Nook Color?

So I had to ultimately factory reset the Nook and restart the modem and router simutaneously. Then I had to ass hat around getting the MacBook up and running.

Apparently there is no zoom feature on the Nook. I downloaded a trial of National Geographic, yeah, can’t read so much. It’s like 6 point font. I mean, come on people.

So I’m still thinking of getting an SD card and putting the Android kernel on it.

I like the Kindle app on my phone better than the Nook thus far. A zoom feature will help immensely.

My advice is to get an I-pad, that or I just don’t get tablets. I like lap tops. I need POWER to run multiple software simultaneously. I wish I could have Notebook and EndNote at work. 

I also need to upgrade my OS at some point here. I would like to have everything I need for a cold re-boot should the upgrade from 10.4 to 10.6 fail, but it should work, hypothetically. All that stuff is at my parents’ house, or lost forever in the black swamp that Michelle made of the Art House in the process of abandoning it.

9:23 and I have only eaten half my breakfast, not showered, and agitation level is near 10 on a scale of 1 to 10. I need a day off to get organized and come up with a plan to attack life, or at least clean and do laundry while the sun is shining.

I have decided that I am most definitely suffering post-traumatic stress disorder from spiritual warfare and the experience of an empath living in 21st century America. I would like to look into cognitive behavior therapy for PTSD because what I am experiencing just seems really similar.

Cognitive-Processing Therapy (CPT) was developed by Resick and Schnicke to specifically treat PTSD among people who have experienced a sexual assault. CPT lasts 12 sessions. CPT can be viewed as a combination of cognitive therapy and exposure therapy.

CPT is like cognitive therapy in that it is based in the idea that PTSD symptoms stem from a conflict between pre-trauma beliefs about the self and world (for example, the belief that nothing bad will happen to me) and post-trauma information (for example, the trauma as evidence that the world is not a safe place). These conflicts are called “stuck points” and are addressed through the next component in CPT — writing about the trauma.

Like exposure therapy, in CPT, the patient is asked to write about his traumatic event in detail. The patient is then instructed to read the story aloud repeatedly in and outside of session. The therapist helps the client identify and address stuck points and errors in thinking, sometimes called “cognitive restructuring.” Errors in thinking may include, for example, “I am bad person” or “I did something to deserve this.” The therapist may help the patient address these errors or stuck points by having the client gather evidence for and against those thoughts.

Holy crap do I have a lot of processing to do!

Last night I was thinking that finally I am no longer in a dissociative state or state of perpetual terror, however “shell-shocked” is a very good assessment of my mental state right now. I still get disoriented and panicky being outside of “safe” environments. See, hypothermia and malnutrition aren’t really issues anymore, but the prospect of getting stuck in the Sierras triggered that fear response. I still can’t support myself, and having faith that everything will be okay, that everything is okay right now, is not helpful. I just panic everytime something frustrates me. I jump at people speaking to me. I cower.

The amount I slept over Thanksgiving, being able to sleep without being awoken by pain, somewhere dark and relatively quiet, I was pretty much out at sundown and up at sunrise, just like the dog. It’s freaking winter, and I cannot hang with working from 9-5:30. Absolutely not. No way. Back at the quad box cage, I’m perpetually agitated. I think my neighbors are possessed by dark forces, and those dark forces like to employ sound and light to create a battle zone to terrorize me. I long for peace, emancipation, and sovereignty.


Pushing Off Boundaries, Amy Purdy – Inspired

I’ve spent the last 5 months trying to get creative about how I am going to go snowboarding without money, without snowshoes, without a back country pack, without a transceiver, without a partner… so far my only solution is to walk overland until I find a nice open space like sand flat. Wholly impractical and completely dangerous. I have legs and kidneys, but no money, no support.

I surely don’t feel like I’m unimaginative or uncreative.

What do I want to do?

Last night I realized that I love to build furniture and flip houses almost as much as I like to mix sound recordings. How am I going to build furniture with no tools and no space? How am I going to flip houses with no capital?

Why do I feel like I am tethered and tied?

I feel like if there were one thing, only one thing that all of me were completely invested in, it might work, but there’s not. I like to potter, but here, I am stuck, almost to the point of imprisonment. I ain’t got a dime to my name.

At this point, to get to a jumping off point, I feel you have to lie, cheat, and steal, because ain’t no one with a true heart got nothing. I have nothing to offer anyone worthy of receipt. Do I start offering to the lying, cheating, stealing, back-stabbers?

I also realized last night, that SCREAMING repeatedly on a daily basis, out-loud, to the universe for all to hear. “I WANT IT TO BE 90 DEGREES OUT RIGHT NOW!!!!! RIGHT NOW DO YOU HEAR ME?!?” That worked. Sub-zero temperatures are like being raped, not that I’ve ever been raped, but of all the things a physical body can experience, waiting for a bus with bitter subzero winds eating to your bones… shivering constantly for months on end…

There’s probably not anything else I really whole-heartedly care about that much.

