tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86792705106703599982024-02-07T16:58:21.214-08:00Nine Billion Names & Counting: Robin MorrisonMusings aimed to please, inspire, take you away from this mad world and deliver you to even crazier realms.
Now readable on multiple media layers! No extra charge for nuance or meta-tropes!
<p><i>Coppula eam, se non posit jocularum</i>
Alfred E. Newman</p>Robin Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15098768488282086396noreply@blogger.comBlogger413125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8679270510670359998.post-5970676829396432762023-11-14T04:29:00.000-08:002023-11-14T04:34:26.141-08:00The Tale of Two Lamps<p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="font-size: large;">Sir Richard Burton in the Taklamakan Desert: The Tale of Two Lamps<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>3,390 words<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="font-size: large;">The fire is bright and smokeless. Tea brews as the first flask
makes the rounds. Burton is telling one of his immaculately dubious stories:<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="font-size: large;">“No, not the Gobi, Heaven forbid. We were in the Sind, at the
border with Balochistan. It was there, a few days east of Shikapur, that I
heard the Tale of the Two Lamps.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="font-size: large;">“As I said, we were in the Sind. I'd struck luck in an old village
bard who spoke decent Farsi. He was an imposing figure although in inverse
magnitude: short, spindly, dirty; no bright gleam in his eye; no proud relic in
his visage of the ancient Alexandrian Greeks who conquered those lands
millennia before. Not even that dull burnish of sand-worn dignity one so often
finds in frail old survivors of the desert Orient.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="font-size: large;">“His majesty showed when he spoke. His voice was deep, like a
well, so that he could speak as quiet as a snake on sand yet you could
perfectly hear every word, every intonation, every articulation. When he told a
story, he acquired a devastating mystical aura. Perhaps it's not the story that
is the most remarkable I've heard, although it is as fine as any that Caliph
al-rashud transcribed. It was his telling of it that was so singular. The
Caliph would have been proud.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span>Growing impatient, </span></span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">I said, </span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">"Great Mother of Ishtar, Burtie, could you be more like this
old man and get on with the story? The story we have to endure in order to
learn how you rescued us and where you went?" </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: large;">Burton smiled sweetly, fingered his scar, reached for the flask. He swished a swig in his mouth, then spit it through his teeth into the fire, nursing a ball of flaming liquor to impressive size. He pulled another swig, swallowing it neat, then passed it on.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"> </span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: large;">"The Caliph al-rashud’s transcribers spent copious ink
describing books of fate telling a man's future to him -- books about magic
books; which is most magical? -- and in these books they tell how attempts to
evade one's fate are futile, except rarely, when by virtuous entreaty to Allah
the All-Seeing and Beneficent, a man is spared his attempt to escape the
designs of providence and allowed to pass through his own folly unscarred, and often blessed. Even so."</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="font-size: large;">He bent his head down and lowered into himself, chanting softly,
then, stopping on a held note, he looked up, and began, in an altogether
different voice:<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="font-size: large;">"I heard, o weary pilgrims, of a woman who bore male twins.
They were twain, o travelers, but one and the same. Their eyes, the tufts
of spring hair atop their matching crowns, their color of skin, even their curling
toes: the same.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="font-size: large;">"But, o sons of the desert, even more wondrous was that they
were joined together, back to back, by their bottom parts, although their
joining was only a slight flesh between their buttocks. And so they lay, back
to back, faces apart, not seeing the other except from the corner of their
eyes, their eyes unable to meet.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="font-size: large;">"Truly, no twins were ever more the same yet more apart.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="font-size: large;">"How it thrilled yet saddened their mother to see them in
swaddle! For they each could be caught in his own wonderment, looking
opposite from each other, but when she held them close to kiss, two sets of
eyes came together on hers, and she knew not which was which, because the crossing
of eyes that lets us look close upon things caused theirs to swim before her,
now one, now the other, one clear, the other fuzzy.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: large;">"She learned, their mother, a trick whereby she crossed her
eyes not together but apart, forming one set of eyes and one face, and
addressed them as one. They nursed as one, and this was how she best knew who
was whom, for Jafar was a biter and Rumiz a chewer.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: large;">"For others, they had two colors: green and red. Jafar was green; Rumiz, red. The dyer made diapers for them of red and green. Robes, turbans, pacifiers: Jafar green, Rumiz red.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="font-size: large;">"As they grew and learned to walk, the hardest ambulation was
for one to walk forward, for the other had to match his steps in reversed
lockstep. It was easier for one to flip the other on his back and go forward,
crouched, the other a bundle of firewood wiggling on his back. They learned to
tumble, their four arms and four legs pointing out to form an eight-pointed
star.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="font-size: large;">"How curious it was to hear them rolling one's way, turn
around, and see two sets of feet turn into two heads!<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="font-size: large;">"And such was their life, one over other over other over one,
a confusion of one in two. Even as they grew of age, she would have them sit
close before her, and address them as one, for with her they were so. So well
did she love them the same, so much did they feel alone together in her
presence, that they were not two brothers with one mother and two bodies in one
location, but one son with two mothers. This may be hard to understand, my
friends, but even so, even so. There was the mother they experienced as theirs,
who called them by separate names, and there were the mothers they knew up
close, rocking them together into one, singing them lullabies, telling stories
for sleep. Each forgot the other then, and she knew both as one. Allah alone
knows how this could be, the Sindkarezan only report that it was.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="font-size: large;">"They wished to do this for themselves, to see this one she
saw as them, and as they felt themselves to be. O truly, bless the prophet, no
brothers loved another as they did!<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="font-size: large;">"At age seven, they were to be circumcised. Their uncle had
versed them in the Qu'ran. Only so young, yet they already claimed Hafiz! Two
heads are better than one for learning, and they taught each other during play
what the other had forgotten.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="font-size: large;">"Where they lived was a tiny village on the edges of Islam in
those parts. Their grandfather had pioneered their settlement, bringing water
in by karez and planning the best means for growing food and sustaining the
people in life and the ways of the Prophet, peace be unto his name.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="font-size: large;">"So they journeyed to the city of Sahiwal, there to claim the
blessings of Allah and perhaps prepare to be admitted into the graces of a
mullah to study and become learned men of Islam when they were old enough to
leave their mother.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="font-size: large;">"It was their first journey. So much to see for four eyes as
one! For what the one saw, the other saw too.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="font-size: large;">"Look!", would say one, and the other would turn to see
while the other turned also. Their world ever turned on their single spindle,
wrapping itself around their knowledge like the two ends of a single turban.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="font-size: large;">"But when they reached the mosque, and went to perform their
ablutions, they could not face Mecca together. For one to honor the Prophet,
the other had no choice but to disrespect Muhammad, peace be unto his blessed
name. This could not be allowed. The sacrilege was deemed that much greater for
the brothers' miraculous hafiz at so young an age, which the mullahs tested and
found true: they both knew the Qu'ran by heart.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="font-size: large;">"But to live their lives in helpless profanity every time
they kneeled for prayers! And how should they marry! A woman cannot have two
men for husband! The mullahs held counsel among themselves.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="font-size: large;">"And so, when it was time for their circumcision, they were
separated by the sword. The band of flesh and cartilage that bound them was
severed. Allah be praised, they survived.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="font-size: large;">"But, o pilgrims, they were lost! Becoming two was as painful
on their hearts as the sword that had separated them! When they awoke from the
laudanum and saw the other before the other, brother before brother, they
howled with inconsolable grief!<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="font-size: large;">"In time they healed. They helped each other learn to walk
upright as a true son of Adam, used their intimate knowledge of the others'
body as a shadow to do exercises together that straightened their backs and
stand tall.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="font-size: large;">"When they turned ten and could leave their mother to become
students of the mullahs, they declined. They wanted only to live their lives as
men of their grandfather's village. They took up the family profession and
became diggers of karez.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="font-size: large;">Burton paused:<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="font-size: large;">"I'm boring you, I hope? Shall I skip this story and tell you
what happened to me instead?"<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="font-size: large;">"NO!!!"<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="font-size: large;">"As Allah wills it then. No one dug straighter tunnels or
wells than Jafar and Rumiz. They scarcely needed lamps underground for their
tunnels to remain straight. For this is how karez are made, o sons of man. A
well is dug, then two men dig away from each other at its bottom, laboring to
tunnel away from each other in one straight line. This is done by hanging two
lamps between them once the tunnel is long enough for this. Then one looks
behind at the two lamps to make sure they remain as one light. If they separate
even a tiny bit, the tunnel is crooked. After a time, new wells are dug at
tunnels end. Then a tunnel is dug further along the line they wish to follow,
and the two men descend and again dig away from the other, keeping the line
straight by lamps. If a tunnel is dug too far from one well, the distance
between lamps grows too great, their lights too small to hold a line in one's
eyes. More lamps can be hung, but this can only work so well, for the same
problems occurs only now with many lamps and confusion grows.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="font-size: large;">"It is great art to do this and tunnel from one new well to a
previous one. There is also a matter of keeping the tunnel sloped so the water
that is to flow through them underground from the mountains afar flows evenly,
not too fast nor too slow, hidden from the sun's drying fire.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="font-size: large;">"The two brothers were the best of the region's karezans.
