$billions$

a friend of mine is obsessed with money. and being rich. this friend is not rich, but he likes to talk about being rich and what he would do with his wads of cash and bonds and stocks and 508c6 offshore accounts in zurich and colombia. in an effort to lure me into his whirlpool of desire, he often asks me what i'd do with a billion dollars, right now. he asks me this question often because my answer is never the same.

right now, i would probably go to gallenson's and buy a gun. with that gun, i would shoot things. whatever i felt like. knock figuringes off a wall and down a laundry chute or blast holes through rusty coke cans...i would shoot my gun on the salt flats or in my grandma's backyard. i think she'd borrow it and the neighbors over the back fence could cross "dog food" off of their monthly expenses (and probably add "lawyer").

i'd buy two guns. a big one and a small one, like a glock. i say glock because that is the only gun i have ever pulled the trigger on, and i enjoyed it far more than i thought i would. the big one would be a rifle. and maybe i'd buy a third to slip in my purse or wear on my thigh...one with a pearly handle.

with my guns in tow, i'd buy an airstream trailor traveling van thing--the ones that look like giant vintage toasters. i'd decorate the interior with lickable wallpaper and visit every state in the union, including hawaii because i'd have the damn thing shipped, overnight. i'd probably skip west virginia, unless i had plenty of ammo.

i would do nothing charitable with my new-found wealth. i would hoard it, and never tell my friends or family where my new pet cheetah came from or invite orphans to stay at my gaudy ranch. i'd spend it all in a year and then eBay every last knick knack i purchased along the way. drink myself into a stupor and then enlighten myself with lunch guests like tina turner.

one german on the rocks, please

This compilation comes from Germany. It's a form of persuasion. A soundtrack for the true fiction that came to pass for 72 hours on the mystical, purple coast of Morocco. The track list itself is a poetic testament--a haiku of magic, brown eyes, such lyrics as "your ex is dead and will remain so", etc.

One journey for you, but it's worth it. One life here with me and it's magic.

Coincidence? Imagination is powerful: I ordered it up like a Pizza Hut special with a side of Ipod, and it was delivered in less time than the typical 25-30 minute window. I was at the end of my rope, so like Matilda, I used my powers. I had just discovered them too. And I was being cheeky and irreverent when I said to the sea, "Send me a single, intelligent, well-spoken and intuitive cohort to watch the peachy sunset dance across the crashing waves of this ancient and achingly romantic Moroccan coastal town..." And you can imagine my surprise when I got exactly what I asked for.

Of course, every time I started feeling invincible and "at home" with my new powers, I got a rude reminder that I was a guest in magic territory. After a three hour conversation confirming such odd commonalities as our childhood hometowns, favorite and obscure musical artists and comparing general philosophies on life--I skipped merrily on my way to spruce up for dinner. Humming to myself, quite pleased with my amazingness in fact, I turned the corner to prance down the cobblestones when I got a swift stone to the head. Of course, this was the cold reminder (in impish, local trouble-maker juvenile street urchin form) that I was merely plugging in to the magical Moroccan wi-fi, and I could lose connection at any time. Ok, I thought, thanks for that. My temple was throbbing and I tried not to look like the confused, crying, injured, single, vulnerable and emotional American tourist stumbling through the twilight. Be brave, I told myself, literally, have a stiff upper lip if you've got any sense at all...crying right now would be like a fat, unsuspecting guinea hen parading through a field of salivating foxes. Look mean. Think bitter, acerbic, salty, vengeful thoughts..emit them on high heat. Look mildly irritated and like you've had enough of the "gazelle! amore! lady! hallo!" cat calls from each and every shop boy along Rue Lalouj.

I recovered, ducked into my little hotel that looked like a ride at DisneyLand (mirror tiles and intricate mosaics casually adorning the entire lobby--modestly fantastic) and climbed the stairs to my humble hideout. The room was the size of a flipflop box with a narrow bed, sink, mirror--even some bars on the window to complete the "Alcatraz Meets Morocco" theme.

Now, "sprucing up" was a whole different boardgame in Morocco..my inner she wolf had been kept strategically suppressed as a precautionary measure. I had loaded up on Old Navy cast-offs for the trip, in an effort to turn up the frump dial and minimize any smattering of feminine appeal. And I was hideously successful at it. The plan was to give it all to Goodwill when I got home, but Freulein Maria's voice kept playing in my head, "The poor didn't want this one" and that pretty much sums up my faux maternity collection in which I made my Moroccan debut.

