Place this in your pipe and fire it up. Top or bottom of the food chain is a matter of perspective. We have long thought of ourselves as the pinnacle, the shizzznitz, the ipsissimus of all life. Forgive me, but i beg to differ. This train of thought has been partially stimulated by the ongoing discussion involving the merits of veganism over an omnivorous way of eating. This assumes that eating a plant based diet is as nutritious, health giving and complete as eating from multiple sources. It also assumes that it is more ethically and morally correct to spare the lives of animals as food. Research done over decades, verifying that plants not only have sensory apparatus that allows them to "feel" in profound and empathetic ways, but indicate that they "know" when they are being harvested and eaten would tend to debunk the notion that it is any more morally correct to eat plants than a diet based on animal and mineral kingdoms as well. My take on all that is that Sacred knows no prejudice. It's all or nothing. Acknowledging that and giving respect to the cycle of birth, life and death is the necessary precursor to minimizing the "freak out to the land of Hyperbole" impulse. In recognizing this, one has to wonder as to whether this food chain concept is any more than just another anthropomorphic pat on the back testifying to our awesomeness. Consider the fact that our ability to have created language is one vehicle in which we navigate the path to said awesomeness. Consider also that this is said to have put us in advance of all other living critters in the mere fact of our being able to describe our awesomeness. Consider also that this is a mindless exercise in hubris. Wanna know how I see it? I thought not. The plant kingdom is the pinnacle of Natures Creative Existence. The human species, possibly an import, possibly a monkey chimera, possibly an extra terrestrial experiment gone terribly wrong is in reality, food for the plant kingdom which is wondering just when the fuck we are going to do away with coffins and urns. Oh sure, you're gonna say what about Mozart, DaVinci, Van Goghgle and Michael Jackson? To which I say, even a broken watch tells the right time twice a day. Plants are conscious and have language beyond anything we can as yet quantify. They are adaptable beyond any measure of human capacity and they could give a shit about iphones. They thrive on our remains as we attempt to figure out how to culture them to nurture our gardens (for the neophyte, we're talkin' compost). They are stable and resilient to all conditions thrown at them by natural forces with the notable exception of human stupidity. In the End however, the plants will out. The simplest definition of sustainable is no external inputs to the system and the system continues to thrive, like the amazon rainforests or the great coniferous forests of the north. Humans require more external inputs than any other species in existence. "On and on, the rain will sing, how fragile we are, how fragile we are."Climax ecosystems in the plant world only require four things. Fire, Earth, Air, Water. I would argue that we are, in fact at the bottom of the "food chain". We are the most abundant source of food for the Plant Kingdom. Sorta toxic at this point, but what's a couple of millennia of composting in Earth Time. Sometimes, when i walk around the orchard wondering why the mangoes don't set fruit regularly and pining over my lack of insight, I sense the trees laughing their asses (if they had them) off over my attempt at bringing my consciousness to a level of understanding that can have a positive influence on the rendering of a more consistent fruit set. And when I realize that they will outlive me I figure fuck it, Tyler can figure it out. Let's crack another brewsky. Mangoes are the flibbertigibbets of the plant world. They could absolutely give a shit about your expectations or any assumption  of their consistency in bearing. Moreover, they snigger at your whimpyness. While I have somewhat mastered the many dialects of Fowl language, it will be the work of my remaining years to learn Mango. We have twenty one varieties, and i feel certain that each speaks a different dialect. For now I will be more fawning and obsequious, make less eye contact with the young fruits and in general behave the way I would around the Queen of England, or Little Richard. This week in news: Greenleaf turned my golf game around, again. The man is a miracle worker. The Rancho is throbbing like a debutant on E. Mom is arriving June twenty fifth and will be holding court at the second party of the season (to be announced). I'm kvelling, but in moderation. The more you show, the more we'll grow. Peace, Jp  

