Rancho Tarzanadu: "Miss Linda's Fourth Humanities MA Discussion Board Post"

 

 The article that stood out the most for me this week was “Good Uses of the Humanities in Bad Times” by R. Howard Bloch. I was drawn to this title because I was looking for some inspiration; the past week was a rough one with the ongoing (seemingly never-ending) pandemic, the fires raging all over California, our current political system (or lack thereof), and as one of our classmates predicted in our most recent Zoom meeting: an earthquake to top things off! It is specifically in times like this that we need the Humanities most, to comfort, uplift, and reassure people of brighter times ahead.

     The Humanities have been devalued in our society, which favors science and technology. Bloch writes about the gradual decline of the appreciation for the Humanities after World War II, which makes sense because people were attempting to put their lives back together economically and were more in survival mode than concerned with arts and culture. The Humanities are hit the hardest in a recession, because people are more concerned with feeding their families and paying their bills; there is no extraneous money to spend, and Humanities appear to be frivolous rather than essential. In our current situation, I think of our “essential workers”: doctors, nurses, firefighters, people supplying medical attention and food. These things are real and concrete needs, whereas poets, musicians, and artists might seem to be superfluous.

     This reminds me personally of all the emotional support I have received by listening to the songs being released now; songs of anger and frustration, songs expressing deep sadness, songs of hope, and how they have affected me on a deep and profound level. They have made me cry, they have made me dance alone in my bedroom, they have channeled my anger in a productive way, as I sing-shout-scream along with the lyrics, releasing my own fear, anger, and sadness with the melodies. Yes, I have needed food and shelter to survive during this time, but these songs have also helped me, if not to survive, then to thrive a little bit more than I would have otherwise. They lead me to believe there is a light at the end of this tunnel.

     Bloch says that Humanities reveal what is most important to us. In this time of crisis, I’ve realized that what’s most important to me is not money or status, or a new car or fancy dress. In fact, material objects have lost their allure for me much more than I would have previously thought. What means most is my family and friends, my sweet cats, and my connections to all of them. What has helped me get through these times the most is writing my own songs and stories, getting in touch with my feelings, and exploring what it is I really want from my one and only (that I know of) life; more love, connection, and creative expression, less buying, spending, and mindlessly consuming.

     Our focus in the recent past has been all about speed and spending. This pandemic has forced all of us to slow down. It has given us time (unless we are “essential workers”, in which case we’ve probably had less time than before) to think and revalue what is important to us. The Humanities have risen and fallen throughout history like waves…hopefully this crashing wave will lead us to clearer, cleaner, and calmer waters where it is easier to think and ponder and explore how we actually feel without having the advertising industry trying to tell us how we feel, or should feel, or are “supposed” to feel. In times like this, Humanities help us to think critically and express our ideas more effectively, which leads to action in the world, hopefully making it a better place so we can turn this ship around before it sinks.

     Certain works of art, literature, and music have helped to change the world, and have held up throughout time because they reflect our humanity back to us as we continually learn from them. These works actually have changed the course of history. Bloch says that literature can shape people, who then shape events in the world. He also says that our world functions on action and reaction, on a psychological level, not a technical one; on a human level.

     Humanities also give us insights into other cultures and their ways of doing things and being in the world. It also informs us of what worked or didn’t work in the past, so we can (hopefully) learn from our previous mistakes. Humanities teaches us about the consistency of our humanity that transcends time and place. It unites us as a human race, and enables us to interpret meaning in our lives. Humanities helps us express our ideas across all disciplines of study (not just within the Humanities).

     Humanities is not just “information” but, as Bloch says, “useful knowledge and wisdom” that brings interpretation to all subjects, which leads to meaning, which shapes our actions in the world and ultimately transforms it.

     The Humanities are not extraneous at all, but definitely essential.

Rancho Tarzanadu: "Heartbroken"

     

     Miss Linda felt completely and utterly heartbroken by the world and by her own human frailty and flaws. She was avoiding her Humanities homework to write this, and realized what a gigantic procrastinator she actually was, and most likely still is.

     The world was on fire…literally. What seemed like the entire state of California, most of Oregon, and parts of Washington were completely ablaze without hesitation or redemption. Miss Linda’s half-brother would say it was the “End of Times”, which drove Miss Linda bananas, and was completely not helpful at all during this particular moment in time. Everything smelled like smoke, and ashes were raining down from the broken sky. Pictures from San Francisco revealed an orange sky at 11:00 AM that looked like the middle of the night, if the middle of the night was bright orange…it did resemble Hell, Miss Linda had to admit with furrowed brow.

     Overlord L’Orange was caught on tape this week telling Bob Woodward that he knew the Covid-19 virus was deadly back in early February, but wanted to “play it down” to the public so the stock market wouldn’t crash (the real reason) and it would make him look better in the public’s collective unconscious eye. Later that day or the next (they’re all one big blur), he said that he was just trying to keep the public “calm”, which is completely ironic, because he loves to rile people up – that’s his schtick…he lives for it. He loves to tell the White Supremacists that “Antifa” is coming for their fancy houses in the suburbs to destroy them and eat them alive like cannibals. He loves to play up all the crime in the streets, caused by “wild-eyed Leftist Marxist Radicals” for example. Miss Linda could go on and on about all the ways the Overlord liked to stir up frenzy and chaos (kind of like the Antichrist would, if there was such a thing), but she was just too exhausted.

     She had witnessed her dear, sweet 95-year-old mother trip over a step (a small front porch step) and fall to her knees the day before, crying out like a wounded animal who just stepped into a sharp mawing trap, while Miss Linda scrambled to stop the fall and only partially succeeded. This broke her heart more than anything else that was happening in the world. It was her small, tiny world, and she was an animal, too. All of us wounded animals, isolated in our own cages, crying out, Miss Linda thought.

     The money was running out, too. Congress and the Senate could not agree on an appropriate amount of money to give the hungry masses, so they just gave them nothing instead. So many people could not go back to work (either because businesses were closed, or they were justifiably terrified of dying), but also could not find  new jobs, magically, in new fields…jobs of any kind were scarce! So…how do people buy food for example? Miss Linda wondered about this, too, and the horrible, very obvious (to most) tangible inequality in our “great” nation.

