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.
Friday, April 6, 2007
juice for skeptics
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.
Thursday, April 5, 2007
regarding vulnerability and dissolution
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.
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
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:
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.
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.
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
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.
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.
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