Addendum: 05, April, 2026 Wuthering Heights Part 2...

Heathcliff loses. Cathy loses. Isabella loses. Edgar loses. Everybody loses. 

That being said, I have NEVER regretted watching a film before reading the novel as much as with Wuthering Heights!  To my credit, I was at least astute enough to go with the 1939 film version. 

 As I've been crying myself a river of 'poor me' lately, I tricked myself into thinking I'm not able to hold down lengthy readings or whatever because I'm so lazer-focused on a goal to attain when, in fact, all along I should have been focusing on something else to absorb my mind and take me away from fretting. 

Wuthering Heights put me back in the game. What a roller-coaster of emotions. After approaching the first 45 minutes with trepidation, I continued on after a long break. What a treat! I absolutely love it when I prove myself wrong about such matters. Heathcliff seemed so... sullen and subdued; sometimes a lapdog to Cathy's whims and at the same time he is willingly becoming a glutton for Hindley's punishments. Both Cathy and Heathcliff were insufferable, but then something changed. 

Heathcliff found his way back to Wuthering Heights, after a long stay in America, as a 'gentleman'. Oh, the irony of experiencing the 'American Dream'. Yet, his heart returned filled with revenge and darkness. The next hour filled me with so many emotions: mostly rage and frustration at how both protagonists continued to make themselves, and others, suffer due to their inability to deal with their past complexities and so put on a front to continue on, seemingly unaffected. 

This 'doomed lovers' trope isn't unusual (Romeo and Juliet, Inês de Castro and King Pedro I, Tristan and Isolt...), but it isn't usually my cup of tea. Watching to the end, I was captivated; I was invested in all the characters' lives and, at the same time, forgot about my shit going on. 

The death scene where Cathy asks Edgar to bring her a bunch of heather from the moors (why?) and then Heathcliff shows up at her deathbed... well, this part was a wee-bit cheesy. It honestly pissed me off; Isabelle got fucked over. Why did she marry Heathcliff knowing that his heart was still attached to Cathy? Why does Edgar go on as if his wife is happy and satisfied? Ugh.  This movie was torturous for me, and I loved it. 

However, watching it made me realize that the novel would have filled me with so many more raw emotions and visualizations. With the movie now stuck in my head, I will find it more difficult to free myself from these pre-set ideas of what characters 'should be.' I will work hard to get past Laurence Olivier's Heathcliff, for sure. 

The day continues on over here in the mid-Atlas Mountains, and I've moved on to Fellini's "La Strada." Imagine my surprise to see that Zampanó is also Zorba the Greek (Anthony Quinn). Yes, I'm on a short break from this movie as well. 

Although it is and has been a stunning day, it was the right choice to stay home, make food, shutter the curtains and watch movies here in my Gothic cathedral while the musky scent of heather from the moors wafts in with the late afternoon breeze. 

Back to La Strada 

 

 

  

HERstory: Attention Span Deficit (nothing the Rolling Stones can't fix)

 Music to accompany my words: "Moonlight Mile" by the Rolling Stones. It perfectly summarizes this illuminated path one must traverse by moonlight to find their way home. 

 

 

IN THIS MOMENT, relaxation seeps through my hardening shell of existence. To get here, though, IN THIS MOMENT, I've walked through the precipitous mountaintop of my ability to give in to what I can't control or continue to try to control the uncontrollable. 

I've been hiking through the dark recesses of my psyche for some time now, and I continue to find myself beguiled by strange shimmering truths hidden in the gloom of a perceived cup being half full.  That is not to say that I am not thoroughly enjoying the odyssey- because I am. HERstory is weaving a tale within an odyssey with so many diverging paths that every juncture is akin to finding an Easter egg, heedless. 

Fuck it. I've amassed enough Easter eggs, for now. All of them etched into my memory just as their graven colorful bodies. Each gathered nugget carefully placed into my toolbox (anybody who knows me knows that I detest this word). I only recall hearing toolbox in the past decade or so. Admittedly, I struggle to keep up with evolving vernacular. 

That goes for 'moral compass' as well...I mean, it perfectly describes, metaphorically, right from wrong, yet I resist many contemporary neologisms. Why is that, I wonder.  Is my moral compass pointed to True North? Should it, instead, be south-facing?  Perhaps mine needs de-magnetizing. Yes, that's it!

 I digress. That was a muddy path I awkwardly stumbled upon;  toolbox, etc... 

Returning back to my eggs, I have a story of one divergent path (is it really 'divergent' though if I don't know my destination). You know, at times running with the 'cup half empty' can be really complicating...

So, as the story goes, I have been working my way through classical literature for a long time. As with contemporary neologisms, I'm not too focused on contemporary literature, perhaps because I have this (incorrect) idea that it is associated with contemporary issues. Whatever. My mind. My ideas. I simply associate the two as being too close to our daily global lives and that feeling of 'unease' of not knowing what will happen in the future due to current geo-political events that we can't escape- try as we might using our toolboxes of indulgences to abate from reality.

Back to the story... my current attention-span is limited as I'm solely focused to complete one transaction in life that will lead to the next chapter. I'm usually a bit more unconscious with my transactions, but this one is pretty fucking cool. 

Yet another digression... Logically, I can't read all works of famous literature, but I can sure try. Often I'll substitute a novel with a movie version (no need to judge; it's simply logical to do so).  I still haven't read any Emily Brontë (or any of the other Bronte sisters), and since I'm in a gothic mood, I chose 1939's Wuthering Heights to abate myself from my perceived worries as other abatements I wasn't in the mood for dealing with. :) The storyline (spoiler alert: I am not enjoying it) seems to be mirroring my own gothic internal wanderings as of late. 

The moors, although bountiful of heathers that Heathcliff and Cathy delight themselves in, taking in its musky scent, hide destructive (sensual?) emotions. Cathy is annoying me as she flip-flops in her desires to follow her desires (Heathcliff) or fall victim to societal norms in how a 'lady' should think (retreating to 'settling for Edgar'). As a result of her indecision (very early Gothic), my decision was to take this movie in 15-minute chunks so as to process.  

I like that the movie starts with Cathy's beguiling ghost is scratching at the window, ratt-a-tat-tat, during a storm and Heathcliff is freaked out. The storyline seems to be full of emotional arson with the protagonists finding the way through the fog in the moors. It's honestly hard to watch. Here I feel that reading the novel would give me a completely different analysis. Oh well... My ghost seems to be recalling the care-less days of Santa Cruz and Maui. My memories are seeping out of Pandora's Box, vying to be first in the queue to leave an imprint in my mind of the smell of the heather in the foggy moors, calling out to me, "Holly, wake up and LET ME OUT." I do not suffer the consequences of opening Pandora's Box, though. I prevail. 

