Today I had the opportunity to watch

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Shaolin warrior monks unsuccessfully try to back a semi truck into a loading dock.  Oriental men in traditional attire stood calm yet alert in the congested street, arms folded behind their backs kung-fu style, robes swaying in the breeze, all silently watching the absolute motor vehicle clusterfuck.  The semi was now completely blocking all the lanes of traffic, and trapped motorists honked like low flying machine geese.  I think to myself:

Am I the only one that is enjoying this?

Living in a big city lets you peek in on the lives of others in an unavoidable and almost intrusive way.  Who were these people?  What was going on?  Did they know that most people didn’t get to wear cool kung fu robes to work?  Were they laughing on the inside at the incredible slapstick routine that was unfolding before them?

I try to take nothing for granted.  Life can be an endless torrent of joy, entertainment, laughs, and goodness.  Everything is inscribed with the raw materials to make whatever you want of it.  Cherish those moments, those unexpected spectacles, those breakdowns of everything.

An Invitation To March Madness

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March is unarguably the best month out of the Gregorian calendar in the northern hemisphere.  From a purely metaphysical view planet earth and its human and non-human agents experience a massive COMEUP in liquid energy as everyone and everything is caught up in a tidal wave of pollen, spores, and jism.  On March 20-21, you can step outside and breathe “ahhhhhh” and grin, knowing that from that moment onward you will experience a true surplus of sunlight, happy times, and good fortune until the north pole wobbles around the summer solstice we dip again like diving blue whales into the cold desolate darkness of winter.

But until then live with zest.  The primordial zest of March is observed and celebrated by multifarious cultures around the world.  In keeping with these perennial values, you are encouraged to participate in the energetic free-for-all in anyway possible.  Here are some options:

a.  Buy a bicycle.  If you already own one that is even better, and saves you the hassle of buying a bicycle.  Take a few days off from work.  Pack a backpack with only the most essential belongings you need ( I would recommend a warm jacket, sleeping bag, lots of water).  Pick a cardinal direction and ride your bike as far as you can in the time allotted.  Sleep in fields, on strangers couches, or under bridges.  Take frequent breaks to walk around and examine things.  Don’t wear a watch, and use your phone only for emergencies.  Worrying about time and progress is a nasty cling-on from the industrial age, like a shitty distant relative that you only tolerate because of the mystical force of KINSHIP strong-arming you into submission.  You will get strange looks from townsfolk and there is a good chance you will be harassed by police, but look them square in the eye and say, “I’m on an adventure” and their hearts will melt and all your problems will evaporate like morning dew on a picturesque pastoral landscape.

b.  Get on a therapeutic psilocybin mushroom regimen.  Whether you want to admit it or not, most interesting innovations/inventions/ideas in the last 60 years (and probably going back to the paleolithic) were instigated by some kind of visionary experience.  Unlike most drugs, mushrooms have the ability to, and I paraphrase dead visionary surfer playboy extraordinaire Bunker Spreckels here, “tune you into the currents and vibrations around you, instead of deadening your senses.”    Once a week in a small to moderate dose ought to do the trick.  You don’t need to get your far out “why is the toilet rolling its eyes and muttering curses at me I’m afraid I won’t come back from this AGGGHHHHHH!” Neo-Hippy Learyesque UC Santa Cruz Consciousness Studies Major high going, just enough to see the vivid contours of the Super Sargasso Sea that lies just beyond the pale of normative human consciousness.    Mushrooms tend to have some pleasant psychosomatic effects as well, usually involving relief from stress related ailments (headaches, acne, back pain, etcetera).

c.  Invent a new equinoctial festival.  C’mon EVERYONE’S done it.  There has been a sharp decline in festival-centrism for cultures at large; a tragic move towards a increasingly flaccid and uninspired way of life.   Your festival can be as Dionysian or as Puritanical as you want.  What good is God and his holy host without the contrast of the Devil and minions behind him drinking everlclear mixed with cool-aid and doing the mash-potatoes to a compact disc of James Browns Greatest Hits?  Nature thrives off healthy competition, and who knows, perhaps in 1500 years people will be forced or coerced into taking hallucinogens and going surfing on Bunker Spreckels Day (a possible future March 21st), the high holy festival that you and 12 other people unknowingly set into motion during a (now) mytho-historic drunken tri-tip and bratwurst cookout. Now syndicated under the auspices of a populist oriented craven totalitarian corporate multinational religious entity,  in this hypothetical future little childrens’s will be taught THE TRUTH about EVERYTHING as REVEALED to the PROPHET Bunker Spreckels, thus lifting the crushing load of personal exploration off of the little tykes so they can dedicate their bio-spiritual thrust towards constructive things like working in factories, cataloging and commenting on socially appropriate and conventional forms of knowledge, engaging in economic gameplay in some form or other, or most holy of all, copulating with whomever is willing to undertake the venture of producing the next generation of cornfed little Spreckelites, may their grubby psilocybin stained childpaws continue to hold up the unshakable and infallible supremacy of THE TRUTH.

It would take a Tom Fool to deny that March is a gleaming young god.  Revel in it for all its worth, and let it caress you like a lover in its givingness and strength.  Like the shoots of new growth from the family Sycamore to the wafting stench of semen from the Bradford Pear Trees that have been planted as some sick decades-in-the-making joke throughout California, ride high on March’s indefatigable swoll and may you never be able to look over your shoulder and see a high water mark.