Blackout27

An Essay

2011-01-09T00:45:00.003-05:00

Why Social Work?

“What a long, strange trip it’s been...” -- Jerry Garcia

Upon reflection in preparation for this essay, whose submission may change the course of my life, much has come to light in my own biography. I am encouraged to enter this field as much from sources within my own life as from my friends and family, many of whom (much to my wife’s dismay) are homeless or struggling with some combination of psychological disorder and substance abuse. Whether this is also my own case I feel is a matter of interpretation and remains to be seen.
My first extended conversation with a social worker was at a hospital. I had traveled to Morocco, a beautiful but harsh land. No medical regimen had been established to deal with my diagnosis there with MS while I was teaching English for a French company, and I was quite ignorant of what was in store for me. With a paucity of medication, I inevitably triggered an exacerbation, or flare-up, of symptoms mimicking inebriation: distorted balance, staggering gait, profound vertigo. This shockingly disrespectful departure from local custom of a country tolerant of little alcohol! I made my way from Meknes to the American embassy in Casablanca, who arranged with my family for my repatriation. I was admitted to Cayuga Medical from the airplane, and there I healed greatly, as much from physical rehabilitation as from plentiful rich food.
What should a social worker do with such a character? I had nowhere to go, especially as all my friends thought I was still in North Africa. Clearly I was in desperate straits, having indulged in a certain amount of Russian roulette not only with my subsistence, but with my entire health. My love for this peaceful desert kingdom notwithstanding, how would I tackle my new challenges in a way that did not endanger my future prospects?
At this point, I benefited from a stroke of great fortune: I missed my judicial disability hearing because I was hospitalized for precisely the reason I had filed for SSI in the first place. I imagine that open and shut cases like this are a boon for a judge whose desk must be scarred from a thicket of moral ambiguity, but this official’s decision was firm. Citing information of my situation he received personally (outside the hearing process), the judge directed my public subsidy to begin immediately. Apparently my illness was sufficient to merit aid that was established for this particular purpose, and I began to stabilize myself. In October of 2009 I returned to Morocco, taking a ring to an amazing young woman, and in July 2010 we were married.
Other stories must not be excluded. My buddy Kro (Timothy) paid for his house in North Carolina entirely from the drug trade, suffered the slings and arrows of predictably poor personal association, returned to New York, and his house burned from an utter lack of maintenance. He now follows a dark path of professional couch-surfing. Another, Starlight (???), spent 4 months in a corner of my old apartment, under a Moroccan blanket with a 40 of Labatt’s. Lacking any identification did not keep him from busking with his guitar on the Commons (the pedestrian mall of Ithaca); but how to approach this sort of existential myopia? Is it yet clear to him that he can no longer gamble on his propitious discovery by some errant musical agent, stranded in upstate New York?
What will he do instead? What of Tattoo (Brian), who drifted to Ithaca from northern New Jersey, found and lost a job, and re-drifted there and back again?
Two of these men are physically stable, and would happily work in construction. The last appears so paralyzed by paranoia that he is frozen, a poor joke in this snowy land. He counts himself lucky to have followed the epiphany that led him out of heroin in Boston to a bottle in Ithaca, but clearly he is deserving of closer attention: last I heard from Starlight, he was about to obtain the first ID he’d held in years. Another, Drummer John, purchases a fraction of the alcohol he imbibes, and spends much of his food stamps at the local co-op on catnip and sushi, which he lovingly distributes to every cat crossing his path. I have known these men for long enough to become familiar with their predilections, their talents, and their self-destructive neurotic flaws. A winning lottery ticket will not aid their situation if they cannot imagine a better life.
Sarah is another example. She sings with her guitar on the Commons, channeling Joni Mitchell, skeptical of serious relations and darting from any authority who may offer helpful structure. She has lived elsewhere, but like Starlight, I fear for her survival in a less hospitable atmosphere.
I imagine that Ithaca is not the only isolated town to hold this Nietzshean myth of inevitable return, but I long for a strong counter-example: if a wanderlust-stricken soul drinks the water of my town, or swims in the numerous waterfalls, s/he will always come back. What informs the surrender to a deterministic philosophy? How should such a decision not have gravely deleterious effects?
I hold deep faith that the only answers are not found solely at the Department of Social Services, though they may have considerable resources. Surely as a community we possess the ability to manage seemingly intractable problems as chronic homelessness and alcoholism, or at least cause to abandon these issues is not evident. I mean to investigate and expand upon programs that offer solutions without insult or condemnation, as I feel that as a culture we have outgrown much of the brittle Social Darwinism of the 19th century, exemplified in Dickens and Sinclair. There are more compassionate programs than the starchy dreck served at the Salvation Army; what is a lone plate of noodles stubbornly presented twice a week meant to achieve? Does the teleology of this approach have any long-term purchase on the problems I describe? If not, what would?
To enter this field is an ample choice, but given the moral underpinnings that drove my study of original study of philosophy, it is more of a Hobson’s Choice. My intelligence and eloquence drive me to pursue a field guaranteeing me the opportunity for lasting and positive impact; I can accept no less given what I now understand. Life is a brief game of chess (oxymoron intentional), and one must arrange one’s pieces in an artful fashion. I can no longer sustain an individual, boots-on-the-ground approach to every homeless man I know, though the impulse will surely remain.
It seems to me that elimination of homelessness in toto is not a realistic goal. Many such individuals have been treated so unfairly in the past that their trust in conventional social institutions has been entirely eroded, and will not even stand in line to receive a fair meal. So how should such people be approached? What long-term options are available that both preserve their autonomy and also provide a solution for society as a whole? It has been academically observed that the overall problem of food and housing are not those of poverty, but distribution. There will always be lease scofflaws, as much as those who seek to capitalize upon welfare out of unmitigated laziness. Nonetheless, they must all find traction.
I cannot embrace a purely Marxist view that if the dominant, market-heavy paradigm were subverted, all would (eventually) be well, nor can I defend the Thatcherite wooly-eyed view of society at large. The needs of people as a group do not drastically change, regardless of health and wealth. All must be met, if not by the state, then by the smaller community of one’s locale.
I seek further education in what I do naturally. I want to know how to help the people I refuse to reject. I embrace a sort of hard-line egalitarianism, equally impatient with both trickle-down self-congratulation and blind optimism borne of solipsistic Cold War elitism. With this in mind, I hope to pursue a fulfilling and vibrant career in social work. Thank you.

WEDDING OF MATTHEW AND JALILA

2010-08-16T16:01:00.003-05:00

http://kathymorris.zenfolio.com/ashford

Password: ashford

love,
m&j

Untouched News

2010-06-18T12:48:00.004-05:00

This strikes me as a little strange... West Virginia notwithstanding, but no mention of this one..?

More Reflection

2010-06-17T13:04:00.005-05:00

The Project has been hitherto accomplished with remarkable alacrity, considering the potential pitfalls.. It has been an object lesson in immigration law, a suitably anonymous introduction to various functions of governance, and a sort of pithy lecture on the vagaries of public finance. Lord knows I did not leave for Morocco 5 years ago in search of my wife! I was looking for an escape from heartless New York, for something that suited me better, and I found it! Within a few weeks of my arrival in Meknes, I could read the writing on the wall. More comfortable in a very foreign country than I'd ever been in my own (or any other, for that matter), the question was open: what would ever take me back to the US? I came up with only two answers, either I come down with some weird disease or someone dies. Thank God, no one died.
The idea of applying for a fiancee visa was given to me by my friend, Luke Johnson. Eventually, SSI came through, and I had sufficient funding to work the levers of power. Lila's visa application was completed in December, and a red, white, and blue sticker was put in her green passport in May. She has been legal to enter the United States since then, and we expect her arrival next month.
My family (my mother and stepfather) have been crucially helpful during this time. I write this on her laptop, seated in the kitchen of the house he renovated. My gimlet attitude towards Danny's bourgeois predominance notwithstanding, this would have been far more difficult (if not impossible) without their assistance. As I've noted several times before, the dominant social institution in the US is the State, whereas this position in Morocco is held by the Family.
Being American, nothing withholds me from reaping benefit of both, each strong in their own domain. The US pays me every month, no matter what I spend it on, and I enjoy the unique American privilege of extending my own benefits to another (one) as I see fit. To put this another way: was there ever as well prepared an immigrant as Mlle. Jalila Benlali? Guaranteed income and subsidized rent: no Moroccan has had it so good. Me neither!

2010-06-09T17:27:00.002-05:00

At this point, the psychological stress of the Project has become reached a sort of crescendo. In noh theater, one understands the intensity of emotion, choking these players beyond their elocution... We are ALMOST there. I plan to see her next month, here in distant Ithaca. Stay tuned; marriage follows.

