Issue # 4

Winter 2005

erma

s s

Table of Contents
Issue 4
Freerangebeing.org, the magazine, a journal of the individuals quest for meaning, is dedicated to exposing the voice of individuals as they attempt to answer such questions as, Why are we here? or Now that we're here, Oh God, what do we do now? or What sort of place is this anyway? or, r e g r e t t a b l y, t h a t question that sometimes arises, This place stinks. Can we go now?

Features Letters:

Open Letter From Mz. Smith

our span filters missed this jewel of public campaigning through the internet. Read what sort of reactions it evoked.

The Pulpit: sermonesque Apologetics on the Urge to Write

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Indulge in this speculative anecdote on one of archeologys greatest discoveries. Burried was salvation, and in our minds: immortality

Tourist: the world itself

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Rio With Greek Subtitles

We are always open to talented artists and free thinkers from any persuasion, accepting material from the loudest voice, regardless of qualifications or format. Send submissions to:
staff@freerangebeing.org

Our favorite ruthless detective of worldwide cultures, Antonios Sarhanis teaches Capoeira to the Greek Consulate and Greek to all of Brazil

Translation

The Last Fakir

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Two wonderful stories under one heading, discover that we are all translators, then encounter for the first time in English an engaging story on friendship and fame.

Free Range Being P.O. Box 1066 Ft. Lauderdale, FL 33302

poetry

Im Afraid I Broke My Sponge

by Gary Dubola Memi
.

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Love us! Hate us?

voice@freerangebeing.org

cover image

Staff
Juan Carlos Martinez Founder jc@freerangebeing.org Juan Carlos Martinez Executive Editor jc@freerangebeing.org Juan Carlos Martinez Advertising We are not aiming to be as obscure as that roasted, sugary brew of our local coffeehouse by introducing an ancient term: termas. In fact we are mystified ourselves by the concept embodied by it since our internet dictionary defines termas as a Tibetan word meaning, 'spiritual treasure(s).' From the Nyingma tradition, termas are teachings, texts and/or religious objects concealed in the past by great spiritual masters. Hidden in the earth, rocks, lakes, trees, space and mind, termas are to be miraculously revealed by treasure finders at a time in the future when it could be of the greatest benefit. That is, they are burried or reserved for a time and place where they will catch or take hold in the minds of a people ready to receive them where in the time of that mystic, they would be discarded or ignored as lunacy. One might ask why a great mystic might conceal his/her teachings--trap it into inanimate objects such as a stone--when this great truth that this mystic preaches might be that one thing that everybody's been waiting for to reach their everlasting happiness? Some scholars say that all of Western philosophy is merely commentary on Socrates, Plato, andAristotle, and that nothing more has been added to the subject since then; it has only been elaborated upon. Have those Greek thinkers buried their thoughts around here somewhere because we are, after 2500 years, still discovering new aspects of their teachings? Maybe they buried them in the fine print. Or maybe its right under our nose, but unseen, like when weve lost our keys. Juan Carlos Martinez Design jc@freerangebeing.org Juan Carlos Martinez Web Management ditto Juan Carlos Martinez Distribution again, ditto
You are entitled to believe that this magazine is either a product of one, megalomaniacal person, or that, since it is a South Florida magazine, the mere coincidence that all of our staff is named the same is a problem of a proliferation of such a generic Latino name. Im sure each of you, dear reader, knows or has met a Juan Carlos Martinez somewhere around town. Subscriptions Arm yourself with some of this quality entertainment while its free, you cheap bastards! Fill out and send the mailer at the back of this magazine and recieve a years subscription (4 issues) gratis. -orSend a kind donation of $24 with the mailer made out to: FRB publications to receive 8 issues and sincere lovingkindeness from the staff. Youre the best!

Acknowledgments Freerangebeing.org would like to thank everyone whose t h o u g h t s , impressions, and advice have made this issue possible. Even if their names do not appear explicitly in the material, their presence was, nonetheless, indispensable. Thank you: F. Martinez-Catinchi Nilda Martinez Easmanie Michel David Chehebar Naga Reshi Leah Kern Eva Ruiz Jimmy Krimmer Nacho Weiss Joyce Scott George J. Bush Leon Kay
Photo by Easmanie Michel

from the editors desk

John Lennon, a mystic in his own right, cried out to our retiring generation-the generation of our current politicians--to give peace a chance. That's all he was saying, so it seems.

Not long ago, I sat in a particularly rowdy bar, keeping my eyes pinned onto the bar counter since, for one, a toothless young man with several tattoos kept yelling obscenities to the bartender, and also the stools next to me were so raucous that, soon, bar stools went flying and cue chalks were being flung against my shoulders. The din soon turned so messy that all the barroom chatter blurred together into nonsensical noise that sounded like, Bagism! Shagism! Dragism! Madism! Ragism and Tagism! However, when the motley crew was either thrown out or dispersed on its own, what the dust and spilled beer left behind was a somber man named Bobby sitting beside me. In short order he began to speak, he spoke well and intelligently, and was, in short, a mystic in his own right. He began with, What's this world coming to, and proceeded along to discuss revolution, evolution, flagellation, regulation, integration, meditation, united nations, and congratulations, and all those touchy subjects that makes one wonder, What the hell kind of place do we live in, anyway? What bears to reckon from our winding conversation, though, were two granules of wisdom that has made me pause often since our talk, wondering how the issues he raised might be reconciled. In the first, Bobby threw up his fingers, scowling at them as he talked, saying, My God! There are only ten commandments. Can you imagine if there had been more? Only ten! and, still, no one can do it . . .shit! In the second, Bobby began to unravel the story of his life wherein he revealed to me that his grandfather was among the wisest men that he had ever met. The grandfather, Bobby told me, pulled him aside one day after Bobby had spent a great deal of effort in his early twenties trying make something of himself. He told him, Your job in this world, and your only job, is to find your peace.

