While it’s true I write mainly about me, I do keep up with what’s Out There, at least to the extent that I can absorb it without getting dizzy. I know about the pine beetles new yen for spruce, about global warming that is and isn’t being caused by us (or Them), and the moebius-like logic to justify why belief in Global Warming as-caused-by-people should have anything to do with whether or not we clean up the mess we’re making of our environment. I know Paris Hilton is a media-created celebrity, famous for, well, being famous. Monty Python couldn’t be weirder.

I take it inside, shine the laser light and apply the surgical knife to me, myself and I, a mixed-up crew of would-be do-gooders, flayed torture victims and confused bystanders fumbling toward some kind of forgiveness, finally learning that there is no perpetrator.

Nobody doing the bad stuff. It’s just happening. Compulsion. Divine Will. Whatever. But we’re doing what we do, people because we can’t help it. We’re made that way.

We’re getting better. Yes we are. Look into the eyes of the person next to you if you don’t believe me. Enlightenment happens in a slow-graying northern-daybreak way.

Oh these hazy crazy summer daze, so much happening, so little brain for taking care of business. But for the money part, life is sweet and replete with delights and near-encounters with the antlered one who haunts my nostrils with goaty smoke. Grunt! The dreamworld remains his domain for now, and I can’t complain, for dreams become more solid all the time. If a dime were worth anything, I wouldn’t trade my life for a million (though a million would be nice all the same).

That remains the sole septic hole through which my contentment threatens to leak, ‘secrets’ notwithstanding.

The current New Age justification for greed makes me want to point bright mirrors at these spewers of so-called secrets. Scam: call a pat formula a secret as though only for the special, snow the masses with media to keep them looking in the direction of accumulation as everybody’s answer to satisfaction and happiness. Say insistently, “Look what I manifested! A million-dollar mansion—no—four million—why stop there? You too can own more than your share if you dare to dream big, and if you are still scrambling to survive, you did it wrong!”

Ha. This is nothing new.

There’s some truth in this secret thing, but it’s tainted by an ancient siren song. The hidden agenda: screw the many, suck the power of their mass desire into a many-headed hydra controlled by the same old elite. New faces, new names, but aristocracy all the same.

It takes some to get some, dammit. If the window of opportunity opens for you, it’s because you’re in a position to take advantage. If you live on the mean streets where windows don’t open, all the wishing in the world won’t change your fate without action and a bountiful helping of help.

Let’s call this thing by its name: another materialistic pyramid scheme feeding the monster of capitalism already sucking on our brains. I’m not immune; I’m seduced by pretty toys, bright colours and flashing pictures of possibility. I lust for that carrot programmed to dangle always just out of reach. Still, I see the man behind that curtain, I know his name.

Desire is human, and I’m okay with wishing, but now I choose to change the object of my desire. I want to live on the ground in a world where sustainability is mainstream and love is the new normal.

Speaking of desire, let’s not forget our antler-headed man, nor the sweet softness of Goddess. If evolution happened then our forms can be no accident. Our bodies of mostly water evolved for a purpose. Our upright stance, naked sensitive skin and kissable lips clearly indicate our evolutionary predisposition toward coziness. Snuggles, sexy touch, strokes, licks, sniffs of pits and niches are our real jobs, though our layers of clothing and rules seem meant to fool us into forgetting it.

We are sensual creatures with arms made for hugging; evolution is leading us to love. It all adds up to God.

It’s our job, and let’s face it, nobody else can do it. Cetaceans have the bare skin, but not the arms. Other primates have the arms, but not the bare skin. Anyway, mostly thanks to our own doing, there are now far more of us than there are of them.

People, awaken! All these fantasy distractions are taking our minds off our evolutionarily-correct heart’s desire for intimacy, sweetness, pheremonic stews of funky flesh and gasps of pleasure. When we get what we really want, we won’t need bigger, better, faster cars or castles of gold. We’ll be too busy feeling.

It’s time to crack the walls of the eggs which have been incubating our true purpose and discover, lo, that which we have most feared is us! Yes, we are sensual animals, yes we love pleasure, yes, we love to say yes.

YES! Oh, yes to life, yes to love, yes to the beauty of each precious and perfect moment, yes to fomenting the revolution which will crumble the barriers separating each lonely hungry heart from its own sweet self. It’s time to fall in love with the world, our own face in the mirror and everything we once feared.

The heat is sweet while it is, but there is no escape lest I live near a lake, river or sea which welcomes spontaneity. Okay, the lake is here but it’s a long way to the nearest pier, the public beaches are tiny, crowded and bounded by barriers, the whole thing singularly unattractive to me. There is the sprinkler, and I’ll be using it soon, but in the meantime, let’s complain about the energy drain, the downward spiral of emotion.

Have I mentioned in this space how weatherbound I am? Too cloudy, rainy, hot or cold and my soul shrinks.

