Rolling Allostasis -x)

And so goes the common revolutionary narrative. The opposition carried untold numbers. She took nothing more serious. Scrutiny was their middle name. Some of her prophecies just blew their mind. They shook their fists at times, and threatened great violence. Some of which was carried out in a spectacular show of untold force. They bombed our back yards. Our victory gardens, hung defeated. Falling premature off the vine. Hard and without fruit, the trees scorched the air with barren branches. Many of us looked up just so, and cursed the divine. We became tired. We tried to let some of it go. We let down our guard of which had not yet already been demolished, and awaited some sign. Suffering before the dawn of our eloquently stated, much anticipated, emancipation from any and all relative life support. Only She would let us breathe free again. Like chantix in the blood, but better. She was like willpower, but better. She was like a freeway seam, stitching a patchwork of concrete and farmed family squares, to the wilderness of her personal (collectively scorned) dream. Speaking truth to power would be no bed of roses, though she would not force us to do anything. She modelled her style. We got to witness it, if we only showed up. Her runway was  gigantic like the Pixies : a big, big love. She taught us we could make it, before we even knew what we were making. We received her message via newswire.

Maybe half of us subscribed. The other half unsubscribed. Half of the latter half prayed for strength to endure the former half. The better half. The better half of the half in prayer, became lost. Half of the lost became found. Half of the found, found themselves. The rest were relegated to the lost and found. Half of those who found themselves, experienced an awakening. The other half fell asleep. Half of those awakened experienced enlightenment. The other half freaked out. Half of the enlightened set with the sun. The other half were engulfed by darkness. Half of those who cast shadows, stood seven feet tall. The rest turned into tumbleweeds and tumbled down the hall. Half of those who stood seven feet tall, grew egos ten feet long. The other half checked their egos. Half the ones whose egos became checked, knew that they were wrong. The other half took swan dives whilst singing swan songs. Half of the swan songs auditioned for the Voice. The other took a dive in ratings, because they had no choice. Half of those auditioning, were booed right off the show. The other half went on to notoriety in small suburban towns. Half of those who lost their fame before it came, turned into phoenix out of ash, and rose up from the flames. Half of those who underwent the alchemy, now undertook great hardship. The other half flew south for summer. The ones still there, you could almost count, while lying in bed awake. They were not sheep. They were not dead. They were characterized in universal press, as having five to fifty heads.

Rolling Allostasis (-ix)

Swiftly, without hesitation, she swung the scythe to separate the one she saw as ringleader from the flock of followers. The flock drew to the bloody scene like animals to a feeder. In service of the macro, some blood in the margins would need be shed. She didn't thirst for violence, but in some cases there was no other way to silence the force of opposition.

Nonviolence, she knew as a full-blooded American, was an idea and practice which had been used demonstrably by proponents of peace for centuries, for sure. But the state (in all of its bloody glory) had also been protected by the nonviolent movement. There was no time for explanation, but one could easily find essays written on the subject. The common redirect for any questions was google it . She allowed for proper burial of the subject, per dictates of tradition.

Any failures to uphold traditions and rituals of the subjugated minority, would be treated as class #0 sedition. Class zero translated to disappearances. Disappearances seemed like  brutal way. But the express intent of these disappearances differed from those commonly associated with the way. Traditionally the tactic was implemented to strike fear in the hearts of those who defended free speech. Unsparingly. She used the tactic sparingly, to speak truth to power. Abuse of power of any kind, was to be prosecuted to the full extent of the new law brought over the land.

She was not interested in reinforcing alliances throughout the system. They would dissolve or strengthen, based upon how she called for decisive action. She knew all too well of time strung out on anarchy. And anarchy was not much fun. Neither was high-financed militarization. Five of ten generations in her bloodline fell to knees, to steady the rolling allostasis of culture in a state of shock, somewhere between the two. This was her inheritance. This was her ground.

Rolling Allostasis -viii)

She was a bad girl.
She had OCD secondary to her PTSD.
She had PTSD secondary to her Substance-Induced Psychosis.

Some believed her Psychotic Episodes were secondary to her ball of rubberbands in her mind, aka: her neurosis. She was obsessive with numerology synchronizations. One number off could send shock waves through the system. The system began with her, though it seeded further back in the lineage. The system did not end with her. The system was truly systemic, and did not limit itself to the material planes. You would wanna ask Ken Wilber if you needed to know more. He was born one day apart from her and a quarter century.  She would refer you to him, if you had any questions at the end of her lecture. She and he had only become acquainted in the highlight yellow tinge of a bluegreen spiritual aspect. Holographically acquainted. Beyond the shadow of a doubt. Carl Jung would bear witness. If you needed a witness. Like if you were gonna rent her an apartment, for instance. Or employ her in your sweatlodge. Or hire her for transpersonal tutorial. Or have her coach you out of some dark corner. Or allow her to listen to you and refuse you any begged for advice, on hands, on knees, at the base of birch trees, on the high rolling seas, deep in the grass valleys of your heart. Or wherever you and her might start. On the streets of Chicago or St Petersburg or the freedom red brick trail in Boston, or over freedom fries in some cafe in San Franciscos panhandle. Or panhandling or busking in Amsterdam, or in teleconferences with the second and rebellious daughter of the son of son of sam. In Oakland, California. In the Ukraine. In the belly of the fire of the beast of desire. In the world. In the ghetto. In the mind. In the heart.

