I am the techno Sadhu on my Tower of hope surfing the waves of cybernetic wonder, on a quest, through the miracle of the internet with our local

public powered community arts powered radio, AND THIS IS

Radiolog  76

wednesday  Dec. 7, 2016

Welcome, and thank you very much for listening.…

Hello to everyone out there in the world who have picked us up on the internet…Hey hello to David Harding in Glasgow, Scotland…David by the way is known in the United Kingdom as the FATHER OF TOWN ART and has been one of my closest friends and biggest inspirations of all the public art I have done since 1975…just Google David Harding Scotland and you will find library of information on “Public Art in Europe…and howdy to all you good people in the Galesteo Basin and the Tijeras ridgeline …and I want to give a special thank you to Kenya Lewis and Sharon Scott for their LP radio correspondence in keeping KMRD informed about the grassroots radio Coalition’s news of what is going out there in our LP Radio Nation…

 

This is the 76th    lap with me… the Techno Sadhu,

 

 

what a privilege it is to have these two hours…

…I believe in the potential of this radio nation we have…and another amazing and intriguing post from www.radiosurvivor.com…

KMRD FM LP 96.9 is a VANGUARD for a whole new era of radio communication in America

 

I woke up at 2:00 AM Monday morning, thinking about community radio and I wondered if there was a community radio LP station in point Barrow Alaska, the most northern city of the United States.

 

Still not sleeping, I to thinking about a recent post from one of the members I met of the grassroots radio coalition, in Hot Springs, Arkansas. It was an article posted by a professional radioman who had spent over 38 years working in commercial and noncommercial radio – and the article mainly being about having a radio mindset – in short how to survive as a radio station by gleaning as much information as you could from everybody who had ever put a radio business together.

 

The article made sense when relating to radio as we know it. But it occurred to me the one thing he was really missing was that LP radio stations have one aspect that has not happened since the first days of radio, and that is  about the free voice of communication. The beginning of radio was pretty much a 30 or 40 mile radius  – but the difference is now it is instant communication globally if the station is streaming on the Internet.

 

I was curious to see how stations are reacting to the news from Dec 4th , that the Army Corps of Engineers has stopped the oil project on the standing rock Sioux reservation. So I checked out to see if there is a community radio station in Barrow, Alaska. There were two, one was KBRW in Barrow, and on it in the morning was a NPR 3 minute report on Standing Rock. I have to admit I was surprised, being this community has a majority of indigenous people, the program was not throbbing with the breaking news of standing rock…the other station CANDO FM, a Canadian community radio station, there was a conversation going on about the movie industry and how women are subjugated to the power of men in that industry in short, the casting couch...perhaps I must really be crazy thinking that the new LP phenomena was going to make any difference…

 

Well on this made me think about my broadcast last week, in which I stated there wasn’t much I could do about what was going on at standing rock. I am guilty to admit, I was caught in a moment of pessimism in relationship to our recent election of a man who is certainly out of his mind. In other words I felt the hypocrisy and corruption of the entire political system in America and perhaps the world would once again crush people in the name of greed and that America’s stance on human rights throughout the world is just total BS, when in our own land we are denying the rights of indigenous people –the original human beings in America - to determine the future of their own land, that the UNITD STATES  government promised was theirs as a sovereign nation FOREVER. Last week, I was very depressed philosophically.

 

Then later in the week, the news that 2000 veterans were joining standing rock for the confrontation that would come on December 5th gave me a little hope….in a couple days the 2000 veterans had grown to 12,000 veterans. Within a few hours, of that announcement, the Army Corps of Engineers under orders of the Obama Administration, reversed their earlier judgment and stopped the pipeline project.  As of Dec. 6, the are 12 to 15 thousand humans camped out in this Northern arena of HUMAN RIGHTS…

 

It appears to me that the voice of people through these channels of social media such as Facebook, Twitter and many LP stations across America, and our own LP radio station, KMRD 96.9, with STANDING ROCK commentary that has been made by many of our DJs in the last several weeks connected by the Internet does have a tremendous ability to change the course of history…. to get back to the radio mindset, the LP phenomena of communication is NEW RADIO- NEW COMMUNICATION OF THE VOICE OF THE PEOPLE THAT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH HAVING A RADIO MINDSET…In other words, professional radio broadcasting as it has become over the last 50 years…our LOW POWERED LP RADIO NATION IS GLOBAL and that my good people…can change the course of history.

 

 and an interesting observation about the oil industry was mad by-Dane Reese  who happens to be a math teacher and understands economics and her words passed on through FB…About Standing Rock:

"They've succeeded in delaying the project for long enough that it costs the investors more to stay in than it does to pull out. That was the strategy all along. This project is going to lose its backing, even if they do succeed in rerouting it. The project is dead, and similar projects around the world are looking like bad investments because of it. This is a major tipping point in the shift to renewable energy. The future of energy belongs to Tesla, not to Exxon, and everybody can see that. That's what it's all about. It's way more than just this route and this pipeline."

