The revelation of JFK

Studying the life of JFK is a revelation because he was such an awakened person. Everything he did, everything he wrote, every picture he took, every relationship he had resonated in all directions of time because of his utter authenticity.

It’s thrilling to contemplate such a master in the middle of the 20th century’s long twilight struggle, year in and year out. President Kennedy was flawed all right, but so is everyone else. He was pretty wonderful though.

I saw Gil Friedman before I left for Massachusetts. I needed him to notarize some things. He is from Brooklyn, obnoxious and you can’t interest him in anything. I did get him to loosen up a little, but not much. He handed me a book he’d written and I opened it up and read aloud a paragraph about the health of a man’s wife being an accurate reflection of the man. I asked him how his wife was and he said they weren’t together anymore.

I said I consider marriage for life, so if she’s happy that would reflect well on him. He apologized for giving me the bum rush.

He pointed to a shelf of books he’d written. They were all sort 1980s-looking. The writing suggested Leo Buscaglia, Louise Hay, and Hugh Prather had conjured a Jewish mystic from South Brooklyn to write about ideas rejected from their published works.

I learned my life is an open book from the way significant people in my life have names with coincidental meaning. An example would be the time I was arrested for running the Bay to Breaker naked, in 1993, and was defended by a lawyer named Will Stripp. I stepped in a mire of sorrow when I married Mr. Myers. And so on.

This relates to JFK a little bit because his best friend’s name was Powers. Dave Powers has a room named after him on the fifth floor of the Constitution Inn in Charlestown, where I slept last weekend, and drank coffee, and didn’t once turn on the television. I bought bananas and apples from the 7/11 nearby. The first morning I was there, Sunday, I wandered for blocks, through the USS Constitution Museum, pausing to ask directions here and there, for almost four hours before I found the Style Cafe and a quadruple Americano.

It was almost bedtime by then and fortunately I had no engagements all day. But before I went anywhere I took the elevator down one floor and opened the door of the Dave Powers room, and took some video, and took in this roomful of tribute to President Kennedy’s best friend, witness to his murder and keeper of his legacy until his death in 1998.

Dave Powers was a man whom Kennedy trusted and loved, for whatever reasons. He was a little older and perhaps took the place of Kennedy’s older brother Joe, recently deceased when Powers met Kennedy in 1946 at the start of JFK’s first congressional run. A keen researcher with the intuition of an independent journalist, John F. Kennedy took a liking to Dave Powers because he derived great power from him.

It’s pretty easy to see the power when you look at a composite astrological birth chart for them. I couldn’t find out what time Dave Powers was born so the accuracy is not great, but the planetary and asteroid line-ups are significant. Kennedy’s Mercury, for example, flanked by Mars and Jupiter, conjuncts Powers’s Saturn around 27 Aries, where Mars rules.

Powers’s natal Mars is a little more than a degree from Sirius in the Duat, the Gate of Man, in Gemini, exactly conjunct Kennedy’s south node, or Ketu. The nodes of the moon are sometimes called mysterious, but I think they are more indescribable than mysterious. Their influence is unmistakable once you experience it. It feels like Saturn, only more immediate, an instant karma vibe, with the South Node being the negative aspect of Saturn and the North Node being the positive aspect of Saturn. Turning on a positive attitude, which Kennedy did, one can see enjoyment being derived from being disciplined by a kindred spirit with a common purpose in a vocation they both enjoyed: politics.

There’s a reason I’m relegated to a blog: I’m playing a long game. It’s so long nothing I do matters, so I might as well blog.

Since I’ve survived a life partner and am trundling toward completion of a Uranus cycle (whether or not I’m equal to it), I have to presume another 28 years of diligent output on this planet, and there is one thing older people have that they can claim no matter what young people say, and that is confidence.

Power gives a person confidence, and Dave Powers gave Kennedy supreme confidence. I am the beneficiary of some of that confidence. The value in being true to your inner unfolding is the reward of purpose. The value of purpose is the reward of story. Humans evolve through story. We are writing it now.


