It has been the custom at the Rancho to, twice annually, consult the venerable I Ching. Those times being general new year, January one, and personal new year, August 20. Random consultations are limited to the misery of heart break and betting the pony's.

In focusing in on a general forecast of what 2023 has in store, the hexagram Oppression (exhaustion) emerged and changed to Obstruction. Oh boy howdy. Anyone out there feel oppressed or obstructed?

Personal new year consultation was more in line with passing on lessons learned to those willing to listen, Approach changing into Decline. This aligns with the yoga teaching on how to best deal with the end game, which councils surrender.

Surrender of possessions, surrender of attachments, surrender of knowledge and wisdom accrued over the decades, and the surrendering of the fear of the great and titillatingly terrifying unknown which awaits us, one and all. A sacred ritual of passing on the essence of ones life experience, so that the vessel is emptied and the heart is filled.

In this regard, I go with Kurt Vonnegut's assessment of what life boils down to, which, he said was "fartin' around". The humanist view.

Then, after the great ongoing divestiture, and at long last, I can go busking for bitcoin in El Salvador. Surf shorts cinched, beggars bowl in hand, violin case slung over my shoulder and a million bucks banked from the sale of the land, just in case I want to buy dinner for some Latina heart breaker who takes a shine to my arrangement of "Gee Baby", and ends up making me consult the I Ching.

Lately, the homunculus (Munci) and me have been digging deep. It's not that there's a serious attempt at figuring anything out or achieving some insight or other. Over that.

The bundled strands of long neurons that connect the brain hemispheres is where Munci likes to hang. Strings his hammock across the corpus callosum and watches all the pretty lights flashing. Little feet dangling.

Our deal is, no baddah me, I no baddah you. But from time to time its important to huddle up and discuss, in this case the notion of dying healthy.

Munci could not help but intone: "but, my liege, is this not an oxy-idiot." That's oxy-moron, numbskull. And yes, it is a bit, sez I.

Oh pinnacle of tippee tops, he cooed. How, pray tell does one reconcile so divergent a postulate, save to toss it into the quantum chomper, allowing all things the truthiness they deserve. (did i mention he has a british accent?)

Well, that's one way to smooth things out Munci, but consider: our most common denominator in this existential slurry of competing urges is cashing in the chips, kickin the bucket, kackin the chicken, buyin the ranch, sellin the kids, passin over, dropping dead, feedin' the trees.

One would think that this mother of the father of all fears would supersede water cooler talk of last nights news report on pink cocaine from Medellin, which is not really cocaine at all, but.................oh never mind.

And how, lord of the vast unknown, would one start such a conversation, asked Munci. Perhaps, " hey mate, got a death story?. Wanna share?"

Although I sense a cynical tone in your conjecture, it's not a bad notion, because pretty much everyone has several that probably never see the light of day.

Might be a kid finding her pet canary lifeless on the newspaper floor in the cage, with two tiny eggs by her side. Might be the son, bedside, watching a wisp of spirit depart the dying fathers nostrils. Might be the indelible engravings of a life scorned battlefield. However it is captured, so should it be received, embraced and transcended. Then, peace. The questions which have no answer, can not be asked.

Otherwise, just stop beating yourself up, let go and pass with a smile. It's your dreamscape. Make it a hole in one.

In July, after three plus years, the intrusion of pigs to the property got resolved, meaning that sleepless nights in headlamp pursuit of the porcine mischief came to an end. Hadn't felt that liberated since that seven gram mushy gush in '77.

Since then, it has been a clean up and planting spree. Planting because of having confidence that the porker pain in the Boston butt would not fold, spindle and mutilate everything in sight. The relief is hard to describe.

It's like if you were in a Colombian cartel helicopter, about to be pushed out into the rain forest from five hundred feet, because someone told El Jefe that you were DEA, and just at the final moment, the crew all lit up with partly toothy grins and doobies and yelled April fools, gringo, while you poop your pants in gratitude. You know the feeling, I'm sure.

It is with this sense of gratitude that we here at the Rancho approach the oncoming vortex of human dystopia, in the hope that the more we merge with the forces of Nature that forever support Life's renewal, the less will our desire for Anything stand in the way of connecting with the vital importance inherent in being of service to the vision which Nature brings forth and supports. And if you think I mean kill or be killed, then take a gram of mushroom and think again.

An Aussie anthropologist went to live with the bushmen of the Kalahari to determine just how many hours a week were required to live the hunter gatherer lifestyle that provided the village with most all of its needs. As skills were developed they were put to optimal use. Everyone in a meaningful order working toward the thriving life of the community.