Occurred to me that Vernal would make a right proper name for boy and girl alike. In the nickname department, the boy could go with Vern of course, and the girl with Nally or Nal for the tomboy, one of the guys type. I've been saying things like "right proper" lately for no reason my senses register, so it's probably the spirit of Farmers everywhere dropping by and leaving hints hanging in the trees and messages in fowl languages as well as channeling the correct approach to pulling off the whole "farmer" mystique. I would submit that it is for this reason, and this reason alone that you may hear me use this utterly misappropriated colloquialism. Probably a form of rehearsal for the next potential "income stream" in the PermaRiver called what I do. The intent is to bring a tweensy portion of the world to our patio. The focus would be an "infotour" followed by a scrummy meal. Imagine, if you will a fresh caught tilopia, bout the size of a big mans hand glazed over with some kinda wicked yummy sauce whipped up after seeing an ad for honey mustard spin offs. This is all sizzling on a little cast iron skillet shaped like a fish with the scent of rosemary and mustard melting the air while the honey raises the humidity. But wait. Nestled  next to the sizzle is a glass platter in the shape of an anthurium flower and a coconut shell resting on a small coconut shell stand. The platter hosts, in repose on a crimson chard leaf, a pie shaped slice of thick frittata, prepared with eggs and veggies picked by the greenhorns. Resting in the coconut shell, in glorious fresh, a small bouquet of greens wrapped in red russian kale and tucked in with nasturtiums peppery glory. The very same greens contained and cooked into the frittata here on display, for a compare and contrast sort of moment. Garnishes would include the hot pepper medley, green mango chutney, balsamic papaya seed dressing and Newman's Own Mama Mia Sauce. B.Y.O.B. We are canvasing the public for dessert ideas and would go so far as to name any dessert we use after its creator. You'll be swept up in a flurry of fame. Preceding this gustatory adventure I would do my schtick and manifest my best impression of me being right proper, with sweat stained "peace on earth, the human approach" baseball cap, wrap around shades and eyes in the back of my head. Always have had fun walking folks around the place. A settling yet exhilarating ride through the evolution of a thirty year romance with Mah. Seen my share of "Aha" moments flair up in the eyes. The banter on its own is worth the price of admission which, with any luck will be acceptably exorbitant. It is the scent of mango flowers that dominates the lower orchard. A riot of flowers and a fragrance that hangs low and defies you to like it. It is the little too far gone place, where the nose senses a message of doom. Hows that for a way to describe mango flower scent to the greenhorns? They'd eat that shit up. Anyway, this may be the reason that it is overwhelmingly the common house fly that does the pollinating on the mango's. Could it be that they get the sense of something rotting, or about to? Neat trick. Fuck the bees. Little pussies can't even handle nicotine. I've seen flies consume beer soaked cigarette butts. On a really hot day. There are a number of other fairy like fliers drawn in and intoxicated by what must be an epiphany of olfactory bliss. The January flowering and fruit set was light to fair and always has one shrugging shoulders and hhrrumphing over the prospect of a lean year with only moderate face stuffing and limited revenue. I am now crossing every finger and toe on my body while attempting to convey that the April flowering and current fruit set is looking___________( you're choice of awesome adjective here. I don't want to jinx it.) Looking back, the reality is that I can only remember two "bumper" years. Fruit trees have their yes and their no. Very little way of knowing where they'll go. Hhrrumphing less with the luxury of being able to hang out with these young adults and their spectacular offspring and try to hear to first "words" of the smallest mango's you'll ever see, singing some pheromone sonata, waiting to jam. Nice to know that I still don't know what the fuck I'm doing. Keeps things fresh. In other orchard news, the Malama avo, barring acts of ungodly behavior has, in fact set in above average to whopping good fashion with fruits gecko to quail egg size, practically guaranteeing their march to maturity. Homer Simpson would drool. White sapotes appear to be hap hap happy with minimal wasting from the pernicious poking of the fruit piercing pecker head. Above average fruit set and high brix. Citrus and loquats getting hit in a noticeable way. Loquat fruit rot and citrus which when squeezed send juice streams squirting hither and yon. The greenhorns love to see the tragic melded to the comic. We have pushed out into a previously untouched hillside on a north facing slope. Two new mango and two new avo varieties along with Rollinia deliciosa and Canistel. The pathway linking the trees is lined with papaya about every twelve to fifteen feet. As a new system develops the remaining spaces call out for form and function and so it goes when you are at play in the yard, hauling pond water, pullin' weeds, brainstorming. Eager little wwoofer faces, "what's next unky Jp?" Heck if I know. Let's just do somethin' that"ll be right proper for the Aina, by cracky.                          Too far? News in brief: mighty metaphorical storms brewing most everywhere. OMG moments of crushing despair can be reduced by following these simple steps: 1. Upon awakening and after splashing cold water in your face, look in the mirror and while staring, slap yourself hard and swear that you will always believe in the miraculous. 2. Stop caring. 3. That thing about dance like no one is watching, sing like everyone's deaf. 4. Oh, and the more you show, the more we'll grow. Peace, Jp

