July 26, 2006
WW3?!
WW3? Really? From the acts of one militant crazy man? I find it hard to accept that Nasrallah will be the guy responsible for pulling us all down into the mire of the thing that ends our existence as a human race.
Sure he has a lot of charisma but have you seen his teeth up close? I mean completely yellow and black – like no one at any of his previous American institutions of learning took the time to explain to him the use of tooth brush.
Then there’s the question of his suitability as an authentic representative of Arab nationalism. He’s a Syrian. Syrian born people that I know are pretty nice as Arabs go. This guy though – look at him. Those glasses gotta go. He likes his turban tight (just like his young mullahs in waiting, we ask pointedly?) And the tightness of his turban, Homer-Simpsonizes his head, add a puffed out, black Mutawa, of course.
220 marines killed in Beruit by a suicide bomber from his Hezbollah gang in 1983. What an apprenticeship for the young Nasrallah.
Anyways, it’s a shame to think that this is the guy that will plunge us into WW3. What a way for us, as a race, to go, eh? Maybe he thinks he is himself the twelfth Imam – whatever the hell that means anyway. I just heard that one, today.
What do our dear friends in Persia see in this guy anyways? Dinkamabamabad even when I’m good ah’m a bad bad man…. He is a’building capacity and capability nuclear and otherwise, fer sure, man. The question is, what is HE planning against the great Satan, while his puppet rails agin the Yahudi, to blind us all to his strategic manoeuvrings, we have to wonder.
And poor, security-ensconced, Harari’s boy looks on, Powerless. Hezbollah, the cause of his fledgling government’s country devastation now through the facilitation of the same crazy gang’s man at the helm, Nasrallah that probably commissioned or at least knows about the commissioning of the offing of his dad two years back, poor soul. Did you see him, standing next to: fill in the: “his counterpart in country X” media slot? He’s whipped, completely. No way for him even with such a good Arab upbringing, to hide his vulnerable, beleaguered self on the TV.
Yet the nuns of Lebanon bring their calm, presiding hope to the parceled, piecemeal land, turn their charity now to these forced, stranger/neighbours in their midst; the wondering and wandering Hijabed women and children who finally took the HINT from all the little leaflets dropped and the loudspeaker warnings: “We will attack the Hezbollah strongholds in your village in a few hours. We advise you to evacuate. This is the Israeli army and yes, we are for real.” They got the hint alright, and got out in time. You might be tempted to muse that this sort of thing is exactly what it takes, I guess, for some stubborn people to finally make nice and get acquainted with the folks next door. And surprise surprise, even though they be “abhorred and to be regarded with suspicion”, Christians, these folks actually turn out to be really darn nice, eh! “Overwhelmed by the kindess shown….”, say the Hijabed Muslim women, household of little ones in tow, going there for shelter from the shelling of the “evil Yahoodi”.
Well pour warm milk and honey all over my gosh darned soul and roll me through white clouds of real and proper righteous living borne out of a natural personal response to the love shown by the resurrected saviour of the world, and then go right ahead and just nail me up side down to that cross-shaped tree over there, please! I’ll be humvee’d! Them Christian neighbours of ours are not only awfully nice folks, they’re also… bloody kind and generous!! Flabbergasting, isn’t it?
July 24, 2006
Well enough alone
Here it is another day and almost one o the clock. As for writing things today, Having fallen behind in the estimate of time to carry out to done, all my other work, I am now ready to plunge.
I plunge into the ocean of words fishing a few out for the consumption of the masses. Fried in adjectival butter, spiced with interjections and phrasal turns, hopefully not that predictable I speak merely of a fish fry of unexpected connections within the limits of the language. Corporate Jets. What of em these days? Personal business jets, the new generation of ultra fuel efficient very light jet aircraft. What of ‘em, then?
The revolution is in the Gas turbine engine and in the airframe weight reductions made possible by construction techniques like friction welding, and complete carbon fibre structures to yield a power to weight and power to fuel consumption ratio that has never been so good.
The boys and girls selling us this VLJ category are telling us that the VLJ’s they have in their stables are game changers, category smashers, and technology leapers all withstanding the urge to become at the same time budget exploders. Is it true? Shall we see a capped at one million dollar VLJ now, that by one pilot – even a private rated pilot – can fly up to 2500 kms at near sonic speed in comfort and with ease?
