ISSUE 115

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 Welcome to Super-Duper Conscious Living. We pay attention to our emotions, thoughts, and diets to the point where it’s hard to decide anything without a six-week retreat to the mountains and heart-to-hearts with each member of our loving support crew—Mary, Heather, Clay, Logan, Jane, April, John, Lucinda, Mom, and the collected soul-spirits of our deceased family. To eat a banana or not to eat a banana? By the time we decide, we just might be dead.
 When we are angry, we know we are angry. When we are sad, we know we are sad. When we have indigestion, we know eating that pan of chocolate fudge brownies was a bad idea. This soul knowledge comes only after years upon years of thinking about the thoughts we have when we do things.
 We are super aware of all inanimate objects. A pie who says, “Eat me, I am so delicious” is evil incarnated as delicious, homemade bliss. And after we destroy it, we know to reconnect with our soul chakras and apologize for hurling a pie into the overhead fan.    
 And guess what? As a part of Super-Duper Conscious Living, you get to journal! Well, you get to journal after personalizing your journal. Well, you get to journal after handcrafting the journal that you will then personalize. Well, you will journal after purchasing the materials you will then handcraft and personalize.
 Into this journal you will pour more poetry than should ever be allowed. Forget about straightforward poems. We write long, torturous poetry, stanzas that loop back on themselves and stumble into miserable soliloquys about the essence of a potato. It doesn’t make sense. It’s not supposed to make sense.  
 We live in a super conscious co-op where everyone is accepted, except conservatives. We brush each other’s teeth. We hold hands and take communal shits. We save the environment by giving each other piggy-back rides to and from Alfalfa’s—so if you see someone carrying an adult in a baby sling, that’s what’s going on.
 Humans come second in our household, meaning ideally, we would like to live with a tree or something earthy, like a rock or a corpse. Of course, the animals in our home are respected, not only dogs and cats but spiders, ants, and dust mites. If you have a problem with them, you have a problem with us.  
 If you want to live in our co-op, you must prove you are in tune with your soul consciousness by crafting a primeval song with a raging lute solo and the poignant cries of a whooping crane in mourning. Even though you are not a tree, we want to pretend you are, so you get extra points if you can produce pollen and stand still for two years at a time. And when we ask what you thought about in those two years, you should give an answer that makes us think, Wow. This guy should write a book.   
 We eat communally and take ten to twelve minutes to chew each bite before we swallow. The goal here is to have the food become the sort of dilapidated mush you would feed to a baby—except that baby is you and that mush is now your life.
 Each of our footsteps glance off the earth, and we breathe intensely, sucking up air like a vacuum cleaner stuck on a rug. When we ride a bike, we ride in the middle of the road. When we drive, we drive mindfully and clog up traffic like the hairy beasts we are. Other drivers curse at us, and we blow a kiss to Mother Earth, whispering, “All for you, babe.” 
 If you have boundaries, super-duper conscious living will erode them until you embrace random homeless people and spend hours reading them your poetry because they understand—and they have no place to hide.
 Is this life for you? Can you handle the introspection? How do you feel about the communal shits part? Only know that fifty years into super-duper conscious living, you will have no prejudice, no racist thoughts, and no carbon-emissions, not even farts. You will be enlightened, a Buddha in Boulder, a super-duper Buddha.  
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