Sunday, October 31, 2004

Extremism In The Name Of Liberty IS A Vice

Aug. 9th., 2004, Monday,

Made it to the South St. Vrain, 50 miles outta' Golden. What an odd feeling - I've stopped at the same spot I lived at for the first three months that I was in the Lyons area, way back in 1976. I remember distinctly what propelled me from Berkeley, CA to CO : Charles Edward Carrion Crow - my mentor, friend and Native American Shaman (and, I only deduced many years after the fact, my CIA handler for the LSD study portion of the black-op "M K Ultra") had awakened on the other couch in Cal's living room to find that he had wet hinself sometime after passing out at the end of our weekly weekend long party. He woke up, dicovered his sodden state and, seeing me waking as well declared: "Gandalf, we gotta go some place else. This place is getting old, and I'm tired of waking up with a hangover all the time."

"OK, Scott", I said, "I'm ready for a change? How about Colorado? Let's take my VW Bus and go see Bellow." I had just been laid off at the candle-factory in Half Moon Bay for questioning the ownership about the reason for the persistant coughs that the illegal immigrant women had, the ones who worked in the unventilated room where damaged candles were repaired, and had qualified for Unemployment Insurance, so we would have money coming in when we got there.

And that was it, within 3 days we had made ourselves enough money to buy food and fuel for a month or so and we hit the road. Had a fairly Thai-dyed journey through the Sierras, Nevada and Southern Utah, arriving in Boulder no worse for wear and loaded for bear.

Ah, Boulder in the '70s, before the Mall, before Yuppie-scum-greenbelt-earthtonedrabness grabbed it. Back in the days when Time Magazine had articles about what a party town it was, what with the "daily flights from Bogota" (we actually had shirts printed up with "Where's the Flight from Bogota?" after that article was published). Mother's Cafe at the bottom of the hill with Roscoe (the owner) dishing up hash browns and asking all my squeezes: "What are you doing with that hippie when you could have me?", his pot belly quivering with laughter and crumbs falling out of his beard into the omelets he was cooking. Yep those were the days . . .

Then, after months of hanging out in Boulder, hooking up with 'Dan and the Clan', who were moving our 'purplemicros' and who had a house in Nederland about 1/2 a block from the Pioneer Inn (back then, famous musicians who lived in the area would appear at the bar after midnight, mustaches looking like they had just scarfed about 200 powdered donuts, and play for hours, just for the hellofit!) my VW bus blew a seal going up Boulder Canyon, right by the Falls, where it gets steep, and I found myself in living next to the South St. Vrain river outside of Lyons.

I had a new van (a '70 Chevy Sportvan) bought with the last of my UI money, and was living in it by the river and commuting to the first Machine Shop I worked at, in Longmont. This was the place where I broke my back (the first time: "Clay-Shovelor's fracture of the 7th cervical vertebrae) and both the company I was working for AND the doctor they sent me to covered up the injury. So here I was again and wasn't it strange.

This time though, I knew a great deal more than I knew then. I knew that as long as there is an entrenched coterie of powerful idealogues protecting a wages-and-profit based venture [complete with 'employers': Undercover Federal and local drug agents, and 'employees': hapless addicts coerced into cooperation &/or paid confidential informants; who depended upon it for their very jobs, and next 'fix' (respectively)] that was itself dependant on the existance and expansion of a criminal subculture of substance-abusers, that the elimination of said subculture would never be in any of the "war On Drugs" proponent's best interests. In fact, I had learned that anyone (such as myself) attempting to assist in getting people OFF drugs, and asserting that the abrogation of 4th. Amendment freedoms was actually treasonous, would end up being persecuted, at the very least, or with a price on their heads, as there was in my case in my last days in Golden.

Believe it or not, agents of the "West Metro Drug Enforcement Task Force" had allocated $9000.00 for the job of inducing someone to plant evidence on my person or property that would allow the aforementioned agents to then bust me and remove my influence from their towm and their sick game. And even though all that was ever offered to various compromised individuals in the area was $4500.00 (the agents always took THEIR cut, you see) there were NO takers! I had at least managed to impress the oppressed with my attempts to help them, and boy, did that frustrate and anger the agents and their bosses.