So here I am, horrified by most of what’s around me, but the one thing I really, really gave my whole being about, escaping Wisconsin winters, I was able to fix. I’ve lived without a bed. I’ve let go of the notion of getting another cat. I’ve made peace with the fact that my godson is just going to have to endure a less than ideal childhood.

You know the serenity prayer? It seems there’s nearly nothing I can change, and so I’ve let go of nearly everything. Oh Lord, I am an empty vessel. Fill me up with your light!

Maybe in 20 years I’ll look back and be glad for discernment and wisdom and life.

So little music speaks to me at the moment, likely because I seem to make connection with so few people right now.

The Darkness

I just can’t shake the horrors which surround me. Humanity, collectively, seems like it is in the darkest place ever known to creation. Everything is superficial. Everyone is enslaved. It’s impossible to cultivate any deep intimacy, and I could work myself to death and still not be able to get out of debt, own a scrap of land, or help Mr. X’s children pay for what I assume to be a useless and futile post-secondary education. Absolutely, 100%, now more than ever, do what the fuck you want and screw the consequences, because even if you do what you think other people will hold you in esteem for, you’re gonna end up in the same shackles. Our only chance for escape is to do what we please, because those money changers don’t understand joy or love. They only understand possession. And oh so many are asleep and/or possessed and I have ZERO patience for it.


I am quite restless now, waiting for the Thanksgiving vacation to begin. After being awoken in pain, again, last night. I took a hot bath, again, in the wee small hours of the morning. Mr. X and I traded places and I finally went to sleep again on the floor of the man cave around 4:30. He woke me up when he was getting ready for work. I went back to sleep, slept another hour or so, and finally got up around 9:30. I felt like a zombie, and was still crampy and achy. I made coffee this morning, but had no appetite.

I took a shower despite having just taken a hot soak a few hours previous because I felt grimy. I still have not eaten, and did not eat much yesterday. 

Trying to figure out what to pack for a 3-5 day weekend for two people, plus getting food stuffs ready to transport, and canning supplies for Friday, with virtually no luggage. The whole time I’m imagining Mr. X griping about how he doesn’t want the neighbors to know that we will be gone, doesn’t want them seeing us carrying out all that stuff. “How many clothes do you need? Are you really going to do your make-up for Thanksgiving? You’re just going to be watching football.” Hmmm.

I have to be more moderate. You see, there is no doubt he loves me, but, oh there is always the but. I guess with most others the doubt has consumed me, and I have been wont to choose passion over kindness. In the past, I’d have taken someone as caustic as myself, just to experience genuine intensity.

The boy I left behind to come home misses me, loves me, but my heart is here in the Cascades and Trinities, and he is for the south, so that is that.

I feel kind of stuck here. My job is becoming more and more a job, a means of income, a headache. The responsibilities I have and the things I do for the amount I get paid is absolutely ridiculous. I think people are insane to think the economy will recover. It’s been bad, and more bad for me since 2003. Last year I made more money than I ever had, but my standard of living hasn’t improved much. At least now Mr. X provides heat, so I’m not at risk of hypothermia on a daily basis, sitting in front of a space heater after a shower while I get dressed, and blow drying my hair every time I come inside. We have a dishwasher, and that’s certainly improved the quality of my life.

I decided not to apply to the job at the River Exchange. Something just didn’t feel right about it. I’m sure I’m supposed to be here right now, but why do I feel so stuck, and what would I do if I could do anything I wanted anyway?

New Mexico? Colorado? Nope. This is home. I dream of an old ranch house with decades old orchards being encroached on by recent subdivisions, but the remnant ranch is safe due to the economic collapse. We will have goats and I will learn how to grow peaches, almonds, and walnuts. Water rights will not be an issue, because La Nina winters will become the norm. We will build a shipping container tower with an art studio at the top. Mr. X will be the gunsmith of all the land. It will smell like linseed oil, leather, and tobacco.

My son will become a renowned trader and entertainer, crossing the Sierras fearlessly.

Meanwhile… It’s not snowing in Truckee and I bet I have to go back next week. I’d better figure out how to fill helium balloons and put on snow chains.

I meant to go buy vintage luggage today, because I seem to be traveling a lot. I have this little sphere I go about in: from the Pacific to Reno and the Bay to Bend. Last week I drove over 600 miles! EGADS!

