The bus had stopped for theonde kid chasing his dog. Good news that, for the kid and the driver of the bus. I mean who wants to run over a young boy's dog. Can you imagine the weight?Sure you could tell yourself 'it was an accident. Not my fault at all. Kid came out of nowhere' so on to the end of days. If only you had not felt the bump as the wheels on the buss went round and round on the little blond head. Sure it is impossible to have felt the skull cave. All imagination the therapist would have said but you stopped in time. Time and timing eh? So many agree as to its importance. Waits for no man and so on. The cliche music of yadda yadda, with one and all cringing at the predictable words and sentiments. We cringe and truth drips from every yadda. The driver stops the bus and gets out to make sure of his luck. Shaking he explodes on the little boy who is now crying at the close call, clutching his puppy to his bony t-shirted chest, skinny arms brown from the summer clamped with desperate love around the bag of hair he holds. Time ticks on and ten blocks down the route the drivers sister is finishing her shopping with her two kids. Both the boy and girl are close to the Uncle who drives, and would smile if they knew he escaped killing a boy and a dog or a boy or a dog or maybe just a wheelchair topped with blond hair. Their Uncle is obviously a hero. The sister shops for the last item, splurging on a bag of navel oranges, unable to resist the lovely colour and shapes in the net bag. Leaving the store she takes out one of the fruit and peels it, giving thirds out to all family members. Chewing the pulp she looks up and down the street, knowing her brother is due now, and she turns to throw the peel away in the garbage container on the street. She was raised right and does not litter. Not even organic which her husband claims will just rot and return to the 'biosphere' as he calls it. She giggles at his pomposity, smelling the wonder of citrus on her fingers. The wheels on the bus are going round and round again and the driver is making up for lost time. He prides himself on being punctual. Time is important he thinks. "IF it was not', he reasons 'why would they make schedules huh? I mean, what the fuck over? He is still tingling with adrenaline from the near miss and is thanking his God for saving him and the boy, because the driver knows himself and knows it might have ruined his life. Just the guilt alone makes him sick. The next stop is three blocks away from the family eating oranges. He should have been past the market but things happen, and don't they happen for a reason? Pulling out to make time the driver fails to let the passenger from the last stop get seated. No time to spare. This results in the older passenger doing a face plant on the walkway of the bus, screaming with fear and pain all the time. There is that time thing again. Nerves still shouting the driver spins around to see what is upsetting his world, knowing he is never going to make his scheduled time of arrival at all the next planned stops. The ambulance comes flashing and screaming noise around the corner of the big building that had hidden it till now. Doing a double take the driver swings back to the front in time to see the flashing red and the banshee skirl of trouble. Head on he thinks and swerves to the right and as he swerves the ambulance also tries to get out of the way. For a quick second the two drivers look into each other and make a final effort with the ambulance jumping onto the sidewalk in front of a market and tight into a group of one woman and two children enjoying their orange. Later the bus driver will torture himself with timing. If he had of been on schedule maybe his sister would be alive. May her children would still be walking around this beautiful world. Time and timing he thinks as he pulls the trigger on the pistol in his mouth. The blond boy grew up to be not much at all and the dog died shortly after the near death brush with the bus, only this time it was a cement truck. Timing is odd and the idea of being on time is just another illusion, but illusions can kill. Think about this next time you stop someone from doing what they want to do. Remember, there is always a bus.

Just a thing about a thing

It has been so long since writing here. I just read the last post I did and am glad I did so. I am a bit oriented on death these days. Sort of a 'waiting for the shit to hit the fan' kind of deal. Not that there has not been afair bit thrown around since last post. This is not a diary, but I grieve for the job I lost at the start of this year. I loved it. Losing it due to budget cuts so the rich can be richer has brought me as close to outright anarchy as I can imagine without weapons and if things do not pick up fairly soon I may even get there. There are so many to get rid of who no longer deserve to enjoy the planet. Not by my judgment mind you! I am not that crazy. Instead it is their actions that define them. For instance, I read a news report today about an area in some Western state where they are going to use treated sewage for snow creation in an effort to improve business. However, the local indigineous population, widely referred to as redskins, seem to consider this peak to be a holy place for them. I get it because all the peaks are kind of special, what with their trees, height, animal life....you get it. So these local locals took it to court and lost. This is the first case I know of where someone can claim that the powers are shitting on their beliefs. The actions are about money and the owners will reap profit as will to some extent the suppliers of food, beds, booze and whores as well as drug dealers. I would refer back to Reagan and his trickle down economics but the irony is obvious. Are the people arranging this sewage snow worth life? I have some ideas. What do you think?

