Leaving hotel calafornix

These sewage treatment plants are hard to miss, big cylindrical tanks, rectangular concrete pools and of course the stink. After walking up the steel staircase to the catwalk above the cylinders the first thing one sees is that there’s lots of stuff in the sewage that floats. Plastic tampon applicators, hypodermic needle syringes, nickel bags, condoms and other floating stuff typically is periodically skimmed off the top. Around and around it goes. Typically periodically the stuff that sinks is separated and taken to the landfill, usually along with the plastic stuff. Periodically it gets pumped to the next tank where it’s clearer. Pump it, spin it, bubble it, macerate it… then it flows through a concrete swimming pool with baffles that looks like a maze. Now it’s treated for the most part. If the fecal form bacteria count isn’t as low as the technicians would like, they add chlorine, peroxide, pump it back to the cylindrical tank and run it through again, U.V. light, the options are endless and they all cost money and there is no product. It’s a waste. That’s why it’s called a waste treatment plant, at least they’re honest.

At this particular facility it was pumped into Lake Alice where around which all the hotties and dudes walked their dogs and jogged, then it flowed across the lake and was injected into the aquifer where they were getting their drinking water from. The other options are to pump it straight into the aquifer or the river, either way this is where people get their drinking water from. This is one reason why superdriplinewatercollect is the way to go. Who would want to drink reclaimed sewage? The townfolk? These are the same folks who cringe at the thought of a fertilizer machine that grows organic fruit and saves the world.

Nearby Lake Alice was a hall for guest speakers. Once again Jason Bultman directed me here to see a show, this time he came with me. The speaker was Dr. Jane Goodall and when she walked out on the stage to a packed house she screamed out a warm chimpanzee call or greeting as she approached the microphone. I half way stood up in the chair with one foot on the seat back and one on the arm rest and screamed back at her an extremely loud viral long chimpanzeeesque reply. Jason looked at me in horror, everyone looked at me. I was the only one who responded, we were sitting in the middle of the crowd just in front of her, and I must have given the correct chimp response, probably low country bonobo (the chimps that were displaced by the dam reservoir just under her African research station). Dr. Jane beamed back at me the most “glad to see you’re here look” I’ve ever gotten from a woman. Thanks Dr. Jane I was pleased to see you too. U.F.’s a tough crowd isn’t it?

A week or two later a lecture was put on by a large group of men called “The Veritas Forum” or the forum for truth. Mr. Bultman attended this with me as well. The gist of the theory or idea they put forth was that because humans were the only animals or species that could reason, they couldn’t have evolved from lessor forms of life or other known forms of earth life because no other form showed the ability to reason. I almost laughed out loud and heckled these guys, but I thought about it and it looked to me like humans were the only animal that didn’t show the ability to reason while the rest did so we may not have evolved from anything else on this planet. Jason liked these guys, a lot. His dad was a preacher.

The University of Florida has a great library system, besides sleeping this is where I spent most of my time. I mostly studied the difference between pirates and buccaneers, and the whole gold thing. Pirates boarded ships, took everything of value, killed or impressed the crew and often burned the ship. Buccaneers typically sold fruit, vegetables, herbs and a little meat down by the river. I found this to be fascinating, the whole religious drive for gold and the guys who were laying out for it as it floated back to the king. I liked the map room also, and the University of Michigan library on microfilm room was incredible. I went into the Michigan microfilm library with an assistant and looked around. I checked to see how the info was arranged. That night I lay awake in bed and searched my mind for the problems on this planet.

The next afternoon I entered the microfilm library with the intention of discovering specifically what was killing life. I brought the librarian over to one of the cabinet’s and selected a drawer. This one. She slid it open. I moistened the tip of my finger and ran it forward along the files and stopped at one and said this one please. I did the same at another cabinet and drawer and had two microfilm sheets. I loaded the first one into the “projector” and went to a page, seemingly at random. It was the picture and description of a dam hydroelectric turbine. I “randomly” checked one page from the many on the second microfilm sheet, a monocultural field of wheat. This pretty much seconded my mostly formed conclusion, dams, agriculture, and electricity. This idea illustrates how my information collection methods can be let’s say unorthodox or uncommon. In my mind I had come to the understanding that I knew exactly what the problem was and “knew” the entire Michigan microfilm stacks like the back of my hand. The FlapJack King.

