The Driving License

Which are your points for living if we all die into cold leaky stink or ash anyway? What's the point of dying if we could otherwise live continuously? Heading down the river on AAA rite of ritual passage. Six years since last I drove this way not imagining this homing ritual to drive again with automating locamoting license to ambulate for six more years of what are my points for living thru we all die anyway. Last time I stood in line to buy my laminated aging image of ego's self-chauffeur, family van driver complete with wheelchairs and alternatively designed adult strollers strolling on toward sixty-four, I was so sure fifty-eight must be my last point of dying to live no more than five more. I was deadly tired of fighting every air-born disaster. My brilliant friends of young adulthood, generation of young Aquarian post-anger management potential, all gone. Whether their hearts still beat for more time and we yet breathe Earth's air together, or whether everless time to laugh thru our points of dying into otherwise life's discontinuous absence. Alone we stand in that last license line another anonymous generation of those who will not rejoin our transmillennial lines, wondering at this climatic mystery of ever-vanishing life cycles, after the last grandparent's child dies siblings and cousins look about furtively at each other, over our shoulders, take him, not me; take me, not her, waiting our turn to turn into pillars of dying salt. We're next. Or, is there another chapter, postscript of revolutionary eco-warrior proportion, EarthTribe SuperLiving Hero? I wonder as I wait to review my new ancient-streaming vision, remembering when my brother turned toward sixty-four remembering this was our male year of dying dad standing alone in his last license line. He did not see sixty-five, year of full socially retiring commodification for those uniting states of freedom's mythic evolutionary becoming, reverse cultural face of mutual enslavement to cannibalistic ownership of minds with humane-spirited bodies; gardeners of social justice health confused about where we lost our points thru living as if dying to automate ego-ugly licenses, carbon footprint excesses wiped on the backs of servitude, hubris for yet more lines with already too much space between; I sleep amazed with wonders of dying points toward life's more optimal unfolding, readers writing more published nutritional words than writers could ever possibly live wisely enough to read with deep digestive wisdom. I see a frail thinner sinner, this new, still embryonically warm, face of Elder, farming memories of HIV doctors and earthy nurses surprised about my winning age as oldest survivor on their list not yet deleted, pointing to my living as iconic of divinely graceful dying, living thru and yet beyond my own AIDS EcoWarrior time, beneficiary of unfathomable loss of brilliant firey minds with anciently plagued bodies, Positive viral incubators of Lose-to-Lose biochemistry, anti-synergetic loss of life thru ugly dis-eased dying thru dark self-engagement unto demise... Driving back upriver, against regeneration's need for fertile tides, I wonder what I could fade into at seventy. Would my automated license issue vaporous ghosts? Or perhaps a host of memories not imagined when sixty-four raised so many points for dying thru living poured out warm embers lighting faces of love along my way upriver toward homes with mysteriously functional, puzzlingly polycultural, families surrounded by EarthTribe cousins living and dying interdependently, like trees shedding seeds pointing toward next line's regenesis. Which are my points for living, those times I am dying to repeat? What is my pointed dying thru life's relicensed visits? Arriving back in EarthTribe's Home