You know how sometimes, for a rare moment an idea is born fully formed? So if I were a chef, it would be the recipe of a lifetime sitting on a plate in my minds eye. Or as a musician it would be the music and lyrics to a catchy tune which would unite us all in the basic human need to shop, particularly for my song. Or if I were a philosopher, it would be Knowing the "big slippery", which is what I call that ever illusive Raison d'etre. Well, mine came in a field as yet invented which could be thought of as physinomics. It combines the rules and laws of physics, from Newton to Quantum with the occult aspects of economics. It is the Big Bank theory and it clarifies everything. I believe it was Hermes Trimagestis who opined: "As above, so below." If so, then one can hardly miss the likeness of a multiverse, pulsing into and out of existence, emerging from a singularity into gaseous cloud birthing matter, with the constantly inflating and deflating bubbles generated by the ebb and flow of economic "forces" mysteriously coming into existence from somewhere within  the hidden recesses of the vaults of the federal reserve. And without any real explanation, gaseous bubbles of monetized  Stuff come into being and move with increasing velocity toward the rich. You see, to deny our roots which dig deep in the soil of Self interest and grow strong in the wanting and acquisition of More, is to miss the connection with the very core workings of all things: Live long and Prosper. There might be some pushin' and shovin'. The universe is said to be expanding, so with each breath we take, we move a weensy bit farther from the Big Bang. So it is with Physinomics  theory in that infinite economic growth takes us farther from the source of the wealth. The Big Bank theory remains tied to the singularity ( source of all wealth ) and posits that as long as the Mystery remains hidden in the folds of time that basically everyone will put up with the crumbs, the scraps, the heaps of scraps issuing forth in a fit of sorrow tainted blessing, all the while thinking they know what's happening, because like the universe herself we rejoice in the embrace and the glow of a miraculous existence. Brought to you by money. Damn you Gordon Gecko. So, while a rather crude replica of a rambling universe gobbling up anti matter in its trek across time's second cousin twice removed, the analogy can not go unnoticed, and we can resist the urge to revel in this ever expanding Big Bank environment no longer. If we cannot surrender to "I want More" , while whining  and weeping till getting more, we mock the universe herself. We say, "you're wrong ms. universe for constantly expanding and showering multi-dimensional  blessings in your wake. So wrong for wanting to leave all the lights on at night. Twisted for wanting to shower us with the glory of nature and the comfort of flat panel." Steven Hawking knew this when he formulated the basis for the Big Bang theory. The humanist in him, knowing the ruinous end to which mankind would come, were it encouraged in the way of the Big Bank made him decide to change one letter. Round the world in news: Antarctic glacial melt more severe than suspected. Could raise sea levels by up to twenty feet. This will happen a week from tuesday. Fukushima persists in being unsolvable. Over 30 million peeps still living in contaminated area. No assistance forthcoming. Radioactive water flowing into ocean for four years. I am advising against eating fish that glow in the daylight. Frozen toes in Hawaii attest to global warming. Republican senators can't wipe the smirk off their face. Massive volcanic eruption in I forget where is due to accelerate the rate of climate change by adding the equivalent of one years worth of cow farts to the atmosphere. Please, replace that burger with a prayer for humanity. Smog alert in Chang Mai is off the scale. Temperature to surpass 105. Still need dental work? Benjamin Netanyahoooo sets new standard for kookoo. In financial news, we're mostly screwed. In the way of Permaculture one tells time by the talk amongst the trees. The atemoyas after a sterling season have encouraged the figs and jaboticaba, the mango and white sapote to join hands and grow plump and juicy. All look on as the longan and lychee burst into bud and subtle fragrance. It's 57 minutes past winter and springspeak can be heard down in the hollow. We're baggin the Jakfruit and soaking the citrus so that the latest flowering will give us a glorious summer harvest. I forget when exactly it was that we tossed a couple of dozen tipalia and a couple of dozen koi into lake Big Shot, but there are hundreds and hundreds tooling around. The tilapia range from fry to fifteen inches as do the koi. They have an adequate diet foraging the algae and other plant material in the soupy green waters. Had some problems initially with keeping dissolved oxygen levels up. Easy to tell as the fish get kind of listless followed by a floater or two. I'd been running the water falls regularly but that did not seem to be doin' it. Ended up getting an aeration system that passes the air through the water and shazayum, happy fish. If I play Michael Jackson on my boombox, the butterfly koi actually jump to the surface and moonwalk. Coming up: orchard expansion, MORE CHICKENS, LESS CHICKENS, learning about the role of viruses in the soil, figuring out when to have the first party. Rough life. Thanks for caring. The more you show, the more we'll grow. Peace, Jp            