 

 

coming up….in the next….  minutes or so… Will be my thought of the day, a new ZenCowboy short story… some poetry, and I’m picking up my experience of living on the island of Corsica for three years…

 

4:00 PM The techno Sadhu Radio theater of the Absurd and the HARLEQUIN MOON… Will be chapter 6……. THE HARLEQUIN MOON is a quartete OF FOUR DECades  or  AS i HAVE penned IT… a Qua-traiN… a quartette of 4 decades on a train going down the long track of one life… a story follows the antagonist for FORTY years…it is his  search for a place where he can find peace and eRASE THE MEMORIES THAT CHASE HIM LIKE A PACK OF WOLVES

  it is the tale of a man in search of his soul, while hounded by memory of being an assassin of not only innocent people, but the emotion of LOVE itself…

 

…in literary terms this work is called a biographical narrative fiction, in that many of the characters and situations actually are real, but combined into a metamorphosis of Frankenstein parts and places that come together in one character or place in time…

YOU CAN CONTACT,MESSAGE, ETC.

fb@TECHNOSADHU

 

 

Thought of the week

 

authors who i have loved and influenced my writing

Ernest Hemingway

Kerouac

William Saroyan

Scott Fitzgerald

Francis Scott Key Fitzgerald (September 24, 1896 – December 21, 1940), known professionally as F. Scott Fitzgerald, was an American novelist and short story writer, whose works illustrate the Jazz Age. He is widely regarded as one of the greatest American writers of the 20th century. Fitzgerald is considered a member of the "Lost Generation" of the 1920s. He finished four novels: This Side of Paradise, The Beautiful and Damned, The Great Gatsby, and Tender Is the Night. A fifth, unfinished novel, The Love of the Last Tycoon, was published posthumously. Fitzgerald also wrote numerous short stories, many of which treat themes of youth and promise, and age and despair.

 

Born in 1896 in Saint Paul, Minnesota, to an upper-middle-class family, Fitzgerald was named after his famous second cousin, three times removed on his father's side, Francis Scott Key,[1] but was always known as plain Scott Fitzgerald. He was also named after his deceased sister, Louise Scott Fitzgerald,[2] one of two sisters who died shortly before his birth. "Well, three months before I was born," he wrote as an adult, "my mother lost her other two children ... I think I started then to be a writer."[3]

His father was Edward Fitzgerald, of Irish and English ancestry, who had moved to St. Paul from Maryland after the Civil War, and was described as "a quiet gentlemanly man with beautiful Southern manners".[4][5][6] His mother was Mary "Molly" McQuillan Fitzgerald, the daughter of an Irish immigrant who had made his fortune in the wholesale grocery business.[4][7] Fitzgerald was the first cousin once removed of Mary Surratt, hanged in 1865 for conspiring to assassinate Abraham Lincoln.[8]

 

 

Fitzgerald's writing pursuits at Princeton came at the expense of his coursework, however, causing him to be placed on academic probation, and in 1917 he dropped out of school to join the Army. During the winter of 1917, Fitzgerald was stationed at Fort Leavenworth and was a student of Dwight Eisenhower whom he intensely disliked.[21] Worried that he might die in the War with his literary dreams unfulfilled, Fitzgerald hastily wrote The Romantic Egotist in the weeks before reporting for duty—and, although Scribners rejected it, the reviewer noted his novel's originality and encouraged Fitzgerald to submit more work in the future.[9][22]

 

 

Fitzgerald was commissioned a second lieutenant in the infantry and assigned to Camp Sheridan outside of Montgomery, Alabama. While at a country club, Fitzgerald met and fell in love with Zelda Sayre (1900–1948), the daughter of Alabama Supreme Court justice Anthony D. Sayre and the "golden girl," in Fitzgerald's terms, of Montgomery youth society. The war ended in 1918, before Fitzgerald was ever deployed. Upon his discharge he moved to New York City hoping to launch a career in advertising that would be lucrative enough to convince Zelda to marry him. He worked for the Barron Collier advertising agency, living in a single room at 200 Claremont Avenue in the Morningside Heights neighborhood on Manhattan's west side.

