Future

Yassein from Morocco was one of my tennis students the summer of 2001. A hunting-gathering seed was planted in life’s little garden. I decided to take a six-month break in the fall.

“They love paper,” said curly-haired Yassein meaning corrupt authorities in North Africa. We sat in his Mediterranean diner. He poured fresh mint tea and said, “You can find enlightenment anywhere.”

I needed new psychic energies, frequencies and a shift in my literary life. He set me up. “You will find it easy to settle in. My mother is in Paris. She is nervous about the place. Here’s a paper. It’s for a six-month rental in Marrakesh and I’ll get her signature. My friend in Casablanca has the keys.”

He briefed local friends on the deal.

“How much are you paying Yassein for the apartment?” said the American insurance agent with a Moroccan wife. She practiced her English selling bras in a department store. Uplifting.

“We’ve agreed on two hundred a month depending on the condition of the place.” 

“Oh,” said his wife, “you’ll absolutely adore the place. We’ve been there many times.”

“Yes, my wife is very well connected. Her father used to be with the national police.” I smelled an interrogation. They showed me travel photos. In one he wore a dark blue suit and tie next to a naked camel.

In late August I gave Yassein’s girlfriend, Bashira, a Pakistani with two kids and one on the way, a check for two months. “Yassein’s in Morocco,” she said.

He’d gone home as a fake tour guide when in reality he was scrambling around paying off a Berber family to get out of an arranged marriage. His mother in Paris had set him up with a village girl.

While his relationship with Bashira helped, Yassein regretted wasting his time in the United States of Amnesia starting and stopping diners selling hummus. He regretted having a mother even though he loved her. She was a pain in the oasis.

Projecting her desire it was everything she wanted for her son. She was the mother of all arranged marriages. She had connections in a village.

“We can control more land now,” she’d told him. “She is a lovely girl. Her family is well off. They own many camels. The oasis is thriving.”

This was all well and good when she was sitting in her Paris flat remembering the Marrakesh cinderblock hovel. Where Yassein’s ancestors drank tea and plotted Spanish invasions. She was renovating the place for tourist dollars. Paris was a world away. He was her front man.

“You will marry this village girl,” his mother ordered. “It is our duty, your duty. Family first. You are my eldest, never married and now’s the time. Think of it as a tradeoff, an extension of our relationship. It is a connection to our heritage and our community. This is your destiny and honorable for us.”

He married the girl to please his mother. He didn’t like it. It was a gigantic hassle and complicated his life. He’d been in the states long enough to see new futures.

It was an arranged marriage and he was snared in family schemes and trapped by traditional expectations. How things were done in the desert. It was all about relationships and consolidating resources.

It took him a year to finalize his plan. He was a juggler in a circus routine and his mother cracked the whip.

He kept the Berber girl and her family on hold. He blamed time, lack of money, no visas, no tickets, no way he told them. Not now. Later. He loved the word later. It was a negotiating art form in a culture where a century is nothing.

They bought it. He knew they had no choice. Their daughter was married and that was that.

“Sit tight,” he said. “Let her take English classes or run around chasing invisible paperwork in the notoriously corrupt and inefficient system.” They didn’t understand the tight part. He simplified it for them.

“Be patient.”

A player and hustler, he was an expert at dragging it out. He planned a way to get out of it. He set it up and played his trump card. Money talks.

He returned in August and bought her family off to forget the whole thing. They took their daughter back using his cash to buy land and livestock. She resumed hauling water, collecting wood, cooking and cleaning. Her future was done, finished and finalized. She was as good as dead.

Yassein took care of the paperwork, greased palms, got on a plane, returned to Bashira and forgot the mess. He’d never liked these arranged marriages and knew it was all about deceit, lies and manipulation.

When his mother heard what happened she was furious. “You’ve disgraced our family,” she screamed on the phone. She was so mad she conjoined her French and Arabic polymorphic syllables in the City of Electricity. She fried on the grid.

“Somebody had to pay,” he said. He didn’t say she gave him a migraine. “There’s something wrong with the line mother. I’ll call you back.”

