Crow Forest

Returning to the United States of Advertising (USA) after centuries on the ground he sat down in a Crow cabin on 8,000 year old Kalapuya Indian ceremonial ground. He had a maul, a hatchet, and a double bladed axe named Laughter.

He lived inside shifting forest tides, buried beneath stoic 150 foot tall Douglas firs waving in wind, with a Fischer stove and the chopping. He worked in a room bathed in light.

The blade, edge, swinging weight, slicing through old growth, tree time rings; ferns, moss, rain, falling ladders, outhouse and the Afghan girl’s piercing green eyed image from 1984 on his wall.

Her eyes followed him everywhere.

Where he sat down spinning out his tales of control and approval ratings weaving spider webs on a loom of time. Where he rearranged mirrors to reflect everything.

He carried Omar’s palimpsest through the forest. It was a bird song, thrill immediate spring music, owls, ravens, crows, vultures circling on thermals, wild deer, ancient wisdom, shamanic visions of clarity insight and wisdom. The book gathered and collected bark leaves. A fabric of moss singing to him.

He established his refuge from the storm with simplicity, serenity and sanctuary. He lived on the edge finding shelter inside a bird’s song. He trimmed cuticles into air seeing them spiral into spring. It snowed flowers.

He looked deep into the forest of the mysterious manuscript. It was true and filled with sensory details.

He connected his narrative with Omar’s animal skins; tales, adventures, trials, tribulations, dreams, nightmares, conversations, explorations, discoveries and boredom mixed with excitement, wonder, suffering and healing energies.

People wondered and wandered, chained to the earth to pay for the freedom of their eyes. They saw through their eyes not with their eyes.

“I am an old dialect of Kalapuya tribes. I respect the spirit energies. I hear with my eyes and see with my ears. I understand your love for the spirit power guardian. I am an ancestor speaking 300 languages from our history. Now only 150 dialects remain.

“A hunting gathering people, speaking Pentian, we numbered 3,000 in 1780. We believed in nature spirits, vision quests and guardian spirits. Our shamans, called, amp a lak ya taught us how seeking, finding and following one’s spirit or dream power and singing our song was essential in community.

“I speak in tongues, in ancient dialects about love. Dialects of ancestors who lived here for 8,000 years before where you are now. In the forest near the river all animal spirits welcome you with their love. They are manifestations of your being.

“I am blessed to welcome you here. You have walked along many paths of love to reach me.

“My dirt path is narrow and smooth in places, rocky in others. I am the soil under your feet. I feel your weight, your balance - your weakness and your strength. I hear your heart beating as my ancestors pounded their ceremonial drums. I feel the tremendous surging force of your breath extend into my forest. Wind accepts your breath.

“I am everything you see, smell, taste, touch and hear. I am the oak, the fir and pine trees spread like dreams upon your outer landscape. I am your inner landscape. I see you stand silent in the forest hearing trees nudge each other. “Look,” they say, “Someone has returned.”

“I love the way you absorb the song of brown body thrush collecting moss for a nest. I am the small brown bird saying hello. I am the sweet throated song you hear without listening. At night two owls sing their distant song and their music fills your ears with mystery and love.

“I am warm spring sun on your face filtered through leaves of time. I am the spider’s web dancing with diamond points of light. I am the rough fragile texture of bark you gently remove before connecting the edge of an ax with wood. You carry me through my forest, your flame creates heat of love. I am the taste of pitch on your lips, the odor of forest in your nostrils, filling your lungs. It is sweet.

“I am the cold rain and wet snow and hot sun and four seasons. I am yellow, purple, red, blue, orange flowers from brown earth.

Language cannot be separated from who you are and where you live.

“I say this so you will remember everything in this forest. I took care of this place and now your love has the responsibility.

“Respect and dignity with mindfulness.”

Sidi Ifni, Morocco II

In an endless hazy future full of rocky hills, black shrouded women balancing large ceramic brown jugs rode side saddle on donkeys plodding miles to a shallow well inside circular stones.

The two lane road ran 40 kilometers south to Sidi Ifni, an old Spanish enclave on cliffs over the Atlantic.

Sidi Ifni, with 15,000 people, existed on rolling hills above the sea. In a lush valley beneath old Moorish castles stood two cinder block construction enterprises, wadi oasis palms, gardens and tributaries running to the sea.

He watched thin men sift sand and gravel through wire screens and run belching machines pressing out bricks. Another man driving a tractor hauled them to waiting trucks.