After a year, the anthropologist determined that with the efficient division of labor and knowledge of the area's flora and fauna, weather cycles and such, it took fifteen hours per person a week to keep it all together. He also said that those fifteen hours were spent doing tasks that we would consider leisure time activities, like hunting and fishing and hiking and foraging for yummies, etc.

Another bloke went to study the Australian Aboriginal concept of "dream time", which differs greatly from non Aboriginal concepts. He found that their concept was event based and not seen chronologically. It was the onset of events that determined a persons age, not the passing of the birth date. Spiritual epiphanies, which they noted, came three or four times per lifespan were considered as defining a persons "age". Trying to put a label to that sense of time, he came up with the term "everywhen".

My dharma clearly revealed. The hunter gatherer from Everywhen.

Have been quoting the bible of late for conversational effect, with some minor edits, like the genesis thing and God creating the heavens and the earth in six days and then taking rest on the seventh, I would add, "give or take", waggling my hand. Or my current favorite which gets deployed with some regularity is "be fruitful and multiply, with yourself".

Could someone please cancel cancel culture?! The clubhouse of cowards.

Wishing you all a measure of contentment in what remains of the new year, or the human race. Sorry for the delay in posting, but in Everywhen I'm not late at all. Besides, I was out hunting.

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

Feminism mansplained: One need not have a dick, to be a dick.

And now to the financial news. Its jumpy out there. Dollar hegemony is caving to the pressure of crypto, which is living proof that fiat currency requires the strength of ingrained illusion to maintain credibility, while crypto is built on the transparency of the block chain, eliminates the parasites feeding off interest, fees and services, limits the supply of "coins" in circulation and lets you buy ecstasy on the dark web. An illusion one can get behind.

Of course it does take as much energy to "mine" the coins as is used to power the state of Ohio, pushing the climate crisis perilously closer to doomsday tipping points, but hey, gotta break a few eggs to make an omelet stuffed with cheesy profit and jalepeno poppers. The hidden costs of wealth.

Central banks can print unlimited supplies of coin of the realm, loan it to financial institutions, watch as it benefits the few, who inevitably screw the pooch with wildly bizarre financial "instruments" and demonic greed driven schemes, all the while knowing another bailout awaits.

Central banks are now loaning at negative interest rates, which means that if the Rancho borrows a hundred bucks from the Fed, it owes 98 smackers to cover the loan. Say wut? Which way to the wabbit hole?
The sands upon which this edifice rests are shifting while the lives of so many are drifting into hitherto unknown realms of what is possible, and what is not. The novelty is wearing thin. President Malarkey has already bailed on healthcare, student loan relief, minimum wage and buying me a Maserati tractor.

The folks running the show remind me of regulars at a crack house, only well dressed. Ready, day after day, to blow it in the name of maintaining the illusion. Each infusion into the system of finance being like taking another giant hit off the pipe and rising up in revery over how fucking great it is to be you.

And there they are, Yellen and Greenspan, sprawled out on the plush persian carpet, Zappa playing loud, crack pipe on the etched glass table top, propane torch hissing away. They're havin' at it, hairy ass and thorny pecker, pumping away. And as they reach a frenzied climax there are no "oh gods" or "yes baby yes's" only crescendoed voicings of " the great reset, the Great Reset, oh my god, the GREAT RESET", and as fever pitch is reached, they collapse into a unisplooge of deep sleep. All better now. Best minds in the biz.

I merged with Jesus for a spell. Felt swell. A little like your head feels when pumped with thorazine while strapped to a table for merging with Jesus.

Captain Carson of the wwoof platoon successfully dispatced a 40 pound piggy with his bow hunting prowess. He used the stealthy method of playing a pirated video of Miss Piggy and Kermit having wild Bonobo sex in Playa del Carmen. He had a battery operated rig, set to play when the pigs tripped the wire. Stopped em' in their tracks. Mesmerized. Never knew a frog could do that. Shootin' pork in a barrel.

All four wwoofs then had a Lord of the Flies moment gathering round a bonfire, hacking and hewing away, skinning and butchering. Scorching the skin for cracklins. Little Caroline started howling relentlessly around sunset, as she painted everyones face with blood while holding the heart in the palm of her hand. Clearly her first pig kill. A wild eyed look lingers still. A fine Rancho thumbnail.

When the tides of tumult withdrew, ribs, boston butt, hams, liver and heart remained, neatly stowed away after slow cooking one of the butts with some carrots, turnips and parsnips. Just dazzle with a yummy tomato mushroom sauce, and there ya go.

