ESSENCE

Essence

Last year I died three times.
Once on an airplane
Coming from Bangkok
Twice on an Operating table.

Passing from this life
To white oblivion
Not heaven
Not hell
Merely a white oblivion

Coming back
Not as a reincarnation
But
To this life
To this body
To the meaninglessness
Of the Now.

My body healed
Skin and bones
Looking like Willem Dafoe
My soul
Joyless
Still in limbo
Of a world Not of my making

Months pass
Healing
Winter to Spring
Healing
Alone
Spring to summer
Alive
No longer barely

Alive
Not looking like the before me
Not looking like Willem Dafoe either.
Halfway between the old me
And the new me

In June
Stronger and I went to the Rockaways
My friend FX
My lifeguard
A better than good swimmer.

The Atlantic shore break was dangerous
I stripped off my clothes
Naked to the elements
A long scar across my abdomen

FX looks at me
I at him.

I am not alone
I am with him
The wind
jThe earth
Water
Sky

The ocean calls

I race through the waves
Dive into the sea
Surface
The sun to the west

The glow of life
Surges
Through my veins
Duck under a wave
Surface
Alive
Filled with the memory
Of hundreds of beaches
Around the world

Higgins Beach Maine
My mother reaching down to pull me up
Nantasket Beach
A drowned man
Wollaston
Swimming around the sewer
The water warm
Moonlight Beach
California
LSD with seals
Mazatlan
Waikiki
Bingin Beach Bali
Nice, Cannes, Biarritz
Koh Phi Phi
I lose count

FX shouts
I shout back
The waves washing away the tears of joy

I am alive
And I no longer look like Willem Dafoe
Just another version of me.
Lazurus II

The Saddle - Kilimanjaro 2019 - Kili Initiative

Morning borke easrly and cold, but sunny. The porters are break camp, while we gather our belongings from the tnets to asssemble in kitchen tent for a breakfast of eggs, toast, and always Kigali, the Kenyan staple. Bad news.

Larry Fishbourne, my New York compatriot, and Jackmon, probably the most athletic of us, have to bail from from the next stage. Larry is dizzy as is Jackmon, who comes from Lake Victoria. Acclimating to the altitude is never 100% successful of these treks. Mawee is guiding them over the Saddle down the slope to Marangu. I'm feeling good, despite my stomach woes.

Snow topped Kilimanjaro. I could see my breath. It wouls be colder at Kibo Hut. I walked over to Larry.

Yom Kippur Humor

Yom Yippur 1972. Syrian and Egyptian tanks swarm over Israeli defenses on the Golan Heights and the Suez Canal. The Arab Forces initial successes are reversed by strategic blunders and Israeli air cover, however the losses to the IDF are catastrophic for the small nation. If a country the size of the USA had suffered the same casualties, the deaths would have mounted into the 100s of 1000s. Russian intervention was stopped by a stern warning from President Nixon.

DefCon 4 to DefCon 3.

Nuclear war.

Cooler heads prevailed over spreading the conflict to other parts of the world and Yom Kippur has resumed its position as a day of atonement for the Jewish People.

Not without humor.

A small town had two churches, Presbyterian and Methodist, and a Synagogue. All three had a serious problem with squirrels in their building. Each in its own fashion had a meeting to deal with the problem.

The Presbyterians decided that it was predestined that squirrels be in the church and that they would just have to live with them.

The Methodists decided they should deal with the squirrels lovingly in the style of Charles Wesley. They humanely trapped them and released them in a park at the edge of town. Within 3 days, they were all back in the church.

The Jews simply voted the squirrels in as members. Now they only see them at Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur.

Of course my father hates squirrels. Not so much hates them, but curses them during his drives to my mother's grave. The town cemetery is overrun with the tree rodents. They scramble into the paved roads before cars. A game. My father swerved away from one and crashed into a gravestone. Almost 100 feet from the road.

"Damn Squirrels."

And he's a Convert to Catholicism.

No Yom Kippur for him.

KILIMANJARO 2019 - HOROMBO HUTS

Night falls fast on the Equatar and even faster at the 4000 meter plus altitude of Mawenzi Huts. I have been sick the entire trek. I should have listened to Tim's advice and not eatne any of the goat entrail stew at Kibo Slopes Lodge. I haven't slept soundly on the entire trip and the porters have set my tent away from the others, becausse of my frequent visists to the bushes to vomit. At least I can keep down my food during dinners.

