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Friday
Sep052025

Barbers

Inside a Bursa barber shop at 9:30 a.m. TV wall news blasted Kabul heavy alliterative artillery literary fire.

Dust explodes. Images flood the consciousness - trains filled with tanks, armored cars, firefights in Iraq and Syria, suicide bombers, machine guns, rata-tat-tat-tat, expose yourself for a flash of sight, aim, fire, reload, as smiling wealthy diplomats shake hands for the cameras and media propaganda value.

They gesture peaceful intentions. We agree to disagree.

Smile.

An old man gets a close shave. The barber is short, white haired with trim black mustache in a white smock, brown loafers, working the silver blade down elastic cheeks erasing yesterday’s growth. The old man closes his eyes, feeling steel blade sensations as lather evaporates his existence in a calm, gentle way.

 

A small bell rings as a man pedals his portable mango and pineapple fruit cart along a dirt road in Cambodia. Does the sound come to the ear or does the ear go to the sound, asked Rita.

*

One morning Tran and I located a street barber in Saigon. He’s on the corner of Noise & Confusion, a main drag through the heart of a swirling mass of mobile humanity. Beep-beep.

His place was bare bones marketplace essentials. He works a small corner of a cement box surrounded by a wire fence. One old comfortable broken barber chair, a lopsided table and a cracked mirror completes the ensemble. Cheap blades, electric trimmer, a straight razor, comb, and brush.

Cut black hair spills out of a green plastic bag near the gutter waiting for someone to recycle stuffing stuff.

The Dark Years

It was curious seeing the Cambodian barber open on the last day of Khmer New Year. The river town was dead quiet. Merchants and families slept in shuttered shops behind metal gray accordion sheets. A tropical afternoon sun beat down. White cumulus clouds billowed in the east. The barber had a customer. A white haired war veteran. He’d fought against Vietnam, Khmer Rouge, Death and his Ghosts.

He didn’t talk about it. He survived. Silent conversation was his destiny.

He sat in a solid steel chair staring at his reflection. He saw a long thin serene brown face and wavy white hair. A long mole resembling an inverted Buddhist pagoda hung down from the left side of his chin. The mole saved him from Khmer Rouge executioners. They were superstitious peasants. They believed he was the Devil. They released him.

He and the barber conversed in French. The thin barber had thick black parted hair. He’d lived here all his life. He survived four genocide years by killing his dreams and hiding with his family in mountains where the French later constructed and abandoned a post office, hotel and casino. All bets are off. They were The Dark Years. No one talked about The Dark Years.

The old man closed his eyes. Besides gardening and playing with his grandchildren, savoring blade sensations and ointment aromas with small talk were his simple luxuries.

Using small steel clippers the barber trimmed hair. It fluttered to a cement floor meeting piles of black hair. Electric trimmers with old frayed wires collected dust on a narrow wooden table under a fractured mirror. Hello Beauty.

After trimming neck hairs he adjusted the chair, easing him back. The old man meditated on miracles and impermanence of life.

The barber extracted a thin razor blade from a small piece of paper. He severed both ends into a soda can. Clink. He opened a wooden handled straight razor edging the blade in.

He sprayed water mist around the man’s head. Moisture refracted light prisms and dust. He trimmed microscopic hairs around the outside edge of an ear lobe before shaving above sideburns angling the man’s head with his left hand. The razor slid from temple to temple across the scalp line rasping skin.

 

He was quick, silent and efficient. Smooth artistic hands shaved skin fast and light. Short, fast and deadly. The blade danced on skin under the eyes. He wiped the blade on a white towel lying on the man’s chest. He shaved lower sideburns. He returned the man to a sitting position. The man smiled at his reflection. Hello Beauty.

The barber snapped the towel across shoulders removing dead cells. The man eased out of the chair. He removed a roll of money hidden near his waist. He peeled musical notes to the barber.

Merci. Au’voir.

