Archive for the ‘Newsletter’ Category

Happy New Year?

O.k., lets take a closer look at this bit of mindless programming and go for an upgrade, because what we say has consequences. In this case, “happy” is being used in the context of the opposite of “sad” because it would be rude to say, Sad New Year, have a fuckin’ sad new year ya dickheads.

But wait. In the interest of the great spirit maintaining balance in the multiverse we find that the consequence of endless repetition of this epithet is the creation of a cloud of Sad rivaling the Delaware size cloud of methane discovered in the south west u.s..

This is “Sad” with no place to call home. Sad without a cause. Sad because a bunch of knuckleheads are throwing happy around  like burgers on a barbeque without a thought for unintended outcomes, as if its gonna make happy actually happen.

So this ominous cloud of sad will continue to grow until, at midnight the world round it will resemble the financial bubble of ’08 and like some collective tumescent outpouring find its way, by Demonvector (pat. pend.) into the hearts of people whose lives are touched by a gentle and natural way of coexistence, so of course deserve to be enshrined in sadness while the “civilized” world celebrates yet another illusion. Happy new year suckers, have fun walking twenty miles to score some drinking water.

On to “New Year”. This one implies that we’re gonna wake up to all our clothes washed and pressed and smelling like the crown of a babies head, with a brand spanking clean slate to systematically fuck up in the weeks to come. What a magical way to think.

The only thing “new” about the year is numerological by nature, in that we go from a seven (2+0+1+4) to and eight (2+0+1+5). In the western mystical tradition this is a shift from the sphere of Venus to the sphere of Mercury, from the pillar of mercy to the pillar of severity, from emotion to thought from victory to glory. That’s the kind of info I tend to fill my pipe with before smokin’ it because that sort of shift can be profound and deserves a reflective puff.

The path that joins these two spheres is attributed to the hebrew letter “Peh” meaning exciting intelligence. The path is also characterized by the Tower card in the Tarot, by the planet Mars and by the element Fire.

Make of this what you will. Its a roots kind of thing.

My take on an upgrade would go something like, “wishing you a safe entry into a homeostatic state of being”. Don’t really even need a new year to pass that one on. It is a sentiment which leaves no footprint but suggests the possibility of a life unruffled, calm, peaceful and fulfilled. A self perpetuating process of increasing balance from which wisdom emanates and compassion for the condition is all embracing.

So, I’ll see your Happy and raise you a Homeoecstatic state of being.

Other than that, i can honestly report that the “year” didn’t suck all that bad in spite of the usual array of mind boggling, huh what and are you fucking kidding me moments. My intent is to use the entirely of my will to make the upcoming time period suck even less and possibly have that spill over into a parallel universe.

Lately as this wondrous journey takes me more deeply into the life of the farm as organism, I feel increasingly like my interaction with the vitality and spirit of the flora and fauna is becoming more of a two way street.

Mostly, as I go about my daily designer/observer rounds I have a growing sense of being watched and even “talked” about. Its not entirely demeaning although there is a lot of what i have come to know as sniggering going on. Now, i’m gonna go on record as saying that the white sapotes are the biggest gossips and think of me as lame. The avo’s are a wizened group and think of me as giving it the ol’ college try. The mangoes don’t know what to think. Beautiful fruit, but a bit short on imagination. I’ve been encouraging them to just let it out, see what happens.

This morning, I paused in my wanderings to think about the seamless perfection that one witnesses when looking at an ecosystem approaching climax state. Everything working together. No wasted energy. Able to leap tall buildings in a single bound, and I thought, wouldn’t it be hysterical if human language, rather than being the thing that distinguishes us and makes us the pinnacle of evolution was something that the plant world decided we needed to attempt to keep up with the wonder of existence. So they sent out a squad of mushrooms and taught us how to speak, hoping one day we would see there’s no need. I got eyes. Amen

Here’s a thought. Don’t hear about it much, but population is central to all other issues. If we were conscious enough, within two generations, we could cut the population in half without war, starvation, genocide, ravaging diseases etc. and  everyone could still know the joys and heartaches of raising a kid. Do the math. One family, one kid.

One last thing. Many moons ago I remember reading about a series of experiments involving plants hooked up to galvanic skin response type devices. There was conclusive evidence that the plants had feeling that could even be transmitted long distances and through solid objects, especially in the case of trauma inducing stimulants.

Just read a study the other day concluding that plants “know” when they are being eaten.  So I think about industrial chickens, crammed into cages, under lights, laying their lives away or going to slaughter in weeks, and I think about untold rows of greens and root crops and herbs, packed in to optimize profit and utilize space efficiently. Fed far more than the same plant grown in the wild would require and often harvested by soulless machinery.

I’ve done the chicken deal. Know the feelings, find the balance and thankful for vital food. Don’t think the chicken knows when its being eaten. Could be wrong but i’ve eviscerated enough of ’em to know dead is dead.

Don’t really get the Vegan perspective. Respect, but think it through. Thankful trumps biased.

Have yourselves a homeoecstatic thingy.

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

p.s. hands down, hero of the year. Groot

 

 

Who knows, who cares?

Awhile back, one of the rock cornish crosses (meat birds) came up lame and was sent to the infirmary. No need for insurance. Animals at the rancho are fully covered, however the treatment usually consists of checking every day to see if its croaked yet. Disabled though she was, her apparent discombobulated state began to stabilize and she became one of the lucky few, allowed to roam the grounds as if they owned the joint.