Betrothed

2009-12-18T09:44:00.003-05:00

When I was a kid, learning French, I found the word fiancee expressed the past tense; as in "fianceed".. So then what did it mean to BE a fiance? (I resent the difficulty of including the proper accent notations, aigu and grave.. But it's OK.) The approximate equal would be betrothed: There does exist one for whom I have expressed devotion, one to whom I will always be true! Hence be-truthed. But that is just between her and me. We established this a few years ago in Meknes. Now for everyone else...

I feel the natural state of a fiance (me) is in tension, like an unrequited letter.. Now that the visa petition has been sent off, the bureaucratic wheels are in motion! I have chased my pathetic bank balance into a corner, whimpering, to get things this far, and there's MORE... But as with any honest fiancee, a tension is held tight within me, nervous and excited, one I don't care to resolve at the moment. I am becoming a connoisseur of tension: I know the permanent resolution I desire!

She may be seen here, in August 2007.

anyone want a trilingual teacher??

2009-10-21T13:54:00.000-05:00

http://www.seriousteachers.com/TEFL/TeflSchool.asp?idteflschool=10027124

I wonder if this works....

Bother All That Noise

2009-02-19T11:09:00.003-05:00

Found me a new house...

2009-02-07T09:30:00.001-05:00

A pattern like this covered the walls of my hotel room where, after a few weeks, I could barely walk. Better to just look at the walls.

And Yet It Keeps Moving

2009-02-06T19:09:00.001-05:00

Gazing pensively out the window, a sun-dappled morning in the spring, shadows of new leaves spread generously… Krusty has a Deep Thought.
“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever hit anybody—“
I stare at him incredulously. His shoulders are three times the width of mine.
“Twice.”
“Oh.”
Falstaff, strongly reminiscent, a big character, roaring with passion and life-be-damned enthusiasm for any number of colorful chemicals, a man pigmented by the hues of his fierce appetite for such things.
-- So what, are you packing that thing?
-- I found something.
-- What’s the story with the heat in this house? It’s roasting in my room.
-- We made some nachos. Knock yourself out.
What did the magic number mean, we only smoked twice a day, if we were awake in the middle of the night? No, there was a different stripe of ideology to resist. You never wanted to hear about a crystal again as long as you lived. Remembering the Drainbow.
-- It’s about the comfortability.

I remembered in time not to cover myself. I had no need of self-protection, any thought of vulnerability was an illusion. I am not a hijabia. So, I understood, you stand where you know you are right, and you don’t give an inch. However, Real Life may not call for such a combative outlook at every moment, and this may alienate fragile people. Besides, when you do give your inch and feel bad about it, you must have some capacity for self-apology or some such. Because, yes, you will sustain through this moment, and you should have enough room for yourself the next day. Embarrassing as it is to express. But I will be back on that couch at some point. Lord, you can see that it’s true…

I am so tired.

Why do you say you left your heart there?
Truth seemed to be clearer there. It was closer to the Source.

What do you mean by that?
It seemed that there was less fragmentation between the Source from which all things originate and their eventual destination in the sand. The things which were good were extraordinarily so, the tastes, aromas, appearances of the place would sear themselves on your experience. The honey was of some transcendent substance, a smear of simple magic collected safely in a small glass jar, provided in accommodation with cakes for breakfast.
…
The word of the evening will be reification. By this the process of distinction is highlighted; the transiently, vague border separating the belief from the superstition is made distinct. So we abandon our comfortable wishes, we cease our stubborn disregard of what is plainly incontrovertible, and we gather familiar stones and make a fire pit.
Repetition of closely held values is typical; in case there was any doubt. It’s all about the comfortability.

More Mumbling

2009-01-24T13:33:00.001-05:00

I can almost hear my eyes creak, opening to blue slices of pale sunshine through the thin blanket. The pattern on the couch is familiar, still glimmering darkly from last night’s festivities. Growling, I pull myself to my feet and look around the room. Empty beers, something cheap, crowd the table and cluster by the feet of chairs, ashtrays overflowing.
-- What happened last night?
-- Ambushed by lysergic storm troopers.
Of course. Why I still feel bubbly, wobbly as a Jello salad. We observed the table as some distant coral reef.. And giggling we recalled when, with unreliable gait, I found myself stranded on a glacier, which was really an icy driveway.
-- Any of that crummy dust left?
-- Some, but you can’t both sneer and smoke.. Pick one or the other.
-- Jeez, won’t you have some coffee first?
We saw the edges glistening in shy suggestion of another realm, we saw the pinpricks of the cosmic light that gleamed through the wispy substance of this veil, we laughed at the massive cosmic joke. Then one character began speaking only in gibberish.

Some sniffingly disdain such people as those who resist growth, who seek to maintain their youth in the perpetual Now. There may be some purchase to this analysis, but my own idealist pragmatism stays unchanged. What good does such a conclusion do me? Am I to avoid the very people who offered me their shelter and shared with me their food? Such is the burden of the informed: what do I do now?

I don't go to those parties anymore

2009-01-01T17:43:00.003-05:00

They always get out of hand... Bonne Année...

Jingle Bulls...

2008-12-25T11:07:00.003-05:00

Wow... Check this... Thick clouds and snow in the Grand Canyon... The world is crashing. Finally.

Double-Sided Stone

2008-12-23T07:54:00.004-05:00

The idea that multiple sclerosis may be caused by some form of
infectious agent is supported by several interesting observations.
On the Faroe Islands prior to 1920, MS was essentially unknown.
Subsequent to the invasion of British troops, the incidence of MS
increased dramatically.

It occurs to you later that the moment of learning is inevitably transformative, intrinsically so, apart from all the other crap you learn later.

Anyway, the logical flaws in the composition of this article are interesting. Never mind the clear conclusion that the only MS was brought by the British. The critical premise regards the desire to be aware. Dismiss the popular urge to prevent, to avoid....Then why this neoPuritanism? Can we not embrace our life in safety and moderation? But I relinquish my stump. I question the fundamental utility of this research. (I am satisfied with my fatalism, though I understand the curiosity. But look! Ain't fuck-all to be done about what has happened to me, what I lost, what was taken. It fucked up a good thing, and I'm still a shade bitter. But things are not bad right now.) Consider these two relatively diametric positions.
This is the first I have heard of symptomatic relief.
Then there is the other one which regards a putative cause of the condition. My question is: what now? Just keep taking your meds and quit whining.

Interstitial Pudding

2008-12-17T12:51:00.003-05:00

What stretches on with infinite patience, sprawling between moments, what attenuates to translucent obscurity, though you may try and try to engrave such grasping words, are they not but written in the clouds? What else can possibly sustain you? It is (hopefully) enough to strive for the most meager moment of emotional release, inasmuch as the starving man may be sustained by the thinnest of broth... In the desert the merest drop of water will be an opportunity for celebration, or at least the climate is fierce enough to demand your notice of this.

Now that I've signed over a chunk of my identity, or surely some subtly momentous change has come about...at any rate I feel a shade more peaceful than when I was working there.

I AM SO GLAD I WENT THERE FIRST!

Today has already been productive. All you ever need is one day.

I wonder who reads this... Probably no one.

Profound puzzlement

2008-12-09T13:55:00.003-05:00

Of course I have an idea how to overcome this. But I am wasting time doing it regardless, because I am telling you about it now. Anyway...

Grinding Socialization

2008-12-07T13:45:00.003-05:00

This is what you can expect from raising the name "living room" to its bracing reality. There are always people around, and one hopes to enjoy the company of as many of them as possible. Feeling well, just typically dizzy and a bit tired. Slept well last night: it's a comfy sofa. Hmm, they're booting me off again... This is no way to get the least shred of work done.

Chocobis?

2008-12-03T15:54:00.001-05:00

Hmmm...

Only a Brief Time Ago

2008-12-03T15:42:00.004-05:00

Sandy skin, auburn eyes downcast in sad resignation... Behija.

Nta douib, Moussa, and there's nothing can be done about it.

Ana douib? Kifash douib?

Fransawi réynard.

Alesh?

But no answer. My fate was already sealed by an untouchable gorgeous woman. Her friend with the giant dark eyes, wide and solemn, was Awadtef. Feelings, it meant. They were from Beni Mellal.

People Are Impossible

2008-11-22T15:36:00.002-05:00

Or, why won't the pretty girl at the pizza place go out with me? Probably because she's intimidated by me, and also not actually interested in spending any more time in my company than is necessary. Bummer. Though I don't want to be reminded of this for the next eternity so, out of whimsical indignation, I will write this in ORANGE. Stay posted for further updates.