Wisdom, Gnosis, simple-chronic halitosis

I prayed at 11:11 last Friday (the 13th) but I didn’t pray for rain. I knew there was no rain in the forecast, but I also knew that rain wouldn’t solve the problem that caused the fire.

So I prayed for a torrential downpour of wisdom, then found out that wisdom seekers — gnostics — are habitually persecuted. But didn’t Solomon pray for wisdom, and didn’t he receive abundance, that which he didn’t pray for, in addition to the wisdom he did pray for?

So the story goes in two directions at once, a confusing situation.

Today I learned that Tesla’s person effects, including many trunks of papers, were kidnapped by the CIA and copied for seven years before being released back to his family and country. The story goes thus: Nikola Tesla comes to America for opportunity, gets bilked, dies poor, and has his brilliance used against his life’s purpose, which was to serve humankind.

Now Tesla’s truly amazeballs intellect, discoveries and schematics, everything he conceived for the benefit of humankind, is being used — according to this narrative — to punish, enslave and destroy humankind.

Pretty twisted.

But typical. When I was younger I believe that love conquered all. I think it does not conquer but creeps back when hate has swept through and destroyed everything it detects. How to prevent evil from detecting you?

Good question.

No answers here, except that it’s important to accept story — history — as humankind’s singular magic wand. Changing the narrative is possible with perspective, and acquiring perspective involves operating out of your comfort zone, taking risks. But the purpose behind the risk-taking has to be directed by love. Selfless service should generate all risk, even low-risk ventures.

How do you change the direction of a story? First, brush up on your own narrative, trajectory and life purpose. What would you like for an epitaph? How do you want your grandchildren and/or legacy to represent you.

The measurable physicality humans commonly experience is a small segment of manifestation possibilities; the more our awareness grows, the greater array of possibilities at our fingertips.

Kindness is the fastest way to growing personal awareness and honing your timing. Timing is the sole aspect of our existence that will assure the best possible outcome, and focusing on kindness at this point is the best way to ensure perfect timing. Selfless service will not endow you with money, but it virtually assures friends, an honorable reputation and goodwill toward you and your enterprise.

11th Hour on Friday the 13th

The Sonoma/Mendo/Napa fires impacted me apparently because of the planetary conjunctions on my natal chart, including my ascendent in late Leo, a fire sign.

The fact that I was born in Santa Rosa and have a daughter named Rose made it significant enough to want to look at what the planets were doing on Sunday night when the fires started and to look ahead to see if there was a possibility of planetary relief with some help from the moon entering its own sign of Cancer the Crab (other systems have this sign as a turtle).

Up here in Humboldt we had our non-satellite connectivity interrupted. We had no internet at home, but the cafe across the street did.  Rose’s cell phone was working, although mine wasn’t. My landline was working, but I heard 911 calls were not going through landlines, so we were advised, via other media, to call the landline number at the police station with emergency reports. The Arcata post office could accept cash only. The Bayside post office could take your debit card and give you cash back. Few ATMs were dispensing cash.

It was interesting having to file a writ of certiorari with the SCOTUS, appealing a decision made by the Humboldt Superior Court that impinged on my rights as a United States citizen. The First District Court of Appeals and the California Supreme Court declined to review my case.

I knew my personal astrology was coinciding with the sudden fires in Santa Rosa because my car wouldn’t start, my internet and cell phone wouldn’t work, and I had to work at least twice as hard to make the copies, check emails from my lawyer, visit a notary, etc. My lawyer is good, but his services were being drained by others in sudden astrological turmoil, so I made the copies (10 for SCOTUS, one for opposing counsel, one for California Attorney General) while he finished the brief.

I had to file pro se, of course, and in forma pauperis as well.

Donald Trump, the POTUS, hires teams of lawyers so he can get away with grand larceny and murder, but I have to defend myself, claim poverty, beg attorneys and benefactors for advice and financial assistance, just to keep a roof over my head.



Returning to the subject of fire, we have our “fucking moron” president “lighting the wick of war,” according to North Korea. If asteroid astrology has any merit at all, this will unfold according to the Goddess of Justice, who resided at 16 degrees Aries, going retrograde about 11:30 p.m. on Sunday, October 8, when the Santa Rosa fire ignited.

