Extispicy on the Massage Table: Reading the Knots of a Long Semester

 

 I could feel that the hour was nearly up. There's this little 'tap' he does when he wants to let me know that the massage is over. It wasn't nearly enough. What I thought was needed was to work out the muscle tissue. However, I realized even before lying on the massage table that the red flags had more to do with my mental capacity. My brain is grieving from the past few months! This semester nearly took out the joy in my life. The glue holding it all together was good friends and cycling- at its very basic essence. 

Moving through my work day today was a slow-burn exercise in mustering my strength to keep my shit together and just get through the day. That was easy enough. On the ride home, my mind was racing through various scenarios: emotions, lesson plans, AI bullshit in the curriculum, Portugal, summer school (ugh), upcoming bike trip in August, upcoming bla bla bla. Anything. Anything to think of in the future rather than being in the moment and trying to navigate through the spiritual vomit of letting go of this unending semester. 

A blur of scenery and suddenly I was inside my apartment. Safety. Food. I never eat 'food' at work, and it's always been fine to go until 2pm without eating but a cucumber or banana, etc. Something about this semester had me crawling up the 4 flights of stairs each early afternoon in search of immediate nutrition. Today, though, after satisfying myself with an omelette (I ingested a total of 15 eggs this week. I counted. Overkill much?), I did the unthinkable. I took a nap — for 2.5 hours. It was all I could do. No resistance. My body was shutting down and needed silence, and I simply accepted this. It was divine. Waking up groggy, I willed myself to get it together, again, for the rest of the day's regiment; the good stuff!

After what seemed like hours of hot soapy steam, I hopped on my bike and at a snail's pace made it to Linda's place. Our masseur always sets up there as she is on the 1st floor and I'm on the 3rd floor — which is quite a steep climb, especially with a massage table in tow. I already knew I was falling apart. Hot steamy water has a tendency to do that; infiltrate the cracks in my shell and start to soften my being. It served as the precursor to my confession; a Baptism of sorts. If the semester had calcified me into a hard defensive shell, the steam was the needed solvent. 

Working hard all semester. Playing hard all semester. Cycling hard all semester. It all dripped off me and onto the massage table as each long inhalation 'it' resisted until that long exhalation forced it out of me.  

The mantra: fuck this cortisol clinging to my body while basically performing an extispicy on myself, letting my masseur 'read' my knots like an ancient priest/priestess would 'read' animal entrails in his/her temple to predict a future where I'm fully relaxed, renewed, elevated. 

The 'animal' sacrifice; purging my elevated cortisol levels (surely they must have been).  What does that knot in my right deltoid mean? Does it mean 4 more weeks of winter or that I should just quit my job? Hah!

Scrambling to find discarded clothing, I disappear a ghost of the person who walked in. This violent shift from the sacred oil-slicked silence of the massage table back into the structural reality of donning clothes, of putting back on my armor that, thankfully, no longer 'fits' quite right. 

After hanging out, eating some light foods, and talking story with friends, I think about my faithful bicycle that is going to carry me home, to bed, to think, to drift, and to ultimately wake up during the Bewitching Hour and go forth from there. 

I hop on my bicycle and reflect back to that familiar 'tap' my masseur gives each time. Perhaps the cruelest part of this ritual, signaling that the sanctuary is closing and the real world will soon rush back in. An hour is never enough. It's still light outside but the light is fading, as I am.  

It feels different, biking. I'm just a body in motion, content to give into my exhaustion for the night. I am vanishing into the quiet stillness and don't need to be found, just yet...

I am healed, for now. I am not fixed and don't need fixing. I just want to allow for the spiritual vomit to happen until I'm empty enough to be filled again, which is generally a once-a-month process. For now (tonight), emptiness is divine. 

Now, I need to drink a gallon of water.  

 

 

 

When the Project Becomes the Presence

   

 

 

 

Self-Care

What have I done to my self? To my body. To my armor. My project, my protective shield, that I’ve honed and harnessed to keep me at a distance from dis-ease. While my methods deliver trustworthy results, at the same time, my armor is so strong that it blocks joy and vitality- perhaps as well. No bueno.

The Cost of Maintenance

Building and maintaining healthy armor is the (a?) point. A journey from protection to presence. Find the (a?) path. Go deep into chakra points and follow the (a?) illuminated neural superhighway of energy channels. Hit up every waypoint and hang around long enough to pay homage. Watch the flower bud unfold. Melt the armor. Resilience emerges. No toll booths.

