Chazzy Patel's Blog, page 2

Baby You've Been Had

There's a lady who works in a Kensal Green flower shop not far from the cemetery and our protagonist is a gentleman who visits her daily at 4:20 pm before hopping the tube north five stops on the Bakerloo; that is to purchase Lillies of the Valley. Its bloom is not just a brilliant Queen single, a favourite of our royal brides, or preferred ingredient among perfumeries in Belgravia. No, It's a springtime classic; representing humility, chastity, sweetness, and purity. A return of happiness, and obviously a brilliant Queen single.This friendly exchange goes on for a year between the florist and gentleman. A variety of flowers make brief cameos through the English seasons 'til the Lily of the Valley returns her grow. Curious, at some point, the woman discreetly follows the protagonist to his north London flat to see what he's doing with them; her open eyes find that they spell out her name in an incredible art piece illuminated on his wall, synthetically glowing in an array of pastels dancing to a piano's touch -- a brief quarrel ensues when we discover the protagonist is in love with her and that the love is unrequited. Soon after, the woman stops working at the flower shop which we learn when the protagonist revisits with a broken umbrella in stormy skies. Now it's a bloody kebab shop. It ends a year later when the protagonist meets and falls in love with another (or maybe the same) woman, but this time she works in a fish shop... It's all set in springtime London with good manners, Pimm's, pints, royal weddings, the tube, umbrellas, an MI6 motor chase cameo with her majesty Lizzie the second, etc., but we can potentially only hint at all this rather than making it too obvious, innit. Happy Spring Bloom,Chazzy

Prešeren's Julija

Wildflowers along Lake Bled Ana, at home in Ljubljana. The mother of his child had shown him the door after he informed her of me and his time at Lake Bled. The Church of Trnovo on Saturday (April 6, 1833) at the tenth hour, I fell in love with him. I watched him drunkenly mingling with the innkeeper's daughter, Zalika from my window. It set me on fire. It wasn't until the dance at the Kazina that he finally approached me with a glass of brandy and his book. My trusted maid sat in our carriage car outside the cottage; rolling her eyes, sitting tight for me. Me, remaining in my blue and cream blossomed gown, concealing the blue lacy undergarments we'd purchased a day ago in Kranj, the bag hiding the purchase still down the stairs in the back of our carriage car. He ripped the gown off me quick, and I remained standing there in the cold lakeside cottage that possessed a scent of wildflowers, fresh bed sheets and rest for some. Not us. Our fumbling feet, his grip on my thighs, adrenaline and the laws we were going to be utterly breaking - socially and under the eyes of God. He didn't see that my knickers were too big for me since he was occupying his time with pulling them off with his teeth, untying the strings on my corset without turning away from my eyes. Lips separated with hunger. Eyes looking so hard they infiltrated through my smooth pale skin in the dusty light coming in through the split in the drawn curtains. He sat on the end of the bed as I laid there. He wore his trousers and belt, his shirt the only thing he'd given me a chance to take off. A crumpled pile on the heap of wood of the fire we were going to ignite. He intensely stared at me. Hairless, similar to a girl. Not the woman Ana who shared his bed. He reached out to stroke my leg. Gradually. His eyes, cutting a cautious path over every last trace of my exposed skin. My breasts, small bumps with unbending pinnacles, ice to the touch. I wanted to apologize for being seventeen when I needed to be older. Closer to his age. I wished my breasts were bigger; I battled the urge to fold my arms and legs, to slither into a ball under the sheets and conceal far from his devouring eyes. I asked my maid to thump on the entryway after ten minutes, yet she didn't, and I couldn't move, his eyes still on me. Fingers stroking my thigh, getting nearer. This is the thing that you needed; I let myself know. I laid there like a body prepared for a post-mortem examination. Little. I looked anyplace but at him, at my body that wasn't my body any longer and thought about whether this was what love felt like. His words are meant for me; I let myself know. What sweet words. Fingers. On. Me. There was a woman in the curve of my back; his appetite was electric, my head falling back, body ruffling sheets. I felt needed, and I needed to melt into his hands and mouth. I tried to unwind into him. However, the air was still chilly from the lake, and my breasts small, and my hips hardened, not having any desire to roll open, not wanting his touch. This man, seasoned as my father if he were still alive. This girl, needing to get away from this body. The curve in my back vanished, and the woman with it. I lay like a child with legs spread open to the world and trusted it would end, my heart thumping, muscles gripping in peaceful resistance. His eyes, drilling into me. Stop. Continue onward. Misleading emotions settled between us; our shoulders pulled rigidly. We continued onward. I dressed in a small chamber close by, efficiently missing his craving eyes. At my naked body in the mirror, I grinned. Chest and cheeks red with a wild touch of womanhood.The Water Man of Ljubljanica Orange bright candlelight and wavy pubic hairs on the back of the basin. A lady does not live here. We are in your rented bathtub in Ljubljana. Not far from 4 Wolfova Street and my window. My knees against the hard metal bowl, already numb. I feel the floor dunking in the center with the heaviness of our bodies and secrets. Having a feeling that we are tipping off the edge of something. We are losing ourselves, toes packed against the walls, your foot hindering the drain to do its job. A puddle of water to pad my sore knees. Your eyes taking a look at me with the hunger of an empty river. They slip shut as you grab my head and draw me to you; to push me away. You possess a scent reminiscent of laurel along the Ljubljanica, and the water continues getting in my mouth and drops bounce off the broad of your back onto my red-beaten chest. Are you thinking about Ana or is it that wicked Zalika - The innkeeper's daughter? Pondering where she is and what amount of time we have left together? I can feel it in the stiff arrangement of your spine. I need to influence her to vanish from your mind, so I love you harder. Steam rises. My lips are trembling off, and you are pulling ceaselessly to tell me I am hurting you, and your eyes are not shut. You are not feeling me. I am suffocating in the water; in your mistaken quill. My knees are stinging, the bones shouting at me to get up and flee from this bathtub and this foolish poet. I can tell you, France, you've heard the voice as well, the one that visits us when we are as one. It says that you are wrong for being drunk and naked in a bathtub with a twenty-two-year-old young lady who ought to be at home preparing for her marriage to Josef. You detest yourself for each minute you take from Ana or that wicked Zalika but how you want, and how she wants. How Zalika tosses her head back and glances at you as she sees right through your drunken soul at the Casino Society; considers the parts you despise most and takes them for herself. To love, to torment.Sonetje NesrečeI stripped my garments off piece by piece while your back was turned, taking out your quill and ink. Take a look at me. At the point when did you quit looking at me? Those eyes, the ones that ate me up that night in Lake Bled. When despite everything you had the sentiment to pause, the tickle of skin not yet addressed by the tips of your fingers. Your need for me surpassing your guilt. Simply let go! I needed to say when you couldn't come; when you quit even trying. Muscles made warmth through memory, not want. I crave, I want. My throat would close around the words, not your hands. My hands holding my pillow during the night until the point when sleep only hushed the young lady inside me who whipped only at loneliness; urgently to get away from her skin. To slip into yours. You rationalized: you had work to do at the law office. Ana and the children were getting back home soon; she would catch us. You had to stop by the Dolenc's Inn for more brandy. Don’t I have Josef to entertain these days? I laid in your bed with my body on your sheets and sat tight for you to see that I was bleeding; each stroke of your quill was another appeal my lips did not express. You couldn't quit thinking of Ana, your law, or your children. It was never only me in the bed with you. It felt like a nation. I laid on those chilled sheets that remained frosty regardless of to what extent I sat waiting for you. I didn't know whether I could stay there any longer in that bed with a man who shut his eyes when I touched him, unfit to hold his eyes to see my beautiful smooth pale skin. Bare. His true love? His Primicovi Julji! A girl ate up, somebody – a woman? – Left in her place, delicate and fledging on the sheets as the words of your quill. I didn't know how to leave. Take a look at me, I asked, lying on my back as you remained over me, fingers grasping the backs of my knees. Eyes shut, lines over your brow, you battled the voices that instructed you to turn away. Take a look at me. I viewed your eyelids crush, ripple, never opening them. You came, shrieking. Injured. A creature crying, creeping into a plagued Kranj for your last breath. I slipped. Blurred. Fell. Your eyes, they opened. But, me, I was no more but just a girl in a window.