Doing so with very “sippy” economics? What if it is the case that purchase price easily rivals the venerable Beach King Air / Cessna Golden Eagle prices? Surely, turbine driving folks will show interest in making the move from propeller-driven, even if only from a wieldy corporate communications point of view, at the VL jet.
Unquestionabally the attractiveness is there for the corporate people for the 7 figure disposable income folks too. For the price of a Farrari Enzo you could be jetting around, Dubai - Heathrow, for example, actually drinking less jet A / per pound than your Enzo’d be drinking 98 octane per kilometer. Not that such comparisons do the average reader here any good. Most of us, writer included have little reason outside of yearning at slick machine sexiness, machismo, and boy with biggest toy, dreams to ever seriously sit down and crunch the budget numbers in any sort of a serious consideration towards a shared lessorship, let alone sole ownership of a little VLJ smooth and subtle beastie with winglets and a hand finish that speaks to the underlying game changing quality driven, weight conscious design and manufacturing process that conforms to the smooth lines of any of the pick one, game changers, category.
Much as I’d like the phrase: “I want one” to produce a miraculous bang and smoke clearing – on my front lawn, suddenly appearing within the wisp, a pearldrop of VLJ perfection, all for me - I know that “I want one” will remain an aviation fanatics dream yet to come true. And that’s just the thing about this crazy sector isn’t it? The more you confess your deep crazy love for for a lovely machine like the Gamechanging VLJ’s the less you seem to be able to afford the insurance on even the brass screws that hold in your redundant flight instruments let alone the dream of wanting one.
July 23, 2006
Effortless
Effortless. That’s how the transition should appear. Effortless, as in all one motion: the transformation of one to the next.
So what is then exactly I am touching the tip of here? Transitions are the target I suppose. How to make transitions smoothly, with dignity and grace. How to find the elusive combination of that which fulfills the needs accrued by simply living a life – a full life and of assuring a decent level of comfort in terms of earning power.
Here we go again, another piece on working for a living. How boring! Shouldn’t you better be writing about dreams and aspirations as you consider your actual time left on this planet?! Of course, it is true, I should be doing just that with glee. But instead I spend each day wondering about working for a living. Why? Because it deems itself so gosh darn necessary that to pass it by for a whim of I’m gonna throw away the planning, scheduling, waiting for the next interview in favour of a day of doing what I wanna…. Even ane hour of what I wanna, though seems now to be so difficult to manage. ‘Sides, if I do, the guilt of having been so selfish kicks me in the butt and I can’t even enjoy the hour taken! That, or duty calls within minutes reminding me of just how my wasted minutes of selfishness has just cost the dependants on me a fortune they don’t have and never did!
Sooooo. Here, now, with time to write is a bit of an odd and ‘adventuristic’ notion. An indulgence probably soon to be cut short anyways. But then what better to do with your indulgence than to delve and create within the minutes before the guilt consumes again.
Speaking then of the Huzb’Allah leader (That Huzbumuck/shmuck black towel too tight) known to most as Sayed Hassan Nasrallah, can you imagine a more strikingly pristine example of what it means to be a good Shiite these days? I mean for all your stocked kytushkas, (in the tourists-of-the-world-next-best-dest. when other dests. Are full up Southern “Les Banal”, n’ all), you go and offer yourself up. First as THE post Jamal Abul Nasser, post Saddam (Soddom), Arab nation unifier/hero, in regards bringing the final solution to the Palestinian problem and second, as macho-macho-macho, Jew-annihilator (supreme commander of the type), with added new-Arab-world flair.
Without regard to clock or consequence you begin with the Mullah’s (your own) blessing “from Allah” and the sincere belief that Huzbumuck with all its IRCG supplied kytushtas, and direct IRCG help to launch those too-fancy-for-an-ablutioned-terromullah’s hand, the C-802’s. You shout the fifty million dollar Syria/Iran shout of yet another fanatical Muslim Cleric with a big missile shaped penis that needs a deft cutting-off. Rocket t’ ya chest macho-macho-macho man. How many nation uniting heros does Arabia need? The only reason, habibe, that Arabia is ripe for hero worship is the autocratic, fanatic nature of the control mechanisim posing as peaceful religion Islam, that binds it, he says practo-philosophically.