They could hold a line straight with only two lamps where others needed four or
six. They were widely respected. None doubted their holiness, for hadn't they
attained hafiz at the same age as al-Shafi'i and al-Zuhri centuries before? And
whom but they did more to deliver the desert's hidden silver -- water from the
ground -- to the people of the desert? 'Where Jafar and Rumiz dig, fountains
flourish', it was said.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="font-size: large;">"No one knew that the brothers had secretly become heretics.
They spent much of their time together, hidden from others in the cooling
darkness of their tunnels as they dug, and they spoke to each other as few
would dare speak to any. Knowing the Qu'ran as they did, they discussed it at
length and concluded that the words of the Prophet were not those of Allah --
blackness befall them! -- but merely those of an extraordinary man.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="font-size: large;">"Their mosque was underground darkness lit by lamps. Above
ground, they maintained their piety; Allah may forgive but Islam does not. No
one, not even their wives, knew their blasphemy. And only their wives suspected
their other sin. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="font-size: large;">"Allah forbids us to make likenesses of His creations. Jafar
and Rumiz were such likenesses, made by Allah but, alas, finished by man. It
was deep in their tunnels that they discussed the paradox of their severing.
True, the problem of praying to Mecca had been a concern, but severing their
bodies as made by Allah had caused man to create two likenesses of each other.
A thing that Allah had made, unique unto itself, had become two twins of the
other.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="font-size: large;">'Brother', spoke Rumiz, 'we are blasphemies of each other. Is this
not so?'<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="font-size: large;">'Even so', spoke Jafar. 'The sin we committed in facing away and
toward Mecca during prayer was that of Allah's making, not ours. But making us
two where we were one...'<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="font-size: large;">'And those wise fools do not see it!'<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="font-size: large;">"And they'd laugh. Few if any can understand what liberation
was forced upon them. Man, it is written, is not free. What is written is
written. But Jafar and Rumiz, the two brothers as one, were unwritten by the
sword. Their struggle to understand this, so young, only seven, following their
early life so different than others, forced them to think with a power and
freedom few men dare attempt.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="font-size: large;">"They would laugh, and sometimes make jokes from the
scriptures, secure in their knowledge that only they, and Allah, if He was real
-- darkness be theirs alone if Allah suspend His mercy to their folly -- could
hear.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="font-size: large;">"But their wives knew something was different, for only their
wives could tell them apart as their mother could. And their wives suspected
their husbands switched roles sometimes and slept with the other. They shared a
house divided in the kitchen, and all was harmony within their home, for the
brothers loved another enough to fill the souls of their wives and children
with love overflowing.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="font-size: large;">"The brothers were neither left- nor right-handed, but
equally dexterous. They knew nothing the other didn't know: a secret between
them could not be kept.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="font-size: large;">"'Brother', one would say, 'my bottom scar burns. What are
you keeping from me?'<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="font-size: large;">"So they could not hide from the other that they yearned for
the other's wife, knowing how easy it would be for them to share wives and,
better yet, for their wives to share husbands. And so it was decided, and done,
and their marriage became one in two and two in one, just as were the brothers.
<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="font-size: large;">"The secret could not be kept. Jafar's wife, Saweena,
murmured Rumiz' name in Jafar's ear as she attained bliss, and what one brother
knew, the other did also. Soon, both wives made this mistake of whispering the
truth. The brothers came to love the other's wife in some ways more than his
own. Not more overall, but in different ways. The wives could tell. A secret
coded language grew between the wives whereby they conveyed to their spouses at
breakfast what they wished most for that night in lovemaking, and the brothers
would sleep with the wife who most wanted what the one brother preferred most
and did best with the wife who most preferred that.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="font-size: large;">"Oft times, the families lived in tents to be near the
brothers when they worked afar. During one of these times, the secret became
openly known to both wives and husbands. Nothing was said in open, but in
private, Jafar's wife said to Rumiz, as Rumiz caressed her thigh in the dark,
'O Rumiz! I fear you have lost your way in the tent. I am Saweena!'<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="font-size: large;">"And then the women truly did have two husbands, and
sometimes both at once. Their blasphemy was great -- Allah be merciful -- but
their happiness was greater, and in the desert, happiness is everything.