Tangier: A Murder of Crow

FRIDAY There's a small split in the pavement; a butterfly is stuck there, topsy-turvy, unfit to open her wings and get back to her feet. The cracks associated with many other smaller breaks, and if the rain keeps on, the puddle of filthy water that is developing nearby will overspill and send forward waterways, filling the cracks like fresh new veins accepting their first beat of blood and the butterfly will suffocate, topsy-turvy. A blue Gauloises cigarette pack drifts in the puddle, turning gradually as the breeze pushes it over the gutter destined for the Mediterranian sea. You stand on the public terrace inclining towards the window of an antique shop as the movement of traffic lights turn green then red and green again; cars ignore any rules in this North African city. Individuals stroll by disregarding you. You aren’t visible to them, and they stay ignorant of the destiny of the butterfly. Vehicles move past spitting mist onto your already splashed garments and finally the crows – who don't yet consider the rain sufficiently substantial to stop for the night – plunge and swoop around the streetlights where the moths gather entranced. Now, Dead. The thin mist falls straight down, and the relics of colonial structures appear to lean over a permanent cloud of hashish that’s gathered above the terrace, nowhere else. An umbrella its occupants have no desire to leave in a rush. The arched balconies swarm around and look down at you and those among the wounded. Irate mists which hang substantially over Tangier is not for ‘real’ people. They glee in the nomadic novelties, mint tea, and sunshine. No, this mist is just for you and this imaginary realm. The world twists and whips around the sun. Some place a planet is dying and a million stars are detonating in darkness, and the rain continues tumbling further and further down; just before the banks of the puddle break, you push a twig underneath the butterfly, and she flies up; up to be eaten by a murder of crow. You don't have the foggiest idea about your name; you're imaginary, you see. You exist inside the psyche of another person only. You don't have a clue about whose mind you were conceived. You should be their imaginary friend. However, something turned out badly; they quit requiring you nearly as much when they had made you, and now you're stuck in the presence, imperceptible, interminable and caught. It's an amusing thing; the presence. It just continues endlessly. SATURDAY You pack up your things, your sleeping bag, mug, lighter and your red Fez cap; never far from your spoon and needle. You stroll thru the old Medina. Hooded men sit in doorways unable to see you, yet you feel their eyes pierce your skin. You're not by any means the only one, there are plenty of ‘imaginary friends without friends bustling about, and we generally locate each other at ease. The unicorns and sugar fairies can be a pain to convince, but they come around eventually. We have this medicine called Dove’s Powder; it helps us with the sadness and the agony of existing without our person. You need to know a wizard before you can get Dove's Powder; shadowed alleys towards the old Medina have the best wizards these days. You need to pay with cash, demonstrations of kindness or whatever you need to bargain with after the last call for prayer. Most wizards don't seem to be picky about what you bring; they flip new technology like pancakes. Mobile phones. Tablets. Cameras. Every new tech launch; a million more imaginary friends wander the Medina and terrace seeking the Dove's comforts. Do people even need us these days? Dove's powder is risky, taking too much can make an imaginary person undetectable to even other imaginary people. It’s as quiet as space with just the right amount of mystery for you to push for the edge. We don't grieve the absent, here in our reality; there is no such thing as a moment's hush with these voices in your head. The vibrations are too strong, you see. Existing without it is miserable. Numerous have attempted, and they all return to Tangier; back wandering the old Medina looking for a wizard and a fix. Sufficiently given enough time, they all come back to the terrace overlooking the ferry port. This present reality is no place for an imaginary friend yet it appears for each one of us the solution takes two or more times to show and realize where we are. How long has it been raining? It is becoming thicker and bouncing like bodies off the blacktop. Part of the road is a waterfall flowing over the docks in the distance; we group like sardines in a doorway whispering our code. "Holdin'?" "Tapped mate. You?" "Extinction is near, mate." "Crap, eh?" "Fishy's lit, not sure how." "Yes? Jack found a wizard from Brazil man named Pedro." "Yeah. Bloody Knob. Vanished minutes later." "Yes. Well, Fishy's lit." Without any end in sight; until the point when somebody knows somebody who knows a good wizard and a response is given. Guarantees are made quickly, calls up the levels of wizard leadership are ordered, and all while withdraw, again, itches the back of your throat. Just until the end nears and the dove is rising under little flames and one more night is celebrated under the cloud of hashish; gone, left in peace. SUNDAY Ragged looking eyes and elastic tubing still between your teeth, the rain has halted the daylight again, yet sparkles brilliantly shine through raindrops on the leaves in potted plants lining the ancient rooftop. Fishy's slowly becoming invisible and noiseless at this point sitting in her plastic chair. The dove is taking another one, and possibly she's the good one for it, you see. You pack up your belongings; your sleeping bag, mug, lighter and your red Fez cap; never far from your spoon and your needle. You stroll to the antique shop where you lean your head against the glass, and you serenade your serenades. They still don’t see you. You hope that real people will, yet they seldom do, and that rare moment they do see you, they rush to overlook that they saw you at all. Some may believe they've seen a ghost. Never an imaginary friend. MONDAY The sun went down with no Dove's powder, and your teeth are chipped from the grinding. Word descends the line that Willy Burroughs has a batch and you get your red fez cap on, and there is some coins in it now. This is the news you've been waiting for. You chase after Bowles to Burroughs's Kasbah Riad, and there's new art on the walls that could very well be placed in plenty of children's nightmare. You touch nothing. Metal needles heaped up in the corner remind you of uncooked spaghetti with just the tips covered in red sauce; the meatballs could very well be us. The floor is thick with imaginary friends on substantial amounts of Dove's Powder because the sadness has a more significant appetite the longer you’re here. That is something else about the drug; you develop an insusceptibility to it. The first time when you take a dose, you sneak to the opposite side so efficiently, you discover the joy in the void that exists nowhere else. The void doesn’t let go of you; however, after a year, a similar dosage would scarcely facilitate the agony for a minute. Mick and Richards are talking in tongues, and you realize that the Dove's powder is streaming thick in their veins like angel blood and you lick your lips and wish the torment away. Every one of the coins you have doesn't amount to what you require for a strong dosage. However, you put the word to Willy and Bowles that you're on the look. Willy says he'll see what he can do and you hold up among the toothless smiles and the whites of eyes for an answer. What's more, the tingle comes for you quick. Creeping up your arms like summer warmth; blood-loss and you've been here for quite a long time or perhaps minutes. You think about the butterfly, dark royal blue wings of glass flying way up yonder, into the clouds from the road and up to attempt its fortunes among a murder of crow. "Allen has a batch!" You snap out of your howling inner musings, and are lead to Allen. You can't manage the cost of the dose, so you orchestrate an arrangement among others. You go into a room made of rubble, and it just takes six minutes, and you're back on the terrace with your meds in your pocket. Cheeky poet. It comes as a deep orange powder and some readiness is required on your part, but its quick, you see. You include hot water from silver tea set; warmth to bubbling yet not for long, naturally enough, so it doesn't go south. You suck the mix into the metal fang; looking for a blue rubber pipe for your tree-bark arm, and then you're gone; through the Moorish blue door and out way up yonder, into the clouds away from the majority of the torment of the world. Nothing terrible can occur up here; nothing can hurt you inside this protective layer. Nothing. You're under the bed, and there are no monsters; you're skimming on water amidst the calmest waterfall, and you're a winged serpent fly liberated from death by a hooded giant, and you're taking off through the warm, dull night sky. Furthermore, you're pecked by a bloody crow. "Bad batch, Bad batch!" There's confusion someplace around you, despite everything you're flying; however, there's frenzy now as the crows close in and they swoop. They take another chomp. "It's a terrible batch. Bullocks! Try not to touch the unicorns and sugar fairies. They're suffocating." And now you're falling. You're broken, and there's agony and sadness all over, an extreme pain is working your mind and your tumbling further and further down, down, down - your heart pumps liquid metal through your veins, and your lungs are topped off with thick white paste, and you can feel the breeze shrieking through the openings in your wings, and the dove has turned on you, you see. It happens to all imaginary friends in the end. Eyes wide and you're back in Willy's Riad, and faces are coasting above you, empty paper-faces. Willy. Bowles. Jack. Allen. All paper-faces. You attempt to suck air into your porcelain chest, water spills out of your mouth, and you can't prevent your rigor limbs from whipping around. You're going now, through a Moorish blue door considerably more significant than the drug has ever shown you before. It’s magnificent. You don't have a clue about your name; you're nonexistent, you see. You exist inside the mind of another person; just, you don't have the foggiest idea whose mind you were conceived. You should be their imaginary friend yet something turned out terribly wrong; they quit requiring you nearly as soon as they had made you and some place a planet is kicking the bucket and a million stars are detonating in darkness and the rain continues tumbling further and further down. You pack up your things; your sleeping bag, mug, lighter and your red Fez cap; never far from your spoon and needle, and just before the banks of the puddle brake, you push a twig underneath the butterfly and she turns up; up to be eaten by a murder of crow.It's an amusing thing; the presence. It just continues endlessly.

Some Last Words for 2017

As usual, we set aside an opportunity to glance back at the year behind us and the year ahead; with incredible anticipation towards what will come. We take the lessons of the past with us and look unquestionably forward, as we do, secure in the learning that we are more human today than yesterday. Every day brings new obstacles and every day we address these challenges with grit and zeal thus conquering them with a little more ease. The new year is the unfolding of a shiny new section in our lives that demonstrates to us that it's alright to relinquish the past and begin once more. And 2017 was an absolute rollercoaster. Some may have just observed the best year ever and look forward to an even greater one looming ahead. Others may have only trudged through one deep struggle after another. A fresh calendar year brings desperate hope for things to be better, with an ache for the still-fresh wounds to slowly begin their process of healing. Whether you’ve just walked through the most significant year of your life, or are incredibly glad to see it finally over, one truth still rings clear amidst it all. You are not alone. It's a reset button for some. It's a chance to reexamine ourselves thoroughly, but only if we have the spirit to continue pushing ahead. It's one thing to take a seat and make the essential rundown of New Year's resolutions, and it's another to have the self-control to complete them by any deadline; any given day. I wish the best of luck to all that pursue their resolutions this year. What are you willing to do any other way this year? What are you willing to forfeit to gain? How is this going to make you a better person for yourself and those you love? Or do you need to take that journey at all this year? This year as opposed to taking a seat and formulating a gigantic rundown of resolutions and promises; You don't. You just take in a deep breathe and remind yourself it's just a tool. I've been running down resolutions for a few years now. I am grateful for the learnings from these self-governed rules, but it's not always a successful feat and often not needed. The successful ones: Completed a few personal promises for loved ones, published my first novel, quit smoking, continued with celibacy vows and the Anti-Romance Coalition(inner circle joke and excellent book title), motorcycled the Atlas mountains, and climbed the Sahara dunes in a djellaba fit for a king. FYI, it doesn't take much to start a wizard empire in Morocco if that's your cup of tea. The unsuccessful ones: Being more available to friends and family, finish reading 'In Search of Lost Time', vanquishing spontaneous traveling from my life, and quit bacon and good cheese. Immensely enjoy the last three, so only continuing work on the first two. Well, maybe just the first one. This year, I have decided on forgoing all my whacky rules I vow on New Year's Eve. No resolutions needed. I know whats good and bad for me. I am going to brilliant this year, and I believe everyone will do the same! Those who might enjoy some advice on succeeding with new years resolutions; here are some words of an old tubby Tibetan monk who befriended me some years ago. "Success is similar to wrestling an elephant. You don't quit when you are tired. You quit when the elephant is tired, skinny boy." - Yonten, Stakna Monastery 2013 Not sure if my tubby monk mate's advice will help out, but it's done a great deal for me over the years, and continues to do so. I have the privilege of being inspired by people who continue to secure my belief in this vast world that's become an addiction and a small source of happiness. Grateful, and I am sure this will continue in 2018. As we start another year, I hope we do as such with confidence in ourselves and others to elevate from harmful habits. This year, as with the ones to follow, will bring ups and downs. Each test unites one another to be more human, and every achievement makes us more grounded for a sounder future. We can accomplish anything we put our minds towards in 2018. I know that this coming year will just convey more noteworthy eminence to the individuals who look for it, and that is practically everybody I've had the extraordinary opportunity to call friend, family, and people I run into in life. You got this. On that note, as this New Year begins, let us compliment each other more and wish each other immense love and joy in the coming year more often than the last. More thankful for being alive and give everything we could ever hope for a chance to materialize in spectacular light. Happy New Year Everyone!(Please have a positive vision without bounds and seek after those dreams that make you smile consistently; not just for 2018. Always!)