My what a web I have woven. I am guilty, at times, of:

Staying in logic to avoid the mess of emotions. However, I always find my way back.

I instinctively approach getting from Point A to Point B in a straight trajectory. This is solid. Reliable. Logical. Is this what I desire? What is illogical? In converse, when I take the extra time and effort, of becoming effortless, in getting from Point A to Point B in a convoluted manner… this. This is when I flourish.

The Tipping Point

Embrace it. I dive off the deep end, now, comfortably, knowing metamorphosis is imminent. Be patient. Be malleable.

The Body as a Project vs The Body as a Home

Feeding my temple mana from the gods and goddesses: The ambrosia of various herbal tinctures and supplements. The nectar needed to keep the hearth fire burning. What do I do with all this energy I’ve harnessed?

Testing out the Waters

When I drop the mana into my system, what transpires? I no longer care about HOW I get from Point A to Point B. I only understand that the alchemical process is unfolding. I trust. Blind faith built upon science. Structural reinforcements melds into high-vibrational fuel. Base metals turning into gold, from the tactical to the visceral. Ascension.

Mantra: I watch the drop fall. An amber spark of the eARTh dissolves a wall. Marrow is saturating, dissolving rigidness. A door opens. Step inside.

The (a?) goal, I see clearly now, isn’t a thicker armor; it’s a more malleable armor. It’s possible to have both a life that ‘works’ and a life that ‘feels’, but I need a bridge to cross over into thresholds. I don’t need to refer to the map’s waypoint enroute to Point B because I am the journey.

I honor myself: time for a hammam to wash the semester residue from my being. One of my favorite things I’ve learned from this part of the world; hammam time. I purify myself and call my masseur to dissipate all the build-up of shit that no longer serves me. I become whole.

I am woman. Hear me roar.

"Sometimes I want to burn a candle for you" : The Rolling Stones Meet the Titans

Music to accompany my words to:

                                               "Winter" 

 It is my hypothesis that everything experienced in life can be explained through 2 things:

1. The Rolling Stones

2. Classical (Greek) mythology

I have research, raw data, and high hopes...

So, I'm sitting on my couch listening to  the Stones. I should be grading more papers, projects, AI-generated word salad from wayward students... It's a melancholy day: low ground fog this morning, billowing gray-black clouds obscure an otherwise cerulean-blue sky, the crush of final exams week (and all the grading still to do), and, and, and...

Listening. Feeling their spoken words. There's NOTHING like a Rolling Stone ballad to put me in a pensive mood. A resistant tear pools up in my eye, and I'm not sure why. Does it refuse to fall because suspension between dual worlds is more logical? Is this an existential crises between the mid-Atlas Mountains versus Mount Olympus? Just as Odysseus clings to a rock to avoid being swept out to sea, a teardrop holds steadfast on the edge of my consciousness. 

Just as Mick and the boys belt out, 'It has been a cold cold winter', indeed.  Blinking away the moisture, I'm in awe. I'm in awe that I reach this state of consciousness.

 Tell me you can listen to this song and not shed a salty tear just begging to be gently brushed from your face.  Maybe, just maybe that exquisite teardrop insists on blazing down my cheek, carving a deep ravine down through my chakras, igniting the roadmap of my soul — like a beacon lighting up the highway for another traveler (Hermes?) to stumble upon out on the open road.

 Winter

Moonlight Mile

Wild Horses

Angie 

Every ballad is a fucking banger, so here goes: The Rolling Stones Meet the Titans and gods, demi-gods, goddesses of Greek Mythology.

Winter: 

Demeter and her grief over Hades taking Persephone. Surely if Demeter shed tears, the world would not have experienced drought, though. Instead, her grief turns the fields 'brown and hollow', as the Stones say. Winter is easily one of my favorite Stones songs:

"It's sure been a cold cold winter. And the light of love is all burned out."  

"And I hope it's going to be a long hot summer. And the light of love will be burning bright."

 Sublime...

Moonlight Mile:  

In Greek mythology, Selene personifies the moon. Steering her chariot across the sky, she falls in love with a mortal and, selfishly, puts him into an eternal slumber so she can look down on him forever and he will never leave her. Intense, right? A radiance of loneliness or just a goddess doing shit messing up mortals lives because she can? 

