(next day:page3) The more I read, the more I see how poorly my immediate ancestors—or, at least some of them; probably quite-a-few to most of them; sadly. The latest book I read had descriptions of herds of thousands of elk and smaller herds of antelope, plus deer, otter, bear and cougar by the first arrivers upon the San Francisco Bay Area; circa the time period from 1776 thru to the late 1840s. Now, my experience of the bay never saw wildlife number one on the land, except for a stray deer swimming Racoon Straits from Angel Island to Tiburon. But I wasn't so amazed to actually see a deer as I was to see this skinny-legged creature swimming the 3/4rtrs mile of the absolutely worst mish-mash of tidal currents and wind-driven waves—whatta deer! That my mates had sailed alongside and snagged the beast and killed it and took it home kinda smacked to abusive treatment at the time, but I wasn't going to play the fool—as my mates would have seen it—and cry lament for the loss of yet another noble creature in the goddamned longest chain of noble beasts, mammals, fish & fowl the my direct ancestors almost entirely obliterated from our lands, my lands, the commons of my people—or, should that be our people? Damn! They, as represented by their actions, just aint mine; or what I would envision as being folks whose life-philosophy sets more sweetly within my breast's heart, brain, and soul. I will say that there are a whole huge helluva lotta their genetic urgings welling up from within my soul's memory. I try to recognize them as they come into my consciousness, so as to prevent them from having what I have long held as undue influence upon my actions or attitudes. I take so many precautions against my inherited genetic memories of which I so profoundly disapprove, getting any handle upon my being's efforts. I have been taking these precautions as a matter-of-habitual-ob-servation since the advent of my awareness of the bloodthirsty killer aspects of inheritance—that which IS so unavoid-ably-definitely what exists within whatever/however mechanisms that operate my minutest bits of dna and genetic stuff—probably pretty early on before even my conscious memory banks began to actually retain information pertaining to the historical aspects of this Adam creature who says to me that that is who I am. ?. I ams whut I ams, sez mister popeye. Now, having pretty much figured out what I am, the handle is not long in coming.God, geez! It is still pretty much astoundingly amazing to me: the degree to which our so-called overseers/controllers had such elaborate tenacles screwed right into the very interiors of my brain!! It pissed me off greatly when this lightbulb-like idea blew itself up into my conscious mind. It still pisses me off, when I 'let' it. Usually, I prefer not living in pissed-off mode, so I seek out and find distraction enough to get my thinker off that subject. Subject . . . subjugated . . .enslaved. Ho-ly mo-lee, batman: So-oh enslaved—pathetic. Well, goddammit, I thought to myself in reaction, I aint gonna tolerate this situation no more! And have spent the better part of my waking moments to do whatever I could to find the understanding necessary to DO what-ever I could about lessening and alleviating, and otherwise softening the pain of the memories of blow after blow I, as the reincarnation of the sum total of my ancestral memory, whacked, wailed, and otherwise assaulted upon by mine own hand and mind. Recognition of these 'roots', then, therefore, in a perfect world, softens my being's painful memories enough to where the pain is palpably eased. Understanding, and then its eventual resulting forgiveness isn't too long in coming, in most cases, I should think. But I may be so far off the mark toward the always-desired positive and optimistic, as I continue to absorb that degree to which I was mentioning a bit earlier, that residual genetic impulse whose roots lie in antiquity, and its battle with any easy acceptance of EVIL”S (attempted) constructs. And its concurrent struggle to ignore-by-distraction its press and presses. I grit my teeth, clamp my jaw, frown my fore-head, and screw my face up and scream: NO WAY!! No way are them so-and-sos gonna get away with it on ME! By god, this thing that is called my body and its brain is a sacred temple, orchestrated by powerful forces way way way beyond your puny human brains' capacity for reasoning out, and yet: You think you can go fuck with me & my earth like you do? Un-unh.No way, I say. No way. But of course: “THEY” have; and to an awesomely-wholesale amount and amounts. Hey, Adam: Hey, bro: Take a breather, won't you? Okay, sure, sez I. But I know damn well that more of this type of unwanted dwelling in such a way too negative subject matter is not healthy and I know this, and I know this, and I know this. Okay: I'll try to relax: go smoke, drink, eat some more, and go eliminate what I ingested earlier; carry in more firewood and split another fire-starter's worth of kindling for when I wake up too cold to go back to sleep right away, as per usual. Right smack dab in the midlest middle of the night, I am outside, taking a leak, and eyeballing the Pleades' position in the eastern quadrent of the sky and note its movement's increment from the previous evening.