Catherine's ghost calls out, ""I’ve come home: I’d lost my way on the moor!" Cathy had been wandering the moors for 20 years. Have I? I've been living outside the U.S. nearly 20 years. Have I 'come home'? Am I 'coming home'? Where is 'home'? Destination Unknown has been my anthem for long, how do I accept the possibility of Destination Known? I'm right at the point of 'cup half full' is filling up, and the pure joy of knowing this fills my vessel with the positivity that I crave. 

While my ingrained 'half empty' logic whispers these escaping memories should be anathema, I change course- choosing the higher path- inviting my cup to overflow, turning my ghosts into an anthem of my journey to Destination Known. Fuck true north. My compass coordinates are fixated on 41°42′N 8°49′W (more on this later)... The escaping memories feel like a benediction in the dark. Perfect timing to get outta my head from overthinking shit I can't control. 

But... a lasting Debbie Downer thought enters a chamber set deep inside my mind, yet persists on manifesting front and center: In the Thoth Tarot, the 7 of Cups is unbalanced overflow. Or, am I moving from a place of containment to a place of abundance? 

Oh geeze, overthinking again. I'm going to get back to the movie and see how it ends. 

 A compass is a cool device. When pointing at something, it tells you which way you are going, but it doesn't imply that you are on the right path. Not even tarot cards divulge this nugget. I'll just continue to float along through my chapters to continue with HERstory because the heathers in the moors smell fucking amazing.

current conclusion: logic fails to abate the tide of memory, cup overflows with delight

 

NOTE: I'm not editing...  

 

Lyrics to Moonlight Mile:

When the wind blows and the rain feels cold
With a head full of snow, with a head full of snow
In the window, there's a face you know
Don't the nights pass slow, don't the nights pass slow

The sound of strangers sending nothing to my mind
Just another mad, mad day on the road
I am just living to be lying by your side
But I'm just about a moonlight mile on down the road

Made a rag pile of my shiny clothes
Gonna warm my bones, gonna warm my bones
I got silence on my radio
Let the air waves flow, let the air waves flow

Oh, I'm sleeping under strange, strange skies
Just another mad, mad day on the road
My dreams is fading down the railway line
I'm just about a moonlight mile down the road
Yeah-yeah, yeah-yeah-yeah

I'm hiding, sister, and I'm dreaming
I'm riding down your moonlight mile
I'm hiding, baby, and I'm dreaming
I'm riding down your moonlight mile
I'm riding down your moonlight mile

Let it go now, come on up, babe
Yeah, let it go now
Yeah, flow now, baby
Yeah, home now, yeah

Yeah, I'm coming home
'Cause I'm just about a moonlight mile on down the road
Down the road, down the road, yeah
Yeah-yeah-yeah, baby

 

 

  

storytime:29.03.2026

 

 

Back in December, a small group of us headed out to Meknes for the day to go a huge Carrefour run as it's the nearest hypermarket to us. Meknes is about an hour's drive, and the landscape changes from mountains (here in Ifrane) to the plains. As well, the Carrefour Cave (alcohol shop) is quite extensive, compared to where we dwell...

I usually have my quiver of reusable bags, but this shiny object caught my eye while waiting in line. I mean, look how colorful the bag is! Look at the Moroccan designs, and look at the football and accompanying words announcing (predicting) Morocco will be bringing home the 2025 Africa Cup of Nations (AFCON) in the championship match against Senegal. 

I proudly purchased it and continued on with my day- fully knowing that the future date of 18 January, 2026 was a long, unpredictable way off... 

Fast-forward to game day, Senegal had a 1-0 lead, but...towards game's end, the referee made a call that Senegal protested. Like petulant children, they stomped off the field in protest.  Back on the pitch 15 minutes later, 30 minutes extra time was added to clock because the score was still 0-0 (after Senegal's previous goal was 'disallowed.' 

Senegal soon after scored a goal, so now the score was 1-0. The game ended & Senegal was awarded the trophy. Soon after, Morocco officially protested, saying the the 16-minute walk-off was against rules. 

On March 17, the CAF Federation Cup ruled in Morocco's favor, saying that Senegal leaving the pitch meant that they had forfeited the game.  Thus, the score was changed to 3-0 Morocco, the champions...

Senegal has, so far, refused to return the trophy while they wait for some 'super judges' to make a final decision. What a pickle all involved are in!

My university students relayed the story to me last week- when I used the AFCON game as an example for something. Suddenly they all perked up and couldn't stop interrupting each other to let me know the 'real deal.' 

Getting back to the picture... Every time I have used the shopping bag since Morocco 'lost', I've had to laugh- just at a company would pre-order and print up bags as such claiming the championship only to 'lose' the game. But now... they are 'winners', so I can still laugh each time I use the bag. The story's not over, so I guess we will see what happens. 

It's just a little story that makes me smile. That's all.

 

Quietude of the soul: Sleep is the Best Meditation

 Music to accompany my words: Round Midnight by Thelonious Monk to help express my sleeplessness becoming a state of mind... 

 Leonardo Da Vinci mused that the greatest joy of sleep came from the satisfaction of a day fully lived. Well, I've lived nearly a fully-lived week without a full night of sleep...Ugh

Settling back into my routine here in the mid-Atlas Mountains, it seems that the last thing to fall back into place is...sleep. How much our bodies can endure is a result of how we train not only our bodies but our psyches. As I roll along through life, I realize the increasing importance of the latter; psyche. 

I'm a person who hasn't experienced a lot of fluctuations in endurance- mostly because of how I was raised- I guess. My overarching approach to life's challenges is to look at situations as challenges to conquer with both interest and pessimism. This pessimistic approach, somewhat limiting of just letting pure joy pulse through any occasion, has served me well, and is a direct result of what I consider being raised by stoic parents. 

Let me explain. When new experiences/situations manifest, as they do throughout life, there is excitement, and that drug is a good drug. Bodies crave endorphins and the after-party residue remaining. I crave this, so I go into any situation at the onset looking through it in only what I can describe as the 'cup half empty'. Because I don't wish to create dis-ease for myself, I respond proactively to situations by breaking down a whole into individual parts that can potentially result- an assessment of sorts. When I understand potential challenges to anything, I work through them better- to avoid, as much as possible, unfavorable results. As a result, I am able to fill up on endorphins that I so crave. And how beautiful it is. As I analyze my behavior more (what else would I be doing at 3:30 am lying in bed), I see that I approach any situation cautiously at first, and then when I've assessed all potential 'risks', I can then feel relief and satisfaction to let pure joy fill me. 

This approach, or whatever one calls it, is not only a result of my upbringing but also through a career in scientific theory. Yes, archaeology. Scientific theory also uses this approach. So, my learned behavior and my trained behavior confirm 'me'.