thoughts on the sky

I am walking outside on a january day. The snow is still fresh, therefore it is white and not stained with filth. My footsteps break through the crust on the surface and sink about 6 inches, making each step a small effort. Looking up at the sky I see a mix of blues and cloud. The number of different shades of blue is not within my ability to number. The colour changes with the sun and cloud movements.
As often happens to me on these walks I feel a surge of joy mixed with gratitude. My body wants to adopt a posture of worship. Yet I am always left wondering who to say it all to. Why am I satisfied with no name for a god to thank? It is a good question for me.

For some reason or reasons men and women have named all the Gods we form relationships with. Yahweh, Jehovah, Allah are some of the biggies. Lesser Gods have marched through history, with their name often the only piece of them they leave behind. Isis, Ra, Beloch, Morrigan, Odin and many others form the list. I supopose giving god a name is a social sort of thing to do. I cannot very well go around calling god "what's your name' or other variations? That part I get, but that is about the end of what i get. The fact that so many of us say we know what god thinks is the death of spirituality for this worshipper.

"Wait wait" they say, holding a hand up to signal me there are more nuggets on the way. Not only do they know what god thinks, but they also know what he (he is a man apparently, judging by the use of pronouns when god is referenced) wants all of us to do and not to do. The muslims have Sharia. At least they are not shy or duplicitous about the subject. They come right out and say all of us need to bend our selves to Allah, and that our everyday life should be governed by the law of Islam. The judges who interpret this law will be holy men (there is that male thing again) and their sentence will be based upon the Koran which is their holy book. Chop a hand off here and stone an adulterer there and before we know it we will be in synch with Allah and his prophet Mohammed.

Then there are the Ten Commandments which represent the Judeo-Christian take on the meaning of all things. Here, God is a god. He can be our father or a mysterious being made up of a trilogy named the father the son and the holy ghost. Confession, amends, and charity co-exist with harlots, doomed homosexuals, heterosexual marriage and the indisputable claim to a few square miles of what is often called 'the holy land'. Answers to universal questions are abundant. When missing easy answers all of this lot fall back on the will of the diety and whatever that turns out to be. After all is said and done it is the winner who records history.

Over and over again I read of men and women who know gods will and have all the answers for anything to do with spiritus mundi or the spiritual world. I suspect they are full of shit. Consider this: we live on a beautiful planet that is one of many. Sort of like a grain of sand on a long beach is one of many, so let's us go with that image. We will seperate this grain of sand to stand in for Earth. It is not a reach if you really look at he Universe. I was recently impressed by the newest Hubble pictures that claim to show the oldest galaxy yet discoverd. For the light from there to reach this grain of sand takes about 13 billion light years. This means 13 billion years with the light moving at 186,000 miles per second or about six orbits around the speck of sand we call home and that is every second. To say it is a distant neighbour is to overdo undersatement.

On this speck of sand exist a number of organisms that have seen the way to all the truth of existence, and most of all when it concerns god or any of his or her aliases. They are so certain of their point of view they are willing to kill for it or to hate for it. They have developed a cute bag of tricks to justify their actions. After all, they remain human with a capacity for empathy, and need at least the intoxicant of righteousness to help get over the hurdle of compassion. Just a few examples. The Crusades, Catholic versus Protestant, Jew versus Palestinians, Palestinians versus Jews, Muslim versus non-muslim, Shiaa versus Shi'ite (both muslim), Hindu versus muslim, Protestant versus Muslim, Catholic, and everyone else, and on and on it goes. If it seems loaded to muslim it is simply a reflection of today. We have all been at it like dogs on a bone.

