TLC - what is life?
Share Article Two Ankara university girls fantasying about sex bought Zippo lighters.
An engraved lighter in a dusty Saigon display case read:
Once people were born alive and slowly died.
Now some people are born dead and slowly come to life.
Two high-heeled boys bought flaming gas to impress the girls. “Come next to my fire,” said one. Demurring she said, “I create my own fire. If you come any closer I’ll incinerate you faster than Tarek Bouazizi, a famous fruit and vegetable seller in Tunisia.”
“Amnesia?” said one boy.
“Tunisia, you fucking idiot. Don’t you know anything about the world, geography and Arab Spring dignity, human rights and self-respect? Pay attention shit for brains. Here’s what happened.”
Tarek Bouazizi, 26, sold vegetables on the streets in the small town of Sidi Bouzid in Tunisia. The unemployment rate was 30%.
He supported his mother, uncles and five brothers and sisters at home. He loved poetry.
One morning a policewoman demanded free oranges. He said no. She threatened to take everything because he didn’t have a license. He had enough of the endless cycle of poverty, bribery, threats, and corruption and complained at a local government office. They refused to see him. He bought some gasoline. He set himself on fire. He died flaming his life.
Tunisians grabbed their chance for freedom. Their dictator of twenty-three years ran away.
Middle Eastern, North African, Asian despots and autocratic international power hungry madmen went into denial mode.
Oh no, we're next. Needing to maintain power and control, dictators in Yemen, Libya, Egypt, Syria, Turkey, Iran, Nigeria, Kazakhstan, North Korea, Venezuela, Laos, Vietnam, and Cambodia among others, gave the military and police free BIG money with strings attached to protect and sustain their intractable insatiable greed.
Contacts = contracts.
They decreased rice prices to appease angry hungry people.
Protect us in our castles and mansions, said dictators. Protect us from educated empowered individuals demanding human rights, social justice, equality, education, jobs, medical care and an end to the charade of our reign of economic terrorism. Protect us from desperate citizens setting themselves on fire. Protect us from the aftermath.
You have to sacrifice the peel to enjoy the fruit, said Arabic Spring. Fear sells.
Hearing this story the boy backed off. Trailing flames the girls departed.
A confidence man, 60, in a worn beige leather jacket entered with his son. A stocky bodyguard with a thick neck, alert steel pupils, and short hair followed them. He was Russian or Tartar sauce. Brown suit, black wing tips. He clasped meaty hands together. He never moved. He watched his boss negotiate with the owner. He glanced at Lucky with meticulous eyes. He swiveled his gaze back to father and son.
The confidence man purchased a lighter and pen. There was a problem with the credit card transaction. He pulled out a cell phone called his bank, slathered words and disconnected. The owner punched in numbers. The sale sailed through.
Taking his purchase he turned to Lucky, “How do you like it here?”
“Everyone is hospitable. Fresh tomatoes are delicious. Anxiety is a national problem. The drug industry is making a fortune.”
“My accountant calculates steady pharmaceutical investment growth in my diversified portfolio. What’s your job?”
“I’m a designer of mysterious linguistic projects. I freelance as a literary prostitute and ephemeral word gravedigger. Alphabets, pictograms and ideograms contain no sound.”
“So I’ve heard. What’s your name?”
“Keyser Soze.”
“Ha. One who talks too much. We have many verbal fools here. Where are you from?”
“I am from the source. We are stardust. I am a stream winner. I don’t belong anywhere.”
“Good luck.” Clouds opened. The father, son and Holy Ghost disappeared in a flash of blinding light.
“Who do you think he was?”
“Maybe the head of a big organization, maybe a bureaucrat, maybe the Mafia. Maybe Deep State. Well connected. I never saw him before.”
People entered his shop.
“Goodbye,” said Lucky, “thanks for the tea and hospitality. Suited me to a T. Oh, and one more thing, what is life?”
“Excellent quest-ion. There are no accidents. Everything happens for a reason. Let me guess. A bitch? A miracle? A dream? Paranoid attachment? A meaty meal with black and green olives smothered in red chili powder? Getting laid? Randomized coalescing atoms forming cytoplasmic hysteria? What you make it? How you grow? A beautiful mystery? An experiential game we get to play? Answers seeking/discovering quest-ions validating cosmological and deep philosophical significance? I give up. All I know is that you brought me good luck today. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. It’s my fate. I show up, sit a spell, strangers visit and look around. Some buy some don't. I go. The journey is the destination.”