Views of Drawn Lines

The inconvenience of the border was met, at first, with something likened to the alleviation of general annoyance. It is not necessarily the case that the natives of the area were satisfied at the possibility of seeing their known world disassembled before their eyes, yet the period paving the way to the inconvenience mentioned above had been, let's be honest, pestered by idle gossip and uneasiness. Presently, at any rate, matters had been chosen, and there was a general expectation concerning both the Eastern and Western Inhabitants (odd to hear ourselves characterized along these lines) that life would come back to norm from these sunken dreams. However, what was normal at this point? The particular governments issued a joint message: "Western Inhabitants (from this point forward WI) and Eastern Inhabitants (henceforth EI) are urged to seek after customary daily exercises subject to minor adjustments with regards to the new regulations as recorded beneath." No one read these regulations by the lawman. Not at first. Or, instead, the individuals who did; discovered them a mild source of amusement. To be read aloud at dinner parties attended to by WI and EI, yet blending openly, pointing and giggling at the colored bracelets as though they were trinkets of a silly trending party game. David B. Jones, born Year 2 of the split, WI by birth, EI by parentage, persevered through insulted dignity from the earliest years. Secret pride, never recognized, may as of now have started scratching out a depression for itself by his shirt-tail-nibbling preschool days. Or his grand reserve might have been a character trait utterly divorced from the events in his early life. Attempt to deal with things, endeavor to follow bloom to root and perceive how far you get. We know he never formally complained. No specifics of his circumstances shows up in his speeches. In any occasion, there was no requirement for him to say those things, as they were well-known: the prospective father's midnight race to an Eastern doctor's clinic; the pneumatic murmur of his significant other's taking in the backseat. The essential obstruction: either street work or downed electrical cable. It's contingent upon the adaptation you support from each side. The (ultimately venerated, initially reprimanded) border guard's consent to cross the line. The hissing. The winding street. The Western Hospital. The backseat moans. The perplexity: Parent 1 and Parent 2? Eastern Inhabitants. Birth area? Western Administrative Region. Clearly, developing a wall was unfeasible from the begin. The general territory of the area was not very manageable. What's more, the city itself – now two cities – could barely be split like a halved pomegranate. The division, it was declared, ought to be imagined fundamentally as a simple state of mind. We were asked to respect the red stripe over the town's belly, flashed as another tattoo, the way we display a symbol of who we now stand. Self-scarred. Though the closed doors on main streets, the border patrol, the weapons – the more significant part of this we were urged to see as an option that is other than symbolic. The home of Antonia Mass, bordering as it did the very edge of the park and therefore, a patch of land neither one of the sides was eager to surrender, turned into an international of conflict. Half of her house was presently in the Western Administrative Region, half in the Eastern; yet as she declined to think about relocation, in spite generous offers from both governments, the new line was, at last, painted up one wall, over the rooftop, and down the other wall. Dual citizenship having been banned, the subject of Antonia Mass's status brought about the assurance that she would be granted substituting nationality: when in the Western portion of her home, she would be a WI; when in the other part, an EI. Since her front door offered departure to one locale and her back access the other, it was just a matter of being sure to wear the suitable colored bracelet before going out. But, I recall him coming to the border guard in a truck each morning. Like they were bringing some famous criminal. Him getting out. Consistently resembled it was his first day there. The expression all over again, I mean. Dreadful. I shouldn't say that. Be that as it may, I mean. The bullying, teasing or tormenting, I never participated in all that; however, I can say, I know it sounds cautious, or you know like apologizing or something like that, yet I don't think it was a result of his originating from the opposite side of the line. That was just an excuse. It was the look all over his face. I mean if he didn’t want to join in, then go play in a corner or something! Okay. Play alone. In any case, to just stay there at the edge of the park playground and watch every one of us like that . . . Never a smile. It sounds like a blame-the-victim or that kind of unfair sort of thing. In any case, you didn't see his face. Each of the individual governments created a contest to make an envisioned history clarifying the border for future generations. By coincidence (perhaps not so remarkable when you consider that we had, until as of late, been neighbors and fellow kin), both winning entries focused on the park. The Western entry rethought it as the locus – the "chronicled heart," to cite the essay – of western provincial pride and personality. Eastern usurpation of the park (portrayed as thrillingly as a barbarian invasion in an adventure story) prompts the inescapable clash which closes in the foundation of the border. The other winning entry is as effectively compressed: just transpose in the above depiction the words "Western" and "Eastern." around a compass. From what can be surmised, the place had, truth be told, nothing to do with establishing the border (whatever that reason was). Yet the park summoned, for citizens of the two sides, the nostalgia of apathetic, leaf-shaded evenings and picnics charmingly upset by carousing off-leash dogs and looking for nonexistent fish wiggling near green-smeared stones of a pond with trousers rolled to your knees. Just so it was easy to convert this heartfelt sentimentality into a foundation upon which we might build a new tale we are expected to pass on to our little ones. Be that as it may, did little David cry? No. He missed his dad and mom naturally as you would, and the place called the relocation center was not a cheerful place, but rather little David Jones was brave. Around evening time he gazed out the window. What's more, he thought of life on the opposite side of the border. Oh man, wonder if he'll ever know. (In the accompanying black and white mental illustration, an evicted ellipse of moonlight extends through murkiness over an exposed floor to an institutional bunkbed, where it outlines a child and his mousy hair fixed to a different darkness. He is superbly sitting up straight on his bed, back and legs depicting anatomically implausible right points, gazing toward the barred window in spite of the fact that the expression all over his tender face is a listening look, but his listening ability is something we can't understand yet.) As in a landmark? No, the park was never– It was only a park. What do you need from a park other than it being a bloody park? In spite of the fact that we do have a landmark indeed, there's nothing all that exceptional about it I would say. But that it's the oldest house in the area. Battered however in place, you might say on a good day. Truly, a landmark to the old methods for building to give it any credit. Or, then again to ordinary life is more deserving. Or, then again to those things that curve and bend but figure out how to survive. Those might be the right words. We don't visit it much. All things considered, it's just an old empty house.Despite the fact that local teens have been known to graffiti the walls and use its shadows to snog lovers from the other side of the line. It's the freakiest show!But overall, it goes unnoticed by us for the most part. There was at one point a TV documentary about Antonia Mass. It was really more about Antonia Mass's house, within which was portrayed as being bisected, similar to the outside, by a borderline. A love seat, an old rug, the back of a perpetually lazy Labrador: all were red-striped but the Labrador, and on either side of this stripe the ambiance, the décor, even the type of wallpaper were notably unique from each other. Before going too far, the actress playing the role of Antonia Mass would change colored bracelets, shower robes, and shoes. This, one assumes, was intended to be cleverly humorous. More on-screen theatrics. Lies the media tell. Naturally, none of us accepted for one minute it was indeed anything like that. Those of who actually knew her recalled startled green eyes, the fragrance of lavender, and affection for antique hinges. In our imaginations, when we envision her at home, we see her sweeping a floor unmarked by any partitioning line. We have her cook scrambled eggs with local aged sausage and cheese; a loved dinner dish by locals on both sides of the line. We make her iron delicate garments from a different era. Normal things. Once in a while, in our creative abilities, she is permitted to look through the window at the protected and fenced-in park, but we expect her to remain inside. This is where we need her; and if we do every so often let her out, we ordinarily make it a point of looking away, so we won't know which door she chooses to utilize. The border as an Idea: it doesn't do much for us. We don't comprehend what to do with it, this Idea! The individuals who embrace this perspective of a border influence us to feel slow-witted and literal. The truth of the matter is, for the vast majority of us, it's a line. Wide, red and irritating in most places. Two-dimensional however undeniably genuine as it veers and moves more than three-dimensional space. A seat with the clearest view. Youngsters play along with the line on either side; some challenge themselves to jump crosswise over and back again. (Although never little David Jones. Boy from another world.) The authorities, or at least those who surely watch the border, are shockingly tolerant of this conduct. The line is a burden. Inconvenience to all. There's the cafe with the cheese sandwiches and decent tea you can't frequent as you wish any longer. The shortcut turned long. Endless detours are the real nuisance. What's more, the other part of life: the companions, relatives, all of that is difficult now. Business-related Day Visas have supposedly turned out to be harder to acquire than promised. We curse the line publicly. In any case, we swear at it as a painted line. This is something we demand from our natives. We walk through the tow, following the border. Half of us on this side, half on that. The governments, despite being notified well ahead of time, have declined either to forbid or to allow the parade and this absence of acknowledgment; this official silence is translated differently by those among us as an indication of progress or of failure. Nobody has accumulated to watch; no group waving from the curb, no children raised onto shoulders. It's a God-awful small affair. However, individuals investigate as they stroll along the sidewalk. Their faces swing to see from halted cars. Couples lean out of windows. It wouldn't really be accurate to say that we are "regarded with doubt or malice." Anyway, we are respected; and the idealistic among us call it a sign of achievement. Nobody appears to notice the man in a turquoise ice-blue suit walking with us. It is a fiery October evening, still summery; humidity has now gone. However, the sun is high and cruel as ever. At different points en route, we are forced briefly apart, by structures, walls, other arranged obstacles. We split, changed and once more we take form to follow the line. What is the derivation of the expression "Indian summer"? The question permeates, it bubbles all over the processional line, but no answer is forthcoming to its call. It wouldn't really be accurate with say that we are somewhat satisfied with the parade up to this point. A few of us may have expected more. From the ceremony? From ourselves? A few of us need to stop for a minute, to have a cold drink and to rest, regardless of whether that means standing briefly in the whirlwind of AC cooled doorway before continuing. This proposition is, ultimately, rejected. It isn't possible to decide on which side of the line this rejection started, or if it formed without regard to the line at all. We walk on without cold beverages, and AC cooled doorways. There is no revolt. The idealistic among us point to this as an indication of achievement. (The man in the turquoise ice-blue suit reveals himself to be the camp leader of the optimistic. He tells a story of gazing out a window as kid alone in the dark. Light is promised, he comforts, don't stay hooked to the silver screen.) We walk on to the point we reach Antonia Mass's house. We have chosen this ought to be our end point. It indeed is unseasonably hot. We remain before Antonia Mass's home. Her windows are drawn. Her hinges, a differing gathering dangling from eaves, windowsills, and screens, squeak in the breeze, the free flaps flickering and trembling like the wings of butterflies half stuck to the worn board. A few of us see for the first time that the red border stripe does really, just as we have always heard, proceed up the mass of her home; and does genuinely cross the rooftop. Apparently continues down the opposite side. Beyond, the park. We remain there, the halted parade. We stay there for as long as we can, some embrace and afterward, in a collective choice that astonishes us by its spontaneity; by not appearing like a choice by any means, we turn quietly around, and we walk – we walk back the way we came... Rest in Peace, Starman.1987 Concert at the Wall - Reichstag in Berlin, Germany

