My Brother

 

The Fatwa against nuclear research made it forbidden for Muslims to engage in it. As long as they obeyed it. Of course, many people doubted that it did anything more than throw sand in our eyes while Iran pursued a nuclear program anyway. But they put their fatwas where their turbans are by joining the Nuclear Non-Proliferation Treaty, which subjected them to the rigors of inspections, regulations, surveillance, protocols, checks and double/triple checks, and bureaucracy. Trust but verify, as Ronald Regan liked to say. These are things that our friends, the Greatest Democracy in the Mideast, declined. Politely, of course.

When I lived in Israel in the 1970’s, the region was populated by a mix of Israelis, Palestinians, Jews, Christians, Muslims, and vagabonds like myself, living in… not exactly affection… But in a quasi-state of enlightened self-interest… with benefits. I saw lots of examples of people working together. And maybe even liking it. Shhh! Don’t tell any of them! They wouldn’t like to hear that. That would be like telling a black man who is a shoeshine boy and a white man who is a taxi driver that one liked driving the other to the city and the second liked shining his shoes when they got there. Familiarity may breed contempt but sometimes it breeds cooperation.

I believed in Zionism back then. I saw it as a positive force, with tempests along the way. And wars. But I hoped that, along the way, they might find a way to build a better life together, driving taxis and shining shoes for each other. For the same reason I refuse to take a narrow and insulting demeanor toward people who I disagree with. TDS, Trump Derangement Syndrome, disturbs me.

I consider myself a lifelong LWS: Liberal with Sympathies. Many of my fellow liberals today are LWH: Liberal with Hostility. I started seeing the liberalism I grew up with plummet into a self-righteous, contemptuous, hypocritical, Wokier-Than-Thou, group of busy-bodies yammering about everything and nothing without doing anything useful about it. Today’s liberals are outraged about everything and have more chips on their shoulders than Frito Lay.

This is Faux Liberalism. Fascist Liberalism.

If you are one of those, do you know what you look like? How you sound?

You would make a very good Fundamentalist Evangelical Christian.

Am I naïve?

Gullible?

Easily duped?

Sure. Why not? I’ll take it.

But like Winston Churchhill said:

“It is better to jaw, jaw, jaw than to war, war, war.”

After the Six Day and the Yom Kippur wars in the 1960’s and 70’s, one Knesset member made it his cause to reach out to the Bedouin people living in the occupied territory. He learned their language (they said about him that he spoke Arabic with a Bedouin accent.) He had water piped in, gave assistance wherever he could, and circuited medical teams to meet the health needs of the numerous tribes living under what was now Israel’s jurisdiction. He made of himself a voice on their behalf in the Israeli Knesset. He made a difference, of sorts. He was sort of an Israeli Lawrence of Arabia.

Oh, and he forbad their practice of periodically raiding and robbing each other. Play nice, boys.

One day he brought my group to visit one of them, bringing with him a gift of a brass serving dish. You never arrive at a sheikh’s village empty handed. The sheikh greeted him as a brother, kissing him on both cheeks. He wanted to slaughter a goat for us and serve us a meal, the sharing of which is a very big deal for every tribe of people. Even ours! Don’t take it frivolously! Our guide forbad it because they are a very poor people. A single goat means a lot to them. He let us know what an honor it was for him to make that offer. We asked him to convey our gratitude.

Instead, the sheik made us coffee as a sign of respect and hospitality, which are important features of desert life. We gathered in his tent around a charcoal fire for the ritual he provided us with, roasting the beans, grinding them, brewing them, sweetening them exquisitely, and serving us each a small amount in a demitasse cup. A Japanese tea ceremony could not have more gravitas. Or sincerity. We all tasted it with Arabian delight.

They showed us some of their village, a very little bit-these people are very private and respect is essential. Goats followed us around. Their cistern was clogged with sand from lack of care. Their water comes through a pipe running along the desert floor which shows its own kind of respect.

It is experiences like these that have shaped me as the man I am today. Understanding, empathy, trust, and dialog are the tools of bringing oneself into harmony with others. And above all: Respect. I have made this my mantra which I repeat every opportunity I get. If an MP of a country at war can call one of his enemies, “My brother,” certainly I can call a political opponent, “My friend.” Hey, why not? It might work.

It’s worth a try.

West Asian Waltz

Have you been following what’s going on in the world lately? Particularly the Middle East/West Asia?

I hope you are.

But if not let me give you a synopsis.

On Friday, negotiations between Iran and Israel/America were going well. Both parties agreed that good progress was being made.