I decided that I'd put in some dangerous effort that night, just to make sure I hadn't completely lost touch with self-expression. This didn't involve any serious primping...I reshaped my hair (notice, I didn't go so far as "brushing out" my fully-organic dreadlock that I'd had in a cleaning-the-catbox knot for 30+ days...that would have been far too suggestive) and felt vaguely reconnected with my feminine side, in the privacy of my own Moroccan cell/hotel room.

I then decided to really vamp it up and add some mascara, after the little crooked mirror told me I had some work to do. I was giddy, like I was digging in Mother's makeup bag--age 5 again--playing with pretty and stomping around in too-big high heels. A few strokes here, a little manipulation of the mop and I was in my old neighborhood again. I'd have to make a well-planned bee line for my designated dinner spot... I had a mental rehearsal to map out my route: left out the front door of the hotel, through the little midget archway, past the mumbling drunk on the corner, right at the mini-mosque on Rue Mohammed Something-abibi. I pranced down the stairs, past the front desk clerk who unsurprisingly inquired just where I thought I was going with my hair looking half decent. With my carefully-cultivated Stupid Smile that came in handy more than once, I breezed past him and out the door.

Then it was about walking fast but not so fast that I'd arouse attention. I finally understood why women are called gazelles by the local male omnivores--gazelles are hysterical animals of limited sense, treading cautiously through the African Savannah and enduring the bloodthirsty cries by their food chain superiors. Hence the gawking, the rubber-necking, the customary fascination and commentary, "Madamoiselle! Hello! Gazelle! Chica Guapa! So sexy!" I realized, of course, that I could be a tranny in gold platforms and fishnets and garner the same response.

Dinner with my conjured-up friend was the flower of my magical realism...a brief rescue from the hazards of femininity and fatal allure of baggy capris.

serpent

up the airy mountain, down the crooked lane...ahaha I was flipping channels the other day and heard a snippet of bible-thumping preachy speak from a man who looks like he just excaped from azkaban...he said something to the tune of "jesus can help you become a better fisherman of men's souls, or at least help you make up for your poor habits.." and i thought about "poor" as a habit.

on fridee i went on a sojourn up lambs canyon trail, and plucked sun-ripened rosehips from their treacherously thorn-ed branches. i also dodged epic piles of moose poo, elk prints the size of dinner plates (spaced at 7-foot intervals) and for the first hike this summer/fall, i did NOT encounter a slithering symbol of change on my path. the last time that happened was in tahoe on the trail to mt. tallac, when i saw a rather skin-colored and hence suggestive animal on the trail, with a nub of a tail and humanish skin. i was deterrrmined to enjoy myself but remained somewhat disturbed after sidestepping the creature as it glistened (moistly) in the sun. it paled (literally) in comparison to the dragon i bested on the grandeur peak trail a few days before. this thing had gills, a ridged/webbed forehead, jagged eyebrows, and a murderous disposition. i was running uncontrollably down the switchbacks--bored with the slow, downhill plodding--when i came ankle-to-fang with this beast of the desert, coiled and scheming when i rudely interrupted its flow...he (i believe it was male) hissed and stared deeeeep into the recesses of my fear faculties...i backed up, and it followed, jaws still gaping and eyes in turbo-kill mode, rattle on hi-vibe...S-ing his way toward me, debating on whether to strike...in a twist of accidental mercy, the creeper slinked off into the grass (traveling uphill). once spared, i skied down the gravelous mountain like charlie with his golden ticket.

o valued republic:

Valued Republic

Sifting through the shit storm of information in search of some truth, I found this:

Excerpts from "Making the Best of a Slow Apocalypse" by Joe Bageant.


"Our relationship with the physical/material world is not only holistic and ecologically interwoven… it is also the source of our spiritual essence. Which is why monolithic production, monetization, and commodity fetishism destroy our essence. We must think through that. We must look around us at its proof, and learn it for ourselves. If you don't pick up on that, you're screwed."