He shuffled out. His son waited for him on a motorcycle. He tried to swing his right leg over the rear seat. He hesitated. He couldn’t manage it. His left hand reached for a shoulder. His frail contorted right arm was useless. The executioners broke the Devil’s arm. They wanted to hear the Devil scream.

Bursa barber. Cádiz barber. Hanoi barber. Cambodia barber. Faces shaved, haircut, clip, clip scissors, storytellers all.

All vocal music, choral tales of imaginary love, kindness, forgiveness, journeys, beauty, creativity, travel, adventure, risk, authenticity, truth and maladaptive trust with barbers.

Book of Amnesia Unabridged

 

Tuesday
Aug262025

Cadiz Barber

The Hanoi barber neighborhood is 150 years old, said Ha, a divorced male engineer with a six-year-old daughter. It is difficult to remarry when the girl’s father knows I’m divorced after they see my daughter and I alone and happy.

They were two characters looking for a third isosceles angle. 1+1+1

All the Hanoi barbers live here. Temple Cloud is dedicated to barbers. The temple has scissors, broken mirrors, lopsided chairs, cloth, shears, scythes, machetes, swords, sabers, rusty blades, plastic combs, dusty piles of black hair and talcum powder.

Tran hangs out at a small salon getting a haircut. A woman vacuums his ears to clean aural perception debris. Barbers have great stories.

Cadiz, Spain

Omar said, There is an old barber shop in Cadiz, Spain near Plaza de San Juan de Dios, the neoclassical town hall built in 1800.

The decrepit functional shop has cracked white and blue tiled walls and a yellow and blue star mosaic inlaid floor. A well-dressed retired man sat in a shaft of light smoking a Cuban cigar.

My nomad friend exchanged pleasantries, Buenos Dias. An old barber in a stained white smock smiled and welcomed him, Buenos Dias, what’ll it be Senor? Friend showed him a phrase from a book of sand gesturing over and down his long white beard painting a little.

Living in the Land of Gestures, Smiles and Body Language and speaking every tongue on Earth is an adventure. People attached subtle diverse meaning to gestures, facial expressions and vocal tone. Gestures dictated international Esperanto passport freedom, passing through, getting things accomplished, communicating visions like beauty, truth and hunger. Gestures sealed deals.

A flying finger expert was grateful to meet friendly accommodating people tolerant of his meager attempts to articulate real and imaginary words.

Having passed the barber often, seldom, never, occasionally, sometimes, always, while pausing, peering, staring, looking, seeing inside with innate curiosity, my friend knew they knew he was not one of them being a forcestero, an outsider. They trusted him in a vague familiar way.

The barber looked at the book of sand, studied quick hands. Yes, fine I understand what you want, here, gesturing toward a swivel chair, sit here. He put his Moleskine journal, fountain pen, glasses and faded filthy S.F. Giants baseball hat on a chair, took a seat, received the cloth and closed blue eyes.

 

 

As the barber prepared his tools friend contemplated how Cadiz people enjoyed balmy Mediterranean weather. Characters moved in and out of flats like nervous, agitated, obsessive-compulsive neurotic filmmakers manipulating a lens establishing a specific point of view, a definitive spotlight theme creating memory, abandonment, alienation, community, freedom, faith, and identity theories with narrative structure in a long talk story.

They recorded long distance location shots establishing the big picture and then zoomed tight. Floodlight and spotlight danced scene by scene.

It was their Gypsy DNA spilling oral discourse wandering Earth looking for sanctuary acknowledging their Roma heritage, how their ancestors intermarried Berbers a thousand years ago. How they survived omnipresent rigid authoritarian Catholicism in Sin City.

Only 18% of Spaniards were practicing Roman Catholics now, compared with 98% fifty years ago living with guilt, confession, morals, a breakdown of values and cognitive dissonance. C’ la vie.

The scissors and comb were musical instruments in the barber’s hands. A finger tilted his head left, then right. Language music floated. A bamboo walking stick dissolved shadows and silence with ripples of arriving. Acquaintances paid their respects to Omar.