Alienation is a Friend of Mine

2008-10-30T11:07:00.003-05:00

Not sure where to begin... The hackneyed starving artist quotation "A writer writes!" will do as well as anything. Before, I was broke in another country, but hopeful of a job starting at the end of Ramadan... But my shredded nerves had other plans. (Props to the Foreign Service, and all their bustlingly professional sorts in consulates around the world, specifically one Pamela Hack.) When I arrived in the consulate in Casablanca, I was either embarrassingly drunk or else in need of medical attention. But I don't drink. I was perilously dizzy, perpetually falling, and sometimes hitting the ground. My speech was affected, as one might find in a person recovering from a stroke, slurred and mumbled. Three of my five senses were disrupted. But my family (by which I mean my blood, no one else since I'm not yet married, I'm old-school like that) got the message quickly and helped me out. Surely it was a poorly planned trip, and surely the lack of necessary measures was informed by my urgently felt need to escape from where I'd been. Ironic, then, to end up where I began, but in worse circumstances! Often I have felt ignored, overlooked, neglected, swaddled in a silence ostensibly justified by placing me in a safe location. Safe enough, but psychically draining-- easily bored, the only real entertainment I found was in substances. Given their inherent evanescence, obviously a waste. Only what is created matters, and of that, only NOW.

Some Thoughts

2008-10-23T10:02:00.002-05:00

Mediocrity. Paranoia. Blindness. Oppression. Identity and its emptiness. Boredom. Sterility. Analgesia. Slavery, but consentual. Anonymity; would you know the difference? It was an idea informed by the environment of its birth in the hospital, and colored by the relative weakness of culture. But I won't let it go, even if it alienates everyone around me. Like that has ever stopped me. But a quote comes to mind, from a woman who works for the Algerian consulate: Never say die. It took me a bit of time to figure it out, but eventually I did.

Back in the _____ Again

2008-10-19T12:52:00.002-05:00

God, it was good to be there for a little while... It became quickly apparent that I had prepared poorly. Though it must be noted: if you are going to be broke in Morocco, Ramadan is a good time to do this. True, I have benefited by returning...in some ways. Ways more valuable to others than me, considering I would make the same choices again. I regret that I have chosen rather expensive hobbies, but mektoub as we say. Carry on, and come up with a more sustainable way to serve these ends.

As If Anyone Cares

2008-09-15T08:49:00.002-05:00

Finally… a blank paper. I have a notebook, but this vexing condition makes it easier to write by typing. Naturally, my laptop is 1) in America and 2) rather broken… but I found a keyboard still. So what if it’s French ?

Got scrubbed last night. Lost about 10 lbs. of dead skin, felt great ! Man you guys are missing out.

Still a little flared up… I am still mad dizzy and my left side is somewhat numb. But it doesn’t keep from puffing, even during Ramadan.

New gig : Pigier. Seems alright, though Frenchy. Also salary is not fixed, but rather related to the number of students. Sure.

Next: to throw down on some film and put up some good pictures. Maybe.

FUCK ALGERIA!!!

2008-09-12T09:30:00.003-05:00

Wow, those people are WAY too paranoid... I was judged as an unprofessional failure before I even left the airport on the basis of my inconvenient luggage and my lack of socks. (Thanks, dear friends.) Well, screw all that. I have arrived in a far more sane land: Morocco!

I will write here again in maybe a week or so when I have more cash. In the meantime, feel free to write me (though I expect you won't) or even call: +212 0.54.48.33.11. Talk soon.

A Glimpse of Daylight

2008-07-06T21:11:00.003-05:00

Work papers are coming through. The place looks something like this. Stay tuned.

Someone Else's Idea

2008-06-03T11:23:00.001-05:00

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Well alright then.

oh for heaven's sake

2008-06-02T17:13:00.001-05:00

Out of sheer desperation, I accepted a job in Korea... but as we all know that is not really where I want to be. But I suck it up and get the gig. THEN I hear back from a school in Algeria. I follow up with them, and hope this doesn't take another 2 weeks. Apparently a visa to Algeria only requires $100, which is forthcoming from the brother. Aaarrrgh. So if I get the Algerian gig, I will cancel the Korean gig (sorry, folks) and fork over the cash. Alright. Let me make something happen somewhere interesting. Surely a North African gig will be more labor-intensive, and probably less lucrative, than a Korean gig, but......we are not really here for the $. I don't want another cruddy winter. So wheels are turning, more to come... Stay tuned.

The Worst Muslim on Earth

2008-03-28T00:58:00.004-05:00

Just watched Le Grand Voyage with my roommate. I know I'm supposed to go on this trip, but I don't see how this would ever be possible: the expense alone is exorbitant. But it's important. Suffice to say that Islam makes a damn sight more sense to me than it used to. I (breathlessly) anticipate that I will be closer to my spot in the sun for Ramadan, which I find quite compelling.

I feel no compulsion to explain this to anyone; I believe God gets it (insha'llah) and the rest of you can get knotted.

2008-03-19T10:32:00.002-05:00

The Path is still clear. Nothing can obscure it but for my own foolishness. Meanwhile, progress of the Plan continues slowly. We will see in a couple weeks. Health remains strong, hamd'ulillah.

I am amazed by the clarity of the Path and its revelation to me. I never thought anything like this would happen, but it has. So it has been decreed, so shall it remain. How comforting.

Productive Staggering, for a Change

2007-09-01T19:45:00.000-05:00

Against all odds, I actually got a job!! No small feat in Ithaca, my placid town where being trilingual is not much of a distinction, and even less use. I am happily employed at Ithaca Coffee, where I spent 5 hours today learning how to do a few useful things. There will be more useful hours to come; inshalla'ah I will learn how to use the cash register in time. It's an agreeable place with an excellent beer selection. And it leaves room for the writing gig in a few months: I will be able (if all goes well) to handle both. Cross your fingers.

I am pleased as punch to be useful again. Even if I am the oldest member, even if I work with a girl who was born when I was in high school--it doesn't really bother me. This is all on the way back to where I should be. God bless our every move.

Let the Questions be Answered

2007-08-04T22:46:00.000-05:00

Because it's her birthday. She's 21 today. Jalila Benlali, she's awesome. She didn't believe me when I said that her looks would turn heads in New York. But I don't lie about legs like that. Enough mournful drooling.

2007-07-28T09:13:00.000-05:00

So God has commanded you to write; and offers no comforting justification. Do not write of yourself. Write instead of a fierce land clinging to the edge of a sharp stone, nestled in the sand. Only by God's mercy and grace is the land made green, any shelter found therein. For you are blessed in the eyes of God, who commands you to follow the Path He has cleared. The Way has never been clearer, so embrace and cling to it. In time, you will learn and grow. Do not lose the Path.

In Brief Response...

2007-07-27T15:53:00.000-05:00

It is raining again in Ithaca, while it is warm and clear in Meknes. I know Morocco poses many problems that America does not, but it still seems like a much more proper place to me. I regret my many lapses and sins, and I pray that I will be allowed to return again. I am still sad, but I will continue putting one foot in front of the other, to take me down this path. And insha'llah I will arrive in a happier place one day.

Cryptic, ha!

Wide Awake on a Dark Plain

2007-07-20T20:29:00.000-05:00

I will tell you what happened in Chaouen. The world became beautiful. This is not to say that the images presented by my eyes took on the attribute of beauty: but rather, that which beauty was, the world was made of that. It was in everything, as clear as a bell. The trees on the mountains, the curve of the hill, the angle of the sun. It was not only within me, but everything I saw. And things stayed like that.
I never forgot my vision, even though it dulled after months. I believe that I will find it again in the beloved land, and this remains my ardent hope. So when I say how things seemed so much clearer there, that is what I am talking about. I haven't talked about it more because I think many of you would think I was nuts. Or I lack the sufficiently eloquent skills to describe the feeling welling up in me from the vision.
I still feel it now, though it's faint. I need the strings of my heart to pull it back, and these are tied to things far from here. Without them, I am only half a man.
Bound to familiar sights in this country, you will not understand. That is clear. So I will wish you asalaam walaikum and hope that you see one day as I have. Insha'llah.

2007-07-16T18:58:00.000-05:00

Not much to say at the moment. I thought I'd put up another picture from Chefchaouen: me and my buddy Zohair. We had a good couple days hanging out together. You see the blue glow on the wall from the glaze in the street. You see the tiled pavement. This was a nice small house. I wish I'd stayed longer there. I'll be back.