The asteroid Kaali (for whom California is named), rested on the DC at 16 degrees Sagittarius, directly opposite asteroid Flora on the AC. Sagittarius, is the archer-centaur Chiron, the wounded healer, trained in his art by Apollo.

Kaali, the Goddess of Destruction, with asteroid Pele nearby, also in Sagittarius, shot a fiery arrow into air sign Gemini, hence the windy conditions making the fire so destructive. Justice and Destruction harmonizing in an environment of fire is a recipe for nuclear holocaust (Trump’s blow-hard tweets are like the Diablo winds in California), and it couldn’t have helped to have the Sun King in the earth sign Virgo at 21 degrees, exactly conjunct Mercury, relaying a message of fiery terror to the ends of the earth and back, as expressed in their square of Pluto at 21 degrees Sagittarius.

What is needed is mitigating Moon action. Our timekeeper and water mover is entering her home sign of Cancer and should be making some appeals to the ferment for a deluge of common sense. It’s time for the “pee pee tape” Stephen Colbert has been promising us. Tomorrow, Friday the 13th, would be a good day.

Which brings us to Venus. She was conjunct Mars within two degrees at the proposed moment of conflagration in California, and dividing them like a shotgun barrel (or a nuclear missile) was the MC/IC at 27 AQU/LEO. Venus rules air signs Gemini (where the Gate of Man resides) and Libra (where justice resides), so she was flagrantly ill-disposed to both at the time. She is now in Virgo, and is beginning to undertake important remedies for our benefit.

At 11:11 a.m. on Friday October 13, we will see Venus in Virgo, not her best sign, but also not her worst, which would be Scorpio. Venus energy will have to work hard here. Embodying Venus in this placement means patience and serving others, getting by with less, and doing it solely for love. It is a humbling position.

At 11:11 tomorrow the Moon will conjunct Ceres, Goddess of Fertility at 11 Cancer, beautifully harmonizing with 11 Scorpio/Taurus AC/DC. Osiris is in Pisces at 12 degrees and he is associated with the flooding of the Nile.

Other astrological remedies exist. Saturn, in water sign Scorpio, has been watching all of this holding a trine with the North Node (Rahu) in Cancer and sextile to South Node (Ketu) in late Capricorn.

(These nodes exist because the Moon in its orbiting of the earth travels above and below the orbit of the Earth around the Sun. The points in the Moon’s orbit intersecting with the plane of the Earth’s orbit are called the lunar nodes, and they have characteristics like planets, but not quite personalities. They are referred to as the head (North) and tail (South) of the dragon.)

Saturn harmonizing with these nodes in earth and water signs should attract some rain to the Earth in Sonoma County and surrounding areas, particularly with the Moon entering Cancer and conjuncting the North Node on Saturday.

Also, Neptune is in a position to deliver some water from the air sign Aquarius the waterbearer, at 17 degrees sextiling both Pallas Athena at 16 Aries and Kaali at 16 Sagittarius. Neptune, ruler of the watery depths and mysterious beyond measure, can be appealed to via ancestors with strong Neptune energy, or if you have strong Neptune energy in your chart.

Uranus is key. S/He is in Aries, newly so. The last time this happened was when Hitler came to power 84 years ago. As humans, we have progressed from Saturn-cycle life expectancy (about 30 years) to a Uranus-cycle life expectancy of 84 years. This is a far reach and demands an appreciation for our position, purpose and destiny as human beings.

Saturn is in His power spot for a little while longer before he slow-waltzes into Sagittarius during the Halloween/All Saints & Souls season in two or three weeks. He is the Lord of Time, so appeals to him during this period should be made with intentions to make the best use of our time going forward, because we need to manage it better as a people and a nation.



Invisible White Guy, LLC

I’m observing around me, from the quiet of my convalescent bed in my quiet town on the California coast, the world going to hell in a hand basket! The world needs to regroup around stern principles of sanity, bed rest, and lavish medication, principally laughter and music.