So I look at the sky and am full of gratitude mixed with love for this physical and spritual home of ours. Certainly in our solar system not one other place will support our life for a second. Maybe we could last a couple of minutes holding our breath on Mars but that is it. What if this is heaven? What if this beautful perfect planet is as good as anything ever gets? Imagine that the messages that count are found in the wind, the sunset or rise, a child's smile or cry. As I gaze at the blue patches and am filled with emotion am I looking at the face of God, whoever they are? Why is it even needed to put a name to all? Let me be clear about this much; when I feel grateful I am as close to spiritual as I will ever get. When I feel glad to be alive and surrounded by this beautiful home I am in a place where I am more likely to help than hurt. More likely to love than hate. More likely to take care of my home because it is greater than me but needs my stewadship.

Putting a name on god and then giving loyalty and absolute belief to all the written content of religion allows me to be a destroyer of everything that counts. I will kill, maim, rape and be carried off into rapture by the smell of blood. The majority of the named ones ask for blood while they whine around the ideas of nobility, charity and love. There is no love. Only a stupid insistence upon their thoughts and beliefs being correct. Only the ignorant intoxicated face with eyes looking up, preaching absolute faith. I say no no no. What arrogance. On this speck of sand these limited short lived critters make life for the rest of us more unpleasant and dangerous than it has to be.

The entire concept of an eight pound soup of cells called the brain understanding the sacred is so silly except 'silly ' is the wrong description for something so dangerous. We would be infinitely better off with a grateful population who worked at keeping an open mind rather than a convinced one. Being absolutely certain is proof of low intelligence, or at least I think so. I also believe that the emotion we call love is the force given to us to evolve on a spiritual plane. All of this could easily be wrong, but not completely, and it is inside our inner conflicts and our ambiguous nature where any god worth their salt could be found.

Good Shit Part 4

The following day met expectations. Fred went out to a farm somewhere around Mazar. I was not able to go due to normal precautions. I went out and got coffee, spending the day walking around town. When Fred returned he handed me a fist size piece of what he called 'golden pollen'. He was thrilled with the quality of the hash, and I gave him about half. I ended up getting around a half pound of what may have been the best hash in the world for $5. Were I to have that lump today I could sell it for thousands, but I wouldn't. I would smoke it. By myself. all alone. Giving none to no person. You get the idea.



This next paragraph is for drug lovers. This hash had nothing to do with any other smoke I had in my life. There was no stupification. There was no fog or loss of focus. I started out having to hand press it. I worked the pollen over and over in my hands. In consistency the pollen reminded me of silly putty. I could roll it between my two palms and the result would be a long thin rope, like a string of licorice, which I would ball up again and repeat. Slowly the golden colour was replaced by the darker look of all hash. This squeezing and rolling provided stress relief as well as entertainment.



Up until this time in my life the best hash I ever had was Morrocan Double O. This came in white cotton sacks for each kilo and squished when pressure was applied. The high was energizing and left no sleepiness in its wake. It was wonderful. I have smoked Nepal Temple balls, Lebanese Red, Kashmiri, Paki and other gold seal product. None of it came close. This was like a different drug.

The high was delicate, but very energized. There was a tingling of pleasure when first smoked, and it did not degrade. Instead it wore off gracefully, leaving no toxic residue. I decided on the spot to smuggle this into my friends in Oman. Apparently I was not impressed by many borders to cross including Muslim ones. I certainly woudl be more impressed today. In fact, I would be shit scared and would not do it. I do not know whether to chalk this up to lessons learned or fear. I guess it does not matter as long as it keeps my ass out of an Arabian prison.

