the loyal opposition

Willie got busted yesterday for sleeping outside the laundromat with no underwear. At noon this must have been. By thirteen-hundred hours the Canadian mounted police galloped in to remedy the situation. Willie’s blue Calvin Kleins were on the spin cycle inside the building.

One always feels a bit defrauded when the mounties show up here in the north country within tall-tale range of Dawson Creek and the Yukon and such, defrauded because the mounties are no longer big-hatted on horseback so I can’t ask if they’re mounting lady horses or the other kind. Ponies? The thing Jesus rode into town. What they’re mounting instead is, well, let’s just say I wouldn’t have approved of it in my City Without Cars period.

Nowadays I approve of everything. I’m one big yes. Although even back in the day I wasn’t really pumping the no of energy into the man or “Man” as folks would say (pumping their own energy capital into the pretend bosses) [telling the “bosses” how important they are and how they should do this or that about Gaza—the real message in protest is not the particular urgent issue but telling the external master he’s the master and agreeing that we should supplicate and petition and therefore validate and enthrone him]. My placards weren’t double-sided [Mobius strip club joke deleted here] and they weren’t pointed at the Man but at us, the people. Sheesh, I wasn’t the loyal opposition, a phrase I probably got from reading British novels written during history. Remember history? Me neither. I did like saying I’m not the loyal opposition, which is a joke, a tru-joke, because of the word “not.” But you get the jest. Gist, I must mean. Many a gist is said in jest. Word?

On line these days everyone’s controlled-opposition this and controlled-opposition that but opposition is by its very nature controlled—it reasserts the master even as it pretends to dethrone him. All op is loyal op.

Me, I’m all yes. I don’t even say to the officers something like, did you guys run out of real crimes to solve? A joke from back in the day. Cops love the old classics.

Yesterday I had a two-banger head-carry in a light breeze so I did a modified cobra-sway while having a lovely chat with the officers. My goal as always is to bring joy. I’m basically the Marie Kondo of head-carries. I like to beam energy into folks although these mounties have some kind of anti-energy breastplate so who knows what’s getting through. The breastplate of righteousness. Next morning I’m thinking, should have aimed for the third eye.

So yeah, a two-banger. [I can do five in no breeze, and thanks for asking] The bottom box was normal but the top one was big and akimbo. The only thing holding that in place was a couple of liters of laundry detergent. At thirteen-twenty hours under a bright near-solstice sun in a temperate rainforest here in space, my shadow was a twirl of geometry with limbs dangling from it. How did I get here? How does anyone get anywhere? Is there even a where to get to or an anyone to get into it? Lordie lordie, see what consciousness gets into these days? [looks at cruisers but holds off on the in-car-nation jokes] I wish I could show you a picture of me two-banging with my opposite number [a breastplate of righteousness doing a head carry on its shoulders] but filing a citizen request for the dashcam footage on the cruisers isn’t how I want to spend my day. [spends day sitting by river absorbing sunlight and river energy with one foot touching Willie, his [Dave’s] culottes discreetly managed to allow sunlight on the perineum] [what if the cops themselves are dashcam footage, the latest issue from old AI or the archons or them guys] [if these guys are hollows then how come I can’t get a horseback holo?] [manifest harder, bro]

Speaking of balls, de-balling dogs messes up their hormones and on average takes a year off their lives, meaning they’re likely to get cancer at Willie’s age, whatever that might be. Willie and I were both genitally mutilated so we have that in common, too. Perhaps this is why Willie is so gentle and why I have so many great jokes. [gender jokes about dressing Willie as a man deleted here to save space] [space jokes also deleted to make space] [Mobius strip club joke deleted yet again]

Best to think of me as an eccentric millionaire, I tell the cop who wants my last name.

I’m practically harmless.

You want my birthage name? I explain to Officer Serious briefly about how human freedom works and why freedom is important and I manage to do so without using words and phrases like gulag and cattle chute. He’s nothing if not persistent and asks for my father-name again. Half-dozen times in total. Nothing if not persistent. Next morning: nothing if not? You’re talking to a data stream, bro.

Also, what’s with these data streams? At borders they want your Ma’s vagina booklet in blue or red, but in-country they want your dad’s dad’s name. Some kind of family affair. It’s all a bit pervy. As for the eccentric millionaire, good luck finding my houses and island as I gave those away, but I do have millions of dollars I can call on in my manifesting vortex. [messes up and creates accidental tornado] [pretends to not notice next day the surprise hurricane in the news over Bermuda]

Officer Book be like, when someone refuses to give their last name, they’re usually on the run with a warrant for their arrest, and I’m like, I’m having trouble with my left knee so I’m not running at all. Also I’m literally the most visible person in town, every street person knows me, and local Facebook is apparently atwitter with photos of me and theories about me—old van, long hair I never hide [tries to toss luxurious mane but can’t with head carry] head-carries [I might have mentioned], most popular pit bull in town. I remind him that I’m with-holding the name not only for my freedom, but for his and for that of all humans. [next morning, snorts while drinking coffee as he didn’t even get his own joke]

My goal is to bring joy, and here’s me beaming a smile so hard I’m extending new tendrils of laugh lines on top of how I already got a whole terrain of them, and my face is a map and the map is the territory. Brought to you by terrain theory.