Of course once you were in any kind of engagement, you could feel the adrenaline rise into your blood and arrow like right off the straight and narrow. Out of some dark hollow and into white light. The mindmeld you would field in the vision of it all, was truly hard to describe on any other terms than that old hippy regurgitation; out of sight! This wasn't a lecture at all, just felt like one at first. This wasn't some bodhissatva teaching, no, you were together in this connect, this was like us and them learning one anothers respective dialects and demanding nothing other than consciousness and energy on a whole personal scale, like a real private show, like some spectral lapdance in the constellation of the city, in the astrology of the mind, in the synchronization of the sunshine of your love. Fuck yeah, you would say to one another. See ya there. See ya here. We just did it, baby, we just got up and down with one another. Feel it? Ya. Me too. Fuck yeah. That's right. Afternoon delight.

When  you engaged her on almost any level other than the transparent superficial one, she would have to explain herself or not explain herself and remain silent before you looking into your eyes and staring at the sea until we simulcast away. Simply melting away On the topic of thorough self-analysis.  She took tireless heed of the numbers and counting. No room for guesswork or doubting. Her battlefield would be determined by alignment of stars. Under which she shared with her generals the finest dominican cigars. Cuban would be a jinx. She had no cuban linx (no heritage). Fidel Castro's kinship with her was soulbound, not earthly. so the breaking of any material ties was her imperative. When her people protested it hurt her heart indeed. The leaders of protest were of cuban seed.

She hated to cut off their heads. But what you do when you are feeling yourself on a holographic macro level, you cannot personally control. Like feeling the violence in the world. Thousands and thousands of miles away. The kinda thing that causes people to care about shit like buying product that has not been tested on animals. Like becoming vegetarian to protest the meatmarket industry, the treatment of cattle. Like raising money to save the whales. Like remembering a time before we crawled reptilian out of the sea. Like knowing you source from somewhere you never been.  St Petersburg. We will see you someday soon. To Russia with love. To all her artists and punks and freedom fighters. To all her communists and socialists, too. To all her loyalists. To all her residual enemies. To capitalism. To the USA. To better empirical relations. To the UK. To heartfelt sixth sense sensations. To systemic earthquake causing tsunami vibrations. To all those who died at the mercy of a wave. To all those surfing the atmosphere on cumulous clouds.

She loved and celebrated them all. her philosophy and lifestyle could be sharp and hypocritical. Some dismissed her altogether, to their own detriment. Systemically speaking Hypocrisy is not a four letter word. And dirt is pure ash. Pure sediment recycled through the universe inside our greater holoverse. Now go. Disperse. 

Rolling Allostasis -vii)

Hers was not an uncalculated risk
She did not believe in magic

All the magicians
she had acquainted
no matter how impressive
she found to be tragic

A foolish pursuit
oriented to ego

When she came to power
she swore magic
would be outlawed
Illegal

 Her wisdom came mainly from
 old Eastern teaching

History would judge her reign
somewhere between empirical
 and reaching

History has no heart to give
no heart to take
Combs over our lives
like a steel prong rake

Emotional coloring
extracted by intention
So to cushion
 the ache of misfortune

Rolling Allostasis -vi)

She was a history junkie. A doctor. phd.
Examining old cultures and wars was her rush.
Anthropology was her fix.

She found what she needed to know while tabbing through her cerebellum's internal ledger, set to siddhartha style scrolling, which kept her mind rolling. Her attention was set to its highest ceiling, steady conscious, you know the feeling. Urgent were these matters she had to attend. She wanted to bum rush the majora with the minora. Do the hundred yard dash toward the cash money stash.

She liked to focus on that heated point where marginalized culture unite, center of the heart of the body of any creative work in motion. After studying each slide of her mind, she would leave it behind. Leave no trace. She set fire to the scrolls after thumbing through the seat of memory with a fine-toothed gnosis comb. You know, right beside the garden gnome. They both stood there, in the corn rows of her dome. And watched the paper separate at its perforations, fold up toward the center as the edges caught fire. The scarecrow shuddered. The crows, they flew away. The margins moved in to drop trails of smouldering ash. The paper chase got chased right out of town.

The revolution was on, like a wheel that's been trued. Effortless and unglued. This was where her mind joined the mind of the people. Territorial boundaries became blurred like some communist conspiracy coming into view. Empowerment via numbers was mathematically guaranteed. They hunted the bloated dumpster raccoons until they were treed. Reduced odds down to one, aka: no other possibility.

She prepared herself for rain. Premonition kept her sane.

Rolling Allostasis -v)

She was a student of hypnosis.
She knew many things.
How to take a moment in time.
How to crystallize the moment.
How to take the frozen product to the bank.
How to hypnotize.
How to capitalize.

Meningitis could not break her. She had specialists who handled these kinds of cases. She always saw them coming. A skin rash. A concurrent fever. Just barely into triple digits. Slight chills. An aching pain that rents space behind the eyes. Blurred vision now and again. Photosensitivity.

Please! she asked politely, no cameras! 

Whether they decided to listen and abide, would be major. Could be the turning point. Those with experience in dealing with her, understood. They turned their sights down. Lowered their guns. Disabled flashbulbs, at the very least.

You did not want to fuck with her.
She would take your ass to court.
WIthout hesitation.