Advertisers Are you desperate to reach an audience that includes those with a mid to highly educated background enjoying ample leisure time through either affluence, retirement, alternative lifestyles, or pursuits of college and post-secondary education; or, to those who are currently involved with the production or appreciation of South Floridas creative or artistic pursuits? Check out our competitive rates at: www.freerangebeing. org > Advertisers

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Bobby took his suggestion to heart, and soon found himself traveling around the world searching for his peace, and as it happens for what are called seekers, he soon found the endeavor problematic. However, it would seem, he garnered a peculiarly conscientious attitude ripe with thoroughly thought through observations, but, as he said in hushed tones, he had misunderstood his grandfather, finding out some years later that he was looking in the wrong place. He asked me if I knew what he meant by finding his peace, and I answered, Sure I do. It's finding a sense comfortableness or acceptance with the world as it is. I was wrong, he said. In one conversation with his grandmother some years after his grandfather had died, Bobby was told that he had heard his grandfather wrong all along. In fact what his grandfather told him was that his job in this world was to find his piece. Mystified, I asked Bobby what that meant and he shared his most sacred wisdom to me that finding one's piece amounts to saying that oneself, the individual, is only a part of the world, and if one is to be completed as a person, one must understand other individuals since they are also part of you--a piece of you. I bring this anecdote up now since the most often asked question about this magazine is, What's it about? My friends, freerangebeing.org --with all of its philosophical hems and haws, and with all of its rhetoric and metaphysics--is only about essays, poems, stories, and artwork done by individuals like you and me who have something to say about their lives. So, It's about us, collectively. In this generation, let's give piece a chance, instead. Let's be curious about each other and foster toleration. Let's celebrate our differences rather than be threatened by them. As such, there might be only one, easy commandment after all: know thyself and others. We hope that you enjoy this issue and find a part of yourself within these pages. That's all we're saying, so it seems.

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mailroom mumbo-jumbo
our office anti-spam filter missed the following, but since we are ones not to object to anyones opinion, we present for your inspection not only the email itself, but also the two responses that it generated.

i : "Virg FROM
SUBJECT:

u Our Co

d, 2 : We DATED
Will we still be the Country of choice and still be America if we continue to make the changes forced on us by the people from other countries that came to live in America because it is the Country of Choice?????? Think about it! All we have to say is, when will they do something about MY RIGHTS? I celebrate Christmas...........but because it isn't celebrated by everyone..............we can no longer say Merry Christmas. Now it has to be Season's Greetings. It's not Christmas vacation, it's Winter Break. Isn't it amazing how this winter break ALWAYS occurs over the Christmas holiday? We've gone so far the other way, bent over backwards to not offend anyone, that I am now being offended. But it seems that no one has a problem with that. This says it all! This is an editorial written by an American citizen, published in a Tampa newspaper. He

Apr 200

did quite a job; didn't he? Read on, please! IMMIGRANTS, NOT AMERICANS, MUSTADAPT. I am tired of this nation worrying about whether we are offending some individual or their culture. Since the terrorists attacks on Sept 11th we have experienced a surge of patriotism by the majority of Americans. However....the dust from the attacks had barely settled when the "politically correct" crowd began complaining about the possibility that our patriotism was offending others. I am not against immigration, nor do I hold a grudge against anyone who is seeking a better life by coming to America. Our population is almost entirely made up by of descendants of immigrants. However, there are a few things that those who have recently come to our country, and apparently some born

n ia

Smith
e

n t ry

ic Our Cho

here, need to understand. This idea of America being a multicultural community has served only to dilute our sovereignty and our national identity. As Americans.......we have our own culture, our own society, our own language and our own lifestyle. This culture has been developed over centuries of struggles, trials, and victories by millions of men and women who have sought freedom. We speak ENGLISH, not Spanish, Portuguese, Arabic, Chinese, Japanese, Russian, or any other language. Therefore, if you wish to become part of our society, learn the language! "In God We Trust" is our national motto. This is not some Christian, right wing, political slogan.. We adopted this motto because Christian men and

women.......on Christian principles.............founded this nation..... and this is clearly documented. It is certainly appropriate to display it on the walls of our schools. If God offends you, then I suggest you consider another part of the world as your new home because .......God is part of our culture. If Stars and Stripes offend you, or you don't like Uncle Sam, then you should seriously consider a move to another part of this planet. We are happy with our culture and have no desire to change, and we really don't care how you did things where you came from. This is OUR COUNTRY, our land, and our lifestyle. Our First Amendment gives every citizen the right to express his opinion and we will allow you every opportunity to do so! But once you are done complaining....... whining...... and griping.......about our flag........our pledge...... o u r n a t i o n a l motto........or our way of life......I highly encourage you to take advantage of one other Great American Freedom.......THE RIGHT TO LEAVE. It is Time for America to Speak up. If you agree -pass this along; if you don't agree -- delete it! AMEN I figure if we all keep passing this to our friends (and enemies) it will also, sooner or later get back to the complainers, lets all try, please

E R ANT : CONTFSTOM

Ferna

No. SUBJECT:

Puerto R

1ATED: D
Dear Virginia Smith,

Wed, 2

Clo A but ( n o t ex a c tl y U S

se

June 200

Emails such as this one are offensive because they reveal the extreme ignorance of the writer and her misguided sense of freedom and individual rights! This country is great because, among other things, we all have the ability to worship or not as we please! That is the definition of freedom. The reason politically correct phrases such as 'Seasons Greetings' and 'Winter Break' have become popular is out of RESPECT for those who do not share your faith. It is Intolerant-BibleThumping people like you that give the Christian faith a bad name. You cannot be happy simply enjoying your freedoms, but are content only by imposing your faith on others thereby impinging on their freedoms! Political correctness can definitely be taken too far but ultimately its proponents are preaching TOLERANCE and UNDERSTANDING of others. That's what we need more of in this country, not the intolerance that you are advocating. What pisses me off more than anything else is that you preach this intolerance in the name of GOD. How dare you presume to speak for HIM. Who do you think you are anyway? One thing that I am certain is that God doesn't care whether or not his name is printed on our money or

whether the 10 commandments are posted in our courtrooms. I am however, certain that he cares about how we treat each other and is a definite proponent of freedom. Was it not He who gave Adam and Eve the freedom to choose in the first place?!! When in doubt, you should happily favor tolerance even if it requires some sacrifice on your part. Let us not forget how many MILLIONS of people have died in the name of GOD! Crusades ring a bell? Spanish Inquisition? How about 9/11? History is littered with murderous acts done by someone or some group in power claiming to act in HIS name! That is why we must be ever vigilant in this country about keeping church and state separate! It is the right thing to do!!! A few final thoughts: 1) If we moved 'Winter break' into January I am certain you would be pissed as hell that you could not have Christmas Day off! Be careful what you ask for. 2) The next time you encourage others to use their freedom to vote with their feet, I would be happy to remind you that you are free to do the same! Have a nice day.

n do

z artine M

i co

image donated by JIMMY KRIMMER

.C. two NT : J ER A CONTFSTOM

o. NBJECT: F r e e k SU

cent s

tine worthMar

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2ATED: D
Just a few historical notes for Virginia Smith:

Wed, 2

Ric an
5

As far as "the culture that has developed over centuries of struggles," I have to ask one simple, perhaps stupid, question: When you get a strong sensation in your stomach, a deep yearning or void that asks you, "What should I eat tonight," we might wonder what happens if that question yields the response, "I want to eat good 'ol American cuisine." Would you go for pizza and a beer? No. Though pizza is, in fact, a creation of the USA, its design came from the minds of Italian immigrants who, even back then, were considered to be overrunning this fine nation. Americans eat approximately 100 acres of pizza each day, and so I suppose that by now, Sicily has blanketed the entire US with

its dirty culture several times over. Beer's been around as far back as the Egyptians, and generally, we might think of those German immigrants of yore who, refusing to drink the local moon-shine, refused to break their heritage and introduced such things as Budweiser (mind you the name of that beer comes directly from a German town), and I don't even speak German. Would you eat a taco? Sorry, that's Mexican. Would you eat some macaroni and cheese, maybe a budget meal of spaghetti and Ragu sauce? Oh God! Those Italians are overrunning our American way of life!!! how 'bout steak and potatoes? Unfortunately, potatoes are not indigenous to the US since their original

June 200

homeland was, in fact, Peru--a Spanish speaking country. That tuber was an immigrant too. Furthermore, the Potato Famine in Ireland drove all those McMurphy's and McDonald's to our shore. How can you support a piece of bark that has muddled the American Race? Cows also often yearn for their homeland even though they won the war on Buffalos since their arrival on our shores in 1611. They're an oppressed species, after all. Maybe you have a hankering for some sweet and sour chicken? I think this one is obvious to everyone. But if you can put your cultural differences aside, you get a fortune cookie at the end of your meal for being a nice little customer WHERE IS AN "AMERICAN RESTAURANT!!!" WHERE IS OUR MOST VALUABLE CULTURE THAT NEEDS TO BE SAFEGUARDED? Another historical note: Carolinas first settlements constitution (then not divided into North and South) was drafted, by none other than one of the most shrewd political scientist of history, John Locke. Surprisingly it was the first instance of a three tier system of government--our first proto-constitution of executive, legislative, and judicial branches that we have now. Unfortunately Locke's a Brit, and we fought for our "American culture" against the Brits. If you want to be a purist about "our culture" perhaps you should take Mz. Virginia's suggestion and take a ride on a airplane back to England, because the USA is, unfortunately, just a version 2.0 of the English system. And, if you want to go even further into First, Second and third amendments, well, then you get into the territory of discussions on "natural rights," which, of course, are drawn from thinkers that date back all the way to the Greeks and throughout history such as Plato, Aristotle, Cicero, Thomas Hobbes, etc. None of them were American. The US culture did not emerge from a vacuum. And really . . . let's be honest. The idea of

Patriotism is when love of your own people comes first; nationalism, when hate for people other than your own comes first. Charles de Gaulle

Nationalism is an infantile disease. It is the measles of mankind. Albert Einstein

10

freedom that we cherish is not the fact that if you don't like the USA, you're free to leave, but the idea that you are "free to live as you choose as long as it doesn't infringe on anybody else's freedom to live as they choose." "Freedom" as a concept has a long history and has been considered different things at different times, but the one we hold onto now (except for our esteemed Mz. Virginia) is the one stated above. And so, since speaking Spanish, French, Dutch and so on hurts no one (except for Mz. Virginia who seems not to have taken to heart the lessons of elementary school that, "Sticks and Stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me") then it's most likely accepted that, at least in this country, you may speak whatever language you want. And yet another historical Note: It is rather unfortunate that most high school class rooms forget to mention the unquestionable fact that most of the "Founding Fathers" were not Christians after all. They were (and this is not a fabrication) followers of a now dead religion: Deism. It was a fashionable religion in 1800's, and it might surprise everyone to know that it was as damn near to atheism as you can get without

losing your belief in God or some form of celestial monarch. At any rate, most professional historians agree that this country was founded more closely to Deist dogma than Christian ones, and as such, God had nothing to do with it at all. I think that Mz. Virginia is using the dollar bill as her only documentation to support her idea on these Christian people who founded the nation, and if that's the case, I wonder why she hasn't decided to include the other motto on that bill: "Novus Ordo Seclorum." Of course, she wouldn't be interested in that because it's written in Latin, and around these parts we speak English, not that language of those dirty Latins that are overrunning our fine country! It is unfortunate, I think, that those who thump and pound their fists, urging everyone keep America pure, are the least informed about their nation's history, ideas, and culture.
We dont have answers nor 100% correct views here, only opinions based upon the available information. Have something to add or refute? voice@freerangebeing.org

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I'm afraid I broke my sponge

by Gary Dubola Memi
I'm afraid I broke my sponge after years of calibrated celebration I'm afraid that it was quite possibly the best sponge ever because it is all I know I will never know I'm afraid that this broken sponge tragedy has affected the world and I am afraid that the world is but a sea of broken sponges While this doesn't look so bad from loftier levels I am sure that if you get close enough it may be the scariest thing ever One might argue that the dirt is where the good stuff is in between the cracks and crevices inside the narrow tunnels that may lead to somewhere may lead nowhere but most likely lead to more holes If we could collectively ring out the dirt in one mighty heave we could come pretty darn close to getting it all back

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But isn't it the dirtiest little secret of dirt that without the all of it every last drop we could quite possibly get lost in the details and wouldn't it be just like us to do just that

13

JOHNNY CASH VIRUS SPREADING

AFFLICTED KEEP SINGING LYRIC, I DONT LIKE IT, BUT I GUESS THINGS HAPPEN THAT WAY

the pulpit
Indulge in this speculative anecdote on one of archeologys greatest discoveries. Burried was salvation, and in our minds: immortality.

Apologetics
on the

Urge to Write
by J.C. Martinez
apologetics 1 : systematic argumentative discourse in defense (as of a doctrine)

his is a true story. In 1945 six camel drivers were wandering through Egypt. Now these camel drivers must not have been extraordinary as camel owners. Instead they probably were your garden variety nomads, and yet, perhaps, shared some characteristics with their urban brethren counterparts. See, this ancient culture, in this day and age, spends a great deal of time trying to convince wayward tourists to get their picture taken next to one of these horrific beasts. They're not a very comely creature, and one might suppose their ugliness has some charm. But if ever you've traveled to Cairo, you would know that the whole trade attracts a very shifty sort of person when the bill for the photo finally lands in your hands.