Especially secret happiness, for in the openness of the desert, secrets are a
happiness unto themselves, and happy secrets especially so.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="font-size: large;">"Eventually, the wives shared in some of the brothers'
heresies, such as the paradox of their being made into likenesses of each
other. To protect their happiness, and to live as they wished, they became
mostly nomads, taking on work closer to other karez systems than their own,
with the excellent excuse that who was better than them to bring the systems
together?<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="font-size: large;">"Their sons and daughters were growing old enough to share in
the work and life was good. Their children were theirs together, for who knew
whose was whose?<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="font-size: large;">"But their mother grew old and missed them, and they returned
to their village as masters of the karez, taking over from their father.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="font-size: large;">"At No Ruz, mother gave them a gift. In secret. She knew, as
all mothers must, more than she told. The gift, a mirror, was not forbidden by
Islam but was viewed with suspicion by their people, who were unsure whether
they violated the Koran or not. Its use as signals from afar was accepted, but
their use as an ornament or to gaze upon the self was questionable bordering on
blasphemy. For, as the sage says, 'Mirrors and fathers are abominable, for both
increase the number of men'.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="font-size: large;">"It was not just any mirror. It was two mirrors joined by
tiny hinges, its inner edges beveled in such a way that it could be brought
together at forty-five degrees to form a single mirror with hardly a spider's
thread of seam showing where the edges met.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="font-size: large;">"They were large enough to hold both brothers' faces, one in
each reflecting pane, as they held the mirror close enough for their breath to
fog the glass."<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="font-size: large;">Burton paused to poke at the fire, pondering that try as he might
to tell the story in English vernacular, a trace of Persian wound around his
words like arabesque calligraphy. The spirit of a story cannot be hidden, and
this story refused to be told except as he’d heard the old man tell it, even if
in another language.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="font-size: large;">"And here, Allah the all-seeing and wise, gave the brothers
up to their folly. By seeing their faces as one in the mirrors, the two
indistinguishable fathers of children of unknown paternity formed what they
remembered as children: two as one, only now they could not tell themselves
from the other, just as before their separation they could not see the other at
all. In play, they exchanged scarves and turbans, and peered into the mirror
again. It was intoxicating. May Allah show mercy on their souls.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="font-size: large;">"The next morning they went to work late, as always, for it
is always cool in the karez and the light in the tunnel is best at midday.
Lighting their lamps, they went to opposite ends and swung their picks, and
suddenly found themselves breaking through into hollow pockets, something that
happens but rarely.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>'O brother!' they called.
'I have hit a pocket. Maybe this is the treasure of Ali-baba's Cave!' It was an
old joke with them. But their voices traveled through and echoed through each
other at the same time as one and the same.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="font-size: large;">'You too?' they cried, at once. 'YES!'<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="font-size: large;">"Striking with their picks some more, they peered into the
holes they'd dug, and saw the other. They saw each other face to face, yet when
they looked behind themselves, they saw the lamps of each other, as they proved
by swinging their lamps.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="font-size: large;">"Frightened but entranced by curiosity, they continued
widening their holes but saw, as the holes widened, that their pickaxes
vanished as they crossed into the other's tunnel. Testing, they saw that the
pinkie of their finger also disappeared when intruded.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="font-size: large;">'O brother let us not finish this tunnel.' <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="font-size: large;">"But they already had. All that was left was to widen the
hole, which they did. When almost finished, they could see that the other wore
the other's color. Frightened, they embraced, and became one. Still two
personages but each personage containing both personalities.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="font-size: large;">"No one, not even their wives, believed their story, until
someone said, <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="font-size: large;">"Show us his arse! Only their scars of sundering were
different! Let us at least know which one is telling us this lie!"<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="font-size: large;">"And behold, there were no scars at all. Praise be to Allah,
Who alone knows the source of mystery and the hearts of men. inshallah
Allah."<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="font-size: large;">It was not a particularly dramatic ending, and it took awhile for
Burton's audience to realize it was over.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="font-size: large;">"Just something to ponder, gents," said Burton.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">High above, a thin veil of clouds stormed the moon like jihadi
ghosts, and the stars </span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">were hidden, </span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">like the eyes of women in those lands, from
men's eyes.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="font-size: large;"><span>(to be continued in Burton in the Taklamakan Pt. 2, The Better