An Untitled Journey with Dickie Jules: Prologue

Timeline A      You're currently sitting in a home that's a mere 2 meter away from the motorway. Cars whiz pass on London's stupid M25, and it seems an Alfa Romeo crashing; killing the inhabitants of the home will be sent by a slip of the steering wheel someday soon by a careless texter. You're there to check in on someone. A girl named Annabel. She yells that the motorway has been constructed too close to her home, taking her front lawn and a rose bush with it--you find that the tiny blades of dead grass left behind to show it's way too close to live by. She acknowledges that she might be the next exciting perspective from the edge of her mattress.Do you awaken from this dream? (Visit Timeline B.) Or do you continue this conversation and remain in this house? (Go to Timeline C.)Timeline B      You wake up from the dream. Inform yourself that it signifies nothing to you. You head to work to your new Westminster office. As you're working, you jump on the internet to find out the symbolic significance of automobiles in dreams. You get the anticipated "vehicles symbolize the journey of life" replies from your google break, and, clearly, reckless driving in fantasies can symbolize a life out of control; however, there's one interpretation that disturbs you in its own authoritarian clarity. It states: It depends on who's driving in the fantasy. Have you been driving or is somebody else? This info could point to a component of your waking life you want to be present. How are you permitting others to treat you? You understand that this is a condemnation of your own life recently. Every one of these shitty cloudy days has left you empty, alone and dreaming of bloody motorways too close a beautiful woman's bedroom.      You finally decide you've had enough of this head time. Time to begin pursuing a hobby, get your mind on something besides your wild social life and perhaps create a new experience for yourself in the process. I believe its a very sensible thing to do at this point.Piano? (Go to Timeline J)  Or Cooking? (Go to Timeline K)Timeline C      You tell Annabel that you're feeling unsafe in her south London residence, particularly in this bedroom of hers. You say "Maybe we should go grab a drink? How's your local, love?"       She lets you know that it feels safer in the kitchen; the room farthest from London's motoring hell. You walk in, and you see what she means. It's quieter back there without the crashing waterfall of cars rushing past her vibrating window, but Annabel has not followed you into the kitchen. No, she remains in the bedroom, sitting on her bed, looking out the window at what you're sure is her doom. There's a coffee can sitting in the center of the table, with the lid off. You research the contents and realize there's not any coffee, only greeting cards, and notes. You start to pull them out in handfuls. Instead, they're sympathy cards. They say things like 'Sorry for your loss' and 'God is with you at this challenging moment.'      She is now standing beside you in the kitchen. She interprets your actions as a come on, puts her arms around your neck, and starts to kiss you. She's not messing around. It's soft but insistent. You imagine she's grieving, lonely and desperate, having recently lost a loved one to some mysterious unknown, spending her days alternately watching cars come within an inch of her head and reading sympathy cards over and over again. You sense that she's desperate for comfort. It's a thing that you have done well for other women in your past and yourself. Comfort. Why not today? She grabs you and pushes you back toward the room, which feels somewhat aggressive on her part, doesn't it? You go with it.        It is possible to observe the driver yelling at you from behind his windshield as your back hits her bed and your eye makes a beeline for that vibrating window. The only thing parting you from him are the two pieces of smooth glass, his and Annabel's, is only air between and her lavender scented candle. You can't hear him, but you know what he's yelling. He's saying, "Do not do this, mate. You will regret this decision for the remainder of your life. God, Save the Queen"... Ok, He didn't say the last bit. I made it up.Do you run from the house, as far away from that coffee can of misery because it is impossible for you to overcome a Groundhog Day hell in your own life? (Go to Timeline D)Or do you stay with Annabel? (Go to Timeline G.)Timeline D      That was an excellent option to leave! It was like a nightmare house which exists only in London Bridge horror show these days and on the telly. Well played. So now you end up walking along the same motorway you were hoping to stay clear from, but somehow, in this setting, it isn't quite as menacing. You continue walking. However, you discover that the sun is beginning to set and you aren't correctly dressed for a stroll along the M25 at this hour on a cold London evening. You are surprised it's not rained today. A car pulls over, and the passengers offer you a ride. They're a man and a woman. An exciting couple at first glance. He looks about thirty, is shirtless with a tattoo on his stomach that says 'SAVAGE'. He hasn't shaved in a few of days, and she looks about fifty; smoking two cigarettes taped together and seems like she's been smoking non-stop for the past thirty years or so. Terrible habit! (Please stop if this is you.)Do you say, “Thanks, but I need the walk, mate.” and keep walking? (Go to Timeline E.)Or do you jump in, even though they haven’t asked you where you were heading before offering you the ride? (Go to Timeline F.)Timeline E      I knew you were the product of all your right decisions! I am aware this M25 scene seems somewhat odd, but you don't know the M25 (pit of hell most hours), or maybe was the consequence of a terrible choice otherwise known as "agreeing to check on Annabel." That happened before you actually got into "the cesspool of modern mingling and a favor to check-in on a mate's sister," but we're on the ideal path now. You may feel it. So you continue walking down the M25, and you pull out your mobile phone. You've got a smartphone with ample battery power! This is an excellent comfort to you. A few taps on a new minicab app, and you're sorted. Even if the minicab doesn't have the most stringent, rigorous checks in place, the driver more than likely will have on a shirt without a horrid smoker in the car. That's probably also a great sign that London still has her manners.      You breathe a small sigh of relief as you slide into a red Prius and tell 25-year-old Chloé about your bizarre encounter. She laughs once finished and tells you to notch this up to experience. She reminds you that you look handsome, she digs the old lapel pin on your blazer and beard. The pin being a 60-year-old painting of a woman in a fancy hat found in the Netherlands. One of your favorite in your small collection. You take the compliment and thank her as she offers a tiny bottle of water and sweets (I guess they're all bloody doing it now) causing you to remember a Allen Ginsberg poem you used to love when younger. Something about water raising up steady from a well at the base of the world. Or were you high in Colorado, U.S.A when reading it? You trust Chloé with this Proustian memory. Mostly due to her French accent and she reminded you of someone you knew on holiday. Even though you don't recall it word for word, you quote best from your mind. She'll appreciate it (it's a fantastic poem to remember), and she'll sweetly recite you a poem in return about the importance of water in one's life told to her by her grandma before passing away. She'll say: the only men and women who recognize the importance of water seem to be dreamers, writers, and lunatics (She isn't quoting the poem correctly, but that's okay because she's crying her heart out and it is in the right place). We like her because she doesn't mind a man poorly reciting poetry in the back of her Prius. She'll ask 'which one are you, monsieur? Dreamer, writer, or a lunatic?' You'll answer 'Apparently, all of the Above, love.'      All this creative talk with Chloé has made you realize that maybe you're not ready for casual dating in the modern world after all. There have been so many ups and downs in this particular branch of your life tree. Best not to shake the branch any more than needed. Chloé says, "Why don't you take up traveling, monsieur? I know lots of men who have started traveling, and they love it. You should go to Asia. It's a good place for dreamers, writers, and lunatics. I am going to Thailand this year!" You've got an immediate vision of the busy airports and crying babies on flights, jet lag that you can't shake. You doubt that traveling will be your next move, but you wouldn't mind taking it up one day. That may be just what you need to keep you busy and do something productive at precisely the same time daily (and you never know who you might meet on the way. Another reason to avoid traveling, by the way.). You're not much of a travel person or into travel romances. Younger years have taught you to avoid them. Your experiences seldom work outside the M25. You consider both hobbies you've always wanted to pursue instead. Which will it be? You get back to Kennington and ponder playing the Piano; that of the most beautiful of instruments in the world? (Go to Timeline J.) Or perhaps a cooking class? (Go to Timeline K.)Timeline F      You're on a thin, metal, horizontal plank stretched out much higher than the treetops. You are being forced to do yoga on this unstable plane by a tubby monk high in the Himalayas who claims to know George Harrison in the sixties. You can't move; fear has paralyzed you. The instructor says 'you need to move what moves. You must do now. Focus.' But you can't do these poses or understand the tubby guy very well. You are not focused on your breathing and violent gas from goat vindaloo for lunch isn't helping while standing on your head.       Rather stay and focus, you make a move to get off the plank, but it's the wrong move. The tubby monk shakes his head in disapproval. It sends the plank downward. The tubby monk disappears, and this troubles you almost as much as the plank plunging downward towards the trees. You awaken. In the beginning, you're relieved to be free from that falling dream and the curry gas. But then there's the metallic taste of blood in your mouth, and you can't move your arms or your legs. You're surrounded by darkness, and you hear a loud humming sound. It requires a moment for your eyes to acclimate to the surroundings before you understand you're in the boot of a mid-size vehicle. Let's think back to what happened. Sympathy cards, M25, blisters, cars whizzing, squandered opportunities with a grieving woman, booze. You've made the ultimate wrong choice in this game, it seems. Or could it be a penultimate lousy option? Can we save you? You were supposed to have forty-five or so great years left to live. Panic sets in when you realize you are moving again. You jerk your legs out in an attempt to free yourself, but you just wind up kicking a big plastic bottle of water. You hear it moving around. It sounds like beach waves you once enjoyed on a short trip to Mexico in this cramped locked space. Your mouth is dry as sandpaper. Your breathing gets heavy, and yellow fuzzy static closes in on your vision. You feel the air running out on you in this awful cramped space. We're very limited in our options at this point.Do you scream and squirm in the hopes that someone, anyone, can hear you and possibly help save you? (Go to Timeline N.) Or do you relax yourself to the end and attempt to consider the great things you had in your life? (Go to Timeline N.)Timeline G      The Fact is you have made poor decisions. You had the opportunity to wake up from the dream already; to leave before the encounter became sexually out of hand, and yet you chose each opportunity to stay. Why? Nowadays you must drag yourself through life carrying the mantle of a modern dating victim or predator. This is not any fun. It feels like a burden. It's heavy, and it makes people uncomfortable to learn about it. They say things like 'so that explains the tattoos and a closed heart.' That isn't why you got the tattoos, is it? It felt like an act of bravery and defiance at the moment to remember something completely different. The Mayan symbol of a victim in a circle with a line through it. One more bucket list item checked. You like that the ideal symbol stands for sacrifice because you like that word. Sacrifice. It sounds noble and meaningful. You've sacrificed much to be where you are. Specifically, referencing your selections on Timeline A and C, but more generally it seems you have sacrificed happiness. How is everyone else doing these things you seem to fumble with? Can you still choose that now? We should try.      You're in a restaurant. You're on a date. This girl, let's call her Amber, is funny, tall, and she did not ask you about any of your tattoos. There's promise. Dinner has ended, and you have asked for the check.Do you sit back and let her take care of her share in the name of modernity? (Go to Timeline H.) Or do you offer to pay it all? (Go to Section I.)Timeline H      I see you've become a Rules guy. Fine. Reel her in. I understand how this works--easy to be with, hard to get. So here is what happens. You play the whole dating thing correctly as you remember from your google research hours before meeting her at the tube station ON TIME. Always on time. You don't call her and rarely return her calls(texting is what people do, right?), you don't call for a Saturday date after Wednesday, you don't open up too fast about your past, and you don't wear thoughts of her wandering around the head days later(It causes odd dreaming experiences). The bloggers must know what they're on about, right? In summary, you're honest but mysterious, and you're probably likely to be happy for a couple of years or so. Maybe, even get to take her on the weekend to Lake district for no reason whatsoever, but to sit on a bench with her overlooking Whinlatter Pass after a long trek thru the mountains.      Yes, you read that right. Although I'm not supposed to make any wild judgments, this selection is as close to "bullseye" as you can get, my darling dreamer. And it is a long one, so let's get settled into your chair with a pint or some vino because here we go! I'll provide you the highlights first: It was a beautiful ceremony at Highclere Castle in Newbury. You own a home in Kennington with keys to a private courtyard. A humble family flat, but a home with a colourful garden. I don't need to inform you the local school's recognized for its excellent academics and positive school culture for gifted teens. You've got a beautiful daughter. We had some difficulties with fertility, but there are always obstacles in a hero's journey, and yours is no exception. The most important thing is how you manage the obstacles along the way. That's if we don't count the night you took the full box of her glass tubes of hormone stimulant and chucked them down the stairs in a minute of pure sexual exhaustion and wine-induced vexation that both hilariously refer to now as 'The Incident.' I'd say you leaped over this specific obstacle like a superhero and found yourself with an unpredictable daughter and satisfying life within the M25. And, regardless of the routinization of life grinding you down like sheep caught in a Scottish thunderstorm, it's only really left you balder than you started and streaks of gray in a heavier beard. You, now cruise a Range Rover that has cute little zombie approximations of yourself, Amber, and Thea in the rear window, it's still possible to refer to yourself as "happy." That's just what you say to her as you're driving to that great school to get yet another conversation with the headmaster about Thea's new habit of kicking boys in their recently developed nutsacks. You say: "I don't understand what's happening with her. We're a strong team, right? We're happy, aren't we? Brexit isn't going to happen. It's all smoke, darling." And here is her response: "I think that it's finally time for me to be selfish. I want to begin thinking about me for a change."      