One bowl

Greetings,

He gave him a wooden bowl.
“This is the traditional way. Put your choices in the bowl. We can discuss the price later.”

He accepted the wooden bowl and, to be polite, because he was a guest in their country, wandered around a showroom looking at inlaid boxes, handled daggers with fake stones, silver rings, bracelets, bangles, beads, earrings and silver necklaces in provocative gleaming displays.

In another reality he carried his begging bowl through dirt streets in the world. It felt cool and smooth in his hands as his fingers caressed a worn oval surface. The begging bowl had a consciousness.

He reflected the horror in his mirror. He re-calibrated true bearings and measured his way inside third world countries thumbing open his useful ragged egalitarian existential foreign dictionary.

It was filled with myths, symbols, images, ideographs, pictographs, virus inoculations, sliding scales, musical interludes, sonatas and vibratos. It held journey notes, sardonic Irish flies, bleeding tomatoes, broken hearts, fried home truck stops, haiku, khata scarves, pure mirror paper, type-A negative blood donor manifests, rose thorns, the game of life and empty wooden bowls.

Tiznit boys wanted him to fill it up. They wanted him to be greedy. They wanted to hear the sound of silver strike wood. They had great expectations of wealth based on his desire. He wanted to hit the bricks. He found one interesting bracelet and it clattered, spinning silver.

He became a Tuareg Berber.
“I’ll give you 100. Take it or leave it,” he said in Tamashek. The boy was shocked to hear his language, his dialect. He had no idea. They were on common territory.

Peace.

Glorious Worker's Day

Hello, my name is Xi. Today is Worker's Day and I am a worker.

I was working the other day in our small sport shoe piece factory like any other day meaning it's all the same day when you work in a small rural Chinese village and suddenly a strange man came in. Some of the girls hid behind their sewing machines, others ran into the back room but I stayed where I was, just sitting and smiling.

I must be honest and tell you the work is boring, we don't make much money and the male boss is mean to us, but it's a job, the only job I could find after finishing middle school so I took it. My parents are farmers. They are happy because they have a small home, a bike, rice cooker, radio, and TV.

I like the people I work with. The girls and women sew together foam and leather pieces which is the top part of a shoe. I know it's only part because they send them to another factory in another village where they do more pieces.

I guess they eventually become a complete shoe but we all wear plastic sandals anyway so it doesn't matter to me.

The man said some words which I didn't understand and he took pictures. I was a little nervous but he seemed ok so I just sat still, smiling. After he left I went back to my finishing work. It was the most interesting thing that happened in the factory that day.

Happy Worker's Day!

War(s) Czar Vacancy

A great job is available in Washington. You get to run the war in Afghanistan and, as a special bonus with extra incentives including free meals, free transportation, free insurance, and a free Iraq mess.

Yes, it's true, the stone cold neo-cons are desperately looking for someone with a plan - any plan will do, cobbled together with inept corruption, graft and absolutely zero sense of historical perspective - to run the wars. Run them into debt, run them into a brick wall at high speed. Run and gun endless wars into Iraqi cemeteries and VA hospitals.

Run the wars with integrity, dedication and carte blanc financial support from big oil and special interest groups.

Wheel and deal the war your way today. Say yes to this amazing long term disaster opportunity. They need a War Czar to assume total control and responsibility. Certified paranoid schizophrenic delusional maniacs, fools, thieves, morticians and gravediggers will receive hiring priority.

"Want to buy a good used car, mister?"

After hearing their sales pitch and declining to be za Czar, a retired general said, "They don't know what the hell they are doing."

Building 18 - Ward 54

(Editor's note: Since the story broke 6 weeks ago they've closed Building 18. Ward 54 is the new monster and Bushmeister recently paid an apologetic courtesy call on paraplegics and wounded vets. The old story of delayed action-response.)

"...Bobby Muller, president of Veterans for America, said Bush didn't see areas of the hospital most in need of change. He cited Ward 54, where soldiers are suffering from acute mental health conditions, and outpatient holding facilities where soldiers see long waits to get processed out of the Army."

Here at Walter Bleed Hospital life is a bitch.

I live in Building 18. The walls are full of holes. Mold and fungus grows wild. Roaches run rampant. Let me tell you, the living conditions in Iraq were a far sight better than this hell hole, that is, until I lost my eyes bringing freedom to Babylon. Let's just say on that fateful day I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Like here and now.

Now, I ain't well educated but here I was stumbling around looking for someone to help me find out-patient care for treatment and they gave me a map. Can you imagine, a blind grunt with a map of Bleed grounds.

Voices pointed here and there and over yonder's wall so I humped my disaster over to Fred's bed and Fred, well he has a serious brain injury sustained by an IED and he whispered to me in a conspirator's tone of voice you know, like real low and silent, "These idiots refuse to accept the fact my brain is fucked up. They said I'm just a slow learner. They said they're going to discharge me tomorrow because they need the bed for some wacko job coming in from Afghani land."

"What did they give you?"
"A one way bus ticket out of town and a handful of brain pills."
"Man, you got it good. All they gave me was this useless map."

A body is required

The needle put a solution into his veins, knocked him out and when he really woke up he couldn’t remember a thing.

He was tall, wearing a green silk shirt, brown leather pants and Indian moccasins. There was bandage on his right arm from the needle. The clear white plastic bag hanging from a hook when he reclined on the chair was gone. Before they attached electrodes to his chest to monitor his heart rate.

The room was clean. No tables with wires, tools, syringes, masks, machines. A woman eased him out of the chair and walked him down the hall to steady him. He retrieved his down jacket, baseball hat and a plastic bag holding a useless pink tongue. She escorted him through the complex to another office.

A woman with dark hair waited in the reception area.

“Here, these are for you,” handing him brilliant purple, yellow and orange flowers with long green stems.
“They’re beautiful,” he slurred. “What are they?”
“Tulips. From my garden.”
“Do I know you?
“I’m Michele, your friend. Must have been some good drugs.”
He smiled. “Yes. It felt like five minutes.”

“You were out 1.5 hours.”
“Really? I had no idea. I don’t remember time now. It’s been erased. I’m now a stranger to myself. I died back there.”
“Good. One needs to die before they can live. May I take you home now?”
“I don’t remember where it is.”
She turned to the receptionist. “Do you have his address? Thanks. Let’s go.”

The cabin was surrounded by bamboo. He found a key in his pocket and opened a door.
“It’s small,” she said.
“Yes it is. Would you like some tea?”
“No thanks. I have to get home because I have a Wednesday deadline.”
“What day is it?”
“Monday.”
“How many words?”
“They want 1000 and I usually give them 1400. They can cut what they can’t use. Here’s my number. Call me if you have any trouble.” She placed a piece of paper on a table next to an hourglass.
“I’ll walk you out. I need to have a look around.”