The Free Radical

(Don’t Cross the River by America from their 1972 album Homecoming)

It’s good to know that all the forest critters read my blog!

Rodney’s oration had created quite a stir. Things old and decayed, all but forgotten, had been returned to their place in consciousness. Active, living consciousness only exists in the Now… the only place where action may still be taken.

Earth will do her best to recycle all of our memories, so that we can fashion something new from the places we’ve been.

Our return to the woods after Rodney’s moment in the spotlight was rather remarkable and somewhat humorous. The whole local contingent of the Raven Nation was out to greet us. They chattered endlessly among themselves and each individually came to offer gratitude for my part in the production. At one point, five ravens gathered together and attempted to fly in formation above me as some sort of salute. That was the humorous part! If you’ve ever seen ravens trying to fly in formation, you’ll know exactly what I mean! Although they’re very social birds, they don’t do the whole choreographed or scripted thing too well. They’re a little too individualistic for that. Such personalities! Anyway, I really appreciated the effort.

Once the ravens had expressed their appreciation, we relaxed on the beach down by the river… looking across to challenges still ahead.

The mountain is high and the road still long…

…but flowers still bloom in desolate places!

(Peace of Mind by The Grapes of Wrath from their 1987 album Treehouse)

Rodney’s pending oration was the talk of RavenTown… amidst snickers and whispers, for Rodney had hardly been able to string two coherent sentences together his whole life.

He sat now perched high in a tree away from the judging eyes of the Brethren. He was composing himself along with the ancient story he had to tell. As a collection of threads intertwining it could get confusing– this composing, but finally, Rodney had something resembling a finely crafted spider’s web pulling together the long fragmentation of his mind.

Rodney cleared his throat and the Brethren settled down to listen… and if it wasn’t for the rigidity of their beaks, Rodney would’ve faced more than a few smirks among his skeptical audience.

“There is a great deal of potential mischief in opposable thumbs,” began Rodney, “especially among amnesiacs.” Well, that shut them up straight away! Rodney’s words deftly flew into the ensuing silence as he promptly continued.

“The humans have forgotten their origins. Some like to pretend that they are monkeys wearing God’s pilfered clothes, while others pretend they are mud come to life by the whims of a divine wind– flawed and dirty. But in truth, in the days of the LongAgo, their minds were fractured when their stories were broken and the pieces taken from them. They became trauma-induced mind-controlled slaves to their own amnesia. They became like children left in the darkness surrounded by matches and kindling, fumbling inexorably toward a terminal conflagration.”

All of the Brethren were listening intently now; indeed, the entire Raven Nation was tuned in via their soul connection. Rodney’s audience was suddenly global. No Raven had spoken with such eloquence since… since… well, since the times of the LongAgo!

“The last of the StoryKeepers resided here among these mountain slopes, trying to preserve the last threads of a dignified continuity. But the amnesiacs were too many, and they could no longer discern the value of the old oral traditions. To them it was nonsense! The power of myth escapes the rational mind.

“Earth Mother understood what was transpiring; and though it would entail great hardship, it was allowed to unfold for the expansion and correction of the entire universe. There were hard lessons in pain and suffering that could steer a new course through subtle mistakes made… even in the sacred LongAgo.

“The StoryKeepers were hunted to extinction… or so it appeared.”

“Abandoned, their homes fell in upon themselves. But the StoryKeepers knew that words, in the right circumstances, are more enduring than even bones.”

“Their stories were given to the Raven Nation, to the Clan of Rodderick. And we have kept them safe to return them to the humans when the clear need arises. That time is nigh.” There were no snickers, or the desire for smirking. Beaks stood agape at Rodney’s revelation. The looks of the Brethren begged a singular question: Is there anything more? Rodney continued.

“The StoryKeepers did not vanish.” Rodney’s eyes roamed the distant hills. “No. Out of necessity, the Ancient Sorcerers were born… the descendants of these living tales.” Rodney paused for dramatic effect and allowed his eyes to rest upon the hoodoos across the river…

“And in that regard, there’s still so much more to tell… and do…”

(The Wind That Shakes the Barley by It Bites from their 2008 album The Tall Ships)

Among the ruins and the bones, Rodney was preparing to address the Brethren. He had promised them the Legend of the StoryKeepers. He wasn’t sure that “Legend” was quite right; legends tend to have a bit of notoriety surrounding them… and this, well, it had always been a pretty well-kept secret.

But there was still time… Rodney composed himself alongside the story welling up inside. There had been some minor adjustments in the local forest… and new pathways had to be established.

All that was rotten, all that had been compromised for so long was tumbling down. The well-worn pathways– neural or otherwise– were choked with obsolescence. It hadn’t taken much to bring down the old facades.

Even some of the young new growth was subject to the sudden cull. “”No,” thought Rodney, “it won’t do to have things carry on in the same vein. No, not at all.” It was the time of the Shakeup. Soon everything would be different… Just wait until Rodney told his tales! What would they do then? How would the world change?