Part</span><span> of Himself)</span></span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>Robin Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15098768488282086396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8679270510670359998.post-67557686112608058652023-10-16T08:06:00.004-07:002023-10-16T08:07:05.449-07:00at the edge<p><a href=" https://youtu.be/Rimcq7NlV3Y?list=RDRimcq7NlV3Y"> https://youtu.be/Rimcq7NlV3Y?list=RDRimcq7NlV3Y</a><br /></p>Robin Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15098768488282086396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8679270510670359998.post-15952581106138717442023-06-12T14:17:00.006-07:002023-06-12T14:17:44.093-07:00moerobious twist<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhoTXN_GLYm9cz0qUm9_Oy4thk5OjQ5KJ_wBBlSxWNuqrAv5-0rYSaD6zIYEZZqfg8YJQiPSrQWM6EcEo4AHEvauIC4_U0ZV2iIwNnlZ9mLLyqH5e2KPk30dYEIJiqkilAzWwfpfN-FV_BFpbLCEFpkMx-Ur4oIkLzDa2sCgn3CsTyPukDBvVEQVaeHRw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="490" data-original-width="400" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhoTXN_GLYm9cz0qUm9_Oy4thk5OjQ5KJ_wBBlSxWNuqrAv5-0rYSaD6zIYEZZqfg8YJQiPSrQWM6EcEo4AHEvauIC4_U0ZV2iIwNnlZ9mLLyqH5e2KPk30dYEIJiqkilAzWwfpfN-FV_BFpbLCEFpkMx-Ur4oIkLzDa2sCgn3CsTyPukDBvVEQVaeHRw=w327-h400" width="327" /></a></div><br /><p></p>Robin Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15098768488282086396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8679270510670359998.post-2900923231725234012023-05-24T10:03:00.003-07:002023-05-24T10:03:18.733-07:00lair of my favorite lunatic<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi76PmeJKh78EIsnbvGLRqv5BasUN7Ql38HptAbt40KXXI01aUUedX38KbzZtvJgrMbyy5_bybj09DSBmm1k4ClycgkMQDkXvgFs_0a5V4akESiqRPVj9_obExjIgZCx-bzPRPLU7SrL1Eg_3koR1GPWjmkp9rk2V1Au9v-HW27kutcmWnktt46fzpH8Q" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi76PmeJKh78EIsnbvGLRqv5BasUN7Ql38HptAbt40KXXI01aUUedX38KbzZtvJgrMbyy5_bybj09DSBmm1k4ClycgkMQDkXvgFs_0a5V4akESiqRPVj9_obExjIgZCx-bzPRPLU7SrL1Eg_3koR1GPWjmkp9rk2V1Au9v-HW27kutcmWnktt46fzpH8Q=w240-h320" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhYg8JGz83XkPliAoyzsxK7hjlXORnYJhvMNmcRJYy9mrdAtKWk5-xM0Vm5wbxIKiK-Ly4V0JZYTVNL-kWdhGwZy6cYPVZCKFA8O4vcxdXpMBG8zno9-N3-9JjmKXLyrcvTAiyRckbkHq23ALJn84LrYXCbnT8FxbX2tYmqw9FPuGq4doMF3PysQ_5WZQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhYg8JGz83XkPliAoyzsxK7hjlXORnYJhvMNmcRJYy9mrdAtKWk5-xM0Vm5wbxIKiK-Ly4V0JZYTVNL-kWdhGwZy6cYPVZCKFA8O4vcxdXpMBG8zno9-N3-9JjmKXLyrcvTAiyRckbkHq23ALJn84LrYXCbnT8FxbX2tYmqw9FPuGq4doMF3PysQ_5WZQ=w240-h320" width="240" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p>Said lunatic:<br /><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiiar-gzlPHqtQo7f8ExgmHYoRm_g9MGyQXnSoU1KqtCMPvJxKbwsh9JV5qKzisGz0ABnJojYINAu_aJ-JunIGVGSLTdbdkHdYoQ_FkPNfYk7PACS7BiYJAPomciEBBxfsBNf-vlr5w7JX9TaCSEZUGSW6JdUlvFASAt3DT_cj-b0sFVPVZ12aEl7r83g" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiiar-gzlPHqtQo7f8ExgmHYoRm_g9MGyQXnSoU1KqtCMPvJxKbwsh9JV5qKzisGz0ABnJojYINAu_aJ-JunIGVGSLTdbdkHdYoQ_FkPNfYk7PACS7BiYJAPomciEBBxfsBNf-vlr5w7JX9TaCSEZUGSW6JdUlvFASAt3DT_cj-b0sFVPVZ12aEl7r83g=w240-h320" width="240" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p>Robin Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15098768488282086396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8679270510670359998.post-85563251349274803482023-05-07T18:46:00.002-07:002023-05-07T18:49:54.146-07:00Rudolph the Red-Nosed Luck Dragon<p> </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEghGEKaDhrclKkvscW55856835AFfMPpJqS4E4qQSHT81FxyqZn_j5_gpcwAfiMWAqynsHi1UTJF8lcja5GfR93gzCY9rjBLQSeWENGVmdgvrnt8wacSn1LeJXiNZ2m--KXn5D8xPwdyQ50JWc5R2ZBFXBnF60QxeLwqkFoQ7L6ouKJdS3eOt0KgzN9dQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEghGEKaDhrclKkvscW55856835AFfMPpJqS4E4qQSHT81FxyqZn_j5_gpcwAfiMWAqynsHi1UTJF8lcja5GfR93gzCY9rjBLQSeWENGVmdgvrnt8wacSn1LeJXiNZ2m--KXn5D8xPwdyQ50JWc5R2ZBFXBnF60QxeLwqkFoQ7L6ouKJdS3eOt0KgzN9dQ=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgUjpKIFsrFicGZoCnZxd3GXnAYlR-fpegW8Swd9-q6G9VIDbh32lVT0QyokbcX2JzjcYg-23LsA0T8F-QvmUexG_UPQjNBcPu1Of4wuMOg_Ka-QCLCcSbPPXlYAsVw5zm1PZOi3VlePbzCogec-fOYVutftvD1ebogbiFzWXL0aFRgyPFm90H2m_Oqlw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgUjpKIFsrFicGZoCnZxd3GXnAYlR-fpegW8Swd9-q6G9VIDbh32lVT0QyokbcX2JzjcYg-23LsA0T8F-QvmUexG_UPQjNBcPu1Of4wuMOg_Ka-QCLCcSbPPXlYAsVw5zm1PZOi3VlePbzCogec-fOYVutftvD1ebogbiFzWXL0aFRgyPFm90H2m_Oqlw=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></div><br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjF_qKjo8JNHG0rWZztVKutt6Wn9E_AOsoGNKxIjGLDE8t_oevCaEEZKQF4XNpRV6hUBamIczpBT7rXixPJTZX3Q22cC5-3TKa1vPKgjCSlBTxdH4YRyq783kB8392mOArjwv0Fn_qOZP93k5q-LcJgnYCcFyIZvqM1GpTkqaWd5TQj3PwWMqWXDAnwIQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjF_qKjo8JNHG0rWZztVKutt6Wn9E_AOsoGNKxIjGLDE8t_oevCaEEZKQF4XNpRV6hUBamIczpBT7rXixPJTZX3Q22cC5-3TKa1vPKgjCSlBTxdH4YRyq783kB8392mOArjwv0Fn_qOZP93k5q-LcJgnYCcFyIZvqM1GpTkqaWd5TQj3PwWMqWXDAnwIQ=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></div><br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEip5uvcciYG19Bevy_hfHUgHREVsOfifGO-UZ29zSbpPmfSA52T5KJSki56cIWJJLwsNhSkymak44OEPfXc1217dV8CWnDvkG0eDwB3tZdlHgA2M77amxPzR8kJekdoQHV7EKtgP87fwoQ984cqt_prLEvU2b6OYiHXZM7xqLedSXpcxDF0mbtBy-_YVQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEip5uvcciYG19Bevy_hfHUgHREVsOfifGO-UZ29zSbpPmfSA52T5KJSki56cIWJJLwsNhSkymak44OEPfXc1217dV8CWnDvkG0eDwB3tZdlHgA2M77amxPzR8kJekdoQHV7EKtgP87fwoQ984cqt_prLEvU2b6OYiHXZM7xqLedSXpcxDF0mbtBy-_YVQ=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p>Robin Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15098768488282086396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8679270510670359998.post-59680421171039028862023-05-05T19:26:00.004-07:002023-05-05T19:26:33.690-07:00king kong<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEisTUi64J1DFEB0cNyyMmTK3fSuVRfFvpHC8heYZ1r6oEy4t659rNXUr180Vy1rbLGciqMXxpu7FULOSUzf86DJfGbsrXszBs4OfhHjd2Ytbh_psKsL__MlE65Kp-CxzpGbatdJkmROVYUMQseJJoqRR497a4-E5DRDwpS76-ntHw1i31rY4PHL6wolqw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="404" data-original-width="720" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEisTUi64J1DFEB0cNyyMmTK3fSuVRfFvpHC8heYZ1r6oEy4t659rNXUr180Vy1rbLGciqMXxpu7FULOSUzf86DJfGbsrXszBs4OfhHjd2Ytbh_psKsL__MlE65Kp-CxzpGbatdJkmROVYUMQseJJoqRR497a4-E5DRDwpS76-ntHw1i31rY4PHL6wolqw=w400-h225" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p>Robin Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15098768488282086396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8679270510670359998.post-86336092158405258132023-02-25T14:13:00.002-08:002023-02-25T14:43:14.988-08:00Winter<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxXXNrVIxsfVU5snnIaTmwU9ACfICVXd4r9nyxDXPk2zV1joJFutq0YL2Vcexw9UnPiPZ3QgZHIqv0qC7O9SQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br /><br /></div><br /><br /><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dy42KjlgaIjzXwskaYf65dki-cthka6OeQVq1FeX-72MPNjox310iVJuE9m-C5xN2Qr2SZPFKI-vUDMim7JJw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgvaq-OXyltFIxkJLqUz1eEk7sxwPwez8kxoZlFMnsuTOxW7V9TP8-nKB8Aj3135iOgQ6U7v6z_hAW4piHzJ__PjpDo8-NpGUQzf6goEgYga0bztEpfBljN7uxcGj-Q0lLSePWp8Ns4dPhrRrCrB92lM-CFjN8qgd0r94nZRBIz6JHpAMixFLeTTjiqLQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgvaq-OXyltFIxkJLqUz1eEk7sxwPwez8kxoZlFMnsuTOxW7V9TP8-nKB8Aj3135iOgQ6U7v6z_hAW4piHzJ__PjpDo8-NpGUQzf6goEgYga0bztEpfBljN7uxcGj-Q0lLSePWp8Ns4dPhrRrCrB92lM-CFjN8qgd0r94nZRBIz6JHpAMixFLeTTjiqLQ" width="180" /></a></div><br /><br /></div><br /><br /><p></p>Robin Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15098768488282086396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8679270510670359998.post-55008926825641572042023-02-12T12:48:00.003-08:002023-02-12T12:49:29.086-08:00Kelly's