Mick wrote Moonlight Mile while on tour and pondering life on the road; a journey towards something beautiful yet distant all the while thinking about (what is) home. 

"In the window, there's a face you know. Don't the nights pass slow."

"I've got silence on my radio. Let the air waves flow." 

Wild Horses:

Poseidon, definitely. His (sea)horses as untamed steeds. Beautiful but impossible to control.  

"I know I dreamed you. A sin and a lie. I have my freedom, but I don't have much time." 

"faith has been broken. Tears must be cried. Let's do some living after we die." 

 Angie:

 A bittersweet ballad of salty tears and saying goodbye when the soul of a relationship has moved on. We've all been there, and when reaching that turning point of realizing just how beautiful it is to let go of something we've held onto for too long, there's an understanding of freedom. It's fucking heartbreaking yet sublime, each time. Sublime because of emotions ocean of vastness, bordering on divine-ness, like being in the middle of a thunderstorm or standing before a tragic god/goddess, awaiting your fate — perhaps from the Fates themselves. 

 "With no loving in our souls and no money in our coats, you can't say we're satisfied."

 

 How does this all relate to me in this moment? I suppose final exam week is like the 'Sisyphus' of my semester.  Grading papers is my boulder. The foggy day is the mist rising up from the Underworld, where Hades holds Persephone hostage — or is she now content to be his forced bride? The Stones are the Oracle at Delphi as they speak in riddles to be deciphered.

That salty tear, it's ichor — the blood of the gods/goddesses. Because why? Because the Stones make me feel immortal. Break on through the ravine and behold the River Styx. A pool of water whose reflection defines who I was, am, and am becoming.  Mick and the boys are one, as my ferryman, my Charon, and they are guiding me through this foggy week.  

BOOM. Back to grading 

 

Oh those liminal spaces that fill me up with pleasure: I am an addict

I recently stayed in an apartment in Vila Nova de Cerveira, and this was the artwork in the bathroom... I added to it to create this performance piece... 

  
 

addict.addiction.addictive

What's your pleasure?  

I confess. I am an addict. To what? To whom? For what? For whom?

 

I'm in my dream-state of consciousness in this moment. I'm awake yet not fully. It's that 'fuzzy' state of mind that not even a hot cuppy joe can quickly eliminate.  

In a mad mad mad world, it's somewhat difficult to find the time to devote to my cravings, but for the past two days I was able to put in the efforts. My goal was to put in two 50-mile days of cycling. I'm not sure if I achieved this 'number' — as I prefer to focus on 'time' instead, but my body relayed the message to my brain that IT was feeling groovy. Result: I had the most amazing sleep last night, and it has me thinking this morning; What is IT? I know IT. I feel IT. How do I describe IT?

Just as we can become enslaved to what harms us, on the flip side we can also be deliciously tethered to what makes us stronger.  

I tether to my cravings: 

* Waking up to birdsong 

* Morning stillness

Time to soak in it. Let it seep into oneself. Let the hypnopompic awareness linger. There's no rush. I confess: I am addicted to slow-burn endorphin release — whenever possible

* Endorphins that very s l o w l y filter into serenity

This one... This craving invades my body like an army of euphoric warriors. There is a rhythmic addiction to exercise, so my devotional worship rewards with vitality and a glow from within that bursts through body armor. My body is my temple. I devote my life to the temple. We all do, right? 

Euphoria is the only mandate in this temple. Stepping inside, I hear my blood humming. Vibrations resonate throughout. Friction. Mutation. Atmosphere shimmers from the heat of my devotion. Chemical romance is real. 

Maybe it's the resulting vaso-dilation that I crave. I'm not sure. This 'glow from within' feeling; there's only a few ways that it produces results... 

I have memory of lying on my couch back home in Hawaii. I was living in the jungle, in Haiku. I had just come back from yoga class, and I took a Niacin (Vitamin B3). Niacin is known for producing a 'flush' where your skin becomes 'red' from the dilation of small blood vessels coming up to the skin's surface, thereby flushing out impurities. It felt like butterflies surfacing and releasing through my skin. I believe the problem was not eating food before taking the B3 (meaning I didn't read the directions regarding dosage). I recall just lying on the couch & noticing the feeling of the butterflies shifting all around. It felt like falling in love, I think. My legs were weak, I was warm (from the dilation of blood vessels as well as just living in the humidity of the jungle), I was comfortably uncomfortable. I had a phone conversation with my boyfriend and remember describing what I was feeling and that I couldn't drive my car to the other side of the island, where he lived, because of the butterflies in my legs. I'll have to ask him about it next time I'm in Hawaii.

