sitting in the center of a sphere. A sphere in which each and every instance of bullshit happening worldwide was creating a firestorm of projections. The system was once again functional and providing data crucial to the evaluation of this Shit Show.
So, for many many years now i have been doing this work. This work of the D.O.B.. Keeping it all from overflowing. Turning shit to compost and growing, well nothing that i would eat.
Why is it a bad sign? Because when a Bullshitometer craps out it means that the flow of bullshit is so constant and unrelenting that it cannot be distinguished from any other reality. It has become the reality. No big surprise here. It’s kinda like the 350 ppm Co2 thing. It was really bound to happen. Sad, nonetheless.
I’m sure there are those among you who may find this all a bit far fetched, nay even fantastical.  You’re probably the same people who thought the opening line of this blog was going to be a dick joke. Sorry to disappoint. Wrong on both counts.
So, some of the Americaunas out by the pond have been pissing me off lately. Three or four of them have been roosting atop the watering contraptions that Ty and I put together years ago allowing the birds an abundant supply of clean water with minimal hassle.
It is the normal habit of chooks to poop upon awakening, leading to water container lids crusted over with it and the water in the containers fouled by it. So, o.k., not much fun, but i can dump the water and try to tighten the lids better to keep their droppings out, but the day i went out there and found an egg half broke, floating in the water, meaning that the feathered creep show was too bloody lazy to move twelve feet to a nest box to drop one,  something inside of me snapped.
If ever you feel the need to take revenge for such an act of outright rude, I found, that evening, that denying them access to the lids by standing vigil and knocking them back with a focused burst of water as the light rapidly fades makes them totally crazy and is super fun to watch. They hop up on the normal roost, but move back and forth like a parakeet waiting for an opportunity to make a break for familiar ground. And so they do, over and over until sleep wins out and they settle soaked, into the decidedly less comfortable digs of a bamboo pole.
Normally I do not resort to torture of any kind when it comes to the feather-goats, but a man has his Yes and he has his No.

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

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L. F. P., a.k.a., rant 34b, or, the coming and great GoogelyMoogely

It’s been awhile since blog kissed blarney and yet i feel neither remiss nor remorse regarding this respite from the tongue in cheek. The philosophy being laugh, to keep from crying, resulting in a myriad of ripple effects including cry to keep the laughter from dying.

Permaculture: A mashup of permanent agriculture and permanent culture. Now, the permanent agriculture part is fairly strait forward in that it is a methodology meant, at its best to be applied to any region on earth, and if implemented with care and joy for the work, create forest gardens capable of nurturing all forms of life in the Big Symbiosis called sustainable living. Very nice indeed.

On a farm the shortest definition of sustainable is No External Inputs to the system with the exception of natural forces like wind, sun, rain and pesky eco-tourists.

This is virtually impossible to achieve in the short run and a distant dream even in the long. But the joy is in the going and in accumulating an understanding of the importance of investing some part, some fraction of ones Being by integrating these methods into the exercise we call living.

The results are many and varied. That super good oak leaf lettuce and chives that grew in a window box on your condo lanai. That glass of lemonade from the first lemons on the tree you planted a year and a half ago. That pakalolo wit da kine worm poops li’dat.  The backyard turned food forest. Baby steps to leaps and bounds once smitten.

The methodology can be applied to all areas of life because it simply councils to take care in not missing the forest for the trees. In not ignoring the connections fomenting catastrophe. In not drowning in the hubris of self satisfaction.

At the moment, we live in the illusion of revolutionary times. I say illusion, because its All an illusion. But that’s another conversation.

These times are, more and more, demanding that justice be done. That all sentient beings be treated on the up and up and that the Rothschild Mafia be hung upside down so we can collect the change falling from pockets everywhere. It’d be like halloween with all kine different coins of the world in your little carved pumpkin basket instead of miniature snickers and candy corn. A real Jubilee, and I for one am all for it.

But in a cultural model based on perpetuating conflict and war, featuring consumerism as an all important driving force, and lorded over by Mr. Burns and Smithers types everywhere, then even if the table were to be leveled a bit, I would beg to ask, what then??

We all live under the umbrella of fear and longing for, if nothing else a measure of diminished rather than full bore anxiety from time to time. A ray of hope, an arsenal of gloom. Laugh to keep from crying.

Truth is we have yet to manifest much proof as to the existence of the New Cultural Meme. The tired, old revolutionary catch phrases that promise to work to eliminate economic, gender, racial and political injustices, even if carried through would still leave us wondering what to do with our new found freedom, and if history is any indication, the global backwash of freedom misused has brought us to the present moment.

Being the offspring of the thing I co-created, the lesson now coming through most clearly is that the essence of what is brought to life by applying the methods of Permanent Agriculture becomes the seed point of Permanent Cultural models and practices, which when recognized, nurtured and understood recreate the foundation and direction that humanity can then choose to embrace. It’s a horse to water thing.

