The Highway Shaman Wisdom Reading
for June 8, 2020
In the first week of June, 2020, there were a lot of riots and discord in the USA. I saw myself falling into that crack, judging the good and bad of it. Then I was reminded that it isn’t my business; that I am here to realize the CHRIST in me and in my EXISTENCE become clean and clear, so I can see tremendous love falling on me from all dimensions; on all of us. FOUR OF FIRE suggests that I am entering into a new creative phase. So I have decided to get back into writing my TWO CROWS novels, now from a more enlightened point of view. I have included Chapter One in this blog below.
The Elements Tarot:
CHRIST: Selfless service from a context of truth and dispassion. Forgiveness. Presence of Christ. Humility.
REVERSED: Unwillingness to accept negative aspects in oneself.
Osho Zen Tarot:
EXISTENCE (The Magician) –
You are not accidental. Existence needs you. Without you something will be missing in existence and nobody can replace it. That’s what gives you dignity, that the whole of existence will miss you. The stars and sun and moon, the trees, birds and earth – everything in the universe will feel a small place is vacant which cannot be filled by anybody except you. This gives you a tremendous joy, a fulfillment that you are related to existence, and existence cares for you. Once you are clean and clear, you can see tremendous love falling on you from all dimensions.
The Good Tarot:
FOUR OF FIRE – A new creative phase, celebration, pleasure and harmony in relationships.
“Dancers have partners, singers have musicians helping them create sweet music, and I find others who are in sync with me and my desires. It’s a time for celebrating friendships and all that others bring to life, a time for revelry and relishing the pleasure of being in good company. Making magic with others is the focus at this time.”
Stories of the Highway Shaman
A question in your nerves is lit
Yet you know there is no answer fit to satisfy
Saturday morning – 2023
A roll of thunder wakes Lucky from a most comforting dream. 8:30 am. Portland’s weekend weather forecast calls for non-stop torrential downpours, threatening to cancel Portland’s annual Gay Pride Parade. Lucky checks the news on his iPhone; it’s been cancelled. He moans, and then snuggles under his down quilt, wanting to fall back into his fantasy dream. But he’s lost in thought.
Lucky Two Crows is a full-blooded American Indian, a Blackfeet, born in Montana on the reservation. The BIA took him from his alcoholic mother when he was six, and then shuttled him from one foster home to another until he was old enough to run away. By age sixteen he became a Portland street renegade. He found an Aikido dojo and became a dedicated martial artist. He was smart enough to stay away from alcohol abuse, drugs and prison. For ten years Lucky made a meager living repairing computers. He also performed in powwows, riding horses and shooting arrows. At age twenty-six, ten years ago, he became a detective for a prominent Portland Indian Rights attorney, JJ Jones. For the past three years, since the great pandemic of 2020, their workload has been sporadic; prompting Lucky to open his own business.
L&P Investigations is a detective agency. Peter Miller, an IT specialist and licensed Private Eye is his business partner. They work with CJ, Clair Jackson, a hot blond genius firewall buster and private eye. Adam is a multi-tattooed skate-board riding geek from another planet computer genius. Jane, his girlfriend, with her a nose-ring and purple hair, is their secretary. All five are dedicated to saving the people from food poisoning by the global cartels.
L&P Investigations is both a legitimate detective agency and a false front for their stealth anti-agrochemical cartel computer hacking aspirations. Taking down the food cartels is the team’s ultimate goal, along with stopping the re-emergence of underground sex slavery in Oregon.
Lying in bed, Lucky thinks about his stallion and the police horses who were cursing the rain, the idea of getting soaked in a parade. Their prayers to stay indoors with the warm wraps on their backs, secure in their stables, were answered. As was Lucky’s black stallion in his Beaverton barn.
Like the horses, Lucky is safe and secure under a pile of down quilts in his Pearl District home. He had been dreaming of her, not CJ who has the hots for him, but some other non-defined hot gal. He imagined her snuggling in his arms, whispering in his ear, ‘don’t leave me baby, stay here.’ If only.
When it rains, Lucky lets Tonto, a stray black cat alley survivor like him, lie on his chest. If she could, she’d sleep on his face. He likes strays because they take care of themselves; aren’t needy, unlike most of the women he’s known. Once a month he buys a big bag of cat food and puts it under cover on the back porch. He leaves just enough of an opening for Tonto. Poison bulkheads keep the ants away, and if a rat comes anywhere near, good luck: Tonto’s favorite raw protein. Even if she ran out of food, just like Lucky, she’d figure something out. Survivor’s always do. He often wishes he was as wild and free as her.
All the political uprising in 2020 deeply disturbed Lucky. He thinks that politics, like a Gay Pride Parade, should come out once a year. Give everyone, gay or straight, red or blue, free reign to flaunt their flamboyant tomfoolery and exhausting cacophonies. For one day they could let loose with their righteous squabbles, screw each other, and then sleep on it. As it is, to him politics is rife with endless graft, strings attached to personal deals and gains and re-election campaigns. Lucky’s team wants to do something with no strings attached. Their theft would be entirely anonymous, giving away large bundles of money like an invisible Santa Claus. Their hope is for a joyous country full of unexpected good nature surprises.
But their hopes lacked an important ingredient: money. They need money. They need a more powerful motherboard, one capable of holding not giga or terra but petabytes of information. They need a control center with at least twenty thirty-six-inch monitors. They have the space in their new Portland office, but no money to purchase the equipment.
Regardless of the money, their impatience forces them to begin somewhere. Today they had planned to hack into Piedmont-Syn’s website. Change the homepage.
Their plan was to participate in the Gay Pride Parade, even though only Peter was gay. They would all dress flamboyantly, with Lucky on his black stallion, bare-chested, face blackened with war-paint. He’d be the full-blooded Blackfeet warrior, bow and arrows in hand, yelling war chants like he did at the powwows. Their hope was his juxtaposed outrageousness would make the five o’clock news. This would be proof they were there, in the parade and innocent of hacking into Piedmont Syn’s website.
Lucky agreed with the plan, and yet he wasn’t 100% sure; maybe 99% sure it would work. He is now thinking that maybe the delay was to their good fortune. Just one simple little glitch, a trace back to them, would ruin their lives and dreams forever.
Lucky really doesn’t want to get up but his tummy is protesting. He decides to go to Mary Jane’s, his favorite Portland café; his best destination for comfort and security on a day like today. He puts on his blue jeans and denim long sleeve shirt. Jeans tucked in, he laces up his mid-calf boots, instantly as toasty and secure as mukluks in an Alaskan blizzard. All his leather is freshly oiled and waterproofed. He then slips on his Scully’s dark leather oiled long coat, sets his matching wide-brimmed Stetson as low as it would go. He looks like a long rider in a spaghetti western. Before heading out into the storm he checks himself in the mirror. “I’m one bad-ass Indian.