The character I admire the most, the wounded healer heroine

Free Spirit

By Phil Penner

Aponi shss’s the salt air from her nose to drive away the feeling of gnats buzzing in her nostrils that snap her senses to attention. She’s thinks, Must be a bad moon rising, seems like everyone is upset about something today.

Her hands are perspiring, making it difficult to prevent damaging her dry ph test paper. She succeeds on the second attempt. The viscous drops that fuel the gaseous ectoplasm in the test-tube are to par at 7.2 acid/alkaline ratio.

Aponi dials up her friend Ann and gets voicemail, with a slight crack in her voice she says, “Aponi, It’s almost nine. Listen, if you don’t hear from me by ten, please do me a huge favor and come to Chicano Park and check on me, fast. Someday I’ll be able to explain, I need you to do this, okay?”

This is the first time she’s attempted this procedure outside of the lab. The potential ramifications of this experiment are too controversial for oversight or assistance from anyone.

Her heart begins hammering and her breathing is picking up fast.  She replaces the cork on the test tube and decides to meditate her way down to the Earth’s natural frequency of 7.8 hertz, the Schumann Resonance.

“Beloved presence of spirit,” she says, sitting cross-leg with open heart and palms supine, on her bunk in her travel van. “Connect me to your infinite wisdom, show me the natural path.”

She has a small shrine mounted on her dashboard that helps keep her mother close at heart. The photo was taken at a Native American dance festival. Mother’s tan was a caramel glaze. Her headdress employed a prominent quartz crystal for her third eye. The crystal was held by a snake’s tail. From there the serpent wrapped her head like a tiara with fangs, recoiled and ready to strike from above her forehead. Aponi shares her mother’s jaguar like physique.

 Outside of Aponi’s van, drums are amplified to distortion. The walls of her van add metallic vibrations to the Aztec music in Chicano Park. The sounds of Flageolet flutes seduce her meditation as she turns her mindset to being one with the music, rather than blocking it out.

     The park is nestled beneath four low flying freeway transition ramps on the south end of San Diego. Above, tires grind on asphalt like puppet master ghosts on a higher plane. Low elevation lighting contributes to a spooky night-time ambiance. Aztec murals are painted on the support columns of the freeway transition ramps. The human images in these murals seem to mull in shadows thus add to the eerie feeling.

     Aponi is serene and sets her alarm clock that’s connected to a high frequency transmitter. She quickly takes the test tube from the stirring device and pops the cork. Inside the test tube the condensed ectoplasm contains her antidote that will draw in her spirit.

Two quick blasts from the inhaler marked with a red X for Salvia Extract. She lays back quickly before her consciousness escapes her body. Chemical fire scorches her throat and creeps into her sinuses. Aponi has one last second and thinks, Man, this realllly sucks.

     Her spirit leaps from the dread of Salvia Extract in her body. Like a genie in a reverse vortex her spirit is drawn into the her ectoplasm that’s cooking up a fog in the test tube. Instantly her spirit and ectoplasm rush right back out in a tiny tornado, out through the narrow crack between the van’s window and doorframe. Her spirit link and ectoplasm spiral away through the foggy and viscous atmosphere.

Aponi senses her self-awareness and thinks, Yaahoo, this is so wicked! Infrared images. Bank hard left, pirouette up and… float down like an oversized parachute in marshmallow clouds.

     Aponi is moving like a sloth while being impeded by sponge-like grass. It saps her ectoplasm like walking in sand. She propels her tiny cloud up to the top of the bronze head of General Zapata’s statue. She thinks, I was right, every plant and animal is like sonar that’s sending me DMT signals. This is because her knowledge of the surroundings comes directly from The Akashic Field, the intelligence that drives creation.

Beyond Aponi’s immediate perception, yet present in the spirit energy field is a young Latina who’s headed for the restroom. Both restrooms have been closed for maintenance. A disgusting man is picking the lock on the steel restroom gate. His squalid appearance is accentuated by his odor, mostly alcohol and urine soaked clothing. There’s a brown malignant growth on his nose that’s the size of a penny, an ominous badge, warning of his anatomical meltdown. He quietly swings the steel door open then slips in and around the corner.

Latina girl is intoxicated and has no inkling of the impending danger inside the restroom while she’s swallowed into the darkness.