Well, these camel drivers weren't in Cairo. They were near a village where the Nile bends in a sharp way. It's not sure whether or not they actually had their camels with them since they were digging for fertilizer. What is known is that they were of humble background (probably because they didn't have their camels to make a bit of cash from tourists on the way to the river banks), and they were, nonetheless, very shifty. Now they came upon an ugly, unphotographed, sight. We know they made no record of it because, after asked, they took their greedy solicitors, who would later be very interested in their discovery, to no less than four different locations. Anyway, there they found a skull buried into the peat, and as they excavated through the once

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decomposing material they found next to it an earthenware jar that was hermetically sealed. After some deliberation as to whether or not opening the jar would cause them some sort of magical harm--they thought there might by a malicious jinni inside of it--their natural inquisitiveness got the better of them. Thinking that anything worth burying must be valuable in some way, they shattered the vessel, and to their dismay, found nothing more than thirteen leatherbound books. They were of humble background, and thus, illiterate, so reading must not have represented much of a thrilling booty to them. One of them, Mohammed Ali, a man we can infer as reputed to be either a man of vision by his friends, and a lunatic from his detractors, and since we might also infer that he was a shade greedier than his companions (no doubt the one influential with the decision to shatter the jar in the first place), he alone elected to take the books home when his companions deferred their claims to their share of the treasure. Well, all hell broke loose after that. His wife used several pages to kindle the fire that night, and the authorities were on his back for suspicion of involvement in a blood-feud murder. But, still possessed to make a profit from these relics, he handed them over to a local priest for safekeeping, understanding the risk that his future glory may end up sacrificed to a fire or repossessed by the authorities before he had anything to say about the issue. Now in the hands of

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the literate, suspicion of what, indeed, move making sure that no one forgot the book had to say grew into a fever. that he was the one entitled to riches If something has value simply that, in the time before its name because it's found in the ground, it became disreputable, a Sotheby's must certainly have value since no auction would soon generate for him one decides to write anything anyway from the highest bidder. And, in his if they don't think it's important. So mental designs from this remarkable after a brother-in-law got involved, windfall, he thought that before he then an antiquities dealer, and then a rode off into the sunset upon his museum in Cairo, all these folks camel, he would never forget at some scratched their head, and thought point in the day to remind his wife, IF and pondered the issue, and brought IT WERENT FOR ME. . . AND YOU in experts who could read that dead WANTED TO BURN IT! But the language found on the pages of those auction was still pending, so for the time being he books: Coptic. was satisfied to Then another have grown rich person came in his righteous who could anger. translate. Then the Museum, The brother-inversed in the art law and the of preservation, priest probably brought in, no were the ones to d o u b t , a grow most rich. photographer to Let's just say archive those before he rode off into the that they, being camel-less sunset upon his camel, he men of piety and pages at a fair would never forget at some devotion to God, price; and, all the while, point in the day to remind his grew richer in their ability to do everyone was wife, IF IT WERENT FOR ME. . . this effectively. wondering, My God! How can we become rich from these dusty, See, what they found was just a collection of stories. The stories were nonsensical works? about miracles and the rise great This short account has a happy kingdoms; of salvation, and of how it ending. That is, after they figured out was that we came to be here on this what the book said, everyone earth; about why and wherefore we became rich. The Museum grew rich were even born, and how, at once, we in hosting one of the greatest can dwell in everlasting happiness. historical treasures of history. The In short, what was found was ripe with antique dealer probably got his usual holiness, revelation, and insights on Furthermore, the commission percentage as a finder's- who we are. fee. And no doubt our humble, historical import was astounding. Muhammad Ali, did a little stick and These scriptures were known to have

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existed for centuries and millennia, but with time and its funky way of leveling the greatest mountains, the scriptures had been erased from the Human Record. Those words were forever lost to us, and the only way we knew that they ever happened to be written in the first place was that people in the way-back of the Middle Ages managed to make reference to them in their letters and debates. They talked about them as if it was common knowledge. They knew, and we didn't. Perhaps they didn't necessarily have a better insight into them, but they were, nonetheless, one up on us in primary sources to draw from. Perhaps it is only in me, but this whole thing engenders deep consternation. That is, until 1945 we didn't know what the hell all these penitent people of the past were referring to when they did a little scriptural name-dropping. These writings, once hopelessly lost, are now found, and now anyone can go over to the local bookstore or the library and pick a copy of it up, real cheap. Roughly thirty bucks and all

of your questions can be put to rest once and for all. Astounding! There was a chance that we might have lost it forever. And, as far as th we could figure here in the 20 century, though these texts were still floating around in the middle ages, for us there were 1800 years of empty historical void between the time these scriptures were written and us in the present day. As far as we could reckon, since it was written in the second century, nearly two thousand years passed for our irreconcilably thirsty minds, and then, when we found them, we sighed with relief, At last! So, in a way, the good news, the happy ending in all of this is that the entire globe, the whole of the human race has found itself very, very wealthy from such a treasure. Well that's the story. I suppose the burning question at this time must be, What was it that Muhammad Ali found? Well, it really doesn't matter, because that's not the point of the story. The point here is two fold. For one, its seems like such a monumental tragedy to

Tara Memi
Jazz Tap Lyrical

Dance Instructor/Choreographer
Experienced in Musical Theater Production and Kickline Choreography

Precision Dance Technique

tarametzger@hotmail.com

image donated by EVA RUIZ

me that something that has so much benefit to a full understanding of ourselves and our history could have ever be misplaced. Secondly, I think it is remarkable, since these texts were found through such a by-the-way chain of events, that nothing, zip, zilch, nada, is truly gone forever. There's always a trace left behind. If there were Indiana Jones's out there looking for these documents, they had, nonetheless, failed to look into a patch of fertilizer. And even if Indiana Jones were to hang up his whip and toss his cap over to the couch, dismayed that at last he had been defeated in this particular search, that same jar would still be in the ground, drifting through and endless sea of time until, at last, the Nile flooded over or changed course and eroded the soil and washed this sealed, buoyant treasure back into the world. Unbelievable. Finally, since a word is a word (its meaning may change a bit, but that can be overcome), by simply writing something down, any thoughts they address has the opportunity for transmission through a boundless stretch of time. We cannot listen to the music that people performed in the second century. We cannot taste their cuisine. We can not really know what sort of dress they wore, or what was fashionable. We cannot know, say, if different provinces of Rome had a cockney-Latin, or a southern-drawl Latin. But, what we can know for certain is, that Latin was there and it was put down into writing. And because of the quality of writing itself, the physical manifestation of Idea, we also know, not only the thoughts that they found