Stephen Colbert, Weekend Update and Seth Meyers bring me the news of a nation in the throes of President Trump Stress Disorder, aka The Fourth Reich.

“America” was a sales pitch to whites wanting protection against the Indians who were already here and to whom we owed cooperation if not deference.

I blame myself, or rather my ancestor William Bradford. He was an adventurer, a writer, administrator, and famous colonist in the New World, governing Plymouth and passing the job on to his son and namesake.

Bradford was so historically important that his diary was captured by England shortly before the Revolutionary war, and his great, great, great grandson Robert, an officer in the Revolutionary Army, was imprisoned by the British from 1777 to 1779. The diary gained release many years after Robert did, and is used as a source document for Mayflower, a book by Nathaniel Philbrick.

In 1620 the Pilgrims arrived on the Cape weak, but feeling blessed for having arrived after a near-disastrous voyage in inhumanly cramped quarters, after much tedious preparation and last-minute mishaps, after many years of alienation and persecution for their religious practices. According to some, Bradford himself was a wanted man and in hiding before he set sail on the Mayflower. One wonders how he was able to transfer his English land assets and inheritance while hiding from the king’s men as he planned his flight. He brought with him to the new world his wife Dorothy, but left his young son John behind with relatives in England.

Dorothy would fall to her death off the ship when her husband struck out on a first-contact scouting expedition shortly after dropping anchor in Provincetown Harbor. I think she was pushed on orders from Myles Standish.

It didn’t take long for death to claim half the landing party, who weren’t all Pilgrims. I guess very few escaped sickness, but soldier Myles Standish and elder William Brewster were personally thanked by Bradford in his diary for their selfless nursing and handling all the foul aspects of caring for people with overwhelming intestinal complaints.

Despite discovering his exceptional nursing skills, Standish nevertheless decided to resume his militarism. Once the colonists gained a foothold in the New World, Standish generated plenty of conflict to ply his trade, even attacking the settlement of white pagan revelers in Quincy, who had a different approach to colonialism. They liked the indigenous folk and sought to marry them. Bradford and Standish rubbed them out.

Since we have come 400 years since the landing of the Mayflower, I would like to apologize on behalf of William Bradford, who, due to his narrow beliefs, could only accommodate a limited cosmology. His bold foray into the unknown contained its own justification. Is there a holier quest than seeking religious freedom? Such a quest is destined to succeed.

What is mystifying to me is that Bradford and company never extended religious freedom to anybody else but themselves. He allowed Standish to militarize Plymouth just so he wouldn’t have to take up his true vocation, nursing.

The Pilgrims were not wrong to pursue religious freedom, but they were wrong not to recognize how essential it is to everyone. They were okay with accepting help when they needed to survive, but when they started to thrive they turned on their Indian friends, and justified this abuse by saying the natives were spiritually immature, because they revered tangible nature and not the invisible white guy behind it all.



Pledging my time

Youtube is a feature of my convalescence. I use my downtime to study interesting archived material online. The deeper I go into any subject the more I encounter complaints that information is “disappearing” from the internet.

There are a number of posters for “What’s My Line?”, a game show from the 1950-60s that aired on CBS on Sunday nights. I never watched it but sometimes it was on the television because no one had reached to turn it off, and I was vaguely aware of an unpleasant woman named Arlene Francis. She didn’t seem to have any talent other than wearing fancy dresses, and her smile looked fake.

Now as I study the show and the comment sections under each post I learn a little more about America’s relationship with the world and itself. Mystery Guest Edward R. Murrow, for example, mentioned brave Ernie Pyle, sending me to Wikipedia for illumination.

The social scientists in the comment threads beneath each WML? video, sometimes remark on how the panel reacts to people of color, or someone whose girth seems unusually large, or whose boobs seem unusually small. What I look for are subtle clues about how human behavior works in the spotlight, in the past, in a game, on the tube.

Even in this highly controlled situation with a narrow focus, chaos slips by. Once Groucho Marx was a panelist and everyone had to adjust to him. It was good television, so his misbehavior did not result in him being banned permanently. Inviting Groucho had a predictable outcome. As a popular television game-show host himself, and legendary goof-off, Groucho could not be expected to conform, or even keep his blindfold on. His adorable double-take when he recognizes Claudette Colbert as the Mystery Guest made me wonder if he had feelings for her all this time. She sure is cute!