The man lurches and grabs the girl from behind. He slaps his filthy hand over her mouth and brandishes a handgun which he jams into her temple and growls,

“Any noise and yer dead.”

He spins her like a top and shoves her back against the wall. Latina girl sees his face like a horror flick. The overall stench of the man and the restroom have brought the girl to the point of projectile vomiting, but she’s mortified to paralysis.

Aponi senses the Latina girl’s distress from her bronze  perch and races into the restroom. Patches of dull light penetrate from high wall vents creating illumination equal to a candle flickering in a dungeon.

Aponi races up into his sinuses. Her voice rumbles through his head like an angry god,

“If you don’t stop now you will suffer.”

The man shakes his head as if to throw off the foreign entity and ignores it.

Aponi calls on angels and breaks into a Navajo war chant,

     “Hey ah na na hey ah na na hey ah na na HEY.”

To his amazement, the man is fighting his right arm with his left and the left arm now begins to win. His wrist and elbow turn the gun back on himself.

“Hey ah na na hey ah na na hey ah na na HEY.”

     The man struggles mightily with Aponi’s control over him. Latina girl sees a chance and knees him in the nuts for all she’s worth. Aponi feels the pain exploding through his body and doesn’t know if she can keep him under control. She snaps all of the man’s energy she can muster to the trigger finger of his gun hand.

     Aponi’s perception goes slow motion. She can see the fire  chasing the bullet and its accompanying atmospheric shock waves. The thunderous explosion screams of finality.

The flash illuminates the bathroom. Aponi freeze frames the girl’s face with mouth aghast. The girl begins to reach for the man’s hands. The bullet eclipses everything else and BAM, lights out, and the man collapses to the floor.

     Latina girl screams and claws her way out of the bathroom. Aponi feels no particular urgency to exit the man’s head. She senses to him, Can you say cockroach?

The man’s unconscious spirit responds to her with a murmur, “Go fu.”

Aponi senses to him, Coachroach may be all you can attain in your next incarnation after this stunt. You will live to die another day. If you even think of hurting anyone again I will cause you to be crushed by a bus.

Aponi is blasted to awareness of time by the high frequency beacon going off in her van. She quickly and efficiently propels her spirit cloud back to her van. While hovering next to her hibernating body she senses a scary chill in her ectoplasm. She dives into her test tube hoping to stimulate the spirit juice.

Fortunately her body is jolted by her stress and becomes ready to receive her. With all of the energy she can muster she shoots back out of the test-tube and up into her sinuses. Aponi tells her body to breathe deeply and relax while she melds back

into her seat of consciousness.

BAM – she snaps from slumber and views the note she had taped to the ceiling of her van, CHECK PH NOW. She shuts off the annoying high frequency alarm and pulls a short piece of test paper from the dispenser. While holding it against her nostril she shss’s hard to expel traces of ectoplasm.

+

The following morning Aponi plummets her van into Parking Structure One at San Diego State University. At age 29 she’s been doing contract research for Taiwonon Pharmaceuticals.

Crap, not this damn sign again, she thinks.

Aponi is frequently annoyed when driving under the 6’-8” clearance panel. It’s fabricated with sharp edged aluminum skins over a foam core. A short section of rubber trim is detached and  the exposed aluminum scrapes paint off the roof of her van. She anticipates the day when rust eats through causing a leak.

Gliding into a space, she checks for her special parking permit and smiles warmly at the picture of her mother. Suddenly she gets one of those annoying guilt pangs and feels she must deal with it now. She flashes back on the accident, the one that changed everything. She was seven years old and mommy was tired again. They were in the faded blue Civic with dented fenders, a broken tail light lens, and a dream catcher dangling from the mirror.

Aponi wants her mental tapes to stop but she needs to keep going. She tells herself,

You’re going to break down that wall of fear and make

friends with or conquer this demon. 

Soon her mind’s eye is back in the front seat of the Civic when little Aponi said,

“Mommy, I want a bow and arrow,”

“You already have them.”

“I want real arrows,” screams little Aponi. She was near tears and reached behind the seat for an arrow so she could show mommy the stupid suction cup on the end.  The arrow’s shaft was lodged between the seats. She twisted in her seat and pulled the arrow with all her little might. The arrow broke free and struck mommy in the side of her temple.

     “What in the,” blurted Mom. She looked over and was distracted a moment too long.