     Miss Linda had sushi waiting for her downstairs, which was a gift from one of her housemates. There was also cake (“Let them eat cake!”), because it was the German dog-trainer’s birthday today, September 11^th.

     September 11, 2020, and the world was literally on fire.

     All of this patchworked together, equaled heartbreak.

     But oddly, Miss Linda was so emotionally numb that she could not shed a tear over any of it.

     Then the tears would come out of the blue (or grey, or orange) sky while she was brushing her teeth, or watching a stupid comedy on Netflix attempting to distract herself from the misery of the world. The tears would come in a wild gushing burst, from the depths of her soul like an unclogged torrential geyser.

     She overheard her housemate downstairs talking about dog euthanasia (she also worked at an oncology pet hospital).

     Ugn.

     Too much.

     Miss Linda slumped downstairs to grab her sushi and a vodka cocktail…what else could she do?

Rancho Tarzanadu: "Miss Linda's Second Humanities MA Discussion Board Post"

     As a creative writer, I was drawn to Ken Plummer’s “Stories and Storied Lives: A Manifesto” for my focus this week. When I first started reading it, I thought: how much is there to say about stories? Ken Plummer has a lot to say about stories! They’re merely the fabric that holds all of humanity and the world at large together, after all.

     Starting at the very beginning of humankind, we have been telling stories; they seem to be an intrinsic part of who we are as human beings. We’ve expressed them through oral traditions, through symbols, and paintings, and later through the written word. Not only do stories reveal our past and create our future, they give our lives meaning, and help us make sense of everything around us and inside of us.

     I found the concept of the “inner life” and “outer life” of stories fascinating; we all have personal and subjective stories, in addition to social and collective stories that we share. Our personal stories affect the collective, and our collective stories affect our personal stories; they are interwoven together through the fabric of humanity. Our stories help us see the inner and outer worlds more clearly, and our place in them; they also help us envision our future place in the physical world, as our stories are ever-changing and shifting – they have a life of their own, much the same way an author can be surprised at what his or her characters end up doing in a particular story. As we are all unique, our stories are also different, and take many shapes and forms, but we all share the same humanity, as we have since the beginning.

     There is never just one and only one story; there are as many perceptions and perspectives of stories as there are humans (which is pretty mind-blowing to me). Each story is unique to the person telling it, and also to the person hearing it, even if it is a collective story; it can be interpreted many different ways by a myriad of people.

     Plummer tells us that stories help keep us alive, ground us, and give our lives meaning. Our stories help turn chaos into order; the chaos inside our own minds, and the chaos of the world around us.

     Our stories are also clues to unravelling culture, they inspire social movements and our educational systems; our stories can literally change the world, and have changed our past into our futures.

     Our stories give shape to our lives, the same way an author gives shape to his or her fictional characters on the page, only our stories are living and breathing, alive. Our stories are our living autobiographies.

     Plummer says that we have good and bad stories “piling up” to form memories (this reminds me of the replicants in Blade Runner, who were made more “human” by their implanted memories). Stories tell us what it means to be living human beings; they help guide us in our search for meaning in our world.

     Our stories change the human-made social world. The conditions we live in shape our stories, and in turn our stories shape and re-shape our conditions. This goes on and on in a perpetual rhythm, a drumbeat of life.

     Plummer brings up the concept of stories “dying”; he urges us to question the sources of our stories, as some stories are not worth reliving, or outlive their usefulness to us. This reminds me of our current political dilemma, and all the declarations of “Fake News” by the same people who are creating it (such as “alternate facts”). Some stories deserve to die, because they do more harm than good in the world, on a personal and collective basis.

     Stories are unveiled gradually through time (just like our own lives unfold, our stores unfold too). Just as human lives have a beginning, middle, and end, stories do also, and cannot be forced to reveal themselves before their time, the same way a flower cannot be forced to bloom before it’s ready.

     Stories are always representations of reality. Plummer asks: “Where does reality start and story end? Where does story start and reality end?” (As I am working on a magical realism novel in which I am the main character, this has several layers for me to unpeel.)

     Plummer speaks of “monologic terrorism”, where there is only one voice in a story. He says that by nature, stories are “dialogic”; there is no story if there is no reader. There is no story without the personal telling of it, and the personal interpretation of it.

     He also speaks of the “Great Unheard”, the lost voices of people who are unable to get their stories heard because of inequalities among us, power dynamics and censorship. The people with the most privilege and power are the most likely to have their stories told and heard; the people with the least privilege and power are the least likely to have their stories told and heard.

     The internet has globalized our stories, bringing us closer to each other, even as we are physically distanced, generating more empathy and understanding of other people’s stories, cultures, and lived experiences.

     Plummer also warns of placing statistics over humanity, and interpreting people’s stories as numbers, charts, and graphs. He says that stories are the “royal road to our humanity”; critical humanism may see the bad, but encourages the good in us.

     Humanism includes animals and the environment, creating a better world for all, so that all of our stories will be better stories, filled with hope and promise and equality…all of our stories will be told and heard in a more inclusive humanistic world.

Rancho Tarzanadu: "Miss Linda's First Humanities MA Discussion Board Post"

 

     Before I started reading “The Humanities” by J.W. Powell, I was sure it was going to be boring. I was wrong. I assumed because the article is dated 1895 that it would be outdated and irrelevant. On the contrary, it is extremely relevant in many ways. And it got me thinking in directions I certainly didn’t expect, such as the concept of time itself, different dimensions (since scientifically time is an illusion according to theoretical physicist Carlo Rovelli), and the power of meditation to integrate time and space and my thoughts and feelings into a cohesive whole the same way that the human race has integrated itself over time to become a cohesive whole, instead of divisions, segments, or tribes. We have all been the same in essence from the very beginning, and in this “New Age” we have more tools to utilize and realize this tangibly.

     When humankind first began, we were separated all over the Earth into little sections at different geological points. This influenced greatly what people ate, the sounds they learned from their environment around them, influencing their eventual language, the wars they fought amongst themselves, and the games that were created from these wars. These human dramas were being acted out all over the globe, differently in style, but at their core, the same. All of these things were leading humankind towards progressive evolution and greater benefits and wisdom.

