Monday, January 16, 2006

On the Other Hand

Here's how my five year plan unfolded:

I left my sweetheart, went east then went home then left my sweetheart and went to the Middle East then went home but my sweetheart had soured on the idea of me so I then went east again, married a California fruitcake with a smashing rack, and together the four of us went to the Middle East, anchored ourselves near the sea side for a few years, saved money, went home to set up the Fruitcake in a PhD program--bringing her five year plan to a successful conclusion, and along the way we bought land in New mexico, later opened up a savings account in L.A. then I returned alone to the Middle East. A few months later my California fruitcake and my savings went ahead without me. I punched an Indian for no good reason other than he pissed me off, became addicted to roofies, detoxed from the roofies then went to Lafayette Louisiana to a cublicle.

A year later, I first returned to the Gulf because return to a cubicle did not automatically earn me an enraptured audience, I went to The Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, the land of higher earnings.

It was there in the country renowned for its Spartan amphitheater of the absurd that I develped nasty habits. Here's a rationalization. I have several. This one is most often used.

From the secretary to the librarian to the nurses in the clinic, skirts were not appropriate work attire. The only skirts which crossed my stage in KSA were worn by the wives of my American and British co-workers', all of the skirts seemed to be from the Philippines and all were selected by my co-workers from one of the hundreds of services in Manila which matched up trousers to skirts for a fee.

I had no desire to re-attach myself to a life-long companion for a fee. Also, I have never had an attraction to China doll types--publicly shy and demure subservients who were in private (at least according to legend) mattress burning boner busting bedroom firestorms.

It was not that I objected to the fee so much; in fact, I no doubt spent several times over what my co-workers had spent to nuzzle suppler skin. Asianettes do not sweeten my sour, moo goo my guy pan, steam my buns.

I was content for a few months to cross the causeway from the kingdom to what was then the Emirate of Bar None, and hand my pictures of dead kings over to Slavic sirens. In exchange for the cost of a dinner date in the US, I chartered my world, flesh and devil associates for a one-off, non-monogamous and non-monotonous hourly affair of the lower chakras.

A'fore too long this era came to and end when Captain Bringdown, Major Bummer and General Self Loathing confined me to quarters.

In the Flash program of my life, with my time line beginning to shorten, I went to Modify > scene . + scene and imported what I thought was an uncomplicated vector but later found out I'd imported a pixalated embittered bitmap.

Moved to the UAE, yadda yadda yadda, left the UAE, yadda,

When I left here a few years ago, I told a few people why I would suddenly jump ship. Because my quasi-spouse had jumped ship months earlier, number crunchers working for the university felt I owed money which she owed and they were within their rights because we had convinced them (and the parish of East Baton Rouge, most fiends and family members, the US State Department and all of the above's cousins, aunts and uncles that we were indeed husband and wife.

Money was always a good reason for bailing, so when I clued in a few people to my secret intentions, that is, I was going home, I didn't mean to my accommodations provided by the university. I meant the United States.

I had a wife back there—or quasi-wife.

The miracle of the quasi-wife is no miracle but an action taken which opposes another action, like this: while waiting for a divorce to go through in one state and while in need of a marriage license from another state in order to travel to Muslim country and live sinless in the same home; a quasi spouse seems to be all benefits and no drawbacks.

We both agreed that when the time came to end our quasi marriage, we would simply pull on the cord which would open a hidden reserve chute that would quickly slow our descent from a rapid fatal one, which would have ended with a powerful slam dunk into a hard surface, shattering our body parts like a thousandshards of glass exploding across a basketball arena, to one which would prevented shatter and would end in a soft landing and a whistle announcing a tied game--all without lawyers, guns and money.


On the bus I ride to work, I listen to the same reverential reflections on how all of this Middle East twaddling about would end if only. . ., and how in five years all twaddle would end if only. . . if only the job in Equatorial Guinea comes through.

The position vacancy has appeared twice annually at the ESL café job search site for, as far as I know, at least five years. It is one of the hardest of hardship postings but the benefits include a salary paid in 50 gallon drums of hard cash and thirty days on/thirty days off with roundtrip flights to and from any point of the globe.

One Brit I've nicknamed Boswell because of his girth and his ability to amuse us all with auto-biographical anecdotes. He says, "Imagine it. You move to Equatorial Guinea, hook up with a jungle bunny, work for five years, and die of AIDS in your sixth year. And you won't have to come back to Gulf to work ever again."

During this phase of my existence, my first days back for good and back without a need to find my way to a cubicle, I took pleasure in an extraordinary type of simple contentment, like the inadvertent unearthing of a rejuvenating underground well, there were many tales to tell, songs to sing, my idea of pleasure had come across a new kind of passion. It was a renewed spot on self empowerment combined with the right sort of self forgiveness and it did not clash with my new role, the character "A man of audacity; a man of thoughtful abandon.

