Had a dream the other night. I think. Even though I can’t draw worth a hoot, my best shot at an image of the dream is above. This dream started in the middle of a journey that begins at a red x (bottom left corner of the page). I think the journey was to the Red Sea to go scuba diving. But wait. The dream didn’t start there exactly. It actually started in Cairo. The red x is somewhere between Cairo International Airport and our final destination which is the resort region of Marsa Alam. I just didn’t feel the need to doodle that part. Nomatter. The trip was a total mess. Our plane was re-routed to Cairo International where we had to disembark and subsequently be “processed” for entry. Then we waited for hours in a luxurious bar where I got drunk out of my mind on “special” Egyptian schnapps. Eventually we boarded another airplane but instead of taking us to Marsa Alam airport it landed somewhere in the middle of the desert. We then boarded busses for the remaining part of the trip. There were no roads, no civilisation and it never got dark–even though we drove for a few days. The bus was crowded but comfortable. Everyone sat in their seats and some even used the ventilation system to blow dry their hair. A few children entertained the back of the bus with German songs from Scorpions and The Dead Trousers. Not unlike the luxurious bar at Cairo airport, the schnapps flowed and flowed. But then our tour bus was captured by Mexicans. So it’s here where the doodle kinda begins, i.e. the red x. Which brings me to the following question(s): captured by Mexicans in Egypt? How can that be? Oh yeah. It might have something to do with me not being one hundred percent white but also being a white-looking American and travelling through Arab Spring countries in order to get my kicks at twenty-five meters with colourful fish. Or. Prior to going to sleep that night I got kind of upset reading all the news about how Egyptian forces bombed a bus full of tourists because they obviously mistook it for being a bus full revolutionaries–or the like. We are living in those/these times, eh, dear worst-reader? Nomatter. The dream struck me and the morning after I felt compelled to codify it. What really sticks out in my conscious mind–as opposed to my dream mind–is that our Mexican captures trekked us along a desert road with a few stops in-between, as illustrated in the image (doodle) above. Huge tents were available to shade us from the sun. Oddly, being in a desert n’all, there was no need for water or suntan oil. The only thing available were books at various rest/pause stops. This is the part of the dream that confused me so. In the middle of a desert a group of people walk along a road (or was it a pathway?) and our only sustenance was books. The books had Mexican guards, though, and I don’t know why. Where were the Egyptians? Then, after a cup of earl grey, I dabbled in the following pseudo conclusion(s). I’m not sure what my other half is. It is safe to say that biological-daddy wasn’t white and he most certainly never read a thing to me. But what was he? He wasn’t black, he wasn’t asian and he most certainly wasn’t European–although he spoke German. He spoke German because he was stationed in Germany for most of his military career starting in the mid-50s thereby bringing numerous booty children to the world, aka Besatzungskinder. Yours truly being the second one of approximately four or five, etc. But. Again. Nomatter. I’m drifting. The thing is, I romanticise sometimes, even find myself hoping, that my other half is Indian. Maybe I’m a Sioux or a Mohawk or even a Choptank. But I could also be Mexican or Puerto Rican. Not that that is less than being half Indian. It’s just that I think, if I were on a scuba trip to the Red Sea, to read books, and read the corals, and wonder at deserts and desserts (that I’m not supposed to eat), I would never get captured by a bunch of Mohawks. Or? So I got up the other morning and was compelled to try and capture the dream, what it means. That’s all.
Rant on. -t
Link that motivated this post:
Repeated Airstrikes on Mexican Tourists | The Guardian
I’ll have a fish and feel the scales soaked in oil crumble between my teeth. Was that fish as tired as the water left in his wake? And do the fishermen know if they hunt for squid at night below an artificial sun and catch a red-snapper then the red snapper will make it belated to my plate. This ode to fisherman will never be sung because the world is full of to few people who are willing to do anything about the mess we are in. But what should they do if nothing? As though their vote would count. Silly little dreaming fisherman doing what he does in a sea empty of fish. But when, oh when these men wake up and see the light… If it’s real light and not the same light they use to catch squid and red-snapper. When they see just as a squid sees that the light is something else. Just as the great fisher sees, perhaps he was the greatest fisher, although he rarely caught anything… Perhaps the sea will wake up and find the error of all our ways and gobble us up to… Wait for it. Here it comes. Gobble us all up to… Oblivia.