Ola, we meet again, Omar greeted an old friend.

Welcome back my friend, you have been away a long time.

Yes, seems like forever and a day, we’ve been in the Sahara, before, on and after 9/11, pointing to the man getting his beard trimmed. A hell of a never ending story with numerous sub plots and twisted arcane elements of subterfuge.

Yes, such a scene of devastation, suffering and retribution by angry, scared, marginalized, misled, poor people speaking of Sahara, how goes it, I know it like the back of my old veined hand, trade caravans will be moving north this time of year.

Carpets, silk, salt, spices and slaves are selling well, said Omar.

You are fortunate my friend.

 

 

Yes, I’ve been blessed with good health.

And your family how are they.

They are well, thanks be to God. Allah be praised the most beneficent is shining their love on us. And the caves, have you heard from the survivors, any news. Word travels slower than a camel.

Tribes formed after the 9/11 attacks. They are moving toward serenity, sanctuary, and simplicity. Millions of refugees streamed into the screaming broadband media desperate to find work with international conglomerates and orphanages.

Manufacturing sectors grinding poverty constructed dreams for export.

Yes, said the blind seer. Internally displaced persons blended barley seeds with Leaves Of Grass according to Walt Whitman for delicious breads in refugee camps overflowing with multitudes of humanity. Human caravans migrated along Afghan valleys into rugged isolated pristine mountains to live in Paleolithic caves. I heard others resumed their journey along the Silk Road toward Constantinople, the Mediterranean and Cadiz.

How did they survive?

They carved on cave walls with Neolithic new science tools and rented caves out on weekends to eco-tourists seeking simplicity, sanctuary and sanity from personal and collective comic-tragic universal trials and tribulations they practiced the ancient art of equality fostered by Arabic prophets.

Art reveals strange twisted truths.

Yes, it’s the madness of art. One cannot escape art. Art doesn’t solve a thing. We live in a vast art museum.

A woman in red luminous flowing fabric danced through their dream in a state of perpetual transformation.

The forcestero and I journey in new directions. We have exploring and revising to do. 

 

 

He is my amanuensis, said Omar.

Ah, you are fortunate having a well versed nomad scribe. Such is life, and your family.

Allah and God be praised, they are in good health, Fatima Zamora is two years old now learning to walk.

Ah, this is good. It’s a long walk. Have you learned anything useful from the barbarians,

A little - they know many words but have forgotten the essential music.

In the 12th century Arabic and European languages invented new traditions based on 1,001 stories. They used imaginative prose by telling stories inside someone else’s story.

Ah, you mean somebody in a story is telling a story about somebody in a story telling a story about somebody, people talking about people.

Absolutely, my friend.

Fascinating, perhaps you’ve read 1,001 Nights, Yes, and Borges, Calvino, Pessoa, Saramago and Pirandello among others.

We see through their literary efforts how they reflect art, cultures, languages, and love telling stories, how they adapt a mask in their social context.

I’ve heard of this also, how they moved from India across Persia into Arabia with clarity.

Pardarar is Persian for storyteller. I am the Naggal which means the transmitter in Persian. Naga is The Serpent King in India.

Your story is being retold in Arabic with 1,001 permutations.

Yes from the vulgar Arabic tradition to a Latin form of learning.

Scholars say the four languages with the longest tradition are Arabic, Sanskrit, Chinese and English. One can say English is the language of the cultured barbarians.

Ah, so it is. They are spoiled ill-tempered children, rather crass and despondent types, prone to violence, whining at high decibels practicing cold-blooded expensive revenge.

The Chinese stayed home, the English colonized, enslaving distant lands and Sanskrit some say, the most beautiful of all languages for its precise beauty, extended from India to the Southeast. Arabic has always been our tongue and well received.

Magicians, shamans, Griots and storytellers have much to learn from you.

Omar handed him a book of stories. This is a historically intractable farrago of empirical evidence.

I see, said a blind man off stage.

Many thanks, said his friend, accepting the parchment.