To summarize, THAT feeling arrives after a good long sweat. Sweat from sport. Sweat from saunas. Sweat from intimacy. It's all good.  

* Hunger for creation

I watched my father and brothers creating things when a child. Our garage... in retrospect was a wonderland, but at the time, I wasn't so interested in its content. Curious, yes. I clearly remember when Curt told me to stick my finger in this round electrical socket-thing at my father's work bench, and it gave me an (electrical) JOLT.  I mean, it didn't look like all the other electrical outlets in the house, so... I don't know. He was a little punk; we all were.  

From my mother and older sister, I got a hunger for design. We had an old Singer sewing machine. There were knitting needles. Still today I am designing. I am writing. I am reading.  

With design comes textiles. Scents on fabrics from journeys deep into the labyrinths of souks, medinas, kasbahs, etc. Each piece of fabric draped against my body reeks of ancient Silk Road caravan stories, cardamon, saffron, oud — and likely doses of camel dung and cat piss. Outside of those last 2, adorning myself with these delights simply delights me. Each piece has a backstory and add that to my backstory and a bond forms that is etched into memory as well as tattooed onto my carcass. 

* Intoxication for knowledge 

Books. The bane of my existence, moving them around from country to country.  Akin to leaving a lover in every port, I fondly reflect back to those lost loves. The pages read, the scent of paper...

Nothing more to say here. Lifelong learner 

* armor

I'm talking of the semi-precious stones type of armor.  More. More. More. Especially silver, turquoise, Tahitian pearls... Perhaps I need to add a blue sapphire to my quiver. No diamonds, please.

* laundry

A strange craving, indeed. Perhaps more so a sense of accomplishment that results from doing laundry. I find a meditation in such things as:

finding money in pockets before doing laundry

realizing that some weeks I have more sports attire to wash than work attire 

hanging laundry outside to dry: very gratifying — especially if can can get the perfect lines going, thus not having to iron afterwards... 

ironing... Yes, this can be very meditative. I so enjoy attention to detail. I get over this task quite rapidly, though. 

Generally, for this list, much da kine is involved. #IYKYK

 

Alright, time to soak up this rest day.  

 

 

 

Moonrise Queendom

 

  

Full moon rising, and my queendom is flourishing. Hiding behind the tree tops, a whisper of clouds further obscures. At any moment it will break free. A carefree struggle of ebb and flow with the clouds, it's dazzling to observe. The halo is rising...and now it's falling. I could watch this interaction for hours. Maybe I will. 

Is anybody else watching this? It's amazing to understand that others, in this very moment, are experiencing this. This golden orb rising above, among the sea of clouds, the horizon fast fading. Waves are cresting through the moon now, partially obscuring it. The clouds seem to be holding the moon hostage.

 The May Day moon is called a 'flower moon.' I witness a moon-bloom requiring no sunlight to flourish.  Much the same I can say for my queendom; my garden blossoms with midnight varieties.

Clouds have enveloped our orb. Fade to darkness, excepting the silvery outline of the clouds. What a playful moon-show I am taking in. The horizon now an ocean of crashing waves. The whitewater rollers toppling over each other. 

Here comes the heavy gold coin, again. Popping it's head up through the waves like a buoy. Gone in six seconds. I wait. I watch. I am captivated by this treasure chest. A pirate ready to plunder.

This luminescence; so soft in such a hard world. The audacity! Now parting the waves of the sea of shape-shifting clouds, it's breaking out in a sprint, taking the lead on the celestial obstacle course. No cloud shall catch up to it — for the time being. 

Fiery ball. Moon mirroring the fire I left on the trails today here in the mid-Atlas Mountains. As I fought for my freedom cycling today, I watch the moon fight for its freedom. This IS that coveted 'post ride glow'. 

Now, a rowboat, the orb, sailing atop silvery sea-clouds. Vying for my attention. Demanding my affection.  Gold cooling into metallic silver. Celestial alchemy in my queendom.

A lighthouse, now, as motion ceases. Moon settles into stillness standing sentinel over my queendom. I'm no longer in pursuit; I'm being pursued. 

