I miss being angry. I used to be so full of vitriol and rage that I was certain that I could change things with unbridled passion. I sustained it for years, bolstered by the outrage of fellow humans that shared my sense of unease with the human condition. Something happened that sparked my anger, and it happens- daily and incessantly, and its been happening so long that it’s become normal and my anger has become jaded to the point where it flares into passion much less often. Keeping an eye out for 1984 in a Brave New World as a new story unfurls that makes the classic cautionary tales look like children’s stories.

When the towers fell in New York, our nation lost its mind in the trauma. They fell so fast that we didn’t see 7 collapse for no apparent reason. Or we ignored it. To see the collapse of building 7, for no apparent reason would necessitate some questions about the nature of the whole event. Those questions were too much to ask for a nation in shock. To question what happened, how it happened, why it happened would only lead to more questions, and those questions would lead us back to ourselves.

It was easier to look at the spectacle, over and over and over. It was easier to listen to wailing of the mourners, to stare at the bodies falling in slo-mo, than to ask our selves what really happened, and then demand the answers. We didn’t want to seem insensitive to the tragedy, and so we did not pursue the cause. And the cause was emboldened.

September 11th was not what made me angry. I was angry long before. I was angry at the audacity of a society to ignore its hypocrisy. Our Democracy has been a cover story for our self-indulgence for more than half a century. Our ability to do what we please to get what we want has led us to believe that we’re free. But we’re not. We’ve become more American than human. Entertained, but not sustained. Out notions of ourselves have been corralled into petty selfishness packaged as success. We failed. We failed to fulfill our needs before our wants.

We are broken as a people. The nightly news as our confidence man, sandwiched between cleavage and guns. We know we’ve been taken for a ride, so to make ourselves feel better we decide to do good. We strive to heal the planet and pick up our mess, and yet that was the confidence mans suggestion as well. We’re in hell, and we’ve condemned ourselves to it, because heaven always comes later.

There was a moment in this world when the con mans game wore thin enough for people to be able to see the enemy. The headlines told of the WTO, and the GMO’s and CFR, and the electric car…

And then there was an emergency that we all had to see. A new and improved enemy. Much more sexy and exotic than that boring old rhetoric about human sovereignty, and dignity. And humanity.

A dictator has come unwittingly, and it is we. We let this happen through inaction. We enslaved ourselves with our greed for “Freedom™”, and our neglect to understand what it means to truly be free.
We don’t want to tolerate “outrageous conspiracy theories.” We don’t want to question the integrity of our culture. We don’t want to know what happened that makes us all feel so powerless and small. But we need to.

New Quadraphonix music video.

My last official day at the Waikupanaha Farm was supposed to be Thursday, January 31st. It has been a mad scramble for two weeks. Weeding plants, potting plants, digging out plants. Throwing away things, organizing stuff, fixing broken equipment (or spending money on broken equipment and not fixing it), etc. Much help was received from many friends, and much more help from a few.

Hunter brought his box truck and we took a load of materials to the Saddle City site on the 31st. Recent rains have turned the driveways of both nurseries into chocolate. Truck got stuck. I towed it out with the Jeep. So a second trip to the new site was out. Jessica split for class and Vanessa returned for her second shift that day. We loaded the box truck again. Shawna came over and brought guacamole, chips and wine.

By the light of head lamps and a floodlight, we finished stuffing the truck with my show plants and supplies around 10 o’clock. We dropped them in Brynna’s yard for the time being. Carson showed up, then. Jonathan showed up and he and Brynna followed us back to the house where I unloaded a large speaker box on Jonathan and Brynna gained custody of my inlayed coffee table.

My centipede bite was 36 hours old by the time I went to bed, and it was hideous. Half my thigh was swollen and glowing red, while the bite itself was black and blue with a necrotic spot in the middle. Sleep was ambrosia.

The State didn’t come to chain the gate on the 1st, as was claimed. It was Friday.

The chaos was over and the orchid guys were done with their move, leaving thousands of orchids behind. I was using the lack of lock as long as I could, so I continued moving my plants and pots and scrounged together as much as possible. I moved most my personal stuff under Brynna’s house.


It was eerie on Friday. I was in hyperspace. The property was officially back in the States hands, the lease holders were through with their moving motions.

I stared at the orchid house. Thousands of orchids. Tons of cement pots. Cinder blocks, rubber mats, gravel, scaffolding, ladders, lumber. Raw materials.

(Before the move)

A few scavengers came to take some orchids, but the five gallon sized pots full of gravel and fused together with layers of orchid roots don’t encourage one to take very many. They’re heavy and incredibly bulky. I went on a mad clipping spree, hand picking as many of the keiki’s as I could muster. Tens of thousands remain. It was mind numbing.

I drove to town late, with personals of Carson’s and mine. And the cats. They’re country cats. They don’t care much for driving around in cars. Hester was at Carson’s and I showered, ate yummy food, drank whisky, and talked. Then I passed out hard from exhaustion.

It’s Feb 2nd today. I went back for more. I picked up Jessica and she spent hours clipping orchid plants while I scavenged more of my things. There was a new chain around the farm gate today, but the house gate was dummy locked. Several trips between farms with loads. Grabbing lots of orchids creates a need for lots of pots, and lots of gravel, and lots of space to store and construct. I saved my fish and their tanks and the water plants. Jessica and I were working after dark at the Saddle City farm tying netting in a grove of trees to suspend the piles of orchids until they can be planted.

We were preparing to leave when Jessica noticed a dark figure walking up the muddy drive towards us. I said howzit a couple of times as the figure approached, but did not respond. I moved towards it and saw that it was wearing a black motorcycle helmet. I hailed once more, as the person was six or seven feet away. Then he pulled off his helmet. It was Jesse, an 11-year-old kid from the neighborhood out trying to spook adults. Mission accomplished

Three other night urchins emerged from the shadows when they saw the situation was safe. They asked questions about what we were doing with the property. I took them into the shade house and potted up an orchid for each of them to take home if they agreed to act as nursery security. They agreed and scuttled off into the night.

Sunday would be the last day of salvaging, and then the new place will occupy my full attention.