Joined by the grand matron of rangers, Beatrice, and a brace of goofy ducks, she got into the swing of things right quick. Everything was going along nicely with the usual entertaining pecking order antics and food fights until it became apparent that she was in fact a he. The comb got all big li dat  and the body stay like one basketball, brah. As the plumage developed and he found his voice, it was clear that this fella was going to be enormous.

There really is no way to discourage a rooster from crowing. Its like trying to hold a fart that passed the point of no return a while back. So i sat with him from time to time, and as he nibbled lay pellets from my hand we chatted about his fate. I explained to him that a “no rooster” rule existed in the hood and it would become increasingly annoying if he were to stay on.

He turned broadside to me and, tilting his head slightly he gave me the one eyed stare. He then did a little walking in place shuffle as if he were about to say something. I’ve seen and studied this behavior a thousand times before, along with the attendant voiceings of various levels of concern in the traditional “Peh-kawking” language. Best I could tell he was pretty much saying WTF over and over again.

So he comes up to me the other day and pecks out a morse code message on the palm of my hand wanting to know what his options are. Now keep in mind that its very refreshing talking fowl because there is really no agenda, only the assimilation of information and the formulation of a plan.

I laid it out for him. (a) I defy my own rule and keep him tucked away in a semi secluded spot where his morning ritual is only mildly annoying, (b) I take him out Kahikinui way and drop him in a green zone, (c) I pawn him off on someone who falls in love with him because, stud muffin, (d) I bind and gag him and leave him in Grime’s bed or (e) I cook him up for christmas all wrapped  in bacon.

Now I know that this was a lot to consider and that there was no guarantee that he would get his way, but without hesitation he “said”, Eat Me.

To be honest, I wasn’t quite sure how to take that. He saw my confusion and ended it by tucking his head under his wing, lying flat on his back and sticking his legs strait up in the air.

This took me by surprise, but what he managed to get across to me in his pleadings was that he absolutely Loved the smell of bacon and how it felt when rubbed on his body. Hard to argue with that logic.

As you can well image we were now locked into each other in a kind of meat bird mind meld and that I would be traversing realms hitherto unavailable to the human psyche.

He said he was kidding about the bacon thing and that reality for him was to follow the overpowering urge way deep down, to be the best meal he could be. I actually started to tear up. How simply beautiful, genuine, matter of fact and in the moment of him. We let the silence generated pour over us.

After awhile I looked at him and thought, how can you be so certain of the best path? He said, all the options offered have their virtues but ones calling cannot be denied and if it is, it will come around again. So now, the chicken that had been referred to as Brutus, Hercules, Flash Mob and Bowling ball has turned into Ramakrishna.

Then, he grabbed my brain and in flowed this: one can embrace life or turn from it, either way brings lessons, but to drift in life, to say “who KNOWS, who CARES” is to gather the dust of apathy in ones hands, sprinkle it in ones eyes while claiming to see clearly.

So now, the hair on the back of my body is standing up and I’m feeling behind my ears to find the implant. Make it a meditation, make it a meditation, make it a meditation. Apathy to compassion, apathy to compassion. No longer who KNOWS, who CARES,  but                 WHO knows, WHO cares. Find THAT fucker and you’re home free.

He followed me into that moment of peace and silent knowing. Finally he “said” to me, cook me up with bacon and plenty of salt and butter too, but please don’t cook me with any carrots, potatoes or onions. Why, asked I. Because I can’t stand the sound of their screams when the temperature passes two fifty, says he.

On dancer,on prancer, on donner, on blixen. On moonshine, on gummy bears, on pork rinds, can’t fix em.

I don’t know about you, But…………..

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

 

 

Ode to the Knucklehead

It was a balmy evening on the Kona side when, on June thirteenth nineteen eighty nine, Tyler William Summers made his entrance into the atmosphere of planet earth. The delivery room chatter made reference to a certain part of his anatomy which to some of the nurses seemed well, eye popping. Nice package, murmured one of the interns, waggling his eyebrows.

His mom was an Ex with benefits, which always came at a price. In the salad days, we’d meet at one of the posh kona coast hotels and did our imitation of happy to be parenting. In reality, most of the time it was. Hint: small doses, mini bar.

On June 20th 1989, I held the little buggah in my hands which rested on the top of my thighs. Seven days old. Contact. Eyes, hands on body and in great measure, the scent. If they could make bread that smells like babies we’d all be walking around in an oxytocin bondathon.

While his mom and I were pretty much over, I would go to the Big usually once a month to hang out with them for a weekend. She was all for it, and happy to have Ty bonding with a guy outside her usual circle ( his dad was a ship passing in the night, post rock concert). She would alternate and come to Maui with him once a month and we’d hang out and do fun farm shit while getting him addicted to Lego’s and first person shooters.

He and I didn’t get to hang out a lot, but it was consistent and cherished for the very need to make the most of it.

As he grew and became verbal his associations with things and places got more acute. Most times i’d stay in town at the Kona Hilton. After awhile if his mom drove into town and passed by the hotel, Ty would cry out, “Johns house, lets go see John.”

When he finally turned five, he could board a plane all by his little self. And there I’d be, waiting on the other end. Reliability was not a real strong suit in his home life so this ritual of picking up and dropping off became our mantra. Our recognition of the fact that, by hook or by crook, this relationship would not be challenged for its validity or its longevity even though neither of us had anything to say about it.

And so it went for many years. By the time he was ten, he had a sister and brother, each five years apart. Each from a different father. Modern life.