evil twin Lael Brainard / Federal Reserve<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjgP1ERxPiHpC4R6slf7C78ta_XOwXagYDD31IhFV2AzqhEwy-CcHdGOC--9ZffI0j7Tl_RGcSRli_9A4wiQfOuyVCjeEP2AL1BGkiWzqAJiLe2PpyOqKuAAzy-G4CSvIej2K0GIHqOIh32xD7BiNRBKGmmirYoGD1E5ShPJ2J-As7midmVqY2k9XRpjg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1279" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjgP1ERxPiHpC4R6slf7C78ta_XOwXagYDD31IhFV2AzqhEwy-CcHdGOC--9ZffI0j7Tl_RGcSRli_9A4wiQfOuyVCjeEP2AL1BGkiWzqAJiLe2PpyOqKuAAzy-G4CSvIej2K0GIHqOIh32xD7BiNRBKGmmirYoGD1E5ShPJ2J-As7midmVqY2k9XRpjg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj1qaYeK4oj_gDFC0go8fEyJizF-tmIhaG0WCMnZ-axpLfiGvm9LaaYXvev7VQa2_pQORnD4BG5Mmsv6ka6bT8Cp_6IxqLVN0JxBY3C1MJ6snLWvxFqma7owajAmtBpWnxO9CsdSfCEOTRCyO4Dh4zaaQBElNVo1ECovCWW5Ya9Jhu24fAGqerffBQdAQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="452" data-original-width="680" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj1qaYeK4oj_gDFC0go8fEyJizF-tmIhaG0WCMnZ-axpLfiGvm9LaaYXvev7VQa2_pQORnD4BG5Mmsv6ka6bT8Cp_6IxqLVN0JxBY3C1MJ6snLWvxFqma7owajAmtBpWnxO9CsdSfCEOTRCyO4Dh4zaaQBElNVo1ECovCWW5Ya9Jhu24fAGqerffBQdAQ" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /></div><br /><br /><p></p>Robin Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15098768488282086396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8679270510670359998.post-161544272588285362023-02-12T12:46:00.001-08:002023-02-12T12:46:08.773-08:00Kelly's Critters<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEit4wDlCWlVZgG0V5x9DE_x6zK0Vie8---zVoPzCltpD7Eus-SSOTGzXLVxp3DKIpAkG4Vc4bLkKe0wc0bSr_Bpeup-hi3j9qcCI8ifi_6C8H-hVWE_t57vyp12CksZ_nz6aqCn8QqrPpvPAL7N1gXr8ULtqroksZ5mb9ELqA6NW1GwHoYfxLHWdkwMBA" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEit4wDlCWlVZgG0V5x9DE_x6zK0Vie8---zVoPzCltpD7Eus-SSOTGzXLVxp3DKIpAkG4Vc4bLkKe0wc0bSr_Bpeup-hi3j9qcCI8ifi_6C8H-hVWE_t57vyp12CksZ_nz6aqCn8QqrPpvPAL7N1gXr8ULtqroksZ5mb9ELqA6NW1GwHoYfxLHWdkwMBA" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dz4l0Pd55qTsmV156o4x_CEJ8fq3-hNZF77sF_CMOIR-hwi6H-Y0vGUQAUIKWLgldWLnk0k99cLcWO-IiwTDw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br /><br /><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><object class="BLOG_video_class" contentid="" height="266" id="BLOG_video-" width="320"></object></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg1gCZmaPBi7iH3pvfujBMkxvQrTNYDOqvtSVJfR2OEzUiNes1fQTcByikX-O-8FZEnIKmA5QtegMPsPzAARELFDuUDE5D4mqYcYM_bemXNL1PnFLKQTjoo5OaRaTT4MpgLBM7GfOlmEHDb7jQUVm19tjsjQpFEENRwaN1vE5Axz8x4OgIjfmQoLq5Dzg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg1gCZmaPBi7iH3pvfujBMkxvQrTNYDOqvtSVJfR2OEzUiNes1fQTcByikX-O-8FZEnIKmA5QtegMPsPzAARELFDuUDE5D4mqYcYM_bemXNL1PnFLKQTjoo5OaRaTT4MpgLBM7GfOlmEHDb7jQUVm19tjsjQpFEENRwaN1vE5Axz8x4OgIjfmQoLq5Dzg" width="180" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwoCq2RSkSH86rgmE9lOmfCzsLxyZJv5XuD1hZX_XtP7k0J9PO8V9RBaJsHFO5IUjuFPTza3wHgnl-T4WGr_Q' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br /><br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgqqDEfaztvZXNyicHgde-mRKKUQ115btu4yRrsKe1q85jfKE9l3U5dbBfuHqyYqCcVH3FdyoMOXtFKldf4Q-LeiGQoLeDK3EagIB55uMaw5UVgD7I94PBYJSUHI7qC0lALv18pEZ-qUIf2E0S2QBe51J7VOrSvwsNm1l9x-DVJc4QpML6WvsKb3MFH3g" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgqqDEfaztvZXNyicHgde-mRKKUQ115btu4yRrsKe1q85jfKE9l3U5dbBfuHqyYqCcVH3FdyoMOXtFKldf4Q-LeiGQoLeDK3EagIB55uMaw5UVgD7I94PBYJSUHI7qC0lALv18pEZ-qUIf2E0S2QBe51J7VOrSvwsNm1l9x-DVJc4QpML6WvsKb3MFH3g" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><br /><p></p>Robin Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15098768488282086396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8679270510670359998.post-30571242438053019772023-02-11T06:36:00.004-08:002023-02-11T06:36:56.078-08:00light and ladies<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiIn2GRWaivzO-nY4blV11Wo84tYYqx-GC6ZUsCt3s-Ha6hn-cdF0IkWRiSiiib8-F7QL_DElvV6fFvvK3DX74QlJqSPWT2xfQmNxiDpdG-1YiJweLnMC9ytUx2kvLhhHrecGe43hmU0WdzpaMfEQ8vrRp8FfQMtjFrggmz2t0DsEnJfC1UmGeS8DIDwQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1081" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiIn2GRWaivzO-nY4blV11Wo84tYYqx-GC6ZUsCt3s-Ha6hn-cdF0IkWRiSiiib8-F7QL_DElvV6fFvvK3DX74QlJqSPWT2xfQmNxiDpdG-1YiJweLnMC9ytUx2kvLhhHrecGe43hmU0WdzpaMfEQ8vrRp8FfQMtjFrggmz2t0DsEnJfC1UmGeS8DIDwQ=w400-h400" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p>Robin Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15098768488282086396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8679270510670359998.post-10581929039118630942023-01-08T14:16:00.002-08:002023-01-08T14:16:11.068-08:00Man Awaits His Fate<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEia_9HFBOtKit3BmtTav7-HAaeHaonZnJDL9gZinePjXHiFnJZYIhfnj7wDYFMYQydsjLl7NQDBTN4-npCqoQkRPUF1UJbHEEaMzWxbhLFMjTytpvXJYb8Sp7W0RRnFiHyp-zhHu3e7EnURnp5L9wQ--nrZCluAEsHya12BcHu_JdWc3bDYDiRW5WB1sA" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEia_9HFBOtKit3BmtTav7-HAaeHaonZnJDL9gZinePjXHiFnJZYIhfnj7wDYFMYQydsjLl7NQDBTN4-npCqoQkRPUF1UJbHEEaMzWxbhLFMjTytpvXJYb8Sp7W0RRnFiHyp-zhHu3e7EnURnp5L9wQ--nrZCluAEsHya12BcHu_JdWc3bDYDiRW5WB1sA=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p></p>Robin Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15098768488282086396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8679270510670359998.post-59302073575671353992023-01-08T04:11:00.003-08:002023-01-08T04:11:35.658-08:00trees<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgds2M2fHJIa4JCnUTDktzgVzRhXZnxqTFKBkuIOIxoeewJj_0gpFn8JbvtuE4oNDRGUl1fDsDPCZSBloRnnoQgXzme0tLBYf9t0AsqVLk94SxMOLwEeUlO4Xf1GZVIK55RrUdYb3CZN41IiwuzY9X1bJfGSmf8u-C9oCIQkmg0crChXSa1tiG-4DmJ-g" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgds2M2fHJIa4JCnUTDktzgVzRhXZnxqTFKBkuIOIxoeewJj_0gpFn8JbvtuE4oNDRGUl1fDsDPCZSBloRnnoQgXzme0tLBYf9t0AsqVLk94SxMOLwEeUlO4Xf1GZVIK55RrUdYb3CZN41IiwuzY9X1bJfGSmf8u-C9oCIQkmg0crChXSa1tiG-4DmJ-g=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p></p>Robin Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15098768488282086396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8679270510670359998.post-30638869356284276002023-01-06T15:08:00.006-08:002023-01-06T15:08:40.367-08:00Me and Richilieu<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dz_KvGmr53gwA5C33K7azvTiqrS10muLRVB76StJ88-Ah_c1x0adMMZWPBvHaScDpmeLD1gV5G1tVTMy7GG0Q' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br /><p></p>Robin Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15098768488282086396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8679270510670359998.post-66382151884313077152023-01-06T03:36:00.001-08:002023-01-06T03:36:09.928-08:00A Fish Out of Water<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;">A Fish out
of Water 2,630 words<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Philistine's
face, magnified through the fishbowl, is a feline smear of black fur and enormous
green eyes. The goldfish blithely swims across his face of doom like those fish
that swim among a predator's cavernous teeth, living toothpicks surviving on