Having some sense of what it takes to actually walk this path does not leave me filled with hope for a global turnaround. My guarded optimism has segued into a letting go and a dispassion toward those things which would have my soul for an appetizer in the Great Feast of Self Interest.

Flying under the radar, therefore has become mated to Laugh to keep from Crying in forming the second in a trinity of firewalls meant to protect and defend against the coming and Great GoogleyMoogely.

So, obviously the next step is for Big Corporate Advertising to come in and make a Big deal of it, package it, sell it, dilute it with hi fructose corn syrup, run it into the ground, sit back and count their rupees. Watching the pathetic display of creeping greed attending the Cannabis “industry” is text book.

We are compelled by our culture to think nothing of eating mangoes from Chile and Mexico in the “off'” season instead of taking heart in recognizing that mangoes are seasonal and that watching a mango tree grow and a mango fruit form and fill out instructs us in the importance of shifting our cultural imperatives to those which represent the realities of nature and not our ability to manipulate and monetize.

“But try wait uncle Jp. What if we wen’ buy one ilend in Fiji, enslave da kine populashin, make em wirk for tree coconuts an one fish a day shtringing puka shells for fawtene owaz shtrate, den sellum to da Japaneze for big bucks, eh?”  Sorry mom, great idea, tempting in so many ways, love the pidgin.

And out of that very temptation is born the third and final firewall to protect and defend against the coming and Great GoogelyMoogely.

Pay it Forward.

Be the gift. Be the good will. Be the loving gesture that asks nothing in return, and in so doing sense the good, the true and the beautiful hiding in us all.

If engaging in a lifestyle choice that demands focus and flexibility, hard work and perseverance in committing  to a real and qualitative shift in cultural imperatives requires relinquishing the right to drink a beer and puff a doob at 1 pm, then count me out. Otherwise, I’m your guy.

So remember, Laugh to keep from crying, Fly under the radar and Pay it forward.

Also, it might help to keep in mind when you’re feeling down, that we’re not even a Blip on the cosmic radar and that such a degree of Monumental Couldn’t Give a Shit, Talk to the Hand perspective helps to kick in the first firewall protecting and defending against the coming and Great GoogelyMoogely.

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


“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



My summer vacation

Pretty sure nobody noticed i’d slipped away for the last few months. No texts inquiring as to my fitness. No, “we miss your blog mmhhaaan.” No unsolicited advise on writers block. No more nuttin’, li dat.

You will be pleased to know that while devastated, I’m also o.k. with it. This is my new “quantum” outlook in which opposing notions are not differentiated. They simply Are, and that’s all there is to it. Nope, that’s all. NOpe, that’s all. NOPE, that’s all there is to it.

That’s just one of the things i learned this summer while allowing stream after stream of goofy juice to slowly ooze from Amygdala Town and translate into an emotion-egg hatching out as a blog post. Resisted all that in an attempt to see if its just a passing fancy. Something I could simply toss aside like last years iphone. Something I could just leave behind, like the image of Trump hair. But like the image of Trump hair, it seems I can’t, ’cause I’m watching myself write this which means summer break iss kaput.

Observation has led me to suspect that “quantum” thinking is trending these days. I often see people presenting opposing viewpoints in the course of conversation without the least sense of contradiction. Nay, in vehement defense of this hip new Vedanta-ish look.  I can dig it, if for no other reason than that it’s nice being right all the time.

One of the other things i learned this summer is that if you Look better than you Feel, you’ve had too big a hit of hash oil and are suffering “balloon head”.

We’re in the midst of a “dry” spell, meaning that there hasn’t been a major downpour in about five or six days. I do believe that the mosquitoes are beginning to panic. There’s a frenzy of mid flight mating going on and word has it that the ones making a nuisance of themselves are babies with limited blood sucking abilities. It’s odd, this sense of living on the windward side. Starting to get used to it. Not quite going with it though. I feel like i’m clinging to a vision of browned out hillsides, golden blue skies and impact sprinklers slapping banana leaves, and every time we have a week of clear weather I cling, like a junkie married to delusion. Nope, that’s all there is to it.

Having hit the equinox (happy one, by the way), the bulk of the mid season mangoes are coming on. Always a nice time, even if menacing rats and ravenous tweensy birds make themselves at home, eating and pooping, pooping and eating. I do the same with a side order of language induced head noise. Nice life.

Had my first Palmer mango the other day. This is a tree that was given up for toast as a result of multiple mutilations at the horns of many a deer. It’s about 24 years old and still not as tall as me. Held a good many fruits this year and aside from some pecker head chicken beaking a couple, the one i tried was superb.

Mangoes in this neck of the woods are subject to a slew of problems largely due to altitude generated moisture. Overnight dew will collect on the bottom of and between fruits and encourage spotting and fungal growth which can be anywhere from disconcerting to the eye, to the fruit being spoiled rotten. That having been said, the harvest this year has been moderate in yield but outstanding in flavor and size. Had a golden globe that weighed in over four pounds. Like a big baby noggin.