     Aponi snaps back to lucidity. Her mind is tortured by this tape and shuts it down. She tries harder to meditate her way back into the nightmare that happened that day and succeeds.

Aponi’s mom had run a red light and was still looking at Aponi when her little girl gasped. An SUV, like a charging rhinoceros, glared its headlight and grill on the driver’s side of the car. Her mother’s head suddenly slammed against the shattering glass and steel. Just as she saw her Mother’s scary clown face; Aponi’s little torso was ripped sideways so hard it snapped Aponi’s lower back and she was out like a light.

+

By the age of twenty two Aponi began to realize that she was acting out with self-destructively behaviors. Her Father tried to persuade her to know herself better, though he himself had no pristine record regarding perfect behavior. She may never completely eliminate all moments of shame and loss. She has consciously forgiven herself, after all: she was a little girl who didn’t understand the dangerous environment of the vehicle she was in. Early experiences are like main arteries of our personality, these old habits are the hardest to break.

Aponi also decided that her spindly legs, the broken wings that remind her of that day are one of the most beautiful things about her. Aponi committed herself to honoring her Mother by living large enough for both of them.

A short inspired by my wife and her niece

Dream Girl

By Phil Penner

     Sadness bled from her countenance as Aponi sat next to the stream. Water trickled down from the family compound in San Pablo City in the Philippines. Fear trembled through her vision of the future, how could she ever feel whole again? The motorbike accident had robbed her of her left leg from above the knee.

     “It breaks my heart to see you in such pain,” said Adam, her auntie’s husband who was visiting from Los Angeles. “A girl shouldn’t have to bear such a burden. Life will get better, please trust in this.”

     “It’s my father that is wounded the most.”

     “It is said by many that God works in mysterious ways,” said Adam. “Perhaps someday you will be able to thank him for the opportunities created by this misfortune and free him from his chains.”

     “That would give me great pleasure,” said Aponi. “I love him so much, he would never hurt me. But perhaps God just doesn’t love us or this would not have happened.”

     She observed a Gecko’s emerging replacement tail and asked, “If God loves me, why can’t I grow a new leg the way this gecko grows a new tail?”

     “Ask not if God loves you,” said Adam. “The question you need to resolve is, how much do you love yourself?”

     Aponi looked up and deep into Adam’s eyes, her soul poured forth and her lips curved slightly in testimony to her truth.

     “I see,” said Adam. “I will think of you like a chrome gecko that gives off more light than it receives. Your light will never been extinguished, it will be reflected through creation…. You like this gecko, will maintain faith. The intelligent gecko will employ strategy to obtain the best spot along the stream, it does not alarm the insects by racing about. Instead it trusts that eventually an insect will be offered up, then seize upon the opportunity. The Gecko has but a very small mind yet like you and I and every physical thing in this Metaverse, we’re all connected to that which created us. We are all connected to the same Akashic Field. Some choose to call it God others call it nature.”

     “Nature does not grow new limbs for people, it has never happened for anyone has it?” she asked.

     “Nikola Tesla and Albert Einstein were highly attuned to the Akashic Field,” said Adam. “Everything that has ever been created sprang forth from this intelligence. Everything that can be done is already available in the vast and timeless field of creation. Your quest is to open your mind like a whirlwind of information and filter out the path you are most connected to. Start with the image of the gecko as your spirit guide. Pluck the information you need when it reveals itself to you. Myself, as I grew older, I utilized several spirit guides to intuitively light my path. Your quest is to open your mind to all of the resources available to you and allow this intelligence to guide your path, no matter how long the journey, until this dream  becomes manifest in the physical world or must evolve into a new one.”

     “It’s too freaky,” she said. “What if I start dreaming and a foot grows out of my stump? That would be worse than no leg at all.”

     “Don’t look for what you don’t want. Take heart in what Jesus said that it shall be done unto you as you believe. Humanity doesn’t have the tools to master nature but we’re getting closer to replicating portions of it. Dream of the potentials that can be extrapolated from the resources available to you and have faith that something beautiful will come of it.”

     “Okay,” said Aponi. “You’re saying maybe I can build a bionic leg for myself.”

     “If that is your goal then work hard to achieve it,” said Adam. “But you are just beginning to plan for a long journey, so you must filter through much information before wasting time snatching a bug you don’t like, the Akashic Field may light your way such as you can never imagine at this time.”