Did she really say "finally"? Yes, she did. You're coming up on 20 years of what you would have called (if someone had asked you to name it) "The Decades of Amber," but it turns out she's been cheating on you with her twenty-six-year-old pilates instructor who thinks George Micheal's Careless Whisper is 'weak' rock music. You should have knocked his head off just for saying it when she'd invited him for Sunday tea months back. The 20th wedding anniversary is traditionally celebrated with gifts of tin/aluminum or something to do with gems and metals. But there's nothing wrong with breaking old British traditions with a present that ironically commemorates almost two decades of togetherness balanced with a dash of nothing. She's leaving you. And he's a tinhead named Albert. Do you accept the news stoically and attempt to make this as painless as possible for your daughter and bring her to family therapy; doing your very best to plod forward? (Visit Timeline L.) Or you lose your head, park where you are, run into traffic, accepting the first ride you may find to get you to The Angel and Crown pub; get quickly sloshed on whiskey. So drunk that you see yourself going home with cute Latvian shot girl who doesn't speak English? At least you believe that is why she has said absolutely nothing all evening wanting her mouth used for other pleasurable exchanges. Do people even talk anymore? (Go to Timeline F.) Yep. Those are the only two choices in this Timeline.Timeline I      You go with your bad self! You're nobody's victim of modernity, despite your tattoos, which proclaim the opposite with the rise of hipsters. You set down your bank card, and you say, "Please let me take care of this." Now, this appears to be a minor thing, doesn't it? A man in the 21st century paying for a date is not just a thing of the past. Nonetheless, it is not minor. At least to her. Oh, she acts like she's cool with it. In reality, she quotes a Beyoncé lyric and makes a joke about it. But she never calls you again, even after you call her using your new smartphone you slightly regret buying. You're better off without her insecurities (see Timeline H, above). It seems we are at a dead end here and none of this appears to be worth the time.            But we're not done. It's time to select some hobbies to keep you busy.  You're very good at singing. You used to love singing in the choir when you were younger. And music moves you. You could play the piano! You took a few lessons, and your teacher said you had musical promise. In primary school, maybe. But also, you've always wanted to try creating dishes from exotic lands without leaving the signs of the M25. There are a few classes nearby taught by overly joyful millennials. The Smiths, next door had also recommended them. Which one should it be, lad?Piano? (Go to Timeline J.) Or Cooking? (Visit Timeline K.)Timeline J      Ah! So happy with this. I've always wanted to play again but can barely manage the first two bars of "Chopsticks" before everybody's rolling their eyes at the wrong notes.        You find a teacher nearby, only a few blocks from your flat near the tube station. It is like it has been right there, waiting for you all along. You go for your first lesson with your piano instructor. She strikes you over the head with a hammer and ruins your new Gieves & Hawkes signature wool sportcoat. Just messing with you! That was the result of another dreamer's poor decision (see Section F), but not yours.       Her name is Kathrine, and she offers recommended lessons in her windowless basement adorned with the irony of the 1970s. Replete with a shag rug and an old husband knocking around upstairs typically cooking Brussels sprouts or some equally noxious-smelling vegetable that appears to negatively affect your ability to pick up the five-finger scale play necessary for "Für Elise." It's all very dull, but you're moving right along in level of your technique and artistry, and you're trying to remain awake as she explains another glory story about her solo at Royal Albert Hall in the 1970s.      One day, right after a successful lesson in which you feel like you've mastered the sostenuto pedal, you gather your things, preparing to ascend the steps into the broccoli-scented kitchen and eventually back to your own silent and empty home, when a new student arrives for the half-past six-time slot. He's an adorable five-year-old boy named Richard Jules who jumps right onto the raised stool like nothing and starts hammering out "The Scientist." by Coldplay. A song that took you three months to master. It's probably quicker to pick up these skills when your brain has the plasticity of youth. Lil Dickie Jules is a good lad. It isn't really that remarkable. What's remarkable, however, is that Dick Jules is accompanied by an even more adorable mother named Diana. Diana is a nurse who, it turns out, just moved into the neighborhood with her son because she got divorced from her mister. He just finished a tour in Asia with the Royal Army. As well as orders home, he was slapped with divorce papers before getting his first pint down at his local. She tells you it was over long before he left for war. You believe her. She's funny, naturally beautiful and damaged (let's say complicated) and, you find out, an exceptional cook of exotic dishes. You fall in love instantly--you can save her you tell yourself; you know you can, and moving in with her in what is probably, on the grand scale of the universe, considered a matter of moments. Some would say quicker than a nip to the pub. I don't even have a chance to stick a different possibility in here if I wanted to, which I don't. Who could resist Diana? Mother of Dickie Jules.      Years go by following this particular choice. Many Years. And some of them are good ones. Brilliant ones. Well, a year and a half were terrific. You and Diana together having picnics (two of them, actually, with gourmet food. For the first one exquisitely prepared by her in Hyde Park to watch the fireworks for the fifth of November. The next was a chippy at Wembley Park Station by me for England beating Germany 4-0). You enjoy going to field hockey (go Britain's field hockey! Whoever you are.), but you actually start to follow the sport. Even though before Diana, you thought women's field hockey was the most boring game created for a bloody Sunday, but now you're standing at the bookies once a week cheering on your favored odds.        Sometimes sharing custody of Lil Dick Jules was a delight as he graduated to playing Mozart, Beethoven, lingering jazz and rock hits from the 1950s. The demanding Enchiladas de Camaron Estilo Sinaloa for every single meal as he zoned away on his iPad was a bit odd. Which seemed wrong to you as well, but Diana said 'it doesn't appear like a battle worth fighting with Dickie, darling.'      Diana tried hard to find a career that first year and found one working at a real estate brokerage out in Dubai before "forced" to quit a year later because she'd managed to piss off clients with her hunger for power and 2 bottles of wine daily. There was that visit to the sober farm in Cornwall, and you had to bring Dickie to Kensington for 3 weeks. He didn't cry for his mum any night those weeks or call you 'new guy.' And that first winter holiday where you bought the hand-blown glass piano ornament that said "Our First Christmas." But then came the not-so-really-good times, which were immensely abused by wine, pills, and cocaine. With her mental vacancy that of a pop tart ready for a Pimm's cocktail and her losing anything that could even be called a working wage and savings, you take over Dickie's piano fees and be the musical genius's mate as he continues to weep into sounds ahead of his years. And then the terrible years, Diana in and out (mostly out in Soho's social lounges) of country rehabs paid for by you, followed by the abysmal year that ended it all. At this point, Dickie's permanently with his father in Liverpool in council housing estate eating beans on toast till he was 16. Diana, having lost all parenting rights by the local magistrate's court and also her desire to not fight for visits, you devote more of your personal time at work or home alone on your piano.      Your future is pretty much a no-brainer, mate but, hey, she wasn't ever pissy or Nancy Vicious's psycho ghost towards you. Except for the horrible year, David Cameron won the election for Prime Minister; a rough year for Queen and country that day. Which is also what her ex-Mister had complained about in his Royal Army uniform one afternoon in Hammersmith. Most notably to her Majesty's legally appointed magistrates judge. I say let's skip the Tom foolery and get out of this with some dignity intact. You're a London lad. Hold it together, son. So, what's it going to be, Gov'nor?Will you remain in this relationship? (Go to Timeline J.) Or will you leave her in an addiction program run by Satan's gatekeepers and skip to a different beat? (Go to Timeline L)Timeline K      Really? Cooking? I will be honest with you. I was hoping for piano. I find the cooking shows very dull these days and the most complicated dish I have ever made was Chicken tikka masala spread around a top of a Waitrose naan, dump gouda on it and in the microwave oven for two minutes. Dinner done.      But anyway, that doesn't matter now because today, you are not going to believe your lucky stars, mate. You are not going to believe who is taking the cooking class with you today? Jesus Christ? No, It's Annabel. 'You have to be bloody kidding me' you say to yourself when you see her sitting over by the cutting boards and knives. You only wanted to flip a couple of eggs or sprinkle some paprika on toast, and now you have to deal with Madam Antsy-pants. Don't stay. I almost don't want to provide you the alternative timeline at this point. I'm lobbying heavily in favor of you to leave this minute. She has not seen you yet, so there is not even the risk of discomfort with this situation. Just slip back out the way you came in thru the restaurant, wrap your scarf around your neck, and think of a good Beatles song to accompany your walk back down to Kensington.Do you stay? (Go to Timeline A.) Or do you go? (Go to Timeline L.)Timeline L      Proud of you, lad. You're an agent of independence. You walk down Kensington High Street to Holland Park, which is really not a very long walk but feels like a pulsing street bursting with a Brazilian carnival today. The song playing in your head is 'While My Guitar Gently Weeps' by Prince, Tom Petty, and company from a trip to America a few years ago. One of greatest solo guitar performances of your life was played that night. The giddy feeling that accompanies having made a good choice floods you with a rare sense of well being and curious. Whatever did happen to Prince's guitar after the performance? It just disappeared into thin air once he threw it up!        You walk by a shop or two on the high street. Gieves & Hawkes are open. You deserve it! You've somehow managed to find the most reputable British men's tailors this side of the Thames and the jackets in here are gorgeous, fashionable, and perfectly outrageous for every day.Thus, do you realize the last thing you need is to use the acquisition of goods in ever-increasing amounts to fill a possible void in your chest? (Go to section M.)Or do you purchase the blazer made for a rich African dictator in a single-breasted royal navy with pink stripes and matching cuffs? (Go to Timeline N)Timeline M      Wait, what? You didn't opt for the blazer? I must admit this confuses me a little bit. You've caught me unprepared. I was sort of counting on that gorgeous, single-breasted bespoke coat. You could just walk back to the Kensington and try the sportscoat on one more time with the white shirt to be sure; admire the quality of cut and perfect hand stitches before you start feeling entirely shitty about the whole decision. This will probably take a while, but okay. You're making some stubborn decisions lately. It's only a jacket.      So you keep walking down Kensington towards Mayfair. There's an old pub coming up on the right. You have never seen it and have walked these corners your whole life. You get that strange feeling you know this place well. It's dark and cold inside, and they have this antique picture frame with Queen Mother pouring a pint back in the 80s on the back wall. An acoustic sound of Eric Clapton's Layla draws your attention, and I bet it will be ideal to have a seat after that walk. You go inside. It's nearly empty. A girl is sitting at the bar with a fancy cocktail with a pineapple slice hanging off the edge, naturally, and a table with a middle-aged couple talking to each other using their foreheads nearly pushed together to overcome some terrible news. They are still dressed from work. He may have cried before entering the place. The tears don't look genuine. It's difficult to tell, and you can't stare at them.    You know they're having an affair from a look for the bartender.  This is the perfect location for that sort of escapade.      The bartender has asked you 'what will you have to wet your whistle, this evening, sir?' You order a four horsemen: A glass of Jack, Beam, Johnny, and Jose. Lined up; ready for the apocalypse. You drink it the following way: You take out the cherries the newbie thought you might enjoy and put them on the bar. You take out the tiny straws and place it on the bar as well. You down the drink in four large swallows with the ice block crashing into your face at the end.        The bartender looks at you with a bit of awe, but mostly shock and worry. You ask her for another, but mention you'd like more Johnny and less Jose. She hands you something she calls a water-back, telling you to think about your life at 8 am. "It's all about the water," she goes on about. Nevertheless, you don't need to drink this second round with the same ferocity; the initial one is working warm, and you suddenly feel a wee bit better, lighter, and a little dizzier for the walk back to Kensington.      You know what? I can tell your whiskey heart's not into this anymore as mine is at this moment. You don't need a strong whiskey buzz in the early evening in the middle of a week. The headaches aren't worth it as they were at Uni. I am not sure what to do with you now. Are you certain you don't want that new Gieves & Hawkes blazer? It is not too late; the shop is still open. Do you wish to go back and get the blazer? You don't need to pick the one, by the way. You have 4 you never wear hanging in a closet. (Go directly to Section N.) Or do you want to head off by yourself? Because I think you're not really into the game anymore and my counsel is turning into more of a hindrance than a helping hand. So I'm going to send you off to wander the pages for yourself. If you would like, you can come back at a later date and go to Timeline N. That's your last timeline in this adventure. Make sure you stop at N.Timeline NSo much disappointment, sadness, and isolation. How much effort did you misdirect attempting to fill up space? How much time did you waste sitting at home listening to old David Bowie songs, wondering where it all went wrong? Living on Mars is my guess. There are so many places where it did. You see that now, don't you? So many places.       Let me give you a bit of advice - Go in the kitchen right now (even if it's only in your mind) and fill your glass up with refreshing cool aqua. Water is so perfect for you. You can never go wrong with it. It's the stuff of life, right? Take a nice deep drink of it, but leave only half the water in the glass. There. Now that's an excellent way to wake up.      It's also the perfect way to introduce you to the life of my mate and rock pianist - Dickie Jules. You'll need the rest of that water and possibly more for his journey.This is an excerpt of An Untitled Journey with Dickie Jules, a new novel by Chazzy Patel available November 2018.

