Cadiz Barber

An old barbershop thrived near Plaza de San Juan de Dios, the neoclassical town hall from 1800.

It had cracked blue-white tiled walls and a yellow-blue mosaic inlaid floor. A well-dressed retired man sat outside smoking a cigar in a shaft of light.

We exchanged pleasantries. “Buenos Dias.”

An old barber in a stained white smock smiled. “Buenos Dias. What’ll it be Senor?”

I pulled a worn bilingual phrase book from a back pocket and thumbed to page 131. A trim please - showing a phrase gesturing over and down my long white beard painting a little.

Living in the Land of Gestures, Smiles and Body Language I spoke every tongue on Earth using fingers and hands. People attached meaning to gestures, facial expressions and guttural tone. Gestures were an international passport. They expressed truth-value meaning to communicate ideas, beauty and mystery. Gestures were sleight-of-hand performances. They sealed deals using people.

The dialect of hands expressed everything.

As a flying finger expert meeting tolerant people I expressed gratitude with real and imaginary sign words. A familiar forcestero, they trusted me in a vague clear way.

The barber looked at the book. He studied quick hands.

“Yes, fine, I understand what you want. Here,” gesturing to a chair, “sit here.”

I tabled my Moleskine journal, camera and glasses, faded filthy S.F. Giants baseball hat, received the cloth and closed eyes.

As the barber prepared tools I contemplated how Cadiz citizens loved balmy weather. People moved in and out of small flats like actors and directors on a set. Natives framed long telephoto shots to establish the big picture. They focused a spotlight lens tight on details and emotional truth in a long story.

See through soft eyes.

Their DNA spilled oral discourse wandering Earth looking for sanctuary. For centuries their ancestors intermarried with Berbers. Now 18% were practicing Catholics compared with 98% fifty years ago. Guilt, sin and liberation from repression ate ethics with cognitive dissonance. C’ la vie.

Scissors and comb danced in the barber’s hands. A finger tilted my head left then right.

A walking stick on tiles shattered sound. Acquaintances paid their respects to Omar. Language music floated.

Omar greeted an old friend. “Ola, we meet again,”

“Welcome back, my friend. You have been away a long time.”

“Yes, forever and a day. We were in the Sahara before, on and after 9/11,” said Omar, pointing to the man being trimmed. “Economic terrorism and fear of poverty is a hell of a never ending story.”

“True,” said his friend, “such devastation, suffering and retribution by angry, scared, poor people. Speaking of Sahara, how goes it...I know it like the back of my old veined hand. Trade caravans are moving north this time of year, carpets, silk, and spices are selling well yes?”

“Yes. Trading is good. You are fortunate my friend,” said Omar.

“Yes. I’ve been blessed with good health.”

“And your family? How are they?” said Omar.

“They are well, thanks be to God. Allah be praised. The most beneficent is shining their love on us. Have you heard from 9/11 survivors?”

“Word travels slower than a camel passing through a needle’s eye,” said Omar. “Tribes formed after nine eleven. Many migrated toward mountains and subterranean caves. Others resumed journeys along the Silk Road toward Constantinople and the Mediterranean.”

“How did they survive?”

“They created safe havens and new artistic opportunities. Eco tourists seeking simplicity, sanctuary and serenity from global tragedies and personal heartbreak supported spiritual retreats to practice meditation and compassion with healers, poets and prophets.”

“Love and the art of living reveals clear truths,” said his friend.

A woman in luminous red fabric floated through their conversation.

“The forcestero and I journey today. We have exploring, gathering and revising to do. He is my amanuensis.”

“Ah, you are fortunate having a well versed scribe. It is a long walk. Such is the life.”

“And your family?” said Omar.

“Allah and God be praised, they are in good health. Fatima Zamora is two-years old now. Learning to walk.”

“Walking is the preferred form of travel to make the road.”

“Have you learned anything useful from the barbarians?” said his friend.

“Very little. They know many words but have forgotten the essential music. In the 12th century Arabic and European languages created new forms based on 1,001 stories. They used imaginative prose, telling stories inside someone else’s story,” said Omar.

“Ah, you mean somebody in a story is telling a story about somebody telling a story about somebody?”

“Absolutely, my friend, like time’s labyrinth with a complete center. Seeing itself from the outside.”

“Fascinating. It appears you know 1,001 Nights?”

“Yes,” said Omar. “We discovered through this literary effort how people reflect art, culture, history, and myth through stories.”

“I’ve heard of this,” said his friend. “How tribes moved from India across Persia into Arabia and beyond. You are a manifestation of Naghali the storyteller meaning the transmitter.”