I’ve come to the conclusion that it is impossible to have a favorite mango. Fickle is the taste bud, and settling on anything simply speaks of being satisfied with being in a rut. Fiber-less, sweet, juicy and melting, and that’s all you’ve gotta know. NOPE, that’s all there is to it.

Now, just to show that i am no one trick pony, capable only of producing fruit, preaching the gospel of Permaculture and pickin’ and grinnin’, I am pre announcing the pre arrival of Maui 365. Huh, whut?

Another thing i learned this summer is that if you Feel better than you Look, you’re on Oxycontin or Ativan.

In part, due to this surge of “quantum” thinking, an onrushing dytopian future hurtles down the mountain of despair with little to impede. There are many ways to describe this disconnect with a reality based on kindness and selfless service and a “pay it forward” meme, brought to you by the good folks at COCA COLA. See what i mean?

Which brings this blather to its primary insignificance. Nothing we say or do by way of preaching the gospel of whatever shines a light on the brilliance of simply Being, of simply Knowing and of simply living There. All the rest is just a bunch of demons run amok, searching for the mommy that never breast fed them but served them Similac out of a plastic bottle initiating the cause of all their trauma and neurosis.

My meditation these days has been to see how long i can go about my day before i utter, either internally or out load the phrase “whatthefuck”. To date, i’ve made it to seven thirty four a.m.. I’m shooting for noon before i croak.

The flock of young feathered goats, numbering 53 gave me 42 eggs today. I’d say that deserves a moment of silent thanks. The strategy of buying young chooks at such time that you will be having eggs through “molt” season is something that only took me three years to figure out and put into action. Figured it out in ten minutes. It’s the action thing. Damn you cannabis dream spirit and neo hippy time poachers.

There is no blame, there is only action unfulfilled. In the end there is only one thing, and while it is not “all good”, it really is all good. NOPE, that’s all there is to it.

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



Bufo Love

I look to the chicken, I look to the sky,

I look to the chicken, and ask myself


Does this madness not end? Have we gone round the bend? When toads get you high, what next?

Save the Sky? Michael

That’s just a teaser from my upcoming collection of what I like to think of as a “Perma-cultured” guide to poetry entitled, “Give a Fuckin’ don’t Care”.

So it turns out that people use an entirely unique portion of the Grey Goo to produce poetry, and that a significant segment of the population is born without it. What a surprise, a population of souless non rhymers. Many of the rest have it as sort of an appendix, which might flare up unexpectedly and thrust out a few lines of impeccable verse, catapulting the afflicted into visions of Frostian grandeur followed by a relapse to normalcy, much like a spent burst of dopamine or the “living lion, dead dog” thing.

Here’s a good example of finding that poetic moment and making it endemic to your environment.

My morning chores begin with a stroll out the kitchen door and out toward the driveway where i am greeted by a flock of adolescent psycho chooks ready for brekeeees. Before the pullets begin to lay they are like sixteen to twenty something women who haven’t had a kid. After, more like confident in their power to outsmart you in almost every instance. I pace slowly toward their enclosure, surrounded by the little peckers trying my boots on for size.

“In ya go now”, says I. And in they go indeed. Next, out to the older leghorns who live by the ponds and seem to enjoy life in a frantic sort of unhurried way. “Hi girls”, says I, and in fowl language, they respond: “FOOD”. It’s the simple things in life that irritate you the most, ’cause they never go away.

So after the birds have been given the essentials to fill their crops I take the short walk to the pond, and with a container of fish food in hand start to sprinkle the surface with yummy. The fish, like the chooks and like us get into the habit of responding to the slightest stimulation to seek out the opportunity to cross paths with pleasure. My footfall on the path round the pond get the fish to making a bee line to the feeding spot. If you have never watched a school of koi churning up the water in pursuit of the knosh, put it on your bucket list. Fish in action, still calming.

The seine net that we use to fish sits on the liner in wait of its opportunity to be put to use, like a monk awaiting satori, except for the fact that on several occasions now I have found Bufos caught in most gnarly ways. You see, they push through the inch and a half diameter netting, get their forelegs through and become inextricably entangled in a choke hold, with only a forward gear to further complicate matters. Once tangled they begin to twist around, making a knotted mess of the line, sinkers and floats.

My first thought upon eyeballing the first victim was that I would have to cut the net to free it. My second thought: SHIT. Bela Lugosi popped into my head and suggested live dissection followed by pan frying.

What ended up happening was a SpaceFace moment. With the greatest of care and the compassion of a Jain priest, I slowly brought breath back to the little wheezer by maneuvering his feet through the net and freeing up its neck. I then untwisted the net, freed up the weights and floats and puzzled out the rest of the trap. I looked it in the eye and said, don’t be such a knucklehead, you only have one gear. He threw up some bile.

At this point, I have done the rescue many times. Yesterday there was an eight on the scale of ten being cut it, kill it, eat it. Now I’m not saying i’ve lost my patience with this scenario, but the solution seems to have eluded me thus far and that makes me dumber than a toad.