I think I better quit this for now, because I have another two dream journal entries to type up.
Pageside number four #4
Here's the one from 11-22: Owing a favor to a male acquaintance—don't know who this may have been—he had asked me to go check out a rental possibility for him, as he was hung up in some way. The house was up a gravelled easement 'driveway'that took a right turn and wended its way across the hillside up behind of in back of the row of houses down on the pavement of the road on the flats of the valley, which I will say seemed very much like I remember it was on the southern slope of Tamalpais Valley area of Mill Valley. A nondescript rundown neglected 'garden' path of about a hundred feet or so wound its way up to the house; which turned out to be two structures or houses. They were both pretty rundown and older, stinkier, and under a fairly thick canopy of taller trees overlooking the sidehill scene. I remarked to myself of the lower houses roof of glass windows sloped right into the bank in the back and I could see the woman in there in her kitchen and beyond, even, part way into the front rooms through this windowed roof. The woman in there—again: no clue who—directed me to the upper structure. I can't say it was a house, per se, but house it is called. It had a front door that led immediately up an inner stairwell to the rooms on its one patch of level in the hillside. There was a man and two teen-age boys up there at the top of the stairs, having some kind of celebratory affair. ˠˠ⤇ Next image is the friend who I had been 'front man' for on this apartment-for-rent research showed up; thanked me, and in releasing me to go, told me: “I'll fuck you in the ass, later.” as if he was doing me some kind of favor, or something, for my help. And as I was walking down the path back out from there, I was thinking to myself: No way you (or anyone else) are ev-er gonna fuck me in my ass. The 'house' dog was running down the path in front of me and at the gate, turned into a wild threatening dog, whom I had to throw sticks and rocks at to discourage as I went through the gate there. In the road ahead of me was an opossum, but one who had the color patterns and some hair of a raccoon (!) waddling down the roadbed; plus a feral cat and a (chicken) rooster on the side who were both attempting to 'attack' me, or threatening to do so, and whom I was also throwing rocks at. A rock hit the cat and bounced off the rooster as I woke up.
and
Dream journal for Monday,AM 11-24?-08 The best dream of all this morning was of the awake variety. A real dream that just totally tickled my fancy! I always wake up in the half-hour after dawn to take a pee and spread out some birdseed for the turkeys on the wooden box out in front of my front porch's doorway; then scurry back under the covers and snuggle back to sleep—but with an ear 'cocked' to hear when or if they come; which I can tell from the booming of their pecking beaks hitting the wood box as they pick up the seed. As soon as this happens, I allow myself to lapse into a deeper sleep until waking nearing noon, as is my current awake/asleep schedule.
I had been asleep for about an hour (7 to 8) in this frosty morning when that cocked ear of mine prompted me to peek out from under covers, and OH MI GOD and WHOO-PEE-DOO!: Six (or eight) more turks (plus the normal regular four) are there--and whom I recognize as ones from away back in April/May that had been gone since then—returned after more than half year's disappearance! I put out another couple pounds of birdseed and laid back abed to marvel, amaze, and awe to myself over this. To know that they have had such a wild existence and survived predators (and hunters) since last spring warms my heart or the spirit of my soul, if you will, no end of indescribable emotive force surges into my being and swells everything up just fine, thank you.
one extra happier camper: signing off
ps: all twelve (!) came back in the mid-afternoon for more . . .
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