Have you noticed, Omar said, How people here have a talent, a unique ability to disappear.

Yes, I’ve seen how, after experiencing inner visions they vanish. Mysterious manifestations are invisible energy. Poof. Everything is pulsating pure energy.

They are descendants of the Jinn. According to The Book of Imaginary Beings, by Borges, Islamic tradition holds that Allah created angels from light, Jinn from fire and men from dust. Jinn were created 2,000 years before Adam. They begin as clouds or strange pillars and depending on their desire, take the form of men, jackals, wolves, lions, scorpions, or serpents.

By listening to the conversations of angels in the lowest heaven they obtain knowledge of the future and impart this to chosen humans capable of using talismans and invocations for magical performances.

Yes, said Omar. The stronger their identity and the deeper their connection to the spirit world, the easier it is for them to manifest in a place when they need to be there. They disappear like magic. They don’t leave a trace, or perhaps I should say they leave a sensation depending on the perception of the seer. It’s all light energy.

Can you do this.

Yes, when it’s necessary and people request help. I’ve lived with them, paying attention to how they listen, laugh, love, absorbing the knowledge, wisdom, and creation stories. It requires a kind of, how do I say, a presence, an empirical intuitive awareness of an ultimate spirit world.

We are flukes of the universe. It’s similar to cultures where people use their energies to become invisible. Being shapeshifters, tricksters, shamans and spirit guides, storytellers jump through a Time-Space portal. I am a sha’ir, a feared and respected poet shaman in my tribe.

Here’s a verse for you.

earth is made of sky

sky is emptiness

landscape migrates

wind drums the spirit of Raoul

Drummer of Death

Tuareg

blue men of the desert

Beautiful. Poetry began as song with music and drama, a song of grief for the dead.

The mind-at-large is happy & empty. Art is a revelation of an interconnected universe. Life is short art is long. We trigger the nerve impulses, muscle tremors with sensation and speech. We let the poem speak. Perception is the path of authenticity. It is a liberation outside one’s self.

Omar pointed at the nomad. My friend here is Li Bai, a Shisheng exiled poet sage in the Chinese tradition. He creates Sanwen, an intersection between essay, poems and fiction.

I am pleased for you. I wish you, your family, and your companion all peace and prosperity. Safe travels, Insha’Allah. Their hands touched their hearts with mutual respect.

The barber handed nomad an obsidian Neolithic black mirror from Anatolia created in 6200 BC. His smiling face was smaller. Hello Beauty. He felt lighter by a value of 1.

Objects in the mirror may appear closer than they are, laughed Omar.

It’s fine, a good length. Gracias. The barber trimmed eyebrows, brushed him off, removed the sheet, smiled, accepted Euros. Gracias.

Adios, he said to the barber.

Gracias, adios Senor, said Seville.

Book of Amnesia Unabridged

Sunday
Aug172025

Department of Truth

According to Zeynep, a scripter in the present, I speak because I am not authorized to reveal the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth or value meaning. So. Help. Me.

1. Truth is classified. The source of truth about everything is classified. I am authorized to say with complete anonymity without revealing sources that truth is filtered, compartmentalized, abstracted, excerpted, sliced, diced, parsed, fossilized and classified inside a buried locked black box.

1a. The crypto key is top-secret for your blind eyes only. Grave Digger knows the combination and algorithm. The encrypted key is not on a hacked social network site designed to distract your face, mind, heart, consciousness or Lifebook personal profile time bandit. Real friends are few.

1b. Artificial friends are aliens on life support. The key for Time is inside an arrow piercing Greater Complexity with Entropy. A woman, man, child in country XYZ carries the world on their back. They are the key.

2. Truth is a joke. The source of truth concerning jokes is classified. I am not authorized to reveal the joke, the laugh track.  If fate doesn’t make you laugh then you don’t get the joke. Your tears speak and mangle fictional truth-story. They distort and strangle it. Truth is a figment of your imagination. Literary outlaws lie to tell the truth.