Onto Sisi, Empress Elisabeth of Austria, Queen of Hungary, assassinated by a lone nut. Still hard to find good information online about that murder, and about the apparent murder/suicide of her son and “mistress.” I stumbled onto the glorious technicolor of Sisi’s life on youtube with a French-dubbed 1950s three-part blockbuster depiction of this Queen of Hearts from the 1800s. Others compare her with Princess Diana, whose 20th death anniversary is here at the end of the month.

Sisi is both obsessed with her appearance and with her freedom. Born a princess but raised in a much freer environment than court, Sisi lived 60 years, 44 as Empress. Her portraits are riveting; apparently she had the soul of a poet and tried to treat her subjects as she would wish to be treated. That attitude doesn’t get you very far in the world of the monolithic conspiracy President Kennedy describes in his “Secret Societies” speech, also on youtube. That speech led to a three-hour youtube movie about the Rothchilds, originally aired on PBS if I am not mistaken.

Edward R. Murrow’s report from Buchenwald is so stark I felt like I was there. Same with his reports from London when you can hear explosions in the background from either bombs or anti-aircraft, or both. The sound is very bad. I think the original recording was from a receiver with a lot of interference, or maybe just too far from the broadcast, but you can hear his words clearly. Somehow it left me feeling immediately menaced by fascism, but in very good company.


Moving on

I have a lawyer named George Wynns. He does not win every case, and he knows his name is not enough to ensure automatically that he will win his cases. Donald Trump thinks his name is a trump card for every possible situation, much as a rich person thinks money trumps everything.

If Donald Trump had any vision, it was trumped by his money, then by his owners.

Native earth organizing principles of pi and phi which create life all around us from sunlight, the moon’s synchronous rhythms, and our planet’s exquisite heart-centered, spinning fertility trumps everything.

What is the matter?

Uranus has an 84-year cycle, and the last time it occupied this position in the zodiac, Hitler became chancellor of Germany.

Saturn and Jupiter function as a golden 60-year clock. Their conjunctions coincide with our presidential elections every 20 years, with some ghastly results every 60 years when their conjunctions land in the same constellation. In 1840, the first time these grand conjunctions were invoked, William Henry Harrison was elected. He died two months later. In 1900 McKinley was re-elected. He was killed six months later. John F. Kennedy was elected in 1960 and was killed in 1963. The presidency itself may die after the election of 2020, if the nation lasts that long.

The Founding Fathers weren’t astrological ignorami. They invoked the cosmic forces for assistance and good fortune, and they used numerology.

I contrasted January 30, 1933, the day Hitler was appointed Chancellor of Germany, with Inauguration Day 2017, or as Stephen Colbert calls it, “Disgrace the Nation” day.

The most obvious conjunction, besides Uranus meeting itself 84 years ago at 25 degrees Pisces, is the asteroid Anne Frank, conjoining the asteroids Vesta (the Hearth) and retrograde Chiron (the Wounded Healer), in the last degree of Aries, nearly Taurus.

Anne Frank was honored with her own asteroid, in her natal chart (4’27” Libra) on her DC at 4’37” Libra.

At 10 degrees Capricorn, on January 30, 1933, we have Mercury conjunct the asteroid Pallas Athena, the muse of justice. On January 20, 2017 at that position we have Osiris, Ruler of the Underworld. Next to Osiris, at almost 9 degrees Capricorn, is Isis, and next to her, at 5’52” Capricorn is the mighty king of the Zodiac, the Solar Principle, blazing in exactly the position held by Isis in 1933.

The Sun activating Isis is a very good image to keep in mind because as Osiris’s wife, Isis has a lot to do. She needs a lot of help. Her Egyptian name is Aset. Osiris’s Egyptian name is Usir.

Anne Frank has been made a muse.

What her muse gives us is permission to document our lives. To a writer it is no small thing to be alive, it is everything. Writing honors life.