So, I had to leave. Not so much for my safety, but for the safety of the poor people I had tried to help, because even KNOWING me was beginning to mean trouble for the coerced, such was the wrath of the their Nazi inspired 'employers'! Hence, my exit . . .

Friday, October 29, 2004

Verbal Gerbils

You know, it’s always such a tragedy when gerbils die.
Such innocuous vapidity and cretinous rodential cuteness
deserves a better fate than to decay to inconsequential dust
in some landfill far from home.

Rather they should perhaps ossify and then dessicate
to blow away dandelionlike on the breeze:
small clouds of tiny germinal gerbil spoors,
buff puffs of fecundity flying afar
and falling on fallow fields to root and grow . . .

. . . a new generation of gerbils who, kinda like lemmings
on their way to the sea, on a certain morning in May
emerge from their fields in various areas to line up,
all in a row, little paws outstretched, one dumpling digit extended
alongside roads leading to towns with pet shops, hitching rides,
and having reached the aforementioned shops they would present themselves to be bought and brought home
for the idle amusement of dimwits who have nothing better to do
than raise these microencephaletic, unresponsive
and totally vacuous example

Tuesday, October 26, 2004

The Lady's Prayer

Our Mother,
who Art - The Earth;
hallowed be THY name!

Land green under Sun,
THY Will be done,
in the heavens
as well as on earth.

Give us this day
our daily breads,
and educate us past our ignorance,
as we may educate those who are ignorant to us.

Lead us not into degradation,
but deliver us from selfishness.

For thine is the effulgence,
and the power,
and the glory, eternally.

In the name of the Mother
and the Daughter
and the Valley Spirit,

Saturday, October 09, 2004

The Escape From 'Sprach'land

August 8th, 2004, Sunday

Still waiting for one of 10 people to come up with the money they owe me so I can hit the road and bid my 4 years of hard time in Golden. CO, a fond farewell. Frankly, even though my largesse has kept all of these people fed, clothed, housed AND entertained for 2+ years now, they are all 'sprach' zombies and I don't think any of them will ever pay me back. I mean they've stolen all my lighters, my socks, my fingenail clippers, my cars, my CD's and STILL I'm trying to help them. Larger and larger holes are appearing in their brains apparently, as their sprach-induced spongiform encephalopathic rhizotomies progress.

Nothing I can do now 'cept try to save myself. Sigh. Well, at least, while I'm waiting, I can drive around aimlessly and watch the Golden Police AND the West Metro Drug Enforcement Task Force attempt to tail me without being noticed as I make endless loops around Golden watching them, marked and unmarked, marveling at the collective hubris that motivates them into following the ONLY person in town who is NOT an addict or a cook. I guess, in the long run, it's better than letting them foist yet another of their warrentless searches on the brain-dead addict population. What a pathetic group of losers (even worse than the addicts) these supposed "Public Servants" are - I mean the entire drug network in this town is essential to the undercover cops because without it THERE WOULD BE NO NEED FOR UNDERCOVER COPS!

Every dope cook I knew in Golden had been busted more than once, turned in three of their associates toget thier own charges commuted, and was working for the police, making more drugs to create more addicts to keep the Task Force funded and justify said Force's existance. Without CI's (Confidential Informants) informing on each other over and over again there would have been no reason for even the DEA to exist! They were being forced to import people to get arrested from outlying areas like Littleton and Aurora just because EVERYBODY in town had busted EVERYBODY else - THREE TIMES!

Drug cops NEED addicts and they hated me because I had been sent to Golden to help heal the addicted, so I was a threat to an entire economic Black Op. and those employed to maintain its viability. The money paid to the CI's was used by those same CI's to buy the equipment and pre-cursors to make more drugs. But if I was allowed to escape both addiction AND town, their dirty little scheme might soon become public knowledge 'cause I sure as hell wasn't going to let everything I'd learned over the past 4 years just stay in my head - NO WAY I was going to pass up an opportunity to make it known that the "War On Drugs" was actually a scheme to make more addicts so that the people employed in the "War" could continue to have jobs AND inflated budgets for 'fighting crime'. What a laugh - without the crime (which they were behind) their jobs would not exist! I was just glad to hit the road.