The old lines of power were choking on their own predilection for abuse… while the most ancient lines of power were clearing, reestablishing themselves across the globe. The Shift was about power… or maybe it was just the awareness of such… a sort of remembering. Yes, Rodney was remembering… remembering everything. He was a catalyst.

Rodney cleared his throat and…

(A Farewell to Kings by Rush from their 1977 album of the same name)

Only Rodney knew what Rodney was really up to…

Like the meticulously-crafted threads of a pretty spider, the Raven clan of Rodderick was woven into the historical tapestry of ancient tales from forests long passed. Rodney’s kin had always been a bit quirky, speaking often in tongues that even the most schooled of the Raven Nation had consistently failed to decipher.

Flying among mountains that come out of the sky and just stand there, the Roddericks had always seemed a part of some larger, incomprehensible mission. Metaphorically, they had always flown at right angles to the rest of the Raven Nation.

Often they had been caught speaking to stones in their unique gibberish… always regarded as skirting the edge of insanity… perched upon some obscure precipice… and listening intently to hoodoos…

For millennia, the Roddericks had kept their secret, but now Rodney assured the Brethren that the full story would soon be told. “All will be revealed. It can be no other way!”

Rodney’s eyes darted furtively among the strange features of the Hoodoos… as though at any moment he expected them to stand up and come to life like some lost army brushing off the dirt and dust of memories stilled, entombed, and forgotten.

Magick hid in the cracks and crevices of long-weathered landscapes– all ravens knew that. But the Hoodoos sent ripples into the sky messing with the very fabric of spacetime, hinting at portals and wormholes to the heart of matters still pending. They could be difficult to navigate whilst holding the intention of returning Home. The Raven Nation typically kept their distance… all but the clan of Rodderick. Perhaps their frequent sojourns there had simply over time driven them mad.

But despite the dark twinkle of crazy dancing in Rodney’s eye, there was nevertheless the promise of majesty and magnificence in the way he held up his head… looking to tomorrow…

He would tell them about the StoryKeepers… and what their loss had meant for the world.

(excerpt from Close to the Edge: Total Mass Retain by Yes from their 1972 album Close to the Edge)

Sundays are about more taxing journeys. I broke out the mountain bike again to take Sitka for her very first lake experience up at Spur Lake. You’ve seen the “spur” before in my previous photos shooting south down the power line. It’s a very challenging ride. Well… actually it’s challenging for me heading up to the lake while Sitka just sniffs along beside me on the many gruelling hills… and then it’s challenging for Sitka as she tries to keep up as I reconvert all that potential energy back into kinetic fun on the way down!

This is us on the dock at Spur Lake. I’m a tad sweaty!

Both of us had to work hard at keeping ourselves properly hydrated. Fortunately, streams and springs abound, even when we’re far from the river.

Sitka’s a bit less discerning when it comes to water sources… any old swamp will do!

And now this next bit is especially for the forestry and roads people. It’s been a number of years since anyone gave the Spur Lake road the once-over with the grader. It could really use it!

And a few culverts strategically placed beneath the road wouldn’t hurt either!

Anyway, we’re ready to resume the more languid pace of the usual journey today. I have a new camera to try out, so hopefully there’ll be an improvement in the daily visuals provided. You may have noticed that the lens window on my GoPro case is permanently scratched, hence the blurry spots that seem to appear in every photo.

I just hope I don’t get outsmarted by my new technology… at least, not too often!

Sometimes the symbolism is pretty straight forward.

This guy was waiting for us right at the beginning of the walk. He was perched only a couple of feet off the ground, and as the dogs kept rushing by– in their holy-shit-I-can’t-believe-we-get-to-go-on-another-walk frenzy– Robin didn’t seem to mind a bit. He ignored the dogs and just focused on me.

Robin is one of the most recognizable birds, probably because he is found nearly everywhere. And he’s willing to dig in and make a go of it anywhere there’s ample food; they won’t necessarily migrate during winter as long as they still find enough to eat.

The powder-blue of Robin’s egg is the precise frequency for throat activation. He demands the truth be told… even in silence.

I know, I’m behind with this month’s Newsletter; it should’ve already been complete. It’s not that there’s a lack of material. No, quite the opposite! There’s so much going on and so much information to organize that I’ve been feeling a bit overwhelmed!

Like this white spider, some might suggest that I’ve bitten off more than I can chew… but that would only be among those with whom I’ve never dined. Never underestimate my ability to eat! Yes, there’s a lot on my plate right now… but I’ll get through it.

Butterfly is trying to lighten things up a bit. And they’re gathering in significant numbers… as you may have noticed.

It’s time now that they’re pairing up… and we all know what that means!

It means a whole new psychedelic batch of starched hankies in a hurricane for next year!

