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.

 

 

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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:

 

 

 

21st Century Box

I come in a 20th century box. This blog for example. I’m my only follower, I think. I was starting this wordpress blog and following prompt after prompt, uploading photos here and there, and accidentally became my one and only subscriber. Cool!

This must be what you call self-respect. I wish more politicians had it. It means you believe what you say and do what you believe is right. And it isn’t easy because there aren’t many examples of self-respect. Certainly a person with 100% self-respect is rare. If you have 100% self-respect, the wisdom goes, you’re missing significant humility.

But this world respects the middle-dweller; the person who accepts his or her own flaws, forgives him or herself, and asks forgiveness of others, and asks to continue on his or her path, with thanks.

What to do or say when one has found respite? Tonight is such a night. I delivered a nice salad to Rose, and she was tucked into bed watching Netflix, comfy. Why should I be satisfied when my kid is watching the boob-tube? Because it means she can relax. If The Best Years of Our Lives was on Netflix I’d be curled up in bed watching it tonight, but since it isn’t a book will suffice.

I have a home, fortunately. Some people, a lot of people, don’t. Yesterday I stood on the grass in front of the Humboldt County Courthouse and held up a little sign that said, “Today is Homeless Eviction Day.” It referred to the policy the City of Eureka came up with to get rid of the encampment that formed after they evicted the encampment in the Palco Marsh. Now these houseless folks have nowhere safe to go, and they face arrest for existing. I learned yesterday, while demonstrating, that Attorney Peter Martin has taken the City of Eureka to Federal Court over this, and expects to win, because the City of Eureka is in the habit of robbing its citizens of their constitutional rights, and has done so in the case of the Palco Marsh eviction.

I went to the Eureka City Council meeting the evening of the Palco Marsh eviction, on May 2. May was Mental Health Awareness Month. If we didn’t know it beforehand, one of the council members reminded us, smartly placing an apple-green thermos next to her name plate, declaring that her thermos conformed to the color of Mental Health Awareness Month, which was lime green. When a government employee tells me apple green is lime green I know other misperceptions are likely. Indeed, this same council member, a moment later, assured us there was no stigma attached to mental illness.

Now I know this isn’t true. Any mental patient will tell you that. In fact, the minute you admit to being mentally ill (that includes being mentally injured), you know you’re going to be treated differently, as if you are weaker, stupider, less deserving of respectful treatment, less deserving of housing. Mental illness and homelessness go together like poverty and criminality, and they all wind up ostracized, scapegoated, branded.

The ones who don’t admit to being mentally ill are running for president, staffing the Board of Supervisors, Congress, the Armed Forces, the Eureka City Council, most non-profits, most corporations, hospitals, universities, newspapers, and so on.

The message: Don’t admit you have mental health problems or you will wind up like the miserable people on the street tonight, sleeping in a cardboard box.

Apples and Ginko

This morning I harvested the two ginko nuts on the tree nearest to the paved path leading toward my apartment from the sidewalk. I’ve been watching them for a few weeks, wondering if the tree would drop them. Once, not long after I moved here five years ago, a large, male human being accosted the tree, whose branches strayed across the paved path. This large individual, apparently enraged, tore the branch from the tree, and other small branches.

I don’t know why I decided he was the culprit, because I didn’t see him do it, but he was still on the premises when I saw the damage, and the largest in his crowd, so I walked up to him, looked up, and asked him if he beat up the tree. He was at least 250 pounds and 6’4”, but not very old, perhaps still a teenager. He looked surprised, then nodded.

“That’s a ginko!” I told him. “They survived Nagasaki. That’s nuclear!” I said. I forcefully explained that I needed him to stop assaulting the tree, because it was sacred. Then I left him and his friends lingering a few feet outside my door. I’d often seen these kids, and others, congregating around the entrance to the apartment complex. They bought drugs regularly from the family — mother, father, and son — in the apartment nearest to the street. The son’s teen-age friends could be observed regularly in the area, smoking cigarettes or pot, strewing wrappers, swearing, and generally degrading the place.

The large kid was still hanging around when I got back from the store about 30 minutes later. I thanked him for leaving the tree alone.

The drug-selling family eventually left the apartment. The father died and the kid was evicted after he became an adult. The mother moved to another apartment.

The demographics have changed in this complex with the economics in the community. Now there are more low-income families, as the single, elderly disabled residents are passing into the spirit world, and violent and/or drug peddling tenants are being evicted.  The neighborhood in general is cleaning itself up as the housing market is becoming pricier. There have been a number of defaulted mortgages in the streets surrounding my home, and dilapidated houses are being upgraded and renovated for the new homeowners.

The crab apple tree just outside my apartment declared itself this year. I can’t remember any year it put out blossoms, except in 2016, because I didn’t have time to notice it or was on Cape Cod for the spring. I know this is the first year it put out apples though, a bumper crop.