     Aponi’s smile warmed Adam to become a witness to her journey.

     “Sometimes the lightbulb just goes off, other times you may go to bed thinking about a complex problem and wake up in the morning with the answer, the Metaverse has filtered the information without conscious interference. This often works out well.”

     “It all sounds good but, I don’t know how that all works for me and, this is a tiny stream.”

     “Yes,” said Adam. “You may need an ocean of information to develop your roadmap.”

The traffic that wounded you is run amok. Come to America,

No matter what type of path you pursue it’s very important to have faith and purpose with a strong moral code to keep from damaging yourself, these will make all the difference in your life.”

     Aponi smiled and said, “I will come to America.”  

      

Not anything to be concerned about but......

The problem is, cause nobody knew jack, jack got over on everybody now everybody is all jacked up and ready to go off on everybody!

Keystone Protest and First Nations

Spirit Warriors

By Phil Penner

Is there any singular intelligent life in this Universe? Socrates felt not. I asked it of myself and came up wanting, my thought processes are but a snapshot in a grand sea of souls. I sought it from religions but was perplexed for I fancy myself an honest man. I asked it of many scientists yet even Einstein fell short by not being able to extrapolate the pain of contributing to the potential for the nuclear self-annihilation of humanity. I asked if society is intelligent life and questioned how a house built on greed can stand the test of time. I asked it of the potential extra-terrestrial life forms that may even exist in our ether, and no, why would they leave behind their most nurturing environment that created them? Therefore I query, “If there is no singularly intelligent material life, can the aggregate be more than chaotic struggle and does every fiber of our being long to decompose into another dimension that harbors divine serenity?”

On the 17^th of February 2013, my residual guilt of being a spoiler vote that contributed to the election of George Bush in 2000 had factored into my journey. My primary driver was the Keystone XL Pipeline. This cornerstone of global ecological demise convinced me to snort dry air at an estimated average 17 degree Fahrenheit wind chill factor. Exiting the Washington D.C. taxi from the Downtown Youth Hostel proved a need for me to separate from my jovial traveling acquaintances. I’d constructed an awfully large protest sign that implores, “STOP OUR CHEMICAL AND CARBON MASS EXTINCTION” on one side and “DIVEST CARBON NATIONS = GLOBAL ENERGY ENEMA” on the other. The wind buffeted my sign to near failure so I had to remove myself from the crowd lest I injure someone. I left the masses gathering around the Washington Monument. They were swaying and dancing in frigid joy like the antithesis of the selfish children in the Lord of the Flies. Their energy was so radiant that my body began an extended divine tingle.

As I plowed my sign up 17^th street I thought back to the day before. My wife had added loving links to my chain and stayed in Los Angeles whilst I freeze my ass on those days. As a neophyte to DC, the Botanical Gardens on the National Mall was the first attraction to catch my eye. I traversed the warm and humid enclosure up and down while marveling at the complexity of life being nurtured within the glass zoo of foliage. I sat in repose near the exit and became disheartened while asking myself, “Will we need to build an enclosure over the entire Amazon?” Not to control the atmosphere, to keep the human arboreal pests from laying it all to waste. Seven billion egos leave an awfully large footprint. I reasoned that this is one major cause of our gathering of spirit warriors.

Following the garden I moved on to the National Museum of the American Indian. For hours I marveled at how the common thread of all of these cultures is a reverence for a power greater than themselves. Being one who has been healed on more than one occasion by a power greater than myself I felt bonded to this perception of reality. I became more depressed than at the Botanical Garden due to genetic shame. My European ancestors were greeted with compassion by some Native Americans who offered to co-exist and breed together. Instead we (and I know few details) committed genocide upon the majority of the indigenous Americans. These appeared to be honest souls who chose to revere the creative forces of the universe from Canada through South America.

I was snapped back to attention at the corner of 17^th Street after pacing in front of the White House. In splendor, the chanting bulkhead of spirit warriors 40,000 strong rounded the corner with, “Hell no, Keystone Pipeline’s got to go.” The greatest beauty is that front and center are the aboriginal Americans who can’t tolerate this horrible incursion into their sacred ground. Their natal lands are being ravaged by clear-cutting of boreal forests. Massive stacks of trees rot like so many beached whales poisoned by our ignorance. The Earth they cherish is torn open by grizzly commerce which rips the guts from under the peat forest floor. Left is nothing but money maggots for there are no vultures to consume the waste products already killing wildlife and humans alike. The vulture capitalists will come later, when we taxpayers make a futile attempt to clean it up and restore thousands of years of vegetation.