 

Zelda accepted his marriage proposal, but after some time and despite working at an advertising firm and writing short stories, he was unable to convince her that he would be able to support her, leading her to break off the engagement. Fitzgerald returned to his parents' house at 599 Summit Avenue, on Cathedral Hill, in St. Paul, to revise The Romantic Egoist, recast as This Side of Paradise, a semi-autobiographical account of Fitzgerald's undergraduate years at Princeton.[26] Fitzgerald was so short of money that he took up a job repairing car roofs.[22][27] His revised novel was accepted by Scribner's in the fall of 1919 and was published on March 26, 1920 and became an instant success, selling 41,075 copies in the first year.[28] It launched Fitzgerald's career as a writer and provided a steady income suitable to Zelda's needs.

 

Paris in the 1920s proved the most influential decade of Fitzgerald's development. Fitzgerald made several excursions to Europe, mostly Paris and the French Riviera, and became friends with many members of the American expatriate community in Paris, notably Ernest Hemingway. Fitzgerald's friendship with Hemingway was quite effusive, as many of Fitzgerald's relationships would prove to be. Hemingway did not get on well with Zelda, and in addition to describing her in his memoir A Moveable Feast as "insane",[29] Hemingway claimed that Zelda "encouraged her husband to drink so as to distract Fitzgerald from his work on his novel",[29][30] so he could work on the short stories he sold to magazines to help support their lifestyle. Like most professional authors at the time, Fitzgerald supplemented his income by writing short stories for such magazines as The Saturday Evening Post, Collier's Weekly, and Esquire, and sold his stories and novels to Hollywood studios. This "whoring", as Fitzgerald and, subsequently, Hemingway called these sales,[29] was a sore point in the two authors' friendship. Fitzgerald claimed that he would first write his stories in an 'authentic' manner, then rewrite them to put in the "twists that made them into salable magazine stories".[3

 

Although Fitzgerald's passion lay in writing novels, only his first novel sold well enough to support the opulent lifestyle that he and Zelda adopted as New York celebrities. (The Great Gatsby, now considered to be his masterpiece, did not become popular until after Fitzgerald's death.) Because of this lifestyle, as well as the bills from Zelda's medical care when they came, Fitzgerald was constantly in financial trouble and often required loans from his literary agent, Harold Ober, and his editor at Scribner's, Maxwell Perkins. When Ober decided not to continue advancing money to Fitzgerald, the author severed ties with his longtime friend and agent. (Fitzgerald offered a good-hearted and apologetic tribute to this support in the late short story "Financing Finnegan.")

 

Fitzgerald began working on his fourth novel during the late 1920s but was sidetracked by financial difficulties that necessitated his writing commercial short stories, and by the schizophrenia that struck Zelda in 1930. Her emotional health remained fragile for the rest of her life. In February 1932, she was hospitalized at the Phipps Clinic at Johns Hopkins in Baltimore, Maryland.[31] During this time, Fitzgerald rented the "La Paix" estate in the suburb of Towson, Maryland to work on his latest book, the story of the rise and fall of Dick Diver, a promising young psychiatrist who falls in love with and marries Nicole Warren, one of his patients. The book went through many versions, the first of which was to be a story of matricide. Some critics have seen the book as a thinly veiled autobiographical novel recounting Fitzgerald's problems with his wife, the corrosive effects of wealth and a decadent lifestyle, his own egoism and self-confidence, and his continuing alcoholism. Indeed, Fitzgerald was extremely protective of his "material" (i.e., their life together). When Zelda wrote and sent to Scribner's her own fictional version of their lives in Europe, Save Me the Waltz, Fitzgerald was angry and was able to make some changes prior to the novel's publication, and convince her doctors to keep her from writing any more about what he called his "material," which included their relationship. His book was finally published in 1934 as Tender Is the Night. Critics who had waited nine years for the followup to The Great Gatsby had mixed opinions about the novel. Most were thrown off by its three-part structure and many felt that Fitzgerald had not lived up to their expectations.[32] The novel did not sell well upon publication but, like the earlier Gatsby, the book's reputation has since risen significantly.[33] Fitzgerald's alcoholism and financial difficulties, in addition to Zelda's mental illness, made for difficult years in Baltimore. He was hospitalized nine times at Johns Hopkins Hospital, and his friend H. L. Mencken noted in a 1934 letter that "The case of F. Scott Fitzgerald has become distressing. He is boozing in a wild manner and has become a nuisance."[31]

 

Hollywood years[edit]

In 1926, Fitzgerald was invited by producer John W. Considine, Jr., to temporarily relocate to Hollywood in order to write a flapper comedy for United Artists. Scott and Zelda moved into a studio-owned bungalow in January of the following year and Fitzgerald soon met and began an affair with Lois Moran. The starlet became a temporary muse for the author and he rewrote Rosemary Hoyt, one of the central characters in Tender is the Night, (who had been a male in earlier drafts) to closely mirror her. The trip exacerbated the couple's marital difficulties, and they left Hollywood after two months.[34][35] In the ensuing years, Zelda became increasingly violent and emotionally distressed, and in 1936, Fitzgerald had her placed in the Highland Hospital in Asheville, North Carolina.[36]

 

Although he reportedly found movie work degrading, Fitzgerald continued to struggle financially and entered into a lucrative exclusive deal with Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer in 1937, that necessitated him moving to Hollywood, where he earned his highest annual income up to that point: $29,757.87.