That Gil Hodges autograph first baseman's  mitt, the one that when brand new seemed to repel the baseball instead of catch it. So stiff, no real pocket to hold a throw from the hot corner, no less field a hard pounded grounder. Then, after a rousing game of pepper with some of the primo grommets, one of em' comes up, points in the direction of the mitt and says, you need to oil that thing for it to work good. He then says, "that's not a pecker joke." Now Tommy's dad, having played triple A ball and coached his share of little league teams had passed on wisdom of the ages to junior regarding how to transform  that lifeless thing with a price tag still hanging on it to a soft hearted ball munchin' work of art. Ingredients list: a bucket of linseed oil, a softball, a piece of twine and at age twelve, the patience of Job. INSTRUCTIONS: Remove price tag. Place softball into the "sweet" spot of webbing. Gently wrap with twine while intoning a prayer of thanks for being given the opportunity to act as midwife in bringing to Life this Gil Hodges signature first baseman's mitt. Immerse the entire schmeggegles in bucket of oil. Do Not Touch for Three Days. Remove from oil and let drain till no more drippin'. Roll around in dry towel to soak up excess ooze. Let sit in warm dry place (preferably with fan) for Three More Days. Remove twine as though an ancient mummy therein resides. Allow softball to fall to Earth. Behold the transformation. Feel the transformation. Place left hand in the now oh so soft, pliable and confident grip of the Mitt. Pick up softball. Close eyes and channel Gil Hodges' greatest fielding moments while pounding the softball into the sweet spot over and over again. Resist the urge to get a full blown boner. Become the Mitt. Play Ball. Within four or five practices and games, that Mitt was golden. After a season, worn in. Broken of any resistance to its function. Totally reliable. So much so that when out on the field there was a kind of shared intuition. Hand in glove. Reason I mention this flashback is because it came when I was walking the orchard and noticed a wonderful flowering happening on the Kennsington Pride mango which has also taken on a lovely symmetry of shape after minor pruning last year. As I stood there, the entire history of the tree came to me, and as it did, it was as though we were hanging out, shootin' the poop. I had a "baby pictures" moment remembering Jaime over at Plant It Hawaii telling me she had a Kennsington. Not a variety they normally stock. so I jumped. And a pretty little tree it was. Planted with T.L.C., or was that T.H.C.? From then on it was heartbreak, for years. The deer love to browse anything young really, but go a bit lolo when they find a mango they like, and as far as I can tell they're a bit like humans when it comes to that. For a number of reasons, the Pride was targeted repeatedly and as often, slowly nursed back to the point where it began pushing out new growth. Finally got the property fenced in and with special care, a flurry of growth ensued. I'm looking at how clean and disease free the emerging panicles and new leaf flush are and remembering the years that passed just hoping the makeshift hogwire hoops surrounding the tree would allow the trauma to pass. So she's beginning to look really good. I recall the first fruit set. Three little dark green nubules. It's really a subset of having a kid, when you can wiggle it a bit and it holds on the branch, and you realize you'll be watching and waiting till it matriculates, only in this case you don't buy it a Prius, you slice it up and eat it. Then I recall the fence being broken. I recall the torn up bark and deep scars three feet up and nearly circumventing the tree as a young buck had worked the fuzz off its antlers at the expense of years of tryin' to fight back. I recall the sight of the branch holding the only three small fruits on the ground, by my feet. And as the breeze ruffling the leaves and sunlight, playing hide and seek with the clouds carry these memories between us, the observed and the observer find the freedom of release in each other and with that, the peace born of perseverance appears. A lesson in inter kingdom empathy. Still there, the scars up and down the trunk tell the story in ways invisible and unfathomable to the casual passerby. With any luck, come harvest we'll have enough to take some to market and turn folks on to one of Oz's best. She has the look of a tree that's found her way. A tree that has unlocked the secrets within the soil. A tree in harmony with its community. A tree that tolerates me poking around. Worn in and ready to find herself heavy with golden fruit. Hard not to root for a tree like that. Every tree here has a story that is an integral part of our life and they're chattering away all the time. Happens that I'm posting this on the eve of St. Valentines Day. Big money day for jewelers, not to mention flowers and chocolate. I put my highschool graduation ring, some hibiscus flowers and a bunch of cacao powder in with some kale, chard, banana, papaya, atemoya, lilikoi and honey and made a green drink honoring the fallen. For those with kind hearts and good intentions, may the inner glow of peace and bliss radiate throughout the nine realms. For those with closed hearts and malice aforethought, may your chocolate ice cream turn to Mozarts last movement as it enters your mouth. May all your days be filled with the uncertainty of irritable bowel syndrome,  and may all your nights be re-runs of Bela Lugosi films. Week in brief: a friend told me that they saw a bumper sticker that read, "un-fuck the world". Hard to move past that one. The more you show, the more we'll grow. Peace, Jp