Contrary to the popular use of the word stoic that indicates an emotionless state or an apparently or professedly indifference to pleasure or pain, the rd Stoic philosophy originating in the 3 century BC indicates a profound embrace of life and living. Seneca, for instance refers to the shortness of life as means of drawing one's attention towards the urgency of celebrating rather than fretting over things like status, fortunes, and beauty. Those things come and go. Instead, he states of a wise person, he reckons not only his chattels and property and position but even his body and eyes and hands, even his own personality, as temporary holdings, and he lives as if he were on loan to himself [. . .] When the order to return the deposits comes he will not quarrel with Fortune but will say: I am thankful for what I have held and enjoyed. My management of your property has paid you dividends, but as you order me to do so I give it back, and withdraw cheerfully and gratefully. Though we have Seneca's thoughts st from the 1 Century AD, unfortunately, when he refers to the founders of the philosophical school, Zeno, Cleanthes, and Chrysippus, a modern academic mystery occurs since, We do not possess a single complete work by any of the first three heads of the Stoic school. Again, we await the tides of time to unearth them for us.

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important to discuss and to preserve, but also what they interpreted these things to mean. We cannot know them, but we can understand them, and this and only this because someone was kind enough to pause, and to write it down. It is selfevident, at least to me, that when we understand who they were, we understand ourselves just a bit better. What a gift the written word has been! What power there is in it! There ye shall find immortality . . .

image donated by EVA RUIZ

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tourist
Boldly going wherever my guidebook says I should go
Our favorite ruthless detective of worldwide cultures, Antonios Sarhanis teaches Capoeira to the Greek Consulate and Greek to all of Brazil

based on a true story

By Antonios M. Sarhanis

Rio With
Greek Subtitles
had to find myself a Greek consulate in Brazil to ask a question about my passport. Not thinking Greece had much to do with Brazil, I was very surprised to discover after a quick squizz on the internet that there are seven Greek consulate offices throughout Brazil. Seven! I found only one Greek restaurant in all of Rio de Janeiro, yet there are seven Greek consulates throughout Brazil! I was thinking I was not even going to find one office for the country of retsina drinkers where only 11 million people live, but I suppose all the Greeks in the foreign affairs office-department-thing want to be posted to places like Brazil instead of places like war torn Angola, where Greece also has a consulate. Setting up more offices in Brazil makes for a greater chance of having some South

American fun, and Greeks in the foreign affairs department I'm sure could make up many good and even official sounding reasons for having such an overstated presence in the country. So anyway, I headed off to the consulate in the more residential Cariocan suburb of Flamengo to get my question answered. Once there, Stelios, the dude at the front desk, told me that Spiros, the passport man, would be able to see me in about half an hour and answer any of my questions. So having half an hour to kill, me and Stelios chewed the fat marinated with a divine mix of lemon, garlic and oregano. Interestingly enough, it turns out Stelios has been living in Rio for the past 20 years after having given England and the USA a go but not finding them up to

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scratch. For whatever reason, Rio worked for him and he found himself a Brazilian wife with whom he has raised four children with. Wanting to amuse myself, and knowing Greeks to be a patriotic lot even though most of them dont live in Greece anymore, I baited him by asking if his wife can cook like his mother, if his family can dance a tsifteteli and if they can speak Greek. I knew what the answers would be, so it came as no surprise to hear that he made sure his wife could cook a decent pasticho before deciding to marry her, that his family dance the tsifteteli better than anyone in Greece and that his children speak excellent Greek. But even though I had begun with my own already stereotypically patriotic vision of Greek expatriates, it shocked me to find out that he had sent his poor eldest son to serve in the Greek army. Greece has 18 months worth of mandatory military service which you can avoid having to serve by simply living in another country. His son, who would be a Greek citizen because of his father being Greek even though he was born and raised in Brazil, could stay in Greece for as much as six months each year before having to join the army. Most of us Greek citizens born or raised in other countries take advantage of this and avoid military service whilst still enjoying the country every now and again. Stelios however sent his son to Greece specifically to serve in the army, as according to Stelios, was his son's duty as a Greek man. Thinking this was exceptionally odd, even for the most patriotic of Greeks who are usually even prouder of their disrespect for authority and rules, I became very afraid of the kind of person I was speaking to when I did some mental arithmetic. Twenty years ago, when Stelios first landed in Rio, Brazil was being run by a military government

that had been in power since 1964. Furthermore, when he left Greece, about twenty five years ago, Greece had only just become democratic again after having been ruled by a weird arse military junta that wanted to return Greece back to its ancient glory days. So that meant he left Greece after it was only just starting to emerge from a period of military rule, found the relatively democratic and free countries of England and the USA not to his liking, only to end up settling in Brazil, a country still being run by a military government that liked to repress, kill and torture every once in a while. I took a mental note of this man's love of all things military and decided when telling him the story of my family, not to mention that part of the reason my father came to Australia was so that he could avoid doing his obligatory military service. I also failed to mention that my grandfather was a communist guerrilla, instead babbling on about my mother's island, Kephallonia, for as long as I could.

Once native Australian Antonios M. Sarhanis spent the majority of 2004 traveling across the globe landing in such places as Peru, Germany, Greece and Cuba, making him now native of the Earth. The thoughts, images and impressions of his journey can be found on his BLOG: http://johnboy.typepad.c om/tourist/ He states that, travelling for eleven months has made a sizeable dent in my savings and [. . .] has not been the wisest of financial

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Soon enough though, the thirty minute wait was over and I was directed to Spiross office, where a single question that took twenty seconds to answer turned into a thirty minute social chat that served to explain why I had to wait that long to see him in the first place. Within this thirty minutes, Spiros smoked three cigarettes, offering me one each time he opened his packet, and fielded two lengthy personal calls. It was a quintessentially Greek performance, and possibly because we shared an understanding of the undeniable logic of our own culture, our conversation was exceptionally friendly, hitting a high note when we landed on the subject of the respective pros and cons of capoeira and Thai kick-boxing. Yes, Spiros, the passport dude at the office of the consulate general in Rio de Janeiro, was a huge fan of Thai kick-boxing, and just like any wog cruising down the slow lane on Chapel Street on any Friday night of the year, he wanted to get fit by kicking people's heads in. I told him that he should start capoeira seeing as he is in Brazil, but he was under the false impression that it would not adequately strengthen what he claimed were his ever atrophying legs. moves. [. . .] I've already given myself money through the service to get me travelling sooner. If I keep paying myself with my own money, I have calculated that I won't get anywhere any time soon. Despite the unwise financial move, perhaps his ailing bank account has made us, his readers, richer. Visit his website to make a donation.