Mawee and JR have led the climbers up a route to the cliffs of Mount Mawenzi. THe jagged peaks have rarely been climbed, as the fissile rocks present an unsurmountable danger. Tim and I have opted to rest in this break. Strangely I can get phone reception atop a hilllock and called Thailand to speak with Nu and Mem. Everyone in my family is good. I'm hoping to return to the states and then slip over to there, once Charlotta pays me what she owes me.

It's cold up here. Snow flurries on a stiff wind. I wonder how the climbed are doing in this cold. Only the New York contingent have experienced winter. The Nairobi gang complain about the cold. The only warmth comes from hot tea. There are no trees. There are no fires.. Only our parkas and sleeping bags protect us from the increasing cold.

The Kibo Huts under Kilimanjaro are only six miles away across the saddle between these two mountains. A ascent of 3000 feet, which will take five to six hours.

Breathe that's all I have to do.

That and stay warm.

It's only going to get colder.

Thai Perfection or Lak-sa-na-tee-dee

The Standard English joke about the perfect girlfriend is that her father owned a pub, she’s 3′4″ with a flat head so you can put your beer on her.

Simple needs, but in Thailand more than likely your girlfriend’s father is distilling moonshine lao khao or rice whiskey, she’s 5-3, and there is no way any Thai will let you mess with their head even if it’s flat.

I’ve had several Thai girlfriends.

Vee was one-eyed and beautiful in sunglasses. My friends thought she was money-hungry. They were right, but at least she bought me a cake for my birthday.

Mem won the 2001 worst girlfriend award in voting from a UN of Western and Thai men. Even her brother thought she was wicked to the core.

Twice burned I came up with a list for the perfect Thai girlfriend.

So what qualities make for the perfect Thai girlfriend?

I googled ‘perfect thai girlfriend’ and the search engine came up with over 870,000 results.

The late Mangosauce’s contribution was his reverse alchemy factor where a Thai girlfriend can turn gold into Khorat dust. Funny, but more a warning shot over the bow than a helpful hint as to what pluses might answer a farang’s fondest desires.

Thailovelinks.com offered contact with the perfect Thai girlfriend.

The girl on the home page seemed right for me, but she was nowhere to be found within their promo pages, plus my attraction was only physical. Being near-sighted I don’t need a beauty queen. Pretty yes, but I don’t want to fight duels over the perfect Thai girlfriend with every other farang on Walking Street.

The next website was asiastreetmeat.com.

No one is looking for girlfriends on this XXX offering.

Only girlfiends who serve their sordid yearnings well.

I’ve had several Thai girlfriends. Nice everyone of them, until they weren't nice. I had my own list for the perfect Thai girlfriend.

No tattoos / Especially if it’s a heart with a name scratched out.

Minimal to zero English / Not long on the bar scene.

No cigarettes or drinking / nasty habits in a woman and especially English men cunts.

Dead Thai boyfriend / hopefully by a meteorite to the head so everyone would be scare shitless at the mention of his name.

No children / Mam and I have four. Pen Pen Fenway, Fluke, and Noi. Angie from Nu. I can deal with that number. Seven too. But I'm very happy with my two grandsons.

No internet skills / Dead give-away of a foreign boyfriend, who strangely shows up when you are leaving town. “Not worry, he only friend.”

No Gold necklaces / Another indication of sucker boyfriend, although we have to defer to Mangosauce’s theory of a Thai woman anti-Midas touch on how to turn 22K Gold into Khorat dust. elements.

Your first date should be a short-time from Soi 6 although no more is stronger than blinding passion than lust at first sight.

And penultimately of all no slash marks across the wrists / the warning sign of a true dangerous maniac. Also great sex.

Lastly she also has to be funny and loving.

Needless to say no such creature exists in Thailand or America or the rest of the world, because no one is perfect.

Charles de Talleyrand manipulated kings, emperors, and statesmen during the 18th Century. This eminence gris had been in love with the most beautiful and erudite woman of the Paris salons. The starlette ditched him for a captain in the Swiss Guards, who was supposedly gay. Being smart she needed a challenge. His marriage to the daughter of country gentry astounded his friends, until he confessed, “One must have loved a genius to appreciate the love of a fool.”

And I’m no different.

No matter what qualities I admire in a woman they will be never enough to satisfy my dreams, because as the the great philosopher MICK JAGGER said, “You can always get what you want, but if you try some time you might end up with what you need.”

Nowadays deviant Londoners would love to meet Mr. Jimmy, except the Chelsea Drugstore is a Mickey D. fast food chain instead of a nihilistic heroin connection featured in CLOCKWORK ORANGE.

Nothing is sacred anymore, except the profane.