I'm at a loss in penning what I am witnessing. Moon has disappeared in a rip in the fabric of time it seems, yet the celestial searchlight beams across the hazy horizon restlessly interrogating my queendom. Sovereignty is a brilliant weight. 

 Long live this light. Long live this night 

The Birds Sang the Sun Over the Horizon and Pulled Me From my Dreams into this Pre-dawn May Day

 Long ended, the Bewitching Hour. The birds brought me the news as I slumbered. Their pre-dawn chorus reverberating through my body, chiming like an alarm clock. WAKE UP, I did. Somewhere in the audible distance, a muezzin is chanting out the first Adhan for the Fajr (call to) prayer. The birds and muezzin are competing for ear-space. The birds are closer; I tune in. 

 Pre-dawn. The 'Violet' Hour. The blackest of violet still blankets the sky. Saturn and Mars are together glowing on the eastern horizon, yet they are barely visible. Through my sleepy eyes, I witness the duo cloaked beneath some violent violet-gray clouds against violet-scape stillness.

Perhaps that was the newsflash the birds were wanting to divulge to me? Or... already 'feeling' the day is to be spectacular, the birds are energizing, awaiting the sun's activation, and I simply am overhearing their velvet-hushed sounds. 

Birds are loudest at pre-dawn as they either defend their territory or seek out a mate to hook-up with right after last call. The males, the loudest, belt out the most complex songs in order to attract a female, any female. I blush. Feeling the energy. The heat in this dampness of fresh morning before the sun starts heating up the day. What a waking intimacy!

As dawn fast approaches, silhouettes come into focus. Supernatural entities that crossed over into 'our' world, during The Bewitching Hour, are creeping out through the back door before dawn's reign. Into the margins they recede. I sense their lingering shadows losing their depth into the void kaleidoscope of trees. These 'illegal tenants' have overstayed their welcome; birds acting as boundary-keepers (or bouncers!) escort them away, off the premises. The chaotic sensual-natural energy of the night dissolving, a 'clean slate' before the day's demands is soon arriving. 

The changing of the guard. The cacophony of sounds dissenting this reality of the physical world opening up in preparation of the day. What is the day going to hold? 

I dissent. Do I dissent? This beautiful clashing transition moving from The Bewitching Hour's darkness to the clarity of dawn's early light.  

The dogs living out in the campo, just beyond my windows, they are agitated. They dissent. 

I slept through the chaos of the night. Unusual. The birds were simply gossiping about what I had missed, the contagion of the night. Of course. I am safe. Am I safe? Am I safe from the fallout of The Bewitching Hour? 

FOMO. FOMO? Am I envious to have missed The Bewitching Hour's peak? The audacity of the birds; the sentinels calling me back to the world (of order) just in time for the light! 

 I detect a lingering remnant of The Bewitching Hour, though. An ozone still hangs heavy, cutting through the air; the morning breeze has not yet managed to sweep it away. This unspoken language is complicit, with me. I am not just an observer of the night's leftovers; I am an accomplice to them. 

I am fluent in this language. This echo. This knowing-ness how a pen full of indigo-ink energy moves across a page during The Bewitching Hour. The birds might be chirping for the morning, but I'm still vibrating at the frequency of the dark, not wishing for the light to sanitize my thoughts.

My nights contain secrets the day-world can't comprehend 

 

Bewitching Hour Howling: wet eARTh and ancient secrets travel through my window

 Deep, from the bowls of eARTh, a rush of cold air saturates me. This invisible beast roaming far from its subterranean cave rushed up to me, through me, like a howling wolf. 

This was no ghost's touch; not seeing the wind yet observing its effects, my eyes drawn to the skeletal trees outside shivering in the moonlight desperate to recover from such a harsh winter. Desperate for spring to blossom. No, not a ghostly touch but a roaring phantom.

All quiet now. The messenger from the mountain disappeared, dissipated.  Residue remains of distant cedars and forgotten places. Something has shifted, here now, in this Bewitching Hour. A shifting in the veil, I sense the arrival of something ancient. A wisdom that has settled. A gift.

Daring another approach, I lay awake, waiting. The beast seems to have run its course, leaving me behind like a carcass, having picked over its preferred delicacies with its spectral teeth, disappearing into deafening silence of the Bewitching Hour.  