Now, that being said, I have worked a lifetime to train myself to ignore this logical-ness at times. Sometimes I just need to simply stop this madness of logic. Turning off the mind, consciously, takes mindfulness. For example, I go to a yoga class. I go because my body craves relief from daily stresses. One thinks you go through a series of movements to shed daily baggage one incurs where your only focus are postures, holding the postures, and breathing. This is pure bliss to experience. But... as I am breathing in and out, my mind wanders- to the scientific mechanics of yoga: What this pose is allowing my body to release with each exhalation; what muscle groups are being worked; what vibrational level is pulsing through my body. All these micro-tasks are conscious challenges. You don't just unconsciously splay out your toes so you feel completely 'grounded', you have to be conscious about it. Achieving Uddiyana Bandha ('abdominal lock') is a conscious act. Bla bla bla. My point is, to achieve the ultimate state of liberation ('nirvana' or whatever your preference), it has to be a conscious effort. That's all.

But I digress... there are a few more 'creative' ways to unlearn my learned behavior, but they are for another time. Another storytime. 

All this is to say that I'm undergoing a new stress right now and adapting to its challenges.  I think I've almost worked through the 'cup half empty' scenarios, so I'm ready to experience the joy of the situation! The 'cup half empty' has been manifesting itself through sleepless nights, but yesterday was a beautiful breakthrough; I got home from work and took a 2-hour nap. This is amazing for me.  I woke up feeling completely exhausted, took a shower, made tea, and immediately went into my bedroom and crashed. As Jim Morrison sang, "Break on Through to the Other Side"; mission accomplished. 

So, yes. I experienced the great sleep, following the great sleep deprivation. Of course, I woke up from my slumber at 3 am, and I am here now pounding my keyboard at 4:30 am. Perhaps it's time for another nap now so I can wake-up feeling 'fresh' for work. Thank goodness it's Friday!  

Bewitching Hour Musings: 23.03.2026

My musical recommendation to accompany my words: This groove doesn't disappoint. Pure magic.

3:00 am

Cool crisp air. Barking dogs in the distance. As I look out my window, the man in the moon winks at me. The mountains sleep. Not I. I live for the Bewitching Hour, still. Even in such times of resistance, such as now as I've barely slept for a week now, I can't deny the playful, sensuous power of being awake during this thin porous veil separating life (awakeness) and death (sleep). Roaming the halls of my psyche, I explore ancient chambers of my pulsing vitality. Unexpected discoveries along dark paths delight my being. I learn so much about MYself during the Bewitching Hour. 

Tuning out and turning inward, I get greedy; hungry with desire to possess all knowledge.  Shakespeare, in Hamlet, called it "the witching time" where "churchyards yawn" and sinister things result. Silly man, but I'll give him a pass due to the religious and political taboos of his time.

Throughout time, the Bewitching Hour, specifically between 3:00 - 4:00 am, has been used as a metaphor for seduction and liberation of suppressed desires. I would add to that to encompass 'it' as a time when darkness and lightness conjoin in a union of opposites. Powerful creatively, mystically, and sensually indeed. 

 A paradox? Thinking cosmically (and perhaps even rationally), midnight can't considered to be 'today' or 'tomorrow'. A suspension in time. Do what you wish, conjure up your wildest fantasies, masquerade, dissolve your ego to manifest your most intimate desires creatively. No one is watching. Perhaps listening, though. Egos dissolve and what manifests to take up that constrained 'space'? Whatever it is, run with it. Pure vitality pulsing through one's being, drink up this elixir. 

 Poe wrote that the moonlight distorts. Where erotic meets the macabre. Things that frighten us the most (such Puritans). Jung believed repressions awaken when the ego sleeps. This resulting 'shadow' wanders around freely living its best life during the Bewitching Hour. Everything is about sexual repression with that man...I don't know enough about Jung, though.  I'd like to delve into some of his specific archetypes other than the Shadow- especially the Trickster as I'm becoming more interested in analyzing some of my more vivid and confusing dreams (when I can remember them, of course). 

 I've long held a delightful relationship with my Bewitching Hour. It manifests. With eager participation, I enjoy the ride. 

And just like that, it's 4:00 am. POOF, it's gone. Was it just a dream? A delicious dreamy dream.  

 Stay Spooky 

What happened to 2025?

 It's happy hour here in the Atlas Mountains. Nothing sweeter than a Friday afternoon when you're a workhorse- working for another's horse... 

Fall 2024 turned into winter, into spring, into summer, into fall, to now: 2026. Where have I been? I've been here in Morocco, and I've been in Portugal. I'll tell you where I haven't been: the U.S. More on that later, perhaps.  Maybe I'll refresh my bourbon/coke first... 

Speaking of bourbon. I've been foregoing my go-to, Bullet, mostly because of...tariffs. Yes, the djt tariffs. Bigly tariffs. Tariffs that 'benefit' the people. Okay, okay, enough of shitty politricks... I've turned my attention to Bulgaria's charming 'Black Ram' bourbon whisky. 

 *refills tumbler

We have a bit of a tradition, all of us working abroad in various Muslim countries, during Ramadan season- which is upon us currently. Weeks before we start to fret; are we fully stocked up with adult libations to last for the duration? We rally together, procure our vices (beautiful vices), and await. We patiently await for when the need arises. It's fun. It's a tradition. I love traditions. 

Today is such a day- to revel in tradition. The weather has been fabulous for a week now. Although still winter here, early spring has sprouted. What a winter it has been, too. I didn't grow up in snow, but I enjoy the stuff well enough. Enough is enough, though. I can deal with it because I LOVE technical gear. I love to experience foul weather if I'm WARM. 

All those trips to REI in California or Oregon or whichever state I would happen to be in; it's like you walk into an REI and you're a kid in a candy store all over again. Sure, there is Decathalon over here in this part of the world, but it doesn't hold a candle to REI... Just saying.  Sometimes I still go onto their website and just put stuff in my 'basket'. Again, a tradition. 

I purchased a bike at Decathalon when I first arrived to Morocco. It's been a lifesaver, but I have to say that, for the money, it's just alright. And, what a funny story that purchase was. Glinda & I made our way to Meknes with the intention of me purchasing a bike and us stocking up on groceries. We found a super cute hostel to stay at and made a weekend of it. Enroute back to Ifrane the next day, we somehow managed to find a grand taxi willing to take just us, and my new bicycle, and all our groceries back home. We, and many more, have turned Meknes and Fes day trips into a tradition where we stock up on food- as there isn't much here in town to purchase. 

So, tradition seems to be my magic word of the afternoon (or maybe it is bourbon?).  Tradition is life. Tradition is therapy. Tradition is constantly changing. What are your traditions? 

Well, that's about it on this subject matter. THANK YOU FOR YOUR ATTENTION TO THIS MATTER (yes, you are correct- that is an infamous djt ending (tradition?) to all his ridiculous 'truth social' postings... 

 

 

 

 

Bibliophile

 

"My name is whatever you decide and I'm just gonna call you mine:YOU WILL BE MINE. YOU WILL BE MINE. YOU WILL BE MINE ALL MINE" 

That right there is a Swift/Rolling Stones mash-up...