Spring in my walk

Today Lucky and I walked toward the stables where Skip the red horse lives, past a great blue heron hunting gophers at Deep Seeded farm. It was the first time my binoculars were around  my  neck when spotting a heron — a common sight — in the field of long green grass, thistle, Queen Anne’s lace, plantain, clover, mustard, dandelion, that makes up an average pasture near the Arcata Bottoms.

Lucky and I hadn’t been over to see Nick in awhile, instead focusing on getting out to the ocean as often as possible. For almost five years Nick had been penned away from the road, half the length of a football field away from me, but we became friends anyway. He had two stablemates, a white and a big black. The white disappeared, and the black is still penned in the back pasture, but lately — the past several months — Nick has been at the gate near the road, and I can hear him nickering when he hears Lucky’s collar, before we can peer around the hedge and see him waiting for us at the recessed access gate.

Nick must be some sort of show horse because he travels. But he hasn’t traveled lately, although his mane and tail are still neatly clipped. His tail would brush the ground if it hadn’t been cropped straight off  at his hocks. It’s a smart enough look, but he has a mohawk across his back and I think he should have a braided mane, and I think his tail should be done up beautifully too, and he should be regularly groomed and ridden and pampered.

I tell him this, and also that I have some red clover in my garden box, and it will be ready for him in about a month. He is patient with me as I get things off my chest, because he knows the real reason for my visit is to give him any grass, dandelions and clover I can rip up across the street outside of Skip’s pasture. Skip is way off in a pasture far from the road, but I wave to him and shout hello. Skip’s nearest pasture is overgrown with mustard. Skip’s stablemate, a thick-necked chestnut mare named Heidi, died a few years ago.

In autumn several years back, when I had been invited onto the property by the resident kid, I threw an apple toward Skip because I was in a hurry to be on my way, but I wanted him to have it. My aim was poor, and I hit Skip on the rear end, causing him to leap up in surprise and emit a loud fart. I couldn’t help laughing, and then I couldn’t stop laughing. Skip was sore at me for awhile but we became friends again after Heidi died.

Usually when we go to Nick’s there are dogs that go ballistic along the way, but this morning they ignore us. My visit with Nick is satisfying.

We became friends because he was a good listener when I sang to him from 50 yards away. He liked everything — songs Billie Holliday,  Amy Winehouse, Nancy Walker made famous gained a new appreciation from Nick, who most likely had never heard these songs before and would never otherwise have been exposed to the subtle yet rock-hard diamond artistry of these women. He was a great audience. It’s a godsend that he’s not penned away from the road anymore because I can feed him and pet him and show him how much I appreciate what a good listener he is.


Our parting was Death

It was like I had been absorbed by a comet hurtling toward the sun. To escape destruction, I bailed, and it was already too late to save most of me. My heart seems like a remnant, a memory of itself.

The fact that I could not be tolerated in the world as I went about my business, that my mere existing deserved punishment is an experience I share with a number of dehumanized victims of state genocide. This cruel targeting of the innocent happens in all levels of society. It happened to me in my own family. I was equally invested in my home and children, but I lost my home, and for a time, I lost my children. I lost my husband forever.

He hadn’t made me love him. I showed up when he needed someone to love him. He was fortunate. As for me, I was the luckiest woman alive. I could still say that, and mean it.

Today as I was commemorating our 20th wedding anniversary I realized all energy manifesting as matter is of divine origin. The ocean is undeniably beautiful, but matter is fundamentally miraculous, possible only by pure and honest love, joy, celebratory cosmic dance of ecstatic union with the Beloved. This is the birthright of everyone and everything. No invention or propaganda can change that, yet this common wisdom is rarely valued.

When you love someone you want them to be happy, so when Dave died, and as much as I hated that he was dead, I encouraged his spirit to not look back, to rely on me to be his friend in the afterlife, to be comfortable knowing I would always channel him, would always welcome his protection and intervention, would want him to rule the Underworld in his stylish fashion, and to know my heart was eternally blossoming with love for him. That even if his death was a mistake, he was not dead to me and never would be.

