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Dear San Francisco,

I’m aware of your cycles you power center.  With Mt. Tamalpias in the distance, you never had a choice.  You always have to be churning with revolution and spilling new direction out your seams.  You are like the individual of his time, all energy taking and all energy giving, a perfect barometer on the coast.

You’ve been opened up too much.  Fifty years ago, when you started showing your shamanistic roots, the lotus began to open.  With Mt. Tamalpias in the distance, you never had a choice.  There was whirling spinning growing everywhere.  You looked for some new way against nocolor and against sharply cropped hair and against upset stomachs and you found it in the rituals of Native Americans.  They buried their dances deep in the earth and you, not knowing any other way but to live authentically, began to draw from the roots.  There was spinning whirling smoking awareness everywhere.  You had great meeting places, in the fields and on the beach.  Smoke signals seen nearly everywhere. You were the medicine man, and now you’re sick?

After a great opening comes a great closing.  Like an over acid taker who moves to booze to calm himself, you turned straight on me.  The prolongued opening of the heart has made you fearful, made your children fearful.  Now you are desperately clinging to head realities and to fiction.  The open fields have turned to dark booze caves.  The altars have been torn down.  The cropped hair is here, and worse, the awareness of a possibility of uncropped hair.   The beaches have turned virtual and the sand is rated five stars on Wednesdays.  Your speaking in tongues has turned into short scraps of content. You are running on nerves and endlessly generating content. Your children are fearful of the unknown life, a life they used to actually inhabit, in the field, with infinite possibility. Even your men are frail, shaking, nervedriven. Even your women are layercovered, sunglassed, running to their bedrooms. Even your artists are working on easy content. You turned straight on me, tight, conservative.

It is the only way it could be.  These turns happen everywhere, but with you it is so naturally explicit that you can see it on your walls.  Like the individual who explores the deepest parts of his unconscious, he also must come down.  He must naturally tighten up, protect himself, for fear of drowning.  The perfect barometer on the coast.

The head too can only run for so long, before it starts tripping over itself.  The head runs on nerve energy, not deeply rooted, it is unsustainable for its own reasons.  Then the heart comes back and begins to heal, to start the work over again.  This is the pushing through time.  This is the pushing through time.


Your Endless Participant.

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