If I could cry me a river, I’d have a place to swim, but the tears dry up too soon, leaving me gloomy, heavy and disheartened.

Eh, fugeddaboudit, some sweaty face-fanning part wants to grunt, who ceahs, so what (this voice has a boston accent, go figger), whaddayagonnado…

Somewhere deep down I do care, but I’ve lost my reasons and don’t trust the ones I come up with. The heat (a classic example of ‘beware what you ask for’) is cooking my brains into a stew of insecurity and glue, wanting to stick it all onto you, whoeverdafug you are.

Sometimes a new idea lands in my brain so hard it bounces. It sets up a shock, a confusion of awakening. This happened to me a few minutes ago. Then the dust settled and I got a good look at this shiny new idea. I thought, “Holy wow! I’ve just solved global warming!”

I know, better brains than mine have been struggling with this issue and haven’t come up with a clear direction beyond the usual tired ‘use spiral fluorescent bulbs’ stuff, and who the heck am I? Still, this idea is radiating obviousness and I must pass it along.

It’s Friday the 13th, and you know what that means, don’t you? That’s right! Expect good luck! Only the best! Miracles are bound to happen today. What’s that you say? Bad luck? Who says?

If you must have a superstition, why not have a positive one? I like to turn bad luck things on their heads. I love black cats, whether they cross my path or not. Black cats were considered bad luck because of their association with the Goddess and all things feminine, sexual and therefore frightening. Friday was a bad luck day because it was the Goddess’ day.

It is well known that plants and animals are complementary forms of life, having evolved to consume each others’ wastes. Plants emit oxygen and consume carbon dioxide, while animals consume oxygen and emit carbon dioxide. Unless there is some conflicting scientific lore I am not privy to, the simplicity of the equation seems to point toward a straightforward solution.

Problem: There is too much carbon dioxide emission. Solution: More plants to clear the excess CO2 and replenish it with fresh puffs of oxygen.

So here it is: mass plantings of all forms of greenery all over the planet, everywhere possible.

Let us plant trees, gardens and thickly sow great tracts with weedy perennial wildflowers, edible plants and other greenery. If we plant them in the places where nothing grows now, we will be increasing the ratio of plants to animal and thereby reducing the carbon dioxide content of the atmosphere.

Parking lots would need to have a certain percentage of their area dedicated to plantings. This wasted space can be freed up by reducing vehicle traffic, decreasing the need for parking space. All new buildings (this happens now to some extent, in some cities) should be built with rooftop gardens.

We have become increasingly out of balance with the natural world, but it isn’t too late to shift. It’s time for a green revolution, and I don’t mean recycling plastic or shopping at the farmer’s market. If government won’t cooperate with this plan, we must become seed revolutionaries, digging up pavement and planting gardens in unlikely places. We must plant and encourage others to plant, grow our own food or buy from local farmers.

This truly could truly become, in relatively short order, a world of abundance for all, and not in some mystical, airy-fairy sense either. Plant. Plant. Plant.

All things considered, I’d rather wait for my fate to unfold and teach me what will transpire. All this anticipation with attendant clenching of mind-muscles makes me tired. Those rivalries in my mind, competing desires wrestling for the right to be fed first despite the fact that fate eventually proves different from any of the planned pictures.

Therein lies the crux, that all my plotting and struggling to imagine the future endlessly proves futile. I have been shown to lack the gift of prophecy, save the oracular riddling kind, best grasped in retrospect. Hindsight is the only way for me.

Riding backward on my bus to who knows where, watching how it’s been, noticing the patterns that form and learning how my personal inclinations can either magnetize nicely or repel statically against the greater scheme of things, it’s the wave of the Now.

The big picture is necessary in order to comprehend the context, and don’t believe the big picture isn’t possible. All you have to do is open your I’s to the skies and learn the meanings of miracles. Easy peasie! Hallelujah and hollas to the peeps.

Getting bolder as I grow older, ready to stand in my moment.

Fomenting revolutions is easier than it used to be, as the rate of spin increases and momentum builds to exist in the moment, the one Big Moment that we all live and breathe in. Fits like a glove, don’t it, the love, the beautiful bit of reality that encloses and encases us in the matrix of time and space also known as Here and Now. What a power and force to be reckoned with we might become once we get off our ever numbing bums to bang the drum to awaken to this presence, ourselves, our truth and existential proof.

Oddly, the evening of the game has gone mostly unnoticed. The competing sides have no ground to stand on that is any higher or lower than each other, the playing field has been ground to a fine and level polish. We might wish for advantage against our foes, but more and more we are compelled to know that, since the enemy is ourselves, there is no possibility of winning any conflict. The final futility of war has come to be understood but still, we insist on resisting that awareness, relying on the old might makes right formula from rigid habit.