 

From 1939 until his death in 1940, Fitzgerald mocked himself as a Hollywood hack through the character of Pat Hobby in a sequence of 17 short stories, later collected as "The Pat Hobby Stories", which garnered many positive reviews. The Pat Hobby Stories were originally published in Esquire between January 1940 and July 1941, even after Fitzgerald's death. US Census records show his official address at this time to be the estate of Edward Everett Horton in Encino, California in the San Fernando Valley.

 

Fitzgerald, an alcoholic since college, became notorious during the 1920s for his extraordinarily heavy drinking, undermining his health by the late 1930s. On the night of December 20, 1940, Fitzgerald and Sheilah Graham attended the premiere of This Thing Called Lovestarring Rosalind Russell and Melvyn Douglas. As the two were leaving the Pantages Theater, Fitzgerald experienced a dizzy spell and had trouble leaving the theater; upset, he said to Graham, "They think I am drunk, don't they?" [38]

 

 

Legacy[edit]

Fitzgerald's work has inspired writers ever since he was first published.[52] The publication of The Great Gatsby prompted T. S. Eliot to write, in a letter to Fitzgerald, "It seems to me to be the first step that American fiction has taken since Henry James ...".[53] Don Birnam, the protagonist of Charles Jackson's The Lost Weekend, says to himself, referring to The Great Gatsby, "There's no such thing ... as a flawless novel. But if there is, this is it."[54] In letters written in the 1940s, J. D. Salinger expressed admiration of Fitzgerald's work, and his biographer Ian Hamilton wrote that Salinger even saw himself for some time as "Fitzgerald's successor".[55] Richard Yates, a writer often compared to Fitzgerald, called The Great Gatsby "the most nourishing novel [he] read ... a miracle of talent ... a triumph of technique".[56] It was written in a New York Times editorial after his death that Fitzgerald "was better than he knew, for in fact and in the literary sense he invented a generation ... He might have interpreted them and even guided them, as in their middle years they saw a different and nobler freedom threatened with destruction."

 

 

Richard Bratigan

Gogol-Russian

Joyce Cary-English

Steinbeck

Mark Twain

Jack London

Michener

Shakespeare-English

Kazanzakis-Greek

Henry Miller

 

 

KMRD FM LP is here to stay the course

 

We are in a radio nation of

 

1500 station stretched across the United States.

 

Together this radio nation of LP stations are bigger than the hopelessness

of money greed and politically/industrial/military controlled media… presented every day across the usa.

 

 

 

"it's a big life, but Texas might be bigger…"

 

and know

 

we are bits of dust in rays of light

 

 

 

the best little radio station west of the Hudson and East of the Russian,

 

 

KMRD LP 96.9 FM is now in a cloud of

1,500 Community Radio stations making networks of knitted creativity…we are

braintrailing in cyber space

 

Radio has the power to change.…and community LP radio across our nation offers the creative power to change the world for the better…  IT IS a public powered  community arts radio nation and KMRD is the vanguard to the network that joins us all together.

We are a radio nation…a radio world…

 

…505 473 9696

 

 

zen cowboy short story

 

zazen PARABLE puzzle

 

It is said in war zones you only die when the bullet has your name on it, but crashes on the highway might have your name on them too.

 

I can only believe the Lord above has saved me from myself most of my life. I can tell you too many stories all the way back to when I was a little kid that would’ve killed anyone else. For instance at the age of four, I wondered what that handle was on the rear door of a car as we were going around the corner at 60 miles an hour. I pushed the handle down and found out what it did. The door came open and I was slung out into the bushes like a slingshot. Well obviously I didn’t get killed. I repeat. The Lord has saved me from myself way too many times.

 

I was painting a sign on a tall building on one of the busiest four lane streets in Albuquerque. I had to have two sets of scaffolding with wheels to reach the wall where I was painting. That meant I was standing on the top plank about 12 feet above the ground. There was a slanted driveway that went through a gate right up to the wall where I was painting, so I pushed my scaffolding up to the wall on the driveway, climbed up to where I was supposed to paint the sign at 8 o’clock in the morning. Just as I raised my brush to begin the sign work, for a split second I thought the wall was falling down – that is just before I realized oh no, I forgot to put the brakes on the wheels of the scaffolding and it was rolling down the driveway towards the gate that went directly out into the busy four-lane street of traffic with everybody rushing to work in the morning.