     Someone on our first Zoom call mentioned that they wondered that our current technological advances of the internet, iPhone, etc. would surprise and amaze our ancestors with how effectively they bring us even closer together as a connected whole. It seems more and more evident that we, as the human race, are becoming closer and closer to each other and realizing that our ideas and actions reverberate outward and affect not only those in our immediate “tribe” anymore, but the entire planet. And, speaking of time, can do this in a matter of seconds via the world wide web; we can think a thought, and seconds later someone across the globe can access it, incorporate it, and utilize it for their benefit (or in some cases, not for benefit of the greater good).

     Powell says that as our ancestors and these ancient tribes merged with each other, they intermingled and bred with other tribes, then split, then merged again, and so on. He states that:

To speak of a nation as of one blood or as derived from one primeval tribe with its primitive industries, pleasures, speech, institutions and opinions is absurd. To search for the origin of a nation in one primeval tribe having some one or all of the primeval activities is a search for the impossible.

     This leads me to think of our current situation on our planet today: we are greatly divided. Not only by the pandemic, but we are also divided by space (not connecting physically with our tribes, but mostly through cold, hard technology). How do we maintain and support our humanity at this time? Everything (to me) feels removed, distant, and faraway at the moment. As humans, we need each other; as Powell would say, we are interdependent; we need human touch, human connection, human influence. Hopefully the situation we find ourselves in right now is merely temporary. In the grand scheme of things, I guess you could say it is.

     Going back to Powell’s quote, there are some factions of humanity (White Supremacists) who are insistent on a “pure-blood” ideology…but the joke’s on them, because that has never existed! Not in our current reality, not in past realities, and never in the wide weird Cosmic web of apace and time.

     We have always been one, and will continue to be one, as long as we can last here on planet Earth.

     After reading this article, I meditated with my Jessica Snow meditation app entitled “You Are Magic”. The meditation I chose is called “The Field” (it’s free on her web site, if you want to check it out: http://youaremagicla.com/). “The Filed” is the Cosmic Field, to which all consciousness and unconsciousness belongs. “The Field” (according to Jessica Snow and others such as meditation enthusiast David Lynch) is always expanding, always regenerating, and never stagnant. It is living, breathing, and dynamic, just like humanity itself, ever-evolving, ever-adapting, ever moving forward, integrating, re-forming, re-shaping, revolutionizing old ways of being, doing, and existing. “The Field” is a place you don’t have to enter, because you are already there (or here!), and have always been there (or here!), and will continue to be there (or here!) throughout eternity, throughout time and space.

     This tiny article, swirling around in the cosmos, packed a punch for me.

Rancho Tarzanadu: "Speaking of the Pandemic..."

     Miss Linda was at her wit’s end.

     She thought previously that she had been at her wit’s end, but this time she knew for certain that she had never been at her wit’s end before now.

     She also dreaded the fact that possibly, in the ever-looming future, that she could be even more at her wit’s end than she was now, and this made her want to imbibe a third cocktail.

     So she did.

     This would worry her cousin, the Green Goddess Minister (her mother’s only sister’s daughter) who believed basically the same way Miss Linda did, but apparently without the use of Vodka or psychedelic substances. Miss Linda found the “substances” to be the icing-on-the-cake, if you will (and for those of you that will, you understand).

     Some might say that she was pushing her feelings down by employing this technique, but if it enhanced her creative expression and helped to tap in to her feelings, who’s the loser here, really?

     Miss Linda had just attempted rousing the film editor downstairs to bum a cigarette, but he pretended he was asleep, even though she could tell he wasn’t. He was out of cigarettes anyway; she had already checked his “special box” in the garage. (Postscript: the cigarettes were actually there, but Miss Linda did not open the box within the box, so missed seeing them.)

     “I’ll just have to smoke a joint, then,” she muttered to herself on the way back upstairs with a loudly-concocted after-midnight White Russian.

     How appropriate, thought Miss Linda. A White Russian.

     Vladimir Putin had just put a hit on his rival, Alexei Navalny by poisoning. He denied it, until the Germans stormed in and said, “Yeah…it’s poisoning.” They are taking him back home with them.

     Miss Linda’s mother, who is now 95 years old (!) has been in-and-out of the hospital twice since the pandemic started. Each time, Miss Linda almost shit her pants out of sheer unadulterated fear and terror.

     Her mother is now safely back at home in the hills of Pasadena, surrounded by luxury, and tells Miss Linda that she is feeling ready to…die.

     Miss Linda puts her head in her hands and sighs deeply. She listens to the race-car drivers speeding on the 101 freeway at the Reseda onramp. She takes a sip of her White Russian. She sighs again.

     She is doing everything possible to prolong her mother’s life, and her precious, sweet, and beautiful mother turns to her, looks her in the eyes, and says, “I’m ready.”

     But Miss Linda notices other things, too. For instance her sister, China, pointed out that their mother always takes her pills on time now, the way she’s actually supposed to.

     Miss Linda has also noticed that she is extremely interested in food; in fact just this evening she demanded that her new caregiver bake her some corn bread muffins immediately! She was craving them so badly she could not wait one more second. She wanted to make sure that they were baked in the iron skillet that belonged to her own mother, Estelle (Star). The caregiver assured her that yes (twice), they were being baked in the iron skillet greased not only with butter, but also with olive oil simultaneously.

     Her mother’s new caregiver had just purchased a brand new “hybrid” car (she pointed this out specifically for some reason (maybe it was a political message?). The caregiver was making bank ($25.00 per hour…you do the math). Not that she didn’t work for it, because believe me (Miss Linda) she did! And also had to maintain the patience of a saint. Miss Linda was not quite up to Saintdom yet herself, as evidenced by her eight-year-old car that she had gotten because her previous car had been smashed to bits in an accident that was ultimately deemed her fault in the end (not drug related…at least, there were no reports taken by police at the scene).

     Miss Linda’s mother’s husband (a Republican) had called her all kinds of names over the years, but he was becoming milder as the days wore on. Both of them were…fading. Right in front of her. This was extremely hard to witness. Her mother weighted 112 pounds, and ate bird-sized portions. Her husband exclaimed that he “hadn’t eaten all day, and wasn’t hungry,”, then devoured a hearty portion of Mexican casserole and fresh-out-of-the-oven corn muffins. He had been put on Hospice, then taken off of Hospice, then his doctor said they weren’t sure if that was the right decision after all and may keep him on Hospice.