There’s just this massive turmoil brewing, bubbling, and being down from the mountains, I am no longer immune to it. It’s the sort of feeling that makes your skin crawl, like there are giant chiggers underneath your skin moving about. The hollow feeling comes from the loss of archetypes. There are no stories left to tell, no dramas left to play. Have I been quarantined? Did I quarantine myself? Was every interaction just a vampiric energy exchange that ceased with Lise Renee’s 12-D command? Hmmm, yes, all of the above, and much more I cannot even begin to comprehend. I miss the feeling of eros. I miss the energetic states that used to be induced by music. I miss the ponderosa wireless.

Sometimes though, I feel like I am in the machine elf bubble, awash in light patterns, sacred geometry. Like I am in a womb, but a motherless womb. I can’t even explain it. After a year and a half, it’s still foreign to me. So foreign. Maybe this is a step to getting back to how things worked at home, but I don’t think free will was an issue at home. No one would ever choose to assert their will in a disharmonious manner. Nice to inhabit a body, and then to go into the forest collective like the living mycelia, to become completely one with a spring or an entire watershed, to become the blue roan mare.

But right now I feel caged within this body and mind. Because even before on Earth, this body, which I have put severe mileage on, was just a soul container, and it was easy enough to be in soul anywhere else I could imagine. Everywhere I used to go is… dead. Like an empty set to a play, devoid of living energy.

It is so frustrating to not be able to use sound to create energetic fields. How do I create? How do I know? or be? Nothing excites me anymore. It’s like I have some kind of spiritual post-tramatic stress disorder. It’s been a long war. Now I spaz out at the drop of a hat. Packing for a weekend is a complex task, which without maps, causes panic. Everything is nearly incomprehensible to me at this point. I am full of anxiety and panic. The peaceful center is only within me. There is no touchstone, and without anchor, I am totally at the mercy of the vast power of the ocean. Nothing I do effects, whatsoever, the external world, which I guess is an okay price to pay to have it have less effect upon me, but this is where the hollow feeling comes from. Co-creators? There are echoes. Echoes. Maybe this is what it feels like to be “left behind.” Although I more feel like I’m between worlds. Where I am going? No idea. But I’m not on the old Earth. I’m not home. I’m not in the unity of collective consciousness, in the New Earth where The Secret is operational. I am in the silent cloud. It’s lonely, unfulfilling, boring, exhausting, empty. You see why the humans chose drama and violence over this state? Oh yes, but this is not how I prefer things either.

At this rate it will be dark long before we get to Chico. That’s just depressing.

Stubbed Toe

I cut my right middle toe last night. Slept for an hour and a half and then was awoken with terrible lower back pain and cramping.  This time I get the impression it’s the mattress and digesting apples. But really, Sunday night, Monday night, Tuesday night. Three nights in a row, after my period is supposedly over. At sundown, I have been overcome with intense pain. Sunday it was so bad I took a prescription painkiller for it. If it is fibroids, then I should completely eliminate dairy and I should lose as much weight as possible. I should become a teatotaller and I should completely quit smoking.

I should…. I should… I should….

When do I get help?

This pain thing and not having a bed is really interfering with my sleep and since daylight savings, I haven’t been able to do anything productive after dark. I haven’t really been able to do anything productive. I am sick of slaying dragons or making the major effort to connect with anything outside myself. No one can even meet me half way, because I am very, very far out at this late date.


Menstrual Cramps

Why should anyone ever experience menstrual cramps that are so painful that they are awakened from a sound sleep?

I’ve taken 2 Aleve and painted myself from my crotch to my waist with biofreeze. Now I want to torture small animals to death and smear the blood all over myself, put out my neighbor’s power, and then duct tape them to chairs, staring at their empty television screen.


Airfare is less expensive than I thought. Still, I feel I would need $500 for me to go and enjoy myself, and if I had $500 guess that would be going to the dentist, or I’d rather go to Heavenly for a weekend or to Point Arena or buy new winter clothes.

I guess this makes me selfish.

It’s 7:50 and the sun is still not up yet.

I don’t know what to eat for breakfast. I’m really not feeling a smoothie or juice. The oranges I got yesterday are not ripe yet.

I really don’t think I am going to find the willpower and wherewithal to continue to eat raw in the winter. I crave heavy, rich food.


It is empty when it all falls away.
There is nothing to cling to, or for in which to hope.
There is no ground to stand on.
Oh no! It’s moving!
Moving and churning and turning like the ocean, but there is no ocean.
So great is the distance that its sparkling reflections are a only a fading photograph locked in a dimming mind.
Even the sky disappears behind milky pollution.
At night the stars of our ancestors are blocked from the eye’s view by our brilliant and obnoxious urban lights.
Til their heartbeat grows faint, faint, and the forests and rivers forgotten.
Even rural areas spread out sickening pools of false illumination in fear, to keep away trespassers on land that never belonged to them.
As though we could create something better than the Gods.
You are like children, not in your innocence, but in the ego.
Where is the place or space for a simple man?
Meet one.
Greet one.
Yet each one, a zombie.
This is the hollow retreat.