Future Shock and Island Hopping

The Queen of Bohemia decided that nine years was long enough to be outside the dream that the rest of the world was dreaming. At the behest of her prince and princess, she allowed the little box to penetrate the castle. She allowed the magical gadgets of the mechanical Gods to occupy their little hands. Actually the real reason was that she was curious. What is it really like? What do the people outside believe? What story is the Squid spinning a web of delusion and sorrow? Maybe there is some art out there amidst it all. Certainly she received the news -o-the-world via her magic box the Jin related to her each morning, but sometimes the quiet was too much. Maybe there was something missing. She was curious, and so she decided to do a little sociological study and observe the situation outside the kingdom and see if it had changed since the first King died so long ago.

 I’ve never seen a reality television show. I’ve never seen Friends or The Sopranos or Dancing with Stars or Survivor or Who Wants to be a Millionaire. OK, I did see a glimpse of the latter, but I thought the questions were too stupid, the drama and boring interludes unworthy of my precious time that is usually spent working or with children or ten thousand other more interesting things I can come up to do with my time. I cannot imagine voluntarily sitting through a commercial. Zombies. Zombies I think are the only ones who could do that, in my opinion. In actuality I have watched very little television in the nine years since my husband died. We sold the four TVs that dotted the house. I welcomed the quiet from the scattering noise of the television he would turn on after work. The quiet in the evening that used to be penetrated by reruns of Law and Order. We had this game of seeing actors reappear in different episodes and remembered which ones they were. I thought Sex in the City was trite and stupid. No wonder those whiny American women dind’t have a man. What self-absorbed skeletons, I thought. So out the televisions went. I loved the quiet, and only went over to my father’s house to view the Olympics or see the presidential debates or catch a glimpse of the Japanese tsunami and earthquake footage. I did get Netflix some time ago and watched a few episodes of Weeds when I was sick a month ago and was tired of reading. I identified with the main character who was widowed and would collapse a lot in the face of obstacles. But I lasted six episodes before I felt the plot line was a bit silly and the characters unbelievable even though I did agree that all that Suburbistan is the source of America's malaise and lack of imagination and the biggest reason of why I had to escape it. But since the anniversary of my husband’s death is March 23, I thought I’d check it out again.

Plus Tonio really needs it, to watch baseball or the news in Spanish or know what time it is. Just looking at the remote makes me anxious. I can’t channel flip because it seems to be a thousand channels and one hundred of them seems to all be shopping networks. Twiggy London fashion showing me her elastic waistband pants. I do stop at Montel and his juicing infommercial channel. He has the psychic Sylvia Browne on as a guest. She seems so odd-voiced and looking, and I can’t believe the panel of people who want their future read. “Will I be successful?” Browne’s answer is unintelligible and I don’t know how to turn up the television volume. Who sits through this? I decide to read Pablo Neruda's Cien Sonetos de Amor instead and my kids take over with full finesse to figure out the remote. I also broke down and got I-Phone, since my son was crying for it. I needed a phone for Tonio and my daughter needed one as well, so the price was right for its safety and technological educational functions as well as better service at the house. I was shocked at the I-Phone’s abilities. An Alvin Toffler Future Shock moment for sure. “Does it take soil samples?” I asked the sales woman, waving it over the counter like I remember from the Star Trek episodes I watched a child. “No.” “How about diagnose illness?” I waved it over her body.

My 14-year-old son was hanging out in the corner, pretending he didn’t know me. I drop things a lot, so we got a military-style ultra protective case with a clip on so that I could wear it on my belt and alleviate about ten hours a week from my schedule that is devoted to searching for my cell phone around the house or digging for it at the bottom of my bag while driving. It's positively Borg. Am I am in danger of being sucked into conformity? I spent the afternoon researching mild endocervical dysplasia on the web with the I-Phone, since that was my result of the biopsy. No worries, the doctor said. We’ll see you back in six months. I’m to rest, boost my immunity system, start juicing and be proactive. I had been going crazy eating from the garden, but as usual, I got bored of that. My body craved cheese and I went bizerk eating it for a while, even broke down and got some gourmet salami. Then my face broke out.

Back to the garden of eating. I pruned the tops of my basil this morning, the first day of spring, and made some great pesto. All other plants are too small, so I will venture out and load up on vegetables at the farmer’s market this evening. I’ll start juicing, blending and remain low key, in retreat in my garden paradise, content to write, do art and hang out with the kids on the beach this spring break. Sun drunk, my friend said it was, that lethargy after an hour of so on the beach. I am sun drunk indeed, relaxed and ever healing in my own way and time. I was able to get off island for 36-hours and fly to St. Thomas to meet the King for a lovely escape. A 20-minute flight on the little sea plane over turquoise water flown by pilots in khaki shorts. I never liked St. Thomas for it's hit you over the head tourism and zombie shopping American style. But the water from our hotel room was calm and gorgeous with boats bobbing on the water as the lighted jewels of Charlotte Amalie twinkered on the hills across the bay.

Sex is such a rejuvenating experience. I laughed and cried through half of my 124 orgasms. Tantric training was the best investment. It had been two months since I'd seen him after all. Love heals all. Really I think sex is the best medicine, wringing out every stale piece of toxic energy stuck in the koshas and body cells, bringing in fresh prana to penetrate the cells. What a world we would live in if we all just had more sex, all the soldiers trapped in America's wars would come home, rip off their rusty blood-stained armor and fall into the arms of the goddess every time, making the world anew again instead of destroying it. And now I sit and write and hang out with the kids for spring break, making plans for our trip back to the mainland this summer. I reborn and healing in every way.