 

Well the driveway was only 2 inches wider than my scaffolding, so I wasn’t really too worried because I thought the scaffolding would roll off the driveway and get stuck in the soft dirt at the side. After all, of all the years I have tried to push  scaffolding in a straight line, it never has done that once. So I prepared for the scaffolding to jolt to a stop. It began to roll very slowly but as it went down the driveway it picked up speed, and to my absolute horror it went directly through the gate with only an inch of clearance on both sides and continued to roll right out onto the four lanes of traffic roaring by at 45 miles an hour.

 

Just as the scaffolding got to the first two lanes of oncoming traffic, all of the cars shot by missing me by only a foot or so, but unbelievably the scaffolding continue to roll to the other side of the road where two lanes of traffic was still roaring by.

 

But just as the scaffolding got to the center yellow lines, it slowly turned sideways and stopped on one of those little traffic reflector humps, just the traffic from the other direction shot by. So there I was right out in the middle of the road having been missed by four lanes of traffic. I can’t tell you if it was the second or 10 seconds I stood there paralyzed thinking oh my God what a miracle. But then I looked down the road and to my disbelief here was a big old white Lincoln coming straight at me. I thought oh no, this time I am dead.

 

The lady driving the Lincoln was only about five car lengths away from me, when she saw the scaffolding and applied her breaks. It was amazing that Lincoln… I mean the brakes in that Lincoln, because she came to a perfect stop only 2 feet away from me and the tires didn’t even make it squeal. The lady slowly looked  up and saw me waving a friendly hello to her as I tried to climb down off the scaffolding with rubber legs. I took me longer to get down off that darn scaffolding than it did to roll out on to the highway. Then pushed the scaffolding back towards the shoulder, but of course the stupid old scaffolding didn’t even begin to go straight as I went this way and that way as I pushed it off the road.

 

·     Poetry GLASSEYE POETRY SOCIETY

·     To remind you the next full moon is one week from today, Dec. 14 and for the last time we will meet at Studio 14 in the center of downtown Madrid, New Mexico at 6 PM

 

A house with no Windows

can you live in a house

with no Windows

would you stay

because there are a lot of doors

but this house,

has no Windows

can you live in a house

with no Windows

 

can I ask you something

there is something to say

are you here forever

do you plan to go away

 

because the house

has no Windows

can you live in a house

with no Windows

no light in the day

there’s a lot of ways to get out

but this place has no sunshine

can you live in a house

with no Windows

 

this house ain’t so bad

you can live here,

it has its way every day

there’s a warmth

here it feels good

but these four walls

the light can’t come in

can you live in a house

with no Windows

 

 

·      

 

it is the

 

THE RADIO THEATER

of THE absurd

 

and I am the Techno Sadhu on the air waves…so…lets go surfing in the mind….that’s right….surfing your mind…

just remember…………..SUFFER  BABY

 

The Harlequin Moon Series

 

Santiago McBoil, was bred in the jungles of Mexico, but was raised as an illegal migrant in the United States, and joins the American Army in 1967 at the height of the Vietnam War, then subsequently became a participant of the Mylai massacre in 1968. It is story of a man in midlife crisis who is chasing illusions of paradise while running away from the nightmares of the hell he has lived through.

 

The Techno Sadhu RADIO THEATRE PRESENTS

 

A COSMIC PSYCHO DRAMA

Chapter 6  Journey to the Isle of Beauty  L'île de Beauté |

 

TO RECAP FROM LAST WEEK

 

  Leila took Santiago into her arms…she made love to him violently… abandoned and with more passion than she understood…. A wild consuming lust roared through her body…. She clawed her fingernails into Santiago's back and they both screamed… Ecstasy took them into the night as the Mediterranean gently kissed the shores of Corsica… Leila was puzzled by the sado-masochist sexual enjoyment after the incident. The delicious but terrifying feeling echoed in her memory. Santiago had awakened a part of her she did not want to explore. Pain mixed into sex, yes, erotic. But still, it did not stop her from taking the opportunity to make Santiago feel like a women beater, aiming her blackened eye at him long after it had gone away.

Santiago kept up his defenses   “You're lucky that's all you got,” he would say. But   inside, the violence horrified him. He had seen enough brutality for ten life times. The war was over.   He cut down his drinking and tried to be good to Leila.  But damn it all, he didn't like anyone pushing him.

Chapter 6

Being Rich and Famous as Santiago had prophesied about “making it as an artist because of the big commission on the continent” was another joke.  There was just enough money to pay off their bank loan and fame was one tiny photograph buried in the middle pages of the Munich morning papers. In mid-project, Santiago in manic depression ran off to spend what little extra money they had on a train-station-whore in a flop house hotel. Leila had given up caring and asked no questions when he returned in the morning smelling of vomit and cheap perfume.  