image donated by EVA RUIZ

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Two Greek practitioners duke it out using the deadly tsamikos maneuver
That was when I decided to show him the very tiring cadeira position in capoeira, a position where your thighs are level with your knees and it looks like you're about to take a shit, just to prove how much it works your legs. He was skeptical at first, but once he got into position and stayed there for a few seconds, the man understood. We were two Greek men, looking like we were taking a dump in a small office of the consulate general in Rio de Janeiro, talking martial arts and pretending we were tough. Not surprisingly, we bonded over the experience. He gave me his phone number once the meeting was deemed over, claiming at the time that he would start watching TV in the cadeira position from now on. I walked out of there quite pleased with myself, thinking I may have converted someone to the capoeira cause, but later slapping myself for having completely forgotten to mention Australia and Greece's very own Stan "the Man" Longinides, who once was and maybe still is the world kick-boxing title holder. I reckon Spiros would have been mightily impressed by a Greek-Australian holding a kick-boxing title, and I reckon another fifteen minutes would have been needed to adequately cover all the official matters that would have been brought up in our meeting if the feats of Stan had ever been mentioned. But my exploration of spaces dedicated to all things Greek in Rio de Janeiro didn't stop there. A couple of weeks after my experience with the foreign affairs department, I danced the Zorba at the only Greek restaurant in all of Rio de Janeiro after I took some curious Brazilian friends to see how we hairy chested people eat, dance and smash plates. Unfortunately the food was exceptionally ordinary, there was no retsina available and the owner of the restaurant was a boring fuck, but the Brazilians didn't know any better and they thought the food and ambience was wonderful. Me and my Brazilian troupe decided to head down to the restaurant on a Friday

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night on the promise that there was to be some Greek dancing and plate smashing in the land of the samba. Even though I was not expecting anything at all decent, I was still shocked to find two belly dancers from the sizeable Lebanese community in Brazil being passed up as dancing in a traditionally Greek manner, and finding them shaking their thing to Arabic music. Even Shakira was played for these Lebanese ladies masquerading as Greek dancers to shake their bellies to, and if the ladies weren't so attractive, I would have demanded the head of the treasonous Greek restaurant owner who was presenting to an unsuspecting Brazilian audience music and dance that was more Turkish than Greek. When real Greek music finally came on, and the ladies started dancing shite, I could not withstand the affront to my cultural heritage any longer and stormed onto the middle of the dance floor to lead proceedings and showcase the flair of a Greek man in full flight. I danced a tzamiko and a kalamatiano to showcase for the people of Brazil the culture of Greece, and felt overwhelmingly relieved that the people were not going to be leaving the restaurant thinking some Arabic belly wobbling was a traditional Greek way to give vent to our passions and desires on the dance floor. The plate smashing was also another sorry affair, thankfully salvaged from what would have been an embarrassing reflection on the nation of

Greece with some energetic dancing, when a single shitty plate for smashing was handed out to each customer in the restaurant that evening. Every person rolled their eyes in tight arsed disappointment upon receiving their solitary plate, but when the opening didi-didi-ding of the Zorba announced itself from the stereo to end proceedings for the evening, I knew I could make the night memorable for the Brazilians wanting to experience the joy of being Greek and dancing to fever pitched highs. The people parted as I made my way onto the dance floor where I knew the time had come to do my duty as a Greek man. I asked the restaurant owner if he was to share the spotlight with me and the damn fine Lebanese ladies in the middle of the dance floor, but the treacherous bastard refused. After the owner wouldn't dance the Zorba, I was certain the guy must have been Turkish, maybe Albanian, or quite possibly one of those Yugoslavians trying to pretend they're Macedonian. A man that does not dance a Zorba with his chest out, his head held high and with the kind of expression that lays bare the torment in one's soul is most definitely not Greek, so it was up to me and only me to provide a performance that night that would get the audience understanding how a Greek man dances and how a Greek man lives. With the wailing bouzoukis reaching their climactic crescendo as Zorbas dance goes into overdrive, a room full of

Capoeiristas come together in their ritual game to display their intricate dance steps and cultural heritage.

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image donated by EVA RUIZ

Brazilians smashed their plates in unison and caught a glimpse of the emotional epiphanies that electrify each expression of every Eleftherios, Erasmus or Elias the Greek world over. And with that, everyone in the room got an idea of what it means to be Greek, to experience the lows of life and to then experience the sweetened joy of the stronger highs that are a result. And with that, everyone in the room knew they had seen a Greek man dance. After having felt the prickles of my post five o clock shadow, having led the dancing with a fine round of applause from the crowd and having left the restaurant with a fine Brazilian beauty on my arm, on that fine summer's night I was certain that I was the most authentic Greek man in all of Rio de Janeiro. That evening, I gave more to my beloved Greece than any eighteen months of obligatory military service ever would, and with a tear in my eye, I vowed to all who cared to listen that I was gonna grow myself a moustache. Nothing came of the moustache and it was the very next day when I was back to my normal self after having been transformed into the ber Greek, but for a few fleeting moments there, I was the poster boy for the Greek nation, and I was proud!

The origin and development of capoeira usually begins with the statement, It is generally agreed . . . That is, its history as a martial art wrought from the African slave trade and brought to its contemporary form in Brazil is still under debate. To d a y, a demonstration of capoeira generally has a festive element where two figures hover around each other in slow movements involving mock kicks, blows, and acrobatics while an arena of other capoeristas beat drums, play instruments, and chant songs in Planet Capoeira unison. Magazine asks: Is it a fight? Is it ritual? Do you fight? Do you play a game? P r e s u m a b l y, t h e demonstration re-enacts capoeira's origin were the oppressed could carry on their resistance without alerting their oppressors to their activities through what looked like a game, dance or ritual. Needless to say, it is still considered a fighting style and still its songs echo a yearning for the goodness to come. It is generally agreed in the realm of activism that the world is going to hell in a hand basket. Perhaps there is something to learn from the capoeirstas of old. If resistance is to occur, perhaps it is better to make it resemble or become a game since, after all, who in their right mind would want to get angry rather than to boogie

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howdy neighbor

translation

Nacho Weiss loves words, spoken as well as sung. He lives in Miami, but his mind is often somewhere else.