I digress... What's on my mind?

Fret

I fret. 

How do I organize my bounty?  

What happens when your book collection is disorganized?

What I mean to say, I mean... I'm not trying to anthropomorphize books, but I'm inclined to anthropomorphize books. 

After all, there's a lot to consider: personalities, genres, tone...

Would it be considered offensive for Camões' The Lusiads to be placed next to Hawthorne's The Scarlet Letter?

What does Paul Bowles (The Spider's House) have to do with Hermann Hesse (Narcissus and Goldmund)? 

What will Gavin Maxwell's (Lords of the Atlas) neighbor, Amin Maalouf (Ports of Call), think? 

I could be wrong, but my instinct tells me that Carleton S. Coon (The Riffian) might consider it a travesty to be placed next to Tim Mackintosh-Smith (Travels with a Tangerine).

I am a peace keeper. Thus, Mohamed Mrabet's (Stories of Tangier) will referee between the two. 

Who will fall from grace?   Will I have to build a wall? The wall?

Perhaps 'they' will just all have to duke it out together and let the cards fall where they may. There is great potential for this to be the most organic solution amongst these strong personalities.  

 A heap. The motherlode.  I hit the deep vein in Rabat. Dragging JC & J-Bird across town to Mohammed Belhaj's English BookShop, I indulged in my indulgence... Don't blame me. Books make me crazy. If they don't you ain't doing it right. This drug I'll be perusing all my life (yes, it's a strange nod to T.Swift...). 

So yea, there you have it. I've admitted my weakness. Intervention. Nah. I cross the line, everytime.

It was a delightful find, Mr. Belhaj's English BookShop. He's famous, you know. He has this saying: 

                If you don’t have wrinkles on your forehead, says Mohammed Belhaj, 

                the books you’re reading aren’t making you think enough.

Because we were on a mission, I allotted only 30 minutes max to my endeavor. In the end, I lugged around 8 books as we made our way to Hassan Tower, the unfinished 12th Century mosque/miniaret. 

The End.

 

 

Hmmm just found this in the drafts folder... Let's just publish it. I wonder what it is. Oh well... going down the rabbit hole, I'm sure

With intensity increasing, I press on forward. The steps are solid. It feels good to firmly place one foot after the other. I feel whole. On track in my trajectory. 

Stroke the stoke: winning. 

Various avenues of my life are in sync: work, friends, family, looking to the future, learning lessons from the past, keeping up with the present, reading, writing, studying continental Portuguese, working out, running, etc. 

Matriarch. This word keeps coming up with my family talk sessions. There is such beauty in coveting tradition. Each generation must take action to continue to keep the torch lit as older generations pass. 

Legacy. As an anthropologist, I'm obsessed with legacy. This past summer was eye-opening. I learned a lot about myself, my family connections, circle of friends, and where I'm headed. I feel honored to have such abundance in my realm. 

It's the little things.  Texting back and forth with one of my brothers, for example. Our exchanges are so interesting. We randomly get a hold of each other to bring attention to such mundane things. Most always, a long conversation ensues that involves so many life dimensions; memories of when young, political pundits and podcasts we're currently listening to, recipes, links to old movies to watch, etc. 

Writing Exercises. One of my cousins is involved in a writing group, along with one of our neighbors back at the family compound. They've been at it for many years.  Another friend, a writer experiencing incremental successes in the publishing world, as well as rejections, also inspires me. As a result, I've finally did it.  I've put together a budding writers group. My hope is it will blossom into something consistent. We are researching weekly topics and how to run a writers group. It's fascinating: brain porn in fact. 

 Another fancy of mine is to learn how to write book reviews. I've spent the past 15 years delving into various literary genres. My love for book possession borders on obsession. Again, brain porn. I'm addicted.  Reading is SO sexy. Reading is SO stimulating. My next goal is literary debate. Another friend has been doing their MA in creative writing, so I hound him each semester to give me the pdf of the class book list. 

 I might be sequestered away in a unique part of the world

 

6 May, 2024 Communique from The Cradle of Civilization

 Bewitching Hour Communique

6 May, 2024

Sulimani, Iraqi Kurdistan

my lanai

These coordinates have been a big chapter in my life, I ponder. Tiny white lights glimmer in the dark crispness of early early morning. The Bewitching Hour moving picture show fading into the coming day. The cacophony of neighborhood street dogs. Their solitary barks morph into a synchronous chorus. A motorcycle joins in the music-scape.

I've been pretty content in this cell-block; a willing detainee indeed! I've evolved as does this chapter. I'll migrate into my next chapter. I sense exhiliration. I feel elation. It's not a stretch to express a sense of funky delerium-ness in this moment. Destination Known, yet Destination Unknown, and this is my dance. Imma just Boogie on Down, on Down... As Earth, Wind & Fire sang:

Just move yourself and glide like a 747
And lose yourself in the sky
Among the clouds in the heavens cause

 

So, yea. I'm obviously hijacking the song's meaning to one of Boogieing down the runway in my 747 cruising through the sky passing clouds in the heavens cause... I'm moving on to the next chapter!

Dawn nears. The early birds have since stirred and composing birdsongs. Neighborhood lights are twinkling as a car engine starts up. Another type of early bird stirs; perhaps holding their to-go cuppa joe as they head out to bring home the bacon.

 

Joining the birdsong in this moment is early morning call to prayer. I wonder how it will sound during the Bewitching Hour at my next Destination Known. 

...aaaaaand the universe suddenly throws a (not-so-random-for-this-time-of-year) crack of lightning and thunderbolt into the mix.  I DIG THIS DJ TONIGHT!

A light breeze wafts through my moving picture show. Call to prayer turning up a few decibels. Everything feels ecstatic. 

And now, quietly creeping through the early morning hours of The Cradle of Civilization- stillness.

Back in the Cradle (of Civilization) again

Once Upon a Time in Mesopotamia was Gaziantep.

Second time is a charm: Sulaymaniyah

A thin veil of fog descending from the heavens begins to cloak the twinkling city lights. Will it fall to this Earth that I’ve been walking for some years? Probably not, but it’s just enough to close off this Bewitching Hour episode.

-peace

Smells like Jasmine

 

 

 

Each new year since 2010 (yes, this is still 'THE new year) my instinctual internal alarm clock sounds off. There's no way to snooze this alarm.  It is part of me. It IS me. It is a rite of passage marking my transformation into... I don't exactly know. What I do know is that I somehow treat it as a privilege; something I am honored to have been privy to. Some sort of secret society that myself and a few others were inducted into. 