What is third world? By any definition this must presuppose a first or a second world. But it doesn’t. It’s more as though third world is made up of subcategories. In the subcategory I work/live and the elite has gone to the moon. In the subcategory I vacation with old five gallon oil cans that are cut diagonally and have a stick attached makkng them a sweep-bin. Graciously but without smiling the peoples of other subcategories sweep the sand beaches. Breakfast seems to flow from every crevice of the facility. Brand new. We were the first to use the bed. It was a viraginous bed. It replaced the one ruined by the flood, the tsunami. This is subcategory indeed. But to its own only is it a sub. Thailand is not a subcategory to other western places. Perhaps Kau Laak is a subcategory but in which direction does the sub flow?
The imagery in the night or the early morning of being thrown out of a bus. Discarded as it were. But the significance of being discarded from a bus. Was it moving? Was it happy? What is the bus? Yes. Something important in life. Something of great meaning. But what is more important is what happens after being thrown from it. I walk through a city and meet my regret. The culmination of not being cable to maintain relations. Which I blame on my lost father? I see a long lost love in the arms of another man. Is he the one on the bus? Or is it I that will be thrown from the bus into the arms of long lost love? As I pass by she follows me but I am unable to recall the conversation. I continue on and go to a shop to have my hair dyed blonde and the barber laughs. He prefers purple. But can’t go there–not even in a dream. I wake up before I can see how it looks. My hair. But the bus is long gone.
And what of the thoughts while I’m awake? So few and far between. They are of the more frivolous of nature. For example. If a woman’s number of eggs is predetermined why then not the number of heart beats? (The connection?) Or how about the number of footsteps? Yes. It is pre-determined how many erections a man will have. And so. Why is the woman not cherished. Is it because of her proven limitations? Which are? Watch the can of worms opened up there. For I will ponder the will of god–or nuffy the blonde sea lion that lost a flapper while being caught for the aquatic zoo. And the remaining vernunft of Germans. It is his head that pierces the horizon of the ocean only. He snickers much to much and much to loud.
Another lucky day. Flight. DE2368 to HKT (Phuket). Eleven fucking hours to some exotic place. Why? To have conversation with other Urlaubers. Now that’s an exciting thought. And so. To start it all… a fellow with an interesting maustache, the kind with a triangle, perfectly manicured under the lower lip, introduced himself to the people who have to sit in the row with him. “Udo” he said. The people in the row said nothing. Why? Udo seems like such a nice Tiroler copy. Vest and all. Speaking of business (cross that last one out). For the first time I thought of the greater good in context of a discussion about corporatism. Self-interest seems to be the factor that drives the bottom line of the corporation. Right? But is that a given? Was it always this way? Can’t say for sure. But this can / should be connected with the likes of Thomas Edison. LOP and the idear of the greater good. Here a brief appearence by the return of JC. And Edison? JC a slob hanging out in places where he can find apostles. Happens across Edison. JC has to give up on (the) fisherman because there’s not place to fish anymore. So what is JC looking for while he’s here? The great inventor. Where does he look? Character (Stone) is a consultant who crosses JC and Edison path. Is there help for JC to be found? JC rationalization as Character (Stone) crosses the red states. With a drunkard, down on his luck Edison. Stone consults JC. But does JC consult him? What does Edison do? Work on this one. Get cohesive. Continuity. Enter the… The JC Trauma. What is the JC trauma? Is it the repercussion of meeting JC? Or is it the realization of what is behind the religious fanaticism ruining America combined with what will inevitably become a perversion of capitalism? Predatory capitalism making its come-back post Great Depression. Character (Stone) confronts a man who claims to be JC on the hunt for deciple. When asked (by Character) if he’s found any he responds in the non-affirmative. But there is this inventor. But what, dear worst-reader, does your JC say? Something profound? Or something not quite appropriate for the mouth of a messiah that has somehow landed in the mid-west of the USA. JC does explain how he got to the mid-west of the US. He spent most of the last two centuries roaming the cosmos and India looking for Thomas. Anywho. He got to the mid-west by ship. So. Mr. Worst-reader. Where in the mid-west of USA can a ship go to drop off JC? Is it possible that a ocean liner got caught in a river west of the Mississippi? Go there, T-bone. Put the mid-west inbetween the two coasts. A land locked place where JC can land with an ocean liner. And don’t forget that he has a cup. The cup. But what is a cup. The ship? The ship, cup, that sailed to the landlocked mid-west of that place between the two (US) poles. Don’t forget the great rivers, the Great Lakes. Or, perhaps, it is a ship that doesn’t have to have sailed anywhere. Instead it is a ship that