Keeping in mind all of my past readings (including several encyclopedias). I wrote this “Leaving Hotel Calafornix” idea so a reader could use it as a sort of “how to” when addressing and assaulting the dam problem in particular, that is to use the “skill” to further the infinity project. When I was younger my parents had told me a friend of theirs, Tad Knewtson, had a photographic memory of sorts. They said he was able to quickly read the required text book info before the test, walk in and answer all the questions correctly simply because he sped read the pertaining info beforehand and remembered what it was. I asked him about this. He recommended scanning the page and remembering the main idea, get the main idea of each paragraph, and a few of the supporting details. Tad was a tree surgeon and Korean police action vet. He spent some time in the “brig” for stealing a “Duece an a half” (2 ½ Ton Truck) and trying to sell it on the black market.

Another character, also a friend of my parents, Bill Simmel, was supposedly adept at this too, and when questioned recommended in addition to look to see what pattern, or style, the information was presented in of the usual known presentation schemes, or not. This might reveal where the key (new) info was likely to be placed, less time to find, easier to avoid already known or superfluous info. Then one might know what page to look at in a book, for instance, out of hundreds of pages or more, to get the “new” or desired info. Bill was a Delta Air Lines Pilot and Vietnam War Pilot vet. He was introduced to my uncle John W. Jolley and later my family in Gainesville, back when they were students at U.F. As the story went, Bill drove his motorcycle into my uncle’s and his then girlfriend (Cathy’s) place (he crashed into the living room). Bill ended up marrying Cathy.

The house on First Avenue opened up to a view of Ben Hill Griffin stadium and the SEC championship trophies that were on display. After another beautiful octopus project ended in failure, I decided to capture a gator and keep him as a pet in the aquarium. I needed someone to steer the canoe while I got the creature. One of my roommates, Bobby, who ate cereal and milk exclusively and was studying to be a psychologist had just returned from a keg party and agreed to come along. We arrived at a swampy pond behind the dragon themed Chinese restaurant. I didn’t want just any old alligator.

We slid into the pond, the flashlight eerily reflected hundreds of little red lights. “What are those?” Those are alligators Bobby. Suddenly it dawned upon him what was back here in the middle of the night in the big dragon swamp, and what it was to enter it and try and catch one. The first one I approached was too big and violently swam away as we got within inches. This added to the excitement. You could get a good idea how big the gator was by how far apart the eyes were. I carefully lowered the flashlight towards the eyes of a smaller gator in order to get my other hand around his neck without shining the light on it. Grabbing the 16 incher, flipping it upside down, rubbing its belly, and stuffing the thing into a pillowcase was easy.

We offered free beer, restroom privileges, and gator on site to those interested in parking for the game. For three months we just about covered rent with the money. I’d get a mouse, and while waving around a magic wand would transform the mouse into a “wildcat” or whatever mascot was appropriate. Dumping the “wildcat” into the gator tank was fun, and the gator would snatch the mouse in its jaws, drown it, and eat the creature. We’d do this just before kickoff, with the band playing and the crowd cheering, run across the street and watch the game. I went to most of the away games except the one we lost to “Free Shoes University”. The Sugar Bowl National Championship rematch was great. I attended. The Gators won 52-20, snaring our first football championship.

An interesting twist developed later with the alligator. During a party at my place, a girl exclaimed that it was illegal to possess a Florida alligator. Insinuating that I was letting her in on a secrete, I whispered in her ear (she was kind of cute) that it was actually a caiman from Brazil that I bought at the pet shop. She was in the Florida Game Warden program and let me know that it was a Florida alligator and they were endangered. I countered alligators were everywhere like rats. She told me she was going to call the Freshwater Fish and Game Commission. I took the beer out of her hand, turned her around, marched her to the door and kicked her in the ass on the way out. Before I went to sleep I took the gator to the “bat” pond and let him go.

The next day after riding my bike home for a rest, the head of the Florida Fish and Wildlife Department showed up. I stuffed the three foot water bong behind the couch. He wanted to see the gator. I told him I’d already gotten rid of it. He wanted to see the tank in the back room. I showed him the empty tank. We laughed about the whole situation. He remembered throwing them in people’s pools when he was a kid.
Through fortuitous circumstances I landed a job at White’s nursery, which was located west of Gainesville towards Newberry. Spurrior’s backyard and house were just on the other side of the fence. I thought it was interesting that he was my uncle’s roommate while they both attended school together, and I was working next door to the old ball coach. The job at the nursery was great and included a supper prepared by Mrs. White. It was the best fried cornbread, chicken, sandwich, soup, bean, and pecan pie, etc. lunches I’ve ever had. Mr. White said, “If I had a 100 guys like you I could take over the world!” I told him he only needed one.