     All Miss Linda knew was that when he thought he was on Hospice he felt terrible, and when he thought he wasn’t on Hospice he felt great.

     Everyone in the family was extremely confused about all of this.

     Except Miss Linda’s half-brother (they had the same mother, but different fathers), who was certain, absolutely certain (without irony) that it was officially the “End of Times”. For real. It was the “truth”. Miss Linda thought, after almost four years of Overlord L’Orange that he of all people would realize that the truth was subjective, but NOOOOO! The “sinners” (which definitely included Miss Linda and her sister) would be “left behind”, while all the Overlord L’Orange supporters would begin to float up into the sky and disappear inside the clouds, never to be heard from again. If only, Miss Linda thought. It was almost enough to make her want to start praying for it. Almost.

     Speaking of the Overlord, “A federal judge dismissed a lawsuit from Overlord L’Orange that sought to block Manhattan District Attorney Cy Vance’s subpoena for his financial records” (Axios).

     Additionally, Steve Bannon just got arrested for fraud charges in the “Border Wall Scheme”.

     Insert Miss Linda’s heavy eyeroll here. Time for that joint…or the rest of it.

     Also, Miss Linda’s sister informed her that the Overlord is required to produce a DNA sample sometime next month (September) for the E. Jean Carroll rape allegation lawsuit. Miss Linda feels that E. Jean Carroll is a F*cking Brilliant Badass and hopes to see her wrangle the Overlord like the stupid little bitch he is and pin him to the ground, and then cough Covid-19 all over him. Miss Linda is not always “politically correct” apparently. Her half-brother thinks she’s going to Hell in a handbasket. Miss Linda does not believe that Hell actually exists, so she wonders if she could be sent there against her Pagan will? Honestly, she doubts it. If she’s proven otherwise, she might acquiesce, but it would have to be a pretty strong, verifiable argument.

     She would think that Baby Jesus could come up with the time, somehow, to convince her, if he really wanted to…if she was really worth saving.

     Speaking of Baby Jesus, there is a picture circulating on social media of Jesus standing behind the Overlord at his massive desk (tiny penis), and Jesus looks exactly like Charles Manson…coincidence? Miss Linda thinks not.

     So much other stuff is happening too…the Pandemic, for example.

     Miss Linda hears constant sirens. They are blaring right now at 1:47 AM.

     Miss Linda lights that joint for real, now.

     Now the sirens are gone, and just the comforting hum of the spiraling helicopters remain. Around and around and around.

     Speaking of helicopters, a homeless man took a shit in Miss Linda’s front yard sometime in mid-afternoon last week when she was tending to her 95-year-old mother’s needs full-time before the new caregivers started. He also smoked a couple of cigarettes while he was there, escaping one of the hottest days of the year in the shade of Miss Linda’s overgrown hedges. She understood in one way, but not at all in another. Kind of like empathizing with the Conspiracy Theorists. It made sense to a certain point. And then it completely stopped making sense altogether, and you would think any rational person with a decent IQ would realize this.

     Miss Linda thought maybe, just maybe, that whole fluoride-in-the-water thing might actually be a thing. That would explain a lot of brain-dead zombies out there with rifles and Baby Jesus T-shirts on who claimed they were “right” when everything about them screamed “WRONG”. Seriously. Come on.

     Miss Linda had an earful of Fox News while at her 95-year-old mother’s house tonight. The “newscaster”, a woman made out of Wonder White Bread was saying that Joe Biden wanted to enforce a “National Mandate” for mask wearing.

     Duh, you dumb-ass! The Overlord should have done that in early March. It is now August 22, 2020, and there is still no National mandate for mask wearing. We have the most Covid-19 cases in the entire world, with 178,000 U.S. citizens dead. We are leading in death. The Overlord keeps saying that “I think we’re doing very well.”

     The mystifying thing is, some people actually believe this. Miss Linda’s sister says that those people have “drunk the Kool-Aid”, and Miss Linda would have to agree with her.

     On top of all of this, fires have been raging all over California, and the air is gray…everywhere you look, gray. And thick like pea soup. The film editor downstairs would say, “It’s just like Florida”. Now that’s a depressing thought.

     Miss Linda would love to express more, in greater detail, all the myriad emotions that she is experiencing at this particular moment in time, but, as you might imagine, it’s difficult to put into exact words.

     So she will sum things up with feeling: Overwhelm, Fear, Angst, Mind-bending love from the purest depths of her being…unconditional love for her mother, for herself, for everyone around her, for the planet and the cosmos and the great beyond, Sadness, Depression, Anger, Hope, a Perpetual Longing to Live and Seize-the-Day, a Great and Utter Despair that Everything is Meaningless, a Numbness, Acceptance, Revolt, Denial, Belief in Angel Numbers as Messages from the Unified Field, Spiritual Depth in the eyes of her cats, who are not merely cats, but Secret Other-Worldly Muses.

     Fuuuccck…she would literally sell her soul right now for one measly cigarette.

     As Marie Antoinette said: “Let them smoke pot!”

Rancho Tarzanadu: "Still the First Wave...Only Worse. Much Worse."

     Miss Linda needed her bong for this one. And a double Vodka with lemonade, with a splash of clementine-orange sparkling water.

     One of the spiritual practitioners that Miss Linda followed on Facebook recommended not drinking at all during this time, to be fully present to what was happening in the world. Miss Linda thought she was f*cking crazy, and stopped following her immediately. Honestly, if she felt much more, she was going to spontaneously combust. Her heart felt like it was literally breaking every single day. Breaking for herself, breaking for her friends and family, breaking for humanity in general. It was a f*cking lot. And if an evening cocktail (even if it was a double) could take the edge off slightly, Miss Linda was all for it. According to some of her Republican family members, it was the “End of Times” anyway, so might as well go out with a bang.

     Speaking of bangs, as if things weren’t edgy enough already, exploding fireworks were happening every single night. On the “Nextdoor Tarzana” app, people were constantly posting: “Were those gun shots?! Or fireworks?” Nine times out of ten, they were fireworks. Mixed in with the random gunshot and homicide. You just didn’t know. Like the Coronavirus itself, it could just be fireworks, or it could be a gunshot to the head…you just didn’t know.

