Honesty and objectivity...

Ok. Where do I start? The entry I did last night, the one below this one, was seriously truncated by technical difficulties. I'm making an effort here to embrace the people and land that I was born into. Effort. I would like to connect, really.


Had a nice talk with mom today. Yes, she has a bumper sticker on her cadillac that says "WE LUV YA DUBYA!", and she says that Kerry is evil, and Reagan her favorite Presedent. Fashion. A style of mental attire. I can look beyond it. She's a good woman, loving, wants for her famaily what most everybody wants: health, happyness, success. Our ideas of what those things mean, and what it takes to manifest them, are disparate.

My dad is running for State Rep. Wears the name "conservative" like a freshman pledge wears his greek letters. I went to see him speak at a monthly meeting of the Great Lakes chapter of ABATE (Assosiation of Bikers Aimed Toward Education).

I went with him and sister Kim, We walked across an alley way, through the bay of a muffler shop. In the back door of Joey's cycle shop. Bikers. Drinking beer, smoking cigarettes, socializing around lifts with hogs in various states of repair. My dad is wearing a light blue shortsleeve taylored oxford, dark slacks and shiny shoes (unbuttoned at the collar, casual). Most of the members were flying their colors. It was a whole thing, minuites from the last meeting were read off, upcoming funraisers and charity work, announcements, etc. A council of five sat on stools in the retail section of the shop behind a long bar that separates the members and the guests seated in folding chairs in the repair shop. In the room was a Sherrif, a soon to be elected Court Clerk, The Democratic opponent to my dads bid for office, a bank employee, a cattle rancher, A web designer. At least one convicted fellon, etc. Before the meeting, I went through the front door, through the Highway 69 Diner, and out front, smoking a rollie in a lot full of Harley Davidsons, looking at the neon lit Indian Smoke Shop, a drive through tobacco store across the Highway. I think, "I should write this down." So I do.

I have to give my dad credit. A conservative Republican doesn't get up in front of a room full of democrat bikers to give a stump speach unless he has grande cajones.

I cant say that hanging out with my family is a relaxing time, nor a time of deep connection. But it is damned interesting, no doubt. (to be continued...)

I am a creator...

I'm "creating" another post for this blog, for you. Create a more appropriate word than write.

I'm back in the flatlands, with the flatlanders.

To:blogger@trakken.com

Help me. Was writing. Then got some internal error scenario. Need to write. I'm on the road and I need to write. Especially now that I have arrived at my folks house. Help me, please.

The error occured @ 12:20am ish. Central Standard. Oklahoma. I'm in Oklahoma. I was in Honolulu, but now I'm in Oh-klahoma, and I don't want to have to transgripe from a notebook later. I have the fans of my blog to consider here (both of them).

Please help...
Dark Sevier @
www.undeadwords.blogspot.com<

Damn it. Just created a nice cliffs notes on my journey from Honolulu to here, then some internal error at Blogger zapped it. ...Supposedly.

I'll have to hit it again tomorrow.

Computer was Zapped...

So, is it a common notion that Microsoft and Norton are paying hackers to screw with the machines so that their programmers have job security, and the national economy gets periodic tech spikes? Or am I paranoid? Or both?

Sister uploads a Microsoft update and moments latter my machine has the sasser virus. What the hell do I have Norton for? Protection racket in its most recent incarnation? I wasn't through ranting about the auto insurance companies in cahoots with the state legislators using those well meaning cops as their enforcers.

While I'm banging this drum, let's take it a step farther back...

I was born on this planet here, and I've been told since as far back as I can remember that I have to pay some damned land lord to get in out of the rain, which means spending most my month engaged in activities of some labor or another just to keep out of jail. or off the street. Which is looking better and better, only because I live in non threatening weather.

I know at least a dozen people living commando. They are not "street people" as the stereotype goes. They live in the forests in tents, or caves, working two or three days a week to cover necessities. The rest of the time they are playing music, or listening to the wind, or visiting with friends. Living, in other words, not just surviving.

How long are the humans going to put up with this land based power scam? Some old nobody once said, "people acting 'sanely' has brought the world to this sorry state of affairs. Acting 'insane' may now be our only salvation."