was built where it is. JC, the son of … stepped out of line a few times after he arrived in heaven. God, the father, had a bit of trouble with the whole single parent thing. There were many things on gods’s mind and so he forgot a few things pertaining to his son. One day JC answered a few prayers for god. Having seen his dad do this he thought he could handle it. So when answering the prayers JC told the people praying that they had to build a ship. The thing about answering prayers. God answer prayers but he does it in a way that prevents it from being percieved as a miracle. The problem with miracles, god dreamed, is that when people get one, they can see through them. The miracles. The thing about prayers is that a prayer is not a prayer if it asks for a miracle. But even in this god wasn’t isn’t perfect. When god found out that JC answered a prayer and answered it badly god said that JC had to see it through. Which meant he had to go back down again. Fix his mess. How JC arrived in a ship that was landlocked. Why JC doesn’t fly. The story of JC on a ship in the mid-west USA. Could potentially use research here how the biblical miracles really happened. The whole miracle disillusion thing. JC the rebellious son of god, the father. JC roaming the cosmos and India. What am I to do with that? As though the cosmos has someting to do with India. Or does it? Didn’t Hinduism invent the cosmos? The debate about creationism. And what about the cool jobs that get you nowhere? Has nothing to do with JC cosmos, India and the mid-west. Or? Play. Aging. Getting old. Old vs. Young. Two characters that oppose each other. What makes them opposite? Both women. They have to work together and do well. Until something screws-up their Karma. I guess. These two women, one old (how to define that but remain subtle?) the other young (ditto?). The story culminates with the two realizing who/what they are. They are (somehow) the same person. One is a mother, the other a daughter. (Or the like.) The trilogy of the female. Mother, daughter… (and what’s next?) Or. One is a business executive, the other at the beginning of her professional career. But what are they doing? What brings them together in this story? Being a prolific writer means nothing in this day and age. Did it ever mean anything? H. Miller said, the greatest men have never written a thing. And why should one bother? Finding solace is or has to be about something else. Treating people equally, for example. The biggest gripe I have about exotic vacations is facing the working class of so-called poor nations. The people building and sculpting the bungalows and landscapes seem so content. Except for when they say how much they want a car. That was the key bomb for me last year on Mauritius. I will assume for cultural reasons, a Thailander will not come up to me and do the same thing. Where are all these notes going? In the notebook. Fool. I must eventually focus in love as well as writing. What’s the point of it all if it ultimately goes nowhere? The bleeding of energy. Must be bleeding off of energy? I would bleed off the ends of the world if the waves would follow me to where I live. Instead they (waves) act like the worst of the spoiled Georgian peaches flaying her wants to waiting takers. Oh the weight of fags (see graph next page) taking pictures of a beach while wearing tight pants. So they stop the waves of this beach from once again waknig up and caughing. Oh Kau Laak, you will rise above all with your smiling cares.
Is it possible for a white man to be traumatized by the civil rights movement of the black man? Or was the movement by someone else who only wanted to profit from movement? How a movement can be misunderstood.
Idea for… (?)
Character expresses his indignation for the results of the civil rights movement. He is traumatized by race. The race.
Sabine = Raissa
Jamina = Nyla
Iris = Drag
Anna = Windfeder
Peter = Secondmaus
- – echtomorph (thin)
- – endomorph (fat)
- – messomorpth
See the ballad of Lucy Jordan by Marianne Faithful. Interesting text about a lost 37 year young woman.
Bacteriophage. A virus that attacks bacteria. Not a profitable treatment, hence not used or researched! Soviet Union and Georgia used this the most. Most used as alternative to antibiotics.
Trying to fathom, understand any reason behind the supression of sexuality. What is the opposite of sex? Murder? If not, why not? The opposite of sex cannot be murder because death (and the act of killing) is not human instinct. Survival is a human instinct and when that is threatened the result is murder. Murder doesn’t logically equate with survival. Or?
The systemic of controlling sex and the instinct (to have it).
(See which of the list above are connected.)
As the days pass with no results of my efforts (which kinda makes them something other than efforts) the pain increases. Of course, everyone would argue that my efforst are nothing. But I think the last two stories I submitted are worth a great deal. Certainly they represent a high-point of my work up to all this nothingness. Yet the days pass and I type nothing more and more–except a silly blog past here and there. Nothing else matters. (Thank you Sam.)
Always act so that you can will the maxim or determining principle of your action to become universal law; act so that you can will that everybody shall follow the principle of your action. -Kant