So well that they agreed to meet again on Monday, again in Geneva for a third round of talks, Geneva being a city associated with landmark treaties and historic conventions. And of course, Neutrality.

Iranians felt relieved, hoping that this conflict could be resolved diplomatically.

People relaxed, let down their guard, so to speak.

During the night the Israeli/American side staged a large-scale attack on Iran.

Followed by a ‘decapitation’ meaning they targeted Iran’s high-level officials, the Ayatollah Khomeini, the president Prigozhin, and their secretary of Defense.

They failed, which was designed to be a death knell move against Iran.

It was supposed to knock them out.

It didn’t do what it was supposed to.

Iran was not paralyzed.

Today it came out that they did succeed in killing the Ayatollah along with some of his family.

This has been compared to someone assassinating the Pope or the Patriarch of the Russian Orthodox church.

Instead of waiting like they did during the so called 12 day war in June, Iran retaliated immediately.

Still, people were more relaxed due to the anticipation of a peaceful weekend followed by more intense diplomacy.

Iran rained down missiles on not just Israel, but on ALL American bases in the middle east.

Even though they are not using their most modern technology. Note: they did this last June, too. The results were that Israel blew the wad on shooting down old technology and cheap drones while using expensive technology to do so.

Still, Iran’s technology, with a higher rate of direct hits, showed how bad our ‘best’ technology behaves.

At one point, Iran managed to destroy a piece of advanced radar that cost a billion dollars in a naval base in Qutar.

Later yesterday Israel/America fired missiles on a school for children, young girls as a matter of fact. One that might have been empty, or emptier, if people were not expecting peace pending next week’s negotiations.

160 young girls died.

They (we) can’t blame our targeting of civilians as ‘fog of war’ and ‘mistakes.’

Last night, Iran closed the Strait of Hormuz.

Completely.

I just heard that there are some American ships trapped there. Hundreds of oil tankers are dropping anchor and hoping they are not noticed.

We (You and  me) are awaiting Iran’s response to the bombing of the school.

It’s coming and it might involve some of their more advanced technology.

Like I said, Iran is not even using its most advanced weapons. They are playing a game of sending hundred-thousand-dollar weapons to attract fifty-million-dollar Himars and other expensive AD arsenals, at which time they can locate the missile launcher and destroy it.

Since we are only blowing up Iran’s obsolete technology with our expensive ones, once they see where our super-duper technology is, they can blow it to pieces with their better tech.

This may be a shocking moment. We don’t know what will happen when the markets open and the world absorbs the enormity of what just happened.

I went out and filled up two five-gallon gas cans and topped off my car. It may be enough to drive myself to hell.

I remember the gas lines and riots in the late 70’s, which is the last time things were this bad.

After Milton two years ago, I witnessed the same thing at a smaller scale, luckily.

At the time I got extra gas and made sure my car was full.

I was able to get around and pass gas lines with 50 cars queued up for service. I got where I needed to be.

In a few days the gas supplies were restored.

Still, people were shaken.

Who knows what will come from this event?

Who knows how many people might be affected?

With Milton it was a small section of the country.

With this the whole world might be shut down.

For the last several months China has been filling up entire oil tankers and parking them some place safe.

Their version of five-gallon gas cans.

I may be wrong, I surely hope so, but it might be time to make sure you won’t be taken by surprise.

At the least, make sure you are informed.

Judge Nap was interviewing people all day yesterday to get out timely information.

It was terrifying.

Keep safe.

The Rec Room

Some say a man is a crude thing. A course thing. A crass thing, even. Lacking finesse and personality. Or a finished persona. Like a bull in a China shop charging hither, thither, and yon without thought or reason. Charging everywhere. Breaking everything. Signifying nothing.

This thought is without merit, methinks.

Perhaps a man just thinks… differently...,

Perhaps…,

Perhaps he just thinks with his nose.

There once was a girl. And I loved her.

A girl named Diana,

Though she wanted to be called, ‘Diane.’

I called her whatever she wished,

Men always do. To please her.

The girl I loved in high school.

My first love.

My only love, perhaps.

We met in a mutual friend’s house.

Her name was Cheryl and she knew my friend named Gary.

We were in different high schools,

They were the exotic girls from the next town over,

Close but distant,

Like all mysterious things.

We met by happenstance.

Cheryl had a house with a rec room in the basement, a favorite of 1950’s houses at the time.

Lots of things happened in rec rooms back then.

Wonderful…,

Things…

Gary and I were invited over to a party at Cheryl’s house.

Cheryl had a friend named Diana, pronounced, ‘Diane.’

Cheryl had Diana over for the same party.

We played a game called spin the bottle.

Perhaps you’ve heard of it?