Once again Tommy D. is the best sidekick in the world or I’m the kickstand. Obviously we were a really good bug collecting team because Laboratory Commander Foltz identified this. He said that Tom and I together had the best insect collection that bug 101 had ever seen. He was bugged out about it and wanted to know where we got the stuff, as some of the bugs hadn’t been seen in a while. He gave us both a “B”. I was like what? We should get “A”s. “Nope”. How bout a “B+”? Uh-uh we got a “bee”, Apis mellowferia, the nectar and pollen gatherer. Sometimes a bee is better than an “A”. Like when the “A” students have gotten all the spelling correct, all the letters boxed perfectly, and everything’s lined up just so. Meanwhile, Tom and I are hiking and paddling all over the county getting the best bug collection ever seen and we got bees.

A bunch of us rode our bikes to the bug 101 lecture class. We were hot and sweaty, carried towels over our shoulders and sat in the back. Our mellow positions fit well into a class about bees. I was the all time “honey stick king” forever! I actually “tricked” the professor into knighting me this. The lecture professor gave honey sticks, which are plastic straw shaped containers full of honey, for correctly answering questions. I sat in the back of the class. This is where I sit, deep in my hive. The professor asked a lot of questions and I answered them. After a few days of this he had figured out and admitted in class that at this rate he was going to wear a rut in the rug. So he moved me up front. Now I’d seen this technique before, and naturally rebelled. He probably saw the size of my stinger when he got a closer look realizing of course that I was in fact a king honeybee and not a drone. So obviously he allowed me to move back deep into the hive.

Then we set up a fire brigade of honey sticks, which perfectly quenched the thirst that you got when you ate some of my cookies that I was sending back the other way. Many people in the class figured out something was going on. What was it? I, or something, was directly showing you how this whole hive thing works. Did you eat any of those cookies professor? Ha ha, nope, you were too far away and I carefully did not release enough Jacuzzi cookies to make it up to the front. Just enough so those right around me knew what was up. I ate most of them. The rest of the hive was just busy passing me all the honey. They were taking notes on me, too. Quite possibly because something or I was implanting the questions in the professor’s mind that I knew the answers to quite simply cause I’d already studied bees with my dad who had hives in the orange groves.

Orange blossom honey, my father’s honey partner was a man from the Far East Mr. Kimya and he knew a lot of different honey collecting ideas. This made it very easy for me, the “king”, to answer the questions. Now every once in a while one of the bees busily passing my team honey back here would half way wizen up and raise their antenna, usually before the question was even finished, trying to get a jump on me. I let the professor call on you and you would pipe up with a halfway right answer. Curiously the professor would finish the question and then I would finish the answer. Then I stood up walked to the front of class and forced you to split the honey stick with me cause you were only half right. I’d consume my half in front of the class. Mmmmn, they’re good huh? This was hilarious to me and the guys deep in the hive. While I was standing next to you, I’d gaze into your eyes and without saying anything try to make you understand that the honey sticks were being passed to the back of class, to me, deep in my hive.

I didn’t invite you to, but you could have come deeper into the hive and quite possibly figured out what was going on. Just about when you think you’d figured out why we were all back here laughing our asses off, answering all the questions. I’d slide you a cookie and a honey stick that you’d never sampled with all the busy note collecting and honey passing you were doing, quite obviously for me, and then like magic, you’d forget all about that busy bee crap. You’d figure out what was going on while we were sitting back here having so much fun while the flower at the lectern droned on and on about something that I knew all about or one of my closer assistants would quietly tell me if I missed. This was big time fun tricky stuff that you’d certainly figure out if you went deeper into the hive for a while longer. We were having a conversation with the professor and learning more than was in the book. This was a demonstration of how a beehive works and it showed how the king can jack your honey while you’re focused on the drone. The question really, is what is the king doing with all our honey?

Organic chemistry at the University of Florida is what they call a “weed out course”. All semester long I sat in the back left of a 300 person auditorium. I was in way over my head, and was struggling with what ended up being a little more than I wanted to know about Chemistry. I was doing better than most though, and my 35 percent test average put me in the upper quarter of the bell curve heading into drop week. I popped the question to the cats sitting around me. You guys gonna stick around for the fat lady? It seemed they were going stick it out to the end, and the class was packed the day before the final. You can imagine my surprise when I walked in to the final (late) and there were the ten cats who were sitting around me during the last several months, the other 290 kids had dropped the course and had been still attending, planning to take the course again. I knew I had falling to the bottom of the bell. You had to see the Cheshire grin on these cats’ faces as they welcomed me to the final exam, “Glad you could make it Hollywood.” I had to beg the professor for a passing grade, which was cheaper and easier than taking the course again. Of course I pointed out to him he never taught the material, sent in an aide, and was complicit with a money mill scam.

The three of us sat down in the back of plant ID class, immediately Dr. D said, “I want the three troublemakers up front”. I thought this was funny, and commented that we were actually the good, the bad, and the ugly. Just then our other accomplice walked in and I dubbed him the tardy. Raphael was the good, I was the bad, and Tom was the ugly. “K man” was the tardy. I called us the four hortsmen, not the riders of the apocalypse (the “big 4” space aliens). We were their option, more like corn, beans, squash, and peppers. Us four vegetables held horticultural conferences and in addition to studying the material, we talked about relevant ideas. The save the Everglades project was just kicking off. One of the directors of the horticulture department, Dr. Cane, could build an entire grey water filter/disneyeverglades, he knew everything about it, yet was not even in on the restoration. He was Dr. Cane! Even if he didn’t have this name, he’d have been one the top guys to consult with about this project. It looked like the State of Florida and Feds could not read.

The turfgrass professor was Dr. Grady Miller. He taught us that “image is everything”. He had a name that loosely matched his title and main concern, he could have been an agronomist. In the turfgrass world, image is everything. What it takes to achieve this image is steel, fuel, labor, chemicals and water. What this image doesn’t include is native plants and animals. It’s our number one irrigated crop in the U.S. We spend at least 40 billion dollars a year in cultivation that produces an environment with no native plants and animals. It’s our number one pastime. Turfgrass cultivation is the ultimate expression of the monoculture that got us here. Americans believe in monoculture. It’s hard to question their faith, look how far they’ve run with it. The history of this belief explains how we got where we are and it is very complex but is simply spelled Fertile Crescent Saharafication.

The horticultural trinity corn, beans, and squash is the real deal. It is the answer to the terrific problem of monoculture. Reclaimed grey water irrigated rice is good with corn, beans, and squash. Corn, which might be the real gold discovered in the New World, is a C4 plant and photosynthesis differently. If plants are an engine corn has a turbo. The bean fixes nitrogen in the soil that the corn needs, eliminating fertilizer. The squash is the perfect edible container for the corn and beans. Just fill the gourd with corn and beans, add water, salt, and pepper, cover with an acorn fed squirrel and toss it on the fire. Don’t laugh as this might be as close to heaven (on this surface) as you get. Also, they taught us that if a space alien did ever drop off a plant on the surface of this planet, corn, with its unique photosynthesis would be the likely suspect, it had like one “cousin” but it was insignificant. This is why I often tell people that on the missions to Mars besides digging up the soil and baking the water out of it, which is the same thing we’re doing down here, they’re looking for dams and canals, and a corn kernel.

The real juicy stuff we learned in Physiology. If I told you a bunch of good ole boy Mississippi cotton farmers got control of the world’s food supply and quickly dished it off for a half million dollars you would probably think I was crazy. Terminator seeds, this is an oxymoronic idea, these seeds produce GMO fruit but the seed from the fruit doesn’t germinate. Thus, the farmer has to keep buying the seeds from the corporation. By far, the largest of these corporations is Monsanto, located in St. Louis. Saint Louis was a king from N. France. He was canonized after his second crusade ended in disease. Monsanto also makes Zombie seeds and pull the plug seeds which are the answer to terminators seeds problems, and if that doesn’t control the problem Monsanto promises the exorcist seed will. St. Louis’s Monsanto even makes the abortion seed. It’s possible that monocultered GMO’s will feed humanity’s increasing population. We’re like rats though, the more we eat, the more we propagate. The St. Louis Corporation Monsanto, tells us to have faith, they’ll just make the GMO’s more productive. Another scenario is that with control of the world’s food supply, they could purposely sell a bunch of seeds that produce no fruit, or food with side effects. Using food as a weapon is not a new technique. Another scenscario is that another organism could get control of our food supply and change the plants genetically thus changing us genetically and making us easier to digest, more palatable, and more nutritious for them, or just zonk us out and take over. Boy those dudes who “created” the technology sure dished it off quick, for “pennies” maybe they were spooked. John Frances Queeny founded Monsanto, and in 1919 formed a partnership with a corporation from Wales. I just sat back in class over the next 2 years and as new GMO crops were engineered and entered the market the professors would make note of it and I just kept asking if they’d GMO’d the rice yet. Did they GMO the rice yet?