The return to Kabul was without incident. A few stoned days later I had a plane to catch. Just to summarize here for a sec, I had a fairly substantial heroin habit, was broke and was late for my plane. In my hurry to get to the airport, I had to first find a way to carry the hash to Oman. My time in jail provided the solution. When a person knows they are about to do time, and still live outside the bars, they get all the small valuables together(usually drugs) and put them in a condom. Once in the condom you dip that package in oil and put it in another condom. At this point all that is left is to either swallow it or shove it up your fundement. Known as 'suitcasing' in Canada or 'buffing' in the States, this method has survived the years.

I blush to say but in my rush to get to the airport I tried to use shave cream to suitcase about a quarter pound of hash. It was pliable and soft but the shaving cream was not a good choice. To say it stung is an understated position. I won't even go into the position needed to insert, a favour for which the reader should be grateful.

Finally getting right I went to the Kabul airport with a change in Delhi and Bombay on my way to Muscat in Oman. I cashed in ten years luck at the airport. They were conducting searches of carry on luggage and when I tried to board the woman inspector opened my case and there lay a dirty syringe. I do not know what she thought. She obviously saw it because she gave me a look as if to say "what can you possibly be thinking"? For whatever reason she let me walk. She probably did not want the Country of Afghanistan to waste money holding a fool like me in prison.

Delhi was no problem, but in Bombay I was told my seat had been sold due to my late arrival and I had no money left for bakshish or a bribe as is known in English. I remember looking at the agent and wanting to kill him. I used my last shot of heroin and settled in to wait. Three days later I begged a ride to The Emirates on a Lufthansa flight.

Those three days were tough, I kid you not. FIrst of all I had to kick a small habit. This involved diarrhea as well as the other symptoms. I mention the shitting part because of what I had nestled away up there. Every time I went to the toilet I had to first remove a package, then replace after wiping. Needless to say, I got quite sore. I ended up taking it in and out so many times I gave the package a name and fell in love. That was a good joke at the time and I remember sitting there in the public washroom laughing at my humour. Oh well.

I ate what I could beg, and it is an odd feeling to be Caucasian and begging in India. I targeted tourists and did ok. I smoked bidis, a cheap Indian cigaret, and slept on a bench with my pack tied to my waist. The men who swept the floor were very nice to me.

FInally I begged a pilot to get me as far as Arabia and I would take it from there. I landed in the Emirates after riding in a fold down seat in the cockpit. Very cool, but I was still in withdrawal a bit which does interfere with enjoying life.

In the Emirates I was met on the tarmac (this was the early 70's) and phoned the company I worked for. They thought I was dead but told me to take a taxi the rest of the way, which worked out to about 200 miles. I did,and got back to camp. I told my co-workers that I had brought them back a treat without getting into how I carried the package. However, when they were raving about the high, I did look at all of them and told them I could not agree more. In fact I said " I know. this stuff is incredible. it is really good shit". They did not get the joke but I did.

As a last remark, I have to decline to say what name I gave the package when I fell in love.

Good Shit Part 3

What can I say about Afghanistan in the winter of 1975? A Peaceful Kingdom. That is without what the place was. Travel anywhere, and not to feel any sense of being in fear. The women often wore baby blue head to foot. The urban-men looked at us as customers who were probably nuts or why would you come at all? However, since you were here why not look at his nice AK-47 or perhaps this old Red Cross medical box that has been kept current?