It was a favorite in 1950’s rec rooms,

In the half light of candles and posters of the Beatles on the walls.

You take a bottle of Moxie or Coca-Cola or something or other and drink it.

Then you gather a group of boys and girls in a circle and place the empty bottle in the middle.

One boy or girl takes the bottle and spins it.

It spins,

It stops,

It points to some boy or girl in the circle.

The spinner of the bottle then kisses the one pointed to by that bottle.

Or the nearest person of the opposite sex. Let’s be real, now.

It was quite simple, really.

Brilliant, even.

Clever.

It was responsible for many surprising things happening back then, which was the 1960’s by my time.

Wonderful…,

Things…

In Diana’s and my case, it was love at first spin.

It was wonderful beyond belief.

The first time I kissed her I was terrified.

I gave her a peck on the lips.

Barely above what you would give your mom on her cheek.

Pathetic, but what did I know?

Songs of innocence…

…It progressed…, …I learned…, …I improved…,

…And experience.

I don’t remember kissing any other girl that night. They wouldn’t have, well, held a bottle to the girl I did kiss.

Cheryl would take my bottle spin and turn it toward Diana…,

To kiss her only…,

Cheryl took my hand…,

And placed it gently…,

…Gently on Diana’s left-

It was lovely beyond belief.

Every woman I loved since then was a chore,

Or a burden,

Or a thing,

Just a thing.

A thing I did by rote.

Because I had to, I guess.

I was supposed to.

Maybe for sex, maybe for obligation, maybe for the tedium of it all.

Maybe because that’s what I ought to do, even if badly.

And pretend it was what I wanted…,

Desired…,

Beyond all others…

I was a man, after all.

What society and propriety demand of men:

To be a mule to bear his load for hearth and home…,

…To work the fields…,

…Dig deep the mines…,

…To go down to the sea in ships and bring back all riches…,

…To build cities and govern them…,

…Then to be a stallion upon demand to your woman back home…,

…You had better satisfy…,

…And to go back to being a mule when the servicing is done.

That is a man’s role in life.

Mule-sex slave-mule.

Or sex as pastime. Sex as something to do.

Or maybe because sex demands it.

Sex for sex sake and no other,

Just to pass the time,

To fill the void,

To make full what was empty with some other empty person as filler,

A person…,

In a place…,

To satisfy a need…,

Of loneliness…,

And glands.

It is a slog in the park,

A plug to stopper up a need.

Why not?

Biology is, after all, biology,

Nasty bits gonna do what nasty bits do.

The magic is gone.

No more spinning bottles,

No more tender left breasts,

No more first kisses, awkward and sweet.

It has all become dog fuck dog.

And yet…,

…In the back of my mind…,

…Just below the threshold…,

…In the sub basement…,

…Brewing…,

…Gathering…,

…Spinning…,

…The bottle spins…,

…And it points to…!

In the scented back room of my soul,

The nostrils that want filling with a girl’s scent…,

The memory of a girl…,

Who wants her name pronounced a certain way…,

With braces on her teeth…,

And blond hair…

And a loose shirt…,

Where a hand passes easily up…,

And round breasts…,

And lovingly feels-

A girl’s scent.

A real girl, billowing natural perfume.

Not artificial scent.

No need for make believe.

I wanted a love affair.

One made from sinew and bone,

Muscle and flesh,

Soft flesh…,

And soft breasts,

And yielding…,

And perfumed.

Even if just for the scent of a woman.

No, a girl.

And I a boy,

In a rec room,

In the near dark,

Just dark enough.

Perfect.

With posters on the walls.

And candles.

The fragrance of her body, her glands, her pours, her skin, her eyes,

Her mouth,

Wafting vapors.

Vapors, in my direction.

Lips that kiss and linger.

A subtle scent that hangs over the body,

The face,

The lips,

The skin,

The breasts,

The-!

The magic of it all,

Of her all.

The mystery,

The wonder.

It just lasts forever and tastes of ecstasy.

Forever, all in a moment,

And then it is gone.

You must know what I mean,

Otherwise, you are heartless.

The taste, the feel, the real fragrance.

Sex incarnate in a fragrance than no man can resist.

Certainly not a teenage boy,

In a rec room…,

With candles…,

And posters on the walls…,

With an angel.

No! Not an angel!

Angels are noncorporeal.

Diana, pronounced Diane, was as corporeal as it gets.

With the real perfume that comes…,

Not in a bottle. But in a body.

No need for Chanel number 5,

Or musk,

Or any Egyptian Myrrh or Frankincense no matter how sensual…,

Personal…,

Sexual…,

Or artificial.