     It was going to be an extra depressing holiday weekend, as all fireworks shows were prohibited by the government and cancelled, including the country club nearby (although excluding Overlord L’Orange’s invasion of the Lakota Sioux tribes’ land without their permission at Mt. Rushmore…apparently that fireworks show was okay).

     Miss Linda was suffering from White Privilege, even though she was unemployed with absolutely no job prospects at this particular juncture, and was learning how to cook pinto beans with cornbread, and attempting a Victory Garden in her backyard as a potential food source. One of her housemates (the German dog trainer…the housemate was German, not the dogs she trained) had built a chicken coop, so at least there would be future protein, if need be.

     A firework just shot off.

     Miss Linda took a hit off her bong, which was fortunately nearby.

     She had to admit…she was feeling pretty anxious, almost all of the time. Not that she was alone in this.

     She knew that she had it much better than most, even in her unemployed state, and of course this made her feel extremely guilty and even worse. She had a roof over her head (a beautiful one, thank the Universe!). She had plenty of pinto beans and cornbread to eat, and a soft (actually rather firm) bed to sleep in.

     The stories of other people haunted her. Like the man (she didn’t know his name) who worked in a cookie factory somewhere in the Midwest, because he needed the money. He caught Covid-19 and died. The woman telling his story on NPR said that he was making cookies for all the “elite” people to eat…and he died. People in the service industry have it rough. Miss Linda was a service worker, too, as a Massage Therapist. But instead of making cookies she was at home eating pinto beans and cornbread. Not everyone had that “luxury”, she knew. But as much as the Overlord was pushing people to “get back to work”, Miss Linda did not agree that it was worth dying for shoring up the economy. She was working on another plan…a better way.

     So many stories like the man at the cookie factory; one after the other, after the other.

     Miss Linda had her Apple AirPods in her ears constantly (purchased with her unemployment money), listening to the horror stories on NPR and hoping she didn’t get a brain tumor from all the 5G rays being pumped into her ear canals.

     Then she would be confronted by her conspiracy-theorist “friend” on Facebook, telling her that all of that nonsense was “fake news” propagated by the evil democratic pedophilia ring to twist the minds of Americans into thinking that they were sheep and mesmerizing them with black magick.

     This was the same “friend” that bragged about not wearing a mask in public places, because she knew so much more about how the system worked than anyone else. Her next post was about the “powerful energy of the upcoming full-moon lunar eclipse” which Miss Linda found perversely fascinating! That was the only reason she did not delete this “friend”: her posts were simultaneously contradicting and horrifying…it was hard to look away. Also, she posed for a photo in a wide-brimmed hat, holding a fluffy little white dog, looking very Southern-Belle plantation-owning, while professing her love of Overlord L’Orange, and how the media constantly screws him over for being such an asshole (Miss Linda added that last part). Her eyes looked vacant to Miss Linda. She looked like she didn’t actually believe all the sh*t she was spewing, but she kept spewing it, nonetheless. And, Miss Linda realized that this “friend” would say the exact same thing about her, only in a looking-glass mirror sort of way.

     Meanwhile, Overlord L’Orange was up to his old tricks, and more! As always, it was hard to keep up, because there was something more and more horrible every single day (thus the feeling of total devastation and heartbreak). This week sometime (it was terribly difficult at this point to tell which day it actually was…people were calling each day “Blursday”) he “re-tweeted” a video of a small parade somewhere in Florida in which a man in a golf cart rolls by shouting out “White Power!” The Overlord claims he did not hear that part, and posted the video anyway. Everyone knew exactly what he was doing (including himself). Except, apparently, Miss Linda’s “friend”, who thought he was a God-send. And certain members of her family who thought he was leading us into the “End of Times” which is somehow a good thing? All the more reason to not wear a mask…it would speed up the whole “Rapture” process. Miss Linda actually got so angry this week at a comment in her feed, that she wished the person a “beautiful Rapture experience”. Certain right-wing members of her family were sure that she was going straight to Hell in a handbasket for her blasphemy. Then again, she thought they were insane, so it all equaled itself out.

     The black void that awaits us all will do all the equaling out.

     This virus made people face their own mortality. If clinging to the idea of a “Rapture” made them feel better, why not just let them enjoy that? If a bong-lode and Vodka helped, why not enjoy that, as well?

     Miss Linda was done trying to live up to other people’s expectations. It was obviously a losing battle; every man, woman, and child for him or herself it seemed. Like The Strokes new song lyrics stated: “Everybody’s on the take…tell me are you on the take, too?”

     As the 4^th of July weekend approached, things were shutting down again in Los Angeles and around the country. Covid-19 cases were spiking, doubling in a matter of days. All of the sudden reopening of businesses, the protests (which were needed), Overlord L’Orange’s reckless advice and politicized example of not wearing a mask were all leading up to a complete unravelling of the efforts everyone (obviously not everyone) had put in previously quarantining themselves. It was getting worse. Much worse. Bars and restaurants were closed again after only a week of reopening. Miss Linda’s profession as a Massage Therapist seemed to have a very dim future. Beaches were shut down, and fireworks prohibited (although her extremely loud neighbors didn’t seem to receive that message from the Governor) except for the ones that were being shot off illegally, every single f*cking night.

     It was also revealed this week that the Overlord had “overlooked” a bounty being placed on American soldiers lives in Afghanistan, paid for by his Pupper-Master, Putin.

     And they called us “Communists” Miss Linda thought, as she took another toke.

     If she wasn’t so f*cking angry, she would be crying all the time.

     It was a lot.

     One thing that brightened her day, however was her friend Vhilm Namrets sharing a video with her in which it stated that the Overlord and his cronies utilized Chaos Magick to ger him elected, which explained a lot. In one of his rants, Vhilm wrote:

In the context of the video, Drumpf and his greed-fed, chaos-inducing presence is potentially just a Patsy to other dark forces – he doesn’t necessarily have the power, but groups can make him the conduit of their own energy-parasitism. The Alt (Ass)-Right, Q-Asinine,  Prosperity Evangelists, and other foreign interests are using multidimensional/layered logic chess, Red Herrings/Fake-outs, sigil-worship, and deflection-of-own-crimes-onto-others to hide their own nefarious deeds. WE have the power to resist by step #1: not letting the negativity affect our minds.