He would usually get to spend the better part of a week or two with me over the summer. I figured that ten would be a good age to start hiking the crater, so I secured the Kapalaoa cabin and dragged his little butt down and out the gap in a little over 24 hours. I indulged him in the “whine/give in/whine/give in” ritual and ended up carrying his pack most of the way down the ranch. Amazing how much energy he seemed to muster as soon as I took the pack from him. We tried and mostly succeeded in making it through at least once a year always adding Paliku cabin to the roster.

Now on the hike through when he was eleven, I can remember trying to call his mom as we were hiking out the gap just to check in and let her know her boy was in top shape.  Couldn’t get through and it wasn’t the usual answering machine. Passing strange.

Didn’t think much of it until we got home and i retrieved a message from the mom letting us know that their house had burned to the ground and could I call as soon as I got this message. Which I did. Bummer soup.

While she got things sorted out over there, Ty got to hang with me. When the dust settled, sorting out meant the mom and kids moving to Alabama where sister and mother live. Ty got to stay the summer with me while his mom got situated. That was the only positive outcome.

After the summer we did our best imitation of pleading for his being able live with me, but NOOoooooooo. It’s off to the land of barbeque and honey tongue.

The years kept ticking by with him coming for summer break, or most of it and me travelling back a couple of times a year to see him in Alabama or fly him up to Chicago when I’d go visit the father unit. For us, the distances had increased but this is the way we had always rolled. Economy class jet setters.

Drove a pickup truck that I’d gotten at a cane company sale and I began to mark time in it by the way Ty would nod out on the ride to the airport and fall out next to me on the seat, then when he got bigger he’d have to curl his legs a bit to fit, then he’d have to put his head in my lap to fit, then that just got to be too gay, so he stopped nodding and we’d talk chicks and such on the ride down.

He’s been back and forth for years getting life sorted out and has spent the past four years at the rancho planting some roots. He is after all, keiki o’ka aina.

This marks the twenty fifth year of our connection and as a whole I can hardly imagine one more worthwhile. He will soon be somebody’s neighbor on Maui as he prepares to find a place to live so that the mother ship has the house to herself with a spare room for crossword puzzle marathons.

He is bright, he is funny, he is useful, he is hopeless, he knows everything and is well worth knowing. He’s the Knucklehead.

Love you man.

 

o

Not everything, the Only thing

At the time of my birth, four planets and the sun converged in the fifth house, with all other planets forming a configuration that resembles a parabolic mirror whose focal point is said fifth house. For those of you who do not speak english from the “Middle Hippie Era” that would mean, a person who at the core will take pleasure in the romance embodied in every encounter, delight in children, be easily entertained and do everything in his power to avoid Normal.

While I recognize that such a focus could, in the universe of the superstitious yield a perspective, if you will, largely dependent upon the notion that Romance is at the heart of everything, and that everything else is simply waiting for Romance to galvanize its birth.

If we don’t fall for it, it’s usually not worth pursuing. If we follow the spark, little else matters and while there is  good and bad to all things, the tug of Romance holds the promise that compels us to excel, to merge as joyfully as possible with the process of growing, evolving, of lending meaning to this wildly unpredictable whirlwind of let go.

I can remember as a boy I went to see David Oistrach play his violin at Carnegie Hall. Part solo recital and part with piano accompaniment. My parents knew he was my hero and understanding the impact such a moment could have, seized it. We were high up in the balcony as I recall and he looked quite small as he walked out on stage. He stood for a moment, raised the violin to his shoulder and filled the hall with Perfect.

I already had a boner for the violin, but that sealed the deal. Now many years later, I remember little of the actual pieces played. Musty memory of being dressed up and itchy and every velvety seat occupied in a Hall thick with the kind of soul I did not understand.  But whats fresh in my memory is the strong remains of the Romance I felt for the music, the instrument and this man whose oneness with his craft sold chicken skin for a living. That inspiration held the promise that compelled me to excel, or at the very least, stumble on.

There may be people who could give a hoot about Romance between humans. A condition brought about, no doubt by an incident with glorious beginnings turning sour and leaving one curled up in a corner sucking ones thumb and mumbling “mahmah, mahmah”. Been there.

But for all those who have thrown in the towel, there are scores more for whom the wave of Romance must be sought out with the zeal of some demented surfer dude who drops Everything to renew his vows in the tube.

Romance is Love’s shadow. Inseparable in the light, indistinguishable in the dark. Fall for something, stand for something, for all Romance takes us home.

I’m not sure if I should even mention, for fear of jinxing it, but we’ve enjoyed virtually rain free weather for the past three weeks now. I have, for the first time in many months started to spot water a few trees here and there that have a bit of a thirsty look around the edges.

What I’m hoping is that we’re on the border of a dry spell, unusual for this time of year, but welcome in every way. It’s that time when the invasive vines and grasses begin to slowly withdraw from their months long onslaught and the grasses on the hillsides are popping flowers as they sense the ground drying up and respond by showing some small sign of surrender.

Commander Willie Wideman has flown the coop after a five month sentence at the Rancho. He was ordered here by a judge after starting a bar brawl in which fourteen bloody, dust covered teeth were retrieved from the floor while Willie,  handcuffed, hanging from a rafter, smiled fully. He told the judge he was sorry and all; had a bumpy childhood and such and could he please be farmed out to an ankle bracelet facility where his hands could dance with the dirt. The judge just smiled a declared, “five months at the Rancho.” He gave it two thumbs up and a “roger that”.