Walking This Stony, Sunny Path

2007-07-15T09:57:00.000-05:00

I don't get it, but I guess I don't really have to... For no reason other than the apparent natural progression of things, my starkly black mood here in the gravel heap lifted, and I am still here. I still haven't met any other MS people, but this will come in time. In the meantime, I have other tomatoes to slice: a writing gig! ?!?!?!
I have known for awhile that I have some considerable writing skill, a predilection for matters literate and expressive and linguistic, but had I ever thought of applying this to employment? Haha! Of course not! For various quirky psychologic reasons, I felt obliged to a path which did not necessarily suit me... But moving on from the stage of interminable fits and starts to http://www.virtucomgroup.com/! If I pull this off well, this could be a redemptive boon to a puzzled career.
So how did I come to meet the owner of a dynamic and successful startup? Because he and his husband (shades of pink prejudice, but I think married gay couples are adorable) bought the folks' house in King Ferry! A veritable chance encounter, one of the sort that lead to marked mutual benefit. So the gig would essentially be online catalog copy writing. Content production, as they call it these days. Sorting out fluff to add new fluff? Something like that. A superior hourly rate has been floated, conditions were broadly described, and the potential for distance employment was offered.
A heroic return to my beloved country wavers before my astonished eyes. Life in Morocco on an American wage?! Even modest by Yankee standards, this is too good not to stake everything on. As if I ever do things by another strategy. So we will take the next steps over the next few weeks, and also find another place to live. I am very pleased by this development.

Besmillah er Rahman u Rahim!! Dima insha'llah, la79ash min Allah kulshi ja'in, wa kulshi bekhir t7at sma zerqa. Z3ma insha'llah, wa dima amin.

Adrift

2007-07-11T07:20:00.000-05:00

It's hard to express. I feel completely alienated from the world here. Like none of this is mine, or has anything to do with me. It is all very strange and foreign feeling. Like Turkey, oddly enough. A place I didn't get used to. But theoretically, this is home.
The folks seem to think that when I am in a good mood, that everything is fine. And when I am in a bad mood, pathologic or otherwise, then I have done something wrong but they don't know what to do as a result. The foreign step-father gets even more distant than normal, and the mother gets hostile and cold. I suppose I don't really know what to do with them either.
So if I seem standoffish, maybe ask yourself why.

I don't know why I am still here. I don't want to continue my living. I don't see the point. I can't think of anyone whose grief I want to avoid. I am not that close to anyone here. No one will help me. So I'll do it on my own.

That Was Quick

2007-06-24T10:41:00.000-05:00

Didn't work. The mind does not focus properly, the concentration is muddled, the memory is intermittent, like a flickering light bulb. I cannot really do my job. Now the challenge is to convince the authorities of this. I am told that they will help me but naturally I am skeptical.

Another Step...

2007-06-15T23:12:00.000-05:00

...towards the cliff. I am leaving the US again, for how long I don't know. Lord knows I don't plan to return as I did before, stranded and helpless. Or at all, for that matter. 4 months after I got here in the chill grey of dying winter, I have clung to my culture shock with tenacity. I always wanted to leave, and now I will. Not exactly what I had in mind, but I think Turkey will be good for me. Arabic hasn't left, and I will learn something new.

So do not despair, dear heart. Only you can walk this path through the valley of darkness, but no one can stop you. So go with a bright heart, neglect your fear. In time you will arrive in the sunlit country where you belong. Just keep going.

But I will never forget the awkwardness felt by that fellow Calid at Trent's party (which one?) in Rabat. Declining the joint, sipping his juice, looking astonished by the foreign fellow Americans whose company he appeared to have shared in a long time. He seemed to have been comfortable in Syria. But he was a nishan meslem, not like me. I am not sure what I am, or where I belong, or what I should be doing. So I must keep looking. Khssni nmshi, wa kanwssel insha'llah. Dima nsrani ana. Z3ma, nmshina! Bla khattar. Nshufek, sahabi.

Summer Jobs Never Again to Be Endured

2007-06-14T20:54:00.000-05:00

There were only a few types of doors. The desperate poor resented the intrusion by the bourgeoisie into their jealously guarded space, and were further insulted by another invitation to privileged society commercially rescinded. They would see a cultural foreigner, an unfamiliar creature from another world, divorced from adult responsibility, unconcerned with clipping coupons and the price of gasoline. Shame at their capitalist impotence was palpable. (This was Geneva, NY.) The conservative right happily welcomed the chance to grapple with their ideological adversary, all don’t-tread-on-me, drowned-in-a-bathtub outrage. Bored by their static companionship, their eyes lit up with righteous disagreement. (This was some nameless suburb of East Rochester.) And finally, there were the guilt-stricken bourgeosie, eager for absolution from their industrialist sins. (This was well-heeled Brighton, and would be Ithaca too.) All were amazed at the left’s effrontery. Imagine the nerve, they would mutter inwardly. To approach me on my own property! As if this has anything to do with me! Few saw a person. Most were culturally embedded enough that they saw only a symbol.

But gripped with unwavering optimism, blind to their own inconsistencies, the group would ramble on. Selling indulgences, leaving a path of literature in their wake, pressing each with empty words of solidarity. Stranded thirsty by secularism, they did not see their proselytizing ancestors, nor their distant cousins across the sea. The religious parallels were unheard of. Ignorant of their brethren, they remained numbingly American.

Poor scattered people! All aching for community, for social intimacy, for release from paranoia and anxiety. Many contributions were fed as much by loneliness as by contention. So the organization was sustained by the same qualities it represented against.

Man, I miss Morocco... But I will be in Turkey soon. Close enough for now. I almost made it to Tetouan, but I can count Bursa on the Matt-map.

Stranded Traveler

2007-06-07T15:24:00.000-05:00

I found a bat in my kitchen. This is strange enough to be the opener for a very silly joke. A small brown bat, clumsily hugging the floor, a little smaller than one of my old rats. Chauve-souris, indeed! He must have come in through a window, but why? It's far too light outside to be kiting around at this hour. So I scooped the fellow up with a magazine, which he promptly bit enthusiastically. I made it out to the porch, where I happily offered him his freedom. He glared at me, a shred of paper stuck to his teeth. Ungratefully, he bit my knuckle. I cursed at him and flung him into the air. He glided off across the street and landed in a shrub. I have never seen a bat flying during the day. He must have been half-blind.
This was the second wild creature to fly into this house this week. A few days ago, there was a terrified starling in the living room. She looked a little dazed, and then I found out why: no one explained walls to her. When I approached her, she immediately took off for a window, and smacked into a wall. After a little more of this folderol, she allowed me to cup her gently in my hands, though she plainly still thought her end was nigh. She was a lot more excited when I took her outside and pitched her off the porch. Still a bit wobbly, she flew a little too close to the telephone lines, clipping a wing, and nearly crashed again. But she didn't.
I hope the symbolism is clear to you.

Itchy Feet

2007-06-05T19:46:00.000-05:00

As teachers and foreigners, I know that we are largely expendable. We are often seen as tetchy and unreliable, likely as not to be repelled by the culture we find ourselves and unimpressed by local agreements. But this is not me. I didn't want to leave, sweetheart, and you know nothing short of a medical emergency could have separated me from you. You still ring true to my heart.

With you on my mind, the most encouraging development this week has been the affordable price of a ticket from Istanbul to Casablanca. I will come back to you. For now, I must leave. Leaving once more, and arriving in a familiarly perplexing landscape, are foremost on my mind.

Bursa! What does it mean? Wide stone plazas, quiet round pools of water beneath gently the sloping broad domes of the mosque, slender round minarets towering outside. Chaotic traffic in the roundabouts nearby. Flourishing gardens. Cafés. All in Turkish!

In other words, I have no idea what to expect. After 4 months of rotting in isolation, I will rejoin humanity in a properly welcoming civilization. Enough of this American smile-and-nod duplicity! Enough of unseen transgressions and quietly seething at misperceived arrogance! I must get over expectations of Moroccan similarity; I am sure that the Turks would bristle at this. But I will keep mumbling in Arabic anyway. And I will still miss my friends and my adorable Jiji. I hope she is all right.

Damn Mood Swings

2007-06-02T15:51:00.000-05:00

Now what?!

But I can't help thinking that I shouldn't go. I know what I am risking. I don't want to be hospitalized again. I am afraid of this. This got me into an expensive situation which was the unraveling of my life in Morocco. But I have no real choice. I have already committed to it. I am going anyway, doubts and fears and all!

In a couple months, I will feel much more comfortable.

Some Encouraging Developments

2007-06-01T20:28:00.000-05:00

By the end of the month, familiar 8-hour jet lag will have worn off, I will be struggling with unfamiliar phrases, and I will be getting used to a new environment. AGAIN. The life of a traveler: Never pack much but optimistic thoughts. A new place, new weather, new birdsongs, new coffee. Some things will be similar.

In brief:

1) I got the job in Bursa. It is amazing how easy this is with a little experience! I could have gone to Istanbul but my impression is not very different from Casablanca, with more complicated geography. Bursa seems a bit like Meknes. I am probably wrong.

2) The medication is happening. My supply ran out a few weeks ago. The necessity of my family's involvement in this irks me. I am not sure what else I could have done. But at least I should have some to take with me (insha'llah).

