i empathize and roll my eyes and shudder and laugh and cry - have never felt more seen nor more alone when the meme mirrors back to me exactly what i know: that every conversation i begin can either go straight into the pool of existential undoing, of witnessing consciously our own demise, or it can stand idly at the edge peering but not pointing or it can dance blithely away. that blithe dance, at least, is creative. every day i wake up knowing i wont last this heat and the necessary pause time(e)scapes cannot sustain the moth to a flame ease of a screen in the cold when romance and generation turn in on themselves to slumber and retain. i am too stubborn too hedonistic too here as a sense seeker. and when the good food is gone and when the joy and the romance and the pleasure is gone i will be too. i will not upload my consciousness and i will not go to space with the men or buy their digital shoes for stimulation because they have driven all the material resources to extinction and want to sell the destruction of the earth as tekknos and the future and inevitable and their genius.
my pleasure center is tethered to the core of this earth and when they crack it open it will pour out into space i guess because it cannot be contained they cannot build a silo for it.
when there are no more blueberries on blueberry hill what will be the point.
i have come to discover in myself a deep optimism, finally understanding a bit of jupiter / ruled by the sun / in the twelfth - warm golden radiating faith that sits on the other side of reality and heats that wall and pours in through the cracks. so much so that i am willing to conceive of other realms, ones where after i see this through, do my best - if not to do, then to wish for the doing, the recalibration of the course of consciousness in human form and its interaction with the material reality of this planet - that could fold into this place and i into it.
when we went to blueberry hill it was late in the afternoon. it was high in the summer in the middle of vermont. maus was still alive and he would have loved it. i should have taken us to the blueberries when we were living there. he probably went without me. he probably goes there now. the pickers and gleaners were out. some people had lawn chairs so they could sit and lean down and there were so many berries on the ground you did not have to move from your place for some time to get handfuls. sitting, reaching out and picking, what could be more unhurried, what could be less of a rush, less of need ~ to be ~ to get ~ to do ~ to finish ~ ~ ~
vermont is always kind of wet. blueberries are too, always perspiring. blue is wet, though, isnt it. the air is always holding the potential for fog. vermont does not have smog. vermont does not have billboards. the green and the wet make everything glow. the sky becomes more blue the blueberries more indigo but the spectrum that you sense only crabs with certain retinas can see. they grow small on blueberry hill and if you put a few in your mouth at a time you can roll them all around your tongue and get this kinetic sensation. like your mouth is a gum-ball machine ~ like your mouth is the bingo tumbler. it is the desirability of caviar. cool and round, it kind of tickles. small with no big agricultural agenda. small like you could stay for the day and eat consistently and never be full but always be satisfied.
and then you bite and they pop.then they taste like candy. but i only say that because it is easy to say. and because i live in candyland. but they are sweet. candy is sweet and blueberries are sweet. some candy is made to tase like blueberries. but the ones on the hill are the simple sweet, like the sweet of revelation, like the sweet of ease, like sweet that it makes you realize why after some time of eating them candy might be too much, not as in candy that every piece is recipe-d to taste like homogeny. like sweet and sour, like some are more one than the other. and you are picking and laying down and looking around and observing the soil and the bugs and the other people and the wind and the sun and the mist and the changing of the light and you are picking and holding gently and rolling off your open hands into little containers you brought and forgetting where you put them because you wandered off.
this model as a way of being and relating is not novel. it is literally the nature of existence on this planet. it just is, i am not proposing anything. i just want to stop pretending like we have no ideas, no structures of guidance, no way out, no vision. it is right here, and if it has been smothered or undermined or pushed aside and cut back it is constantly trying to come through. it is sort of shrugging at us* ~ ~ ~
* us * perhaps here is a place to clarify and acknowledge humans TM as some, few truly few, individuals orchestrating a series of systems and physical mechanisms and structures which retain power and seek homogeneity, restriction, and punishment and force consistent precarious choice making upon most, not an "us" as in every individual all the time. as in we all make millions of choices each day and many around consumption lead do the same conclusion, and this is all occurring relative to the body of the individual and the body of the geography in which the individual and their community finds themselves*
~ ~ ~ being like you will accept the nature of this reality and of being on this planet or you will not, but we/ i / this is the nature of nature so it will not cease, it will always be ready to return and heal over when you stop.