Clever guy? Yeah. He a clever guy, awright. Clever guys lust for power and heroism too ya know. He’s also the leader of a movement called HuzBallah. The one that Israel will annihilate now, in the next few minutes – from a historical perspective. Israel knows how to defend its territory, of course. I am disgusted with BBC coverage and the UN and France, all of ‘em. Disproportionate response?! Descendants of the Ostrich!!! Nasrallah declared war on Israel. Now Israel must root out and destroy this element that never ceases to amaze with its audacity.
Israel withdrew from Gaza. And like Jason in Friday the thirteenth, the monster comes to life and strikes like a coward again from the rear. You give them the Gaza and they try to annihilate you! Sayed Hassan Nassrah will die a hero to a few people, yes. He will die. But before he dies, he will be captured by the ever efficient, ever present, Mossad, and have his big, missile-shaped penis cut off. No don’t worry, he won’t be soddomised after that by buff, young, muscular Israeli soldiers. Why not? Well, simply because he would take that sort of thing as a compliment and probably would enjoy it very much. The idea here is to torture and humiliate the leader of a terrorist org. Remember Al Quaidi’s hero Abu Musab Al Sarquawi and how he died? Far too quickly in my opin onion.
None the less, it’s quite a way to go to have a Missouri farm girl/marine’s boot to head while you struggle to get up from the ambulance stretcher, internal organs done in by surgical strike missile centerpiece instead of your regular byriani, eh? It is an interesting twist on the American hospitality that you and yours use and abuse all the time, eh? Woohoo!, and all that militia-style BS, eh? Abu Em got the shit kicked out of his guts by a girl soldier, til he died, ha ha. Where’s your CIA training, (gone wildly wrong), now, eh, JACKAL of Jordan? And so on.
Yup, in the same vein, Sayed ought to be sent back to his huzbumuck beloved “stronghold” naked, bleeding, penisless, in severe pain, with said appendage hung from his neck, below, a sign reading: “I am Sayed Hassan Nassrallah Arab hero and leader of huzbumuck. My penis is shaped like a big missile and I wish I never had heard the word Katyushka. Allah, prepare us all to die under the hand of the Yahudi that we continue to anger without provocation.” You useless piece of Irani/Surria puppet Shiite. Then, with a piece of rope strung around his ankle dragged back, beaten by olive tree saplings til he dies. his place is already marked out beside his brother Abu Musab. It’s a matter of time til the Israeli defenders of their nation against this outrageously foolish move by macho-missile-penis, root out and destroy the havoc-wreaking idiot and his fanatical black turbine wearing bum-buddy clerics. Who’s next please?
So what is then exactly I am touching the tip of here? Transitions are the target I suppose. How to make transitions smoothly, with dignity and grace. How to find the elusive combination of that which fulfills the needs accrued by simply living a life – a full life and of assuring a decent level of comfort in terms of earning power.
Here we go again, another piece on working for a living. How boring! Shouldn’t you better be writing about dreams and aspirations as you consider your actual time left on this planet?! Of course, it is true, I should be doing just that with glee. But instead I spend each day wondering about working for a living. Why? Because it deems itself so gosh darn necessary that to pass it by for a whim of I’m gonna throw away the planning, scheduling, waiting for the next interview in favour of a day of doing what I wanna…. Even ane hour of what I wanna, though seems now to be so difficult to manage. ‘Sides, if I do, the guilt of having been so selfish kicks me in the butt and I can’t even enjoy the hour taken! That, or duty calls within minutes reminding me of just how my wasted minutes of selfishness has just cost the dependants on me a fortune they don’t have and never did!
Sooooo. Here, now, with time to write is a bit of an odd and ‘adventuristic’ notion. An indulgence probably soon to be cut short anyways. But then what better to do with your indulgence than to delve and create within the minutes before the guilt consumes again.
Speaking then of the Huzb’Allah leader (That Huzbumuck/shmuck black towel too tight) known to most as Sayed Hassan Nasrallah, can you imagine a more strikingly pristine example of what it means to be a good Shiite these days? I mean for all your stocked kytushkas, (in the tourists-of-the-world-next-best-dest. when other dests. Are full up Southern “Les Banal”, n’ all), you go and offer yourself up. First as THE post Jamal Abul Nasser, post Saddam (Soddom), Arab nation unifier/hero, in regards bringing the final solution to the Palestinian problem and second, as macho-macho-macho, Jew-annihilator (supreme commander of the type), with added new-Arab-world flair.