I don't know, I just thought it might be a good way to arouse a different demographic to this ever repugnant but somehow compelling pile of blogit. This is in no way about peckers, but with a little ping back, I'll know exactly who the preverts are that tuned in for the first time. I guess I could work Blue if there were enough of you. A wink's as good as a nod. Now the gmo part is a different ball of fuzz. As yet, nobody has come up with a solution for the rapacious effect of the fruit piercing moth that flourishes in these parts and can be responsible for the rotting remains of your whole freakin' crop of this and that (got to eat about a dozen white sapotes off of seven fully mature trees last season). They LOVE citrus and white sapote, but will be happy to browse on whatever is fruity, like your favorite gay drunk. So now, whenever it rains, I start dumping cortisol into the old vessels and focusing on the losses about to happen if it keeps on raining. The other day during a mighty little passing squall and a ten to forty point elevation in blood pressure, the homunculus (Monci) came out of his usual repose and said," My Liege, it would behoove you to take a chill pill in the pursuit of the perfect solution, which is within your grasp and only recognizable from a place of calm like unto the aftermath of eating two and a half krispy kremes." I can get with that logic. He continued: "It is very much like the dilemma  of not passing gas in a public or intimate situation for fear of the stigma of the uncouth, while the only thing it really accomplishes is the endogasectomy effect which eventually works its way up to the brain and results in a series of seismic events known in the vernacular as brain farts. I know this to be true because my hammock is strung across the corpus callosum, and the scent of cesspool wafting through the canyon is not uncommon, as are the ghosts of thoughts that look like they just lived through five days of VOG and don't know where the fuck they've been nor where they are supposed to go. I implore you, your Hugeness, to let it out. Conquer you Fear. Dare to smell." Is there anything I can do about this, asks I? "Give up the fucking Gorgonzola bean dip/pork rind combo before going on a date, I mean common sense, man. And as far as the moth thing, build a better mouse trap." So that's when i started thinking of what mods could be adopted for the systematic implosion of the FPM population. I think all it would take would be to splice the white sapote with a constipation gene from Mitch McConnell, a logic kernel gene from Sarah Palin and a "hope" gene from Barry and the fuckers would just keep flying into the tree trunk until they drop dead. I just ordered a "gene splicing for beginners " kit from Amazon. Those little fuckers can't stop me from dreaming of a day when only love and light ripen the fruit to perfection and it takes three fruit piercing moths to fly an eight ounce beverage of your choice to your hammock in the monkeypod tree, after which they would congregate behind the tire of the nearest vehicle and wait for it to back up. You may say that I'm a dreamer......... Meanwhile, on a planet called Earth, young jp ponders the mysteries inherent in this ever chaotic, frenzied and insular look at existence which increasingly excludes and calls inclusiveness seditious. If we fail to wrap our minds and hearts, our growing souls and immortal spirits around evolved definitions of things like wealth, power, knowledge, surrender and honesty we have little to lay claim to a  legitimate place on this remarkably beautiful planet. This gem of a miracle. This crown jewel. There is a wave building that will make Laird Hamilton crap his shorts and when he does, we will truly know the meaning of "he knows when you've been bad or good, so be Good for Goodness sake". As a "civilized" people, we have been madly exploiting our gracious Moms life force to the point where, my feeling is, she's begun to say, "talk to the hand dude 'cause ya' all lost me about two decades ago." I think of mother nature as a southerner. As the old saying goes, as above, so below and if this is as far as we've gotten in attempting to move into a more conscious state, then might just as well set a course for full party till we drop mode. At least from there we can say, "wasn't me. I'uz just spreadin' the love." Getting ninety baby chicklettes in a couple of days. Fifty leghorns, and forty each of barred rocks and black australorps. New blood for the egg dept at the Rancho. Always excited to get new peepers. Will be vigilant of mongeese and overly cuddlesome interns. "Oops, is it supposed to be so limp mr. jp?" That's not a pecker joke. Week in brief: wouldn't know where to start. The more you show, the more we'll grow. Peace, Jp    

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    

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    

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

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      

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