Bashira didn’t know the backstory. She played her role with Oscar potential. Yassein played her.

“I’ve always wanted to go there,” she said the week I left. “It’s Yassein’s ancestral home. I’ve dreamed being there, taking care of the place, meeting the people, settling into the flow, the rhythm of the land. Smelling the spices.”

Smelling a fascinating opportunity I jumped into the future.  

ART - Adventure, Risk, Transformation - A Memoir

Tall Tale

"Writers are shamans. We go into the mountains and come back with visions for our tribes. Our holy assignment."

This is a camelo, Spanish for a tall tale.

Hello. May this find you well. Please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Omar. I am a Touareg Berber nomad from the Sahara desert in Morocco.

I am a blind prescient writer in exile.

This is my story about how I and other tribal members met a strange kind man named Mr. Point immediately after 9/11. He just showed up and the Sahara is a big place.

When others hear this tale they express disbelief.

“How can that be?”

Living Baraka, a supernatural energy and magic power practiced by our people, his appearance was, shall we say, expected. He is a poet, shape shifter, cosmic comic clown and literary outlaw.

Now it happened that we traveled together just like you and I now and we formed a community. We shared many tales and I have taken the liberty of including them here with some of my own stories. We enjoyed amazing adventures together.

I confess this narrative is not linear. In a sense, this is for and about children: innocence, curiosity, empathy, and playful pure intentions. Children love inventing stories and hearing them.

Stories are essential like air and water.

My friend and I love to travel and besides calling the Sahara home I also inhabit a very real magical late Paleolithic Spanish cave in Andalucía. It encompasses 26,000 years of art and history. The word ‘history’ comes from the Greeks. It means story. This explains the title, A Century Is Nothing.

Someone in our tribe said, “Imagine the earth is 24 hours old. To see a perspective of how long humans have been around, imagine they’ve been on the planet for only the last 60 seconds.”

Marco Polo, a famous traveler near death in 1324 at seventy left his famous epitaph for the world. “I have only told the half of what I saw!”

Keep an open mind and fasten your seat belt as we may experience a little turbulence during flights of imagination grounded in invisible particles of reality. In the event of a water landing your heart-mind may be used as a flotation device.

We’ll meet again. May your journey be filled with loving kindness, compassion and authenticity.

 *

Meditating, my head is held by a string. I transfer my delicate weight from cloud to cloud, disengaging from the stimulus. Incense rises from flames. I join my muse spirit in the Department Of Wandering Ghosts.

I sharpen rose thorns for my work. My muse, bless her heart, uses the thorns to make a comb. She weaves on the loom of Time. I feel sorrow and joy seeing two drops of blood on a finger after brushing a rose thorn. I pull my hand away with a thorn embedded in my finger. Old human flesh dissolves.

I’m filled with wild passion. A mind-expanding drug of wonder, delight and freedom increases my awareness of infinity without pushing me into psychosis. My power is a medicine, a sacred connection to Gaia after years of paying attention.

I observe a spider meticulously wrapping a captured insect with thin microfilaments. The spider recycles her old web on the periphery hauling sustenance to the diamond center where it vibrates in a soft breeze. Does the spider intend to create the web to catch an insect? Does the flying insect intend to discover the web? Where does instinct end and intention begin?

One instinct is to create and sit with meditative patience, another instinct is to take risks and move.

My serenity is not bought over the counter with pharmaceutical coupons cut from old magazines. No dust collects on my mirror reflecting Beauty in my heart. I experience myself as a breath of fire, a lightning bolt sacrificing my fear, doubt and uncertainty, shattering myth. Lightning bleeds off the charge. I am an unemployed fortune teller. I am the soft sand of sleep-dream calming a tortured heart.

Abracadabra!

My feminine muse hurls her lightning bolt even unto her death. She is a death deferred. She is on death row with a small short reprieve. Her tranquility is a lethal injection of travel.