My feelings for my husband were so much a part of me that I grieve to not be able to hug him or send him a warm text and get one back. Even at court we sometimes got along. We were magnetized by each other, first one way and then the other. Knowing I repelled him was an open wound, so was knowing my love couldn’t help him, that it had a value of absolute zero to him.

There were some hints that things would change for the better. Dave dying did not signify change for the better. He was the kind of person you wanted to keep alive. He was really beautiful, intelligent, and funny. When he sang he ripped your feelings out clear down to your soles. How did he put so much feeling into his vocals? How could that much love live in such great measure in any one person, and how could that person yet be so obviously cracked?

That paradox troubles me more now than it did then. Holding Dave together was an honor because I was supporting a valuable artist. Losing that valuable artist, my children’s father, the love of my life — I guess these things happen. Did my kids deserve to lose their dad? Why wasn’t there a more unified response to his decline? Why the secrecy?

I still can’t listen to his voice very much. It’s too familiar. Not having that voice in my life — and having had it become for a time an instrument of terror — caused me to suffer PTSD, the chronic nature of it anyway. His voice was my sustenance. It was the fine structure constant of my universe, my family, my home.

I picked up this book the other day written by a woman who has relationships with dead people. It’s not a stretch for me, and it’s something I can do for Dave. He deserves me to be faithful to him, his nobility, his majesty. I can truly say that and mean it, and still wish he was here and giving me hell if it meant the kids still had a dad.

Dave, I’m betting you can read this. I am proud of you, and I stand by your ditzy incarnations, and grand iterations, and glorious recapitulations. You are so Boss, you are so YOU. I never met anybody like you, who thought you up, brought you into my life so I could so completely try and fail? I will always be solid for you. For thou art. Thou art. Thou art.

President Trump Stress Disorder

Women. Can’t live without ’em.

Yesterday was International Women’s Day. On Colbert it was revealed the light in the Statue of Liberty’s light went off accidentally. Rose mentioned the night before, just before we went to bed, that this light had been put out in the Statue of Liberty. It seemed deliberate because it had just turned March 8 in New York, and I thought, “Woah, interesting tribute.”

First of all, politics is an interest of mine, and I’m female. Raised in the Bay Area in the 60s and 70s I’m emerged from a left-leaning culture.

The only things I’m good at is parenting and writing. My driving record indicates I’m a good driver, but I’m more lucky than good. I need to acknowledge my spirit driver. His name is John F. Kennedy, and he was publicly executing the office of President of the United States when he was publicly executed on November 22, 1963, a date that will live in infamy.

Recently I dared to watch a 20-year-old documentary on youtube. I have PTSD so I avoid stressful topics like the Rothchilds. Then I watched Sissi, the lavish three-part Austrian film, dubbed French dialogue. (The original German is really beautiful too.)

My geneology is islandic — Azores, Ireland, Great Britain. Water is important to me and I’m a water protector, starting with the 65% water in me and my kids.

Recently the number 137 asserted itself so I’m officially unhinged from any prior reality. One hundred and thirty-seven really saved my bacon because Trump made the presidency trivial, which I admit hurt due to JFK being my driver.

Speaking of Bacon, I picked up a biography of him from Angels of Hope thrift store and fell asleep reading it last night. Judi Bari savages Bacon in one of her most famous talks about how men’s scientific method destroyed women-centered family and medicine cultures. As an average American I had no interest in European history, instead more concerned with earning enough money to pay my bills and getting enough sleep to prevent myself from getting sick and missing work.

As a disabled American and journalism student I caught up on my American and European history. Yes I feel more responsible to the wisdom of those who came before me, but that wisdom is elusive.

For example, I learned that my government declared Native Americans too immature to govern themselves, requiring that they be made wards of the United States. Their immaturity was obvious to everybody, since they had not accepted Jehovah as their one true God and their trial period was over. The United States Supreme Court marshalled this prejudice into law in the early 1800s, thereby permitting manifest destiny to begin its grim occupation of native soil and psyche.

The savage killing issuing from decades of this written and unwritten policy, the smallpox, alcoholism and betrayal thrust on native populations called for eventual justice in the form of reparations, calls unheard in the blaring brutality of the Dakota Access Pipeline.