          ***

As the spring came around Santiago had convinced himself that Corsica was calling for their return. He began to plan a new project -- a dream that would come true where they would all be happy at last. The revolution of independence was now undeniable to Leila. She was young and had everything in front of her. She would start Taking and stop Giving for a change. She loved Santiago but she could no longer worry about his neurotic fear of being forty. She would no longer be in his The Silence. A spiritual separation had begun.

          ***

The months passed. Both were preoccupied with their projects. Leila was directing murals and community festivals. Santiago was making sculptures no one bought. He didn't care because his other work was more exciting. He was converting an old three-ton truck into a moving home that would take them all to Corsica. After five months Leila realized Santiago was serious about moving to Corsica. She began to drag her feet. Why should she move just when she was beginning to succeed in her own life? Scotland was small and out of the mainstream of the Art World, but Corsica was nowhere! They argued. Santiago tried to convince her Scotland was the last place in the world to live.

  “You know one of these days they are going to drop the big one on this country! This place is the fucking atomic trigger for the next war,” he preached.  As though it made perfect sense he would add, “It’s a great chance for us to speak French, maybe even Corsican! You know if we don't like it we can always move back to America.”

  “You drive me crazy!” Leila screamed! “Why don't we move to America if we must leave Scotland? At least there is Los Angeles and New York. Corsica is just a bloody tourist island and we will rot there!” Leila was resisting what she saw as her own burial. She had just begun to live.

  Santiago played her resistance saying, “Look, just three months, and if it doesn't work out, we'll go to America.”

  She refused to talk about Corsica until the wheel of fate brought new people into their life. Through a mutual friend at a party one evening, they were introduced to a Corsican writer, who had lived in Edinburgh for several years. Leila was charmed by a man who was gentle and sensitive to her femininity. He handled her in a way that Latin men know. She was lured by something wild, mischievous. Maybe it was the Corsican side of his nature. It was a flirting game, but there was a genuine quality about this man. Santiago found him curious, enigmatic, but he liked his eyes.

  Jean Simon the Corsican, had come to Scotland about the same time as Santiago, ten years before. Both were part of the great social revolution that shifted young people all over the world to countries that seemed foreign and exotic.

 “Ten years is enough,” Jean Simon said.  I am tired of the cold, tired of the gray! It is time for me to go home.

  Jean Simon was returning to his island and he was happy to hear Santiago's plan of taking the family to Corsica. He offered to help them get established. He knew all the important artists on the island and he would be delighted in making the connections

 Jean Simon smiled directly at Leila and said, “This is fantastic! It means a little piece of Scotland will be in Corsica for me.”

  Leila smiled too. The island suddenly was much better than she remembered it and the thought of basking in the warm sun didn't strike her as a bad idea. Her attitude began to shift. Santiago looked at them both, noticing their lingering eyes.                                                       

***

The move to Corsica was tempting. Jean Simon reminded her of the how lovely Corsica was despite what a toad Santiago had been on the holiday. In the end it had been wonderful. The island was special.

 Jean Simon agreed with her observation but not her fear,   “Yes it is small, but there is a lot of potential.”  He looked her with his gentle smile. “Who knows, maybe we can do a co-production.”

  Crumbs of curiosity were being scattered in front of her. But Corsica, really? What chance for art? It was a long way from Paris. Corsica was a long way from anywhere. Fear would overtake her. Fear that once again she would be subjugated to Santiago's bewildering intensities and to be known only as his wife -- his little helper. The thought infuriated her. Damn it all! She was free. She was her own kind of artist and she would not disappear into his mad charisma again. And that thing -- that bloody gold painted lorry he had been working on! She began to think of it not as a lorry at all but a huge golden monster

  Santiago said, “Don't call it a lorry. It's a truck, but it is going to become something special. It is more like a ship than a truck, in fact I think I'll call it, a Land Ship”

 Bloody Hell! After eleven houses, now Santiago wanted to move into a truck -- his bloody idea of a portable shack. All of her beautiful objects, all of her precious little finds, all of her lovely plants! What would come of them all? And they had a beautiful cottage now in the country, at the edge of the city.

 Tara was happy and doing very well in school. Everything for the first time in years was in order. And her work, she loved her work. She was somebody. No!  She would not give up her hard won freedom to chase off with this man, chasing a dream about Corsica. A man she no longer desired as a lover, no longer believed his fantasies, and no longer understood as a friend. He was mad! The show-down had to come.

Maybe he would go but she didn't care. He could take his truck and sleep with it. After all he had shown more interest for it than he ever did for her or for Tara. It was simple. Their little girl would stay with her and she would figure a way out. She had managed fine when he had run off to Germany to visit whores and she would manage fine again.