A Century is Nothing

Two Hearts

After detox and affirmations in Tacoma I accepted a new tennis teaching job at a Richland athletic club in the high eastern desert.

I lived between the Hanford Nuclear Reservation leaking toxic waste and a military high-grade uranium destruction site.

Sweet earth. Delicious water.

Glowing in the dark improved my writing visibility at night.

Clean and sober I wrote a small children’s book about trust and love.

Two Hearts On A Grand Precious Adventure has The Prince of Yogurt and the Princess of Chocolate on a quest for the beginning of the ocean. I self published it as an e-book.

I turned my attention to big work. I sifted through worn travel journals, old letters, faded yellow evidence papers, typed manuscripts, stories, fragments, poems, and photographs gathered from wandering Earth.

For two years I wove threads into a non-linear draft of epic adventures entitled A Century is Nothing.

I murdered my darlings and rearranged sentences in the farrago. They were stories about people telling stories about people in stories experiencing courage, transformation and impermanence.

I researched markets. I mailed out the synopsis with query letters. Fifty rejection letters from literary agents sang a refrain. “Sorry, doesn’t meet current mainstream needs. Too edgy. Needs more heavy, deep, real, personal Vietnam insight and growth. Fewer characters. Bottom line: I can’t make my 15% selling this.” Wallpaper. So it goes.

*

One morning I went to the Richland P.O. for stamps.

Taken from the Hubble Space Telescope they were named Eagle Nebula, Ring Nebula, Lagoon Nebula and Galaxy NGC 1316.

I enjoyed a stimulating discourse with a young unarmed postal woman about the amazing galaxies and how incredible it was to contemplate them living five miles away from fifty-five million gallons of buried radioactive waste left over from W.W. II seeping 130 feet down toward water tables along the Columbia River.

“Fascinating,” she said.

Editing material for my book I read a faded yellow page marked Top Secret Evidence.

“It’s called Technetium, TC-99m,” said an Indian scientist on a shuttle between reactors. “This is the new death and we know it’s there and there is nothing we can do to prevent it spreading.”

The waste approached 250 feet as corporations vying for energy contracts with D.O.E. discussed containment options and emergency evacuation procedures.

Scientists read Robert’s Rules Of Order inside the organized chaos of their well order communities. Hanford scientists, wives and children suffering terminal thyroid disease ate roots and plants sprinkled with entropy.

As the postal worker and I talked, a frantic mother yelled at her daughter, “DON’T touch the stamps!” because at her precocious age, curiosity about the expanding universe developed her active imagination.

Holding a Nebula space dust galaxy in my hand I told the postal woman how we are a third the life of a 13.7 billion year-old universe. She handed me change and said, “That’s interesting. I never looked at the stamps before.”

“What happens next?” said Plot.

ART - Adventure, Risk, Transformation - A Memoir

Ethnology Museum, Hanoi

Baraka

Somebody released mad dogs and they ran howling at the crescent moon. They needed shots. Their remission hung over a small part of the world like a bad smell. It seeped into the water supply, the after taste was bitter and it did not go down well at all.

There was a run on thrift shops singing, “Goodwill to Zenmen and peace on earth.”

Death masks sold out. Humans addicted to chaos and distractions dressed themselves in clothing called Hope, the greatest evil. Torn and patched in places it needed a stronger thread. Someone suggested improving immigration standards, fingerprinting every human on the planet, bard wire and eye scan IT which were rejected with derision and contempt by human rights organizations.

There wasn’t enough wire to go around the tree of life. They’d have to call the exterminator to clean up the mess. They collected carried and exchanged heavy change.

“Get your FEAR here,” yelled unemployed people of all nationalities. “One size fits all.”

People flapped their sugarless gums at unemployed dentists while flapjacks sizzled on the grill. The heat was on. They cooked with expensive imported natural gas.

Advertising promoted: Free Fear For All - Buy 2 and Get 1 - Not Free For All.

It was fear and ignorance. The big “F” in the law of averages. Statistical studies created its own metamorphosis.