The next morning, I went out to find them all diggin' my garden up with their snouts, eating worms and soil and such. Made me laugh pretty hard. They took off, a squealin' through the underbrush. True story.

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

For those of us who, at the World Economic Forum in Davos, were recently referred to as the "useless class", take heart. You too can take part in a global experiment to test the efficacy of the "pretty sure" cure, and no doubt, so much more.

As technological progress outpaces its unintended consequences, and tax dollars oooozze into the pockets of peddlers of potions and peril, the marginalized continue to be entrapped by dispassion's icy grip, and the useless class, as it turns out, has its uses.

Hunger for the jab. Freedom with the jab. Have jab, will travel. Must have jab.  Thank you sir, may I have another.

Now, I'm no conspiracy theorist, but if after jab/jab, I take on the smiling sneer of Bill Gates, the bald pate of Bezos and the musk of Elon, alert my next of kin and prepare the funeral pyre. My dna has surely been compromised and I will perish by my own hand, before the Chimera has her way.

I envision the vaccine commercial of the near future, as reports worldwide come in citing side effects, some of which are metaphysical.

Voice of Barack Obama, "Moderna Vaccine, proven to be ninety six percent effective in producing antibodies against covid nineteen and a host of mutations. Get it now baby, for grandma's sake."

Voice of fast talking generic voice over guy, "Side effects may include, nausea, projectile vomiting, humming tongue, lumpy diarrhea, Jimmy leg, floaty out of body experience, expulsion to the Tibetan realm of the Hungry Ghosts, a guided tour thru Dante's Inferno and an acid flashback of that time you saw your mom as a Gorgon." Available now at CVS parking lots and Boogaloo Boys enclaves everywhere (just look for the aloha shirt). We take bitcoin.

The eugenics stew is simmering in the cauldron, filled with chunks of A.I. solutions to the "useless class", when Corporatistas no longer need a stinkin' workforce. Seasoned with a fine blend of xenophoblia indica, ego manioc root, cilantro and bonkersauce, these titans of the World Economic Forum swoon with each spoon. And you thought President Malarkey was gonna make things better.

Meanwhile, earthbound, wwoofer Caroline, a self professed "birder" from Vancouver has discovered and identified my favorite bird, whose four to five part song compels a smile (every time) and who I have never been able to see, no matter if its right above me and I lie down to stare up at the sound. It could poop on my forehead and I wouldn't see it.

Turns out, that's because its an itty bitty warbler with a big throaty voice, dressed in grey and hiding in the sway of limbs and leaves at the treetop. Like the jazz cat off to the side of the stage, lighting it up at just the right moment, behind a screen of boozy smoke. Seems to follow me around the farm too. Feelin' the love.

These little things keep it grounded around here. Keep it connected and therefore real, as in reliable, stabilizing and mostly entertaining. Miss Caroline has some premium octane enthusiasm for all things avian and her delivery of the discovery was a high point, etching its way into the annals of Rancho lore. A tapestry of tales richly woven.

News of the World: Gritty, Dystopian, Fantasy Docudrama, nudity, slow burn, some smoking.

Where oh where do we go from here? Buy the love, sell the fear?

The mango trees in full and glorious flower are the most beautiful reminder of how magnificent the harmonic forces of nature, combined with the senses can be. The faith instilled by witnessing the miraculous at play. Totally mesmerizing. Good herb too.

I stood by one tree, in the full sun. Pungent, slightly off fragrance flowers enticing all but honey bees to have at it. The more I stared, the more there were. House flies on down to the tiniest wasps flying the mission of a lifetime. A riot of Yin.

In spite of wind, rain, cold and more rain, the flower panicles remained resilient and mildew free. Further signs of increasing health in the orchard. And I would say, as something of an old hand, that there could be a crap ton of fruit this season.

When wandering the orchard, one has to suppress the o.m.g. reaction to a minimum, so as not to embarrass the poor tree and cause the dear to drop some young uns' out of the jitters. Humans must enter a kind of swoon state in order to begin to hear the many dialects of Mangonch (the root dialect of all the great mango tribes). And for goodness sake, tread lightly, imagining yourself a gentle breeze, everywhere at once, one with the fragrance.

Market 10 to 2 Mondays, farm offerings on the website.

The more you show, the more we'll grow.