My sign has me struggling to stay just far enough ahead of the emergent masses to prevent smashing someone. I beg of the cameras to include me as a voice of dissent. Soon Bill McKibben, who’s left of their center beams into view. Bill appears as euphoric as a man at first embrace of his infant miracle.

This my friends was in fact the greatest spiritual experience of my 56 years of incarnation and I loved it. I felt the healing of the ecosystem unfolding while humanity begins breaking through its cocoon of greed. I pray that soon most of us will emerge as butterflies in the mass ‘Awakening’. Being a spirit warrior for truth is my calling and I deeply desire to be a finely tuned instrument of this light.

The Keystone protest is part of the healing of the schism of Western Cultures. We have for thousands of years divorced ourselves from nature. In our hubris we have pretended to be copies of a grand creator that we don’t actually know exists. We have myths that exacerbated our egocentric ideologies from the Greco-Roman Age of Aries. After over 2,000 years of mystical creation and Piscean guilt we have hit a moral bottom. As this energy now begins to climb into Aquarius we must begin to shake off the decadent energies that have allowed so much suffering and greed as of late. We, my fellow humans, are on the cusp of the Age of Aquarius. For hundreds of years this energy has been emerging and now it is beginning to become dominant.

It appears that our global society is a mega star of capitalism. It’s fueled by 7 billion egos slamming together in the sea of greed that is the gravity of physical life. The core of this greed grows smaller and denser with every nanosecond of trading on Wall Street. When the core can no longer sustain the fire that slams against the outer shell of population, then it shall collapse like a super nova. In a particularly psychological manner it may explode into a new order(s) of life. Will it seed the Earth with mostly higher consciousness diamonds of spiritual harmony and balance? OR, will it produce mostly low consciousness lead projectiles and thus create our own materialistic hell? When staring down the barrel of a devastated eco-system this spirit warrior asks, “Do you feel lucky? Or would you rather plan ahead and try to fix it?” 

Conceitist

The following poem is the result of my protesting President Obama's visit to Peter Chernin, who produced Oblivion with Tom Cruise. It seems we are being conditioned to accept the destruction of life on Earth via nonstop end of the world sci-fi movies. Certainly many wealthy people are kind and not deserving of this parody of sociopathic humans.

Entitlement

Ready, get set, start the ‘Purge’,

would you just go kill yourselves pllease.

We are the rich and we’re better than you,

go to the movies and feed our disease.

We’re getting automated and don’t need you any more,

so just go to hell and be done.

All of your talk about fair play is tiring to us,

you’re just idiots spoiling our fun.

You’ve taken ‘The Road’ that led to ‘Oblivion’,

we chosen ones will live on ‘Elysium’ you see.

Screw your meager dreams of a better life,

even the air that you’ll breathe wont be free.

Go bite a uranium coated projectile,

eat your chemical stew and go die.

We’ll poison your children till their insides are out,

you must purchase a permit to cry.

Yes, we are the gods of this universe,

superior in every way,

Don’t come at us with your self-righteous crap,

we’ll slaughter most of you with end of days.

Sit back and relax, enjoy the show,

in ten years it will all be too late.

The tipping point is passing, we’re stealing your governments,

just give up and tell us we’re great.

Los Angeles 2053

By Phil Penner

The offshore breeze causes the full moon to glare through the dry and naked summer sky like a flashlight of the gods. Rex is a lean biological machine with a serpentine grin and a micro winged mocha flat-top. Rita is his longstanding babe. She’s tighter than the tomb raider, encased in a painted on self-cooling jumpsuit that changes colors like a chameleon mood ring with headlights. They’re riding north up the 405 freeway from Costa Mesa in their tandem seat enclosed electric motorcycle. A surveillance drone helicopter zips overhead with red and blue lights flashing and another floodlight blazing onto the road.

     “Heads up,” says Rita. “Breach of defenses at Los Alamitos Boulevard.”

     Rex scrutinizes the cautionary message above their night vision monitor and says, “They must be headed for the original farm district.”

