Soft Landing

I drove and drove and drove—first like a bat out of hell….unwilling to stop anywhere until at least mid-Oregon. Like a fifteen-minute orgasm, Seattle shot me out violently, slowly as the next place, the next phase screamed at me to hurry….


Hypnotic books and flips of coins led me here to Mendocino. An onion to protect spread magically throughout my path. It was Dusty and Jerry with Fidel the Gypsy-priest in reluctant tow that embraced my halt.

Dusty is one who helps travelers. I can’t argue with her position as people are buying me tea and following me down the street with gas money from the moment I meet her. I knew that I would spend the morning at the beach with some characters—I always forget how these things work until I am in the midst of them.
"We need more good mothers in the world so they can bring up good children", she says, "They are here to save us. They save everyone--even the villains; the ones who don't deserve it--they save them too.” Does this make it ok to have them as sacrificial lambs to feed the walking dead and dying? Are children the type of precious that should squirt onto our plane in small and heavily anticipated doses? Or should they pass through every available procreation session— flooding this world with exponential savior versions of their predecessors and melting away their parent’s ability to concern themselves with anything that rivals their future boone?

I learned about Warewolves today. Dusty went on and on about the power of onions to keep them away and even pulled me close to mother onion as Fidel attempted to catch my eyes and sniff at me with his silver tongue. While weaving me into a conversation of a lifetime with a Cuban ancient works restoration painter—one who had painted too much on the very works of masters for whom this was a way of life, he lifted his hat to reveal his gray hair and lowered his glasses to show me his black eyes as Dusty whispered to me about the Aztecs and their blue eyes.

Needless to say, onions followed me everywhere—surrounding my car and emanating from my pores as I danced further and further away from those who change, from the Jekyll and Hyde, from those who justify with duality while they give their demon anger over to another being that is them.




A walk on the beach alone frees me from the gentle ties of a vortex beginning--like a seed germinating detaches its microscopic fronds from a paper cup as it is transplanted. Having given and taken--intonations and pathways--these people disappear, or I do. I realize there is nothing more there to exchange-conveniently, as they have relocated. I move on in my cherry bomb with a mind full of Tennessee Seeds.

Onward to Wild Iris Pass where I feed my fear of breathing to the ocean. It laps it up hungrily, politely--assuring me that it needs it more than I do. It releases me to the song of Hoyhona--the warrior priestess who resurrects from the dead. I head towards Bolinas, a space of progeny to feed bits of our tenure back to the earth and find myself in Petaluma. A sacrifice must come at its perfect time.

My skin heals--I heal it with salt and flowers. I rinse my body and find that I don't want to ever soil it. I am no longer curious about the outcome of destruction--I seek to bear witness and nurture beauty. I know what will happen... I nourish myself with the things that unfold in front of me.....