I've written about the events of the Arab Spring throughout the years. I found this text in my files that I am apt to so cleverly code-name as a rule. So clever that I can't find them anymore. As well, I need to fire up the old much-neglected Mac Book Air to conduct my investigations. Most the evidence I uncover has nothing to do with my intentions; food scraps in between the keyboard, old post-its still adhered to with my most important passwords of yore, old photos that I never see since the mysterious 'Cloud' has stopped uploading photos to currently running devices...

This text is from years back; a submission to the Hawaii chapter of the Teaching English as a Second Language (HI TESOL) organization.  I need it to submit a writing sample for another organization, so I figured it's a fitting time to repost it anyway since 'we' (those of us in this secret society) just rang in our 13th anniversary... Enjoy

Is That Jasmine I Smell in My Revolution: Thoughts on Teaching in Tunisia during the Arab Spring

 

Setting the Scene

 

The following is a commentary about my experiences teaching English at Amideast during the events of the ‘Jasmine Revolution’ as it has been coined. Tunisia is a small unassuming country bordered by Algeria to the west and Libya to the east in a region called the Maghreb. The Sahara Desert is south and the Mediterranean Sea greets its northern border. Tunisia’s history extends back in time encompassing many waves of inhabitants dating back to the original desert Berber populations to the seafaring Phoenicians ruling the coastal regions over 3000 years ago. Also passing through for a minute were Romans, Ottomans, and, until more recently, French colonial rule.

 

It was December, 2009 and I was fresh from graduate school and eager to start teaching English abroad. My previous, and quite successful, career had been as an archaeologist and cultural anthropologist here in the Hawaiian Islands for the past fifteen years. I felt that these two disciplines would complement each other and give me a well-rounded career bath where my background would give me a slight edge concerning my deficiency in actual teaching experience. Before I started the master’s program at The New School in New York City, I had never been inside an ESL classroom before.

 

Fast forward to Tunis. Arriving mid-summer in 2010 during Ramadan, the Islamic month of fasting, the die was cast: A new chapter of my life was starting with, “Once upon a time in a far-away land…” I had already experienced Ramadan observances while temporarily living in Istanbul a few years earlier, so I knew to be respectful and refrain from drinking and eating in public and at school in front of my students. It’s the “when in Rome” concept that has everything to do with cultural sensitivity.

 

 

I had been teaching in Tunis for four months before this complete upheaval, that would eventually become permanently tattooed in my memory that I continue to wear as a badge of honor of sorts, unfolded. I had just begun to get into a steady rhythm of life in this north African city: my students were enthusiastic learners, I met friends, I learned basic Arabic words to get by, etc. During this time, I also discovered a new passion: I roamed the backstreets of the neighborhoods each weekend before meandering through the narrow passages of the souk and getting lost.

 

 

Talk Story; in What Language?

 

Tunisians are natural language learners. They are both diglossic and bilingual language speakers. The Tunisian Arabic dialect has no written system, yet they have a standardized written language. As a former French protectorate, education was heavily influenced by the French educational system, and Tunisians learn French early on in their schooling. French is the ‘official’ language of Tunisia, resulting in code-switching in contextual usage. Add another language, like English, and rise to the super-status of polyglot-ism. (Is that even a word?)

 

Inside the Classroom

 

I recall my academic director explaining to me that Tunisian students expected their instructors to know all the answers to their questions, so if a student were to ask me a question, and I couldn’t answer it, instead of saying, “Okay, let me get back to you on that after break,” I was supposed to run out of the class and race to the teacher’s room and ask around in there for the answer or go online to get the answer and then return to class… As a new instructor, this made me quite nervous. But again, when in Rome…

 

And So the Revolution Begins

 

At the start, that first day, the air inside the classroom was suddenly different. I would look up at my students before class while I was writing on the whiteboard and they would be talking, as usual, but more uncomfortably. They were shifting their eyes, quietly, and whispering in Arabic- not English or French. The next day, I directed my attention to them and said, “I know what you are talking about, but I don’t know what you are saying.” Because of the advanced stage of protesting going on, there was no way to avoid the topic, so I decided to tackle it directly. This was in my Level Four class where students were younger, and Ben Ali, the country’s president, had been in power longer than they had been alive.  

 

In the ensuing days, class dynamics changed. What was most interesting to me was observing my students becoming their most fluent selves when discussing their opinions on what we were experiencing in daily life now. They excitedly debated with each other over their opinions, possibilities of freedom, new daily events, etc.

 

“Teacher, we have been silent for so long.”

Teacher, we have never been able to watch YouTube without using a proxy until now.”

 

Class Dismissed

 

Little did I know this class was to be my last class become Amideast closed down until further notice. The unrest and violence had finally arrived to Tunis from down in the south, in Sidi Bouzid, where it started. What was to follow was two of the most frightening days I have ever experienced.  Tunis was shut down to the point where the main event of the day could be waiting in a bread line in the morning for two hours and hurry back home before curfew started up again. Constant shouting, helicopters circling, and gunfire dominated the darkness along with the wafting smell of tear gas.

 

During these days, there wasn’t much for us teachers to do; we all kept in touch via social media and met up for coffee after the morning food runs and before curfew fell again. Many of my students were calling, checking up on me, and asking if I needed anything.

 

Wrapping up the Revolution

 

In the end, I had to make the decision to leave Tunisia as it had been almost a month since the school closed down and the dictator, Ben Ali, had fled the country, but the city was still a disaster and protesting continued.

 

I am now back on Maui working, but have accepted a position teaching English at a university in southeastern Turkey. I can be reached at hjform@gmail.com or you can follow my blog which relays my experiences living abroad and teaching.  In fact, you should follow my blog as I haven’t even delved into being out on the streets in Tunis that fateful day, January 10, 2011, when I was with my friend, another instructor at Amideast, and he got shot… And then the dash to the hospital… And then the ensuing days of intense action on the streets… And then…

2024.Dream.Cream.Steam.Machine.

 2024.Dream.Cream.Steam.Machine. 

In other words... Stroke the Stoke; A Continuation...

 

 

Up in the air @ 36,000 ft., many things orbit my consciousness. Such an orbit traversed yesterday. All day yesterday.  The penultimate sunset of 2023 started off getting off of a train. Well, first a bus. I navigated my way through typical Portuguese streets of Small-Town Portugal, in Ílhavo. I found my bus-stop, engaged in some local niceties with fellow bus-commuters, and made my way to the charming Aveiro Train Station. Yes, the old train station, decked out in classic white stucco with traditional Portuguese azul azulejos, is to basic, yet so incredible simultaneously, for my love affair with Portugal continues. Never has a country captivated me as much - only being eclipsed by Turkey. By captivating I mean ease. More specifically, feeling at ease engaging in all facets of life. Sure it's so different, challenging even, but that's what moves me- really moves me, you know?

As I often do, I digress. But, what the fuck; this is my blog, and I'm not necessarily going to be bullied into any dogmatic genre of writing, thinking, doing, etc. I mean, who the fuck ever came up with 'stream of consciousness' anyway? I don't know the answer (perhaps one of my readers will enlighten me), but I'm glad I understand the concept!  Shout out to Ulysses!