Rex slows to 50 kilometers per hour. Along the north side of the freeway is a rail system for automobile sized security drones commonly known as ‘Sherman’. As one races by them its firepower is comfort for the traveling couple. Atop the rotating turret is a telescopic survey device. The head shoots up 3 meters for more effective surveillance.

     Rex stops their vehicle as they see a human form 50 meters ahead. The man’s forearms are clamped against his head trying to block out the sound cannon from the helicopter drone that’s also flooding the figure with light while the Sherman approaches.

The Sherman’s turret rotates and an air cannon blasts out what appears to be a missile. Just before it sails over the subject the missile explodes and jettisons its shell components horizontally. These components spread out an oval shaped net. The net comfortably captures the man who belly flops forward while running as fast as possible.

Suddenly 3 more humans begin racing across the freeway. Another human, a sniper on the north side of the freeway opens fire with an automatic weapon. This person is attempting to disable the Sherman’s surveillance equipment. The heli-drone fires one precise high caliber rifle projectile that splatters the snipers braincase clear off of it’s neck. Rex and Rita didn’t see this occur though they heard the pop pop pop of the weapons. 

A second Sherman is rapidly approaching from the north and nets two of the others crossing the freeway. Another subject is now crossing between the first Sherman and Rex and Rita. The Sherman blasts out a pair of tazer leads. Only one lead penetrates the subject and thusly fails.

     “This dude is in deep shit,” says Rex. “The Sherman is running out of options.”

The Sherman waits until the subject is in the freeway median and opens fire. Pssw, pssw, pssw, pssw, multiple rubber projectiles launch like rockets and the wayward immigrant is knocked sideways to the ground as if hit by a car.

“Oh my god,” says Rita. “Do you think he’s gonna make it?”

“As opposed to surviving the desert,” says Rex. “At least now he’ll get a hospital bed until he can fend for himself.”

A van now arrives with the cavalry, four android perimeter control officers. The moon glistens off of their smoky black exoskeletons.

“X3T2C’s, we built those suckers,” says Rex, quite excitedly. It’s a real treat for him to see his engineering efforts in action. “They’d better not piss them off,” he continues. “The X3’s are fully conscious and we’ve birthed many of them in November to have a no bullshit attitude.”

The state of the art androids are created with an electronic aura, very low frequency brainwaves that flow through semi-conductor gel medium and software that employs a descending clock speed. These are electronic sentient beings that are ‘born’ with personalities just like humans. One of the many advantages of these androids is that they are more fully hardwired per se to the same universal or ‘god’ consciousness that we are. Therefore, they usually tend to be more considerate, peaceful and nurturing than many of us overly selfish humans. Some people wonder how long the androids will tolerate our antics and speculate that humans will ultimately end up in android zoos for the preservation of the parent species.

One of the gleaming figures makes quick work of loading the wounded migrant on a stretcher. Two other officers collect the three migrants who struggle to get free from the capture nets. The headless corpse is left on the north side of the freeway for migrants to do with as they please.

“Stop,” says Rita. “One of them looks like my cousin Alfredo.”

“No way are we gonna interfere with the droids,” says Rex. “We’ll stop by the detention center on the way back. Maybe the migrants will be posted online tonight.”

Rita sulks back into her seat and says, “Jus go.”

While Rex awaits clearance another migrant begins to bolt across the freeway. The fourth officer spots him and takes after him in a dead run.

“Check that shit out,” says Rex. “The X3 is maxin out at 57 kph. Totally flawless, no city state has built better security than ours.”

The android quickly overtakes the migrant and tazes him with his fingertips. As if finishing a fifty-meter dash, the weight of the X3 plows dirt with its boots in several steps while stopping. The X3 returns to the migrant and tosses him over its terrace like shoulder for the quick trot back to the van.

“What’s going to happen to them?” asks Rita.

“Sacramento’s taking a few,” says Rex. “Many of them are getting shipped up to near the Great Lakes.”

“I saw a documentary,” says Rita. “There are nearly a billion people trying to survive on the fresh water supply up there.”

 “Bets are,” says Rex. “Ten years max, before the global population bubble collapses down to 2 or 3 billion in the city states. Can you imagine what Chicago has to do to maintain its defenses?… By the way, where are we going.”

“Three guesses.”

“Kilimanjaro Cali?” asks Rex.

Rita glances down while shaking her head.

“Chumash Indigenous?”

“You don’t even know me,” says Rita. “North on the 110.”