Now its a little known fact that the Wwoof organization has coordinated with parole/probation officers nationwide to place violent but penitent souls at farms that can’t make it selling food, so accept a generous government stipend to chance it with a nut case or two. Income streams.

So aside from the drunken howling at the moon, chasing down deer with his teeth and that thing with the two chickens, he reached the status of “mensch with training wheels” and swears he’ll be back for more after his winter gig as a ski instructor, where he gets to act cool for the bunnies and send obnoxious children hurtling down the mountain on trails far in advance of their capability. You go boy.

We’ve all got a price, so I know you will all forgive me when I tell you that there came a moment when an old friend from prep school who also happens to be a Saudi prince made me an offer on nurse Kristen that I simply couldn’t refuse. He had his private jet warmed up and ready when he whisked the freshly  abducted honey girl off to the balmy climes of the middle east. I was content in the notion that while this might not have been a future that she would have scripted, she was in good hands, would be treated well and retired after seven years to a life of luxury and a closet full of burkini’s.

Wasn’t three days before he called me and said that she had the concubines quaffing green drinks and reading Kate Millet. Said they were getting more and more pissed, in a calm sort of way with each passing day. He decided to strike pre-emptively and send her back to Maui before the entire social structure of his sex life went up in revolt.

Said I could keep the money. That I would need it to defend myself from what he called “the inevitable”. So if anyone sees her around the campus, tell her I moved to Peru and am playing mandolin on a street corner for roasted guinea pigs and ayahuasca.

Week in review: Its Fucking Raining………………

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

 

 

 

Where does the buck stop?

There’s a serious buzz on campus. The election season is in full fury. From federal to state to local there is a frenzy induced news/social media cycle trumpeting  a broad spectrum of candidates, causes, ideologies and odds. There are buckets of propaganda induced blood flowing in the streets of credibility. Enough so that decent folk might just think there’s something awry.

The more relevant question might be, is there anything identifiably correct about all the hootin’ and hollerin’? I mean correct by way of consensus and the will to work out existing difficulties. I mean correct by way of right and wrong meeting at Krispy Kreme, going into insulin shock and having a good old laugh over ever having disagreed in the first place. Or are both sides so anchored in their views that the concept of sailing off into the sunset has faded from memory and been filed in a tattered old folder called “forget me not”, to be hauled out when the dust kicked up by lawsuits, settles.

There are dollars lurking everywhere. Dollars controlled by a spectrum of individuals as polarized as the world has ever seen. Dollars poised and ready to defend any position, buy any outcome, fix any election and rewrite history for the sake of market share.

Dollars mustered from the every day person to mount a meager defense in the name of truth and fair play and the kind of equilibrium and abundance found in the great dining hall at Hogwarts.

This is no longer a process that yields outcomes so much as continuances. It is a process that encourages chaos and dissonance. In nature, this process is called decay and the role it plays is to displace that which has served its purpose and turn it into the food that nourishes a new generation of life. All the posters and banners and t shirts and hats and speeches and feelings of community and “heat” generated in the name of all that we believe serve to catalyze the breakdown of wrong headed wasteful thinking, of mind numbing ill conceived propaganda.

This process has become one of skirmishes in the realm of undermining “authority’, accented by willfully pulling away from a system that is gasping for life and willing to give little back. We are largely on our own and priorities must reflect that.

Locally, the most visible issue has been the gmo debate involving, here on Maui, an attempt to create a moratorium on the testing of herbicides and pesticides on seed crops until such time as they are shown to be safe and pose no risk to the life of the land and its people. Common sense? No brainer?

Those who grow the seed and test the ‘cides seem to think that the e.p.a. as well as state regulators have the situation well in hand and that we should bugger off. So much so that they have spent very near a cool eight million american greenbacks to convince and guarantee us that all heck will break loose if we make the disastrous choice of passing this insult to farmers everywhere.

In other words, their buck does not stop. Common sense is not welcome here. They’re feeding the world and tired of your pissing and moaning about it.

Fortunately the move toward labeling gains momentum with each lost ballot initiative and eventually the tide will turn as the issue of whether we have a right to know what is in our food breaks the “Duh” barrier.

But the money will continue to flow because people must not know.

They are burying themselves under the sheer weight of their Chutzpah. Very much like the person who, after having killed his parents, throws himself on the mercy of the court for being an orphan.

As the tipping point draws near and what appear to be a series of events already underway, creating  globally catastrophic scenario’s from climate change to pollution of land, water and air to runaway radiation there is a very real draw toward tossing the towel and just kicking back and watching the movie unfold.

An old hawaiian saying comes to mind which goes; keep that which is good, and that which is not, set aside.

Chinese proverb that fits the times; best time to plant a tree, twenty years ago. Next best time, now.

Find your tribe. Dig in. Now is never.

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

Where?

Here’s a question or few worth asking. How many ways are there to feel the shame associated with not knowing what to do, or how to do it? How many ways do inappropriate acts feed the shame because, what else? The loop has been closed. How many ways do we shame ourselves into believing that some magic mojo type deal will get us through the heated turbulence at our door like a gang of Fiji fire walkers surfing the lava hot waves of Kilauea, brandishing samurai swords and golf clubs, and undoing Evil in all its forms and forces.

These things occur to me because while knowing that the tipping point within the singularity surrounded by the string that vibrates in twelve different ways creating everything, could pop right up and go, ready for the ‘pocyclypse, here it comes, Wwwhhhheeeeeeee, the meaning of that moment is obscured. By what? By the shame. And so, no focus, no hocuspocus.