What a dud my cruddy old lenses turned out to be, the rose coloured ones that were advertised to change my experience into one of pleasure and optimistic denial. The browns, greys and blood-reds leached through the rosy skin and killed my puppies, hearts and flowers in grisly ways. Why should I deny anymore when denial has ceased to work as a viable alternative to awareness? Finally, it is time to admit the need for clarity, for lenses which contain no hidden warp or distortion effect, that reflect the truth of the actual reality of this moment, here and now

Clearly is the way I like to see, for the truth has become my new god. No more the false gods of expediency, denial and avoidance, for their feet of clay have shattered and returned to the earth from whence they came.

Growing in the ground they now fertilize are the weeds and thistles, the hardy plants that grow despite being given no attention or care, and gone to the compost pile are those delicate hybrids which depend for their very existence on being given constant tender care, leaving only the ones which can survive and thrive using available resources.

Clearly is the way I like to see, for the truth has become my new god. No more the false gods of expediency, denial and avoidance, for their feet of clay have shattered and returned to the earth from whence they came.

Growing in the ground they now fertilize are the weeds and thistles, the hardy plants that grow despite being given no attention or care, and gone to the compost pile are those delicate hybrids which depend for their very existence on being given constant tender care, leaving only the ones which can survive and thrive using available resources.

Come to me, small motes and memes, precious seeds of new ideas which might grow in this garden that never needs weeding. The law of attraction states that what we desire transpires, which includes the wishes we prefer not to feel, which are nonetheless real and effective in reality-creation. So coming into the truth and claiming as self all that which really is (conscious or not) can clear ground and open space for the formerly lost to become found.

Life now abounds with thrivers, alive with potency, rife with potential. In this new world, pure will to live provides momentum.

We are going through the eye of this needle until we emerge changed, diving into the black hole and bursting out the white on the otherside, a bright outspew of light expanding us and all creation. Like origami creatures made from the pages of a long-lost holy book, we’ll unfold and merge our information into a whole where it can be accessed.

Oh, the tales told in that old tome! We will comprehend ourselves as beings and learn how to be at the same time, life inclusive, united, and infinitely expansive. This sweet way to be will free us all.

They say a prophet is without honour in her home town, but what if there is no single home? The prophet has roamed and wandered until her sense of home has expanded to fill the world.

What is the purpose of prophecy? If it is merely to gain honour, which is to say, wealth and fame, then it’s merely another skill to be developed, taught in schools, directed toward the goal of earning a living. The true prophet seeks neither honour nor wealth. She stares into the naked face of truth, relaying what she finds there for one reason: love.

In this noble undertaking, one’s guides are located within, for the journey to truth is an inward spiral, leading deep into the internal maze of the single psyche. Wandering those ways can daze and dazzle, and to no one’s surprise, the path of prophecy is fraught with hazardous waste of mind and wit, littered with the lost, babbling in corners and staring down blind alleyways into an illusory light which has claimed sanity.

Vanity also provides pitfalls, for the vain seek to expand their personal knowledge base for their own sakes, leading into the closed closet of despair and alienation.

We suffer from an overabundance of answers to unasked questions. The answer that matters now is to this: what is the question? All queries lead to discovery, but lacking the proper formula to follow, we are doomed to chip away at evolutionary dead ends, suspended in little limbos of denial, for we fail to ask the questions we really want the answers to.

We fear the answer, so we dance around our heart’s desire, hoping against hope that the truth we avoid seeking will manifest. We can't admit we want it, but we secretly and devoutly wish for its manifestation.

And why this ridiculous self-deception, this shell game of the soul? If we want it, why not admit we want it and thereby increase our chances of getting it, since the direct path has more chance of success?

The answer is not simple, for we are fractally complex, fragmented beings. The inner worlds of most are classic hierarchies of intrigue and backroom gamery. As without, so within, and within our skins we are as violently conflicted and disrupted as the society we believe external to ourselves. We contain warmongers and punitive whip-wielders, and fear their punishments of guilt and shame.

Before we can become our potential, we need purge our worlds of those dictatorial bores with their rulebooks and measuring sticks. These are no part of true self which seeks only life, simply as any tree or starfish on the beach.

The problem is, how can we get at the buggers when our inner realms are so difficult to lay hands on? Our hands are externally located, and the things we can manipulate belong to the physical world. Is it not so?

Not so, for the ability to manipulate inner realities is learnable and valuable far beyond cold, heartless cash.

We contain mixed-up multitudes, not all of which are self. Some were injected by force with intent to govern and control. Who did this? Why, it was we, the collective will of humanity. We agreed in denied consensus that it was better to stifle our souls’ growth than to rampantly spill our inner outpourings into what we believed to be finite space, not understanding reality’s creative fractality.

In the name of fairness and leaving space for others, we politely bowed out of life, allowing what we most feared to take form as rapacious progress chewing the skin of the earth.