Vermeer: Master of Light

     First, I would like to apologize to those who enjoy this blog and my rambles. Also those who've been curious about why I have been M.I.A for 2 months; common question in my world. I have been away escaping a boring book tour, researching my new novel and taking personal time to revisit family and friends. Sorry for the break, but well needed. Besides that, a lot of photography and writing has kept me amused and busy. I will have scribbles I've been pondering up soon. Hope you enjoy the post on a very cherished painter - Chazzy :)We live in a world immersed with false glamour. In truth, the issue does not lie with glamour itself, but rather with the things we have as a whole consented to view as captivating and glamorous. Progress won't be found in destroying the entire thought of glamour from our lives. Preferably, what we have to do is take our appreciation and energy all the more astutely: to look upon the things which genuinely do merit prestige.       One of the significant things artists can do for us is to improve the image of glamour in the most positive – and most helpful – directions. They can distinguish things that we tend to neglect yet which, ideally, we should think about with detailed attention. What's more, by the delicacy, excellence, ability, and insight with which they depict these things, we also can come to see their actual worth. The Milkmaid, 1657-8Serving ladies – and bread and milk – were not viewed as particularly energizing in the late 1650s, when Johannes Vermeer painted it. He didn't search out a model who was profoundly appreciated by many. Instead, he invested his energy looking painstakingly at a scene which he happened to love. However, a great many people at the time would have considered this exhausting and not worth a minute's thought.       Vermeer found in the serving lady pouring milk something that he felt merited a delayed examination and reverence. He thought something genuinely fundamental was taking place. By worldly standards, it's an entirely humble circumstance. The room is a long way from lavishing and rich. Be that as it may, the care with which she works is dazzling. He is inspired by the possibility that our actual needs may be very straightforward and simple. Bread and milk are truly somewhat fulfilling. The light through the window is terrific and also reason many consider him the master of light. A plain white wall can be delightful and needed to enjoy the simplicity.       Vermeer is redistributing glamour of this period by raising the prestige of the things he portrays. What's more, he's attempting to motivate us to feel a similar way. Our Milkmaid is a sort of purposeful propaganda (or an advert) for simple joys.The Lacemaker, 1669-1671      Consider the meticulous, skillful – and commercial – business of making lace: Vermeer paints the independently employed businesswoman with the commitment and care that would, customarily, be paid to a military war hero or impressive pioneering political.        Johannes Vermeer was born in 1632 in the little and charming city of Delft, where his father was a humbly successful art merchant/innkeeper. Vermeer remained in Delft a significant portion of his life. He never voyaged far from Delft after his marriage at age 21.       Vermeer scarcely even left his charming house in Delft from the sounds of it! He and wife, Catharina, had ten children (and numerous more pregnancies). He did a lot of painting in the front rooms on the upper floor while his family enjoyed a somewhat quiet life. Vermeer was a slow painter, but not just a painter. He stayed with the family business of innkeeping and art dealing. He even became the leader of the local guild of painters. In contemporary terms, his work was not a huge success outside his hometown of Delft. He wasn't particularly popular amid his lifetime. He didn't profit much either from the art world.        He was, in fact, an exemplary individual of (back then) an essential sort of member of their society: the working middle class. He was in his teens when Holland (or the Seven Provinces) turned into an independent state – the first 'bourgeois republic' on the planet. Contrast to the semi-feudal aristocratic countries that encompassed it; Holland gave respect and political power to individuals who were not at the apex of society: to vendors, administrators, prosperous artisans, and entrepreneurs.                It was the first nation on the planet to be unmistakably modern.The Girl with the Pearl Earring, 1665An excellent insight of Christianity – which is at last separable from the encompassing theology – is that everybody's internal life is imperative, regardless of the possibility that outwardly they don't appear to be exceptionally distinguished.The contemplations and feelings of an apprentice tailor considered for much (from a spiritual perspective) as those of an Emperor or a General.       He paints The Girl with the Pearl Earring with a similar sort of thought. She isn't anyone acclaimed or important in the world's eyes. She isn't rich or famous. The pearl that she wears is pleasant, yet it is a minor trinket by the measures of the fashionable world around them. It is the one somewhat expensive thing she possesses. Yet, she does not need justice – she's not discouraged or ill-treated by the world. She is (in need of a better term) ordinary. However, apparently, in herself she is (like everybody) not at all ordinary: she is mysteriously unique and significantly herself.The Little Street, 1657-8      The painting which best sums up Vermeer's reasoning, The Little Street, has turned out to be famous amongst the most well-known masterpieces in the world of art. It has pride of place in Amsterdam's extraordinary Rijksmuseum; it's insured for half a billion euros and is the subject of a heap of scholarly articles. However, the painting is inquisitively – and distinctly – out of sync with its status. Because, above all else, it needs to demonstrate to us that the ordinary can be incredibly unique. The picture says that taking care of a simple but beautiful home, cleaning the yard, watching the kids, darning fabric – and doing these things loyally and without giving up – is life's genuine duty.       It is an anti-heroic painting: a weapon against bogus imagery of glamour. It declines to acknowledge that genuine glamour relies upon astounding accomplishments of valor or on the achievement of status. It contends that doing the modest things, that are anticipated from every one of us, is enough. The painting asks that you be similar to it: to take the attitudes it cherishes and to apply them to your life.       If a decent, good society had an establishing record of its founding, it could be this little picture. It is a focal commitment to the world's understanding of happiness.       Vermeer did not live long. He kicked the bucket in 1675, still just in his mid-forties.     Be that as it may, he had imparted a pivotal – and immensely rational – thought; quite a bit of what makes a difference to us isn't energizing, urgent, emotional or unique. The vast majority of life is brought up managing things which are routine, conventional, modest, unassuming and (frankly) a touch dull. Our way of life should concentrate on motivating us to welcome the normal, the habitual and the ordinary. The everyday masterpiece.