The real thing is a perfume that a boy can drink in, luxuriously,

Forever,

And he knows the difference between the fake and the real.

The real thing is a perfume that he can and will make love to even before entering a girl’s body…,

Her sanctuary…,

Her life…,

Her soul…,

Your pilgrimage…,

Willfully…,

With her begging…,

Longing…,

As does he…,

As did I.

Even perfume free, no need for exotic French perfume, a woman exudes power.

Even just for her raw, naked body, the lusty want of trust and friendship, raw energy and sex. Willingness to give and yearning to trust. The promise of she for me and what I see and hear and taste and smell-and touch-is just for her…,

Us…,

We.

“If you want it.” She begs. “Come and take it! I’m yours…!

“What do you have to give me in return?

“I’ll take it!

“If just once…,

“Twice more…,

“Thrice again…,

“And many more.

“Take it! It’s yours….

“I’m yours…

“Two bodies yearning, one for the other…,

“The other for the first…,

“And around again…,

“Always…,

“Just once…,

“Forever…,

“Now!”

Lust is such a strong word.

This is desire…,

Each to the other…,

One to its opposite…,

The opposed to the first…,

And each other…,

And equal.

That is enough.

Time enough later.

If only that later could be once more…,

The same as once was…,

Once again…,

When the rec room is gone and desire becomes…,

Something else.

We would write sentimental love letters to each other, Diana and I.

Sappy little things only teenagers in love could conceive of.

I made her a pair of sterling silver earrings in jewelry class in high school.

The teacher thought they were sappy,

I suppose he was right,

But he let me make them anyway.

They were tear drop shaped with little wires for arms and legs.

We called them, the Running Creatures, Diana and I. They were creations of ours.

Running Creatures.

And I would draw them in love letters.

And send them to Diana.

And I wanted to make them into earrings.

For her.

The wires caught in Diana’s golden hair, but she wore them anyway.

The beach.

Making out in the dunes, barely hidden from sight.

Sand got. Well. You can guess where sand got.

Everywhere!

Hanging out on the boardwalk.

Basking in the July sun.

And August.

Playing mini-golf.

Eating ice cream and playing carnival games, ten tickets for a nickel!

Splashing in the Long Island Sound.

Watching Diana’s bathing suit get wet.

Feeling a stirring in mine.

Belly flopping in the pool while trying to impress my girl,

What a sop!

She came to comfort me,

What a girl!

Diana filling out a bikini with all the right padding.

All natural.

Me feeling inadequate, but quite willing to play along.

Lucky me!

I had a girl!

Snoozing in the back seat of her mother’s car as she brought us home.

I wonder what she thought watching us doze in the rear view mirror?

Diana’s head on my shoulder?

My arms around her?

Occasionally kissing her head?

Her mother was young once, though at the time youth could not believe such a thing was possible.

I broke up with Diana when I went to college and she stayed home.

It was a mistake.

Big.

Mistake.

But life marches on…

Even if the loins want each other for no more than pleasure…,

And the perfume becomes no more than mere pheromones…,

Why not?

Tomorrow, we grow up.

The bottle stops spinning,

The posters are torn down…

We become adults…,

Big mistake!

All becomes stale…,

Sex smells dirty…,

And compelling…,

And unavoidable…,

And plain…,

And pedantic…,

And something to do, no longer something to desire.

If only…

If only for once more…

The rec room lived.

I loved Diana…,

As far as I could love anybody…,

As far as I knew how to love anybody…,

“Youth is wasted on the wrong people,” said a wise old man in an old movie.

“The short kisser,” she called me,

With a wink and a tease. That’s what she did.

It was funny... It was sweet…

And I loved her for it.

Somebody…,

A woman…,

A girl…,

With goofy earrings catching in her hair…,

Her golden hair…,

And her head on my shoulder…,

And my arms about her…,

Like a protector…,

Which I saw myself to be…,

A girl in my life…,

No!

The girl in my life.

At the sound of a bottle jangling…,

Rattling…,

From far away…,

And long ago…,

In a 1950’s rec room…,

A love of my life,

Little. Frail. Gentle. Fragile…,

Strong. Powerful. Determined. Sexual…,

Loved…,

And as sexual as she was…,

How I loved her,

Love her,

And love her still.

In my memory, I guess…,

Every room is a palace…,

Every space is sacred…,

Every word is scripture…,

Every girl is a goddess.

Every rec room is a temple, spectacularly so,

Holy, even.

In the minds and emotions of youth, the rec room is heaven.

But rec rooms never last.

Goodbye, Diana.

After all these years…,

I miss you.