I am freeing it up with some added vigor when this bead of white liquid oozes out of a wart on its head and before i know it, it shoots a stream three feet into my eye and the general eye ball region.

Imagine my surprise. It even woke the Humunculus up with a start screaming, “my liege, man the turrets, we’ve been hit.”

At first I thought, what a targeting system. The military should know about this. That’s when I realized that i was already hallucinating. Now I’ve been up the lazy river a few times and I figured stay calm, head to the house and wash the eye out, roll a doob and enjoy the ride. The skin surrounding the eye had gone numb. Mother Nature from some other place saying lose the hubris. Act out kindness.

I’m still thinkin’ army of gmo’d bufos against the Avengers. Next summers blockbuster, as it runs behind my eyelids, scripted, filmed, edited and in three D. The whole movie has run with Scarlett Johansson ending up wanting to have my baby and I’m only about four feet closer to the house. I thought, “where’s Spielberg when you need him?”

Night is falling and closing my eyes is no longer necessary to cruise toadland. I am transfixed by the suns glow on the shiny coffee leaves and the family of smurfs cultivating the soil and singing some goofy song. I suddenly realize that i am dancing around the coffee trees in my impression of a whirling dervish. I am a child spinning until my inner world uncoils at the stop and brings me back.

Time ceased, normal crawled back into play, I still hadn’t made it to the house and when i talked it sounded like i had been inhaling helium all morning.

I’m not trying to figure it out. Lasted about four hours. The toad is in my pocket so that when i have a Matrix moment, I can tickle a squirt and head to Zion. Embrace and Transcend.

News of the week: the mother ship arrives on the twenty fifth. Her Masserrati gets in the next day. Ask me if i’m excited. Fenced off the southern boundary line and freed up another three quarters of an acre for the first annual pan pacific Permaculture games. We don’t really have a clue as to what that implies, but it sounds cool and we’ll do our best to flesh it out a bit more.

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


food chain

Place this in your pipe and fire it up. Top or bottom of the food chain is a matter of perspective. We have long thought of ourselves as the pinnacle, the shizzznitz, the ipsissimus of all life. Forgive me, but i beg to differ.

This train of thought has been partially stimulated by the ongoing discussion involving the merits of veganism over an omnivorous way of eating. This assumes that eating a plant based diet is as nutritious, health giving and complete as eating from multiple sources. It also assumes that it is more ethically and morally correct to spare the lives of animals as food.

Research done over decades, verifying that plants not only have sensory apparatus that allows them to “feel” in profound and empathetic ways, but indicate that they “know” when they are being harvested and eaten would tend to debunk the notion that it is any more morally correct to eat plants than a diet based on animal and mineral kingdoms as well.

My take on all that is that Sacred knows no prejudice. It’s all or nothing. Acknowledging that and giving respect to the cycle of birth, life and death is the necessary precursor to minimizing the “freak out to the land of Hyperbole” impulse.

In recognizing this, one has to wonder as to whether this food chain concept is any more than just another anthropomorphic pat on the back testifying to our awesomeness.

Consider the fact that our ability to have created language is one vehicle in which we navigate the path to said awesomeness. Consider also that this is said to have put us in advance of all other living critters in the mere fact of our being able to describe our awesomeness. Consider also that this is a mindless exercise in hubris.

Wanna know how I see it? I thought not.

The plant kingdom is the pinnacle of Natures Creative Existence. The human species, possibly an import, possibly a monkey chimera, possibly an extra terrestrial experiment gone terribly wrong is in reality, food for the plant kingdom which is wondering just when the fuck we are going to do away with coffins and urns.

Oh sure, you’re gonna say what about Mozart, DaVinci, Van Goghgle and Michael Jackson? To which I say, even a broken watch tells the right time twice a day.

Plants are conscious and have language beyond anything we can as yet quantify. They are adaptable beyond any measure of human capacity and they could give a shit about iphones. They thrive on our remains as we attempt to figure out how to culture them to nurture our gardens (for the neophyte, we’re talkin’ compost). They are stable and resilient to all conditions thrown at them by natural forces with the notable exception of human stupidity. In the End however, the plants will out.

The simplest definition of sustainable is no external inputs to the system and the system continues to thrive, like the amazon rainforests or the great coniferous forests of the north.

Humans require more external inputs than any other species in existence. “On and on, the rain will sing, how fragile we are, how fragile we are.”Climax ecosystems in the plant world only require four things. Fire, Earth, Air, Water.

I would argue that we are, in fact at the bottom of the “food chain”. We are the most abundant source of food for the Plant Kingdom. Sorta toxic at this point, but what’s a couple of millennia of composting in Earth Time.

Sometimes, when i walk around the orchard wondering why the mangoes don’t set fruit regularly and pining over my lack of insight, I sense the trees laughing their asses (if they had them) off over my attempt at bringing my consciousness to a level of understanding that can have a positive influence on the rendering of a more consistent fruit set. And when I realize that they will outlive me I figure fuck it, Tyler can figure it out. Let’s crack another brewsky.