Its a pearly gates phenomenon. You know, st. pete gives you the rundown, you are naked on every level in his/her presence but by the time you actually get there, you’ve had the revelation of Truth that not only liberates in hitherto unknown ways but brings with gut wrenching certainty what uncompromising fuck ups we are.

This would be a good time to say something like, ” listen, Pete, it’s all good, right? I mean what with the arthritis and that frump of a wife and the pension devalued. At least I recycled, most of the time.”

So whether you have rock star status or are a complete schmendrake, you WILL make excuses for the fuck up factor. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not lookin’ for an answer or heart felt epiphany or nuthin’, I personally just infuse the appropriate sacraments into this meat locker and practice my pearly gates speech. I’m thinking “listen Pete”, might be a bit cheeky.

Not so long ago, in what seemed like a dream I sat on a sandy beach, waves gently lapping the shore and looked out over west maui with Haleakala in the distance. A magnificent sight made even more of a revelation by the feel of the warm water and coarse sand playing footsie with me.

Then I realized that there was this yellow greyish blob of cane smoke hovering over the valley awaiting the trade winds to mount a take off.  As fate would have it, not much wind till much later in the morning. I know you’re dyin’ to know what happened. I was too.

So I sat on the beach and watched as the toxic cloud began to spread out and leave its pall over the entire central valley and surrounding shoreline waters. And it hung, and it hung, and it hung. This is the smog that smog aspires to be, thought I. Bbbblllleeeeechchhcchch, as they would say in the halls of Mad Magazine. Where the fuck is the shame?

Here’s when I decided to cast my fate to the next narcissistic hottie to walk into my life needing an oil change. As I sat and watched the wind line begin to ripple, and pond fronds start to click and clack, the umbrella like shroud of canedoom dispersed in such a way as to cascade its somewhat diluted filth over the WEST maui moutains and down toward the premier touist haven on planet Oyyth. I mean Kapalua would be the seventh chakra of Maui for chrissake……..Where, you might ask, is the Shame?

We are imbued with a sense of entitlement granted on the basis of myth and flaunted with impunity in the name of Shame.

I have, in some ways grown to appreciate the crazyass monsoon weather that has characterized a pattern of remarkable change in the array of choices made by the orchard creatures, rooted, crawling, wwoofing or flying. Having watched this movie for many moons, I can say with some authority that the amount of vegetative growth in the orchards this year matches that of the last four or five years. The amount of biomass covering the land is staggering. I’m thinking of petitioning the Chinese gov’t for some part time labor to build a huge methane generator out of the cistern and then petitioning the mexican gov’t to give me the addresses of illegal immigrants so I can hire them under the table to cut the greenery and turn it to gas.

That way, I can fuel the generator that creates the electricity to keep my Leaf charged so I can go to Fong store for my red dog, Toggi bar fix. In a perfect world, maybe.

I’m in a tradition starting mood. Having watched the Burning Man phenomenon take hold in such magical and shameful ways I’m thinkin’ that the Rancho needs to redefine itself in terms of providing annual entertainment in the form of several parties a year, attended by some of the most overlooked and underqualified musicians on the island.

I was thinking that the kicker would be to have a mini festival for the season finale after the fashion of the great shame on the playa.

I would call it Burning Spam.

If nothing else, it would smell sublime, down to the last crackling chunk oozing some fat like material from the face of Spamann. We are taking submissions for sculptures and interactive displays. They must all be made of spam, have some kinetic component as well as l.e.d. lighting and an adequate supply of toasted bagels for the aftermath of the burn.

See how Eco freakin’ friendly. No shame whatsoever. Party on.

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

p.s. nurse kristen was last seen diving head first into a large, ripe jak fruit. She has not been seen since.

Howizit possible

(P.s. Fanfare followed by rose petals floating to ground………..Announcing the 18th annual fiftieth birthday party of Dame Dorothy the Betz and the jp person. Sunday, the fourteenth at five pm ish. pot luck. The weather has been a bear lately, so be advised and give a call if in doubt and if it sucks, i’ll get the word out.)

It is a moment, illuminated by some mystery weaving its way and bringing future and past together. And in that moment, no tale is left untold. Somehow all is revealed. Then, gone until the next time and the next form and the next circumstance brings the same revelation, clothed in finery of a different sort. And when we see through the fashion to our innermost passion, it is then and only then that………………………….

This miniature epiphany has been brought to you by an intuitive if incomplete Flash, triggered by the act of swatting to their doom two mosquitoes, joined in coitu flying in front of my very face. My very face. The Noive……

In my entire life I have only twice had the opportunity to even behold the sight of mosquitoes “doinit” mid flight, no less feel their teensy malevolent life force meld with oblivion in the palms of my hands.

Not at all sure if anyone else has had this experience, but it fulfills so many levels of seratonin releasing stimuli that one cannot help but run smack dab into a visionary experience not unlike eating chocolate farina laced with dmt for breakfast, which I promised I would never do again.

O.k., now that I have your attention, the small above ground “kiddy” pool whose sole purpose is for the display of young koi looking for loving water features and large aquatic tanks, whose placement was strategically planned under the shade of an Inia tree to discourage the growth of algae and whose filtration system claimed to be adequate to keeping clarity has, after the first rain turned to what could be described as an entry into a lentil soup contest in downtown Mysore.

Now solution has turned to dilemma but has already begun to describe itself as solution again. Howizit possible? Where’s that shit come from? I like giving up, too. Sometimes. But NNNooooooooo. Must figure this shit out. NOW. Seeing the deeper meaning to the saying “plenty of time for rest when your dead.”