The Last Fakir

A Story By Luis Sepulveda Translated into English

By Nacho Weiss Preface

Translators Note
once heard Isabel Allende speak. She told the story of an old man who lived alone in a town somewhere. He was in his final years, feeling the empty sadness of time's passage, and hardly ever ventured beyond the threshold of his front door. It was reputed that he had a great fortune which he kept in a wooden trunk in his bedroom closet. One day, a band of thieves conspired to steal his riches; and so, that same night, for there was no moon, they went to where he lived. Quietly, they entered his bedroom through an open window and made off with the trunk as the old man slept. The ease of their deed caused them laughter all the way home. Back in their thieves' lair they mirthfully

pried open the trunk and found, not the gold and jewels that they had anticipated, but rather, letters. Correspondences. The trunk contained all the love letters, each in its individual envelope, and chronologically arranged, from a romance the old man had lived long ago, during the freshness of his youth. Infuriated, the thieves contemplated returning to the old man's house and killing him. But one thief came up with an even more despicable plan. He suggested they send the letters back to the old man, one by one, day by day, and so torment him with nostalgia until he wished he were dead. The first letter arrived after a few days. The old man retrieved the letter from

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the mailbox in front of his house and went back inside. He sat down in his armchair, opened it up, and began reading. What he felt upon seeing those words, borne from a bosom's passion in another lifetime, was indeed nostalgia. But not the painful nostalgia that the thieves had hoped for. He felt, rather, a warmth of memory that had gone unkindled in the cold hearth of his emotions for many, many years.

chose, instead, to continue humoring the old man, thus leaving their daily schedule of mailings intact. The old man, in turn, spent the rest of his days in happiness, warmed by the old coals of nostalgia, as well as the new flames of a current love.

In telling this tale, Isabel illustrates what, she believes, is the role of the author. Like the thieves of the story, authors give us, through a new The following day, the next letter experience, something we've already arrived, and the following day, the next experienced and relate to. They are, in one after that. By the end of the week o t h e r w o r d s , the old man had a translators. For that new purpose in life a For that matter, raison de vivre, so matter, dancers are dancers are translators, actors are to speak as he translators, actors translators, musicians relived the fragrant are translators, joke perfume of a past are translators, tellers are translators. passion. It was as if musicians are And more to the point, he were in love all translators, joke translators are over again! Once translators. more, he was seen t e l l e r s a r e about town. And translators. And So, here I offer my twist every morning, he more to the point, on a story told to me by trotted anxiously to Luis Sepulveda. the street, a ballad translators are Ultimately, though, the on his breath, in wait translators story tells itself. of the postman's arrival. When the thieves caught wind of their scheme's failure, they contemplated destroying the remaining letters. But by then their ire had subsided, and they

Christmas Day, 1998 Madison, Wisconsin

image donated by EVA RUIZ

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The Last Fakir

Original entitled El Ultimo Faquir by Luis Sepulveda.
Certainly it's true. Nobody can say that you had a better friend than this one who speaks to you now sucking on his tears, and although they were few, the people who knew us, all of them, I believe, noticed this great affection, that showed itself, in its way, gradually, as true male affection is shown, which sometimes doesn't require excessive words, and suffices in filling the glass without spilling the wine. Simply male affection. Affection of a cigarette pack thrown on the table with no more explanation than the foretold desire to smoke. Affection, silence, and a slap on the back after listening to, for hours, the rosary of misfortunes that always surrounded you. Male affection that almost everyone saw, almost everyone, except you, of course. Remember, brother, because we are brothers, aren't we? Remember that it was I who told you one morning that you must do as theatre performers do, who, at most, give two shows a day. Remember that it was I who insisted on you dignifying and respecting that fistful of talent which occasionally rises out of our anguish and empty stomachs. And remember also that it was I who arrived one day with the little poster freshly painted on white bristol board. How pretty it turned out! If I still remember: There is no doubt of any worth, and the truth will assert itself in this world of charlatans. Newspaper and television have demonstrated it to millions of nonbelievers. Ali Kazam is the last of the remaining fakirs. Ali Kazam eats lightbulbs as if they were wafer cookies and swallows razor blades like someone taking aspirin. Ali Kazam achieves these feats by the grace of a vegetarian lifestyle which he endures with more consistency than a horse. Ali Kazam is skinny but healthy, and is grateful for the cooperation of his

By all accounts, Chilean born Louis Sepulveda was seen as a troublemaker. Given a five year scholarship after college to study drama at the Moscow University, he was thrown out after five months for misconduct-hanging out with the wrong crowd. Then after the Chilean coup of 1973, he was jailed for two-and-a-half years only to go underground after his release through the efforts of Amnesty International. In hiding, he set up a drama group that became the first cultural focus of resistance. He was rearrested and given a life sentence (later reduced to twenty-eight years) for treason and subversion. And, now, he sails with Greenpeace, still making a stink about a suffering globe, claiming, I seek, as a citizen of any country, Colombia, Chile or Peru, to establish at least a minimal harmony between the place where I live and what I am. So what is he? A writer, a dramatist, a troublemaker, or an activist? He says of his views, There is an old house in Quito where you pay a few pennies to sit on tiny wooden stools and listen to old people telling stories. I used to go there quite often. There was one time I could hardly believe it as I heard it when one of the stories began: 'Once upon a time there was a prince...' It was Hamlet! They were telling the story of Hamlet, correct in every respect, in their own words. Where did they know it from? Like the environment, stories have no national boundaries. Art and activism--perhaps they are one.

respectable audiences who amazedly witness his performances. Twice a day Ali Kazam will swallow, before your eyes, all sorts of glass and metal objects, taking leave afterward to rest, and to meditate seated on a board spiked with nails. Come. Bring your family. See Ali Kazam, the last true fakir, remaining in these times of swindle and imitation. Ali Kazam will perform for only a few days in this city, before continuing on his journey, which began in his country, the far away and mysterious India, in search of peace and truth. And excuse me for reminding you, brother, because we are brothers, aren't we, that it was also I who gave you your name, because, had I not been present, you and your idea of Maurice the Great wouldnt have made it as far as the street corner. Even your turban I made for you, an exact copy of one that came out in Readers Digest, because reading is sometimes good for something. A turban worthy of a sultan it turned out to be, very different than that pile of bandages they crowned your head with in the circus! If I say all these things to you now, I do so not with the intention of getting any favors. No. That which is done is done, and stays that way. I only want to remind you that without me you wouldn't have been anybody, nor would your stage name have appeared in any newspapers. Remember how in the circus they left you, in the end, changing the sawdust that the

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lions pissed on, because when you got a cramp in the middle of the gala performance, it was more than obvious that you didn't have any talent for being rubber-man. And then, who noticed you and your skinny bones, all shaking and trying uselessly to get your leg off your neck? Well, it was me buddy. Your friend. Remember how I approached you, paying no attention to the respectable audience's guffaws and ignoring the manager's motherfuckers, and I helped you untie yourself, and said to you: My friend, up close, you have the irresistible look of a fakir, and you looked at me with those eyes of yours, eyes of a lamb on the sacrificial threshold, and you didn't have the faintest inkling of the great future that I had in store for you. Who lent you Lobsang Rampa's books so that you'd learn something about India? Well, it was me. Your friend.