“Aren’t we all?” said Omar. “Your story is being retold in Arabic with 1,001 permutations.”

“Yes, from Arabic to a Latin form of learning. Scholars say the four languages with the longest tradition are Arabic, Sanskrit, Chinese and English. English is the language of the barbarians.”

“Ah, so it is,” said Omar. “Some are gentle and kind. Others behave like spoiled ill-tempered children. Rather crass and despondent types, prone to violence and whining at high decibels with abysmal ignorance. The Chinese stayed home, the English colonized and enslaved people in distant lands. Sanskrit, the most beautiful of all languages for its precise beauty evolved from India. Our Berber-Arabic tongue has been well received.”

“Magicians, shamans, Griots and storytellers have much to learn and share with you.”

“They are descendants of the Jinn,” said Omar.

“We celebrate cultures, shamans and spirit guides.”

“I am a Sha’ir, a feared and respected poet musician in my tribe,” said Omar. “Here’s a verse for you.”

Earth reflects sky

Landscape migrates

Listening wind sings spirit of Raoul

The Drummer of Death

Touareg the Blue Men of the desert

“Beautiful.”

“Poetry began as song,” said Omar. “Music and drama were grief songs for the dead.”

“Your unconscious is a deep river. Art reveals an interconnected universe. Interdependence. Sensations trigger electrical impulses, heartbeats and speech. Poem speaks.”

“My bearded friend here is Li Bai, a Shi sheng, an exiled Chinese poet sage,” said Omar. “He creates San wen, an intersection between prose and poems.”

“I am pleased for you. I wish you, your family and your companion all peace and prosperity.”

“Safe travels. Ensha’llah.” Their hands touched their hearts.

The barber handed me a Neolithic black obsidian mirror from Anatolia created in 6200 BC. My face was invisible.

“Objects in the mirror may appear closer than they are,” said Omar.

I felt lighter. “It’s fine, a good length. Gracias.”

He trimmed eyebrows, brushed off dead cells, removed the sheet, smiled and accepted Euros.

“Gracias. Adios,” I said to the barber.

“Gracias, adios Senor,” said Seville.

ART - A memoir - Adventure, Risk, Transformation

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Adventure

This is a memoir from 1997-2002 with a Nam flashback when I cheated Death. I was in Morocco on 9/11. Call it luck or fate.

Humor and Satire dance with Courage and Creativity.

Travel meets storytelling, creative non-fiction and social autopsy in exile.

This is a flawed masterpiece.

He is a peripatetic traveler, literary outlaw, and street photographer. As a Vietnam Veteran, international TEFL facilitator he lives loves and laughs in Asia south of the moon.

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In Cadiz when citizens were old, toothless, white haired, slow and content with life, residents in Europe’s oldest city attended a different church every Sunday.

Family was all. Spanish culture fostered an implicit understanding of the collective.

Simplicity. Serenity. Harmony married balance. Yin-Yang.

The dancer and the dance are one.

Generations walked in the Parque Genoves along the Atlantic admiring sculpted trees. Well-dressed spoiled children whined and complained to their compulsive-obsessive guilt ridden parents.

Parents organized pram races for amusement, a new spectator sport. GO baby GO from birth. Spin them wheels.

A daughter supported her mother. Their olive faces had identical furrowed lines, brown eyes and black eyebrows. In drab gray clothing they turned their heads in unison glancing at the same thing. The only difference between them was time.

One morning I decided to get my beard trimmed before tripping on it and shattering fragility. I folded up a narrative map, finished coffee dregs, lowered jazz volume and backed up empirical forensic data evidence. I slipped into yellow wool socks and worn sandals.

“I’m off to see the Berber, I mean barber,” I said to blind Omar writing on the balcony. He spilled, smelled and spelled green racing ink on yellow legal paper. He loved the beautiful messy process.

Omar laughed at this tongue slip. “Ha. I know where to find you. Oh, by the way, a letter arrived today.” He handed it to me.

“It’s for you Omar. It has a New York postmark.”

“It’s from a literary nerve agent about my query letter from a gravedigger’s quarry. Please read it to me.”

Dear Mr. Omar,

Thank you for your recent submission to our literary agency. We read your cover letter and synopsis.

The Typist, Butcher, and Gravedigger is an obtuse title. Very bizarre indeed and we see a lot of eccentric, abnormal, unconventional, unorthodox, and supersonic weird work fly through here. We have peculiar stories stacked in a slush pile higher than Everest. We are drowning in words seeking a life preserver believe you me.

You are a fine writer yet we feel there is enough for here for five or six books. Less is more. We suggest you pick one time or geographical place and flush out the narrative with more exposition. We would like to see character development and social and political realities in 60,000 words. No more, no less. KISS for readers.