Back a bit. I flew in over the snowy fields and hills that hold Kabul in its palm, as if the land is undecided as to the town’s fate. Clench or not? Clench or not? As I went into the town on a bus I was surprised at the pines. Like relatives from the West Coast of Canada. I felt optimistic right away, and that feeling never really left me for the rest of my stay.
By the time I was roomed it was dark as well as cold. A smiling man dressed in browns brought in a pail of wood and built me a fire in the airtight. His teeth gleamed in the candle light. I fell asleep to the smell of pine sap burning. I could not wait for the new day. I was 24 years old.
Chicken Street. The day was early and I was on the prowl for drugs and adventure, or so I imagined it then, and I was probably right, because when I tell this story to people whose lives have been more “at home” they always are kind enough to tell me how much they wish they had of included those times in their story. I wonder if they know how sometimes I wish I had of been “at home” a bit more.
CHICKEN STREET. This name was celebrated among all the young bandits of the West. Hippies, smokers, dealers or adventurers all knew the name of Afghanistan’s main market. Chicken Street was the archetypal soul of a small lifestyle. I was there. The day was gray and promised snow. Hungry, I looked for food. Too soon in history for Mac’s or Burger King. I spotted a sign in English that announced, “The Yoghurt Store”. Something I could relate to. I walked in and realized I was not the only Euro type in the city. A couple from Germany sat together and ignored my entrance. The other inhabitant was obviously native. He was dressed in a gray robe made of warm material. His boots were local, a form of rubber boot and leather. On his head was a black turban and he had a long beard that was not planned in any way. His eyes were gray and watching me. I smiled and he nodded back. Hunger was becoming more immediate and I sort of slid up to the counter, sort of sussing the place so I did not come across as a total doofus. I hate to look stupid in my eyes.
Despite my slick move I still could not figure how to order or even what was on offer. The guy who ran it walked over to me with the question on his face.
“All they really have Canadian, is fresh yoghurt with limited toppings and oh yes, they also have coffee that all in all is not too bad”.
I turned, looking at the man who had spoken up just in time to save a bit of cool. It was the ‘looks like Afghani but not’ who had spoken. He was smiling a tiny bit, his demeanor welcoming in some lovely way. I smiled back, feeling open to what was going to be.
“Hello”, he said with his smile opening up wide, “my name is Fred and I am a Dutchman”. His hand, held out for shaking, was long, slender and not put together for manual labor.
I smiled into his face, recognizing someone I could involve myself and my time in Afghan. I thought “this guy has to be aware of all the shit that is going down in this place and that is what I need. A guide for the Kingdom of Afghanistan”. I asked right away how he figured I was Canadian. He told me the combo of my height and carriage plus the fact Americans never came here and when they did they were never alone, plus the fact I did not look European. I just figured he smoked a lot of good hash.
How a person sees another human is going to be useful if not wonderful in their life is beyond me. I just do not have the nuts to answer those kinds of questions. I just knew. It is that simple. I knew he was not anything other than he said. He was a Dutchman who had fallen in love with a geographic space. I understood absolutely and everywhere. We were the same and a good time was in store. I wish all of you readers this blessing if you ever take the risks. It does take some of that, and does not always pay off, but when it does…
One word led to another and before you know it, he is coming to help me move into a much cheaper place where the Europeans live after they have enjoyed the country or a while. I moved in with Fred and a few other types. In the middle of the floor was a giant hubble-bubble, as they call them.
One of the major disadvantages of drugs in excess is the sameness of the days and nights. This leads to a form of forgetting. Kind of a blackout based on repetition rather than booze. Apparently the brain is too bored to record. I mention this to explain the paltry amount of info the next week or so contains. Smoking hash, inject heroin, smoke, shoot, smoke, shoot and …….