 Enough problems. What had happened to Santiago? He had not always been that way, or had he? She could not remember. It seemed they had always been together and to remember back to the beginning was almost another life. Had there ever been passion or even romance?

Now it was another time. Corsica lay in front. Jean Simon made his island sound full of intriguing possibilities. He was nothing like the Corsican men she had seen on the island. There were no rough edges on him. Certainly not the bristle-chinned macho fishermen she couldn't help but notice. They were dark versions of Santiago. No, Jean Simon was refined. Gentle. Nice. Yes, charming. Corsica lingered in her thoughts.

On a late cold October day she was startled into reality, when she saw Santiago moving some of her small precious objects from the cottage into the three ton lorry he was now calling The Land Ship. She felt as though she was attending her own funeral.

  “No Santiago. I am not going to do it. I am not going with you,” she shouted.

  “Fine,” bellowed Santiago, “just frid’n fine. You better make up your mind whether or not you want Tara to stay here with you. She might get in the way of your career.”

  He was no longer making any attempt to try to persuade her to come with him. He could care less. He wasn't sure if he felt any emotion other than anger towards the woman that shared his bed. All she did was complain and resist any idea he had.

There are other women in the world. In fact too many women, he muttered to himself..

Santiago was floundering in his fear, drifting towards a conviction that life was stupid and love was a cruel companion. Perhaps an alliance with any women was impossible for him. What hurt him most was not that Leila was trying to find her own life, but that she was rejecting his.  He wouldn't let it happen again. It all felt so old, so very familiar. He would not let his heart die one more time. Another women leaving him, he could almost hear the footsteps walk away. He was playing the tough man. It was all so insane, so  crazy! So hard!

There was the little girl, his little girl!   It would rip his guts out to lose his little girl. The pain was coming too close. Santiago denied it by thinking about the eminent journey. There was the work preparing the truck for the fifteen hundred mile voyage to Corsica. Then the day of confrontation came.

  “To hell with it,” Santiago said. “Come if you are coming, stay if you are staying. I'm leaving in fifteen minutes, so make up your mind.”

He slammed the door of the cottage. He went to the Land-Ship. He walked around it kicking tires, something he had seen truckers do in America but not knowing why. He did it because he was angry.  In those few minutes love and hate boiled together into the strangest of all human emotions. Hope. What a featureless and irrational plane of existence hope is. It allows human beings to continue in impossible conditions, believing something good will arrive in the force of change. Who knows? Maybe true love is the eternal struggle with hate  and maybe it was Leila's love, damaged, bumped and bruised as it was which held them together.  She hoped Santiago's hideous lorry would sink into a bog of hell, but in the confusion of her own emotion she ceased to struggle and gave into Santiago's will.

  On a windy October evening, three people and an abandoned puppy that Tara had found just days before, sailed away from the shores of familiarity into uncharted waters. The ropes were not cast off, they were cut. Two miles down the road Santiago went into a sharp curve and the top heavy galleon began to lean terribly. Just at that moment a blast of wind walloped them from the inside. The Land Ship rocked onto the outside wheels. Santiago sucked breath through white lips as the over-loaded three ton truck bicycled through space for an eternal moment. Then finally in slow motion it heaved back onto its four cornered base rocking and twisting like a big vessel in heavy seas.

Santiago was silent, clutching the steering wheel with wet hands.  Leila held Tara on her lap and smiled into the dark of the approaching night.

***

Santiago believed they were on a voyage. The rolling sway of the heavy truck seemed natural. He was the captain of the Land Ship. It squeaked, growled and wallowed down through Scotland and England. The weather was atrocious. The rain covered the windows of the truck as if it were a submarine rather than any kind of ship. Much to Santiago's annoyance the truck leaked in several places and was taking on the added weight of rainwater increasing the burden already stacked on the trucks back. Another gallon of water could scuttle his craft.

  Leila resigned herself bitterly to the unknown. The weather complimented her mood perfectly – just another note to her concert of misery.

  Santiago was functioning at this point through the adrenalin that pumped steadily into his blood which boosted the nervous anxiety in his already abused body. For the last few weeks he had lived on a steady diet of strong black coffee accompanied with the summer crop of two marijuana plants. He would work on the truck late into the night and then sleep would only come after he had obliterated himself with alcohol. Physically, he had never been so close to being a complete wreck. Mentally he was dancing on a tight rope. Something had to give, sometime, somewhere.

  Tara only 5 years old didn't understand what was happening.  Time and space were an uncalculated proportion of something going on, where a minute is a life-time and a mile is an endless passage. She was unhappy leaving her school friends but excited about going somewhere.

Every hour she asked, “When are we going to be in Corsica?”

 “It will be a long time sweetheart,” her father said.