I was fearless. I didn't demean what I'd become or struggle to validate my goal, and I never questioned its foundation. I was transformed, resilient and understood intensely what it takes in this survive in the sweet old world. I believed I'd come home like a bolt from the blue, the born again man familiar enough with isolation to know the best therapies to cure it. I would turn fifty without heartache.

I was exactly where I expected to be when I finally met my daughter J. who had turned sixteen a few months before I returned.
I was living with a soullmate who had all the characteristics I expected.
I expected to find friends right where I had left them sixteen years ago.
Somethings I expected to be different. I expected that family had outgrown petty harms and had forgotten the source of ancient squabbles.

What happened was not what I had expected. My reaction to all of my expectations as they veered off course one by one was worse than anyone could have expected. No one was more surprised by my reaction than I was.

Expectations do the spade work for resentments and when resentments are handled through rampage, it is fair to expect contrition.

Finally, it is also fair to expect that a period contrition has a beginning and an end.

Sunday, January 15, 2006

"Love Letter Straight from my Heart"

Change is evolutionary. But evolution may be evidence of a flawed Intelligent Designer. This I.D. had a godly thought put to action when he created single celled glibby globs in a primordial gumbo a billion jillion years ago, morphed them into swimmers then crawlers then walkers and then talkers. That's when the flawed I.D. said, "D'oh!" The process of natural selection depends upon momentum. Vacillation. Change.

Saturday, January 14, 2006

Old Timey One Godism

About a thousand years before the wandering He and She Brews looked up from their golden cows and nekkid dancers, when Charleton "I am that I am" Heston aka Moses aka Mohsen aka The Once Lost But Now Found River Baby aka Wilderness Perambulator came down from the mountain with ten "ought nots" etched in clay tablets, telling a camp fire story about a burning bush that may have been the inspiration for Hugh Hefner, long before this and long before Abraham asked God, "Where do you want this killing done?" there was Zarathustra.

Now here we have a kinder, gentler prophet. No burning bushes. No cross to bear.

When Zarathustra received his message, the messenger was simply called "Good Thought" or "Have a Nice Day", depends upon which scholar of ancient Persian languages you ax.

So let me walk you through this. Zarathustra was mindin' his own bidness when the clouds parted and the Great Smiley Face appeared to him with a message from God. Not from one of the Gods, but God--a'member, Zarathustra is about to bring the word of monotheism for the first time to world east of Babylon. He didn't "invent" monotheism--but he did frame it in words which had a lick or two of sense and quite possibly these words put a bug into the ears of the He/Shebrews.

Monotheism is not exactly monotheism when there's a good and a bad--Zarathustra called the good "Truth" and the bad "The lie". The truth's domain was Paradise. The Lie's domain was Hell.

How do you like this version of the end times and the punishment awaiting sinners:
According to Zoroastrian End Times: Sinners will be punished for 3 days, but are then forgiven. The world will reach perfection as poverty, old age, disease, thirst, hunger and death are halted.

3 days! That's like detention. That's like a time out. That's not even going to bed without supper.

OK? Now, Zoroastrian concepts, we all should know, parallel greatly Jewish, Christian, and Islamic eschatological beliefs. Each is generally understood to be a derivation of Zoroastrian.

What I find curious is how the desert people had to take this Persian or possibly Afghani fellers jolly apocalyptic vision and tack on fire and brimstone riders (sort of like what Republicans do to kill Democratic universal health care packages in the US).

All sinners, three days detention, all are forgiven, all go to heaven. I like it.

Friday, January 13, 2006

End of My World as I Know It

The Rose of Teheran town this week to help me scout out a place to live. She returned to Kuwait and the furry menagerie of 7 Felines and one yappy K-9 we have collected in lieu of a human youngin'. After her first day, her woman's touch breezed through my guest house. A basket in the bathroom now contains my razor, toothbrush, toothpaste and a complete nail clipper/file set. I thought I'd arranged the shit neatly in a row on the sink and that worked for me.

What also worked for me was washing my clothes, drying them and stuffing them into a hamper--wrinkled beyond recognition.

Mornings, I would do what I have always done.

I have two brothers. We all went to high school in the 70s--a great era for my parent's budget and their sons' back-to-school wardrobe. T-shirts. Jeans. White socks. Boots. In the winter--a flannel shirt. Pre-grunge grunge I suppose. Mi Mere would wash and dry our clothes-outfits which held up to lunch period squatting behind bushes or sitting in ther grass on a football field, far enough out on the sports field so that I and my soft narcotic compreres (who did indeed inhale most ebulliently) would have no trouble swallowing evidence if "d'man" tried to make a run for us.

So then as now, my cleaned and dried clothes go into a basket near the dryer--whether I was a dazed and confused lad or a crazed and diffused man.