Skin sensitized. Nerves firing. Residual silence, heavy and intimate, draped over me as a damp silk veil clinging to the curves of my body as I wait for the beast to double-back. Where does this where-wolf wander? I hear the dogs that live in the fields yelping. Perhaps their skins too are humming where the wolf had bitten.

The night air no longer surrounding me, it is within. One stolen breath from eARTh's lungs now slowly warming my ribs. This part of me, that belongs to the dark, feels electrified and primal. My human pretenses stripped away, I delight in this sudden alignment with the night's heartbeat. A velvet warmth pulses from my veins charting a path for me to follow. An ancient map, glowing.

Bewitching Hour door is opening —activating pulsing daring me to seek shelter within. Where I can slide deeper into its song. THIS is the gift, right? Can I too howl without making a sound? 

The dogs are still barking their song. Perhaps they still are searching for the source of that subterranean breath. 

The Bewitching Hour door will soon close with the coming of dawn. What if I become trapped within Night's logic? Will I become a permanent dweller of Night's shadow? Will the sun no longer recognize me? 

I surrender 

Static

 

https://lithub.com/prone-to-be-productive-in-praise-of-writing-in-bed/?fbclid=IwY2xjawRV3w1leHRuA2FlbQIxMQBzcnRjBmFwcF9pZBAyMjIwMzkxNzg4MjAwODkyAAEe5q2NwjY1X0cXxDVOHC3caL0hXBSgH-7VhO9or5n2_xAwY2MnL6_dbIKvLhk_aem_aw8UCAqYHyqhWEAIuJp_dA

So, I'm lounging in bed. I just finished reading a piece from one of my favorite literary websites, Literary Hub, about the joys of writing in bed (link above).  It got me thinking about my own positioning while writing.  Perhaps a new blog title could be, "beds and beachchairs"...

Depending on the genre, this dictates where I write. If I'm researching or writing up lesson plans or lectures, I need structure. I need a solid table and chair to support the intensity of what's happening inside my head. This type of writing, I am a self-imposed prisoner of my mind. I exile myself to a confined space. I am very linear in this way. I am very much my father's daughter.

On the other hand, when I take up the pen, creatively, I pursue softer sit-scapes. Often, I bring my beach chair inside the living room and carve out a piece. There is something about being low to the ground, for me. I grew up at the beach; various beaches in various countries. Perhaps it is the absence of a beach, here in the mountains, that necessitates this. Perhaps not. 

My bed is always a solid alternative writing spot (it helps to have a kick-ass memory foam mattress topper).  Being a mountain dweller, currently, I have this incredible view off of my lanai (balcony). I look up into Ras el Ma (forest) through the openings of my curtains as breezes separate them, and I'm reminded of when I last lived in the mountains, in Yosemite. I'm not a mountain girl, yet I can't deny this 'mountain wisdom' that I'm attracted to. This teacher that I'm pining after that shows me how to be small and significant at the same time. John Muir, who spent a lot of time living and writing in Yosemite, was onto something when he said something like going up the mountain is more like going inward— into the mountain, into thyself. 

Earlier this week, while attending a workshop given by a visiting professor, he asked what it is that we want. The workshop's theme was regarding what is happening to Liberal Arts departments is in higher education right now (something we all can't help but wonder what the answer is and do not dare to ask AI..). I sequestered myself away in my own little world, in full view of my colleagues, and thought to myself, "I want to hear static. I want to lay down on the grass and stare up into the blue sky and hear static" — like I did when I was a child pondering small yet significant things that would shape my future-self. 

Mountains. I hear static, sometimes, when I'm riding through the rugged mountain terrain here. Another place where the cacophony of static prevails is underneath the water, snorkeling or scuba-diving. This was a phenomenon I knew intimately, yet never contemplated the greatness of this sound until I removed myself from this experience on a daily basis. 

It's been nearly two decades since I force-ably removed myself from the sweet embrace of Hawaii, but I was focused on seeking out brave new worlds far away from the Islands. In search of unfamiliar static, I moved around a lot. At some point On The Road, I forgot about static. I lived without consciousness of static. And just like that, it re-entered my life, in the mountains of Yosemite. And then it was gone. And now it's back, again in the mountains here in Ifrane.