     Additionally, David Lynch was doing daily “weather reports” (literally) in the morning on KCRW. Which was comforting in a way, and totally destabilizing in another. It really did make you feel like you were a character in Twin Peaks. And we all know how that ended.

     Another firecracker exploded (!), this time in her horrendously loud neighbor’s back yard. The illegal sparks rained down on Miss Linda’s roof and backyard, scaring cats, dogs, chickens, and people. Miss Linda screamed out her window, at the top of her lungs: “Fuuuuuck! Assholes!” They continued on with their Covid-19 party, unperturbed.

     Another one of Miss Linda’s spiritual practitioners (Witches) said that screaming “F*ck” at the top of your lungs actually opened up the throat Chakra, so it was literally and act of self-care.

     Miss Linda rooted around for her leftover pain pills from her last dental surgery; she felt that popping them occasionally was also an act of self-care. And self-care during these trying times is extremely important, as we all know.

Rancho Tarzanadu: "Strawberry Moon"

     It was the “Strawberry Moon”…all the Witches were discussing it on Facebook and Instagram. There was a “Witches’ Call to Action” meme that Miss Linda was widely circulating in her various online groups: “Global action will be taken on the Supermoon of June 5^th by Witches, Shamans, Brujas, Rootworkers, Spiritualists, and every other practitioner and/or Occultist. On the Supermoon of June 5^th we call everybody to focus your intent, do spellwork, light a candle, do what you find necessary to send protection, do healing and bring justice to injustice everywhere. Let’s help end this sh*t! From the inexperienced to the experienced, let’s gather together. #june5thglobalspiritualprotest.” ~ Anonymous.

     One of the Massage Therapists in one of Miss Linda’s online Massage Therapy forums said that: “All the healers of the world are really *pissed off* right now.” And she was right. They were all f*cking pissed. And they were banding together with focused intention via the internet, which Overlord L’Orange wanted to shut down. Miss Linda could see why. The internet was a handy tool for uprisings! Similar in function to a magic wand.

     Attorney General Willian Barr had deemed the peaceful protests all across the county for the murder of George Floyd a “Witches Brew”…he really had no idea how accurate he was! But Miss Linda had absolutely no respect for anything that came out of his flabby, officious, jowl-y face; his father had hired Jeffrey Epstein to teach at The Dalton School in New York without even possessing a freaking Bachelor’s degree (this especially outraged her because she had literally just received her BA in Creative Writing, and she knew what a tremendous amount of work went into actually getting it). Miss Linda looked up the tuition costs for The Dalton School: $54,180 for one year (“including lunches” – she would hope so!). How the Hell did Jeffrey Epstein get hired at this school without a f*cking degree? Hmmm. Miss Linda thought it seemed awfully fishy. Stinky. Stank-y. She had just watched the Netflix movie about Jeffrey Epstein called Filthy Rich, to take her mind off the pandemic and the grass-roots uprisings while she ate dinner, but obviously it just made her more agitated!

     Corruption seemed to be the name of the freaking game as of late. Although, it had probably always been that way; it was all just coming to a head right now, all at once. One of the witches reminded her that they were entering into the actual Age of Aquarius (as opposed to the Dawn of the Age of Aquarius, which happened in the 1960’s, when Miss Linda was born by the way), so really everything that was happening right now made perfect sense, if you looked at it like that.

     In her “UFO and Bigfoot” Facebook group, someone posted an article about a mysterious crop circle in Wiltshire, England shaped exactly like Covid-19. It was getting hard to tell now who was a Conspiracy Theorist, a Right-Wing Conservative, or a New-Age Hippie; their belief systems appeared to be merging. It was all very confusing. Miss Linda found herself reaching for her CBD/THC organic avocado tincture oil far more frequently than when all this began…she was starting to build up a greater tolerance to it by the day.

     Miss Linda took long walks around the neighborhood (wearing her face mask of course) to relieve stress. It helped relieve the tension somewhat, for a little while. Except this week was different. Even the birds and the squirrels were worked up; she could literally feel the tension in the air in her suburban neighborhood. Miss Linda recalled on her walk that she had once mentioned to one of her many nieces (who happened to be three years older than she was – long story!) that she felt and absorbed other people’s “energy” and sometimes it was completely exhausting. This particular niece (who was once a Saxophonist in the Marine Corps Band) asked her: “Energy? What the Hell are you talking about?!” Miss Linda tried to explain it, but quickly realized it was futile, and changed the subject to what was on the menu for dinner that evening. It made her heave a huge sigh just thinking about it.

     Anyway, on this particular walk around the neighborhood while the protest were happening, people were racing through the back streets of Tarzana at a breakneck pace. Not just one car, but several. Almost every car. Racing. Flying over speed bumps. Anger was fueling them.

     As a refresher: Miss Linda’s father bought Rancho Tarzanadu in 1959 for $29,500, after going to college on the U.S. Army’s dime. Miss Linda was living in a very wealthy neighborhood, but purely by synchronicity. Just sheer dumb luck, really, on her part. She knew what it was like to live paycheck-to-paycheck, because she had been doing that her whole life. She knew what it felt like to juggle money and have to wait and really mull it over before she made a major purchase. She was living on the precipice of both worlds, appearing one way to some, and another way to others. She was a single, middle-aged woman with an artist’s heart. She was getting her Master’s degree in Humanities, for God’s sake, at a state school with full FAFSA support and Medi-Cal health insurance because her employer didn’t offer health insurance, even though she worked there over thirty hours a week while going to school full time. She had eaten her share of canned beans and boxed macaroni-and-cheese and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. She was on the side of the disenfranchised and overworked, taken-for-granted service employees, living in a house and a neighborhood way beyond her means. She intended to keep it that way (minus the sh*tty job, hopefully, from here on out). She was utilizing the space the pandemic provided (along with the unemployment insurance) to revamp her life.