The Methodist parsonage on Main Street in Wellfleet had a crab apple tree. I tasted them and they were inedible. These crab apples in Arcata, however, are good. Some of them are crisp and sweet. The tree was loaded this year, which I took as a good sign.

Last spring, when I thought I was dying, I awoke from a vivid dream, exclaiming, “Apples!” Since the fall of 2007, when I journeyed west to work Southern Humboldt for a few weeks, I’ve had apples on the brain. I had had a dream that Dave and I settled back in Arcata, and there were apples everywhere. When I kissed him goodbye and left him with the kids, I inscribed a card, with apples on the face of it, to him, which I intended to mail from the airport, but never sent.

I’m grateful for the apples outside my door, and for the ones in the yards of neighbors. I pick them from the ground, not the tree. These apples made the best applesauce I’ve ever had. I doubt anyone else has the time to glean the apples and cook with them, but it’s part of my recovery from PTSD.

Sometimes I collect an armful and take them to the small cow in the pasture near the organic farm at the end of my street. She has a calf. And horns. The sheep want the apples but they don’t compete with her for them. She always hails me when she sees me coming. I notice that someone has clipped her hooves, which last year looked like elf shoes, and I’m glad I said something to one of the farm hands about it.

Rose has been pestering me to get a waffle iron and make waffles for breakfast. Once I had the best waffle iron, inherited from my brother Patrick. He made waffles for himself and his friends in the National Hotel on Market Street in the early 1980s. You could take out the irons and clean them. It was small and round, classic size.

I got another one from a Eureka thrift store yesterday, a Cuisinart, but you can’t remove the irons. I need to get a better one some day, but you probably couldn’t get a better one for two dollars, and it did make terrific waffles this morning. Rose was skeptical that I would have them ready in time because she had an early class, but she got her waffles, with maple syrup (donated), strawberries and whipped cream.

The maple syrup came from a friend in San Francisco with whom I stayed this past weekend. It was an important trip. I had to see about retaining a lawyer to defend the eviction Humboldt Housing thinks needs to happen. They think I need to be homeless, apparently, because since March 25, 2016 they have been insisting I need to leave. They are falsely claiming a lease violation. Homelessness is all the rage in America today.

Management at Humboldt Housing made a mistake targeting me for homelessness, but like many people who make mistakes, they’d rather die than admit it. This describes a condition prevalent in earth culture.

I borrowed a book from my San Francisco friend about Irish history. It describes the horrific behavior of the English. I once thought Nazi Germany invented depravity, but I was wrong. They adopted it from a long genocidal tradition among humans, including the English, whose genocidal philosophy sailed westward across the Atlantic ocean and wiped out the indigenous people of Turtle Island.

There’s an excellent piece in the North Coast Journal this week about the genocide of the California Indians. And this book I borrowed, The Story of the Irish Race, by Seumas MacManus, published almost 100 years ago, is excellent. I like the way he writes because, while he loads sentences with facts, he also writes creatively. For example, on page 500:

“Other people had felt long before this that the so-called ‘Independence’ which Ireland had won from England in 1782, was not the genuine article, and that the ‘Independent’ Irish Parliament was a libel on the name of free institutions. But until [Theobald Wolfe] Tone presented a true diagnosis, these others, like unskilled physicians, went on applying remedies to the symptoms, and neglecting the root cause of the malady which laid waste the Irish Nation in sight of all men’s eyes. And that root cause was the connection with England.”

Another book I noticed at my San Francisco friend’s house was Mutant Message Downunder, written in the early 1990s by an American physician who spent a lot of time in the Australian outback with native peoples, by their invitation. She, like all “civilized” individuals, was considered a “mutant” by these Australian aboriginal people, while they considered themselves “Real People”. Real People believe they are real because their connection with the planet is thoroughly un-severed. They communicate telepathically with each other, the animals, the plants, the mineral kingdom and the rest of their universe.

I wanted to borrow this book as well, but it didn’t belong to my friend; it was his friend’s book. I’d read a lot of it during my stay and thought I got the gist of it anyway. Yesterday lingered at the thrift store in Eureka, after loading up on the best books, and a hot plate, and the waffle iron, and a few serving trays, and my eye fell on a book inside a milk crate near the cash register. It was Mutant Message Downunder, by Marlo Morgan. Just now I am searching the topic online. Apparently Marlo Morgan is like Lynn Andrews — a fake — and the indigenous people of Australia were furious about the book and demanded an apology from her, which she gave, explaining she didn’t mean any harm.

Dave always said “Intention is everything.” In magical circumstances, of course, intention is everything. But on earth, we have to contend with thick materialism, where magic burrows the minutest channels into human consciousness, and there stalls much more often than not. Such intention needs to consider conflicting intention, which on earth is not only possible, but highly probable. I think people can’t stand admitting when they are wrong because they think it puts them at a disadvantage. In a world of conflict, I suppose you could say that’s worse than death.