Mangoes are the flibbertigibbets of the plant world. They could absolutely give a shit about your expectations or any assumption  of their consistency in bearing. Moreover, they snigger at your whimpyness.

While I have somewhat mastered the many dialects of Fowl language, it will be the work of my remaining years to learn Mango. We have twenty one varieties, and i feel certain that each speaks a different dialect. For now I will be more fawning and obsequious, make less eye contact with the young fruits and in general behave the way I would around the Queen of England, or Little Richard.

This week in news: Greenleaf turned my golf game around, again. The man is a miracle worker. The Rancho is throbbing like a debutant on E. Mom is arriving June twenty fifth and will be holding court at the second party of the season (to be announced). I’m kvelling, but in moderation.

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


Spring stream

Occurred to me that Vernal would make a right proper name for boy and girl alike. In the nickname department, the boy could go with Vern of course, and the girl with Nally or Nal for the tomboy, one of the guys type. I’ve been saying things like “right proper” lately for no reason my senses register, so it’s probably the spirit of Farmers everywhere dropping by and leaving hints hanging in the trees and messages in fowl languages as well as channeling the correct approach to pulling off the whole “farmer” mystique.

I would submit that it is for this reason, and this reason alone that you may hear me use this utterly misappropriated colloquialism. Probably a form of rehearsal for the next potential “income stream” in the PermaRiver called what I do. The intent is to bring a tweensy portion of the world to our patio. The focus would be an “infotour” followed by a scrummy meal.

Imagine, if you will a fresh caught tilopia, bout the size of a big mans hand glazed over with some kinda wicked yummy sauce whipped up after seeing an ad for honey mustard spin offs. This is all sizzling on a little cast iron skillet shaped like a fish with the scent of rosemary and mustard melting the air while the honey raises the humidity.

But wait. Nestled  next to the sizzle is a glass platter in the shape of an anthurium flower and a coconut shell resting on a small coconut shell stand. The platter hosts, in repose on a crimson chard leaf, a pie shaped slice of thick frittata, prepared with eggs and veggies picked by the greenhorns. Resting in the coconut shell, in glorious fresh, a small bouquet of greens wrapped in red russian kale and tucked in with nasturtiums peppery glory. The very same greens contained and cooked into the frittata here on display, for a compare and contrast sort of moment.

Garnishes would include the hot pepper medley, green mango chutney, balsamic papaya seed dressing and Newman’s Own Mama Mia Sauce. B.Y.O.B.

We are canvasing the public for dessert ideas and would go so far as to name any dessert we use after its creator. You’ll be swept up in a flurry of fame.

Preceding this gustatory adventure I would do my schtick and manifest my best impression of me being right proper, with sweat stained “peace on earth, the human approach” baseball cap, wrap around shades and eyes in the back of my head. Always have had fun walking folks around the place. A settling yet exhilarating ride through the evolution of a thirty year romance with Mah. Seen my share of “Aha” moments flair up in the eyes. The banter on its own is worth the price of admission which, with any luck will be acceptably exorbitant.

It is the scent of mango flowers that dominates the lower orchard. A riot of flowers and a fragrance that hangs low and defies you to like it. It is the little too far gone place, where the nose senses a message of doom. Hows that for a way to describe mango flower scent to the greenhorns? They’d eat that shit up.

Anyway, this may be the reason that it is overwhelmingly the common house fly that does the pollinating on the mango’s. Could it be that they get the sense of something rotting, or about to? Neat trick. Fuck the bees. Little pussies can’t even handle nicotine. I’ve seen flies consume beer soaked cigarette butts. On a really hot day.

There are a number of other fairy like fliers drawn in and intoxicated by what must be an epiphany of olfactory bliss.

The January flowering and fruit set was light to fair and always has one shrugging shoulders and hhrrumphing over the prospect of a lean year with only moderate face stuffing and limited revenue.

I am now crossing every finger and toe on my body while attempting to convey that the April flowering and current fruit set is looking___________( you’re choice of awesome adjective here. I don’t want to jinx it.)

Looking back, the reality is that I can only remember two “bumper” years. Fruit trees have their yes and their no. Very little way of knowing where they’ll go. Hhrrumphing less with the luxury of being able to hang out with these young adults and their spectacular offspring and try to hear to first “words” of the smallest mango’s you’ll ever see, singing some pheromone sonata, waiting to jam. Nice to know that I still don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. Keeps things fresh.

In other orchard news, the Malama avo, barring acts of ungodly behavior has, in fact set in above average to whopping good fashion with fruits gecko to quail egg size, practically guaranteeing their march to maturity. Homer Simpson would drool.

White sapotes appear to be hap hap happy with minimal wasting from the pernicious poking of the fruit piercing pecker head. Above average fruit set and high brix. Citrus and loquats getting hit in a noticeable way. Loquat fruit rot and citrus which when squeezed send juice streams squirting hither and yon. The greenhorns love to see the tragic melded to the comic.