     In her “Nextdoor Tarzana” Facebook group, some of her neighbors had been freaking out, worried that the protestors were going to storm their castles, and steal all their jewels. Miss Linda’s house was decorated with items and furniture from the Good Will, so she was not that concerned about losing her “stuff”. She had a feeling if anyone actually entered her home to steal anything, they would probably just end up being confused and leaving, if they made it past the pentagram windchimes on the front porch in the first place. Unless they were interested in home-made art or thrift-shop paintings of Elvis Presley. If that was the case, she would definitely have something to worry about.

     The point is: white people were anxious and terribly afraid. The tide was turning. It was palpable. And there was no going back. The Age of Aquarius was upon us. Jeffrey Epstein was dead. Long live George Floyd!

     Overlord L’Orange cleared the peaceful protestors away in Washington D.C. with tear gas and rubber bullets (which his press secretary denied through her bleached teeth and false eyelashes, even though there was video footage – but remember: don’t believe what you’re reading or seeing!), so he could slink across the street to pose for a photo op while holding the Bible in his hand at St. John’s Church (the Bible was upside-down by the way…Antichrist, anyone?). He vowed to call in the National Guard, to “protect” the citizens from themselves. Miss Linda wondered why the Conservative Far Right didn’t think this was an invasion of their “Liberty” when being instructed to wear a cloth face mask to stop the spread of a deadly virus was). Again, it was all very confusing, and maybe, just maybe, it was supposed to be. Miss Linda  (along with many others) was extremely surprised that the Overlord did not catch on fire just by holding that book upside-down in his tiny little hand.

     When a series of small earthquakes started rolling into Los Angeles, and there was a partial eclipse of the full Strawberry Moon, it was like a cherry dollop on top of a melting ice-cream sundae pool of inequality, corruption, and depravity. Miss Linda put her headphones on and listened to her Witchy podcasts while doing Yoga and deep-breathing exercises as she attempted to do her Brahmavihara Meditation, sending love and light out to the entire planet and enveloping it inside a pink-golden bubble of Universal light, love, and protection.

     When she was done, Miss Linda stepped onto her balcony, to infuse her jar of “Moon Water” with the healing energy of the Strawberry Supermoon, but it was so overcast that the moon wasn’t even visible.

Rancho Tarzanadu: "Looting and Shooting"

     Miss Linda had been having fantasies of burning Overlord L’Orange effigy-style, like in the 1973 movie The Wicker Man. In fact, it seemed that most authority figures might benefit from this ritual as they were all acting outside of their so-called boundaries and jurisdiction.

     A police officer in Minneapolis murdered George Floyd, a black man, four days ago in broad daylight, and was arrested today. There had been protests all over the country, and the Overlord had the audacity to f*cking tweet: “When the looting starts, the shooting starts.” Seriously, f*ck you.

     The death toll from COVID-19 was 101,618 as of this moment in the United States. Governors were getting death threats from backwoods idiots with guns if they didn’t get their “liberty to go make money for ‘the man’.” They were literally so stupid, they were acting against their own best interest and lining themselves up at the chopping block. The Overlord did say he “loves the poorly educated”. And boy, did they love him back.

     The Overlord was still pushing for everyone to “get back to work” and die for the economy, grasping at straws for reelection, while the country literally burned from riots all around him, in the middle of a pandemic that he helped create through lack of action and any real guidance.

     Miss Linda was *done*.

     Done being polite.

     Done with keeping her mouth shut.

     Done with doing what she was told by so-called people in charge.

     She was dusting off her combat boots at this very moment, with a bottle of whiskey on the side and pen in hand (which we all know is mightier than the sword).

     She did have the same Meyers-Briggs personality type as Jon Snow from Game of Thrones. Time to start utilizing it.

Rancho Tarzanadu: "Waking Nightmare"

     As Miss Linda awoke from Dreamland into the waking world at 5:30 AM on a Tuesday morning, she realized that all of these “baby steps” to reopening Los Angeles were just a way to placate the public, the Collective Unconscious,  into believing that this whole Coronavirus thing was not as bad as it actually was. This past weekend Mayor Eric Garcetti had let some retail stores reopen for curbside pick-up only; places like flower shops (it was Mother’s Day weekend), music stores, book stores, etc. Basically reopening entertainment avenues for the masses so they could occupy themselves like rats in cages, but now with new, stimulating toys provided. He had also allowed the reopening of golf courses, beaches (but not parking lots at beaches), parks, and hiking trails so the lab rats could get their exercise, too. All of this “reopening” was contingent on people wearing face masks in public, and staying six feet away from each other. No physical contact outside of households was allowed. And if the virus surged back strong after these measures, things would be shut down again – back to your cages!

     Of course, some people were breaking these rules, but Miss Linda thought that these people were idiots. As she awoke, she realized that these people were “Sheeple”, and living in a herd-mentality opposite to the one the Conspiracy Theorists were touting. These Sheeple wanted to race back outside to what was “Normal”, but “Normal” didn’t exist anymore. For some people, this was too much to bear, so the Mayor had to reel them out on a tight fishing line into the world, to give them some kind of illusion of personal freedom to calm them the fu*k down. One of Miss Linda’s friends, an artist, told her at their weekly online Crafting meeting that there was a term for what the conspiracy theorists were going through emotionally right now; it was called “Trauma-Bonding”. This gave them a false sense of security that they could make sense of what was going on around them, so clinging to conspiracy theories made them feel safer in the world, poor things. Miss Linda’s own sister would say: “Poor little dummies!”

     Meanwhile, in reality, the death toll was rising. Miss Linda glanced at her phone to see the latest statistics, as she took her morning dose of CBD/THC organic avocado-oil tincture (the main thing keeping her sane): as of this morning, there were 80,681 deaths in the United States, and a “second wave” was predicted even as things reopened. The Sheeple needed their Starbucks coffee, after all. The Orange County bros needed to slap each other on the back in person at the country club and get their In-n-Out burgers afterward.

     Even the White House was teeming with the virus; Overlord L’Orange surrounded on all sides with aides and press secretaries and personal assistants and valets all testing positive for it. The Overlord seemed immune, somehow. Why, oh why was he not getting it and dying?! She knew his flock would say it was because he was the “Chosen One” (Miss Linda threw up a little inside her mouth as she contemplated this). Some conspiracy theorists would theorize that he was a “Lizard Person”, therefore immune to a human virus. Although it originated from bats (so “they” said), so if he was indeed a Lizard Person, he might be susceptible to it after all. One of Miss Linda’s house-mate’s (the filmmaker) suggested that maybe, just maybe, the Overlord had already been vaccinated with something to prevent him from catching it. Theories were swirling all over the place like the tornado in the Wizard of Oz.