I wonder about the effect of heat on this accursed condition. I have heard much about this, and I wonder if that is behind my dizziness and losing my glasses. But moving on regardless.

2007-05-25T21:10:00.000-05:00

What I was writing when she called with the good news:

A recent application for graduate-level Arabic studies included an appropriately perplexing essay question: “What is the most serious problem in Islam today?” One may consider to what degree the questioner is posing a sort of political litmus test. Is a prospective Western applicant aligned to the sense of cultural self-defense, adhering to the notion that a global growth of Islam represents a vital threat to Western values? Or does our applicant take the opposite position, that the most pressing threat to Islamic mores comes from those outside the religion? But this entire line of analysis is basically flawed.

So I was already in the mindset of forging ahead, brave new frontiers, that sort of thing. While I don't think Islam itself has any genuine problems, I do think it could benefit from some defense. Why does the West take the bloody-minded approach that it does? Why does it cling to ancient stereotypes to justify foolish hatreds? Having demonstrated such capacity for intrinsic sweeping change, even to the point of solipsistic relativism, why is this so difficult? But anyway.

I will arrive in Istanbul on June 17th! We fixed this date tonight, I received the confirmation email and all. She actually is helpful! Or at least did what she promised. She knows how much this means to me. I wonder how to proceed from here. Istanbul, Bursa, then what? Syria? Lebanon? Egypt? Morocco? Hmmm... None of you ever comment on this, I doubt few of you actually read this drivel anyway, so asking my friends for their input is surely beside the point. But I love you guys anyway.

Makes you wonder where her other hand is....

2007-05-01T21:43:00.000-05:00

Tagline: Solving the Mystery of Duck Genitalia

Wow, without even a parental consent form. The article is even better. Go find it yourself.

Iwa?

2007-05-01T20:56:00.000-05:00

Wow, she’s nice. Of course she is. But I knew this before. I wonder what she thinks.

So what’s next? One must always maintain a view of the future. Struggle with your problems of the present, but do not let them overwhelm you. Even a disagreeable nervous system can be dealt with. Beshwiya.

I am agreeable with marrying in Morocco, but I realize the giant difficulties with leaving the place that this would pose. Maybe not completely, but at least I’ve got that far. I think I already had my “get out of jail free” card: that was Zoe’s mother, unfortunately. I think one is enough. Jalila was not such a refusal; this was medical. You can’t play baseball if a meteor lands in the park.

This is Jalila, incidentally. Draw your own lascivious conclusions.

A Fluffer-Nutter

2007-04-24T22:57:00.000-05:00

Unfortunately, you're not a real person. I wonder who those pictures are?
>From: "Amy Carter" <cheerfulskirt@hotmail.com>>To: m*******@hotmail.fr>Subject: Hiya, I'm just now catching up on emails>Date: Tue, Apr 2007 18:08:18 -0400>>Hey, cutie thanks for answering my ad on craigslist.
Whatever.Who are you anyway? This is very mysterious.
>My computer broke down and I finally called the Geek Squad or>what ever and it was very embarressing because my house was a mess and
Blah, blah...
>the guy was really cute and most definitely not a Geek,>well goes to show why I'm still single.
No, you're single because you're hopeless.
>My computer is alive now and>I wasn't sure if you were still interested in meeting me.
No. I only meet people who exist in real life.
>I'll attach some recent pics. Other than that, What are you up to?
Answering your insane email, in an equally pedantic fashion.
>How about tonight for a chat? Well I hope to hear back from you>because I could really go for a little bit of spice in my life,>if you know what I mean.
How about nutmeg?
I can be a real flirt online>but need a few drinks in person, so we need to chat soon.
NEED? Ooh, a damsel in distress.
>Well, ok, I guess you're good enough to see my pics,Ah, the sweet embrace of privilege.>but don't show them to anyone! Promise?>http://www.picturesplace.net/amy107
Hahahahahaha!
>I think you'll really like some of the pics I have up especially after the>protection.Yeah, that "protection" is hot!
Mercy? Wow, are you ever barking up the wrong tree.
>Just don't spank me too hard when you see what a bad girl I am...LOL!
Mercy? Wow, are you ever barking up the wrong tree.
>Well I have to get back to catching up on emails from my friends,>but get ahold of me on my photo page!>>see ya,>Amy :)
Or whatever your name is, if you even have one. Not bloody likely.
On the other hand, the photos are real.

Makaynsh matayshat?

2007-04-18T15:52:00.000-05:00

What the hell is wrong with these people?

Welcome to the Sadriyah market, north-central Baghdad. Other than the blackened vehicles and smoke, this slightly resembles some areas of, say, Meknes. But it's not.

Two ideas regarding motivation, not necessarily exclusive:

1) However the partisans organize themselves, they agree that increasing violence will drive off the invaders, er, "protectors". So this is essentially atheistic terrorism.

2) Given 1), many angry sorts have available cover for genuinely religious terrorism. Not that any of this crap, whether in Baghdad, Algiers, or Louisville, is remotely allowed by the Qu'ran.

(Dear US: Get the fuck out. What do you think you're doing?)

2007-04-14T22:30:00.000-05:00

Dig how Simo VI is the only one wearing shades. And everyone else has a dark suit.

Incidentally, they're building this nifty windmill park near Essaouira.

Why I Am Not That Concerned

2007-04-14T13:37:00.000-05:00

I know, several bombings in Casablanca. The BBC article is here: http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/middle_east/6555177.stm. I am saddened by the desperation of poverty, painfully exacerbated by its proximity to unreachable affluence. Knowing such hopeless bloodletting only widens this gulf is a bitter truism. Suicidal bombers' desired outcome is not clear to me. Popular support--that is, of the people--has always been an irresistible force. Its lack will cost our fumbling president his career (though in his cynicism, I doubt he cares), overcoming the stained glass walls with which his entourage protect him. People don't stay unhappy for long. Once they find some scrap of sustaining prosperity, they naturally cling to it. Conservatism is like that.

The monarchy has been basically successful so far. Though wealth is poorly distributed, and education has a some distance in front of it, The People are in favor of The King. His status as al-Mumineen, the Leader of the Faithful, places him in charge of the religious community as well as the secular. This is in important contrast to, say, Iran.

Political repression still lingers, and its reporting is transient at best. However, most people (I think) are joyously conservative, but not reactionary. There is no popular push for Wahhabi asceticism. So martyrs (do you still call them martyrs if no one cares about the individuals? I favor "losers".) do not really inspire an Iraqi-style bloodbath of retribution and fatally sanguine heroism. No one admires these poor dupes.

Perhaps September 11th inspired some similarly ignorant cretins, but I think the common reaction is like the Good Kids Meeting Drugs in some After School-Special: Ew, we don't want to be like that. But more strongly dismissive and condemning. This will not spread beyond Casablanca, certainly not to Rabat. (Poor Casaouis blowing up rich ones: not to be disgusting, but I never liked the place much anyway.) The country will not be fractured by sectarian fences. There aren't any, to speak of. It is too much a NFA Kingdom for that.

Perhaps it is more likely that willing candidates will either all blow themselves up (I know there's a hamd'ullah for something bad, the equivalent of God forbid. But it's rarely used: one student told me, "God never wishes something bad to happen." I am still thinking about this.) or else disappear, scuttled into an unmarked makhzen van, then to wake up somewhere uncomfortably near Algeria. Or not.

I am not that concerned because this will not sustain. Of the few serious Islamic sorts that I met, they seemed more likely to stash themselves away somewhere like al-Qaraouine in Fes, calmly murmuring the Qu'ran, quietly sneered at by their peers for not fleecing the tourists. Let us not neglect the influence of Berber culture: the soul of Moroccan conservatism.

If these enraged Casaouis are admirers of al Qaeda, I wonder if they despair of finding an embracing audience. I see a radical Christian, ragged clothes and greasy hair, thumping his Bible on a corner in a jolly 1950s white picket fence town: Repent, you sinners, for the day of the Lord is at hand! Right... Who will stay to be scorned by the madman, and suffer their faith belittled for its tolerance? Or who would rather marry an Anglophone, even a slightly odd one like me? (I'm talking to you, sweetheart.)

It is far too late to try to bend the Kingdom into a separatist culture. Maybe a century or two ago, but not now. Everyone who wants a stable job and a bilingual education, raise your hands.

Parable for a Dark Night, continued

2007-04-13T22:11:00.000-05:00

The boy died before long. The days of the bright spring had almost matured into the fullness of summer when his melancholy pain overcame him. It was too long, his sister explained. He had been away from his precious land for too long, and his body crumpled in sympathy with his tormented body, still as leafy green as his sister’s blossomed into that of a young girl’s flower.

I didn't say there was much, did I? I might be leaving something out but you get the idea.