It's sad, really. The whole dying thing. Not sad like boohoo sad. Sad like, "Paddy was a good old lad and will surely be missed. Next round's on me." Gettin' out there kinda sad. And as the drinks are waiter'ed out, everyone passes the hat and folks be pledging their support for family left without.

And the tears flow, because everyone knows.

It's a celebratory kind of sadness at best, and generally accompanied by a few good swift kicks to the arse of old lord Yama. He can take as well as dish it out, so why not Shout.

We protest, this ridiculous mortality game. We will no longer play by the "rules". We will invent RULES of our own, and by the force of Sheer Belief alone, overcome the illusion of your nasty persistent Schtick. You have made us wish for death. You sly devil, you.

How, you might ask do we muster the Sheer Belief to turn asunder that which has reigned unchallenged, for eon upon eon upon eon?

Only the creation of the Sheer Belief Force (S.B.F.) can produce a measure of inertia necessary to slow the deadly march and allow people to see the illusion. See the trick that's being played and played again and again.The dance macabre.

And the tears flow, because everyone knows.

Ninety minutes a day exposure to oxygen in a hyperbaric chamber restores genetic mechanisms to a youthful state in three months time.

We don't know what we know, yet.

We have passed the nadir and begin to gather light. The ritual of New Year celebrates our deepest intuitive connection to sunlight. This unending renewal is the one abiding hope that all living things carry forward with epigenetic certainty as to outcome. Life overcoming Death merging with Life

This, of course is philosophical quicksand, but the urge continues to compel us to discover what magic is in sunlight that allows its daily infusion to re-create, from a dream, our shared and disparate realities.

All manner of terrestrial plant life and cyanobacteria in oceans and lakes combine with sunlight to form the basis of most life on earth. Photosynthesis is the merging of sunlight, water and carbon dioxide to produce glucose for plant growth and oxygen for us to exist. This is not some bunny out of a hat. This here is True magic.

Increasing deforestation and decreasing pH levels in oceans and lakes has led to a steadily diminishing supply of oxygen globally. Hypoxia  is the condition of oxygen starvation, whose symptoms include anxiety, confusion, headaches, irritability and inattentiveness. Know anybody like that? What was the question?

An annual ritual here at the Rancho is consulting the I Ching for a forecast of the coming year. So, as the coins warmed between my palms, my mind drifted, then settled. The toss built the hexagram #12: Standstill (stagnation), depicting a situation in which heaven and earth move away from each other. There were no change lines, indicating a condition persisting throughout the year. "Heaven and earth are out of communion and all things are benumbed." Sounds about right.

Ever since quitting social media (instafacetwit, amagoobook and such), human connections have, like worn out neural networks, simply dissolved into silence, leaving open spaces to be filled. Since life on the farm is largely lived in silence, inner space just keeps deepening to include more and more of what the sensory world has to share. This suits the life of a dyed in the wool Permaculture Geek. Observation is the key to functional design.

We are creating the Union of Permageeks International (U.P.I.), to ensure solidarity in the coming times. We are taking applications from members of the animal, vegetable and mineral kingdoms. We encourage the union of wing and hoof, crystal and koi, head and heart. And in concert with the S.B.F., we will send the forces of entropy, including hubris, greed, psychopathy and Chuckie Cheese, into whimpering retreat.

For your U.P.I.S.B.F. membership packet, simply send a stamped, self addressed used Amazon box to the address listed below. Include seven dollars (cash or bitcoin) for shipping, handling, fees, services and my bungalow in Belize.

Your packet will include a thank you note from our founder (Swami Permananda), a crocheted insignia badge with iron on sticky stuff, good for hoodies, torn jeans, backpacks and beer coolers. You will also receive a booklet of talking points designed to give you a leg up when the feeling of being in over your head wells up.

So, for example if someone asks, "what is a Permageek, exactly?", you will be choc-a-block with thumbnail sketches that will dazzle and prompt amazement. From there on out its just spitballin'. Use the word Permaculture alot, and soon small elves and fairy's will peekaboo appear. Have a gas.

My resolution? To rest content with the notion that I will never be entirely fluent in Estrogenese. Try as I have, it is a language both illusive and compelling. A logic both disturbing and googoomahmah. Pretty convinced the blockage lies somewhere buried in my experience of childhood in Testosteronia. I do, however love it when girls refer to each other as Dude. Kinda says it all.

The sweet earth swells as the Sun kvells and kvells and........have a reasonably stable, minimally psychotic, virally shielded, self isolated, socially distanced new year, and try not to shit too close to the fan.

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

The sum of all actions that have ever taken place and are constantly coming to fruition in the aggregate Event called Humanity lingers on the brink.