One memory does stand out. I must have drunk or ate the wrong thing. I was downtown in Embassy Row, just walking when my bowels turned to water and followed gravity to its logical end (I suppose there is a joke here somewhere, but sometime I have to resist just for the discipline).
As luck has it I am right in front of the Pakistani Consulate. I run in and tell them in a rushed and frantic gobble of English and French what is about to happen. With alacrity they took me to a door and with a sigh of relief I started undoing my belt, and then I froze. The shitter was an Eastern version. The one where you squat over a bowl and use a watering can to clean up.
I do remember that.
During the course of one night around the hubble bubble Fred mentioned that he knew where to get the best hashish in the world, and did I want to take a trip?
I was pretty deep into a small habit at this point and my answer would depend on the supply of heroin. However, that was not a big problem in Kabul and we set out for the north and a town called Mazar-i-Sarif, which is a few miles from the Soviet Union (which back then was a major player).
The trip on the bus going to Mazar was around 14 hours if I remember right. Fred and I were the only non-Afghani on the bus. The men were friendly but kept to themselves. Not once was any rudeness offered to me during my trip.
The women dressed in sky blue robes with mesh over the face and all of them were covered. Head to foot and let me tell you something about that. The silky outfit moved with every exertion the woman did. These are women who may have carried stuff on their head for years or maybe not, but they stood straight, and I have never seen a North American or Euro female move like that. The sky blue cloth rippled with life, showing lines of form and movement. Now and then a flash of dark eye apparent through the cloth. However, I did not need a guide book to tell me these men were not going to be tolerant of any person eyeballing their woman.
Leaving early we got outside town quick and climbed through the foothills of the Hindu Kush range. This is a chain of huge mountains and the title translates as “killer of Hindus” which should give potential conquers or occupiers some pause for thought. If that does not do it perhaps the long history of destroying all countries who tried to invade should do so, but apparently not. Sometimes a person has to wonder if the world has more idiots in charge than it really needs. But enough! My thought son politics are entertaining and clever to a very limited audience. Me in fact. No one else.
At about 8000 feet up we stopped for ‘chai’ which is a tea break. We did this at the front of the Salang Pass. This engineering marvel runs about two miles and was used as an ambush point a few years after my visit. Apparently the Muj or locals caught a Soviet convoy.
Anyhow, back in 1975 it was still a nice place. The tea shop had green tea or the horrid concoction with sugar and condensed milk. Taking my green tea I stepped out to the road and smoked some hash. I was caught up in the local town that had grown around the entrance.
It was cool. The homes were mainly like domes and the fences were circular. All of it was, of course, made out of the same rock the mountain was so it gave a strong impression of having popped up in place, like a mushroom.
As I watched it started to snow. The white flakes combined with early blossoms from the cherry and apple trees nearby, making for a frozen gorgeous paste that soon covered me and everything else. I stood drinking my tea, and letting this moment live in me.
We got back in the bus and arrived later in the early evening, late due to the snow. My first impression of Mazar was dominated by the famous Blue Mosque and all the white pigeons that hang out there. The other memory is of all the small horse drawn carts that were colored individually and had bells everywhere.
Fred and I ate at a café where all the men sat on platforms covered in rugs eating kebab and bread. We found a place to stay and went to sleep, excited for tomorrow, which would be a wonderful blessing for people you care for. You could say, “May tomorrow be something you keenly look forward to”. How nice.hat can I say about Afghanistan in the winter of 1975? A Peaceful Kingdom. That is without what the place was. Travel anywhere, and not to feel any sense of being in fear. The women often wore baby blue head to foot. The urban-men looked at us as customers who were probably nuts or why would you come at all? However, since you were here why not look at his nice AK-47 or perhaps this old Red Cross medical box that has been kept current?