Who didn't make a peep when you traded the books, without even having read them, for some bottles of the raunchiest red wine? Well, it was this big heart here, buddy. Your friend. Remember how I taught you the way that the merchant marines do it by chewing glass until it turns into flour and hiding it under their tongues. Remember how I got you the paint phials, like the ones that magicians carry in their hats when they do the egg trick. And, remember how I bought you bottles of booze, the strongest stuff, cane liquor from tanneries, that is, to dry out your gums and toughen your mouth. Shake your memory, my friend, and tell me if it wasn't I who taught you how to place the razor blades between your teeth, ever so slowly, afterward, moving them with your tongue. And don't forget how much it cost me to get shots of anesthesia for the time when you did the bit where you stuck needles through your arms.

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It's not that I'm asking you for anything, buddy, because we are buddies, aren't we? I just want to tell you that nobody, not even you yourself, can say that there was another friend better than me in your life. The friend that shaped you, that led you by the hand along the path of success, and made you drink the wine of applause. Me, your friend, the one who made you a performer. But you, and pardon me if I say this to you now, under such laughable circumstances, were always stubborn, more stubborn than a mule. So many times I said to you: Buddy, y o u g o t t o understand that, in addition to talent, each man has his own limitations, but talking to you became more and more futile, perhaps, now that I think about it, because the fame was going to your head.

you, a fag dressed like a fandango dancer said to me, as if it hadn't taken me twenty nights of pricking my fingers to embroider the zodiac sings in the exact same order in which they appear in the Bristol almanac. How many times I told you, Buddy, don't go out drinking in your fakir outfit, can't you see they think you're a nut? And you, going on and on about how they mistook you for the ambassador of Pakistan. Oh, brother!, excuse me for saying it to you again, but you were a stubborn one, more stubborn than a mule. Now that I'm sitting down, now that I've smoked a pack of cigarettes, I'm thinking and thinking, and as much as I turn the matter over, I can't figure out where the hell you got the sabre. According to the dwarf, you said, with quite a few drinks in you, The time has come for Ali Kazam to do a stunt never seen in this shitty circus. The time has come for Ali Kazam, the last fakir, to stop eating nails and shoetacks, and swallow a whole sabre. A cavalry sabre, without salt and to the hilt. When they called me, I was calmly seated next to my nice glass of wine, you know, those tranquil wines that I drink, those scandal-free, quiet wines on which I concentrate and create the new stunts that harvest us so much applause. To be frank, I was thinking of a terrific stunt, a spectacular number for which we'd need only to double the dose of anesthesia in you. I was just at that point, and, to prove it, remember how I left you alone during the last three performances. But, as the Bible says,

I swear that it made me laugh when I saw how they carried you out, sitting on the stretcher with your legs crossed, your mouth wide open and half a sabre shoved down your throat.

Remember how I almost died of anger all those times that you drank booze on an empty stomach, and I had to explain to the respectable audience that your staggering gait was not caused by inebriation, but was, rather, natural weakness resulting from the fast observed by all fakirs, and that it should be respected. Or, to be more explicit, do you remember that time I got you your first T.V. performance?, do you remember how, the night before, without saying half a word to me, you pawned your cape in a whorehouse? I had to scour every brothel in the port to get your fakir's outfit back, and, by asking all those whores, I finally found your cape being used as a tablecloth on a greasy table. I'll buy the curtain from

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it made me laugh to see you like that, with your eyes shut and two little threads of blood falling from your lips
Now thou seeth. You never won the people's complete trust; always with your last minute fits. When they called me, I went running. You know that I never left you alone in a tight spot. And excuse me, but I swear that it made me laugh when I saw how they carried you out, sitting on the stretcher with your legs crossed, your mouth wide open and half a sabre shoved down your throat. Seeing you, I almost fell over backwards, but in the end it made me laugh to see you like that, with your eyes shut and two little threads of blood falling from your lips. It made me laugh to see how the nurses held your hands down so that you wouldn't try to pull the sabre out by yourself, or push it all the way to win the bet. Excuse me for saying it to you now, buddy, but you would never have changed. A nurse has told me that they've removed the sabre from you, and that they'll be over with the delivery soon. I asked him if it was the sabre they'd be dropping off, and he said they'd bring that too, but that he meant you. As soon as we finish sewing him up, we'll send him over, he told me. Outside, there's a woman crying. Why didn't you tell me you were married? She's yelled a bunch of insults at me, and has threatened to send me to jail because I'm the one responsible for your foolishness in believing that you were a fakir. I've swallowed the insults. You know me. The only thing I've said to her is that, I taught him a profession, ma'am, let's say I'm his manager and, in passing, his best friend. But she keeps screaming out there that I'm the only one responsible for her craziness. So then, here you have me. Waiting for them to deliver you, perhaps wrapped up in the same cape that I embroidered for you and that brought us such good times, perhaps wrapped up in a sheet or in a plastic bag. It doesn't matter. Here you have your buddy, your best friend, forever manning the guns, just like in the good 'ol days.

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I don't know what's in store. But one thing I want left very clear: I was always your best friend, the one who taught you the tricks that left people agape, the one who embroidered your cape and bought you good luck charms, the one who's with you now, separated by a white wall, the one who will have to pay for the coffin, the candles and the priest, the one who will get a wreath in the name of the circus union, the one who will fight so your death goes down as a work accident, the one who will ask for a minute of silence for the soul of Ali Kazam at tonight's performance. A door is opening now. Two men are bringing in a stretcher, and I manage to recognize one of your pointed tennis shoes. One of the men asks: Who gets the cold cut, and I answer him: I do, sir. Relative, the nurse asks. No, his best friend, I tell him, because it's true.

Translated to English by Carolina and Ignacio Weiss, Thesaurus, Vox, Larousee, Webster, a ferris wheel, Operator, an Arab in Panama, a guy in a bar, a monkey in the zoo, a Kurdish wine taster December 24, 1998 Madison, Wisconsin