Parable for a Dark Night

2007-04-13T03:07:00.000-05:00

Once upon a time, there was a farmer. He lived with his pretty wife on a large tract of land near a dark forest. One day in the fresh springtime, the farmer was plowing his land near the woods. He was driving his plow, readying the rich soil for the planting to come, when he discovered something strange.

The horse neighed and stopped suddenly in the track, refusing to budge another step. The farmer dismounted from the plow, more curious than angry at the horse’s recalcitrance, as it was normally obedient and knew its tasks well. He approached his horse, and found the reason for its halting.

Two small children, their skin as as verdant green as the new buds sprouting, lay unconscious in the field near the edge of the woods. By their strange clothing and their unusual color, the farmer knew they were not human. He was native to these rustic parts and knew of these beings, though he had never seen such himself. Both the girl and boy appeared to have been struck by some foreign force.

Summoning his courage, he picked up the children and gathered them atop the horse. Their weight was distressingly light. Unsure but not doubting his motive, the farmer brought the two children back to his wife. The two children barely stirred on the horse’s back as it ambled toward the farmhouse.

His wife immediately reacted without delay, warming broth and preparing beds for the two children. They did not eat, but slept under the thick blankets. The girl slept fast, but the boy murmured and shuddered in his sleep, as if being tormented by an invisible marauder.

In the morning, their paths began to diverge. The girl awoke early and gratefully accepted the broth, while her brother only took a taste of it. They spoke an utterly foreign language to each other, though their intent was as clear as any child. She urged him to take the sustenance, but he refused.

In time, their divergence became clearer and clearer. The girl even began to speak with the housewife, in a lilting and musical accent. The boy grew weaker and more frail, even as the days grew longer and sunnier. His sister continued to eat the kind strangers’ food but gasped in shock, refusing meat served to her.

What do you think happened next? Who were the children? What was the role of the food?

2007-04-12T02:07:00.000-05:00

The rain is gently pattering the stony driveway outside. It's well-suited for the midnight hour, quiet and anonymous as the wolves now flushed from the hills. They haven't lived here in quite some time.

I'm sure their presence would astound me as much as my continued existence. My internal muttered dialogue this evening: This seems about appropriate, my last meal shared with foreign strangers in an unfamiliar land, the paradoxes crawling over each other like worm-infested kittens... But I didn't go. Though I could do so, on any similarly worthless, empty night.

You should have some idea of the mischievous land that stole my heart.

Welcome to Chaouen. I was never quite the same after I was here. Still.

Not a very good cropping but you get the idea... At least notice that Coke comes in a glass bottle, and is prepared with actual sugar, not corn syrup. The Spanish hippies were (are?) puffing behind me, not sharing, dreads tangled.

Regardless, this is fairly typical for a small terrace restaurant. Note the Mediterranean architecture prevalent in this part of the world, er, kingdom.

Your Useless Information for the Day

2007-04-10T18:17:00.000-05:00

"A permanent indentation under the skin at the injection site may occur, due to a local destruction of fat tissue. Be sure to follow proper injection technique and inform your doctor of any skin changes."

I have one of these suckers on my leg. It looks like a tiny crater, as if I'm under attack from microscopic satellites. WTF? I don't have that much fat tissue to spare, bastard.

Good news: hand mobility is improving a bit.
Pragmatic Paul sez: You can almost give someone the finger. Keep it up, buddy.
Bad news: not yet able to handle nail clippers.
Pragmatic Paul sez: You can clip the right but not the left. Hmmm.....

Grimly Present

2007-04-10T16:52:00.000-05:00

I am still here, though I am not sure why.

...A trucker's horrified, pale face silhouetted in his headlights as he approaches a young man's shattered body. Among the gray sky, the black night, and the white flakes that settle gently on his worn jacket, the bright blood on his face gives the only trace of color.

The chief differences between my situation and that of the protagonist in the movie I saw last night (http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0405094/, an excellent production; also look at http://www.boston.com/news/world/europe/articles/2006/05/29/german_film_prompts_open_debate_on_stasi): (although I foolishly admit this gave me the idea)-- her motivation was clear, though hysterical, and mine is not. Hers is possibly even justifiable, but I don't see how mine could be. Not now that I have found a path. Such a path must be followed, not strayed from.

A Fluffer-Nutter

2007-04-06T17:58:00.000-05:00

>From: "J**** L**" >To: m*****@******.fr
>Subject: wtf?>Date: Fri, ** *** 2007 16:10:56 -0400>

>Hey, thanks for answering my ad on craiglist.
Sure. Warmed your cockles, I'm sure.

>I think you were about the only sane person.
Ha! Interesting assumption.

>I finally got around to looking at them and ended up>deleting all but 2 or 3, so you've got a little bit of>competition for me *hint
Ooh! Stir my masculine possessiveness! Hot!

We should start off chatting on my webcam.
...But we won't.

>You don't need to have one.
Good, I don't want one.

I'm a total exhibitionist so>it'll be a good time.
For you. It must be rough in the real world.

I like to be watched,
No surprise there. You feel ignored and belittled, don't you?

and the occasional>complement helps.
I am sure you have an active imagination, and that your hair iswell-conditioned. However, your spelling is atrocious.
>I'm a little sensative about how tall I am! Here.

>>http://www.myonlinecams.com/jenny7/
Which doesn't connect, so forget it. Awww....

>see if you can handle me! Look forward to chatting!
Give me a break. Another insecure, paranoid, egocentric Western woman, like so many, fearful of intimacy and germs, embracing technology's promise ofanonymity that echoes your own empty heart. Prove me wrong.

So why did I answer you in the first place? I am not from this city, and I've been in another country for the past two years. So I know no one here. (Hell, you're probably in New Mexico, for all I know.) I thought this route might lead to an actual person, but I was misled. I had forgotten how alienated many women are from your own culture.
even though I was born here. You won't understand this.) No wonder many American women marry M****ans so easily; women are easily seduced by their gallant charms compared to the material greed and distrust offered by Western men. It's really quite admirable, considering how they backstab each other. The M****ans, that is.

But you're not interested in any of this. You'd rather be remotely drooled over by fools, then masturbate in self-congratulatory, sterile bliss, the Dirty Boys trounced by their own weakness. So enjoy your victory.

Yours,
M

Retards Among Us

2007-04-06T11:40:00.000-05:00

Technical writers of pharmaceutical literature have a difficult task. The document must convey its intent clearly enough to be easily followed without ambivalence, avoid any possibility of liability, and should also have some kind of official-sounding gravitas. But the language strains under these demands, to the point where common sense is abandoned. Twaddle follows suit. There are many examples of this:

7. Removing and disposing of the syringe.
After use, unscrew the Syringe Housing from the Injector Body and separate the two, slowly.

Hold the Syringe Housing above the open top area of a hard-walled container and invert the Syringe Housing, allowing the Syringe to fall out into the hard-walled container.

"The open top area"?! This defies comment.

And a logical quandary:

1. Prepare one dose of the drug:
Follow the instructions that came with the drug product.

Yes... Don't follow the (pictorial) shaving cream instructions. Do not Pass Go. Do not collect $200.
Do not pretend that anything good will ever happen to you again.

I'm a Dinner Shack and TB-- no irony there

2007-04-06T03:30:00.000-05:00

One says "We did not make any deals for the release of the prisoners", all stern and unrepentant, and the other says, "We recognize your heathen infidel holiday by... presenting you a 4-month late Christmas gift.." What the fuck is going on here?

There was no threat of war over this. Both of these muffinheads were caught with their pants down. Georgie Porgy, drools with righteousness: C'mon, Ted, lemme bomb them back to the Holy Land, or whatever. TB: They're my guys, you ninny, this isn't Rambo III.

What seems to have precipitated this whole mess is Ahmed's rightfully paranoid military. Maybe the Brits really did have their GPS trained to follow the curves of that hottie in Ordnance. Or maybe they really were one toke on the Jersey, er, Iraqi side, which is a damn sight from Liverpool anyway, and Rahim at the base said Fuck it, let's nab 'em and let the boss sort it out. Shoulda stayed at the university. Next thing you know, it's fresh faces everywhere: some being saved and some being sucked. Surely Ahmed was having a good time showing Private Benjamin, or whatever her name is, the mysterious Oriental thrills of My First Hijab? You bet. But the fun never lasts in the Strait of Hormuz (close enough). So Ahmed says, Sure, these guys could learn how to slaughter a sheep on their terrace first thing in the morning like all good kaffir should, but do I really want them soiling my nice couches?

But he can't just give them away. Better to wrap them up in old fashioned magnanimity, think noblesse obligé meets The Godfather. Here's an offer you can't refuse: what you were asking for in the first place. And no one has to argue semiotics and topology about who was where on the night of the 23rd. We can all go home and have some kefta like normal people.