Thankfully some wickedness exists, because sometimes you don’t need nothing if you’ve been to the Chelsea Hotel, where Sid Vicious the Sex Pistols bass player was found in bed with Nancy Spungen, his girlfriend. She had been stabbed dead. Room #100.

Sid and Nancy.

Now that’s perfect love.

Lak-sa-na-tee-dee.

Pattaya's 2nd World Tattoo Festival

Written May 23, 2008

My 5th Grade teacher, a nun, instructed her students that any souls arriving at the Pearly Gates with a tattoo on their deceased body would be dispatched immediately to Hell. Tattoos were a mortal sin for Catholics and despite having abandoned my Catholic faith I have retained the fear that a simple tattoo threatens my immortal soul.

Not so for the tattoo enthusiasts congregating in Pattaya this weekend.

It's tattoos away for the 2nd World Tattoo Arts Festival this weekend.

Tattooing is an ancient art dating back to Neolithic times as evinced by skin art on several Ice Age corpses, however the word tattoo comes from the Samoan syllables for striking twice. This Polynesian tradition spread around the world on the backs, forearms, and faces of whalers and naval sailors. The Thais have been tattooing their flesh to ward off evil spirits for centuries, however it is only recently that the art has achieved semi-mainstream attention.

My niece got one for Christmas. A butterfly on her ankle.

Those tattoo fans gathering in Pattaya will be a little more decorated than my niece and thanks to the over 200 tattoo parlors in Pattaya they will be able to add to their living museum at a price far more affordable than in the West, although any drunks seeking to brand their face with the name of the nearest bar girl will be surprised to be discover that most tattoo artists will refuse their business, since alcohol thins the blood, making for a less than desirable image of their host.

This festival is the brainchild of Joy Wong, daughter of Pattaya's first tattoo specialist, who is attempting to raise the ethical consciousness of both tattoo affecionados and artists.

She stresses three main rules.

Tattoo no one under twenty, use clean instruments, and never give a tattoo to a drunk or someone loaded on drugs, the last rule difficult considering there are over 6000 bars in Pattaya. 200 tattoo parlor, 6000 bars, 100,000 drunks.

Accidents are sure to happen, but this weekend is all good clean fun.

For a history of tattoos go to this URL

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tattoo

DA AUTUMN LEAVES by Peter Nolan Smith

Written October 2010

Back in the 60s my family home on the South Shore bordered on a small woods and every October the trees beyond the old stone wall turned brilliant reds, yellows, and oranges. The glorious explosion of color lasted several weeks, then the colding wind ripped the weaker leaves from the branches and they fell by the millions into our back yard.

My brothers and sisters loved running through the rustling layers of decay, but come the weekend the fun ended with my father ordering my older brother and me to rake the leaves into piles. Once the lawn was visible my father lit our labor afire and the smoke of those gathered leaves filled the yard with the fragrance of another burnt autumn.

Of course the next morning the leaves were replaced by their cousins. Less than before, yet throughout the next week my brother and I reaped another harvest of leaves and my father lit another fire. This Sisyphean ritual was repeated until the trees were bare.

I hated raking leaves. The task seemed as senseless as mowing the lawn, which was a chore my father demanded from his sons and we performed his command without question. Young boys in the early 60s were prized for their devotion to obedience. Merit badges and gold stars paved the avenues of success. My older brother followed the path through university and law school.

In the 70s I rejected the lawn, the station wagon, the two-car garage, and raking the lawn.

The East Village became my home.

The tenements were wrapped by concrete sidewalks and the the wind disposed of the leaves from the ornamental pear trees on East 10th Street. I didn't touch a rake for most of my adult life and loved this freedom from the fetish of neatness tormenting the suburbs, although I missed the smell of a good autumn fire.

Recently my good friend AP spoke of an Easthampton client who ordered the landscapers to blow errant leaves from the estate's 20-acre lawn. Before the ground crew finished the job, the billionaire came out of his mansion and requested that the workers pick out the finest leaves for a pristine pile of leaves for his children to run through after school.

"That's the way of the rich." AP deals with such people all the time as a architect.

We laughed at their excess. That 1% knows how to spend the 95% of the wealth.

After hearing that story I went to shoot baskets at my local park on deKalb Avenue. No one was on the court, but several park workers were raking leaves. I thought about my father and the East Village and then the rich guy in Easthampton. No one could escape raking leaves and upon leaving the park I commented to one worker about this task and he said, "Yeah, we're bringing them to another park, so the kids can run through them. They love that."

Same as rich kids in Easthampton.

And me too.

It does make a pretty sound.

For the rich the poor and the in-between.