Casablanca

Close your eyes and think of Casablanca. To a sentimental romantic, Casablanca is a legendary place that exists in a fantasy enlivened by the 1942 film featuring Ingrid Bergman and Humphrey Bogart. Even though Casablanca was actually made on a soundstage in Hollywood, CA - it's a place that shares similar trends of this magnificent city on Africa's northwest coast.Casablanca (1942)       Thanks to the film, this Moroccan port city will always recall the black and white foggy steamships and stylish fedoras. Casa (pronounced "Caza" by locals) is author Antoine de Saint-Exupéry walking Paris-style boulevards on a stopover before Senegal. It's Edith Piaf, stayed in a lavish hotel room with her lover, the prizefighter Marcel Cerdan. Casa's Josephine Baker, softly humming "J'ai Deux Amours" at the Art Deco Rialto theater. What's more, it's Humphrey Bogart revealing to Ingrid Bergman that "the problems of three little people don't add up to a hill of beans in this crazy world. Someday you'll understand that... Here's looking at you, kid".           That glam wore off quite a while ago. With its gloriously faded concrete jungle and dusty colonial roads, this rough-edged city of almost five million feels like a fossil of past in some neighborhoods, which is precisely what makes Casa so tempting to wander around and get lost. It's unconventional air, and despairing grandeur is more reminiscent of Havana than a Hong Kong, are the different exemption to a contracting, touristy universe of online boutique hotels and postcard-style analogy.         Nowadays, the bombastic buildings paved by the French colonialists — significant Art Nouveau buildings, cool Deco town houses, collage-like Neo-Moorish castles — has made the city a monster museum for an architect lover. Under the eye of the world's tallest minaret, men and women still stroll along the palm-lined Medina in hooded djellabas and head-covering hijab.           The genuine Casablanca is regularly ignored by tourists who are inclined to visit the souks of Marrakech and Fez or the fascinating shores of Essaouira and Tangier. It is a city for visitors who jump at the chance to feel like a neighbor or old friend (Thank you always, Sophia), instead of a traveler, who needs to encounter the present as well as seek the mysteries of the past. The immensity of Casablanca, Morocco's most crowded city, implies guests need to try to find its shrouded subtle elements to experience its magic with patience. When you dig under the surface, you'll see that Casablanca's blend of coarseness and style feels a considerable like California living.        Other than friends, here are a few reason's why Casablanca is one of my favorite cities to visit.Art Break       Many of Casablanca's famous Art Deco villas have been reawakened into modern galleries, exhibitions, and museums. The city's developing contemporary art scene is an impression of the social interest of its ruler, King Mohammed VI, an energetic art collector. His ascent to the royal position in 1999 introduced a new period for art in the city and country, and in the most recent decade, his passion has roused a blooming gathering of art collectors all over Morocco. L'Atelier 21 is the best place to discover what's new in Casa's thriving scene has to offer. Dodging into a bustling spot on Rue Abou Mahassine Arrouyani, you'll locate a modern space that not only exhibits developed and well-known artists (like Zakaria Ramhani, whose famous artwork, on close assessment, end up being made out of brushstroke-like Arabic writing), but also new talent from around the country.         Additionally, endeavors to grow a blossoming system of creatives and benefactors is the vision for the near future. "Today we are offering contemporary art. This would have appeared to be impossible when we opened ten years ago," says Nadia Amor, director of gallery L’Atelier 21, “Our art scene used to be dominated by historical and orientalist paintings. The future has fantastic opportunities for Caza's art culture.”       Not minutes from L'Atelier 21 is Galerie Shart, art gallery opened by enthusiastic collector turned gallerist Hassan Sefrioui. Sefrioui opened his exhibit in 2006 to urge people, in general, to take a peek at his most loved artists work. Space additionally gives a home to Nomad organization CulturesInterface, which frequently travels Africa, Europe, and the Americas to feature North African and Mediterranean artwork.Timeless Architecture          Strolling through Casablanca is something that very few Moroccans, let alone tourists, ever do. In many ways, it's the last option behind driving luxury cars, uber, personal drivers and taxis. A place you venture on a walk only if you have reason to do so. Hey L.A, know a place like that?        Architecture lovers will nerd out on the city's various building styles, from Art Deco to drastically present day structures molding the skyline. To really comprehend the stories behind the city's incredible structures, please visit Casamémoire, a not-for-profit conservation association attempting to have parts of the city assigned as UNESCO World Heritage Sites. The Hassan II Mosque, the biggest mosque in Morocco, is a demonstration of incredible craftsmanship. It took over seven years and upwards of 10,000 artists to finish the mind boggling gem. Hassan II MosqueThe palm-lined Boulevard Mohammed V, in the core of old Casablanca, is an indication of the French impact on the city. One of the finest cases of Art Deco outline, Cinéma Rialto, located off the main drag. A restored Casa gem that would have once screened the hit film to a delightfully bemused audience in its golden years. Now only on special occasions.I wasn't so fortunate on this trip.Mahkama du Pacha, situated in the Habous neighborhood and built in the mid-1950s, is a Moroccan architecture and craftsmanship pearl. Église du Sacré-Couer, a desacralized house of prayer built in the '30s, now has concerts and art shows is a striking blend of Gothic and Art Deco style. Église Notre Dame de Lourdes erected in the '50s is an excellent case of Brutalist engineering with mesmerizing stained glass windows. Foodie Heaven         When the French hauled out of Morocco in 1956, they left a gratefulness for excellent cuisine and drink that holds on right up 'til the present day. Paris-style bistros are dug in deep into Casablanca's culinary scene, and French fixings implant top eateries that are not apparently that Gallic.         In spite of its gimmicky name, Rick's Café has turned out to be one of the city's chicest eateries and bars since its 2004 establishment. Motivated by the film, the stunning riad brings out the allure and exoticism of the city's true to life's grandness. By night, bartenders in white coats and red fezes pour mixed drinks for a sophisticated audience eating on parfait de foie gras, broil duck in mango sauce and other French-tinged claims to fame. Rick's Cafe staff         Visitors, especially film fans, can't avoid feasting at Rick's Café, on account of the excellent cuisine, as well as candle light of the sultry climate coming alive with images of Bogart, Bergman, and Sam tickling the piano in the smoke-filled venue.  American proprietor Kathy Kriger got every one of the details correct, from the mosaic-tiled floors, angled entryways to the piano man who taps out Sinatra tunes and 'As time passes by' to guests enjoying a nostalgic evening. The culinary experience was recently reinvented with joint                                                    Kathy Krigerefforts from gourmet chefs from theFour Seasons.         Patrons who book the 'Taste of Place,' in advance, get a private tour through the gin joint with Kathy Kriger after a four-course wine combined dinner that features the freshest local ingredients.          Unlike Marrakech, Casablanca has a buzzing food scene fueled by locals and expatriates. La Corniche, the city's waterfront road, fixed with umbrella-shaded bistros, chic beach clubs, and oceanfront eateries, wouldn't appear to be strange on the French Riviera or California coast.       Jaw-dropping Atlantic sunsets and stylish locals have made Le Cabestan the reservation to score on La Corniche, going back all the way to 1927, when the chic French restaurant initially opened its doors to folks. Even though the 2011 remodel has kept the restaurant relevant; the local favorite now has a rivalry from Bleuand numerous new establishments lining La Corniche.  La Corniche,Casablanca         Finally for dessert, find yourself at the crossroads of Boulevard Moulay Rachid and Boulevard d'Anfa, where you'll gaze upon Villa Zevaco. A sleek, modernist 1949 house that appears as if it was flown in from Palm Springs, has become a beautiful location of Paul, the upscale French patisserie chain. This socially buzzing playground for fashionistas and locals serves sorbets, chocolate croissants, hot chocolate and a brilliant brunch to Casa's air-kissing socialites.                                                                                                                                 Paul -Casablanca Surfing the Atlantic       There's an authentic surf culture. Casablanca's scene is reminiscent of Huntington Beach, somewhat coarse and surf-crazed. Surf schools line La Corniche, women paddle out in burkinis, and every September surf stars from around the world travel here to contend in the Quiksilver Pro surf event. The neighboring little shoreline town of Dar Bouazza feels more like Santa Monica with its upscale houses and cafe-lined streets. The talented surfers from Ain Diab Surf School will take you to take out to the best breaks. Kitesurfing is also gaining popularity along the Moroccan coast. After your surf session, stop by Kai Shapes, a new funky surf shop run by an American shaper and expat.Get lost in the old Medina        To truly understand Casablanca, you need to know the old Medina, the spot where the seed of the city fell long ago off the tourist map. The best entrance is the Marrakech gate, near the clock tower. There is no dependable plan for the place, but with a bit of aimless wandering, you may discover your way back out. For fun, put your phone away.                                                                                                             Old Medina, Casablanca                     There are carts loaded down with seasonal vegetables, mounds of olives and organic products, children playing with marbles and traditional toys; old ladies sit in doorways fanning themselves in the late-afternoon heat. There are knife sharpeners, tailors, water-merchants, goats chewing on old newspapers, piles of trash and stalls blending tea infused with fragrant mint. I met an old Saharan man who was offering magical potions from a battered dark box like an alchemist. Before I had an opportunity to open my mouth and complement his wizard beard, he opened the container and yanked out a fibrous strand of root. "Viagra from the desert," he stated, smiling. "Bite it before you go to your bedroom, and the morning your lady will be smiling very hard." I walked away fast to find another old alchemist character claiming the same root helped detox your digestive tract and gave you the shits. Don't take chances with these old wizards. Just like Hollywood, consult your doctor when purchasing boner pills.         As someone who's having a never-ending love affair with Casablanca(film and city), as I write this article, I shiver at the prospect of the considerable number of tourists and the change it will bring to this port city gem. My nervousness is propelled by selfishness obviously because I'd rather keep things how they are and have everything to myself, but this city has true magic that a Hollywood soundstage only gives a peek into Caza's brilliance.... Someday you'll understand that. Here's looking at you, kid. Who am I kidding? Nobody tops Bogart!

