Rancho Tarzanadu: "Witch Academy?"

     After graduating, Miss Linda floated in the pool exactly one time – there was so much going on in the world that there didn’t seem like enough time to float in the pool. Her online meditation instructor would say that that was the exact reason why she should be floating in the pool with ear buds in, listening to Chakra-healing meditations and micro-dosing psychedelic mushrooms.

     She thought about what her “Nation and Empire, Law and Government”  Professor had asked her at graduation: “What are you going to do now?”

     She had recently been unpacking the last of her mother’s things, brought home from her 94-year-old boyfriend’s house; very personal items like journals and small paintings and notes, leaving Miss Linda’s heart swollen like a gigantic purple cabbage, effectively temporarily immobilizing her. She wandered through the house like a ghost herself, feeling melancholy more often than not, and caught herself sighing loudly. She didn’t want to drive off the tenants who survived the Pandemic with her – the Mime (hardly anyone noticed he was still there), the German Dog-Trainer (whose pack of dogs made up for the Mime’s muteness), and the computer-graphics editor (no one really knew what he did for certain), so she knew she needed to snap out of her ennui. She incorporated deep breathing techniques, creative expression, and more exercise as remedies.

     The Pandemic had scattered people far and wide, blown them across the states and the world as if transported by a raging tornado, and the emotional gaps and chasms left in its wake felt ocean-sized sometimes; she was also searching for a remedy for that, and wished she could conjure a potion of “Emotional-Gaps-and-Chasms-Elixir”.

     Her diagnosis of Stargardt Eye Disease left her with a monthly government stipend, and miraculously free health care (something everyone should have). She actually had time now to change the world for the better – although she had gotten a pesky call from the government that morning (she let it go to voicemail), reminding her that they could still find work for her, no matter her disability, which made her feel immediately nauseous, envisioning herself working inside a sooty factory, or a coal-mine, or breaking rocks apart with a sledgehammer while wearing iron ankle shackles, getting paid with a small pouch of coins and some cold porridge.  

     There had to be a better way!

     She had been writing protest songs on the piano, and was learning how to record them, although it was a slow process considering not only her eyesight issue, but the fact that she was still a doll (which she had actually gotten used to by now).

     She had also been writing tragic Sylvia Plath-inspired poetry, and working on a magical-realism novel, but she doubted that the Government would view either of those pursuits as “valid” work.

     The world was spiraling voraciously around her, eating up women’s rights, gnawing on them and spitting them back out, while “religious” zealots ruled the Supreme Court, and a criminal ex-President was throwing plates of Ketchup at walls, smashing dishes, and attempting to strangle Secret Service agents, while truck-loads of people were dying from heat-stroke trying to cross the border, the war in Ukraine roared on, the pandemic continued, the lunatic white nationalists stocked up on even more guns, and the emotional gaps and chasms were far and wide, all around, even between people living in the same cities. On top of all of that, the government was now hinting that they wanted her to work in a coal-mine in spite of her disability and get paid in cold porridge?

     Miss Linda had to say, “No thank you…I’d rather remain a State-sponsored Artist.”

     Although she had to admit that even though writing protest songs and tragic poetry felt really good and filled some of the emotional gaps and chasms, she wondered if she should be doing something more – like fighting in the Resistance or volunteering for the Progressive “agenda”. One of her friends (the Psychic Cloud-Reader) had decided to open her home to wayward girls and women whose bodies were so tightly regulated by their states that they had to seek refuge in California for certain matters.

     The Supreme Court had just ruled that private religious schools could get funding by the State, so now might be the perfect time to open a Witch Academy; she might get even more funding because of her impaired vision…maybe she could get a grant for a non-profit organization? Maybe that Master’s degree in Humanities would come in handy after all?

     Miss Linda wondered if the State funds for religious schools only went towards certain religions, or to only one religion?  

     Because “Freedom of Religion” sounded like it would apply to all religions, but she also knew that not everything is always what it appears to be, and that words can be twisted to confuse the average citizen – hence the need for a good lawyer at certain times.

     Something to meditate on…maybe while floating in the pool with a Bloody Mary, while there was still enough water in the City of Angels to keep it filled.