3. Truth is a myth. The source of the myth is classified. Read it and weep. As Antonio Porchia, author of Voices, being authorized to speak said, Truth has very few friends and those few are suicides.

4. Truth is the Next BIG Thing. It will modify seeds providing billions of humans with a genetic food source. Eat your broccoli, walnuts and almonds. Biolabs will purify water and distribute free medicine and C-19 vaccinations to every human on Earth. Genetics will create Socratic open-ended educational dreams.

4a. Truth is a starving homeless mother pulling a heavy two-wheeled trash cart with flat tires through a dusty Cambodian town as her daughter forages in garbage containers for food, water and medicine. She is a qualifier, a split infinitive in infinity where someone’s leftovers are another’s banquet.

5. Truth will provide more than 1 billion people access to safe drinking water.

6. Truth will enable literacy for 850,000,000 people who cannot read. Women are 2/3 of this number.

7. Truth will employ 2.8 billion people surviving on less than $2 a day. Truth will employ 1.1 billion people existing on less than $1 a day.

 

 

8. Truth will assist 70% of the people in the developing world who have ZERO access to electricity in their homes, health clinics and schools.

9. Truth is a terminal disease like peace, love and blindness.

10.Truth is a sledgehammer in Mandalay, Burma.

Love is not truth.

11. Truth is food in your stomach.

This is The Truth Channel. Game, Set, Match.

Media dumbs down sheep.

Technology eats humans.

Beauty is truth, truth beauty.

Book of Amnesia Unabridged


Sunday
Aug102025

Pay Attention

A monk asked Yang-chi.

How to escape the clamor of the mind?

Read the ancient text.

What is the ancient text?

The moon is bright in space. The waves are calm on the ocean.

How does one read it?

Watch your step.

*

Creative Hanging Out by Tran

Please put the blue sky on the white table. It is fragile and creased along the horizon.

Pay Attention.

There are:

People who want to control you

People who want to blame you

People who want to distract you

Samuel Beckett was very precise. He didn’t want theories or any level of intellectualization. He paid a lot of attention to the tone of voice and to the relationships among the characters. He cared a great deal about the silences and the pauses. It’s as beautiful as the chance encounter on an operating table of a sewing machine and an umbrella, the essence of surrealism.

Freedom is being conscious and aware enough to choose what you pay attention to and to choose how you construct meaning from experience, said David Foster Wallace.

DFW had the courage to express in absurd detail what it feels like to live, observe and experience life. He knew many humans lacked the sincerity and honesty to really voice their awareness. He gave us deep exquisite work and then checked out. He suffered from depression. Pale King.

Every feeling waits for its gesture. Gestures use people as their instruments, bearers and incarnations. Impressions exist in a distinct serene zone of imprecise calculation. Observations dance with empirical data structure. Art, symbols and metaphor.

Language is a virus, like C-19.

Blue dragonfly eyes create a lightning bolt. Flashes of brilliance in the DNA helix reveal spiritual and truth-value meaning in your play. The poetic inspiration rebels against science and math.                                 

Dancing color spectrum

Jellyfish aqua laughter smells sweet fresh cut grass

Yellow butterfly voices perspiration’s inspiration

Transparent wave energies wash your interior/exterior dream

I love to doodle, said Zeynep. It’s my meditation. Everyone doodles their noodle while splashing in their life puddle.

Good travel writing is The Art of Creative Hanging Out, said Tran.

Book of Amnesia Unabridged

Friday
Apr182025

Martha’s Zen Card

I am a short story.

You are a novel.

It never occurred to Matt to buy indigenous cultural music while traveling.

Martha his girlfriend considered it essential.

Music made her edgy and alive.

When she heard music she danced.

She returned to her primitive self.

She danced naked.

Ballet. Flamingo. Tango. Cha-cha. Lambada. Waltz.

He wrote naked verbs. They loved naked. Naked cherished syllable skin music.

They wrote danced and lived like they were dead.

One day they will be. It's now or never.

They were free. It's the way to be.