Without regard to clock or consequence you begin with the Mullah’s (your own) blessing “from Allah” and the sincere belief that Huzbumuck with all its IRCG supplied kytushtas, and direct IRCG help to launch those too-fancy-for-an-ablutioned-terromullah’s hand, the C-802’s. You shout the fifty million dollar Syria/Iran shout of yet another fanatical Muslim Cleric with a big missile shaped penis that needs a deft cutting-off. Rocket t’ ya chest macho-macho-macho man. How many nation uniting heros does Arabia need? The only reason, habibe, that Arabia is ripe for hero worship is the autocratic, fanatic nature of the control mechanisim posing as peaceful religion Islam, that binds it, he says practo-philosophically.
Clever guy? Yeah. He a clever guy, awright. Clever guys lust for power and heroism too ya know. He’s also the leader of a movement called HuzBallah. The one that Israel will annihilate now, in the next few minutes – from a historical perspective. Israel knows how to defend its territory, of course. I am disgusted with BBC coverage and the UN and France, all of ‘em. Disproportionate response?! Descendants of the Ostrich!!! Nasrallah declared war on Israel. Now Israel must root out and destroy this element that never ceases to amaze with its audacity.
Israel withdrew from Gaza. And like Jason in Friday the thirteenth, the monster comes to life and strikes like a coward again from the rear. You give them the Gaza and they try to annihilate you! Sayed Hassan Nassrah will die a hero to a few people, yes. He will die. But before he dies, he will be captured by the ever efficient, ever present, Mossad, and have his big, missile-shaped penis cut off. No don’t worry, he won’t be soddomised after that by buff, young, muscular Israeli soldiers. Why not? Well, simply because he would take that sort of thing as a compliment and probably would enjoy it very much. The idea here is to torture and humiliate the leader of a terrorist org. Remember Al Quaidi’s hero Abu Musab Al Sarquawi and how he died? Far too quickly in my opin onion.
None the less, it’s quite a way to go to have a Missouri farm girl/marine’s boot to head while you struggle to get up from the ambulance stretcher, internal organs done in by surgical strike missile centerpiece instead of your regular byriani, eh? It is an interesting twist on the American hospitality that you and yours use and abuse all the time, eh? Woohoo!, and all that militia-style BS, eh? Abu Em got the shit kicked out of his guts by a girl soldier, til he died, ha ha. Where’s your CIA training, (gone wildly wrong), now, eh, JACKAL of Jordan? And so on.
Yup, in the same vein, Sayed ought to be sent back to his huzbumuck beloved “stronghold” naked, bleeding, penisless, in severe pain, with said appendage hung from his neck, below, a sign reading: “I am Sayed Hassan Nassrallah Arab hero and leader of huzbumuck. My penis is shaped like a big missile and I wish I never had heard the word Katyushka. Allah, prepare us all to die under the hand of the Yahudi that we continue to anger without provocation.” You useless piece of Irani/Surria puppet Shiite. Then, with a piece of rope strung around his ankle dragged back, beaten by olive tree saplings til he dies. his place is already marked out beside his brother Abu Musab. It’s a matter of time til the Israeli defenders of their nation against this outrageously foolish move by macho-missile-penis, root out and destroy the havoc-wreaking idiot and his fanatical black turbine wearing bum-buddy clerics. Who’s next please?
July 12, 2006
Intended Ascension
Here and now the day is filled with a shift into neutral. ‘Coast’ is the order and word of the day. Students have all but gone. Mental gymnastics need to be employed in order to stave off the ‘shamal’ of boredom that whistles through the emptiness of a well-staffed, empty institute of learning. Without students present, and with such a wind blowing full knot wise, the mood is - wait and see - what happens next.
Last year was different as there was at least a drummed up, semi-legit target to shoot towards; progress yourselves towards the completion of a final version of a new curriculum in this subject that fascinates ever. This year, that collective motivation towards a target, any target no longer exists. Sheikh ordered restructuring looms dark grey overhead and pervades and dictates every little move collectively and individually from here on in, seems. And so individual mental gymnastics needs become the centering ‘will-producer’ in this present game of keeping a professional modicum of actualities in deliverables vs. fantasies in the realms of dream jobs, that is, the ultimate look-busy-do-nothing position.