FEAR - Face Everything And Recover or Fuck Everything And Run Away.

“The fear beast is big, rambunctious, hungry and never sleeps,” Omar said. “It does not recognize rational intellectual dissertations. It demands more energy. It creates and morphs into manifestations of it’s well defined beginning. It exists in the hearts and minds of the people. The fruit is bitter and destined for export markets with no restrictions on trade barriers.”

Little Nino joined them on the story train. “Imaginary barriers went up toward children flying kites in Central Asian mountain villages at the edge of refugee camps where they received food, shelter, education and medical care.”

“Then what happened?” Point asked.

“Circumstances beyond their control, beyond their comprehension compelled them to spend days and nights watching television, tuning into cable news bulletins and meeting their strange transparent neighbors flying star flags and kites from roofs before subtle frequencies permeated their consciousness. Their daily priorities shifted in the drama of life. Trick or treat played on every corner before a spring war ran through inner city projects. It was the inevitable catastrophic event.

"The towers of Babel and world order monetary power disintegrated. Artificial time collapsed. We are in The Law Of Real Time now. This reality created the fear that people experienced. It’s been well marketed by governments after the fact," said Little Nino.

“The irony was not lost on Point surveying the Rue De Castaella in Cadiz,” Omar said. “He memorized 3,000 years of history for his friends.”

“He sent them gifts,” said Nino. “Mirrors. Mirrors, many blank, others displaying terror faces, words written backwards, images of people, places and things and a box named Pandora. Pandora became one of their favorite things by Coltrane. They never knew, from one exploration to the next what they’d find in the small packages he sent from the way.”

“One thing they knew,” Omar reflected, “was how they communicated via telepathy. They experienced an exotic flow of spirit energies bathing them in a crystal light. They slowed down. They cultivated a diamond in their mind. Baraka and silence.”

“Such a fascinating story,” said Nino. “Could it be true?”

A Century Is Nothing

Iraqi Campaign

Chapter 80

“That’s nothing,” said an analyst, “it’s a two prong effort. We'll construct air bases and military installations to control Middle East air space and two, we'll let American corporations buy all the Iraqi assets. We’re sitting on vast oil fields. Sweetmeat.”

“Perfect,” said the V.P. “Where’s my cut?” staring at a fleischer dripping blood.

A security advisor spoke. “Last March we launched the largest psychological operations in our 225 year history. We have eleven Psychological Operations Companies with 1,000 PSYOP personnel working to sway Iraqis to join the rebuilding effort.”

“Are the PSYOP leaflets proving effective?” asked Colonel Sanderson with extra crispy clipped wings on his shoulders. He was molting. “We want them to see the democratic side of our occupation and walk on the bright side of life.”

“It's a fine line, but propaganda is more based on untruth,” said a philosopher.

“Their illiteracy rate is pretty high,” snarled a shoeless major in education from Oxford. “We understand many of the fliers are being recycled as crap toilet paper. Maybe we should have included lexicons?”

“Too expensive,” said a primary teacher named Laurie Lie. “We have standards to maintain. Standards of excellence. No child will be left behind. Unless we kill them all. This is our destiny of glory, redemption, truth, principles, and democratic values. Freedom to develop independent critical thinking children is our educational platform. I suggest we set up a tax free book foundation in Nebraska.”

“Excellent suggestion. Let’s call it Omaha Beachhead Incorporated with a buffet table.”

“It may be generations before we’re able to gauge the effectiveness of paper propaganda,” said a wood products CEO raising the value of his options. Adjusting his golden parachute, he grabbed the ripcord in case he needed to bail out when shares plummeted.

A silent blind man on the edge of their deliberations knew they were from a distorted time zone. A twilight zone. Beyond sight and sound bites.

“Who let him in here?” pondered the butler, pointing at the blind guy. “He should’ve been sent to Guantanamo Bay for interrogation, deprived of his civil rights with no access to legal counsel. He’s a war criminal. Bag his head, shackle him tight and torture him until he confesses. To hell with the Geneva Convention I say.” 