In the time in between, things are seen which rarely get seen. Before and after create an edge where energies and entities from both conspire to give birth to now, where the illusion of confusion surrenders to the peaceful warrior, aware that there is no Other. And we watch as Before fades leaving little hope, and After, waiting in the wings is but a ghostly blur in the dark with barely a thing to say. Routine guides us. Turmoil derides us. Helping hands gratefully received, if we can reach out. If we can clear the fear. If, between the drowned out, we can hear the heart. Spoon fed conflict. A diet of division and class. Grass fed loathing. Master, Kiss my ass. Every culture offers a flavor unique. A silk in the tapestry of human life that stands on its own while being completely integrated. It is like the pot of soup/stew that never runs out. Ingredients, old and new, added and taken away as needed. Imagine, if you will, a giant cauldron sitting on a bed of glowing embers, maintained by the creative heat generated by like minded everywhere. Simmering away is this soup/stew paying homage to the flavors, scents and textures of all the worlds cultures. A blend of rich herbs and spices swirling through the simmer with oil slick shimmer from sesame, olive and avocado. There's a few fish heads bobbing around with carrots and potatoes rubbing shoulders with shark meat and kosher vegan matzo balls. Seaweed swims about while sago worm grubs puff up with broth next to pork, veal and beef meatballs. What looks like an oil spill is really just a vast patch of mole sauce, in the event you brought your burrito net. Its all swirling slowly, dancing flavors changing partners. And over there, do my eyes deceive me, or are those peyote buttons bobbing around. One can book a trip to the Cauldron of Humanity, and for a specified price, and for a specified time, can gather the essence of all cultures in a ladle full of broth and a basket full of  eclectic edibles. Saw an Indonesian guy net a bunch of kangkong, cover it with a pile of sago grubs and Italian sausage and smothered it in Bearnaise which he scooped from the simmering sauce pond. Some of humanity would stand on the walkway circumventing the cauldron, take a look, have a sniff and exclaim, "no fuckin' way." Many others would tingle with the chance to get a bit strange, at which point a strange thing happens. Flavors invoke sights and sounds, textures bring visions of landscapes, and scents transport one to the village center where another cauldron awaits. The anthropologist within awakens and wants to know more. More about the cultures that embrace his senses. More about feeling connected. More about common ground. A patchwork of paradox revealing patterns of possibility.  In the time in between, things are seen that rarely get seen. Chicken heads adorn the ground while sideshow geeks strut around, bloody grin beckoning. Hard to look away. Even harder to stay. Escape velocity requires the combination of genuine disgust with loving it all. Therein lies the awareness that there is no Other. Uniting and divided are but trunk and branches. Seamless. Seamless also describes a mango season unique to the 35 year history of the Rancho, in that there was no cessation in flowering and fruitset thru 2020. Normally mangoes flower four or five times between December and April, after which they would do the work of plumping up. They are now flowering for the 2021 season. Intuition whispers, "it's a combination of magnetic north drift, small incremental temperature increase and moving through an edgy part of the galaxy." Add to that, layer upon layer of existing electromagnetic technology fuzzing things up (see Invisible Rainbow), the unseen soup in which we swim and alien shenanigans, why a fella or gal might just get confused and distraught without really knowing why. Now, if I were a mango tree sipping the soup, I'd just keep flowering away so as to avoid, for as long as possible, the looming extinction event insinuating itself throughout the ecosystems of this gem of an orb. The universe is made up of electrons, protons, neutrons and morons. And at last, the Relaxzo bored of directors has seen fit to award me with the honorary title of Master Mango Squeezer. As far as I know, the first in the history of the world. This title was bestowed because, using the finest German sensing equipment I was able to distinguish between the softness of two ripening mangoes to within 13 nanograms of pressure. The other day, I got an offer, for when I become too old to scramble up trees and schlep 40 lb. buckets of fruit, to work as a breast implant tester, calibrating the product to suit the needs of the client to a wet tee shirt. 47 categories from floaty to firm. I do believe I'm up to the challenge. There will, of course be a human control group. Maui folk can check the "food" tab to see what we have to offer. We also ship to the mainland and three continents in defiance of our growing carbon footprint and in the interest of supporting neoliberal capitalist dictates which will eventually allow me to join the cantillionairs on Mars colony Nova. So long suckers. There, I said it.  The more you show, the more we'll grow. Peace, Jp        

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    

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    

I look to the chicken, I look to the sky, I look to the chicken, and ask myself WHY? 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