Belonging to Spain until 1969, the faded town’s facades suffered from emptiness, wind and water. Sharp white cubist building block homes lay scattered on hills breaking light and lines. It was an old art deco town full of dead decayed deserted buildings from an elegant forgotten history. Rumor had it that European expats were buying holiday apartments for $2-10 grand.

He found a room in a cheap hotel overlooking the Atlantic and rested for three days.

Mosque masters in Sidi Ifni called five times a day. Trick or treat. Sleep deprivation became the norm. Late to bed and early to rise makes a man crazy.

He walked on the beach with an unemployed internet worker from North Carolina. Bill had never been out of the states before. He was shocked and fascinated by Morocco.

“The poverty levels are really amazing,” he said.

“You get used to economic realities, touts and price gouging. It’s a poor cheap country. The people are kind and very hospitable.”

“Fez was amazing, then I got sick for three days in Meknez. Had to rest.”

“It’s easy to get lost in the labyrinth. Why did you pick Morocco?”

“My partner, Sam, a world traveler, had it in mind and then we were laid off. He asked me if I wanted to come along. I had three weeks to get it together; shots, pack and stuff. It was pretty crazy but I made it.”

Sam was a savvy cynical travel expert. He told people he was Australian, just in case. A well rehearsed diversion after 9/11.

“The Greek islands are cheap, specifically Santorini,” Sam said one night over a bad meal of fish and rice in the hotel restaurant. “Thailand and Laos are good bargains as well.”

The deserted beach at Sidi Ifni stretched for miles. Renegade surfers relishing excellent conditions camped to the north.

They walked along wild waves talking about writing down their experience and the vagaries of publishing.

“North Carolina is somewhere over there,” Bill said, pointing west. “Imagine that. I’ve never been away from home before.”

“You either get used to it or get back where you feel comfortable.”

They shared stories about writing habits, goals and efforts to get material published.

“You need a hook, a marketing platform, be willing to fail, rejections are part of the process, murder your darlings, overcome the fear of making it perfect and be passionate about your work. We’ve learned this through trial and error.”

“Publishing is a business. Consider these numbers. The bottom line for an agent is, can they make 15% on your book? A hard back book retails for $25. The author makes $3 per copy. It all goes to publishing marketing budgets. The shelf life of a book is maybe 6 months, tops.”

“I see. Yes,” said Bill, “the pitfalls, the joy of creating, writing for yourself and not worrying about the market. Keeping it real.”

“Yes. What’s real? Give your characters desire and conflict in the first five pages. Take them on some kind of journey with wants, obstacles, resolutions and character arc. It’s about contrasts and using all your senses. Have fun with it. Nobody in 200 years will want to read it.”

“Well, knowing that takes the pressure off."

“No fear. Finally, make your query letters human, don’t kill your query in the synopsis, reduce the synopsis to a single sentence for your pitch and establish your marketing platform.”

“Thanks. I’ll give it a shot when I get back.”

“My pleasure. Just publishing stuff I’ve learned. Enjoying your trip?”

“Yes, it’s been very interesting. I rode a camel out into the dunes south of Zamora. It was really the only thing I wanted to do on the trip.”

“He paid way too much,” Sam said. “They ripped him off. He went out at 4 p.m. They rode for an hour, camped overnight, had breakfast and returned to the hotel. It’s strictly for tourists. He could have found something cheaper.”

“It was really cold out there,” Bill said. “I couldn’t sleep and stayed awake almost all night. The stars were amazing! They were so close I just stayed awake staring at them until dawn.”

It was a place of clarity, insight and understanding for him.

Bill and Sam were nervous about returning to the states coping with terrorist siege mentalities. Their days in an old Moorish civilization were numbered as they faced the unknown. They had to get their stuff out of storage when they returned and find new jobs.

In their country of birth people loved storage facilities and, over history, had accumulated tons of stuff and needed a place for it because it was precious to them.

They were attached to it. They birthed it, married it, raised it and buried it in caves of their desire.

They had to put it someplace else because their palatial homes, caves, hovels and shopping carts were filled to the brim. They consigned it to cement storage facility rooms hidden behind a maze of security gates, security fences, and secure padlocked doors in run down industrial zones trapped in the bowels of cities showing their age where it collected dust.

Later, when he rested in The Red City he remembered the fine print about packing light. He surveyed his stuff.

He was ready, willing, able and well prepared for invasions and grounded special forces with the latest killing technology.