We are endowed by and indebted to the relentless refinement of life force. We thrive, To thrive so that giving up comes with a certain grace and ease. Embrace and transcend.

Our motto should read: “Rancho Relaxzo, we’ll get this shit figured out yet, and if not, s’what.”

Makes for a very layed back, “bring it” attitude. Like bring it, but maybe a week from this coming thursday, eh.

If musical notes were bananas, then I be playin’ bunches. Been fun teaming up with Grimes and getting our wig on. Miss Meaghan continues to delight and i’m always thankful for the opportunity to get out and get it out. No matter how long one has been immersed in a pastime like playing music, it never gets old and continues to grow in its inclusiveness.

I did give up on the grand chicken revision plan whereby day olds would be brought in just in time to start laying when the remaining chowder heads have forgotten their raison d’etre. This will cost me in more ways than one, but there are silver linings popping up all over the place allowing me to, once again editorialize my way to being correct in every way, and profoundly, nay prophetically so. Howizit possible?

The wall that separates a certain measurable control from utter chaos is paper thin. I live in that wall. Everything = Possible.

On the farm there are so many known variables constantly effecting outcomes. Variables that can be tamed or enhanced or made to self replicate. But there are also the unknown variables vectored in by insect or wind or on the heal of a boot or the wake of a bad idea which can and do change everything in ways that compel us to make them part of the known so that the chaos is somehow re branded and brought into the realm of measurable control. Paper thin.

Had a nice skype with the mother ship earlier. She is whittling her way to escape velocity as thirty four years of life in her home is slowly reduced to the essential mah, ready to transport at the drop of a dime. Hard to imagine the floodgates and the memories pouring forth. She is, as usual handling it all with characteristic wisdom and grace.

Nurse Kristen has passed the three week mark without need of a psychiatrist, so that’s a good sign. She is still “off the scale,” although the scale has been recalibrated so as to be able to explain and include such a phenomenon into the realm of the known so that a degree of measurable control can be applied to what would otherwise be delightfully hard to explain. Paper thin baby, paper thin.

Yes, I don’t want any of your gifts, so bring them anyway and I’ll donate them to a charity that benefits me and me alone.

It is my sincere hope that at the next writing I will be able to report that we have koi for sale that you can actually see swimming around and that we will, once again have overcome the odds and achieved the “better than a baboon” award for intelligence and inventiveness in the use of Amazon dot com.

Week in brief: kind of peaked with the mosquito thing.

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

A healthy Rant

The day began full of potential. Like most mondays a crowded agenda presented itself for me to edit and render reasonable. One thing that had come to the top of the priority list was to dump the DISH and here’s why, thousand dollar a year piece of shit. Which leaves another thouish a year for piece of shit phone and internet, but thanks to cyber anarchists everywhere one can pretty much milk the web for entertainment with impunity.

It got to the point where I kept the DISH up to add the golf channel which i thought would have me more actively engaged with this goliath of boredom. When I called, it turned out that I should have had golf channel all along (like years). They said oops and sent a guy up to install another receiver so I could get to see ’em tee it up and, or watch Tin Cup. Over it.

So I call and I wade through the phone tree, choose the appropriate number, refuse to participate in a survey and am put on hold with the usual blah blah about how very important or muy importante I am to “them”. In this case, however there is an annoying ad about how easily your DISH service travels if you should choose to relocate. Adrenalin levels increasing.

Next a human comes on the line whose English I understand except for the tinitis that makes some of the words solicit a “say again”. When I tell him what I want, there is a stunned silence after which he looks at his records and tells me, to the day and hour how long I’ve been a valued DISH customer, which is over eleven years. Tempus Fugit.

He asks me what’s the beef and I tells him that I’ve just been watching less and less t.v. cause, no need. Tell him its costing a grand a year which could happily go to scotch and flowers for loved ones. He finally accepts the notion that I’m serious about wanting to drop the service and tells me that he will start the download process which will take “awhile”.

Now, in alternating cadence, he begins to tell me what percentage of the data mining has past while reading from the script of puckering up to a “valued” customer by making offers designed to prevent refusal and keep the valued customer in his or her place.

“Twenty eight percent”, he said “and by the way we’ll give you half price for a whole year without a contract. Just sayin'” Thirty six percent done and he’s gonna throw in some premier package ’cause, the Love.

When he gets to forty five percent I tell him that I realize he has to read from a script and do his best to keep me in the thrall of his heartfelt plea to keep me from wandering astray. I told him I wasn’t in a hurry and that we could just wait it out in silence. Turns out we couldn’t.

His final offer was actually hard to refuse. I was officially declared a “tough nut to crack” and informed that my service would be terminated at the end of the current pay period.

At this point I said, “here’s a suggestion. Why not install some program on your system that spits out customers who have passed the ten year loyalty test and automatically send them, not an offer, but a gift of half price for a year, or NFL channel recently purchased by Playboy, or a genuine heart felt thanks in the form of a box of cookies instead of waiting for them to fucking dump you before pretending you really dig them?”

There was a bit of an unscripted silence, after which he said, ” I’m gonna walk that idea upstairs and probably get a promotion.”

Through the looking glass people……

A case of common sense gone missing in a steaming pile of profit driven, void of empathy Ppoooooop. This won’t change until the Big Divestiture begins.