When I was working in La La Land, I actually had a hope for The Media to enable people to wake up to the Con. But instead of Electronic Acid, we have Techno Heroin. We put up with this new and improved age old scam because we're addicted to the abuse. "Please tell me how far off the mark I am from the clothes and the tan that will make me a man..."

I went to Hollywood because I wanted to have my finest attributes exploited into fame and fortune so that I could maximize the primal urge to spread my superior seed into as many groupies as possible. A flashy ride, a bitchin' pad, good bad food, and a world view that confirmed my most narcissistic fantasy. I went to LA to be a jester and ended up a fool.

The basic urge to dominate the gene pool was fun-house-mirrored into submission at the feet of the most degenerate of the race.

But I know my place. As did the gate keepers, unconsciously.

If the vital minds of the time were allowed to find their place in the race of brand name recognition, the game would be over and the party would begin. And the life outside illusion would be a hard to take contusion for the overblown egos of the status quo.

The real work of living, of giving, of sharing ourselves with each other honestly has been eclipsed by this profanity.

Aint it fun? I like it. But I don't love it. And I was meant to love and be loved. Damn this glove of trendy interaction that insulates us from each other. We're all spies, undercover, undermining each other with our self definitions as "upper middle class" and "Catholics" doing mass and "left and right wing" fans rooting for their victory over the others. Who will be the heart that beats back this mental virus of separation? Who will be the nerves that send a signal to the muscles that we're not getting off the ground until we get our head together?

"They" are not guilty of reducing this amazing species to material servitude. We are. All of us. All of us that buy it, consume it, and shit it out into the mouths of the next generation, again.

So, I'm venting. Turning this plastic rubbish of inequity into poetry so that I can get a grip on it. This is the shit, the fertile compost that fosters the growth of something far more desirable in this garden we live in. Nothing gets wasted here.

Have no dread about what may be if you can see that it is you. Say the end is near and fear will be the harvest that you reap. Sleep in fitful nighmares that you are "their" victim, or burn the midnight oil creating a viable option. Or don't. It's a free world.

Full Moon this eve...

Wa'ahila ridge. Liberated space, kind of. Been going to most of the full moon gatherings there since they started, well over a year ago. Been dealing with the Honolulu police almost every time they showed up. I must say that the police here, that I've encountered, are far more tolerant than any others that I've encountered elsewhere. In LA we would have been hog tied with zip strips and dragged out face down.

The people at the gathering more peaceful that most disobedient civilians. There always seems to be some one who wants to vent at the cops: "C'mon man" that kind of thing. Generally, we liberate the ridge for the full moon until the Law enforcement come to do their duty on us. They don't bust anyone, we don't give them a hard time. Game over. 'Til next month.

We might be able to keep this up indefinitely if the police would learn to enjoy the opportunity to get paid to take a moonlight stroll through the towering ironwood pines. Their shoes aren't made for that kind of thing though. So, they're usually irked at having to respond to the monthly "noise" complaint. Manoa Valley hears the drums and whoops.

The cops admittedly don't want to do the paperwork involved in a bust. Good for us. The enforcers of the law draw the short straw, and still remain, relatively, cool. As we clean up the party favors: hammocks, kava bowls, and wine bottles, we small talk the cops as we put out the coles from the fire. We don't resist, they don't have to insist. I see a bottle of wine being poured onto the coles and leap to grab it. It was a bottle of Ravenswood. I hold onto it and step on the bed with my slippers instead.

On Joels request, I escort Aunt B out of the park. Her Djimbe drum under one of my arms, she holding onto my other, each of us with a bottle of wine in our hands, stubbing our toes on the trail out. The wind moaned in the tops of the trees howling at the moon in their own way.

Before the gathering I facilitated another edition of The Mean Time at Studio 1. I've been lax in promoting the event, so the turnout was small. The special guests slated for the event, pro-Palestinian Christians, didn't show.

I told John that I was ready to give it up, being that the joint loses money on it every month. He and Jack agreed that it was worth keeping on. This is amazing to me. A space that can hold five hundred people hosting a dozen or so to show and break it down for each other. Purposeful impersonal conflict. Love it. A place to challenge and be challenged by others ,where no one walks away with their feelings hurt. Phenomenal.

