To Nelson occupiers, the week after their birth: Greetings and thanks to the crafty, coy, cunning, committed Kootenay community who coalesced and concretized to co-create a co-operative carnival of compassionate outcry last Saturday afternoon and ever onward. With playful pathos, plangent pleading and pungent preaching, a pleasingly polymorphic plurality of pleasantly pissed off people brought exponentially multiplying pints of plucky plasma pumping to viscous, vivid rivers of vital heart blood flowing back into the necrotic, moribund husk of fib-ulation cardiac arrests.

The beginning of the end of fear is near because the end of the beginning is here it's clear, there's too much love light in our human community to bear shame shade and guilt gloom, too many games to play to have time for the consuming, demanding work of hurting each other. The joker has been played, flicked sailing across the room to topple the corrupt card castle, watch the royals flush as a friendly full house tells it straight. An intergenerational non-denominational, no less than sensational razzle dazzling display of human pyrotechnics; of mill grist and flower foam, of gill mist and power prone, burped bubble bobbing to the blithely bored boulevards of Nelson, banishing bland blase so-so no's whose slow-mo flows won't blow out our glow grow.

Saturday was nowhere near the start, not even in the same zip code as the end, but as I pressed my ear to the concrete at around two o'clock, I did detect a tectonic grumbling, a molten, mashing munch grumble, as no few feet stomped, cracking the crisp cocoon of drowsy snooze and awoke the ore-beasts, the mineral monsters, the spirits of the earth who are the puppeteers of us pallid people, the wizards in the wings, the faeries in the fields who rise to guide those who would care for their seas and streams, their groves and dreams. I felt the restless stirring of the long still. I saw several billion wipe sleep crust from fluttering eyelids. I heard the long silent speak and buoyant blabbermouths and cheeky chatterboxes raise the beautiful voices in stanzas of foetal star song.

We are the 100%. We are the 10,000%. We are so beyond percentages we spell our per, p-u-rrrrr, and our cents s-c-e-n-t. Welcome to the old world disordered, a new world unbordered, the cryptic kingdom unlorded, and when we get our playful business sorted, a crass crisis aborted, a fast flowing river forded and a miraculous, motherly maiden maven courted. To those occupiers holding space, propping open the door of evolutionary participation, those whose stubborn solidness is born of luminous love, those celebrating the birth of post-cataclysm culture, keep taking care of each other, know that you're in the right place, and warm your hands on my flaming heart.

I love you, big thanks.