And now for a shortish rant on Glycine wightii. Or more correctly Fucking Glycine wightii. I believe that’s the full botanical nomenclature. Looking into the history, the introduction of this innocuous looking vine was the brain child of the soil conservation service in conjunction with ranchers suffering soil erosion by virtue of “grazing” cud chewing bovines eating everything whose roots tend to hold the soil together and trap moisture. Nice choice.

Virtues of Glycine: breaks up soil with root penetration allowing more moisture in and less soil wash out. Good pasture fodder (soybean relative) and long term soil “creator”.

Vices of Glycine: Goes rampant, impossible to eradicate without serious herbicide use, work load in wet times increased by thirty percent along with fuel cost and man, woman hours. Will choke out and drown out untended plants and trees, sends tendrils into my house to steal money and uses it to buy cocaine.

The fact that not so much as an apology has been issued to those of us who now suffer the unintended consequences of this mistake typifies the action of government everywhere. “What, baddah you?”

It also points out the lack of concern for the small sustainable farms that do not have any real recourse to reconciliation through legal channels. So we live with the fact that the contagion of bone headedness from which we all suffer has stifled our collective ability to move forward. In spite of this it is still my fervent belief that each and every moment offers the promise of the possibility of a chance that we’ll be slightly less bone headed tomorrow.

We have welcomed nurse Kristen to the Rancho. Only one thing to say: Off the scale.

Week in brief: ‘nuther birthday, oh well. Wondering if we can push enough joy around to balance the strange. Doing our best……..

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

Oy,oy,oy: the sequel

 

There’s a lot of things about being a chicken that I’ll most likely never understand, which is probably for the best because after all, there’s only so much time in the day to contemplate such mysteries and only so many moments in which it feels acceptable to be dumbfounded by a chicken, then one must move along.

I got caught today wondering, out loud I might add, how it is that given twenty nest boxes in which to lay that the girls will crowd each other out of a single box by competing for the space, and then never actually lay an egg as though the jockeying for position took priority over that most primal instinct. Hmmmmm. Then they’ll proceed to drop five or six in one box and ignore the flashing “vacancy” sign hovering over one empty nest after another.

In this case it was a matter of finding six blue eggs in one nest box in a row of nests that had yielded not one egg in days. Now I sat down with a few of the girls to try to get some kind of notion as to how these decisions come about, but aside from a bit of the usual pekawking, soul scratching, sideways glances and my acute sensitivity to fowl language inflection, the mystery remains safe. Moving on.

Got a mighty thumbs up from aquaponics John who came by to check out the progress in the watery realms of the Rancho. As I had hoped, the quality of the water, the vitality of the fish and the brainstorming session as to future moves all met with enthusiastic support. Talked a bit about souping up the system with a couple of aquaponic beds. What the heck, I like watercress.

We got to talking about feed and percentage protein and gmo stuff and really exciting shit like that, when on a whim I grabbed a handful of glycine, shredded it up a bit and tossed it on the surface of lake bigshot. While one would not refer to this event as a feeding frenzy, it was not without interest. Nibbling was to be had. Tugging leaves under the surface for further shredding was observed. And the ultimate test which is that the fish will try practically anything floating around but will almost immediately cough it up if it resembles “junk” food. In this case the only aversion seemed to be the leaf size. Otherwise, they swallowed and went lookin’ around for more. Thought about chopping methods that would yield bite size nugs. Dried fish food pellets in different colors, sizes and flavors for the discriminating fish came to mind. Dollar signs flashing. A way to cash in on this all encompassing mess of greenery, destined from its invasive start to be a thorn in the collective side of Hawaii.

But before getting too far ahead, John said that the algae would provide all the nutrient density that the fish could need which is good, because I really only feed them to bring em’ in close and commune.

Here’s an interesting factoid. During the afternoon feeding/dangling legs in pond/pre sunset pump up, I will often bring an instrument down and pick away. The fish hang close when I’m playing, even when the food is gone. They just kind of meander around nibbling at the surface flotsam and while not exactly eyeballing me, seem interested in what might be next on the musical agenda.

Today I cruised without strings and spent some dangle time. They dawdled around the food for awhile but engaged with me in an entirely different way. Aloof and uncommitted, like ladies nite in Paia.

The power of sound as expressed in music reaches under water to change behaviors. To favor a communal lingering. To stimulate a bridge between two ideas of life. Wish I could be a fish. I’d learn to play fish fiddle and dazzle the humans on shore.

Looks like we’ve beaten the lace bug. You heard me. This is the innocuous looking diaphanous winged cuteness that hangs out under the leaves of the white sapote tree and other legal in the state of Hawaii for medicinal use plants, and slowly in a round about sort of way, sucks the chlorophyll out of the leaves. Clever little devil. Mostly doesn’t seem to effect the fruit set or overall health of the tree, Buuuuut, it does.

Been trying over the years to spray with the oh so useful neem oil/safers combo which works quite well, except that my backpack sprayer only sprays so high, so the hoi palloi in the upper limbs continue to re populate and with every new leaf flush the hope for clean growth is dashed on the rocks of psychosis, i.e. doing the same thing over and over while expecting a different result………..

Now this is just like me. I’ve been down to Dells dozens of times for this or that and each and every time, I stand beneath the upper shelves that display their selection of battery powered sprayers, compare sizes and capacities (which i already know), scratch my brain way too hard and walk away with a roll of chicken wire. We’re talkin’ years here.

Ah hoonded sheventee niyn dahhlersh (for the goyim, that’s an old jewish guy saying a hundred seventy nine dollars).