Sometimes in the morning when I'm writing in bed I look up into the mountains and I can almost hear the static calling me, enticing me to come out and play. Dutifully, I hop on my bike and search out the static. Today was no different, or was it?  

 

 

HERstory: 18.April.2026

Words in Progress or not 

 

music to accompany my words:

                                              Bittersweet Symphony vs Bittersweet Cacophony

 

                                                                                                                                            sounds of spring

the biting staccato of workmen’s tools drifting across my lanai

peace-FULL-ness broken

reminding all in the barrio summer soon come

 

morning not yet ready to listen to this unnatural cacophony

yet forced upon us denizens this cacophony is

us early-risers that enjoy spying in on a spring morning’s wake-FULL-ness

no competition from the breeze, the birds, the street cats; all retreated

I alone seem to dissent this intrusion

These steel behemoths shattering human-ness into illusion-NESS

 

necessary evils, so say developers- urban magicians turning rotting earth to persistent concrete

for what, again?

Ah, summer; I forgot

Soon come, summer

harbinger of sonorous sounds resonating thru the barrio

thumping bass tracks to attract tourists near and afar?

to this unique-NESS that is the mid-Atlas Mountains

 tourists who sit poolside, awaiting a text, awaiting the next viral video, awaiting awaiting

 

                                                                                                          is IT, though, attraction or repulsion    

there’s a new shiny kid in town

not shy, this steel warpig of a child brought forth 

birthed from resistant Industrial Revolution cobwebs

insisting on lingering

insisting on a saprolite relationship with human-NESS

no trepidation to intrude upon quietude of human thought-FULL-ness

 

I revolt

retreating into the forest I shall go

seeking solace of whispering pines, weeping Atlas cedars

Iwziwn ‘song of the mountains’

I’m listening, I’m coming, I’m healing

 

HERstory: 12/04/2026 My Cousin Rachel, by Daphne Du Maurier

 

Music to accompany my words:  

 

    Opposites attract? What attracts me to Gothic literature? Frustration, psychological horror, sexual tension, weak women, easily-duped men? It surely can't be any of those as each page turned leaves my rage-residue contempt. Instead, my attraction lies in settings: isolated castles and grand houses whose walls drip ancestral knowledge, moody weather-vanes  spinning out of control during a tempest, supernatural events that defy reason, omens, etc. The grotesque, in a nutshell. 

    Rachel escaped the weak woman trope; she is a fabulous enchantress. Her green thumb, though, did it have a hand in Ambrose's demise? Did she hex both Ambrose AND Philip? I do enjoy the development of femme-fatale types in literature. Poor Philip sequestered himself away all those years in his Cornwall manor purposefully removing the feminine from his life, he had no chance when encountering Rachel...All those pent-up desires just simmering. 

    Rachel, using her power of seduction, has lazer-focus (in my mind) and has set her sights on her nexgt victim (who really knows, though). Philip, slow to the game (again, is IT a game?), both revers her and is repelled by her, when he weakens- which is often. Who are these other men? Does she have other men? Philip is so moody (dull?) and predictable, always needing confirmation. It drives him mad. It drove me mad...

Reading the book, it seemed as if it was written earlier than mid-20th Century. Perhaps that is Du Maurier's gift of prose. The slow-burn leading up to Philip's 25th birthday, and, from what I inferred to be his 'de-flowering',  the start of his demise. Mistaking sex for consent to marriage... Rachel demeans him (unknowingly?), and he doesn't seem capable of recovering from this episode. 

I am thoroughly enjoying the novel at this point, understanding his descent into jealousy and violence in an effort to tame 'his' wild creature. His suspicions of Rachel's foul-play over Ambrose's death turns him against her- especially when finding her garden seedlings. Poison? Adulterer? Witch? he can't help himself at the end- leading her to her death. He's left wondering, "did she or didn't she?" 

Perhaps she really did love him. Perhaps she didn't poison Ambrose. I like it that we just don't know for sure. I'd like to think that Rachel was indeed a Black Widow. I mean, why not? 

It's a slow read and the story doesn't really get moving until a quarter through, maybe.  This is only my 2nd Du Maurier work; The Parasites was my first, and I found it to be more of a 'wacky' nature with comedic episodes entwined into a dysfunctional family dynamic.  I didn't get a 'Gothic' vibe from Parasites. My cousin Rachel, however, littered with Gothic themes. Perhaps I'll be encouraged to read Rebecca now.

-H 

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