We have pushed out into a previously untouched hillside on a north facing slope. Two new mango and two new avo varieties along with Rollinia deliciosa and Canistel. The pathway linking the trees is lined with papaya about every twelve to fifteen feet.

As a new system develops the remaining spaces call out for form and function and so it goes when you are at play in the yard, hauling pond water, pullin’ weeds, brainstorming. Eager little wwoofer faces, “what’s next unky Jp?” Heck if I know. Let’s just do somethin’ that”ll be right proper for the Aina, by cracky.                          Too far?

News in brief: mighty metaphorical storms brewing most everywhere. OMG moments of crushing despair can be reduced by following these simple steps: 1. Upon awakening and after splashing cold water in your face, look in the mirror and while staring, slap yourself hard and swear that you will always believe in the miraculous. 2. Stop caring. 3. That thing about dance like no one is watching, sing like everyone’s deaf. 4. Oh, and the more you show, the more we’ll grow. Peace, Jp

A Typo

You know how sometimes, for a rare moment an idea is born fully formed? So if I were a chef, it would be the recipe of a lifetime sitting on a plate in my minds eye. Or as a musician it would be the music and lyrics to a catchy tune which would unite us all in the basic human need to shop, particularly for my song. Or if I were a philosopher, it would be Knowing the “big slippery”, which is what I call that ever illusive Raison d’etre.

Well, mine came in a field as yet invented which could be thought of as physinomics. It combines the rules and laws of physics, from Newton to Quantum with the occult aspects of economics. It is the Big Bank theory and it clarifies everything.

I believe it was Hermes Trimagestis who opined: “As above, so below.” If so, then one can hardly miss the likeness of a multiverse, pulsing into and out of existence, emerging from a singularity into gaseous cloud birthing matter, with the constantly inflating and deflating bubbles generated by the ebb and flow of economic “forces” mysteriously coming into existence from somewhere within  the hidden recesses of the vaults of the federal reserve. And without any real explanation, gaseous bubbles of monetized  Stuff come into being and move with increasing velocity toward the rich.

You see, to deny our roots which dig deep in the soil of Self interest and grow strong in the wanting and acquisition of More, is to miss the connection with the very core workings of all things: Live long and Prosper. There might be some pushin’ and shovin’.

The universe is said to be expanding, so with each breath we take, we move a weensy bit farther from the Big Bang. So it is with Physinomics  theory in that infinite economic growth takes us farther from the source of the wealth. The Big Bank theory remains tied to the singularity ( source of all wealth ) and posits that as long as the Mystery remains hidden in the folds of time that basically everyone will put up with the crumbs, the scraps, the heaps of scraps issuing forth in a fit of sorrow tainted blessing, all the while thinking they know what’s happening, because like the universe herself we rejoice in the embrace and the glow of a miraculous existence. Brought to you by money. Damn you Gordon Gecko.

So, while a rather crude replica of a rambling universe gobbling up anti matter in its trek across time’s second cousin twice removed, the analogy can not go unnoticed, and we can resist the urge to revel in this ever expanding Big Bank environment no longer. If we cannot surrender to “I want More” , while whining  and weeping till getting more, we mock the universe herself. We say, “you’re wrong ms. universe for constantly expanding and showering multi-dimensional  blessings in your wake. So wrong for wanting to leave all the lights on at night. Twisted for wanting to shower us with the glory of nature and the comfort of flat panel.”

Steven Hawking knew this when he formulated the basis for the Big Bang theory. The humanist in him, knowing the ruinous end to which mankind would come, were it encouraged in the way of the Big Bank made him decide to change one letter.

Round the world in news: Antarctic glacial melt more severe than suspected. Could raise sea levels by up to twenty feet. This will happen a week from tuesday. Fukushima persists in being unsolvable. Over 30 million peeps still living in contaminated area. No assistance forthcoming. Radioactive water flowing into ocean for four years. I am advising against eating fish that glow in the daylight. Frozen toes in Hawaii attest to global warming. Republican senators can’t wipe the smirk off their face. Massive volcanic eruption in I forget where is due to accelerate the rate of climate change by adding the equivalent of one years worth of cow farts to the atmosphere. Please, replace that burger with a prayer for humanity. Smog alert in Chang Mai is off the scale. Temperature to surpass 105. Still need dental work? Benjamin Netanyahoooo sets new standard for kookoo.

In financial news, we’re mostly screwed.

In the way of Permaculture one tells time by the talk amongst the trees. The atemoyas after a sterling season have encouraged the figs and jaboticaba, the mango and white sapote to join hands and grow plump and juicy. All look on as the longan and lychee burst into bud and subtle fragrance. It’s 57 minutes past winter and springspeak can be heard down in the hollow. We’re baggin the Jakfruit and soaking the citrus so that the latest flowering will give us a glorious summer harvest.