the dental remains of less fortunate fellows. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The cat
never tries to get the fish but spends, daily, an almost dutiful amount of time
absorbed in observation, his green lunar crescents reflecting fluid gold as
they track the goldfish and its flickering aurora of amber fins.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Philistine
watches the fish; I watch Philistine; the television, sound off, watches us. I
use TV on mute to get ideas. Call it the Ouija Channel. Talking heads mouthing
dead air can trigger the mind to fill the vocal void. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;">We
schizophrenics are like that. The way that we form a whole, coherent world is
by balancing the voices in our head with the voices out there, using
antipsychotic medication the way a soundman uses a mixing board to blend drums
with bass. Too much medication and the voices are gone but so are your car
keys. Too little medication and the voices return but without conviction, as if
they doubt that they're real, and for a schizophrenic to wonder if he's hearing
real vocal hallucinations or false vocal hallucinations or pretend vocal
hallucinations or imagined vocal hallucinations....is more disturbing than the
voices themselves.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;">In between
too much and too little is a sweet spot. Just right and you can talk to
yourself like a normal person enjoying an uninterrupted conversation. I lean
toward less medication for a low murmur of voices that rarely insist on being
heard but that can be highly informative when encouraged to speak up. The brain
shivers, like someone clearing their throat, a mental ghost stamps its foot,
and speaks my mind.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Yesterday,
for example, on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ELLEN</i>, a rising young
movie star with a French name described the love between his Irish setters and
how they (the setters) wanted to adopt since they'd been neutered. Ellen didn't
seem at all shocked other than being unable to speak despite moving her lips.
You get the idea.<br />
<br />
Me, I got a concept for a cartoon series, The Setter Family, where dogs are the
"people" and people are the "pets".<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;">It keeps me
on my toes, looking for that point where the voices speak up and take liberties
with reality; it also pays the bills. The pay scale for cartoon screenplays is
refreshingly proportional to their quality, and the voices can be very
inspiring if I can eavesdrop on them without being too obvious. Cartoons (and
kids) live on the edge of insanity. If I can catch my mind as its just
beginning to take leave of reality, I can pull it back before it jumps the
ledge of the window that it's just opened, and then we share the enlightening
view, me and my mind watching itself perform tricks.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;">But I can't
actually watch cartoons. They're too crazy. I barely have time to shatter the
window before leaping the ledge. From there it's either Superman or Dante's
Inferno, and neither are healthy. The former puts me in jail, the latter in a
psych ward. Now that she's gone, I can't afford either: who would feed
Philistine while I was in custody? Not to mention my extreme distaste for being
tazed. You can taste the voltage. It's like powdered tinfoil.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;">***<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;">It's a
miracle she stayed as long as she did. We almost saw two Christmases together.
In between, summer weather made it easier for her to spend time away from me,
and time away was a crucial component of our life together. She's a nature girl
born to ride a bicycle, and when she'd come home from a long ride she'd be so
endorphinated that she could handle my evening babble without too much trouble.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Winter
weather strained things. Hot cocoa, and silence or Mozart, were what she
needed, not my psychobabble; but if I upped my meds enough to remain silent I
couldn't hold up my end of a meaningful conversation much less an erection.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;">We're still
friends but that's boy-in-a-bubble land. Writing notes through a two-way
mirror. She lives with me now in the empty space of a pair of shoes in a closet
full of the ventriloquist dummies I've collected over two decades. They're a
pair of wood-and-leather clogs, and I can still see the pink wrinkles of her
heels when I look at them. I don't have a foot fetish but there's something
about the feet of a beloved... magic tootsies... look at those copper-coated
baby booties our grandparents made of our parent's first shoes. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;">She'd worn
boots against the weather when she walked out on me, but I see in memory her
clog-shod heels smacking the hallway carpet as I stood in the doorway watching
her go.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;">She left the
fish behind. It's name is Satie, and I think Philistine is in love with its
beautiful organism and innocent eyes. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;">***<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;">What first
drew me to her was her penchant for philosophical double-talk. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"Life
takes forever to unwrap," she'd said early in our dating phase. "It
isn't fully revealed until we're wrapped in a burial shroud. Closure opens the
unknown."<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Deep
philosophy like that can excite me so much that I'm literally foaming at the
mouth. At my peak, I can say so many words so fast that I literally don't make
a lick of sense. I know because she recorded one of my rants and played it for
me over next morning's coffee. It was both humbling and glorious: not many
people can talk nonstop for five minutes and not utter one complete coherent sentence.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;">But she had
a way of talking that soothed the wizards inside my head into relative calm,
like she was Buddha and they were lucky limbs of the banyan tree in whose shade
legend says He first realized enlightenment.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;">It was,
ironically, my ability to listen to her go on at length that so impressed her.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"Most
people don't like this stuff," she'd said. "If I had a dollar for
every time someone said 'that's too deep for me'..."<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I'd up my
meds on those first dates so my voices and I could keep my mouth shut, letting
me listen to her with properly rapt devotion. I was very much for her falling
in love with me and was prepared to be that person even if I wasn't.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;">It worked.