Double Digress

• What's happening in Suli?
• What's happening in Iraq w/the Iraqi Dinar?
• How's the progress going in Portugal?
• Will I make it back in time for class on Tuesday, or will I miss my flight to Suli (late start in Madrid)?
• Why didn't I buy those Prada sunglasses at Francisco Sá Carneiro Airport (Porto) Duty Free?
• Why did this time leaving Portugal feel so different?
• What's happening next summer?
• Why didn't I give that dude my # (he can find me on social media, I suppose, or... chalk it up simply to 2 ships passing by in the night along those exotic shipping lanes)?
• Did I bring back enough Portuguese sausage? 

3.2.1 GO

Off and running, I was.  Trying to escape Iraq is complicated. I mean to say that flight options are limited up here in Kurdistan. And expensive. So, I paid dearly to fly through King Hamad Airport (Qatar), and I better had enjoyed it. I think it did; I made my flight! Qatar Airways has been pretty good to me overall though. I mean, I'm not in the habit with getting bumped up to business class very often, but if so, it's been with Qatar. 

So does anyone remember that commercial in the 70s (or YouTube) of Joe Namath running through the airport? That's how I felt. Okay, I just fact-checked myself; the Joe Namath commercial was of him wearing pantyhose (yes, you should remember THAT one-back when shit wasn't politicized), and the airport commercial was with O.J. Simpson for Hertz Rental Cars... That fact just defeated my point, if there was one. I made my flight after flying through Terminal A to Terminal S, and so did my luggage (with said Portuguese sausage & village-crafted cheese(s). 

2024, so far

Flying at night has always captivated me. Observing the landscape illuminated by dots that make-up our existence just makes me feel so... wondrous. How did we all get to this point? What the fuck IS it about colonialism (my mind wanders- perhaps something to do with the whiskey/cokes on the Madrid flight). 

Suddenly I see colored lights down below- somewhere over Saudi Arabia. I know as I was completely consumed watching Bahrain come in/out of my moving picture show minutes earlier. There was the Causeway, linking up Saudi Arabia to Bahrain- in more ways than one, I can say, from living in Bahrain and understanding the complexity of the situation on the weekends! 

Fireworks exploding beneath the airplane! What a non-stop show I had following the coastline up to Kuwait. The bursts of color distracting me, soon enough we were touching down onto Sulimaniyah landscape. It was an interesting route, though Iraq, the airplane took. I suppose due to flight restrictions and politics dictated our route. We flew right over Nasirayah & Baghdad, keeping to the west instead of staying east (mountains/Iranian side), which is the usual route I am familiar with. 

We followed the Tigris and Euphrates Rivers. For a moment I let my thoughts wander. Soon enough I was staring down at the lands of the Marshes- a fascinating region of Iraq that I will visit later this year. It's been on my list for so long. It was a hypnopompic experience, which I have familiarity with. 

Training one's mind- think Jedi Mind Tricks here.  I would say, if I had to try to box 'myself', that I come from a background of stoicism. My world was pretty ordered, as far as what I noticed, growing up. As I went out 'on the road' after high school, I came into so much unfamiliar stimuli, or stimuli that I educated myself on, yet never experienced. I've run with 'it' ever since- never looking backwards with regrets. Higher consciousness turns on all my buttons.

Back on the airplane... I was reflecting on conversations with friends and family over the past few days.  One friend in particular was describing about setting their intentions for 2024. I've never really been this 'type' of person, or so I thought.  Pondering this, I decided that I do in fact set intentions, but I see it more as a casual type of thing; something that I would do on any given day. I guess I can sum it all up as:

 

Dream.Cream.Steam.Machine. 

What it all means to me I cannot easily write out. I know it, though. My quest is to know it intimately. To be it endlessly. If you're following this trajectory you know I know I know it. You know that you know it as well. Last, you know I know that you know it. Reality or Absurdastan you might wonder. It's okay. I know.

Although I consciously set no goals/intentions, they are underlying. I guess I call it 'maintenance'. I thirst to create for myself: suppleness, fierceness, inquisitiveness, reading lists continually being updated, writing rhythms; basically all that in a drama-free existence where I can 'maintain' a balance with home, work, friends, family, money, life. This is dedication to my inner-voice. This means developing intuitiveness, being receptive, strengthening my resolve all to continue to learn to trust my instincts. Keep toxicity at bay. Keep my energy force strong, active, receptive to love. Learn to let go of toxins that try to penetrate my shield. I try. The goal on this highway is peace.

Last, a mention about 'filth'. It's such an abused word. I kinda like it. Sometimes it's necessary to revel in it and don't wash it off until satiated. Yes, honor thyself. 

 

Stroke the Stoke: practice happiness. Cultivate it. Reap it. Share it. BOOM 2024

 

 

 

December 27, 2023

Communique from Ílhavo, Portugal

 

Lounging on Starr’s couch ‘manning’ the fire, I focus on ‘Postman’, Starr’s Dilmun cat. So unassuming, he’s curled up on the chair- in apparent ecstasy (completely sacked out not giving a shit about anything- as he’s already been fed). He’s a regal cat, surely. He’s from Shaika’s tribe, in Bahrain. Dilmun kitties, as far as I’m concerned, are second to none. The Dilmun civilization extends as far back as the Epic of Gilgamish in written reference. Based on contextual archaeological evidence, the Dilmun civilization is located in Bahrain & environs- along the ancient trading route. Its heyday was circa 2050 BC. Dilmun lives on today, for me, through Postman, for Shaika Spot has already passed on from this plane of existence.

      

With vinho tinto & da kine pulsating through my veins, I’ve made a rash decision: I’ve broken into Nori’s Christmas Cookie ensemble to take 1 of each; gingerbread man, shortbread, and a rum-ball cookie. I blame da kine, of course!

 

Christmas is becoming a tradition away from ‘home’- wherever that is. Away from ‘home’ simply means that I’m not in the same country that I currently reside in.  It also means Christmas cookie parties, and, perhaps, copious amounts of holiday spirits!  Some highlights are Istanbul (still my most favorite city in the world) and Portugal- my soon to be ‘home’.

 

The silver Christmas tree (yes, that is correct) is aglow with Egyptian Blue blinking lights.  It’s all there; the manger scene, ornaments, a roaring fire, vintage candelabras lit, colored Christmas lights, holiday music playing on the public radio station, and said cat(s), wine, & da kine.