Rex smiles and they depart. There are several culturally themed parks around the Los Angeles basin. Due to the expense of electro-gravitic air travel and the time required for high-speed global rail, themed parks have become practical alternatives to travel. In this manner we have helped many ethnic groups maintain their sense of cultural identity.

+++

The Century City Council is ensconced above the audience. This is the seat of power of the Los Angeles basin. The mayor of Los Angeles, Miguel Rivera is a dandy with a mercurial quality about him. He stands at the podium in his crisp white linen suit with the eye of a peacock feather glaring out from the side of his icy white Panama.

     Miguel speaks with a half-shot of Peruvian accent and gleam in his eye, “We must have you recognize most venerable Council, to reduce the flow of water to our farms would be most unfortunate, we employ the most efficient hydroponics and metered potted plant systems. If you cut back on the liquid of life it will most certainly rob you of the vibrant energy we send to your tables.”  

     Antoinette Verona is the Minister of Water and Power who says, “Mr. Rivera, just yesterday three rocket propelled grenades nearly destroyed the main water valves controlling the flow of water into Los Angeles. Have you found the perpetrators?”

     “Yes, the Human Justice League,” says Miguel. “It was in retaliation for drastic cuts in the flow of water beyond the 710 for nine consecutive months.”

     “Have you noticed any turf by the surf lately sir?” Antoinette asks while glaring out from just under her brow. “We’ve cut everyone on the West side of the 405 by 7 percent for 2 years running. None of us are happy about living in a desert.”

     “Isn’t the Hyperion Seaweed and Hydro Distillation project in full production yet?” asks Miguel.

     “No,” says Antoinette. “We’ve had difficulties with evaporation containment. We’re only at 40 percent of our projected fresh water yield from the ocean. We’ve had success with our solar stills.”

     These solar stills are thousands of buoys that have clear shells that shed salt spray. On top are magnifying glasses and mirrors that concentrate sunlight on a flowing saltwater tray below. As the saltwater evaporates and condenses it’s collected in a tank below water level. These buoys are tethered on a loop and use their steam power to migrate out and back to their docking stations while their reservoirs are filling.

     Colin Dowel is the Minister of Defense on the council. He sports a gold encased quicksilver badge over his beefy breast. The backlit badge reshapes itself every three seconds, cycling through his decorations. He bellows into the conversation, “Mr. Rivera, certainly you’re aware that we’re in a protracted standoff with the San Franciscans about watershed restoration.” Colin furrows his brow like a hang glider and continues, “If we don’t cut back they will cut us back… They’ve allowed us to restore our water table to seventy five percent of its maximum capacity. We need their cooperation for another decade to become self sufficient.”

     Miguel drops down a couple of vertebrae under the weight of the entire Council. A more recent contributor to city water tables are the re-engineered and expanded river deltas that flow inland into the water tables.

     “And by the way sir,” continues Colin. “Do you suppose your growers could cut back on their cannabis rituals and ramp up production a notch?”

“We truly appreciate what a great job the security services are doing sir,” responds Miguel quite meekly. “Please recognize that we have maintained our diligence in nurturing your food supply and that we maintain the most productive solid waste recycling program in Southern California.”

Miguel raises his stature once more and continues, “If we are to provide the same level of service while cutting the water by 10 percent we will need to have only sponge bathing throughout our city, and Sir, would this not detract from the relaxed ambiance of the city?”

     “Actually,” says Hans Frederich, Technology Minister. “Assisted sponge baths sound like fun…. We’ll get you the state of the art filtration systems you need to keep your showers flowing. Just keep making love to our food supply. That’s what’s keeping Los Angeles on our side of the line you know.”

     Miguel realizes that the West side boys and girls have been quite successful with their exotic botanicals. He’s certain the West Side lacks sufficient real estate and will to take on the entire food supply.

     Betty Hargrave is the Minister of Migration and Population Control. She blurts out, “Don’t forget Miguel, the census is scheduled for November. Our drones must be allowed un-fettered access to all domiciles. We will tolerate no more population increases.”

     “We have heard from some sectors that L A county is now capable of sustaining more than 3 million people,” says Miguel. “We shall however, maintain zero population growth and carry out our charge with honor and pride. To be certain, for the maintenance of present production we can shoulder no more than a five percent cutback this year.”

Miguel Rivera tips his hat and steps back from the podium.

