a burial for beasts and birds

Last night there was a party to say so long to two colleagues and the beer of choice was an Amstel variety at 7.5% strength called ‘sterk’ and two and half cans were enough of this foul brew and I walked home, a nice 45 minute stretch of the legs and I hoped the 90 minutes of walk would help me sleep through the night since I haven’t had much success doing so at all this whole week and last night was no different and the skanky beer was objected to violently and the indigestion reached its zenith so from today I have stopped smoking though I think the leaky temporal filling caused the awful burning irritation and I don’t want to see this dentist again but I feel I should give her one more chance but I will let her know I was nauseous all week because of her work. 

I am grateful there was a bed a few meters away for I climbed under the covers periodically.  In between naps I washed a few clothes and pre-packed for next week’s journey to the island of Arthur Clarke.  The forecast for the following week shockingly is rain, it has not been an easy season for the islanders.  Mudslides killed hundreds three months ago, and the rain is keeping the tourist away.  I should pack an umbrella.

I am very close to heading to Dubai tomorrow to see Birdman.  Does my car’s performance bother me, well it’s doing ok now, yet there is concern and thinking it’ll be ok is wrong.  Nevertheless I’d go without a number to call for help and that isn’t too smart.  

The Sultan returns to his country tomorrow and a rumor swirls Sunday will be a holiday, not that that matters to some teachers who stopped coming in once exams finished.  Shame on them.  In any case, the leader’s return ought to be a jubilant occasion tinged with the understanding he most likely returned so he can die on his own soil.  Would you like to die in your own country, in the city of your birth, I don’t know, I guess it doesn’t matter to me.  If I knew in advance the time and day I was going to die perhaps I’d climb the highest mountain and perish for the birds of the air and beasts of the field.  A Tibetan burial of sorts would be ok by me. 

Jupiter is bright in the eastern sky, the moon rises later after it’s full moon showing until it doesn’t rise at all, where the hell does it go I should look it up.

Since finishing my first and maybe last Pynchon I am going through the New Yorker I bought last week and the Christmas release of the Economist.  I don’t really have a good travelling book right now and it kind of concerns me.  I acquired Niall Ferguson’s Civilization and it looks fascinating but is it beach reading, ah I don’t think so. 

There it is, an eight thirty orange moon rise, it’s top faded.  The Windham Hill Tibet album is funny because it’s city jazz, there’s not a single note that is Tibetan.  Odd.  And how about the Beijing buttheads protesting Obama and the Dalai Lama meeting at a prayer breakfast, is it worth spending any more time on the idiocy of these loons I don’t know.

I’ve slept a lot today and methinks if I were too leave extra early for Dubai I could be on the beach for sunrise and thus miss the morning traffic.  That would be a five am departure time, dude.  Ya, I don’t know.