Two weeks, no alcohol. I had my best nights sleep in months last night. Even dreamt. I was met by “The Genius,” ex-Forty Niners coach, Bill Walsh. I can’t remember what he said, but I’m sure it was wise. It seemed as though I was living in a post-world of sorts. I drove an old car and the place I was in was like downtown San Jose, forty years ago. The Sun was different–less harsh–blonde versus blinding. I met a delightful Tibetan woman. We kissed and an unexpected eroticism coursed through my dream body. When I awoke, my bedclothes were dry. It was the first time I had not had a night sweat in in a very long time.
When I was drinking, I never drove drunk, nor did I usually consume more than 3-4 glasses of beer or wine in a night. I’m 6’3 220 pounds, so it’s not really all that much. I had given up pretty much everything else save the random shot of tequila. But I had to. Neptune squaring my ascendant was demanding that I quit. Alcohol was what they call a “staircase” drug in that it led me to my next vice; My ego and misplaced sense of sensuality.
Since my separation and ultimately divorce, I have been running from the grief and feelings of emptiness. I poured myself into my blog, my readings and my show and it still wasn’t enough.
Nothing was enough. It was a “god-sized void” as a wise man once said to me in mineral pool, tucked back into an oasis, hidden in the Carmel Valley.
It all eventually came hurtling down around me, the cataclysm as a precursor to my own pole shift. Somehow I don’t feel that alone in this process. The major planets are all moving in reverse, Mercury now joins the backwards cacophony, each note of our unrepentant and un-lived lives blasted with a shrill urgency.
It’s hard for me to admit that I hurt people, since my role is somewhat that of crypto-journalist-priest and yet I did. And if I am to remain as clean with myself and presence on this planet, I think it’s incumbent on me at times, to submit my warts as well as my wisdom. It’s only fair my Libra Moon says, now getting pounded like a gong by the eternal mallet of Saturn.
These are sobering times.
The week ahead is uncharted territory for the entire world. I am much more concerned by the debt drama than I was a month ago. S&P’s downgrading of the USA credit rating is almost a death sentence. China, according to plan has refused to loan The USA anymore money. Its done. The drip line is cut off. I am afraid that the next phase will be hyperinflation. The cost of goods is going to skyrocket and there will be some very, very angry people as a result.
Last week, on Obama’s birthday, there was a full scale race riot in Milwaukee. Dozens and dozens of black youth descended on the state fair and started pounding on cars in traffic outside the fairgrounds, beating up hapless pedestrians and bikers along the way. What prompted this flash mob of racial fury? Were they instinctively attuned to the chaos about to break like a tsunami across the planet? Or were they fired up and directed? If so, by whom?
On the other side of the world, London erupted in a riot as well. The police had used undue force on a young man, killing him, thus sparking a massive retaliation.
In Israel, tent cities have spread like mushrooms across the holy land. The people are tired of working like slaves with little to show. They are weary of the endless conflict between Arab and Jew. They are spent from enduring endless security measures.
In Spain, the riot police are exhausted from dealing with crowd control since the middle of Spring.
The world is a time bomb waiting to go off and the clock is ticking.
With Mercury retrograde soon to be in Leo, people are going to be questioning the role of the elite in society. They’ll be re-examining the new royalty of the corporate state. On Tuesday, it will oppose Neptune at 29 degrees, both anaretic degrees. The veil of illusion could fall as swiftly as a guillotine if the market does not rebound by then.
As I rode my bike along the fingers of the bay today, I traced the outline of history, from the sandy berms that the Ohlone journeyed, to the rusted train tracks that led to the docks, where hulking freighters sent American-made-goods abroad, to the historic pier where “Rosie The Riviter” built warships, to the old Ford Motor plant, now turned convention center, hosting a 420 Expo, to a ghostly old shipyard with high fencing, barbed wire, unmarked cars and keep out signs, courtesy of DHS. It was all there, from the simple and pure existence of a primeval past, to the ominous immensity of a stark near future.
It was a moment of clarity.