This is the third or fourth time the mounties have been summoned to investigate my head carries and pit bull, but one of these officers has supposedly never heard of me (how many of these guys can a town of ten-thousand support?) and insists on the father-name. I want him to enjoy the game so I’m like, my van is within a hundred yards (it was actually thirty feet away), my name is Dave, and [several other clues]. I’m practically gesturing at the van [Tennessee salt-free van, Ontario plates, and me from Massachusetts]. Finally he gets a data stream on his bud and this exchange happens:

him: “[garbled] David Thomson”

me: (surprised) “You’re David Thomson?”

him: “No, you’re David Thomson.”

And we do a who’s-on-first for a few delightful moments, all of it taser-free and natural. I’m tempted to show him with some chalk I have in the van how if you write Thomson and then erase from right to left you can find Thor. In other words, Thor was always there. A diminutive, not a pseud. What’s in a name, am I right?

Who is always here? I Am.

Consciousness. Simple. The only known.

Always here I Am, Sam I Am. [looks around the town and there’s a perfect circle of snow-capped peaks and it’s hard to imagine any breaks in the walls of ice that would allow escape. Did I really come here from the other side of the ice wall?] [What is this “Tennessee” of which you speak?]

Downtown Terrace: the big terrain diggers have been searching for Tartaria (see my hundreds of notes) in the main street of town (found a wooden pipe as I predicted and the head engineer called me over a couple months back and admitted I was right with my prediction and he got the pipe into the museum), and the traffic was diverted from the main street so presumably half the town saw the diverting spectacle of me doing a cockamamy head-carry with the man on a Friday mid-day. What? No, I wasn’t head-carrying a man. We were chatting. Man to man, is a somewhat nuanced joke. [I hid the big M in plain sight at the beginning of a sentence]

Multiple citizens had “dialed” the M man to report Willie reposing sans-culotte. It’s a car thing, because any of the many street folk know Willie, who like me is a big creature designed as a fighter but instead does energy work and just brings peace and joy to folks. Beamsville, man. Beamsville. [beams out peace]

Willie had had his big op seventeen days earlier and although his energy is up and running again he still looks a fright in the chassis. And here’s where the collision of Rockerfeller medicine on the one hand and old-school healing on the other comes into collision fruitful contiguity at [remembers street names where laundromat is] the corner of Lazelle and Emerson. [Emerson!] Rockerfeller germ paranoia “against” old-school energy and sunlight and the feeling that germs are doing their best to help rather than hinder. I haven’t figured it all out but life’s a bum knee, sorry, a journey, and I’m not so sure that the best stance is to think of the Rockers as “against” us. Even the knife-wielding surgeon herself has insisted that no bandages be applied to the admittedly huge but now finally superficial wound where the massive tumor was dug out. The vet’s office recommended boxer shorts, and only in areas where Willie might be subjected to the female gaze. Sorry, the public. Rockers loved bandages when I was a kid, but now they’re more open to Ma’s theory, which is that wounds need fresh air to heal. They’re more open to open.

My mistake, if any, was not giving Willie another pair of boxers to wear while his main ones were on spin. I was saying to Overflowing Ashtray, a “man” as they say on the internet, that the locals can’t tell when the emperor is naked but they’re quick to notice a dog without clothes.

Everything works together for good. For example, in his role as straight Man, the guy who insisted on being in receipt of my father’s father-name permitted himself to give me a woke-style lecture on why one of the officers from a police visit unto Willie and me two months prior was not, as I styled her, a “lady cop.” He also affirmed the notion that I should not be noticing her physical appearance and therefore she was not, as I said, “cute.”

But here’s the thing. She was cute. In fact, she even asked for my name and phone number.

—Dave in northern “British” Columbia, latitude 54

Picture at the head of this article is me in a stiff breeze coming up out of Tartarian Niagara. Picture below is Willie yesterday dressed as a man.

Down here is the three-D icon on my surgeon vet’s truck.

Below is Tartaria because the meltscape is under everything. As far as I know, no one has noticed this arch in the middle of a desert in the middle of Australia as Tartarian. Photo is a telephoto thing far away, photo from yesterday on a longdistance hiker’s video. [longdistance telephoto zoom joke deleted here] The hiker offered no commentary.