Exploring general theories of relativity he’d assembled his Zone II medical kit, dehydration packets, emergency space blanket, 20 year old Swiss climbing boots, Swiss army knife, short-wave radio, R-11 telephone jack, energy adapters, battery charger and a zip drive for backups.

He carried phrase books, geographical maps, a water purifier, modems, lip balm, chopsticks, dental and mental floss, sarong, harmonica, immunization record, watercolors, a resume containing 50 summers, ink cartridges, journals, a warm heart and cool mind.

“Pack everything and then cut it in half” was the admonition.

His reality was carry on. Reality was overrated.

Cadiz Gypsy Flat

It was a Cadiz flat with a gypsy family for a month. A room ran $500 (75,000 psts) with full board. He had a space and the family received extra cash.

Spanish gypsies left India in the 9th century. They traveled via Istanbul and Europe or through Egypt and North Africa arriving in the 15th century. Half of Spain’s 600,000 gitanos lived in Andalusia.

In 1499 Spain enacted laws intended to keep the gypsies from wandering. They were forbidden to own horses, work as blacksmiths, use Gitano names, their language or wear their clothing. They were on the outside looking in.

As a type of song, music and dance, flamenco was introduced by the Gypsies in the 18th century. The essence of flamenco is the depth of a deep song or cante jondo, a lament of the marginalized gitano. Early forms featured the accompaniment of a single hammer striking an anvil. Gypsy work.

Amelia, an overweight diabetic ate extremely fast, her unemployed husband Jasus who resembled Icabod Crane and son Jasus II, 20.

The son was a mental case; studied engineering in school played computer games and laid around their microscopic flat watching soccer on television with the volume on full blast.

His father made ends meet by selling cheap scarves on a table along chipped battered walls outside the market across from his local bar. It was a small town and everyone knew everyone. C’ la vie.

Another resident was Dortmund, a gay German flight attendant for an international airline working the South American circuit. He had a room in the apartment for a month while improving his Spanish with a private teacher. They talked from 9-12 every day.

One day in the kitchen he said, “It’s great being here, no one knows where I am and I like it like that. Nothing to do but study.” He carried a mobile.

This wasn’t exactly true. They met one day in an internet cafe.

“Hi Dortmund. How’s it going?”

“Great, I’m on-line with a boy in Germany. This is a great chat room. We’re talking about getting together when my studies are finished.”

He spent a lot of time chatting with boys on-line in Cadiz and looking at his mobile. The city was a relaxed place for his encounters with young boys at night when bars and cafes spilled people into streets and he was very happy. Spanish was the language of love. It smelled like exotic perfume. Forbidden fruit hung heavy throughout the city. Young and ripe for the picking.

The ghost’s Cadiz room was small, noisy and tolerable for completing a sentence or two and gathering digital images for future reference and creative projects.

His sentence, this sentence, was a metaphor for putting in his time somewhere in the world. He liked living on the edge. He knew if he wasn’t living on the edge he was taking up too much space. He sharpened his senses there. He’d put his time in Vietnam, Bali, China, Kuwait, Saipan, Canada, OZ, Ireland, Israel, Japan, Bhutan, Tibet and then Morocco. Part and parcel of the grand adventure called life.

In Cadiz he wrote one true sentence, murdered his darlings in their sleep when their day was down, done and out. He dispersed word garbage to wheeled curbside trash containers under the cover of darkness.

Spanish men in blue collector uniforms with yellow safety stripes rolled through at midnight. They were followed by teams of men hosing down the narrow cobblestone streets. Word flotsam flooded city grates.

An immigrant man selling liquid below his balcony sang, “Don’t be fooled by cheap imitations. Everything must go. Going out of business sale.”

Yellow street lights played on wrought iron balconies above an old man walking his creaky Labrador. Two intellectuals holding hands discussed economics in Spanish. Medical students planned future operations.

The local unemployment rate was 40%. Andalusia was the poorest province in Spain. Sexually repressed women prowled their world studying cobblestones as they walked through loneliness looking for future lovers, husbands and fathers of their countless Catholic children. Lonely heart club ads filled the paper.

Their conjecture about possibilities filled the air with hope. Young boys feeling scooter engine heat beneath them and hot girlfriend’s arms around a waist escaped their parent’s world. Zooming past pedestrians.

An old couple supported each other’s arms taking small steps toward their future. Small significant gestures of love and affection flowered. It rained flowers.