I made the leap. I took the plunge. I whipped out two benjies and left with a pocket full of loot. Picked up a motorcycle battery to power my new best friend and proceeded to treat my beautiful trees to their first new leaf flush in years that is free, ah say FREE of trace of lace. Note to self: what a Marooon.

Week in Brief: I WILL be the Koilapia king of Kealakapu, got a new camera, film at eight, moms moving to maui to wwoof. You heard me.

Chorus to an unwritten song in 3/4 time:

“Forgive me…….        Me.

Forgive you……..       You, and maybe

We get past this

chowder head stew.

 

Forgive them……..      Us.

Forgive us…….             We, and maybe

we get past this

knucklehead spree.”

 

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

 

 

Your title here

Its hard to imagine a more polarizing time.  And while I realize that we haven’t quite hit the rapids ahead, barring a tipping point wherein heightened awareness brings about qualitative change, we look to be in for some mighty turbulent moments.

I could whip out a bunch of toe curling examples of madness juxstaposed, but the one that always grabs me is the invisible intrusion and death grip of radioactivity in our midst. Being in one of the most beautiful places on earth, it is hard to imagine that there might come a time when the oceans are too toxic to enjoy, or the earth too hot to harvest.

As I write, there is a typhoon some 600 miles wide with sustained winds of 123 mph, bearing down on Japan with Fukushima very much in play. The consequences of further damage to the crippled facility are very scary to unknown scary. One thing is certain, they involve the kind of radioactive material that scoffs at thousands of generations of life on earth.

On the other hand, I’m pretty sure that Paul Stamets has already found a mushroom capable of gobbling down plutonium radionuclides and turning them into recyclable packaging material. And, we can probably leave the rest in the hands of the gmo folks who are almost certainly working on “mods” that give us super powers when in the presence of Americium isotopes. And leave us not forget the natural mutagenetic sequencing which we are already experiencing via so many “waves” and “chemicals” conspiring to take charge of our bodies and minds. Damn you, Koch brothers.

One good thing to take away from all the moments that freak us to the bone is that each and every one of those instances offer an infinite number of choices, many of which are transformational  in ways yet unknown. Past is prologue, but the rest is Possibility. Thinking outside the box becomes an essential sacrament, and contentment becomes the cure. “He who remains content, contains content.” Lao Tzu.

Contentment, among other things is seeing that the young tilapia caught in the upper pond, a.k.a. Lake Bigshot have survived the transplant into the lower pond, a.k.a. Lake Inferior. The first such attempt was met by a complete die off due to chloramine toxicity. I let the pond get green with the first wave of algae brought in by some rain and tried again. Given that the chloramines are used for reducing algae, I figured a thriving algae colony would signal safe conditions.

Threw some food in this afternoon and saw that the fry I had put in over several days had met up with each other and formed a tidy little school. Very chool. They actively nibbled away at the small round pellets and seemed frisky and healthy. Should be about six months till regular harvesting begins. Who’s in?

Since completing Lake Inferior, there has been a deep calm come over the land, as though maybe not the final piece of the puzzle has been snapped into place, but the piece that  finally reveals the nature of the puzzle and ties it all together has in some subtle but definitive way described itself.

So it feels like the Golden Age of the Rancho has begun. A time which Mollison reckons should last for about twelve hundred seventy one years (on average, at least for the olive trees). A time when the designer becomes the recliner and the trees do as they please. A time when doing nothing reveals everything. A time when being integrated with the environment brings about the deepest sense of gratitude for life beyond the fray.

All of this follows on the heels of what has been a trying time through the winter and spring months. A rain drenched, moth infested time. A time of diminishing hope on a global scale. A time to gird ones loins and turn the ship into the gale and feel the fury of the winds relentless howl until nothing but full bellied laughter prevails. Because there is no winning or losing in this game. There is only how we ride, whether a cantor through the glen or a gallop till the end, we all bed down in the same stable.

The mango trees are flowering yet again (fifth time) and appear to be setting a good bit of fruit, while the January flowering has produced a sparse harvest that bears checking on a daily basis. With mangoes, one doesn’t want to see any go to ground and these babies are plumping up and showing signs of color.

With the hillsides showing their usual parched summer colors, the chances are that the demon moths will be in short supply. So far I’ve only seen a few fruits getting stung. With any luck, the mangoes, atemoyas, avocados, longan, jakfruit, jaboticaba, lychee, papaya, citrus, fig, white sapote, banana and other lesser crops will go unscathed, leading to an autumn harvest that will catapult us right into the fortune 500 club.

I’m not sure if i should spend the money i haven’t earned yet on that candy apple green, metal flake maserati that haunts my dreams. I mean I know I should be prudent and think beyond my own miserable obsessions but I feel my mid life crisis passing me by without treating myself to so much as a motorcycle. OMG  (I learned that on Facebook). LOL

The beloved hanai son has moved from his ancestral  home to le domain de la wwoof. Replacing the lovely L.L. Farina (never in a million years), Tyler has taken up residence in the lower forty. He and roomy Willie Ray have made a bond that  would make crazy glue pucker with envy. And so it goes.

And me, I am securely ensconsed as the soul resident of my wittle home, for the first time in seven years, I might add. Ask me how wildly novel that feels…..

Week in brief: learning to be lazier, loving the fish thing, that small portion of the spectrum of “energy” occupied by things material is entirely the realm of the feminine and men, being the proverbial fish out of water are really just trying to figure out how much pressure to apply to the clitoris to make y’all happy.

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

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