noshing mandarins

9.19.14

The Scots vote no, Islamists continue their violent overthrow of common sense, it is over a hundred degrees outside, no shade to hide on the Sohar road, darks hang on the line, the faithful stream out after the afternoon service, threats from a madman put a family on edge in a Himalayan village and I wish I had something to take me out of the third dimension, even for a few hours.

The Goldfinch has been my only escape but I’ll finish it soon.  What would I give to write like this, another life, does it encourage to keep it in mind while you twiddle away great ideas, yes and no.  How profitable would it be to have an epiphany for that outline, a plan of attack, however trying, is still a plan.

Laxmi didn’t need to marry the man, traditional social fears, tepid family consent in light of financial stress, and now he says he’ll kill a man who raises chickens.  Tukla (the bald one) opened a tea shop along the path to the top and himself is raising chickens along with a few turkeys and pigs for lower caste residents.  Laxman gave me a tour of the ‘farm’ a few months ago, I expressed surprise Balrum had also started a chicken farm not more than 200 meters away but the demand in Pokhara is high.  I’ve been in touch with Balrum’s daughter who fears for the safety of her brother who manages his father’s 1500 chicks and says police won’t intervene in the dispute, a great injustice in a self-governed community.  It is the problem, the great one, for a village that has survived on keeping its own in check with ancient Hindu rules and norms.  But Tukla is not from the village and even though he took Laxmi as a second wife, he has to be held in suspect especially since the suicide of his son.  Can anyone ever not be changed when tragedy falls in your lot?

This evening’s meal will be at McDonalds.  Whatever is in the meat doesn’t dissuade me.  My choices here are limited to the omnipresent shwarma kiosks or one of the few hotels I haven’t stepped into all year.  Tomorrow it’s back to the dentist and I know it’ll be soup for the day. 

Wow, I have the internet in my flat.  What, how, when.  And it’s fast and when I return from my burger run we’ll see how fast it is.  Can I hear music from youtube, can I watch video, my life has been for the last twenty minutes so uncloistered. 

How can gross food be so good?  It is a mystery.  Wolfing down the big mac which is smaller than the American kind a family of eight Pakistanis came led by grandmother who sat at the end of the table with her two daughters and a little girl.  Four teenagers sat adjacent to them and yalla! Go ahead and use both hands to eat, it’s ok to use your left hands here, we’re in an all-halal establishment.

I’m taking a zantac before bedtime that’s for sure. I’ve eaten at the golden arches twice in the last three weeks.  Is that too much?

My short-lived connection to the internet came to an end in the middle of an interview with Hunter S. Thompson.  If I ever write something meaningful on my own I’ll need some inspiration from the likes who have done it.  Hemingway, Steinbeck.  I listened to the latter’s Nobel acceptance speech and he could be talking about today, by golly. 

Hemingway worked hard to write masterpieces and one could say, the harder he worked, the luckier he got, but Hemingway had a gift.  Steinbeck had a gift as did Faulkner and ok, Donna Tartt.  Anyone can write a good sentence and maybe they can connect a couple good sentences but it’s the story that requires the gift.  Talent one may have but if they don’t have the gift, then it’s blah, mediocre. 

Ok, let’s hear your ideas.  You want to put them here for someone to steal?  It’s nothing I haven’t already blogged go ahead.  Hemingway and Atwood recommend pencils and paper and spilling it all out.  I’ve filled journals and they are winding up in the fire.  Here at least it’s legible. 

Here’s the premise:  Nope I’m not gonna put it down.  I did but I deleted it. 

9.20.14

Today we start here.  And for two hours  the Egyptian dentist x-rayed, drilled, chopped, sawed, saudered, scraped, sucked and when I staggered out of the plastic chair I noticed the next patient; an eleven year old boy, Ayoub.  What did he do at birth to be named Job?

Oh right, there’s a connection there, eh?  A lesson, sure, my temporary discomfort is nothing compared to those who suffer from war, disease and being married to professional football players.

A root canal it was, on the broken tooth in my lower right quadrant, next to the space where the Thai dentist yanked the broken one two years ago, and next week we’ll go back for more and then my humbled teeth will take three weeks off.  The Novocain wears off in five hours or so but Dr. Mohammed instructed me to start taking the granulated ibuprofen in an hour.  Let’s take everything you got now, dude.

Yesterday’s twenty minutes of internet access was a damn tease and if I didn’t have a compelling read with me I’d be more bummed than usual.  With the right side of my mouth off limits I carefully noshed a mandarin and now it’s a cup of tea with soft biscuits filled with vanilla cream.  Excellent, more sugar.

Ya know I have the one thing every writer needs.  Solitary confinement.  So why don’t you exploit that need?  Well, there’s this blog.  That doesn’t count.  Ok, it’s taking that original idea and running with it. 

Ok, maybe tomorrow.