rhythm’s return to whidbey island, or the journey north again.

3 June 2012 § 2 Comments

I landed twenty feet south of where I now sit last August, in Dragonfly the cabinPerfection. It was a rough landing – the sort where onlookers think the plane might just take off again, having tasted the ground and hating it without even waiting for the finish. I took a vacation in the old sense of the word: I vacated the world for Whidbey Island, where I dove into myself to see what was there. A lot of it wasn’t pretty. But if I needed beauty, I could have choked myself with it, so abundant did it bloom in the odd sunshine.

Heather landed here too; more gracefully than I, but with more bruises and scrapes. We picked each others’ scabs, asked the hard questions, and rewrote dictionaries in colored pencil. Romantic walks on the beach became escapist sprints up the hillsides, and rocks thrown off the bluff shattered the dead calm tension of a glassy sea. We were just at the beginning, waiting for our names to be announced: the rites of passage were at hand, and we had no expectations.

(insert: 9 months, equivalent to one semester of university, two flights, three lifetimes, four countries, and no less than five this-could-be-somethings)

…and here we are again, headed North, in the spaceship Nissan, toward they Bristol Bay fishing grounds.

Since my great Big Breakaway, when I dropped everything for a radically different lifestyle, I’ve been paying dues in the commercial fishing world, hoping that the job of Alaska Fishing Lore would happen upon me before I was ready for it; I’m about jumping in way over y head and learning to swim, learning lesson the hard way, and walking away alive, kicking, and wanting more, so why not have a job of the old school, where guys worked themselves into wretchedness for the lucrative, end-of-season payoff. In the autumns of the 70’s and 80’s, deckhands returned to their college campuses and local car dealers, fresh out of the Bay, and paid for school and Corvettes in cash.

That’s what I hear of the glory days. My first three years fishing, I was able to buy a plane ticket each and six jars of peanut butter between them, living in my tent and on the kindness of others. I ate beans and rice and nothing at all, hitchhiked instead of taking buses, and said ‘no’ to dozens of drunken nights with fellow vagabonds.

And just when I was headed up to re-up my travelfunds, I got a facebook message from the skipper I’ve been fishing with for two years running. Our schedules didn’t align this year, he found someone else, I was out of a job. It was the second time a job had fallen through while I’d been on a road trip toward Alaska. Clever, universe, very clever.

A beautiful dread arises when the rug is ripped from under you, and the future you’d envisioned disappears. In an instant, all the money and plane tickets and new packrafts; poof!

And then you smile. What now? Something else. Something better. Beyond your imagination. The castle in the sky still floats, far above its foundation crumbled.

Find a ladder. Climb.

If not this, then something better.

… (the universe answers specific requests, but you have to be sure you want exactly that. otherwise, leaving the possibility to its imagination, instead of yours, opens portals you’d never have looked for) …

If not this, then something better. If not this, then something better. If not this, then something better.

I met my new skipper and his wife yesterday, saw their beautiful home – which their fishing career no doubt furnished – and signed up for the hardest work I’ll have ever known. It’s the sort of job I would have lusted after; now that I have it, there comes a healthy dose of fear around it. I’ll find out what my real absolutes are this summer – physically, mentally, spiritually, and whatever other adverbs exist around my outer limits.

My fear is that I won’t get to write much. I have no magical note system to catalogue ideas when I’m spent for perfect recall. I might have to be okay with philosophizing with the fish. Sometimes they reply in croaks and groans, other times with slaps to the face.

I found something better, and must sacrifice for it. It’ll be worth it. And it starts here.

Here we go again.

Cannibalism in the Bath Tub: Bath Salts and Truth

2 June 2012 § 2 Comments

While I’ve been road-trippin’ across the States (chasing festivals and fish up to Alaska), others have been eating faces off the causeways of Miami. The face-eater’s mother said that her son was not a zombie, and the police said the boy was on a drug ‘like LSD.’

Both were lies.

Mothers think their boys can do no wrong, or at least will love them anyway regardless of what they do. This is normal; it does not mean, however, that her son was not a zombie.

Police – law enforcement – are in the interesting position of The Middle Man, between Lawmakers and the Public who, they say, must acknowledge said laws (because lawmakers and The Rich are above, immune, and/or not subject to said laws – obviously). The Middle Men are told to enforce laws, for example, by ticketing those who run red lights, marginally disrupting human trafficking, and revealing internal corruption.

Not everyone does what they’re told. Obviously.

When an opportunity arises for the Middle Man or the Lawmaker to benefit their cause, they tend to take it, much as The Protester or The Revolutionary would. So, when a man eats another man’s face in Miami, the only answer can be either a Zombie Apocalypse, or Drugs, unless the man whose face was being eaten actually wanted his face to be eaten, which is not unheard of – as in the case of Armin Meiwes.

If that opportunity takes the form of a bald-faced lie directed toward an ignorant audience, does the Lawmaker still take it? Again, just as the Revolutionary would take advantage of a President grieving over a lost wife to begin a coup, of course he would; he is above the laws he makes. And, there must be An Explanation for such an act – after all, we do not all go around eating each other’s faces! The public demands An Explanation!

An Explanation is not equal to The Explanation, however. We must remember logic, and the Constant Asterisk: *most people are satisfied with the mediocre, even if the mediocre is a Lie.

What is The Lie?

Police said the attacker may have likely been overdosing on a new potent form of LSD. “What’s happening is whenever we see that a person has taken all of his clothes off and has become violent, it’s indicative of this excited delirium that’s caused by overdose of drugs,” said Armando Aguilar of the Miami Fraternal Order of Police. – WSVN-TV

Bath Salts, or MDPV (methylenedioxypyrovalerone, or mephedrone) is a new synthetic that is absolutely nothing like LSD. They have virtually no chemical similarities. They are not illegal in many places (though this big scary ‘drug’ story will certainly change that), and can be bought in head shops across the nation. It’s the drug Methheads call ‘fucked up.’ And when a meth head says something is fucked up, it is the job of the rest of us to listen.

The War on Drugs, otherwise known as A Complete Failure, persists, and kills people with its perseverance. Yes, it kills cartel members and small-time slingers, gangsters, and dopeheads, but those are mostly over Human Stupidity and that the materials these ladies and gentlemen are working with are Illegal. These are not so often tragedies as they are Nature-based Population Control. Drug tragedies are the stories of decidedly gullible people experimenting with LSD, a substance they know to be safe (much to the chagrin of the DEA, U.S. Government, et al), and who want to expand their palate. In the safe and controlled environment they’ve created, having heard that Bath Salts are ‘like LSD’ in the mainstream media, they buy Bath Salts and try them, expecting similar effects.

Call it a surprise. Call it bad judgment on the users’ part. Or, call it Social Responsibility on the part of the Government and Media. Not the Social Responsibility coined by Eli Black, the last CEO of United Fruit who jumped out of his NYC office window in 1972, but that of a very intelligent and controlling Government. They Know the effects of LSD, Molly, Ecstacy, MDA, and Psilocybin. They Know that these things Do Not kill people, or make them insane and eat people’s faces on Miami causeways. And They Know that most people don’t know these things.

We’re not going to get into why those other drugs are illegal – it’s not important. What is important is the difference between them and substances like Bath Salts, and the fact that it seems okay that the Media and Government are Perfectly Okay with spreading deadly misinformation.

Believe nothing; until you have personal experience, extensive research, and trust in the depths of your soul that information is accurate, let it wash over you and be as affected by it as you might by an airplane passing overhead.

Spread truth, not just words.

Where Am I?

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