She would crawl through to the back of the truck, play with the puppy that had appeared out of nowhere and begged her father to keep.  She would forget the question for another hour.

  The Land Ship pushed on through cascading skies. Three people and a puppy were more like shipwreck survivors on a raft than a family on a golden galleon sailing into the sunset. It was all Santiago could do to keep the meandering machine on the dim gray lines of the motorways.

By the end of the second day they came to Birmingham, only three hundred miles from where they had started, arriving at the house of Vicki Manstalk. She was an Australian expatriate who Santiago had known since his early days in Britain. Vicki was on friendly terms with Leila and at times a sisterly intimacy existed, yet there was a barrier between them. Santiago never worried about it. To him, Vicki was someone constant, who he occasionally slipped outrageous flirtation and she responded in kind. She had already done that to extraordinary proportions. Santiago would occasionally detect a tiny wave of feminine propriety transmitted from Leila towards Vicki and interpreted it as basic jealousy.

Vicki was a mature woman, blonde,  elegant, though muscled toned from visiting the gym three times a week. She was not particularly pretty, but she had that arresting sexual magnetism that made men stop and follow her movements. She was well adjusted to being over forty and blessed in several ways. She not only had abundant intelligence and sexy proportions but an endless supply of money.  Finance had never been a problem unless one understands having money is just another  kind of problem. Vicki was born rich but she was no fool, except a fool for men -- especially men who equaled her sexual talents.

It was this weakness that put her through mad circles with men and usually resentment from other women. Vicki loved men and was proud of her felatio reputation. She understood herself well and recognized along with her good fortune she could afford to play Pan’s pipe. She worshipped men and the twisted game it all could be -- a game having no particular rules or time. Men came in, men went out. She was a romantic for the moment it was.  Her mantra: Nothing breeds contempt more than too much of the same.

Leila didn't share this point of view but found a comfortable plateau with Vicki through their mutual interest in art, music and most of all, jewelry and clothes. Vicki gave these to Leila. In her generous abundance she was forever discarding objects or clothing. She would say to Leila, I don't wear these anymore. The colors suit you perfectly! Sweetie, you will be so cute in them! Tones of soft cooing would seduce Leila. Being perpetually bankrupt with Santiago made it easy to accept.

                                                                       ***

It continued to rain through the night and Leila was glad to be out of the leaking vessel. Vicki talked with them over cups of tea and sandwiches and then they made sleepy goodnights. Vicki was off to an encounter session with one of her latest friends early in the morning. She promised a meeting again soon as they got settled in Corsica,.

  When Santiago and Leila went into the large breakfast room in the morning Vicki had already gone. There was a note attached to a bundle of clothes on the kitchen table. It read: These will look lovely on you - just your colors. Leila touched the cashmere softness of the garments, but this time she did not pick them up.

   They passed through the pelting hazard of falling rain and Birmingham traffic and slid along on into the day. The evening brought the port town of Plymouth. The lights of the docks were murky in the drizzle. They slept in the Land Ship listening to the beating of the hard rain on the metal roof. Leila moved away from the puddles pooling in their bed. Santiago groaned.

Ten hours later the Channel ferry was carrying them to France.  They were sitting in the smoked stained empty lounge bar looking out foggy smeared windows. The sea was dirty gray except for the yellowed frothy caps of wind torn waves. Santiago wondered why anyone in their right mind would want to swim across such a filthy stretch of water. It didn't occur to him, they were practically doing the same thing.

Two hours and eight minutes later there were looks of disbelief as Santiago's golden Land Ship squeaked off the ferry and onto the docks of La Havre. Santiago looked fearfully at the customs officers standing at the gates.  He was worried they would be stopped because of China the dog and they would all be turned back.

The officers watched the truck sleepy-eyed and said, “Passé.” To stop this camion meant a lot of work. It was too early in the morning.

  The family gravitated south, falling like the last broken gold leaf of autumn -- down through the back roads of France complete with breakdowns,  electrical short-outs, hissing hoses and banging wheels. Little moments of glory began to grow with the length of the suns rays. Road signs read, DEGUSTATION VIN ICI. The bouquet of orange orchards drifted into the truck. The days of rain were behind them.  Their faces looked to the Mediterranean as they came to the south coast of France.

  Leila began to rise out of her defeat. Santiago had been right, this was wonderful.  She and Tara soaked in the warm air and sunshine through the windows of their portable refuge. The Land Ship was at last co-operating, the broken parts repaired, the great rains of Britain evaporated, the engine ticked like a precision clock -- but not Santiago. Now that he was so close to his Corsican dream he felt physically destroyed. His accumulated poisons were beginning to pop out.  “Life is a pain in the ass,” he grumbled.  When the mind is sick, the body follows.