Back a bit. I flew in over the snowy fields and hills that hold Kabul in its palm, as if the land is undecided as to the town’s fate. Clench or not? Clench or not? As I went into the town on a bus I was surprised at the pines. Like relatives from the West Coast of Canada. I felt optimistic right away, and that feeling never really left me for the rest of my stay.
By the time I was roomed it was dark as well as cold. A smiling man dressed in browns brought in a pail of wood and built me a fire in the airtight. His teeth gleamed in the candle light. I fell asleep to the smell of pine sap burning. I could not wait for the new day. I was 24 years old.
Chicken Street. The day was early and I was on the prowl for drugs and adventure, or so I imagined it then, and I was probably right, because when I tell this story to people whose lives have been more “at home” they always are kind enough to tell me how much they wish they had of included those times in their story. I wonder if they know how sometimes I wish I had of been “at home” a bit more.
CHICKEN STREET. This name was celebrated among all the young bandits of the West. Hippies, smokers, dealers or adventurers all knew the name of Afghanistan’s main market. Chicken Street was the archetypal soul of a small lifestyle. I was there. The day was gray and promised snow. Hungry, I looked for food. Too soon in history for Mac’s or Burger King. I spotted a sign in English that announced, “The Yoghurt Store”. Something I could relate to. I walked in and realized I was not the only Euro type in the city. A couple from Germany sat together and ignored my entrance. The other inhabitant was obviously native. He was dressed in a gray robe made of warm material. His boots were local, a form of rubber boot and leather. On his head was a black turban and he had a long beard that was not planned in any way. His eyes were gray and watching me. I smiled and he nodded back. Hunger was becoming more immediate and I sort of slid up to the counter, sort of sussing the place so I did not come across as a total doofus. I hate to look stupid in my eyes.
Despite my slick move I still could not figure how to order or even what was on offer. The guy who ran it walked over to me with the question on his face.
“All they really have Canadian, is fresh yoghurt with limited toppings and oh yes, they also have coffee that all in all is not too bad”.
I turned, looking at the man who had spoken up just in time to save a bit of cool. It was the ‘looks like Afghani but not’ who had spoken. He was smiling a tiny bit, his demeanor welcoming in some lovely way. I smiled back, feeling open to what was going to be.
“Hello”, he said with his smile opening up wide, “my name is Fred and I am a Dutchman”. His hand, held out for shaking, was long, slender and not put together for manual labor.
I smiled into his face, recognizing someone I could involve myself and my time in Afghan. I thought “this guy has to be aware of all the shit that is going down in this place and that is what I need. A guide for the Kingdom of Afghanistan”. I asked right away how he figured I was Canadian. He told me the combo of my height and carriage plus the fact Americans never came here and when they did they were never alone, plus the fact I did not look European. I just figured he smoked a lot of good hash.
How a person sees another human is going to be useful if not wonderful in their life is beyond me. I just do not have the nuts to answer those kinds of questions. I just knew. It is that simple. I knew he was not anything other than he said. He was a Dutchman who had fallen in love with a geographic space. I understood absolutely and everywhere. We were the same and a good time was in store. I wish all of you readers this blessing if you ever take the risks. It does take some of that, and does not always pay off, but when it does…
One word led to another and before you know it, he is coming to help me move into a much cheaper place where the Europeans live after they have enjoyed the country or a while. I moved in with Fred and a few other types. In the middle of the floor was a giant hubble-bubble, as they call them.
One of the major disadvantages of drugs in excess is the sameness of the days and nights. This leads to a form of forgetting. Kind of a blackout based on repetition rather than booze. Apparently the brain is too bored to record. I mention this to explain the paltry amount of info the next week or so contains. Smoking hash, inject heroin, smoke, shoot, smoke, shoot and …….
One memory does stand out. I must have drunk or ate the wrong thing. I was downtown in Embassy Row, just walking when my bowels turned to water and followed gravity to its logical end (I suppose there is a joke here somewhere, but sometime I have to resist just for the discipline).
As luck has it I am right in front of the Pakistani Consulate. I run in and tell them in a rushed and frantic gobble of English and French what is about to happen. With alacrity they took me to a door and with a sigh of relief I started undoing my belt, and then I froze. The shitter was an Eastern version. The one where you squat over a bowl and use a watering can to clean up.
I do remember that.
During the course of one night around the hubble bubble Fred mentioned that he knew where to get the best hashish in the world, and did I want to take a trip?
I was pretty deep into a small habit at this point and my answer would depend on the supply of heroin. However, that was not a big problem in Kabul and we set out for the north and a town called Mazar-i-Sarif, which is a few miles from the Soviet Union (which back then was a major player).
The trip on the bus going to Mazar was around 14 hours if I remember right. Fred and I were the only non-Afghani on the bus. The men were friendly but kept to themselves. Not once was any rudeness offered to me during my trip.
The women dressed in sky blue robes with mesh over the face and all of them were covered. Head to foot and let me tell you something about that. The silky outfit moved with every exertion the woman did. These are women who may have carried stuff on their head for years or maybe not, but they stood straight, and I have never seen a North American or Euro female move like that. The sky blue cloth rippled with life, showing lines of form and movement. Now and then a flash of dark eye apparent through the cloth. However, I did not need a guide book to tell me these men were not going to be tolerant of any person eyeballing their woman.
Leaving early we got outside town quick and climbed through the foothills of the Hindu Kush range. This is a chain of huge mountains and the title translates as “killer of Hindus” which should give potential conquers or occupiers some pause for thought. If that does not do it perhaps the long history of destroying all countries who tried to invade should do so, but apparently not. Sometimes a person has to wonder if the world has more idiots in charge than it really needs. But enough! My thought son politics are entertaining and clever to a very limited audience. Me in fact. No one else.
At about 8000 feet up we stopped for ‘chai’ which is a tea break. We did this at the front of the Salang Pass. This engineering marvel runs about two miles and was used as an ambush point a few years after my visit. Apparently the Muj or locals caught a Soviet convoy.
Anyhow, back in 1975 it was still a nice place. The tea shop had green tea or the horrid concoction with sugar and condensed milk. Taking my green tea I stepped out to the road and smoked some hash. I was caught up in the local town that had grown around the entrance.
It was cool. The homes were mainly like domes and the fences were circular. All of it was, of course, made out of the same rock the mountain was so it gave a strong impression of having popped up in place, like a mushroom.
As I watched it started to snow. The white flakes combined with early blossoms from the cherry and apple trees nearby, making for a frozen gorgeous paste that soon covered me and everything else. I stood drinking my tea, and letting this moment live in me.
We got back in the bus and arrived later in the early evening, late due to the snow. My first impression of Mazar was dominated by the famous Blue Mosque and all the white pigeons that hang out there. The other memory is of all the small horse drawn carts that were colored individually and had bells everywhere.
Fred and I ate at a café where all the men sat on platforms covered in rugs eating kebab and bread. We found a place to stay and went to sleep, excited for tomorrow, which would be a wonderful blessing for people you care for. You could say, “May tomorrow be something you keenly look forward to”. How nice.