Concerning the issue of maturity, we know that the prestige of the American presidency is, for mature people, non-existent nowadays, and we can see that the disrespect for women is at the heart of this epic fail that is the current POTUS. So if the light in Lady Liberty spontaneously went out on International Women’s Day, it makes sense to take it as a sign of the times.

Someone posted on last night’s Colbert: “Tourism is a huge part of small town America because they’re all the little places people stop on their ways to the big places. People who don’t think tourism is an American staple are wrong. Our economy, already not the strongest, is going to suffer as we continue to spend more money overseas than we are bringing in simply because we see no value in the world outside our borders. It’s so sad.”

Here’s what I replied: “The people of the United States are generally good but our image doesn’t reflect that, and we have yet to assert ourselves as a unit politically. Our lack of political unity is lamentable, but we should nevertheless organize locally under democratic, sustainable and just principles of governance.”

Standing Rock & Roll

Today, like always, I put on some classical music when I got up. It’s usually Bach, but sometimes a Mozart string piece. I’m less imaginative about  music choices before I’ve had caffeine than after. Lately I’ve discovered Irish Harp, and I’d like to hear more of that but youtube doesn’t have many Irish Harp selections.

I realized this morning I hadn’t written in my journal for about a week. I’m in less shock than most people, I think, about the national turn of events. Yes, someone let the crazies out of Napa State, but what else is new? I was jolted awake by George W. Bush using Scalia’s Supreme Court to prevail over whats-his-name, who I’m told is still “getting over it.”

I’m told poor Hillary said she will take a long time to get over the same thing. What is it with these politicians? Do they think the American people are therapists? Why are they talking as if we’re interested in their personal response to a failed bid for public office? These people are ineloquent reminders of the communications lapse between politicians and the populace. We need the ship of state to be competently staffed.

Politicians appear to think they’re on a personal quest to be the winner of a power pageant, and somehow we need to be reassured of their emotional investment in winning. The populace’s position is that we want them to earn the money they make instead of stealing it from us. The truly annoying thing is that neither Hillary nor Gore has the slightest notion of what it means to be alive outside of their annoying circles of influence. Their insular lives blaring out at us via the mainstream media is truly toxic because the ship of state is sinking and we need competent, knowledgeable, trained staff in key positions and at the helm of our ship of state.

But no! The ship MUST sink, and I ask why?

Is it because the ship is unseaworthy? I have to consider this, because right now Standing Rock is the only place in America where true national unity is possible. Our Native American sisters and brothers, including Winona LaDuke, are giving us the opportunity of a lifetime to stand up and do the right thing, to join them in OUR fight to force DAPL to stand down.

The fall election of 2016 is a blow to our emotions. We are supposed to be immobilized with fear and disbelief. Yet, if we act like Hillary and Gore, we will just keep talking about how disbelieving and fearful we’ve become instead of recognizing our incredible opportunity to heal, and standing with our Native American brothers and sisters at Standing Rock.

Hillary and Gore do not represent anybody except those in their insular lives. That is clear. The Native Americans are representing our Earth Mother, and all her children. With whom do most people have more in common, tiny insular populations of wasteful, inarticulate losers, or those who gratefully breath the air and drink the water Mother Earth makes, and stand up for their right to continue doing so?

Tiny populations of power-hungry politicians and their hangers-on are immune to the kindly, forgiving influence of Mother Earth, why are they allowed to continue to harm our planet?

They know very well how much power the people can access when we focus on shared goals. The key is trust, and the bridge is love. Fear and disbelief lock the mind from perceiving and utilizing these fundamental, commonplace treasures.

Trust that there’s singular opportunity in this moment and step onto the bridge of love. Don’t look back. If Dylan can win the Nobel Prize, Trump can be President — I guess! The men who sold the world aren’t alive now, but their legacy is. We the people, have what money can’t buy: a purpose supported by the powers that be.

The Hollies once sang it best, “Sometimes, all I need is the air that I breath and to love you.” I say this now to Mother Earth: