At the back of the hill

Warning: If you stay here long enough you will gain weight! Grazing here strongly suggests that you are either omnivorous, or a glutton. And you might like cheese-doodles.
BTW: I'm presently searching for another person who likes cheese-doodles.
Please form a caseophilic line to the right. Thank you.

Wednesday, August 17, 2016


There's a video on Facebook of a strangely dressed woman making animal sounds while drumming. It is stated that she is interpreting for her spirit animals (plural), and that somehow this is all deeply meaningful, and if you don't have a spirit animal you are in likely all ways lacking, deficient, and altogether too bourgeois.

The only reason why people keep reposting it is because she is young, shapely, and blonde. And nearly naked. No, I shan't post that video here, because some things do NOT need to be shared. But I will observe that for someone who represents an entire menagerie of wild and possibly rabid animals, she is remarkably clean.
No beasts that roll around in mud.
Or play with their food.
After it's dead.

I'm not sure, but I assume that she is full of chakras, drinks only fair trade coffee and kombucha, recycles religiously, and will vote for Jill Stein.
It is very likely that she is either vegan or gluten-intolerant.

This is the height of the tourist season in San Francisco, and many of our visitors, if they have spirit animals at all, are guided by the mighty beached whale.

Proud, noble, immense, and slightly whiff.
Radiating their bloated goodness.
That, too, is meaningful.


When faced with a choice of where to eat yesterday, I picked the place a block and a half way from "Tourist Mob Fustercludge Crossing" (Grant Avenue and Washington Street), and ended up enjoying the peace and quiet of a restaurant filled with Cantonese people. No offense to white people, of whom I am proudly one also, but Caucasians are often loud and unbearable in groups. Or weirdly obsessive, and possibly paranoid.
Some of them dress funny, smell bad, and eat too much.
Not so the local Cantonese folks.
They are refreshing.

Plus, being so white I glow in the dark, I can listen in on their conversations while looking totally oblivious, and none of them will know the difference.

[To clarify: Yes, I do speak Cantonese. Toishanwaa, not so much.]

Unlike me, Cantonese people seldom talk about white people.
Nor do they talk about mundane trivialities.
What they talk about is food.

I seriously doubt that Cantonese folks have spiritual animals. That, plus auras, karma, getting in touch with nature, shamanism, the Amazon rainforest, crystal-healing, special diets, juice-cleansing, and regular appointments for high-colonics, must be a total white person thing.

Bellyaching about white people also seems to be a white person thing.
Which probably means that I am perfect at being white.
I should concentrate on meaningfulness.
Or interpretive dance.


You don't get to choose your spirit animal. It chooses you. If you don't like the animal, you must cleanse yourself with an all-organic fruit juice cure, for several days, meditate, and do yoga. Eventually the hagfish will leave your body through the anus and you will become Vani Hari or Vandana Shiva.
Both of whom are spirit animals that only white people can have.

[There's also Deepak Chopra, who has: "epistemic humility, reverence for existence, (and) value(s) transcendence". No, no one knows what the bloody hoohers that means.]

Don't forget to tell everyone you know all about it.
Because spirituality is meaningful.
And, like, important.
Only yours.

My spirit animal eats bacon.

This blogpost was fuelled by strong coffee; I am totally jazzed right now.

NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.


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