The J.Brady site is Hayduke!

Johneo and I started the forms for John Brady's cabin this week.  His site is in the valley of ridiculus distance from everything else.  It is only accessable by serious four wheel drive machines.  Roads steep like the log ride at Great America.  His site sits in a valley totally surrounded by peaks.  He will be in an earthen nest for three years.  You cannot even see the Lama dome from his place.  He ground is wicked hard.  We'll be forming into solid kaliche.  So, dear readers, it's AS IF his home will rise from the mountain itself. 

     I take this dramatic tone because everything about the Brady Project is intense.  We've had to make use of Big Geoff's (supreme commander of the Highway Patrol and Protector diety of DMU retreat valley, owner of all machines large and hardcore) tricked out 4wheel monster jeep.  The jeep was made by post apocalyptic teenagers with vision and genius and beer.  There are THREE shifters.  There is a throttle ON the stick shift so when you are at a complete stop on a 90 Degree incline, you rev the gas up before you release the clutch and smoothly accelerate upwards.  The rear bumper of this unstoppable war goat is in actuallity a compressed air tank.  You flip a toggle on the dash and an air compressor comes on.  Deflated tires are not an issue for this thing.  The cab is open and the passengers are forced to inhale the petrol exhalations of the off road dinosaur they have climbed into.  A cloth cap over the roll bars protects you from the unrelenting radioactive warfare of the desert sun.  We piled over 500 lbs of portland cement into the back and it lost no power or traction.  We attached a trailer with hundreds of pounds of form wood, the jeep acted as if nothing was unusual.  I drive be-goggled and bandanade.  Myself, a dust covered deserado of construction and destruction of my self imposed limitations.  Johneo and I are the messagers of BADASS in the retreat valley when behind the wheel and headed to Master Brady's site.  Upon reflection, it's completely appropriate that Brady's site is blocked in by mountains on all sides.  If he wasn't thusly encased, the shere POWER of his meditation would ripple outwards to all the other retreat cabins and DESTROY the personal practice of every other retreatant.  Tantric visions of the highest secret that keeps itself secret would ripple out like the armagedon wave of enlightenment, puree-ing the minds of those not ready to walk where angles tred. A flying arm bar of bliss.  As it is, Earl B. is dangerously close to Big Daddy Brady.  Fortunately, there is an ancient rock outcropping that acts as fortress wall between the two cabins.  Only Earl's outdoor shower and toilet will face Brady head on.  Coco's site sits even closer to ground zero.  For her, there is no hope. She will face the power of his samadhi full on. 

     The ground is so hard at Brady's that the metal spikes holding the forms in place mearly sit in loose holes.  Joheo and I both sustained injuries from the maul as it bounced off the spike striking solid rock.  A fire ant crawled up my shoe and onto my leg.  Suddenly my upper thigh is on fire as organic acid sends panic through my body.  I hop around madly slapping my leg forgetting all Bodhisattva vows in an instant of primitive self preservation.  The injured ant falls from my pants.  I gently carry him over to his comrades.  He is curled in fetal position struggleing to regain cohesive movement.  His friends instantly grab him and carry him toward the nest.  I stand ashamed and remorseful.  An ant bite is enough to send me on a berserker killing spree.  John Brady's site has made clear the violence that lives in my heart. 

  The sun is setting, the forms are set for the first pour.  I should be doing Four Powers in four wheel drive to purify for the ant.  I am jack hammerd and sledge hammered out.  We pick up Earl and crew for the 15 min. drive out of the valley.  We are monkey wrenchers of the mind, our mental afflictions always close behind.  As Jeep monster pulls us over another peak I see the insane orange of Arizona dusk.  I taste kaliche dust, portland cement and exhaust.  There's a man out there who is still fighting.  He's turned the raw power of his mind and skill away from outward enemies, seven headed hydra, frakin smoke screen.  He's turned the guns inward for the real and final battle against the goliath of his own ignorance.  Somewhere out there, I know that Hayduke lives.