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.