Another thing we learned here was that plants close their stomates (gas exchange sites) when it gets too hot to avoid too much water loss. This basically stops photosynthesis. Plants had a narrow “window” of temperature they could grow in. If it gets too hot they don’t grow. This is one of the largest problems of a global warming event.

Dr. Dehgan, “Dr. D”, was the professor of Plant I.D. and Al was his T.A. that led the actual plant I.D. in the garden. This was to be the best class I ever took in preparation for my investigative assault on the dam world. It was my greatest tool for diagnosing the patient. The plants generally have two names, a Genus species name, usually two parts and a common name which is often a local language interpretation of the Latin name. The Latin names of the plants often described its appearance, growth habit, or product when viewed from a human point of view. The parts or syllables of the Latin words used to describe the plants had their own meaning. The people, usually botanist, who gave the plants their Latin Genus species names, were usually extremely intelligent and put lots of thought into the name.

The Latin names are very descriptive and exact as the Latin meaning is unchanging, theoretically, it’s a dead language and isn’t changing or evolving like English, Japanese, French or what have you. It gives the different kinds of scientists a base language to impart information about plants and a world of other stuff. The combination of the many common names and Latin name give a very precise, yet loaded with all kinds of double, triple… entendres and other almost infinite meanings if perhaps one letter is changed. Thus spelling is extremely important. Spelling is kind of my weak point but I use the “errors” to my and life’s advantage and I’ve found misspelling a word gave it at least two different meanings. For the sake of this class one had to spell the names correctly and the only way I could remember how to spell it correctly was to remember the meaning of the words parts so I became more knowledgeable about words in general, which is very powerful. It’s important when communicating to use the best or correct words as possible.

After thorough exhaustive careful note taking for decades I’d come to find a property owner, for instance, had something to say about life, an idea to put forth, or a disclosure or revelation to make and often they would, whether conscious of it or not, make this statement clear in the garden area they were in control of with the plants they either deliberately choose to plant or “life” planted their coincidingly, or both. Raphael Decomis at this time often cautioned me not to judge people (pointing out it was against the law of thE manuel), and when a man named Raphael Decomis says this to me it’s significant. I always argued that I judged the persons actions and the results of their actions not the person, but the whole Latin meaning of the “plant billboard” they had maintained or not at their place kinda solved this judgment problem. It was as if the people admitted it or judged themselves. One just had to know how to read. This was slick and an easy way to know “what’s going on” at or in the structure that occupied the site, they told you. You didn’t have to wonder. The # of the plants could be revealing as well, as the #’s had their own Latin meanings, and this added to the information put forth by the individual and life.

This is basically, and then some, how I came to be able to enter communication or confrontation so confidently or sure of what was the case, to be omnipotent and omnipresent, at the time and site of an interaction with an individual, group or entity. I saw the sign. For me it begins with the plants, then the animals, the meaning of the words and parts of words, the location and time of the message as I approach the… I know what’s going to happen, or what card to pick so to speak, what to say before I get there, what’s going to be there before I get there. The signs said to, or said so.

I woke up the morning of the Plant I.D. final exam and looked at my clock. As usual my alarm clock failed on the day of the final, this is a reoccurring motif. The final had already started and I was 15 miles away from campus with a bike to get there. After realizing/digesting the near impossibility of a positive outcome, I stepped in my shoes, slammed a glass of water and tore off on my bicycle. I never made it to Fifield Hall so fast. I just dropped my bike in the grass next to the bike rack and sprinted through the building/up the stairs to the classroom passing my classmates as they all departed. I made it to the examination site with only a handful or so of minutes to go.

I had to quickly plead my case to “Dr. D” who informed me that by University law it was illegal for him to give me the exam as other students had already left. “I could lose my job.” I just about guarantied I hadn’t stopped to talk to anyone by my extremely elevated respiration rate. I was huffing and puffing, sweating profusely. He agreed to let me take it. I’m sure he was intrigued as to how I’d fare on a difficult exacting test, in my condition, with just a few minutes to take it. I did the best I could, answering the easiest ones first, but basically just tearing through the whole thing and scribbling down the first thing that popped in my head. I passed.

To the reader, this whole “late for the final test” thing and how it applies to the larger picture at present, my chosen penname “Justin Thyme” and I and Life’s ability to “pass the test” could be viewed as good news. You do realize though that you, the reader, are presented with this situation, now, for real. At least you’ve got the “horizon line” notes in your hand.

The University of Florida Horticulture program was informative. There was a Horticultural joke that they told that kind of boiled the present garden situation down to its base, “You can lead a whore to culture but you can’t make