It helped that she was on the outs with her roommates and loved my fortress of
solitude with its TV always on but silent. How manipulative is it that I didn't
tell her about my mental condition until we'd crawled into bed after moving her
stuff into my apartment? Three bicycles and seven boxes aren't all that much
stuff but their inertia helped her accept the news, I'm sure.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;">For awhile,
I got a lot of work done. She'd go to her espresso job, I'd watch silent TV
until it pronounced just the right absurdity for a cartoon about a talking
bellybutton, I'd take my meds just in time and just enough to be gracious and
attentive without drooling when she got home, and love lay in our basket like a
happy heap of fruit.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I kept my
hands busy, for idle hands are the schizoidevil's workshop just as idle lips
are the devil's mouthpiece, but the voices would find their way out through my
fingers and I would become a sign language interpreter for the inner deaf,
something that the psych meds worsened, since at higher doses they trigger
Tardive Dyskinesia. Even though TD is mostly about the lower face, not the
hands, the fact that my mouth moved more and more in silent muttering while my
hands worked out intricate debates with each other, finger-pointing premises
and gnarling each other in discursive knots, only made the voices that more
visible if not yet audible to her.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I knitted,
and drew, and hummed songs under my breath to camouflage the truth. But the
scarves I knitted were Mobius strips, I drew endless crow flocks of v's, and
the songs grew louder. By the second week she'd had her first meeting with the
voices.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;">It wasn't
too bad. They're entertaining at first. Sort of like stand-up comedy but with
the tape oddly spliced. Eventually, several tapes are running at once and not
only don't I make any sense but the frustration comes out. It sounds angry and
frightens people although I am emphatically harmless. I don't have a paranoiac
bone in my body, because despite being schizophrenic I am frightfully sane. I
know the voices in my heads are just hallucinations. I know that I'm not really
Superman or The Pious Penitent. But my voices think they're the real deal, and
it frightens people to hear Superman gripe about all the kryptonite in the
water that keeps him from flying or stopping bullets with his hands.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Worse than
the anger is the wretched self-pity that takes over as I grow exhausted several
days into a peak cycle. The Pious Penitent is embarrassingly pathetic, and
eventually gives way to St. Sorryworm, who makes people fear I'll take my life
when actually I'm almost exultant because his presence means the worst is
almost over and I'll be normal in maybe two days.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;">But she took
it all in with remarkable understanding and, oh, the love. It helped. It really
helped. Her love gave me so much strength that I was able to leap small doses
with a single bound, stop derailed trains of thought before they went over the
cliff, and I could always sedate my sorry self senseless during the worst parts
while she looked after things. I'd come out from half a week of stuporous 18-hours-a-day
sleep fresh and full of charm. For about ten days a month I was, she said, the
most delightful, funny, perceptive, caring soul. But for another ten days I was
a nonstop monologue.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><br />
The fatal flaw was that she took credit for helping me stay in the Zone of
Normality for those ten days or so, and while for the most part she was right,
it is not healthy for a sane person to believe they're the cure for a lunatic.
Ever wonder how otherwise caring psychiatrists could ruin so many lives with
electroconvulsive therapy and, back in the days of Freud, incessant voyeurist
forays into a patient's imaginary sex life?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Hubris.
Pride. Once a person has tasted the power of healing, they're like Jesus
starting up a fish'n'loaves franchise. They carry the whole world on their
heady little shoulders, and after a while, it cracks. Insanity is infectious,
leaves its shadow in the same way that swim suits make tan lines from too much
exposure to the sun -- which was brilliant the day she left me.<br />
<br />
Two days day before that, Black Friday, winter had pounced on Spokane like a
consumerist curse on credit card greed. Snow bansheed all morning until late
afternoon. The horizon cleared just in time for a brief hopeful sunset glow
before leaving night entirely naked, shivering under stars locked in black ice
like snow flakes on a frozen pond, and the temperature dropped close enough to
zero you could count it on one mitten. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Next morning
brought more clouds and more snow, and it would've been great fun in a winter
wonderland if the windchill weren't 21 below.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I'd taken to
going into the laundry room and yakking at the dryers full of tumbling clothes.
It gave her a break but made my reappearance all the more confirmation of the
simple truth: I was driving her nuts.<br />
<br />
I offered to leave, go hang out at Starbucks, but she said I was likely to get
into trouble, and she was right. Wild weather, anything extreme, makes me worse
and the cops less patient. A wild man seems all the wilder for stomping into
Starbucks with a snowstorm behind him.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;">She left
instead, laptop in an arctic backpack. But she didn't really want to sip an
over-priced latte and socially network or whatever it is we do online these
days. She wanted to be home, if not with me, at least with Philistine and
Satie, doing yoga.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"There
ain't room enough in this clown for the both of us," I'd joked when she
returned, weary, patient, and tense.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The next day
the weather turned inside out. A warm Chinook wind churned blue sky and crazy
clouds to a tropical 46 degrees, and the world melted faster than a Hollywood
set change. Both of us were buoyed up, ebullient, I was quiet without being
chained, enthralled relatively speechless, and we walked outside holding hands,
dressed for rain (the gutters rained beaded curtains of sunlight), bought
rainbow trout from Safeway's on a whim, and took the long way home, the wind
whiffling about like invisible dogs wanting to play. She talked at fascinating
length about how the sun was so bright that it was invisible, how even if you
stared directly at it, fearless of going blind, it would obscure itself in a
second behind a blob of greenish glare, how the stars at night are more visible
to us, so many light-leagues away, than they are to the residents of their
orbiting planets, for we can look at them all night without going blind.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I listened
like a priest on morphine, soaking in her verbiage like a fish brought home
from the aquarium shop and let loose in its new, more ample microcosm.<br />
<br />
I told her that being with her was like being a fish in water, and her eyes
lacquered, limpid with love despite already being tearful from the rasping
wind.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;">We made love
as soon as we got home. I battered the trout and fried them as she bathed. We
ate, Philistine enjoying a platter on the floor, Satie in the other room,
protected from the horror of us eating fish.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"Being
in love is crazy enough," she'd said, quietly, looking down at her plate.
"Keeping you from crazy. It's driving me nuts... insane. I'm scared for my
sanity."<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;">There was
absolutely nothing I could say. Inside, I could hear my selves gnawing the
truth like rabid puppies with new chew toys, but I held my tongue.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;">She was
moving in with her Mom. Her cousin would come over and pack up her stuff. She loved
me. Like a... like... she loved me. It was impossibly cruel, she said, and that
was all she could manage to get out before the tears took over. She put on her
boots and coat. She hesitated at the door, and looked at me with that courage
people find when they must face the facts, and I saw in her eyes what a lonely
life I had ahead of me, and how I should save the past year in some clean safe
place in my mind.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;">"Philistine
will miss you," I said, unable to utter how I felt without melting. She
left, I got up, watched her walk the hallway toward the stairs, and her snow
boots were clogs on a spring day and she was just going for a ride and would be
home in two hours. I held that thought until I was sure she couldn't hear me,
then let loose.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 200%;">It finally
dawned on me today that Philistine is lonely. He and I are very close but human
company is so... human. He wants a companion that doesn't talk all the time.