"Perhaps we should all "dialogue on this" a bit? Nope. This thing we are facing, this thing we must do, is not just another topic for more "dialogue."In any case, regardless of who's doing the dialoging, Earth First, the Dalai Lama or the ghost of Reinhold Niebuhr, let's not kid ourselves that if we only yak some more, the world and mankind will somehow heal themselves. It's easy for the wealthy of the earth such as you and I (especially if one has an Internet connection) to want to believe that. After all, we had breakfast this morning and we not only have clean potable water to drink -- which 2.2 billion people do not -- but also shit in the stuff. The real solution -- not to the problem, which is unsolvable in the long haul, but to balancing those eternal scales inside ourselves -- begins with a more contemplative and reflective life, and the care of the soul. Both of which are necessarily thwarted by the wasteful daily busyness of our materialism and technology. Jesus did not text message his truth, and the Buddha never had a single friend on Facebook. Yet we hear their truth across millenniums. They simply practiced compassion. Only by eliminating suffering among sentient beings, do we create the spiritual soil in which peace can flourish. That takes conviction. The real stuff."


"It will take an entire lifetime of commitment, and the world will continue to crumble around us even as we work. There will be not one ounce of public glory or reward during our lifetimes, not if we are doing it right. And if we turn a buck on it, we can be assured that we are playing the same game as this earth's wrecking crew. Which is called irony, I guess.
Yet the reward lies right there before us. Knowing and observing the spirit in all things... even above life itself. It is the first fearful step... the first stone on the path to liberation."

"Either we can feel, or can learn to feel the common soul … that essence coursing in all sentient things (and I for one, include trees, rivers, amoeba and the atmosphere in the count) and feel joy and unity in that, or we cannot. Either compassion enters our awareness and experiential reality through suffering and contemplation of the suffering of others … or it does not. Either way, it would seem incumbent upon each of us to try to bring about a world in which compassion occurs for the maximum number of our fellow men. Given that we all share a common grave, compassionate action may well be the only human action of any value. Compassion for all living things on a living planet. In that resides the equilibrium of the world."


AND...

From Jan Lundberg's "Why Losing Your Job Can Be a Good Thing Today"


• Monotonous work is unhealthy, dispiriting, and such employment is slavery.

• Employment takes time away from important survival tasks such as seed saving and seed sharing.

• U.S. society and its government have earned disdain by behaving as if they are fundamentally bad. We have a system of friendly fascism that white-washes issues of deadly pollution and toxicity. Supporting the system as a worker paying taxes is one thing, but being unable to bring about a better world is a killer."

"Hard-core urban activists admirably fight the system with all the brake dust, tire dust, ground-layer ozone, and particulate-matter soot that they can tolerate -- for a while. These are usually young people who think their health can withstand an unnatural lifestyle, and besides, there are more opportunities to get laid and enjoy whatever other jollies the larger cities have to offer. Nothing wrong with this, as the Babylon-based activists are indeed cheating the system and are inspiring others.

This must not be discounted. Joy welling up from the soul, as when people dance to a live primal beat, is a big part of our special animal power. People expressing themselves creatively without vested interest or authority is actually our normal condition that we have almost lost.
Lifestyle change that bleeds the corporate economy to death is a major part of the "solution" -- if there is any solution to our predicament. We need a break with the past, a culture change. What about going part way for now? It is possible to contribute to a project so beautifully radical and world-changing, yet simultaneously live a lifestyle that contradicts it. But not for long."




For more, visit http://culturechange.org/cms/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=247&Itemid=1

prequel to world domination

The recession seems to be nothing more than an excuse by many to stifle their creative selves and play it safe and dull. Step away from that cubicle, fellow dreamer; the world awaits your genius. The risk is worth the reward and the reward has never tasted so sweet. --Andy Lovley

The term Walkabout comes from the Australian Aboriginal. The idea is that a person can get so caught up in one's work, obligations and duties that the truly important parts of one's self become lost. From there it is a downward spiral as one gets farther and farther from the true self. A crisis situation usually develops that awakens the wayward to the absent true self. It is at this time that one must go on walkabout. All possessions are left behind (except for essential items) and one starts walking. Metaphorically speaking, the journey goes on until you meet yourself. Once you find yourself, you sit down and have a long talk about what one has learned, felt and done in each other's absence. One talks until there is nothing left to say -- the truly important things cannot be said. If one is lucky, after everything has been said and unsaid, one looks up and sees only one person instead of the previous two.
-Source Unknown


Do not follow where the path may lead. Go instead where there is no path and leave a trail -Ralph Waldo Emerson

sept 17

goodthingsdohappenday

spork

wessa's spork
was in new york
until she brought it
home.