alm

we aim to change the world...

with a plan for universal health care, education and ownership of a business we yearn to launch...

Collective conscious capitalism.... all based in localism

a five-fold ideology::

1) democratic... one person, one share, one vote

2) capital dependent

3) collectively owned [that is, we all own... the keeper of the capital... the coop of coops... we own our own bank]

4) Our venture operates favoring local trade... e.g. get eggs from the local egg lady... half the price, 1/1000 the fuel

5) Finally, we head the will of the collective consciousness

   [centered around public markets, linked into a network, created in impoverished areas first]

.....organic, sustainable, and passionate about survival of the tribe.

It's about me

It's about you

It's about us

How can this fail?

It's like trying to kill the Borg individual... killing one or even a few is irrelevant and futile.  We are a collective of humanity, an organic machine built to last, endure and overcome.

On the morosity of meaning

there always comes

misted sun

replies to unaverted eyes

each turn

cues to commence

now living thence

Where better, than the impoverished pockets, the purity of Earth, the organic milieu that are these Ocooch Mountains... where better I ask... for a bloodless revolution of these ancient tribes to germinate, thrive... to survive!

We have forsaken our rite of passage

so rarely does this exist

in days of hast and happy plastic

Roll on places long past

Pause, During your stroll through life, and ask yourself
am I on the right path
then have the courage
to ponder this question again,
at the next crossroads ahead

Stillness near 84

The Path's Diagonals

doubt

determined spirit overcomes

Conscious Coinage

Freedom to Ascend

tonight 'bout 1:56

half way in the sticks

had to rescue a friend

at the stop-sign stalled

just her & henna hauled

fifty-six eighty two

82 & 56

yah... half way in the sticks

says i ran outta oil

then bring me some gas

i done surpass

my car's capacity

goddam audacity

who other may I call?

who has auto

not yet of slumber

and cell

still holds their number

:::

Gassed

For a the year before starting medical school, I lived and worked as a paramedic on St. Croix, U.S. Virgins Islands.  Now, you may be inclined think this was some year-long "ya man" Caribbean holiday.. indeed it was anything but.  I was 21 years old, and living off the mainland for the first time... I felt alone, and out of my element.... and most dramatically, I was there exactly one year after hurricane Hugo's tyrannical eye passed directly over the sleepy Island.  Every detail of daily living was still a challenge.  It was also the place I came closest to death.

St. Croix was not an easy place to live, especially for an outsider.  The Crusians had seen their haven churned into rubble and twisted palm trees.  Moreover, during the painful recovery, they endured the brash mainlanders who worked rebuilding critical infrastructure.  In some ways, I was one of these brash 'foreigners'.

After a few weeks of life on the Island I decided to attempt scuba diving certification.  It was a natural endeavour to pursue, except for my embarrassing ineptitude at swimming, hell, my seeming adroitness at sinking.  Really, place Tony Macasaet into a vessel of water, and I sink right to the bottom. 

The first couple of classes were minimally painful... even a bit fun at times.  The two others in the class were cordial State-siders, and the instructor seemed quite competent.  We listened in a classroom and practiced with fin and goggles in an abandoned hotel pool.  Next, we graduated to buoyancy control vests and then breathing apparatus and air tanks.

I could handle this, I thought.  We still had the swimming test to complete however (I wondered why they didn't do this up-front!).  I think it was 200 yards without masks or fins.  I, someone who could barely doggy-paddle 20 feet, somehow had to swim 200 yards in a deep imposing old hotel pool.  Needless-to-say, I didn't sleep well the night before we were to test.

Then, to my horror, as we arrived the next day the instructor beamed how it would be so much more fun testing... in the open water of the harbor!

I whimpered out some sort of contestment of the safety of this idea, but was quickly drown out by the glee of our instructor for us to swim in the ocean.