+++

     Rex is cruising up Alameda in Tijuana del Norte, a district in south Los Angeles. The aroma of taco vendors wafts through their enclosed motorcycle. Beautiful senoritas are smiling with ‘Psst’ lips and spanked up hips. Occasionally he smiles and tosses his head back toward Rita in the rear seat.

On the north side of little T J he pulls into Mayaland. The park is built to replicate the restored ruins of Chichen Itza on the Yucatan Peninsula. As they stroll past the center of the primary pyramid Rex claps his hands for Rita thus causing the echo of a Quetzal bird to bounce at them. This garners him a kiss.

As they walk on, waiters emerge from kitchens below the drought resistant grass site. Lodge pole cabanas with thatched roofs cover tables made of stone discs surrounded by rustic wood and wicker seating. The park is usually filled to capacity on weekends and is a major cultural center of Los Angeles. 

“Our room is just ahead,” says Rita.

“How much is it?” asks Rex.

“7.255.”

Electronic currency is a global standard used by all advanced global city-states. There was much debate when this system of compensation was set up. Many said that any form of money is a corruptive influence that should be eliminated from the human condition. After all, this is why there are still the occasional prostitute and entrepreneur who are operating in self-destructive manners. The philosophical argument that won is that a fair balance needs to be struck to form an egalitarian society with incentive. As one looks to the universe for understanding of how our spirits with ids and egos are formed we find a multitude of variety that boggles the mind. We have emotions that can not be satisfied with totally generic conditions. We need an opportunity to exercise the individual powers that make us unique in different ways. Without this life is too boring and the system will be corrupted by cronyism anyway. What has been settled on is that the most wealthy shall never be so rich or the disadvantaged so poor that disrespect of our natural talents promotes abuse of one another. 

Much of the international shipping is done on nuclear powered ships, many of these are remodeled air craft carriers.

Most of the rooms at Mayaland are elevated and behind lush artificially landscaped stone terraces. The long thatched roofs are supported by hundreds of round stone columns made to exact scale of the original archeological site. The precise scale is what permits the echo chamber effects around the various aspects of the site. Behind them in the ball court is a huge party. A specialized band plays unusual percussion music that bounces here and there due to the unique acoustics. 

+++

     It’s now edging into the eight o-clock hour of the morning. Rita slips open the woven grass curtains and window leading to the outside perimeter of the hotel. She radiates glowingly at the sound of the farmers singing to their vegetables. The hydroponics gardens and hothouses supply the hotel and surrounding markets with vine fresh food most any time of the day. Many L A city farms supply the West Side on a twice daily basis.

There are also micro chicken farms mixed into the restaurant districts. Perimeter zones of the cities farm a variety of products that include tilapia, salmon and crustacean farms as well. 

Rita kisses Rex to wake him from his slumber. “Babe,” she says. “Breakfast is in one hour on the terrace.”

     Rex shakes off some of his sleepy head and notices Rita’s sultry gaze. He jumps up and does a quick tooth brushing. While returning to Rita he presses her against the wall with her arms spread eagle.

     “Did I mention,” says Rex. “You don’t have to get anymore contraceptive shots.”

     Rita smiles bigger than Texas with eyes glassing over and chokes out, “We got our baby license?”

     “Ya,” says Rex, all aglow. “Let’s have this mornings appetizers in the shower.” 

The Spiritual Solution

Truth moved the Prime Lady,

her heart then suffering for all of humankind.

Spirit calls her to service,
bring vision to the blind.

She calls on her scholarly sisters,

this land and through all.
Regional NGO’s recruit infinite sisters,
of all stripe and call.

Legions of lady soldiers,

compassion in their hearts,
listening to all of humanity,
this is how trust starts.

Spirit sisters say, lower your birth rate, grip of your plow.

We must love our Mother Earth and not live like sow.

The NGO’s boil it down to the essence of all pain,

with the power of the people success falls like rain.

Science gets involved paid only by love of humankind.

Architects of our new humanity memorialized for all time.

Ecological energy, spiritual economies make the calls.

We’ll build a vibrant humanity and verdant Earth that enthralls.

Reward us for good deeds, never greed, delusion and strife.

What will emerge? The global superorganism of life.

When this world economy crashes and the dust settles low,

we shall launch this Numanity, our ten thousand year show.

 

Phil Penner     October 12, 2012