It's time I started collecting cats.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Robin Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15098768488282086396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8679270510670359998.post-1349125534217189712023-01-05T04:11:00.002-08:002023-01-05T04:11:05.566-08:00Merry Be<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxGplRtOCuO8qCACmUKhYeUMjQwY3h0ix_wSsa6zmtLB49qURdUxsB0S78Co2ghDAwtaze8_8O8BbFeaYM6qQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br /><p></p>Robin Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15098768488282086396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8679270510670359998.post-19392843538211779022022-12-25T13:16:00.003-08:002022-12-25T13:16:25.695-08:00power off, candles on<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhpUpQlP25AMVhV4Fi-wLlJ9DKbGw8v3ltxTQzhrqJ94iqDZFfAesw51C8LKSRBQqFsct42snKlOMDs2__ruGfLH69VawEC0amPhQsQYrPKfryLS-2NPgFZ0dq_4QWCe6Rhqf7iD4XRuEjO9yl2ZJcyEMdUEXwiD9hpjDn3Cu2G_hAYkePVPsDtj3MKnQ" style="margin-left: 1em; 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text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh49wT06xVRZaEn1bwl5pm0HyCARvpO8SBCXAA6XsCewAgdEl0bz5iHXCIoakKTGoj6G94FrbR-njLDXsbN9uMkRnLwijRRvYgr4a1SRFa5uP-lGvqdfbpcxWl6blh8ErYDAYV8ellii7hzA0b46HAiIjtM8OqNixUj6Ds84Tn7vZnHBWTbLFZELc4apQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="576" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh49wT06xVRZaEn1bwl5pm0HyCARvpO8SBCXAA6XsCewAgdEl0bz5iHXCIoakKTGoj6G94FrbR-njLDXsbN9uMkRnLwijRRvYgr4a1SRFa5uP-lGvqdfbpcxWl6blh8ErYDAYV8ellii7hzA0b46HAiIjtM8OqNixUj6Ds84Tn7vZnHBWTbLFZELc4apQ=w400-h400" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p>Robin Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15098768488282086396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8679270510670359998.post-8202874643327007782022-12-19T11:02:00.003-08:002022-12-19T11:02:20.996-08:00Someone dear to me<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiGlVq7Ks8jtK3Dk1pZeNs1aOEBKhBSgOGyeXFviPkcOm5-OFMTDr8O5OXyNBw-gP1jPbewh1rH8X-kytpKUSjxxhFps0KijSWQdJhHGsgsIvkC0n6U43ok-Df5AOPjZY_1tWwFpAV09QKOsSFcvZJd77LVUO4addo_PFphoyQMDQTgRTisGtdpytrbcg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="5312" data-original-width="2988" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiGlVq7Ks8jtK3Dk1pZeNs1aOEBKhBSgOGyeXFviPkcOm5-OFMTDr8O5OXyNBw-gP1jPbewh1rH8X-kytpKUSjxxhFps0KijSWQdJhHGsgsIvkC0n6U43ok-Df5AOPjZY_1tWwFpAV09QKOsSFcvZJd77LVUO4addo_PFphoyQMDQTgRTisGtdpytrbcg=w360-h640" width="360" /></a></div><br /><p></p>Robin Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15098768488282086396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8679270510670359998.post-78067201255589426642022-12-19T08:30:00.003-08:002022-12-19T08:30:35.494-08:00snow men and Treehenge<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh-aVdTFZoyQTwAH-mf2UmC9Kk2oEJ3uhKOkCvDfBwMbjSptrPdMCebyrElsm7A6SMZdGjnxFGmyDdMQx6USbPEkwhVI-fcR1YSW0sh7yyMIR7AHq5aDwkjcbm8dsp1jW3zjgGwl2MS3AMYNry4caQLok9ma9VtQSqz-lRIS-70XKl-ey6wwjO_D9jYRQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh-aVdTFZoyQTwAH-mf2UmC9Kk2oEJ3uhKOkCvDfBwMbjSptrPdMCebyrElsm7A6SMZdGjnxFGmyDdMQx6USbPEkwhVI-fcR1YSW0sh7yyMIR7AHq5aDwkjcbm8dsp1jW3zjgGwl2MS3AMYNry4caQLok9ma9VtQSqz-lRIS-70XKl-ey6wwjO_D9jYRQ=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; 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text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEihGhGljsE3GvLQYUQjecYwicC2R6SfM1yhHN1r9c4HFvx0AYlbpPwHaVgaKCUy7g_5t7g_BbKOpcdr-5UnWuXT6onVRoHg35rFD6D1QZhtobWwHUlZDQJ0Ou4MMCsM76g5VqjF4Rzbej4ObUBEazFxVq4rKBMwi-odJPKSLkl-ij90SCZihlRxRCA70Q" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="5312" data-original-width="2988" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEihGhGljsE3GvLQYUQjecYwicC2R6SfM1yhHN1r9c4HFvx0AYlbpPwHaVgaKCUy7g_5t7g_BbKOpcdr-5UnWuXT6onVRoHg35rFD6D1QZhtobWwHUlZDQJ0Ou4MMCsM76g5VqjF4Rzbej4ObUBEazFxVq4rKBMwi-odJPKSLkl-ij90SCZihlRxRCA70Q=w360-h640" width="360" /></a></div><br /><p></p>Robin Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15098768488282086396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8679270510670359998.post-18320573476462949682022-12-18T06:33:00.003-08:002022-12-18T06:33:48.801-08:00the middle of the road<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg5x_eE0XZK3S8lWUFEo4T116wn7L0-9QZQhdZe7kLiktj9WDWwXghGl32Pf1vKIWO0b9ppxpxGy2ph43zoDX8UIKtrAvqnc-gUOk5MRhGi6tZiPA24EfOqQTy87sIDLO88j7w9A8rgPfPmlle5GDhJ25KaOU_Hu1AsS7i_7jY7Mv_zF8gYD2DTYXLw5g" style="margin-left: 1em; 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text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjeVfVFtjLn-DREQa_4RtZT6uSXuGg7gUaPWhu29pu2UZIMUIUHsK2jdj5hhcfaC7OxCScMnbUct4-coRRxuoHa_HZk7WQ33BsjmaPyW_cC8pIpSumAHr9Se7J-t7cnJN7dqYzzV1zP-Uh0HJZVvjLO7xPlRPWpVBJpePafAhkrRSWkICMN4OMQE1T6nw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjeVfVFtjLn-DREQa_4RtZT6uSXuGg7gUaPWhu29pu2UZIMUIUHsK2jdj5hhcfaC7OxCScMnbUct4-coRRxuoHa_HZk7WQ33BsjmaPyW_cC8pIpSumAHr9Se7J-t7cnJN7dqYzzV1zP-Uh0HJZVvjLO7xPlRPWpVBJpePafAhkrRSWkICMN4OMQE1T6nw=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p>Robin Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15098768488282086396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8679270510670359998.post-19129623010644510522022-12-16T10:58:00.003-08:002022-12-16T11:14:31.603-08:00lunatic at large<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhwtPiHZoPfoX8-PYrt03Hzn_8M_bgGk_98VTW4ce-StjQ5wfaSHUJumv5mDyS5w-gJgrga8LwERBFDnaRyLWejNNayw6j4zNI28qEhGos3iFslhDu2ttdec2AFa_5rhkUUAEr32poUth2I-3VvorSYPjDcJh_9gjprFmHbOYCPxUSuZIDH2OB-1k77EQ" style="margin-left: 1em; 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