I think this came up in an episode of Deep Space Nine. In Sisko's closing line, he admonishes the Cardassian for conducting "scientific research" within reach of three Bajoran islands, or some such. Maybe it's this? http://memory-alpha.org/en/wiki/Captive_Pursuit Whatever. I'm not quite that geeky, apparently.

juice for skeptics

2007-04-06T03:09:00.000-05:00

There are some interesting quotes, in the normal pablum of "analysis":

Saturn in Cancer May feel fundamentally unloved and unsupported, but can miss opportunities to receive support because of the basic attitude that he isn't going to get love.

Venus in VI He is devoted to sick or poor people. Certainly works in a medical or social setting, where he meets their partner, who is a great help professionally.

17 Trine Mercury - Pluto He has a great sense of observation and quickly grasps the situation. He is crafty, subtle and critical.

Moon in IX Highly imaginative. Prolonged studies, is intuitive. Professionally successful abroad, or in import-export or as a diplomat. Contact with foreigners. Long journeys. Ability to learn foreign languages.

20 Square Moon - Saturn When Moon is in hard aspect to Saturn in the natal chart, natives need to learn to trust others more. Fear keeps them from fully enjoying personal relationships, and fear is behind the occasional rigidity that they express. Emotional reticence is the main theme of these aspects. Many people with this aspect had a lot of conditions placed on the love they received in early childhood. They tend to expect the same later in life.

-190 Opposition Moon - Pluto He has intense emotions and passionate feelings. He fears the loss of control of emotional and domestic matters, and fears change. At the same time, he attracts change and disruptions. The love life or marital life may be riddled with emotional scenes, jealousy, and possessiveness because he attracts intense partners.

13 Trine Venus - Pluto His emotional and sex life is powerful and rich. He lives out truly passionate love affairs.

Sure...Gotta love this stuff.

unexpected solace

2007-04-05T19:33:00.000-05:00

http://query.nytimes.com/gst/fullpage.html?sec=health&res=9802E0DB103FF936A15755C0A9669C8B63&n=Top%2fNews%2fHealth%2fDiseases%2c%20Conditions%2c%20and%20Health%20Topics%2fMultiple%20Sclerosis

But then I've faith in the Times for awhile now.

regarding vulnerability and dissolution

2007-04-05T04:26:00.000-05:00

After a few days of having steroids pumped into my body, reeling under its own attack, one more pernicious than any I could consciously ordain, a stream of hot water was soaking me when a nurse came to perform her duty. Meaning to stare at me like some kind of medical experiment she didn't understand. I didn't like this one; I never learned her name. Masculinely unattractive, frizzy underpaid hair, prone to guffawing at her colleagues in a proletarian spirit. "If you needed help, why didn't you come out to get someone?" I was wearing flimsy hospital gown bottoms and my shorts, and I was drenched. I glared at her. "It's a matter of modesty." She had not apparently heard this word before, because she kept staring as if snakes would erupt from my forehead. Never mind that I would have fallen in a second.
After some time, Andrea arrived. She had her act together. "You took a shower with your clothes on? All right, get up then, easy now." I grabbed the handrail and before I could so much as squeak, she had soaped and rinsed my lower portions. A dry set of substandard garments awaited me in the corner.
During the moments that had passed while the alert with the string tied to it summoned Andrea's competence (In ignorance, I credit some of this to her race.. I wonder if black nurses have to work harder to achieve and maintain their positions, and so take their jobs more seriously.. Probably not necessarily though; I wonder what scathing words my aunt (white) and my godmother (black) would have for me now, in defense of nurses in general), I sat happily on my plastic chair, blissfully solitary, as the warm water soaked me. Ahhh, I thought, that is better for a while.
The irrelevance of identity is astonishing at first. The biological aspects of your existence that bear no names, that enjoy no predilections, that do not recognize charm and arrogance: these will become dominant. Until now, you have never been conscious of your brain. It simply does what you tell it with predictability tedious enough to provoke a lifetime of intoxication. On this quotidian platform, any decent structure may be erected. Toward a love of philosophy and language, for example.
But give the substrate only a slight shake, and everything is brought into question. It's been about two weeks since I used my right hand. Grasp? I cannot point. Writing is way off in the distance, if anywhere. I use my left (I am not left-handed), my legs, and my teeth for most things. I open jars by securing them between my feet.
This is still very new to me.

a weary brain

2007-04-05T00:47:00.000-05:00

How did this happen? The essence of absurdity. Almost like waking up as a bug. Which was weirder? To wake up in an unfamiliar neighborhood, punctuated with soggy cartons of cheap collegiate beer? Or to find one's right limbs disobedient and recalcitrant, as if managed by a disinterested puppeteer? The body has become as foreign as the locale, a place I've seen on maps but never slept.. And now it's an address.

The beloved companions have been abandoned for the cold favors of a jet and the mocking scrutiny of a customs agent. And some mysterious ampoules, occasionally accompanied by repetitive instructional literature, various puzzling sundries as a cold pack and a date book... Why? Is this thought to improve the circumstances of the condition? What, no minty alarm clock?

But I know they only mean the best. They're no better prepared than I am. All they can offer is a vague suggestion (a phrase echoing of clinical exaltation) of a refrain from exacerbation.

Eschew inspiration:

Free Multiple Sclerosis Seminar

"Winning Sure Beats Losing -

Living a Full Life With MS"

Bluck. Go fuck yourself, Dr. Jack Llewellyn. I'm sure Althusser will see you in hell.

2007-04-05T00:45:00.000-05:00

3/25/2007 (backdated)
With a “bismillah”, I hit the button, and pricked myself in the thigh. Easy. Seemed appropriate to invoke the name of God for such a thing. Moroccans do this for everything: an old man entering an elevator, merchants taking money, anything involving tea, and so forth. There was a good Paul Bowles story about this. He was sharing a mountain taxi with an old man, who disembarked in the middle of nowhere. The old man closed the door in haste, and severed the tip of his finger. Uttering “hamd’ullah”, he retrieved it from the dust, tightened it with some more dust, and walked off into the mountains. Thanks be to God that it wasn’t the whole finger, for example. This is what we mean by Allah hu-rahim hu-rahman: God, the merciful, the compassionate. Examples of God’s mercy and compassion are replete. So every day should be Thanksgiving.

Tales of Matt’s continuing puzzlement at his own culture: episode 47, the Beard. The degree of luxury in service to which people are accustomed is rather surprising. Pamper me, people say, tend to my every need. Many expect compliance as supply it. After a couple weeks away from my adored adoptive home, unavailed of a reliable Moroccan barber, my beard was out of control. I am not very good at trimming it myself, even with a properly working right hand. I used to grow it fuller, but now I think shorter suits me better. So I had to go to the haircutter.

First of all, a woman in Morocco cutting a man’s hair is unheard of. I didn’t need a haircut, but I paid close attention to the fellow preceding me. She appeared to have done quite a stellar job on him: condition, product, etc. She provided a number of gushy justifications for her professional choices, as if the guy had questioned her judgment. But this kind of self-effacement counts for a lot in the service world. Women dig this for each other, but I find it rather insipid. She was an attractive woman, of Syrian and Lebanese extraction. She said to me, “I’ll use the clippers on your beard, but I’ll trim your mustache by hand.” Oh, for Pete’s sake. It grows back, right? I want it all short. Make it easy on both of us.

a weary brain

2007-04-05T00:23:00.000-05:00

3/24/07 (backdated)
I am in Shithole, unfortunately. In the interest of politesse, I should say something kind about the place... BBQ is good. The little movie theater around the corner is probably agreeable. But overall, it’s boring as watching paint dry. It has all the culture of a moldy peach; maybe not that much.

So what am I doing here? I have to remind myself of the answer every day, even though it’s as clear as my withering arm. As dear V said, you’re just going there to score. Today, I gave myself a ($50) shot which was the reason I left my adored country. These will continue every day until further notice. Fortunately, they don’t really hurt, just sting a little.

The point of these, I believe, is to give my misguided immune system something to chew on other than my tattered nerves. Thus decoyed, my myelin should be able to rebuild itself. (Since it is not nervous tissue, which appears to remain intact.) Insha’allah, as we say.

I miss my country immensely. Why do I call it mine, and not the US? Because I have little more than cynicism for my culture. I am glad of the grant of their powerful passport, but I do not have much loyalty. Other than this serious but irritating medical issue, nothing could have taken me away from Morocco. I loved my life there; I could not compare my circumstances here.