Culture is what you are. Culture means you can forget.

Nature is what you can be.

People are nature's tools.

Passing through Body Sat Quiet in Asia on a three week, “Look, don’t think” holiday from frozen Europe they happened into an 8th century tourist town music repository.

They smelled music before they saw it. Seeing music is an art form. Synesthesia.

In music like life the end of the composition is not the point.

A music boy handed Matt an orange book. Write your melodic request here. Matt opened the book. A vignette floated free.

An orphan girl popped out of blank pages: I am sorry. Goodbye and good luck to you and your family. These are our famous last words. Big vocabulary. Tongues speak. Small life. Big chance. Yeah. Yeah.

The Hunger Angel watched 24/7 in the big leagues.

Sanitation workers in green environmental vests with broom music swept streets for the New Year. Make it new. Make it new.

We should be so lucky to have crystal clean sheets.

Every day is a new year.

One day is like a minute.

One minute is like a day.

That's relativity. All my relatives are dead.

Never trust an atom. They make up everything.

When you know what you don't know you realize character with social intelligence, integrity, humor and courage.


Courage is an unknown word in our head and heart. Running away is our way. Every day I have the blues. No one loves me but my mother and she could've been lying too.

You absolve in the rhythm when you have adequate life experience.

Silence and hunger are identical naked twins.

Fear and Ignorance produce Expectation & Greed.

I am good at two things:

Eating and sleeping.

Fighting and fucking.

Laughing and crying.

Reading and writing? That's for idiots.

The less I do the fewer mistakes I make, said Insecurity.

The fewer mistakes I make the less I am criticized, said Fear.

It's easier to do nothing, said Doubt.

We know the essence of survival. Keep your fucking mouth shut.

One day, Bliss’s part-time lover said, buy me a TV.

NO.

You have a job, a mother, a 12-year old daughter, two brothers, no father and no husband. I gave you money to buy a bike for your daughter and she lost it, money for clothes, money for medicine, money for food, money for temporary naked lust and currency sobriety. You play me for a fool. You’re fucking crazy.

Her arrival was sporadic at best. She visited at 8:37 for a shower, fucking and another shower.

He explored her lips, thin neck, small ears, crest of skin throat, narrow brown shoulders, pinpoint breasts with tongue talk, flat belles letters, long legs and played his way into her valley of potential.

He loved giving her oral pleasure.

Edging rose lips long and deep.

Slow sweet.

Little man in a boat sang, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream.

She reciprocated playing his bone flute.

Riding the pony, priming her G spot grinding hard and fast she exploded with precision and extra ambition whispering, Give me a baby. Give me a baby.

He deferred chromosomes. Fat fucking chance, there's no way under the tropical son I'll give you anything but short time, money, temporary love and the high hard one in your strike zone with runners in scoring position.

Here’s the pitch.

She stayed until 9:45 and left for work at an upscale spa wearing aromatic Grecian urns. He gave her 20 bones. Feed me.

Familiarity breeds contempt.

Get out of my life, said Telepathy. You are subservient and I am stupid to put up with this shit. He creased her indifference into a cumulus cloud. It rained goodbye and good luck.

She sat on the bed with her back to him. Sniffle, sniffle.

Her fake tears formed rivers named Regret and Hopelessness and Indifference.

Fish behind twelve Lao dams to provide electricity to Thailand fed 60 million Asians downstream in deltas.


His NO created black-eyed daggers. They stabbed him with hatred, loss, self-pity, violence and starvation. Revenge is best served cold with DNA.

They put on death masks.

Your mask eats your face.

They walked out into tropical heat. Separate directions.

Waves of loneliness shuffled down a broken street. Children dying of malnutrition at a health clinic on the coroner of Hope cried as desperate mothers received free blue placebos.

The day after tomorrow belongs to orphans and lucky losers with Wabi-Sabi.

Wabi - the beauty of the most ordinary circumstances and objects.

Sabi - feel one's own sharp existence.

Martha and Gratitude danced through life.