I forget when exactly it was that we tossed a couple of dozen tipalia and a couple of dozen koi into lake Big Shot, but there are hundreds and hundreds tooling around. The tilapia range from fry to fifteen inches as do the koi. They have an adequate diet foraging the algae and other plant material in the soupy green waters. Had some problems initially with keeping dissolved oxygen levels up. Easy to tell as the fish get kind of listless followed by a floater or two. I’d been running the water falls regularly but that did not seem to be doin’ it. Ended up getting an aeration system that passes the air through the water and shazayum, happy fish. If I play Michael Jackson on my boombox, the butterfly koi actually jump to the surface and moonwalk.

Coming up: orchard expansion, MORE CHICKENS, LESS CHICKENS, learning about the role of viruses in the soil, figuring out when to have the first party. Rough life. Thanks for caring.

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







Worn in, not out

That Gil Hodges autograph first baseman’s  mitt, the one that when brand new seemed to repel the baseball instead of catch it. So stiff, no real pocket to hold a throw from the hot corner, no less field a hard pounded grounder.

Then, after a rousing game of pepper with some of the primo grommets, one of em’ comes up, points in the direction of the mitt and says, you need to oil that thing for it to work good. He then says, “that’s not a pecker joke.”

Now Tommy’s dad, having played triple A ball and coached his share of little league teams had passed on wisdom of the ages to junior regarding how to transform  that lifeless thing with a price tag still hanging on it to a soft hearted ball munchin’ work of art.

Ingredients list: a bucket of linseed oil, a softball, a piece of twine and at age twelve, the patience of Job.

INSTRUCTIONS: Remove price tag. Place softball into the “sweet” spot of webbing. Gently wrap with twine while intoning a prayer of thanks for being given the opportunity to act as midwife in bringing to Life this Gil Hodges signature first baseman’s mitt. Immerse the entire schmeggegles in bucket of oil. Do Not Touch for Three Days. Remove from oil and let drain till no more drippin’. Roll around in dry towel to soak up excess ooze. Let sit in warm dry place (preferably with fan) for Three More Days. Remove twine as though an ancient mummy therein resides. Allow softball to fall to Earth. Behold the transformation. Feel the transformation. Place left hand in the now oh so soft, pliable and confident grip of the Mitt. Pick up softball. Close eyes and channel Gil Hodges’ greatest fielding moments while pounding the softball into the sweet spot over and over again. Resist the urge to get a full blown boner. Become the Mitt. Play Ball.

Within four or five practices and games, that Mitt was golden. After a season, worn in. Broken of any resistance to its function. Totally reliable. So much so that when out on the field there was a kind of shared intuition. Hand in glove.

Reason I mention this flashback is because it came when I was walking the orchard and noticed a wonderful flowering happening on the Kennsington Pride mango which has also taken on a lovely symmetry of shape after minor pruning last year.

As I stood there, the entire history of the tree came to me, and as it did, it was as though we were hanging out, shootin’ the poop.

I had a “baby pictures” moment remembering Jaime over at Plant It Hawaii telling me she had a Kennsington. Not a variety they normally stock. so I jumped. And a pretty little tree it was. Planted with T.L.C., or was that T.H.C.?

From then on it was heartbreak, for years. The deer love to browse anything young really, but go a bit lolo when they find a mango they like, and as far as I can tell they’re a bit like humans when it comes to that. For a number of reasons, the Pride was targeted repeatedly and as often, slowly nursed back to the point where it began pushing out new growth.

Finally got the property fenced in and with special care, a flurry of growth ensued. I’m looking at how clean and disease free the emerging panicles and new leaf flush are and remembering the years that passed just hoping the makeshift hogwire hoops surrounding the tree would allow the trauma to pass.

So she’s beginning to look really good. I recall the first fruit set. Three little dark green nubules. It’s really a subset of having a kid, when you can wiggle it a bit and it holds on the branch, and you realize you’ll be watching and waiting till it matriculates, only in this case you don’t buy it a Prius, you slice it up and eat it.

Then I recall the fence being broken. I recall the torn up bark and deep scars three feet up and nearly circumventing the tree as a young buck had worked the fuzz off its antlers at the expense of years of tryin’ to fight back. I recall the sight of the branch holding the only three small fruits on the ground, by my feet.

And as the breeze ruffling the leaves and sunlight, playing hide and seek with the clouds carry these memories between us, the observed and the observer find the freedom of release in each other and with that, the peace born of perseverance appears. A lesson in inter kingdom empathy.

Still there, the scars up and down the trunk tell the story in ways invisible and unfathomable to the casual passerby.

With any luck, come harvest we’ll have enough to take some to market and turn folks on to one of Oz’s best.

She has the look of a tree that’s found her way. A tree that has unlocked the secrets within the soil. A tree in harmony with its community. A tree that tolerates me poking around. Worn in and ready to find herself heavy with golden fruit. Hard not to root for a tree like that.

Every tree here has a story that is an integral part of our life and they’re chattering away all the time.