That Winter into Spring thing

That Winter into Spring thing
is all about full light laid out
on sidewalks,no leaves to shade the sight.
Crossing lines, shadows of trees bare
and bright in the turnover of light

From bright to muted to rustling trees
the weather warms stone and flesh.
Spring is the thing we say,
watching open and honest Winter leave and
masqueraders move in, celebrating by dancing
around a pole named for a month of Spring

That Winter into Spring thing
where Winter runs to the north
leaving warmth and those so green
waves of new grass
then dandelions yellow as marketed butter
then tulips of all colors, and roses and blossoms and ......
an endless distracting of shades and windy carosels
courtesy of the chromatic scales

That Winter into Spring thing
trading old black and white photos of life
for technicolor extravaganzas
etched by sunlight, beach bodies and squints
as the sun at the center takes bows and applause.

Honest Winter light cut into geometric shapes
by the power and lines of birds in flight
My love and her face etched by November day
her thoughts clear and bright, no shade to hide.

None of Spring's make-up helping disguise
no rosy lipstick, no eye shadow
for the aching gaze to hide any lie
and to put away safely a life walked
and to leave my love's beautiful face lit up by God.

That Winter inito Spring thing.
Lost now the clean sniff of blue ice
and wind rushing its light feet over
forevers of snow, clacking and tinking of icy
branches mixed in among all the
harsh sounds of evergreens rubbing wood,
smeared with cold sap.

In the god light my love reads a book
and from the side this loving voyeur
takes stock and once again wonders,
wonders how and why he became the one
the man who gets to live with such beauty.
This Winter thing, this Winter thing.

Watching a reunion

Lodged on the rocky shore of a sleepy sea
my forest dips down a wooded toe
as if to see, and then to say,
that is the right temp for me.

Further on the Bay's fullness
grows out until gone
joining its watery self
to a greater power than me.

In the damp night filled with
a gurgle and splash the tree leans
and leaning out to the sea, is
amused and touched by family sounds
as the Bay joins its mother the sea
wet whispers of "mother, it's me".

The sun rise surprises the night with red
stretched through the grey night joining horizons.
The dark of before replaced
by the light of this moment
as if removed by a thief

Where does the night sky go
as the sun and moon move?
Just a temporal smugness
announced by the gloaming
and farewelled by the gloom.

On the rocky shore stands the tree
its toe still seeking some moist
from the sea, but the rest of
the plant is gone from me.