Boil it down baby. Refined elegance, if you will.

To make money in the publishing business we need mainstream books that appeal to the general reader. We are looking for our 15%. Publishing isn’t a business. It’s a casino.

As you know, 175,000 books were published in this country last year. Your typical hardcover book sells for $25.00. You, the author, make $3.00, if that. It’s a hell of a deal we’ve got going here. The shelf life of a book is, at best, four months and the mid-list is the Kiss Of Death. Remainders are shipped to furnaces in Ohio where illegal immigrants play with fire at Fahrenheit 451.

Give us a product with a platform. Our marketing department will drive literature consumers to independent bookstores before they kowtow to corporate giants and e-books, mind you.

Historically many cultures boil books and weave clothing rags from the raw material. The insight of your stories reveals your passion for weaving threads from diverse locales. We suggest you consider this viable and lucrative publishing option.

Imagine the reception when readers arrive wearing your book! You will autograph fashionable apparel. Paris and Milan catwalks will be filled with exotic tactile textile places like Tacoma, Vietnam and Spain starring blood donor clowns, terminally ill children, Tibetan monks and this is only the beginning.

We’ll live with addicts, a dying American father receiving ice from his son, a bipolar manic suicidal woman, Native Americans celebrating a Ghost Dance and secret oral languages transmitted on your loom of time.

Your prescient awareness of 9/11’s catastrophic global aftermath is psychic. It’s a sensitive subject considering readers want happy fiction. You need to edit references to fear and economic terrorism.

Cut the heavy, deep and real shit.

Fear is a tough sell unless it’s done well, well done, marinated, broiled, stir-fried, over easy, or scrambled. Fear is ignorant bliss.

All your nomadic adventures from surviving Vietnam to your transformation in a 26,000-year old Paleolithic Spanish cave were tales from beyond wild. 

However, it’s a hell of a thread speaking of weaving metaphors in a nonlinear literary gonzo style.

We couldn’t decide if your work was a dispassionate detached journalist, a raving Vietnam veteran or a wandering mystical blind man. Get help. See a therapist or a shrink-wrapped doctor with a degree in abnormal personalities. Fast. Act now before it’s too late to save you from this dreaded literary disease.

Before closing I will relate one experience to you. The strangest thing happened in our office. One of our junior readers with a liberal arts degree making $30,000 a year suffered sensory overload while reading your manuscript and dozed off in a souk.

When she woke up she called herself Touareg, the noble ones, speaking fluent Tamashek. We didn’t have an interpreter for this oral transmission and called emergency services. They removed her from the premises citing The Patriot Act as justification.

She will be missed wearing her iridescent nacreous coruscating cobalt blue Moroccan robes begging from shadows where Poverty and Despair raise their children. Where one person supports thirteen and 90% of the population is unemployed. Where children are exploited w/o labor laws. Where parents see education as a waste of money and time.

Uncontrolled population growth, lack of job opportunities, substandard education and no medicine are unpleasant global facts.  

Handle With Care.

Please do not let this decision encourage you. We mold our client list from the many submissions we receive. The selection is subjective and based on our bottom line.

Money.

We hope you find an agent brave enough to consider this epic mess. Thank you for contacting Creative Artists Blink.

We wish you every success in your writing endeavors.

Sincerely, Just B. Kind, Literary Agent

Hanoi

Attitude

This is Metafiction with a Gonzo attitude; master journalist, photographer’s eye and the balls of an actor.

“Start at no particular time of your life. Wander at your free will all over your life.” – Mark Twain

There are not many things you need to remember about your visit here to Earth.

The world gave me a strong sense of querencia, a Spanish term for homeland, “a place - like a bull facing death in the ring -  where you feel comfortable dying.”  - Lorca

Flow like a river, reflect like a mirror and respond like an echo.

On the meridian of time there is no injustice; there is only the poetry of motion creating the illusion of truth and drama.

“He didn’t believe in countries and the only borders he respected were: borders of dreams – musty borders of love and indifference, borders of courage or fear – golden borders of ethics.” - Roberto Bolano

*

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.

 

A Century is Nothing

Up River

Banlung is a gateway to isolated animist villages up river. The Tonle Srepok River is the river of darkness. The Apocalypse Now river.

The river overflowed with extended tedious years of silence singing a slow meandering song before being punctuated by random acts of violence, gunfire, and exploding land mines swallowing eternal cries for mercy as innocent men, women and children were slaughtered in fields, homes, and villages along twisted dirt jungle paths ...

or murdered inside animist cemeteries wearing crude carved wooden faces remembering the dead with ceremonies, laughter, animal sacrifice and rice wine hearing the low dull roar of high altitude B-52 bombers releasing enraptured napalm canister lightning bolts through clear skies rendering humans, mountains and jungles obsolete, accompanied by the steady rhythm of a girl sawing ice.