Happens that I’m posting this on the eve of St. Valentines Day. Big money day for jewelers, not to mention flowers and chocolate. I put my highschool graduation ring, some hibiscus flowers and a bunch of cacao powder in with some kale, chard, banana, papaya, atemoya, lilikoi and honey and made a green drink honoring the fallen.

For those with kind hearts and good intentions, may the inner glow of peace and bliss radiate throughout the nine realms.

For those with closed hearts and malice aforethought, may your chocolate ice cream turn to Mozarts last movement as it enters your mouth. May all your days be filled with the uncertainty of irritable bowel syndrome,  and may all your nights be re-runs of Bela Lugosi films.

Week in brief: a friend told me that they saw a bumper sticker that read, “un-fuck the world”. Hard to move past that one.

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

G.M.O. Peckers

I don’t know, I just thought it might be a good way to arouse a different demographic to this ever repugnant but somehow compelling pile of blogit. This is in no way about peckers, but with a little ping back, I’ll know exactly who the preverts are that tuned in for the first time. I guess I could work Blue if there were enough of you. A wink’s as good as a nod.

Now the gmo part is a different ball of fuzz. As yet, nobody has come up with a solution for the rapacious effect of the fruit piercing moth that flourishes in these parts and can be responsible for the rotting remains of your whole freakin’ crop of this and that (got to eat about a dozen white sapotes off of seven fully mature trees last season). They LOVE citrus and white sapote, but will be happy to browse on whatever is fruity, like your favorite gay drunk.

So now, whenever it rains, I start dumping cortisol into the old vessels and focusing on the losses about to happen if it keeps on raining.

The other day during a mighty little passing squall and a ten to forty point elevation in blood pressure, the homunculus (Monci) came out of his usual repose and said,” My Liege, it would behoove you to take a chill pill in the pursuit of the perfect solution, which is within your grasp and only recognizable from a place of calm like unto the aftermath of eating two and a half krispy kremes.” I can get with that logic.

He continued: “It is very much like the dilemma  of not passing gas in a public or intimate situation for fear of the stigma of the uncouth, while the only thing it really accomplishes is the endogasectomy effect which eventually works its way up to the brain and results in a series of seismic events known in the vernacular as brain farts. I know this to be true because my hammock is strung across the corpus callosum, and the scent of cesspool wafting through the canyon is not uncommon, as are the ghosts of thoughts that look like they just lived through five days of VOG and don’t know where the fuck they’ve been nor where they are supposed to go. I implore you, your Hugeness, to let it out. Conquer you Fear. Dare to smell.”

Is there anything I can do about this, asks I? “Give up the fucking Gorgonzola bean dip/pork rind combo before going on a date, I mean common sense, man. And as far as the moth thing, build a better mouse trap.”

So that’s when i started thinking of what mods could be adopted for the systematic implosion of the FPM population. I think all it would take would be to splice the white sapote with a constipation gene from Mitch McConnell, a logic kernel gene from Sarah Palin and a “hope” gene from Barry and the fuckers would just keep flying into the tree trunk until they drop dead. I just ordered a “gene splicing for beginners ” kit from Amazon.

Those little fuckers can’t stop me from dreaming of a day when only love and light ripen the fruit to perfection and it takes three fruit piercing moths to fly an eight ounce beverage of your choice to your hammock in the monkeypod tree, after which they would congregate behind the tire of the nearest vehicle and wait for it to back up. You may say that I’m a dreamer………

Meanwhile, on a planet called Earth, young jp ponders the mysteries inherent in this ever chaotic, frenzied and insular look at existence which increasingly excludes and calls inclusiveness seditious. If we fail to wrap our minds and hearts, our growing souls and immortal spirits around evolved definitions of things like wealth, power, knowledge, surrender and honesty we have little to lay claim to a  legitimate place on this remarkably beautiful planet. This gem of a miracle. This crown jewel. There is a wave building that will make Laird Hamilton crap his shorts and when he does, we will truly know the meaning of “he knows when you’ve been bad or good, so be Good for Goodness sake”.

As a “civilized” people, we have been madly exploiting our gracious Moms life force to the point where, my feeling is, she’s begun to say, “talk to the hand dude ’cause ya’ all lost me about two decades ago.” I think of mother nature as a southerner.

As the old saying goes, as above, so below and if this is as far as we’ve gotten in attempting to move into a more conscious state, then might just as well set a course for full party till we drop mode. At least from there we can say, “wasn’t me. I’uz just spreadin’ the love.”

Getting ninety baby chicklettes in a couple of days. Fifty leghorns, and forty each of barred rocks and black australorps. New blood for the egg dept at the Rancho. Always excited to get new peepers. Will be vigilant of mongeese and overly cuddlesome interns. “Oops, is it supposed to be so limp mr. jp?” That’s not a pecker joke.

Week in brief: wouldn’t know where to start.

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



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Farm Stuff Blogzzz
February 2018
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