Next thing I knew I was perched on the edge of the rotten dock, swaying uneasily in the moderate breeze that spat into my expressionless face.  She said, ok, no problem, I'll be swimming with you.  It's not far at all (to her!)... see that small sailboat just ahead of us, she said... that's our goal.  You can do it!  Shit, it looked like an f/ing plastic toy to me, it was so far away.... And she dove in flawlessly toward the bobbing boat.

What?!  ...not even one last moment to protest or at least discuss the wisdom of this feat?  My two fellow students looked at me, shrugged and reluctantly dove in.

I stood there, and contemplated waiting.  Then, the instructor, who had already reached to sailboat, beckoned me to jump!

Damn, I jumped.  Shit.

In my modified-American-poodle, a stroke I had not yet perfected, I made my way toward the craft.  Amazing how much larger waves are when you're in the water relative to standing above them.  The wind had whipped up the bay and now the water towered over me with gargantuan one foot swells.  I chocked down a tablespoon of water here in there, weighing me down one spoonful at a time... my muscles quickly depleted their front-line energy.  I was already fatiguing, and as I gazed upward I was only a quarter of the way there!

Several times I recall thinking there was no way in hell I could make it.  But eventually I reached the three quarters mark, and I knew I could reach the boat... though the thoughts of failure came to me the entire time.  I realized how alone I was there... no real friends yet, no family, and a people who were more concerned, understandably, about finishing their home's roof, then the fate of some kid from the Midwest.

My hand touched the scaly fiberglass with monumental relief.  I had done it.  200 yards.  Not bad.  This scuba thing would be a piece of cake afterall.  Then, incredulously, the instructor and the other students impatiently dove back into the murderous black water.  What did you think, dumb-ass?  The boat is half way!

I saw myself at the bottom of the lagoon, eyes, bugging out, breathing in water, and the last horrific moments of life, panicked, desperate, dead.

Again, I contemplated.  My body was utterly spent.  And again, as she reached the dock, she waived me back.  How could I make it, this time beginning 100% fatigued?!

I sat there alone, numb, angry I didn't try harder in 7th grade swimming class... then, the boat bobbed with more & more amplitude, and I felt a nasty wave of nausia entomb my innards.  Well, that did it... I awkwardly slithered in.

The Modified-American-Poodle, turned into the Caribbean Rat Stroke.  I moved along by what seemed like inches.  Let's see 100 yards is 300 feet... that's twelve times 300....  Not good.

After about twenty feet of this, I came to a point of terminal depletion of all physical energy.  I tread water for a second, then swam again.  I kept doing this until i reached half way.

I was so tired I actually thought of just giving up.  I was that emptied.  With 150 feet still to go, I could not go on.  I raised my arm for help.  Unimaginably, she just waived back at me and motioned me forward!!  She sincerely misunderstood my plea. 

Herein was the crital problem.... It took more energy to reach, tread and waive than it did to swim.  I was fucked.

Using a lot of energy just to keep my body from being where it wanted to be (at the bottom)... my mind strangely became clear.  I suddenly knew... I had nothing left... I realized that if I now signaled for help, raising my arms again, I would not have enough to tread, and if I continued to tread, I would not have enough to swim.

There would be no rescue...  I was far enough out, that even if she reached me rapidly, I would be pulseless at the bottom... where she would not find me.

I did the only thing i could.

The Caribbean Rat Stroke.

--

Well, clearly I survived this ordeal.  I even went on to complete the training.  In fact, during the open water dive, an elderly tourist on our dive boat, panicked in the 5 foot swells, ripped off her mask (the one thing you should never do), and was tore from us by a riptide... Within seconds she became a tiny speck here and there amidst the chop.... drifting farther and farther away.

This this same dive instructor without hesitation pierced into the sea like a dolphin, without anything but her swimsuit, closed on the woman like a cigarette boat and drug her back screaming, like nothing even happened.

We then gladly splashed in for our final dive together (all of us were extremely sea sick)... where she fricking fought off a five-foot barracuda at twenty feet with her dive knife.

...I suppose what brings you close to dying makes you appreciate our glorious submersions along the way.