Someone said there was a war, she said. My mother saw a plane. She thought it was a bird. She wove the image into indigo cotton with yellow, blue and red silk thread. All the women weave here. Men don’t have the patience. They love hunting and killing.

Mother saw a whirling bird, called a helicopter. She wove it with our traditional motifs of weavers, people carrying water, harvesting, dancing, playing music, sitting, resting, flowers, fields, cows, chickens, ducks, birds, banana and palm trees, rivers, sky and nature. She weaves our long story. Before writing after cutting and selling ice I weave.

Animists believe in the natural world. Every living thing has spirit energy. A shy woman shaman smiled after performing a family ceremony and healing sacrifice near the river. She smeared chicken blood over a sick infant’s stomach. Villagers are superstitious and trusting.

Bored dead eyed humans wandered red dust.

One prolific business in Banlung is mechanical. Along and adjacent to the single east west paved artery were brown wooden homes and shacks of rusting corrugated tin.

Single men or teams of laborious boys hammered, welded, and pried, manipulating iron and steel, adjusting belts, guided grinding gears, solidifying particles, firing cylinders, filing metallic blisters, reworking tired 125cc engines and formatting hard drives as spokes on crude machines sang.

Repair and restoration work implied basic life skills using eye-hand coordination, communication theory modules with colleagues, decipherable brooms, grease, balloons, laughter and a high degree of universal understanding and empathy.

Freedom worked 24/7. Under a broiling sun tempered by a soft breeze they carried buckets of cement over boards, pouring it on red dirt. Freedom shoveled 21 muscular sandy efforts into a wheelbarrow. Freedom pushed it to a new world order construction site filled with profound expectations and poverty’s paradoxes.

After dark Freedom caressed a hungry $10 passive lover inside a plywood shack along a dirt road removed from neon, Zircon and the tooth fairy. Dirt floor, bed, and OK condom.

Her clothes hung on rusty nails embedded in exploitation. Stale perfume, lip-gloss and mascara sang lost memories. Her dead eyes said, plow my field with no emotional connection. She stared at a brick wall as Freedom assaulted heaven’s gate grinding desire.

After 15 minutes longer than forever she joined five girlfriends sitting around a fire below stars. See who shows up, said one, the night’s young. We are tools, said another. We are fools, said one applying gloss. I don’t give a shit, said a sad one remembering her mother and siblings upriver. Fuck it.

The fat male mafia moneyman slouched in a porch hammock watched reality reruns under a red light special.

Ice Girl in Banlung

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Ice Life

Here’s my secret. I’m looking for a literary agent. Someone said they help writers. I sent one a query. She wrote me a letter with ideas. I will share it with you down the road. I write at night. During the day I’m busy with school and selling ice. If she asks me I will send her this manuscript. Maybe she will love it. Maybe she’ll find an editor and publisher with a big marketing budget, global distribution, readers and the rest is history, as they say ...

If not I’ll be independent and publish it myself. Ice is my life. I will never give it up. Besides writing, weaving, laughing, loving and living, it’s my life. Writers have homework every day of their lives.

Wow, that’s lovely, said Leo. You perceive and transform the world.

Yes, she said, I follow my bliss. If it’s not in your heart, it’s not in your head. I recombine world elements fusing images and dreams.

A man arrived on a broken motorcycle. She handed him a blue plastic bag of ice. He gave her Real currency.

I follow my blisters, laughed Leo.
Where are you staying, she asked.
I don’t have a home. I live in small houses along the road. I’m passing through. For now I sleep at Future Bright.

Everyone’s passing through. I know it. The woman owner smiles and lies at the same time.

What’s the difference between hearing and listening, Leo asked.

98% are asleep with their eyes open, she said. They don’t care.

She opened her notebook and spilled red ink on white paper. Red is a lucky color. The color of wealth and prosperity. Living in a red dust town brings everyone good luck.

Tell me about your visionary skills, said Leo.

I am ahead of the future. Like you. The day after tomorrow belongs to us. We are healers. I practice detachment with discernment. Not too sentimental and not too cold, like ice. It’s the Middle Way ...

My job is to pay attention, get it down now and make sense of it later. I treat my mental illness everyday. I say what others are afraid to say. One surprise here is how people live in a perpetual disconnect. They are talking accidents looking for a place to happen. They don’t know how to focus. Their attention span is ZERO. Like Year 0 in 1975 before I was born. No attention span? No problem.

Ice Girl in Banlung

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