I had a teaching job until mid-December. My diagnosis with MS (ugh) threw my concentration into the gutter, and all my classes complained. So I lost that job. Too bad. The boss was good, but the kids were snotty. Better to be in Meknes, in some ways. Then there was the French job. Puzzling why I left that job: it was incredibly easy, the students were all 1) professionals and 2) French. Plus the salary was good. I left it because I didn’t like living on one time and working on another. One of the bosses was a decent guy (I probably bit him too hard on the way out) but practically incompetent. The salary was good enough to mollify these issues, but I had my fierce back up by then. I would have done better to swallow my pride, but too late. The good salary is no longer offered. Fine, I preferred to work in person.

I will get back there. I think Meknes is a good idea: I know the place, I know the (dumb) curriculum. I don’t know if I will marry Jalila. I expressed my doubts about my suitability to my mother, who basically confirmed them. Thanks, Mom. Unlike some guy in Danny’s extended family, I have not bought my second house, and I am going on Medicaid. This is fine with me: I am not interested in the various sneaky slots of standard medical insurance anyway. I don’t need much, just for the state to pick up a couple things for me. I don’t see why they don’t do this for everyone anyway. Isn’t this called governance?

At any rate… I had been back here (ugh) only a few days when I woke up to find most of my right side not completely paralyzed, but surely not right. My muscles were feeble and weak, my gait was badly affected, and my speech was close to incomprehensible. This still affects me, but it has improved. So I went into the hospital for prednisone, as I did once before in Rabat. This has helped a bit, but it’s hard to tell. I’m told that reducing inflammation in your brain is a good thing though.

Mostly I was struck by the differences between the two hospitals. In Rabat, they had only metal equipment, not plastic, and they put the IV in my wrist, which required bandaging afterwards. Here, they post signs outside declaring the non-smoking zone, which would be ludicrous in Morocco.. There, I smoked two joints that my friends brought me. Sweet guys.

O, life was so much sweeter there! I know why they feel urged, to leave, to find a decently independent life, to extricate themselves of their various obligations.. and why they then return. Because, as Jiji put it half a lifetime ago, “c’est plus froid”. Yes, dear lady, it is colder. People seem much more hurried and put upon in the West. They are.

So I will return as soon as I feel it is safer. For my health, that is; any endemic danger there is negligible. I am in more peril from my own immune cells than from any Moroccan. Will I marry her? Hmm.. I honestly don’t love her as much as I should. Not like I loved Jane before her. After all, we don’t choose what we love. I didn’t have to love my life there, but it captured me. It has let me go only by a royal indulgence.

My worry is that I will not meet another like her. I do love her, just not as passionately as I might. I think it would last though. But I really have no idea.

So what will I do next? What do I want to do? To work, and to study. And to sleep. Perchance to dream.

I would stay in Meknes for awhile if I were offered a job there. Now that I know a little better, I think it suits me somewhat better than Rabat. Fewer foreigners, a greater chance to enjoy what I know is richer in life there. Like the orange juice shakes. The khliaa tagines. The sun setting over Bab el Mansour. (Actually, I dimly recall it doesn’t set in that direction.) The in-between undeveloped space between the train tracks and the old wall, where I puffed with Illyass. Café ness-ness and a fouri chocolat. And a Gauloises. I’m such a wannabe-Frenchy. But not really.

If I were there, I would surely concentrate on my (passable but not excellent) Arabic, I would work harder at being a decent teacher, I would leave the city to explore more often.. I would go to Fes, and more distant places.. I would continue my life lacking a plan to return. Knowing how people are with foreigners at first, suspicious and touchy, I would work to overcome this by NEVER LEAVING. Get used to me, Simo: I’m not going anywhere.

For now, I need to be assured of my supply of the medication. Once daily hardly seems adequate, but this seems to be a disease of prolonged development, with periodic flare-ups. Not having any plans for the next several months, I will stick on it, and I will slowly feel better.

In the meantime, I really should have something else to occupy my time. I consider this a time equally of convalescence and exile. I know how ungratefully cynical this is of me, but I’m not too concerned about resolution. Being a child of the self-aggrandizing and hedonistic 70s and 80s, I’m not sure what matters in life besides what makes it good. You should position yourself to gather as much as possible of what is important to you, since your time is limited.

Perhaps my mother is right: t’ai ch’i, or something like that. It’s probably good for me. I eat a good amount of vegetables, I drink more green tea than coffee (this would not respect qewha b’halib), I keep a good attitude.

I trace my own condition (I feel that the use of its name in my personal recordings is an intrusive and unwarranted legitimation of an impersonal description. I prefer “brain spots” or “brain freckles”. “Lesions” are for cancer, leprosy, and HIV.) to an over-reactive, trigger-happy immune system. I reckon that it reflexively had to attack something, informed by a fiercely protective instinct. I expect that it would have developed some other autoimmune disorder had it been left as it was. At the least, I am fatalistically certain that this development was beyond my control. God has some weird plans.

I can’t sleep, as is often the case. I imagine my medication sending me back to the land and the life I love. I obsess (some things never change) over places I know, people from awhile ago… Kein shi besteila lyum? Hada zwin f’darek, kan’a’rrf.
Ah yeh, besteila kein. Kih deyir? Bekhair nta? Bghiti sh’wiya?
At’tayni alf rial, afak. Kulshi bekhair, hamd’ullah, ‘lla khfik.
The warmth and sincerity of the people feels sewn into my skin, just as integral as my dubious tattoo (though I would never remove it). After two years, even spending as much time around the foreigners as I did, I was intensely comfortable. I squandered a number of opportunities, thinking in careerist lines that were no longer fully appropriate: this is not New York. Do not cower from the virtues of a conservative existence. If you find something good, then seize it with both hands. Maybe a foot too. You already know that there is more to life than cash. It’s only as good as what you can get out of it.

I feel like a foreigner here, as I did in New York most strongly a few years ago, as I expected to feel now. The most telling signs are in the behavior of the servants, by whom I signify the service industry. The portly waitress approaches me at the stand: “I’ll be with you in one minute, please excuse the delay.” Or the librarian, who feels no rush, but expects that I might: “I can order the book from downtown, but it could take two or three days.. Would that be all right?” Grief, ladies, are people really in this big a hurry? No wonder they’re all dying of coronary disease. I mean, it’s a book, for crying out loud. “And bring me Dostoyevsky, stat!” Spare me. Send me back to the land of the sane, where the only useful time is now, during which nothing is happening.

This is an interesting element of the Moroccan outlook. Really only now exists. The past is largely a memory, or fantastic invention, and virtually all the future falls under the slyly convenient insha’allah. Terry wanted to reserve a car for the trip. This would appear central to the agent’s business, don’t you think? “Yes, I will have a car for you, insha’allah.” Terry flipped out a bit; this sounded like he wouldn’t have one. He didn’t, as it turned out a few days later. So, fully prepared for our trip and a bit edgy, we set off for another agent. He produced a car handily. See, they do do business, just on their terms. Here is the lesson: if you honestly need something now (meaning for-real now, not in an hour, or when it’s convenient for you), someone will gladly help you. Just don’t be pushy, don’t abuse your privilege of the now. Ninety percent of the time, you don’t need whatever it is now. You can wait. Have some tea. Your abuse of the now will be noted by a slightly dismayed concern, and a price at least 200% beyond normal, which you will discover later. What, now you’re angry? Have some tea.

Some Wandering Thoughs

2006-11-13T12:29:00.000-05:00

11/14/06

Quite an auspicious day for technology. I was drifting off to hazy sleep last night when my cherished bedside lamp appeared to turn itself off. The cherished but doomed American high-intensity 40 watt bulb finally plinked its last, and the room went mercifully dark. The second was the computer. It's never an encouraging sign when pressing the power button yields nothing whatsoever. But I have known for some time that the Compaq's days were numbered.

A little catch-up is in order. I am in Morocco; I have been here for about a year and a half. You can get some info here (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/User:Mashford)
if you insist.

I am in Rabat. Morocco generally works under a very different conception of time, which is mitigated somewhat here in Rabat but still predominates. The idea of an abstract extension into the past and the future is held as sort of irrelevant here. Now is now; that is what counts. Tomorrow may never come; the past may never have existed. Mektoub and insh'allah. Only the present bears effort and compulsion upon us.

This is the popular, comforting fiction, anyway. This is a kind of indulgence of irresponsibility; by this one rejects personal compulsion and ability. At worst, that is; it's important for me to note that I really do enjoy life here. People have a helluva time doing anything, but they're not miserable like in New York.

I was born in Ithaca, New York. My home was in the Village of Dryden, which is in the Town of Ithaca, but not in the City of Ithaca. Got that? The whole thing is in Tompkins County, which is about 4 hours' drive from The City. (If you ask which city, go get your eyes checked.) I lived (at first) near Cayuga Lake, slender and peaceful, its quiet depth indicated only by its tranquility.

I'll tell you more about this later on, including my recent bizarre medical problems.