PRESERVING THE ART OF HIKAYAT

I had read somewhere years ago that Morocco was one of the last places in the Arab world where storytelling still existed as an art and entertainment. It was evident then that my search for a "master storyteller'" or Hikawati, would lead me to Marrakech's famous Jemaa el-Fna square, Morocco's greatest outdoors theater but to my surprise, they are all gone.  "There are no more Hikawatis left here! Presently they're all either too old or dead," said Hajj Ahmed Ezzarghani, a master storyteller, who retired from the square in 2009.        21-year-old college apprentice, Ghaly is a humble student in the Moroccan craft of storytelling and my translator. He's one of four youngsters who established a project called Cafe Clock.       Wearing a long white robe, embroidered cap, a small leather bag, and traditional Moroccan slippers, Hajj Ahmed invokes the typical style of a master storyteller from my research - a man who has committed his life to remembering and relying on hundreds of tales, commonly including honorable rulers, plotting alchemists or cunning thieves.        Before retiring, he spent decades performing in squares openly around Morocco, meandering from the clamoring urban port communities of the north to the lethargic towns and villages in the south. But it was Jemaa el-Fna where Ahmed did most of his performances before retirement.       At Cafe Clock Marrakech, a present day stage is concealed in one of the old Riads in the city's medina, tourists and locals sit hypnotized by Hajj Ahmed Ezzarghani. He is telling the story of a king who goes on a hunt and finds himself in a spot of trouble. It's a thousand-year-old Moroccan story with lessons of moral quality and equity. As he moves around his stage floor, lit by table lamps, he continually turns his attention to all the new faces with a smile. At the point when the story achieves its end, the small gathered blasts into boisterous applause. Inside only 15 minutes, Ghaly has pulled in a roomful of new fans.         This is Hikayat in 2017. A small gathering of storytellers share their work at Cafe Clock every Monday and Thursday evenings. Over some thick Arabic espresso or a camel burger (no joke and good), visitors sit riveted, finding out about the nation's oral traditions that have entertained people for centuries.         Storytelling is a fundamental piece of Moroccan culture. Stories drawn from the country's blended Berber and Arabic legacy have been passed on from master to disciple over hundreds of years. The storytellers being the watchmen and gatekeepers of this living record. Storytellers—and their audience members—are typical male. But that is changing fast in modern Morocco.Visitors to the famous square in Marrakech, the Djemaa el-Fnaa, can watch a small crowd standing enchanted around an old man recounting a story in Arabic if you are lucky. In 2001, UNESCO named the Djemaa el-Fnaa "A Masterpiece of the Oral and Intangible Heritage of Humanity" for its blend of Hikayat masters, acrobats, snake-charmers, exotic dancers, fire-eaters, and other amusement. Be that as it may, the number of Moroccan storytellers has dwindled as the traditional art confronts rivalry from TV and, now, the Internet.          When the Hikayat project started, Ghaly's gathering of yearning storytellers enrolled the assistance of Hajj Ahmed Ezzarghani, now in his eighties, who has been sharing old stories in the city of Marrakech for a significant portion of his life. Given the decay of the art form over his lifetime, Ezzarghani was shocked to find that there were Millennials inspired by this art.         “These young Moroccans told me they wanted to learn, and I said, ‘Why not?’ From that time, we have been working together to preserve the tradition.”      The apprentices meet with Ezzarghani once a week to take in his esteemed stories, and some have attempted the errand of interpreting them from Arabic into English and French. They are very eager to safeguard these old tales, yet sharing their social legacy isn't without its difficulties, particularly with regards to interpretation. "It 's hard to interpret certain social views and jokes, which are just Moroccan," Ghaly clarifies. "So we conceptualize to locate the best translations. We have the information of [other] dialects and societies, which makes it a little simpler for us."         The restoration of traditional storytelling in a tech driven era accompanies new issues. While the Hikayat project has exploited web-based social networking to advance its work, web based sharing entangles things a little bit. "When I'm playing out a story, it doesn't help if the entire group definitely knows it," says 23-year-old Malika Ben Allal, another of Hikayat's disciple storytellers.          Hikayat has gone beyond a basic apprenticeship. In under five years, the association has built up a strong notoriety for its blend of training and stimulation to the community. And Hikayat evenings at Cafe Clock are just a small piece of the pie; the storytellers also perform at public events, art festivals, and private social events. One of their classes uses storytelling in confidence-building exercises for groups and individuals.“We show people that they can do a lot for themselves, once they are inspired by these ancient stories and by the experiences of those before them,” says Malika.        Since recounting stories in public has generally been a male role, Ezzarghani's willingness to prepare both men and women is critical to the art's survival. Women customarily recounted stories just to youngsters, in private, or around their domestic realm. Lately, the Moroccan storytelling scene has turned out to be more inclusive to female storytellers. “Both men and women have always told stories [in our culture], but each one of them has had their own stage. Today that is changing,” Ahmed says. “To be working with both genders is a giant enrichment to the art of Hikayat.”        Family perceptions have also changed in recent years. There is a shared understanding and respect that the continuation of Hikayat in Moroccan culture is more vital than old social limitations about who plays out the stories.        "Our families are our greatest fans, and they support us consistently," Malika says. "For them, it's marvelous to see that somebody is focusing on this tradition."        Their noble endeavors to resuscitate Hikayat in Morocco are as live just like their mystical stories. A few more young apprentices are taking in old stories from Hajj Ahmed Ezzarghani this year, and more will follow. I hope he prevails with regards to passing the baton to these young storytellers and keep this great tradition alive.

Letter to the White House Employment Office

Dear HR Manager at White House:I'm applying for the position of Presidente de Estados Unidos. I've seen the advertising running for months now, and I conclude you've been unsuccessful in locating a suitable candidate. From my observations, the position will be open in 2018. So, I'd like to get a jumpstart. Early bird, gets the worm. And quite a clean shot of the bird gunning for your worm.I believe I've got the skills, experience, and sheer ruthlessness to be considered a "good fit" for this particular position. I'm a "results oriented" pirate well-versed in "thinking out of the box". Boxes are for bird corpses and dead baby turtles.The last few years have seen a wild “paradigm shift” from admiration of the rich to overt hostility as well as a steady erosion of the skills essential to be successful in this important position. For example, anyone can promise to build a wall, but it takes a true visionary to orient it properly so that nobody gets out and tyranny can commence. In a world full of illusion and rhetoric a person of real integrity is only road-kill on the highway of political opinion. I am not that person. Who am I? Again, Pirate. What do I mean? Please allow me to show you and present my solutions on three main problems.1) The Economy: Instead of wasting time with "Mumbo Jumbo" about lowering tax rates for select groups of people, I propose a rock solid investment in the future of U.S.: Wars of Conquest! I've been watching Game of Thrones. It's a piece of cake and more; the people seem to understand it! While inflation has been reported as flat (once you sign up for mundane factors such as food and fuel), your average consumer has seen their paycheck also remain flat. Meanwhile, the price of feeding a household of Starks has steadily arisen whenever you factor in just a little thing called serving size. And don't get me on about of what it costs to refill a fully loaded Jeep Rubicon these days!What my Wars of Conquest strategy will do is launch a series of wars on the prosperous nations around the planet and take their stuff. We give you this stuff and bring it all home just for us. Simple as that. After all, why should THEY have stuff when you don't? I pass the savings on to you, and this will lower your cost of stuff!We'll bring home my 'Labor from a Neighbor' program. Let's face it, Mexicans and Canadians have been around way too long, and they're as lazy like everyone else's neighbor. You can't get an 18-hour day's work out of an illegal alien anymore let alone the average American. Might as well make them legal so we can tax them properly. Therefore after the Wars of Conquest winds down, I propose we bring new labor from abroad and put them to work doing the mindless shit we do on a daily basis already so we can continue mindless shit.Imagine having your very own custom French girl to choose a decent wine, tidy up that wine cellar and cut your cheese; or want to go "green"? Have a Kenyan to "run down to Trader Joe's" for some tofu. And I mean run! If you'd like a Japanese nuclear engineer to do your offsprings homework, you're able to have it as easy as anyone with an Amazon prime account.My Wars of Conquest strategy won't only raise the standard of living for each American. It's going to give them more leisure time to accomplish more video game battles, more texting of what they are eating, going gaga over snapchat filters of unicorn dildos and dog ears. I am going to give our lazy bastards exactly what they want - More time! Need a programmer to hack on on those cheat codes for you? In 1-2 days, just pick one out of our human-resources catalog online, and in no time at all, he or she will arrive at your doorstep. Via Amazon drone.2) Tax Reform: The Tax Code, as we know it, is definitely an unfathomable mess of restrictive rules written in an alien legalese. A lot of people in the 50's thought that any alien invasion would involve death rays and Space ships. Even I know the old pirate tales of an invasion with a single ship packed with billionaire tycoons and attorneys seeking a tax shelter because of their vast wealth that has Galacticly subdued the United States in 1926 and used this timeline like a weapon from other planet. Their insidious weapon: selectively taxation that is so ambiguous, it's failed the system. Who knew, right?As the valuation on this chunk of rock we call Earth began to plummet in 2005, our Alien Overlords cashed out and left the American people with this massive deficit. How do I propose to raise revenue? Advertising on the Moon naturally. The Moon may be a far distance object from the planet, but a lot more visible when compared to the usual viral sex tape of any celebrity leaked for lack of someone paying attention to them some more.With a combination of HAARP technology along with Blackmagic infused relics from Water protectors in Standing Rock, ND and the alarmingly growing number of music festival promoters globally, I propose to produce images to be displayed on the face of Moon in return for advertising fees. This revenue will, in turn, eliminate the demand for the average American while fueling our infrastructure improvement, to cover any income taxes for its citizens.The foreign labor rebuilding bridges, our roads, and government jobs will be financed by ad dollars like how google runs their pony show. But Moongle dollars can only fund so much. To fund future wars of Conquest, my "Mo Wang Casino Project" will enable the government to reap in gambling losses what they never could in legitimate taxation. The government giveth and the government taketh away could be the philosophy of the future century. And the chances are 7 to 1 it'll happen. So place your bets today at moongle.com.3)  Social Engineering: The need to live in a safe bubblegum society high on only pretty people is paramount to any civilization. My solution: passive sedation. Much like any "perfect' social system, there periodically arises a conflict between the separate levels of the social order (commonly referred to as "Us" and "Them"). To get rid of the potential of disruptive social dialog and moral confusion, I propose we sedate a huge majority of "Them" so that no more than 47 % of the entire populace is awake at any one time. The optimum solution could be to sedate every one of "Them" but somebody needs to stay awake to make that Canadian to mow the grass or dress that French mime for the amusement of "Us". After all, the majority of "Us" are much too busy to accomplish our own demeaning tendancies. Let "Them" deal with it!Masses of griping "Little People" are a major distraction to "Us". Rather than permit them to kill our buzz, I will introduce an upgrade to the iPhone and google pixel that will make it possible for the surgical implantation of an immediate phone interface apparatus connected directly to their minds. They never see the needle! We will put this in their pretty little heads thru their ear. They could feel a small pinch, but a mosquito has done more damage to mankind, so relax. This is creating images directly by hallucination inducing technology because the need for screen and keyboards is going to be soon obsolete. Millions of individuals will type their inane Tweets and open their porn without a blink of an eye, let alone need hands. The ability to get into facebook or play games anytime, anywhere will overload their little brains resulting in a catatonic state.More over, we may use this populace as a power source. Keep it green! I know what you're thinking. "The average human body can only produce about 100 watts of power. That's only a light bulb; I can't recharge my i-pad or dildo with that, Mo!"True. Of course knowing that, congratulations, you're entirely too smart to be among "Them". However, with 53% of the population sedated that adds up, and our energy usage may fall to levels that were unprecedented, providing us with what we want!But, it's not entirely regarding the energy. Is it not about a little tranquility? This solution is the best way they are going to remain out of sight silently until we awaken them to running Christmas lights and coffee pots. That's if we wake them ;)I would appreciate discussing the specifics with you very soon(need to give the crew my two weeks), and I'm currently assisting Lizzie II, the Queen of Three Lions with Brexit. So there's that mess to clean up. I would like to express my continued fascination with the position of President of the United States. Please check out my curriculum vitae and I am certain you will comprehend just why I will be the best person for the task at hand. Bigly hands. I'll text a picture for reference if needed. Contact me anytime at my undisclosed location. I am looking forward to working out for you and the country!Sincerely, Mohammad WangPirata de Isla Mujeres