The results of the Transformation thus far are actively being rolled out. Those with a voice, such as myself, are obligated to further explicate the process…

Okay, I’m buckling down now… really I am…

(Sufficiently Breathless by Captain Beyond, title track from their 1973 album)

There’s a great deal of chatter in alternative circles again about “imminent” changes to the global financial system. Is it just our summer dose of hopium? Or will something significant actually transpire? But even if it does…

Change is something that typically happens to socks and underwear… and all manner of garments and costumes. Gandhi pointed to something with his famous quote “Be the change…” He was hinting at something deeper, more profound. I bet Gandhi talked to butterflies regularly.

“World events are manipulated realities… to one degree or another. They are often theatre for the masses to evoke certain feelings and their attendant mindsets. This is the tradition and legacy of the hidden controllers.

“The antidote to being played as fools… until sufficiently breathless… is to evoke an outer response from a true inner transformation… beyond the usual change of socks. Indeed, there needs to be a global revaluation, but the very nature of currency is what requires change. It’s a question of values.”

“Does the butterfly share the values of the caterpillar? Hardly! And if the masses suddenly come into wealth while expressing the same old values, how will this not merely hasten the devouring of the world?

“There had best be a great deal more to such a ‘revaluation’ than the making of a million new millionaires! The opportunity for grand and sweeping manipulation is obvious. Listen for the call for a cashless society within the continued dependency of unabated consumerism. It will be sold to you as a means to combat counterfeiting and other financial fraud. Such measures will do nothing to stop the arch-criminals if they remain in positions of power. In fact, it will solidify their stranglehold. Imagine that any dissenting voice in your society henceforth can have their access to money severed with a few quiet keystrokes on a central banking computer. Your full compliance would be complete!

“Watch carefully as these moves are made; don’t sell the last remnants of your power for a fistful of dollars! Your humanity is nearly spent as it is!”

(Emotional Debris by The Niche from their 2002 album Building Up)

I stood a moment, back to the wind,
As bumblebee took shelter on my shin.
And an invisible wasp pricked my skin
To mark this moment when it all begins…

We’ve breeched a telling threshold… a separation of sorts… an ironic prelude to unity. Two worlds overlap– the one still crowded and fomenting chaos, and the other peaceful, inviting, abiding in infinite potential.

I dine on sweet tiger meat in languid meadows, and lay my questions down at the roots of flowering suns…

“Are they truly unreachable?” I ask.

“To theories and words… yes.”

“Why? Why now?”

“A choice was mandated by the collective. Earth Mother needs know where everyone stands, for she forms the ground of being for all in this realm.”

“And why do I feel like I’m suddenly all alone?”

“Many chose timidity; they have no stomach for adventure.”

“So now what?”

“Place your attention bodily in your heart… What do you feel?”

“Alive!… and weepy.”

“Is it real?”

“As anything!”

“You can still reach out with your sacred space– expand your heartfield… but all your arguments will fall flat. You exist for them now as an invitation to experience that sacred space for themselves… whether through your heart or their own, the experience must belong to them. Only experience convinces now; empty rhetoric is seen clearly for what it’s always been.”

“Hm,” I nodded. “I’ve suffered so much small talk… it nearly drove me crazy!”

“All talk is rather small… even this exchange.”

“It’s still comforting though.”

“To you and those of your ilk. To the others it’s meaningless nonsense; it’s microscopic.”

“So is an infection…”

“All have been bitten by the bug already… the alchemy begun.”

“Maybe when they see the first really big changes…”

“It’ll either frighten them to death or boldly confirm the still voice within. It’s out of your hands for now… until invitations are formally accepted. Just hold your sacred space… and expand it to the farthest reaches of denial… and enjoy the show!”

Transformation of higher discerning mind complete… for initiation of preliminary planetary phase.

(Moths by Jethro Tull from their 1978 album Heavy Horses, but this was taken from 20 Years of Tull 5-album set)

The Brethren had stripped Rodney of his Magic Feather. And though Rodney lamented deeply their myopathy, he would abide by their judgment with his life still intact. Besides, the deed had already been done!

They could deny the profundity of the transformation all they liked, but it could not be held from bursting upon the scene in myriad explicable ways.

A new purity and innocence among alfalfa blossoms…

…or just Ringo enjoying the view.

A garden dance inspirited by the sweet seductive smell of honeysuckle and the gathering of nectar, the slow ooze of manifestation, was as undeniable and inescapable as the summer’s heat.

Modest little houses with a cool view to economy dot the imposing crumbling fiscal cliffs… hoping to survive the inevitable… as Death smiles and winks for tomorrows uncounted, even in his stern reckoning.

Aye, there are bleak and barren places still in the individual human heart, but the collective has plucked itself up in release like a starched hanky in a hurricane…

…embroidered with the ancient plan come to fruition in the blinking of an eye.

We are the all-seeingness of that ancient eye, discerning each our own puzzled piece. We didn’t get here by lidding our minds to the ugliness… no, we pried ourselves open like wings and breathy breezes… and our own beauty abounds!

Fare thee well Starchildren, as dreams weave with dirt in the fertility of these old pains long composted. Take heed; we have arrived!