My motorcycle scooter has a really good motor, 22,000 miles and it's still going strong. It's a Honda, of course it's still working. The plastic front is broken and would be falling off it weren't for the twisty ties holding it on to the dashboard. It's got the classic Honda Elite scooter look with the flat front that makes the dashboard look like someone holding their arms up to cover their face in shame. The tail lights and the rear break lights are out. I don't know why and I've been meaning to fix them. It's hurting but knows it can still run and it just keeps going even though it needs help. I just hope it doesn't crash and burn some day or, if it does, that it'll get rebuilt and will live the rest of it's life in better shape.
Last night I had a dream that I was sitting on an unfamiliar couch with my Mom who was curled up fast asleep in a sitting position with her feet propped up on the cushions. Somehow she woke up and was slurring her speech not making much sense. I told myself she was just groggy from being woken up in order to stifle the thought that she had been drinking again. She claimed to be sober for almost 34 years even though I caught her in another dream which in this dream seemed like reality so i guess this was a continuation or recurrence of the same nightmare. As she slurred her speech and couldn't really focus on me or anything the fear became stronger. I thought, at 45 years old and her at 75 that this is just like when I was ten, when the person I loved and needed the most would trick me by having her physical self there right in front of me while completely disappearing. I grabbed her water bottle and took a sip. It tasted like vodka. How could you do this I said as I walked to the other side of the long still unfamiliar house to dump it out in the kitchen sink on the opposite side of the room some 40 ft away. She realized what was going on and was making a failing, flailing attempt with her long skinny arms to defend and justify. "How could it be that you're drinking again? This is the second time I've seen it and I don't even live with you." I said crying from a distance. Her head shook conveying the drunken "this is all fucked up" message and she bowed her head as her arms went up to cover her face and I looked at her as she turned into my lonely motorcycle.
Saturday, July 15, 2017
Saturday, April 29, 2017
Fabricating scaricty and generating violence
Why is that weeding is an endless job? I have a garden that is growing and I can't keep up with the weeds, the invasives. I need help, I recruit volunteers, we weed and it looks great for a while. I'm happy cause the garden looks good, all clean, no weeds. I tend to my garden and catch one of those nasty weeds popping up and get'em. Then I leave for a couple weeks and come back and their all back even worse than before I recruited my volunteers, so I recruit some more. One day, several years ago, I climbed to the top of the highest hill in Tijuana, El Cerro Colorado. There were no people around and I looked at the plants, they were all native plants, no weeds. How is that possible, I thought, no one weeds here? How is that we spend hours and hours weeding my garden and never finish and yet here, there are no weeders and no weeds?
Why is it that stopping terrorists is a never ending job? If we have helicopteres and border walls and jet skis and armed guards with flack jackets and helmets and guns in vehicles that are stationed and roaming back and forth along a high speed corridor that cuts through the contours of a borderless sacred land. Why is it that as the war on terror has created ever more sophisticated equipment to find and route out terrorists has increased so has terrorism? Why is it that when I go to Mexico, they don't have this protection that hovers around open lands vigilant to any danger and yet there are no Islamic extremists or anyone wanting to bomb their sky scrapers? Why are the only so-called terrorists in Mexico the ones who fight against the armed militia trained at the institute of the americas? Why is it that the only time people terrorize other people in Mexico is when plan Mérida is implemented to create war machines to protect its people?
Why is it that when I plant brocoli, it grows and grows and when it's all out the leaves continue to grow and no matter how much a lady harvests for her children the leaves keep coming back, in fact the more she harvests, the more they come back? Why is it that when there are fields of monoculture it some how is finite and runs out at the grocery store? Could it be that we fabricate scaricty and generate violence?
Why is it that stopping terrorists is a never ending job? If we have helicopteres and border walls and jet skis and armed guards with flack jackets and helmets and guns in vehicles that are stationed and roaming back and forth along a high speed corridor that cuts through the contours of a borderless sacred land. Why is it that as the war on terror has created ever more sophisticated equipment to find and route out terrorists has increased so has terrorism? Why is it that when I go to Mexico, they don't have this protection that hovers around open lands vigilant to any danger and yet there are no Islamic extremists or anyone wanting to bomb their sky scrapers? Why are the only so-called terrorists in Mexico the ones who fight against the armed militia trained at the institute of the americas? Why is it that the only time people terrorize other people in Mexico is when plan Mérida is implemented to create war machines to protect its people?
Why is it that when I plant brocoli, it grows and grows and when it's all out the leaves continue to grow and no matter how much a lady harvests for her children the leaves keep coming back, in fact the more she harvests, the more they come back? Why is it that when there are fields of monoculture it some how is finite and runs out at the grocery store? Could it be that we fabricate scaricty and generate violence?
Saturday, April 1, 2017
Beach thought
If I had a ladder, I would lean it on the light of the stars, climb over the sea, and hang from the moon, glimmering in the night.
If I had a rope I would lasso the sun and climb up through an opening in the clouds to lay on the songs of birds.
If I were an indigenous plant, I would grow dark green in the shadow of a menacing barrier and reach through the lines of sunlit cracks to bloom yellow petals and a brown stigma on the other side.
If I were a kite, I would tie my string down to my mother's womb and soar above the divide to find myself in the sky.
If I could live as long as a rock, I would tell the story of how I burst out of middle earth in a fiery passion that lasted a human lifetime only to cool down, solidify, and observe millions of years of experiences that could only be explained in irrational dreams.
If I had a rope I would lasso the sun and climb up through an opening in the clouds to lay on the songs of birds.
If I were an indigenous plant, I would grow dark green in the shadow of a menacing barrier and reach through the lines of sunlit cracks to bloom yellow petals and a brown stigma on the other side.
If I were a kite, I would tie my string down to my mother's womb and soar above the divide to find myself in the sky.
If I could live as long as a rock, I would tell the story of how I burst out of middle earth in a fiery passion that lasted a human lifetime only to cool down, solidify, and observe millions of years of experiences that could only be explained in irrational dreams.
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