Could not make this stuff up if I tried.

Yawning. Stoned. Jonesing for a smoke...

I smoked cigarettes today. I decided I would let myself smoke the rest of my pouch and then quit. So I did, mostly. Ran out of papers. Little snipes of cigarettes ring the ceramic ashtray, like the butts of sticks left around the perimeter of the fire, after it has died.

Shawzy just called me to go to awa with her. I have never refused a request from Shawzy, how could anyone? I smoked a fat bowl with Louie in a parking lot after leaving Magoos with a double shot of Jack in my blood. I told her I wanted to go, but would probably vomit if I drank awa right now.

I was supposed to go to sisters and check out her new pad, but the smoke stirred the mix in my head and chuncks began to surface from the mental mire, surfacing, stewed. Tender. Easy to digest.

Like a crocodile I leap from just beneath the surface and snatch a moment from the day, drag it down into the depths and throw a log over it. It will sit and tenderize while I bask in the sun. I'll come back for that later.

But I had the drive home so, I forgot it all. Happens. Still tenderizing maybe. I don't remember what log I put it under...

Oh, wait, here's something...

Kissing. It happens a lot here, in the world I live in. Hugs and kisses are regular here. If I leave my house I'll probably hug and/or kiss someone before I make it back. Lucky to get a stiff handshake where I came from.

Different kinds of kisses come to mind. The how-are-you peck on the cheek, the I know you well enough to not purse my lips so much so you feel the tenderness of my lips kiss. The Surprise right on the lips kiss. Levels of intimacy socially acceptable in the circles I find myself. Same with hugs. Arms superficially embracing: pat pat hug. The longer, excuse to touch the opposite sex hug. The our hearts are beating as one full chest press.

My personal space parameters have mutated since I've been here. If I moved back to the mainland I'd have to get married, or, at least lock down another long term share the same dwelling kind of scenarios. I would perish without the regular contact with other humans (or mentally herniate for spending too much time with one in particular). It was always sexual before. Our cultural polarization makes human contact illicit, or certified (with a license and all). Crazy. It's crazy.

I'm not as free and open as those around me here. I have mutated a bit, but still insulated more than need be. Lack of mindful presence. Each hug and kiss, as many as there are here, could be a full experience, if I were to allow that to be so.

Obvious oral fixation...

Writing on the flip side...

It's 6:13am. It stopped raining. The tin roof records the afterthoughts of the nights rain in drops jarred loose from the flora fawning over the shack.

Went for a hike yesterday. Was going to hike up to Kaau crater with sister, but the mud from a weekend of intermittent showers added an additional challenge that made the hike something other than leisurely. We took the low trail and cut down to Wiaomao stream, slip and sliding down. Rock hopped down the stream, collecting iliili stones (roundie roundie rocks).

Walked down Waiamao road to 10th, then back up La'i. Home again home again. Sister left to eat and recover, I made dinner from whatever I could put together: refried beans, onions, potatoes and cheese.

Fell asleep at sunset. Left the lights on so I would get up when I woke up. Woke up at 1am. Went back to sleep. Woke up at 4am. Went back. Woke up at 6am, pulled myself out from under the mosquito veil, stumbled around the place. Fed the cats after barking at them for not getting out of my way fast enough. Reheated dinner, ate it for breakfast. Looked for a cigarette. Half smoked rollies, jungle damp. Nicotine the reason for being sluggish and grouchy. The place is a mess. Ready to end the relapse.

With the web as my witness, I vow to drop the nasty habit again. Planning to be extra irritated for a week or so, coughing up the toxins, displacing the habit, looking for another...

Weather permitting, I'm loading a 40ft container with trees to be shipped to Big Island today and tomorrow.

Another Mean Time at Studio 1 Wednesday. Special guest this month: Friends of Sabiel. I think this is a group of Palestinian Christians. We'll see.

Mean Time on Wednesday, Clean up my life Thursday and Friday, hop a plane on Monday. That's the plan: Trip to LA, Arizona, Oklahoma, Kansas, back to LA, then home again.

Raining again.

Going to the bank to open an account for the new business name: Monkey Works Hawai'i.