 

Although far from family, family time is a daily occurrence- so I never feel so far away. Yet, I am. For me, friends become family, and so I am blessed to cultivate my growing family. Here I am (case in point) in Ílhavo cat-sitting for Starr as she journeys far from ‘home’. Family asked if I was available, i.e. not working as university is on winter break, and I answered in a heartbeat; YES! Unfortunately, to get anywhere from (northern) Iraq is quite complicated, and does not happen without excessive expense…

 

Fortune. What is fortune? Fortunately, for me, I create pathways to dwell within ‘fortune,’ all the while lacking material ‘wealth’. And, it’s okay. I work to create fortune in many ways, as well as work to create a (small) fortune to get through life. What can I say. This is me.

 

“I get by with a little help from my friends”

 

Gazing into the flames to understand the heat, I ponder existence. Make thyself malleable- seems to be the message.  The heat, the wine, the incense, the da kine, the lights all infuse a message dancing through my being.

 

Cat purrs, fire crackles, lights flicker, incense wafts, wine seeps, da kine enlightens, music soothes.

 

What do I know? Purge toxicity, that’s what I know. My immunity is a fiercely positive belief system. Our timeline is short in this dimension, so seize the way!

 

It’s time to stoke the fire y’all. Happy Holidays to all

Renewal

 

NOT Mesopotamia :)

The evidence: snow melted except the highest mountain tops, the coconut oil-although still solidified- is softening, the goose-down comforter is becoming heavy, and I'm perusing my closet seeking out the hidden garb. Spring is just around the corner here in Mesopotamia. 

Soon the roses will be exploding throughout the city. Spring renewal. It feels damn good. So many signs to drown out the darkness of a long winter. I'm all game. Spring in Mesopotamia is joyful, if not a wee-bit brief. Early spring, though, bring it. 

In the past few days I have sensed the sun seeking the skyline earlier and earlier while I slumber. There is a certain joy here in Mesopotamia, before it becomes blistering hot, to open the curtains and let the sunshine in. This celebration of renewal is short-lived, of course. Too soon I will repel the sun and concentrate on sequester myself as far into the inner chamber as possible, but until that moment comes, I will use my wiles to attract its golden rays and bask in them. Renewal.

Vitamin D and Vitamin Sea collude for the win. More to follow. It's still the middle of winter, after all...

Blizzard-trippin January, 2022

Flurries of snow swirling. As I watch the moving picture show I am reminded  blizzards of life come and go. As a blizzard approaches, warning signs appear. They are not always obvious.  Some are actively creating havoc underneath a calm blue sky perhaps; the calm before the storm. 

I'm not so familiar with snow blizzards honestly, so they are a welcome event in my life.  All other blizzards of life I try to navigate through with the least amount of chaos to touch me.  I do tend to excel at this.  In this respect, I'm not too familiar with blizzards of any kind that threaten to touch me deeply. 

I am emotional, and I protect my emotions.  Only but a few really need to traverse so deeply into ME. The complicated me. The complicated me which, in reality, is so simple due to the constant mental/emotional/physical/spiritual work that I actively engage myself in. In the deep of the night, the bewitching hour is in full session. Roaming the halls of my imagination, I open doors. I sequester myself away into this cocoon. What's behind this door? Let's check it out! Fuck the blizzard. I am whole. I am goddess. I just need the ocean now...

Throughout the years, I realize that to shut the door to the impending blizzard one must simply be graceful. It's a winding road to grace, and a beautiful journey.  I love finding the right path again, after faltering perhaps on an off-ramp leading to nowhere that serves me or that I can serve- with grace. 

It's really coming down now, the blizzard. My window tells me it is so. My eyes? Another window that I can see clearly through. I'll ride out the storm, with grace whispering in my ear; I'm listening. I hear your ROAR.  Fade to grace...

27.08.2021.AmerikaOdyssey

 

The U.P. giving what she's got in full force today: pouring rain. Timing is everything. The days grow heavy as the barometric pressure dropping. My heart growing even heavier. Decay exists. Fascinating to witness. Is it real? Why do we persist to exist? Life is strange in this way; we set out to conquer life- through all our triumphs and tribulations- and for what? We decay. We deny, but we decay. We violently turn away from decay. What if. What if instead we don't? 

Pondering. Musing. And off to dindin fun. Curt working his family favorite carbonara recipe while I perfect my famous salads. Tim pontificates. It's happy hour and we are happy to be together discussing the day's events, which were challenging at times. Happy hour morphs into dinner hour while evolves into South Park hour. This is my cue to fall into a jet-lag haze. Fade to black. *kerplunk*

It's a Cool, Cool Summer

7 August, 2021 communique 

current mood:

inspiration: DP [aka Wild Thang]

websites currently opened:

https://www.harpercollins.com.au/blog/2018/04/09/how-to-read-jonathan-franzen/

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HYs8tVQ8oZw

current podcast: My Favorite Murder 286

current state of mind: Da Kine...obvs...

current design projects: 2 (1 piece nearly finished)

current location: deep in the depths of my hard-drive

current focus: finish semester, hop on a plane, Portuguese, Amazon packages (yea, sorry I gotta say that I'm back once a year in 'Merika & I NEED things, so...), family time, new endeavors, The Kitts 💖

 

That's about it. Too much on my plate today! Podcasting while researching = many re-starts :) 

To summarize: I WANT IT ALL

 

 

HERstory: Spiritual Gangster Part 397...

 

I'm in a "SHE-RAH" kinda mood these daze. No apologies, but pondering. Lots of pondering going on over here in Camp Holly... 

Solo_ojo (unknowingly) taught me a lot about the art of penning while pondering others actions, which feel unjustified. Yea, back in the daze of Gaziantep.

Fast-forward to today: I.Have.Learned.Much in these arts.

So in America today, I see this meme or soundbite (wherever it first came from, I know not): "fuck around and find out." It's been all over Twitter for some time now. I like it, politics aside. 

Let's see what my latest foray into this realm will bring me... I have no expectations.

You know what feels good? Just the art of the email itself and figuring, "what the fuck. Why not? What have I got to lose?" When you express yourself from the heart, there is nothing to lose. One has said their peace & laid it out for others to attack, accept, debate, etc. Whatever the result, I'm already winning, I figure.  As well, I've always thought about what people inevitably say to help express their sympathies with you, etc., "When one door closes, another one opens."  I will take that to heart. 

In other news... next up on deck: channeling energies into useful distractions.

I got this one, too. I have this love/hate relationship with my sewing machine.  I love that Miss Barbara, Sardar, and myself went out shopping for one a few years back here in the bazaar.  I hate that it doesn't have a foot pedal. It sat ignored for a full year- minus the 1st casual dalliance with it soon after its purchase (uhm, putting stickers on it, threading it, checking the tension, etc.).

I've been quite the creative crochet-core enthusiast this past year and now I'm in 'cross-over' mode: splicing together two favorite loves of mine- sewing and crocheting. Yes, knitting is taking a back-seat right now because... crochet, of course!