In an upstairs flat with an open balcony on the world he wrote by a single desk lamp, with Spanish jazz music a rhythm for fingers. He studied a map of the province.

After a month he was bored and visited Patricia at the tourism office to see about new places. She pointed out quiet coastal towns.

“Villages really, full of Germans this time of year. It depends on what you want.”

She highlighted areas north of Cadiz; Arcos de la Frontera and the small towns of Bornos, Villamartin, Prado del Ray. She pointed to a place named Grazalema.

“This is a national park, one of the most extensive and well protected areas in Andalusia. The pueblo has a population of 2,300 people, 146 species of birds, tracts of Spanish fir and excellent climbing. It’s a beautiful area. One of my favorites but it will be cold there in the winter.”

Her broken English was better than his Spanish. Everyone talked in broken tongues. They hinged meaning through gesture and intellectual guesswork. They attached meaning to gestures, facial expressions and vocal tone.

Orphans ate inherited soil. She took classes in the morning and did a three month practicum at the local tourism agency from 5-8 p.m. She hated it.

Her coworker, Maria, dreamed of owning a Harley.

“My dream is to graduate and move to Germany to work in the travel business,” Patricia said. “Three years in Spain doing theory and practical work is a struggle for me.”

Lhasa Meditation

This is an auspicious time to be here. Still, one needs to be aware of the energies and practice discernment especially when dealing with and recognizing sensitivities and realities on the ground. This is vital.

Be wise and prudent in your actions and behaviors. You are a guest here with responsibilities for your remaining open, vulnerable, receptive and authentic.

It is essential for you to refresh, reinforce and renew your calm warrior nature. Keep a diamond in your mind. Foster and allow the creative instincts to guide your journey with clarity, insight and wisdom. Remain open and receptive to all the spiritual forces around you now. Cultivate, nourish and manifest your inner strength and focus to accept and acknowledge lessons and their deeper meaning.

Practice dignity and restraint. Conduct yourself with the mindfulness of realizing your divine essence. Meditate on the process of death.

Tangiers to Cadiz

After eight weeks in Morocco immediately after 9/11 he leaped onto a ferry across the Mediterranean from Tangiers to Algeciras.

He met a strawberry blond American widow from a lonely hearts club tour group.

“I have many questions for you,” Jean said as seagulls played in blue wind.

“Yes. That’s the answer to the first one. The one where you ask me if I am happy?”

“How did you know?”

“It’s obvious isn’t it. It’s the first question an American away from home for the first time in her life, and returning from a day trip to Tangiers to her four star Costa del Sol hotel after being assulted by poor unemployed people begging her to buy something - anything - would ask a traveler. You’re either sitting in deep meditation or you’re moving.”

“Yes, I suppose it is.”

“What’s question number two?”

“Where are you going?”

“Cadiz. The oldest city in Europe. Going to sit down and write. We’ve been hunting and gathering material. Doing my work.”

“Wow, that’s exciting. I’m lucky to get a letter written. Takes me forever and then I just lose my train of thought.”

“Instead of the train maybe you should consider walking. Take bus #11. It’s a magic bus.”

“Really? What’s bus #11 mean?”

“It means use your legs, it means walk, slow down, engage your senses. It’s how poor people get around in Morocco. How poor people anywhere get somewhere.”

“How romantic.”

“Depends on your perspective and interpretation. Poverty is not romantic. It’s a daily struggle. Yes, by slowing down you observe everything in minute detail, befriend strangers, be anonymous. Like a wandering ghost or a memory. It’s the perfect way to explore your nature, test your spirit, contemplate your imaginary reflection in windows and live with pure intention.”

“Just by walking? What happens if I get attacked?”

“You worry too much. Worry is interest on a bill that will never come due. Your ego loves the circus of sensory entertainment. People suffer chronic health problems because they think to much about past failures and future fears. Try just sitting. Maybe you need to slow down, unless you love the fast lane? Most people don’t intend to harm you. Learn how to yell ‘FIRE’ in multiple languages if you need help.”

“Funny. Fire eh, never thought of that before.”

“Sure, people scatter and you escape.”

Passing Gibraltar they entered a harbor as Jean poured her endless book of questions into his ears about life as a nomad, how it worked, how one survives on the road.

They said goodbye and he didn’t have the heart to tell her about the pain, suffering and joy she’d experience on her journey. He knew she’d find out for herself because they were all in transit.

One door opens and one door closes but the hallways can be a bitch.