nearly eight months after we sat on blueberry hill and four months after maus left that fluffy body, returning to the other side of this thin veil, where he can eat or be or make the blueberries, jess texted me to ask if i think the fairies left. in the winter she had painted the blueberries collected on the hill, in their blue container. the container from the markets that nestle so nicely in rows next to one another, that are paper and can be composted to give the earth that blue that has a green about it and has the perfect rounded edges of its square and these slits like the inlets of smoothed windows in sacred spaces. i had watched a video of a tarot reading by someone i like to check in with, that was about these/ the ancient energies, omnipotent forces and consciousnesses having perhaps abandoned this layer of existence. a lot of individuals who embodied this wisdom when i came into this realm who taught me to open these places in my awareness have died recently. i told her i think maybe a lot of the fairies left. but i have been thinking about blueberry hill.
the solution is so simple, it seems a little glitch in consciousness to think we need the problem. there is some addiction to it. but there is no problem. you would not believe how many blueberries there are and can be and how they just keep growing if you keep picking them and leaving some for the birds and the bears and some for the ground. you would not believe how many people a small acre farm in west philadelphia will provide fresh produce to. and how relieving it is to realize that and participate, witness its process. it makes you believe, know that everything can just be fine.
blueberries are not mindless. they grow low but they vibrate transcendant. they do not force humans to relinquish the complexities of our interiors. this mechanized hummm has us entranced. a singular note keeps the psyche in a siphon unable to access our complexity. blueberries are not un-evolved they are the hight of evolution. blueberries will open you up their juice reveals your juice their blue your blue these little seeds spill out into you and out of you.
if they crack the earth open seeds will spill into space. i am comforted by this but it is unnecessary. it is useless and unimaginative and redundant and violent and egoic and a false understanding, a dead end of the tekknos of the mind.
i wear this button, a big orange button on my light blue faded hole-y jean jacket that has a diane di prima quote printed on it. it says she said
" no one way works. it will take all of us shoving at the thing from all sides to bring it down."
diane di prima, revolutionary letters, #8, 1971
i think the thing is going to bring itself down.
but it will take all of us generating and dreaming and doing and supporting and making and resting and sharing and gleaning and giving and believing and growing and cleansing and turning and shaking and waiting and digging and pouring and seeding and watching and breathing to make the space to bring something new back up.
it just means not everyone has to become a farmer. too many things are in motion to drop them in their place though some people could, walk away. some people are filling their time in places that do not need to exist anymore so they can have money so they can exist still. what if some objects, some services, some places, so ways of being cease to exist. wouldnt that be fine? wouldnt we be alright. and then the people who want to get the support of the bigger structures to endeavor on things like farming, on really direct redirections of time and energy and consciousness. and other people leave those places that are manufacturing junk and waste new to become old and disposed nearly immediately and instead more places of need and care and regeneration appear, like say creative, innovative, safe and nurturing spaces for literal human beings of any age and especially the young and the old. and the people who left the waste factories got paid and supported by these bigger systems to give their time and capacities to these new places. it is literally thermodynamics: energy, matter exists and is only being moved and reshaped. we choose how it is moved and shaped.
so shift it.
so align with the fairies and the blueberries.
keep the earth sphere. gently peel back skins to reveal holes and tunnels and portals where they hold the dropped seeds of berries popped and see what the seeds want to show and they will grow in the ground and from your palms and behind your eyes and new roots and new fruits will take you over and you will be integrated back into the reality of this planetary, sensory experience.