     Miss Linda had just received an email from her most recent “Boss” at work, letting the staff know that they would not be reopening on May 15^th as they had originally hoped. Miss Linda breathed a huge sigh of relief. She had been teaching Swedish and Deep Tissue massage to a classroom of between forty and fifty people, which had seemed like a really bad idea even before this whole Pandemic thing happened. The thought of going back to that seemed…unlikely. She personally did not see the massage industry opening back up for quite some time, and even when it did, it would be so highly sanitized and full of fear that it would be difficult to give it or receive it. She imagined herself advising her massage clients: “Just relax…you may contract a deadly disease from this massage session, or you may not…enjoy your massage!” She had grown tired of rubbing other people’s feet, anyway, in more ways than one.

     As Miss Linda looked up the current death tolls on her iPhone, she saw that Dr. Anthony Fauci was going to testify to the Senate today, regarding the mishandling of the Coronavirus and suppression of information to the people by Overlord L’Orange. She hoped something came of it, but she was doubtful. The Overlord got away with bloody murder every f*cking day. The virus made this more generally obvious, but it didn’t seem to change anything. Money was still the very most important thing in the world, even though it seemed that was just an illusion itself, from what she gleaned in her Witches’ online group; money, and the world as a whole, was just an illusion. On a subconscious level, all human beings understand this, beneath the societal layers of casual attire, designer coffee, and all the other myriad of things people consume to forget.

     Miss Linda reminisced as she awoke: She had been to Notre Dame once or twice, a long time ago when it was safe to be in the world. She went to Europe several times, on three-week paid vacations. That was when she worked for an Advertising agency in West Hollywood, in the Creative Development department, and got paid sick leave, full medical benefits, and a 401K plan. That was before the recession, before the financial crisis (the original one), before Overlord L’Orange, before the Pandemic.

     She was free to roam the world, go where she wanted, drink mulled wine for breakfast in the Czech Republic, wander about strange cities late at night exchanging early-morning greetings with the transsexual prostitutes, go to Italian dance clubs, have affairs with strangers in Venice, stay up all night, sleep in all morning, ger her passport stamped, spend money frivolously on Italian high-heeled leather boots, drink champagne at 4:00 in the afternoon in Paris.

     She found herself once or twice at the back of Notre Dame.

     Miss Linda decided to get up, at 5:30 AM (her sleep cycle was all over the place). She had a loss of these freedoms, it’s true, but she felt a deeper sense of freedom brewing inside her and all around her. Things were definitely changing. And no sense of Trauma-Bonding or denying-what-was-happening was going to change that.

     So Miss Linda put on a floral-print kimono, made a pot of organic coffee, and picked some fresh oranges off her tree for breakfast, lingering to hear the birds cheerily chirping away amidst the latest cooling trend in temperature. She had time to think. She had time to dream. She had time. Some might call that Paradise. It all depended on how you looked at it.

     As she walked back inside, she could hear a group of men, loudly arguing about something on the nearby golf course.

Rancho Tarzanadu: "Home-Based Business"

     Miss Linda was falling more and more in love with the “Safer-at-Home” order by the day! She felt horribly bad for the people who were getting sick and dying, but she was realizing more and more that this whole working-for-someone-else thing was for the birds! She was trying to come up with creative ways to make a steady and solid living working from Rancho Tarzanadu. Having a few tenants helped, obviously, but she was thinking of ways to make life more luxurious without having to “slave it” (as one of her ex-bosses liked to call it; this particular ex-boss once tormented her with a dead snake in a parking lot to get his kicks from her reaction, but that’s a whole other story) for a robust living.

     Being a Self-Help Coach was definitely out, as Miss Linda could care less for the most part what other people did. And she certainly didn’t want the responsibility of telling them what to do. She’d rather watch paint dry.

     She wished she could make some cold, hard cash by selling the songs she’d written, but was afraid those days no longer existed for the recording artist.

     Her broken doll jewelry was looking like her best bet, although that seemed like a very “niche” market. Everyone was talking about “niche” markets these days, and how to strategize and attract your ultimate customer base (apparently the email list was King). Naturally everyone wanted you to buy something from them. Miss Linda herself had fallen for a Witches’ online group called “WEALTH” (which she had to admit was highly worth the investment thus far, as she watched the unemployment checks, stimulus checks, and Cal-Fresh checks electronically roll in), the Astro Twins Astrology “Portal” membership, Marie Forleo’s “B-School” for building your own business, Elephant Journal’s “How to Sell the Hell Out of Your Book” program, Biddy Tarot’s “Master the Tarot Card Meanings”, the Hippie-style “Commune” spirituality community, and “Digital Music Masters” record-your-own-album-from-your-home-studio Logic recording class. She barely had time to work, considering, and had to talk herself out of investing in additional intriguing programs.

     Now was the time to start implementing them.

     She pondered working for someone else. Again. Going back. For someone else’s dream. For someone else’s vision. The mindless soul-numbing repetition of it all. A cog in someone else’s wheel.

     She recalled various “Bosses” from her past. There was the one who told her she looked better with make-up on. There was the one who offered to pay her rent if she would sleep with him (when she declined, he called her “worthless”). There was the one who used to have sex with prostitutes and drug addicts upstairs above his home-office during the day while his fiancé was at work, and used to come back downstairs sweaty, immediately post-coitus as said prostitute/drug addict hopped in her sports car and sped away while counting the wad of cash he’d just given her. There was the one previously mentioned, who tormented her once with a dead snake and made comments about the size of her breasts regularly. There was the one who told her what time she would be eating lunch (before she was actually hungry), and required her to eat with him every single day, and when she refused, he fired her. They all nickel-and-dimed her as an added bonus for her time and energy. She had definitely paid her dues. A gal’s got to earn a living.

     This present pause, this reset, this plague could be a life-saving game changer, if only Miss Linda played her Tarot cards right.