Mornings: Getting in to gear post-coffee is a multi-tasked process involving

1. regulating shower temperature, 2. unearthing the clothes from the clean and dried but not ironed basket, 3. tossing the items into a dryer on a high heat, 4. into the shower, 5. followed by face shaving, teeth brushing , a little de-stinkum spraying, 6. be-robed self trotting to the dryer, grabbing each item and giving each a vigorous shake or two, 7. dress, 8. locate briefcase, keys, wallet, reading specs and 9. out the door, a relatively wrinkle free man.

Not so long ago, I used to slot a few minutes for a torpid toss--just to get my heart started and ease into a stress free morning; this has been replaced with less time consuming selection of mood stabilizers which require only a glass of water and no post-emissions clean up.

But I transgress.

Anna Z. does not approve of a clean and dried basket full of wrinkled clothes. I have hangers, sa?

I own an iron and ironing board. Sa?

If the drudgery of ironing is too much for me, pay one of the Bengali blue suits a shekel or two; I can find one most times hanging around the utility room on the Mezzanine (usually standing while dozing on a broom handle).

Anna Zoija also went after my guest house kitchenware. She bleached every thing. Once bleached, she assigned everything--plates, bowels, glasses, cups utensils to more convenient and sensible locations--forks lined up in a fork place, spoons in a spoon place etc.

Flowers bloomed on the kitchen table.

Dishes were washed, dried and put away daily--sometimes twice daily. Shirts and pants were ironed.

The Atkins diet became my diet.

And I learned a few new words in Arabic.

Life in Abu Dhabi, she says, is pretty cash cow. I may not be pronouncing it right--it's my neumonic device. I think it's more like Kashka which, in Q8T Arabic means "posh"--I think.

I also learned how to say "It's none of my business." I like this one.

Some--in fact many Muslims feel Paradise and rivers of hang-overless wine can be attained by avoiding pork, being seen by others praying in a mosque, and starving by day (while being gluttons by night) during Ramadan.

I focus more on the peace, charity, willingness to assist others in need stuff. I also try to avoid the devilishness of gossip, which astonishes me because as far as I read into the messages delivered to the son of a woman who salted her meat many years ago, pork, like booze and gambling, is a gateway to naughtiness while gossip and back stabbing is at the core of naughtiness.

Now I have a phrase to slash through office "Shinu hadas? and Minu hadas?"

I use another bovinary neumonic:
Moo Chocolatey. I think it is more accurately pronounced, "Mushaqali". What I hope I am saying is, "Ain't none of my bidness."

Hank Williams Sr. (Peace Be Unto Him) said it succinctly in English: "Cuz if you mind your business you won't be a mindin' mine."

In Arabic, I believe this is expressed as Moochocolack. Something to that effect.

I do not feel I have to blow myself to tender vittles to be holier than thou. A polite "shut the fuck up" will do.

Well, back to solo living and another rapid descent (or arguably an ascent) into eschatalogical morbidity and impatience.

Sunday, January 08, 2006

Borrowing from Burroughs

William Burroughs was over rated. Junk was the only book he ever wrote that had a semblance of plot, character development and a narrative structure containing a story.

And he was a life long junky.

And he got away with murder--he missed the apple and put a bullet through his wife's head trying unsuccessfully to re-enact the legend of William Tell.

Still, I have to cite Burroughs for a method of writing called "cut-up" which was cut and paste long before "highlight passage", " Press Control X/ PressControl V" came along. He would take scissors to books and magazines, cut out phrases higgedly pigeedly and re-assemble them as original text.

I've been saving to text snippets from porno spam thinking maybe one day I'll do something similar and toss all hundreds of phrases into a word scrambler, hit Enter and see what I come up with.

Some I have in my collection need no further revision. They entertain me as is.

I snagged this one today.

"Eighteen World killing unique site with russian blonde milf with lovely firm tits in stockings."

First off--if there are eighteen of these sites with russian blonde etc, how can they be unique?

I know what milf is an acronym for--I sat through American Pie. But the acronym first came to my attention when an tragic incident occurred in the southern Philippines as a marauding gang of Islamic insurgents wasted a village of infidels 'round '95, '96. I believe the Moro Islamic Liberation Front is still around.

Then there's the "lovely firm tits in stockings". can't see it. Granny tits may fit into stockings. Firm ones, uh uh.

Then there's this questionnaire I'm assembling from spam questions.
When I collect 500, I'm going to assemble my own Minnesota Multi-Phasic Personality Indicator.

1. Do you want women to run to you like the night butterflies flying to the light?
Yes--but not "like", "as". I would like to see a bunch of women running around in night butterfly drag.

2. Do you want women to have you in their sexual fantasies?
No. I want women to have other men in their sexual fantasies while I watch.

3. Are you ready for the new, extremely pleasant and irresistible adventures in bed?
Yes. But not on my sheets.

Do you want to lose your head and wake up drowning in the ocean of your own sperm?
None of the above. I believe the decapitation renders drowning imposible.

Do you want your woman to be going like ooh la la? Hmm. What's like ohh la la? Ahh lu lu?

(In Arabic, the first one is ooh no no. The other is ahhh a pearl--I like the pearl one best)