“We need to make sure, absolutely sure we connect the dots between 9/11 and Iraq,” said a military analyst. “If we are successful,” he sighed, “the politicians will get out of the way and give us a ton of money - maybe even a glorious $600 billion or more to rebuild what we’ve destroyed. It’s our way or hit the heavily mined highway of death. You’re either with us or with the terrorists is our message to the world.”

“Yes,” barked Faustus, Director of General Incompetents, “these malicious vermin are the obstacles that stand between the Iraqi people and security. They are terrorists...no, they are rebels...no, they are freedom fighters...no, they are guerillas...no, they are...insurgents...”

“Whatever. The road through Babylon and Kabul is endless. This campaign will be well received. We will liberate the oppressed,” said an old white haired man named Regime wearing a pacemaker. He loved a girl from Why O Ming with a big spread.

Esteemed, well qualified, and duly elected members of a House on Main Street and their colleagues from a Congress seeking another do nothing term and automatic pay raises looked at him with contempt, disdain, incredulity, suspicion, amazement and pure terror.

“We ain’t in no fucking jungle on this jack,” sneered a nautical seal looking for approval from his ringmaster. “This war is on track jack.”

“Collateral damage is a sorry fact of life,” said a man with a whip. He cut through red tape and everyone got out of his way.

“Bring them on I say,” yelled Bumsfeld. “Our God is bigger than their God for God’s sake. Look, it’s easy, here’s what we do. We know the United Nations is useless, so, we’ll create false claims of nuclear and biological threats which plays into the 9/11 fear. Sell it on nightly news. Let the hounds chase the fox.”

Curveball came in for short relief. “I know where it is.”

“Where what is?” asked Bumsfeld.

“All the Iraqi mobile labs full of toxins and nerve agents.”

“For an alcoholic spy and fabricator you have a lot of nerve,” screamed the Tenant. He used to be Lew but now he was just a plain Jane Tenant from a housing project. He was on a speaking tour making big bucks when it happened after his slam dunk fell well short of the net.

“Look,” said Curveball. “I gave German intelligence the high hard stuff. But they don’t understand the American pastime. They said I was past my prime. They co-opted me with women and booze. A hell of a lethal combination, let me tell you. They grilled me over a hot flame. I became a double agent. I was beside myself.”

“Yeah, sure,” said Bumsfeld, “a classic case of split personality, bi-polar disorder and your mother wears combat boots. Anyway, then we distort flimsy evidence from a worthless intel source saying the dictator is an immediate and direct threat to our national security. He’ll attack us in forty-five minutes.”

“But,” said Resident President, waving his one-way tickets to Argentina, “that won’t give me time to finish reading the story about goats to the elementary kids.”

“No butts sir,” said his spokesperson. “You’ll just have to skip a few pages.”

“Isn’t this strategy too vague and deceptive?” asked a garbage collector.

“Vague and deceptive shit happens all the time,” said the man cracking his cool whip. “What planet are you from, amigo? We have the national media eating out of our filthy hands with all this flag waving patriotic bullshit. So, we con the world with these fictitious stories about the dictator being a threat to us with his weapons of mass distraction and start a war to remove him from power.”

“Brilliant,” said a very rich civilian military contractor from Texas. “What then?”

“It’s easy. We know the dictator’s been bluffing all along to maintain his power base. Just ask Curveball here when he sobers up. He’s never had weapons of mass destruction except for the munitions and sarin gas we gave him to support his eight-year war with Iran and commit genocide against the Kurds, but the world doesn’t know that unpleasant fact. His military will collapse like a house of cards. We send in, what, maybe 150,000 military forces, - mostly young, poorly trained national guard units from America’s middle and lower class mind you - take some losses sure, but that’s the price of doing business right, while we establish a quasi-official coalition government with us in total control of everything.”

“What about the local people?” asked a relief worker.

“Screw them I say. We’ve liberated them from a dictator for God’s sake. They should be eternally grateful to us and get down on their knees in desert sand thanking us.”

A Century is Nothing