So I'm making this funky-ass pencil skirt. Once again, the fabric comes from traipsing through the Sulaimani Bazaar with Miss Barbara and Sardar a few years back. Because I'm growing tired of all this conservative dress that has been self-imposed on myself, I'm going all out. Thinking forward to live in Europe, I've got a thigh high split so high that it's going to create it's own windy weather system... 

Anyhow... I'm digging on the two textures. 

I'm also really into the HERstory of my pieces: I've been creating some pieces in the last 6 months and feeling super creative these days- which offsets the bs exploding all around me, as well as throughout the world... To date, my favorite pieces are my wrap-skirt I recently completed (a la Diane Von Furstenberg), a minimalist, sleep racer-back slip dress, and now this stretch pencil skirt. 

The process of art and science keeps me entertained for sure.  Add in some happy hour entertainment and BOOM. I'm a one-woman show. As I've recently stated, I think us Gen-Xers have sailed fairly smoothly through 'lockdown in the age of coronavirus'. 

With each piece I've created, the story that I have woven and inset into the fabric, etc., is monumental.  Each piece has its own life, its own story and each is titillating- however you wish to interpret that is fine by me... To top it off that all this has occurred in Kurdistan is the icing on the cake so to speak. HERstory is real y'all...

HERstory rocks

Spiritual-ness

 So... readjusting the kaleidoscope is EXACTLY the medicine for today. Damn straight. The usual Friday shenanigans ensued, as always: up early and into the gym. Today I received the additional gift of being able to talk story with one of my fav. gym partners. A by-product of her getting up early and myself getting up late!  Win-win. 

Likewise, I found some time to talk story with my friend in Bahrain, who has recently bought an apartment in Portugal!  Yes, I'm focusing on creating a community of friends in my future headquarters, and now those friends are purchasing properties before me!  All in good time though, I figure. 

I'm also so stoked on realizing that I will indeed have some time in the near future to get to Portugal and start my house-hunting. Knowing that I will soon have a sweet village house with local neighbors... this makes my heart soar. 

Speaking of soaring hearts, I just returned from a run, which I almost didn't go on- because... well, just because.  Anyway, I re-adjusted my kaleidoscope and BOOM! I was out the door. Just three days ago I was working out with my pal David & I showed him the secret gardenia bushes on our trail- which were not yet flowering (but the mulberry trees did indeed have black berries on them that tasted delish). To my surprise, this afternoon, there was one solitary gardenia holding court all alone in its glory.  Five laps and 3 sniffs each lap... I'm winning.

Cultivate what you want. Cultivate relationships with who you want to hang out with. This is big. Some people are energy-suckers and their toxicity threatens to permeate. They can spew all the bs that they want, but none can permeate my spiritual membrane- that I nourish, replenish, and let flourish. Something that my father, likely unknowingly, taught me early on. 

Perhaps he taught me to remove myself in order to find myself. After all, I can always return...Perhaps that is exactly what Brother David thought as well, as he trotted off early in life to 'find himself' on his own spiritual journey.  I certainly think so. Leave the nest to find your zest. I'd like to think that they both are shining their light down on me and are somehow a part of my path.

Sure, I have my bad days. When the time comes to finally pull myself outta my funk and realize that I have cultivated family relationships & circles of friendships that are 'family', I realize how fortunate I am and consciously work to shut down my negativity. Works like a charm. 

I'm beginning to feel it's time to start the process of winding down shop over here, and the unknown is feeling kinda fresh. Let's see where the USDOS Teaching Specialist gig will bring me. Should I stay, or should I go? That is my decision at the moment, and it feels pretty good in this time of big unknowns. 

I think I'll just relish in this thought for the rest of this lazy afternoon... It's probably also a good afternoon to re-instate my Netflix account!

dis-connect from discordance

 Re-adjusting the kaleidoscope this weekend as I know how to. Disharmony has no invitation to settle into my essence. Check it out. Check out. Check back in. Renewal. 

Saturday morning on the lanai feeling hypnopompic. This. This state of mind is where I flourish- even in this discordant environment where work life threatens to dominate my being. Fuck it. FUCK IT. Get the fuck over it. Fight or flight. I give a beauty of a fight when push comes to shove. I shoved myself this weekend. 

So... the cocoa butter has liquefied. It's that time of year. The morning breeze is steady and further checks me out. The healing continues. Elemental. It's all syncing, penetrating, making me malleable once again. 

One of my yoga teachers in Istanbul had this funny way of checking it out in class. It went something like this: "Inhale deep. Exhale long and slow: f   u   c   k   i   t". At some point the entire class is chanting FUCK IT. Good days, those were. 

So a good dose of 'FUCK IT meditation' is up and running this weekend.  It's all about the dose and I give good dose- especially when I'm at critical mass. 

One Hundred Years of Solitute. An interesting book to discover During the Time of Covid-19... Here's the thing; Covid-19 necessitating solitude was never the challenge for me. Perhaps it's true that the Generation-X peeps weather the isolation easier than others, I'm not sure. My cocoon has been pretty tightly wrapped long time now. I'm doing well, for the most part. I have surrounded myself, as always, with my passions. 

The beauty of that feeling of turning pages of a book... That sound. Connections made. Minds altered. Spirit travels. Yes please. Take me away. 

Working out + jazz music. What a powerful combination I've delved into. Charles Mingus. Art Blakey. Freddie Hubbard. Miles. Stan Getz. Sergio Mendez. All the ledgends old and current. 

Crocheting 'granny squares'! Yes hardcore cottage-core happening in my abode. I'm crocheting together my path. My story. So much goes into each square: energy, memories, tears, fantasies, goals, life-force. 

Today... I think I'm ready to pull out my sewing machine- that I have a love/hate relationship with. Unfortunately, when I purchased it here in Sulaimani, the only models available were without a foot treadle...Who the fuck uses a sewing machine like this?  There is a button to press on the machine itself to 'reverse' & when you need to stop. It's a lot to deal with when one likes to be guided by creativity and instinct and suddenly you stress to figure out how to stop the machine. 

Stopping the machine... Yes, that's what I'm doing this weekend. A HARD STOP and a FREEING RE-START. Yes, FUCK IT. That's where I'm at and so thankful that I  continue to reach this space. 

My Secret Gardenia Garden Season 3 is nearly here. On my walks and runs right now spring is EVERYWHERE. Those pesky gardenias are still undercover though. It takes perseverance to appreciate their blossoms!  The weather is increasingly hot. I feel they are ready to POP any day now. The roses are in full-bloom so my olfactory sense is overflowing with sweet nectar, allowing me to get into that dream-time space. The cake... soon come. The March of the Gardenias nears. I wait with anticipation. 

The freaky gas canister delivery truck is blaring in the background. It's like some kind of fucked up horror movie starring scary clowns. A jackhammer hums nearby. As I occupy my lanai the, pigeons fret about- wondering why they are barred from landing on my lanai. FUCK IT. Fuck them. Fuckers. I'm at war, and I give good war. 

 I am whole again. 

Peace