With no target and but at least notification of when is my actual end date, finally, in terms of future prospects what else is there to do but F the D? I suppose I could act the part, show initiative, drum up a project to complete make work for myself and perhaps those around with less dose of cynicism flowing through their veins at this time. No. Better not to stick my neck out and show to the boys in uniform the depth to which the blankness of nothin’ doin’ does go. Besides, there are many facets of ‘drift’ through these dole-drums yet to navigate, appreciate, and mull.
For example, ____________________________________________________ ....
So then instead my language of keyboard to screen transmission of thought occurs with single-minded innovation of word. Why? The alternative is numbness of mind and encroachment of lackadaisical languishing, the hour of closing too eagerly anticipated. Enjoy then, and therefore the moments of seeming nothingness passing. Plan nothing less than your future, man.
There is something sinisterly soothing about being in the hands of the notice givers who have to this point over-looked me in this regard. Yet I am sure as the 200 odd that have already had their fates sealed that there is definite reason for my no-less-than paranoiac, under girding belief of serene finality even in the passing moments of waiting for the seemingly imminently inevitable.
What company culture, I ask you politely, is employed in a restructuring of a desert base? This remains a mystery to me. Buildings of purpose close their doors around us and yet this building, this one here, with its unique equipment and stock of severely smart personnel remains quite normally open. As if it believed itself to be self-sustainable to the next century or millennium if we as a race make it that far.
How does one focus on skills and experience that are supposed to ensure a certain level of earning power at the end of one stint while steadily yet rote-wise, still reeling, in the midst of seeking another stint? With family depending on you and waiting for the solid shift to the next higher plane or at least a plane of an equivalent combination of package, responsibility, and veritable assess ability. Suddenly there are bigger things to consider, wider loads to manoeuvre through your docking gates of life.
Perhaps these days, poetry, prose, and art are really the more lucrative option. Perhaps now, in the game of thought process prowess display, the creation of highly saleable quoth he’s and ingenious copy-writable groupings of whence forth and henceforth never grouped in such manner, such words, should surely be as well or better compensated than the engineered language of emerging and long since emerged technology should it not?
Wed July 12, 2006
And here the end of another comes nigh. The week was a goodie. Flew. Really. Why? Because of discovery of, realisation of, motivation. On Saturday I got my notice by Wednesday I had pocketed not only 3150 dhs (approx) from this Boss-forsaken zone but as well an extra 1020 from the moonlighter special. And the moonlighter special Boss also went hisself overboard and offered me a full time gig. Imagine the deep feeling of satisfaction that had then and there welled up in this writer’s soul…. Unfortunately, the moonlighters special become full time gig at most will bring 11000. Not enough to keep a full set of disposable diapers on the young’n nor not near enough to take care of learnin’ the older one.
In the mean time, no serious searching yet on my part though for those types of positions that quell the thirst for the explication of roaring birds as it were. What? Never heard of them before? Yes, they are fascinating and huge and roar. That’s all I’m saying.
Head in books for two years, refresher on the subject at hand, the opportunity to read full on a curriculum filled with the stuff of actually catching a break; a leg up, finally.
What are we talking here? We’re talking a real industry job is what we’re talking here. A potentially large enough package to make it worth’s one’s while to don the "covies" again and get in on the hangar floor action again.
Hell-dwelling snakes posing as soops of this and that thing they don’t have a f’ing clue about, it’s both comforting and disconcerting at the same time, to converse with men 15, 20 years your senior and be able to understand very quickly on, that you, my man, know at least twice as much as they do about TECHNICALLY how it should all come together.
However let not their poseur filth bother your intended ascension my dear one. Chronic fibbers too can be used as stepping stones. Continue on then. Say exactly what you think still, loudly. Express exactly how you feel when confronted by widespread ignorance, lack of technical knowledge, secrecy and brown politicking.
July 07, 2006
Setting the scene
From one mind beguilingly beautiful African Manor Estate to another, Byro’s family moved to Banso. Built into a hillside, as well with a long drive up to it the yard was big the car port drenched in Bougainvillea. The grass was yards grass was green and made a flat bottomed bowl, hedged by an evergreen hedge and overlooking the town of Nso, it was in this bowl in which Byro and his brothers fine tuned all their mischevious boy-adventures.
Ramp for with to jump the Mini bike, all of them evil keneevils in making.
Learning to driving the kuble (umlaut) wagen, popping clutches and lurching around.
Dad raising his ever patient voice a notch er two
It was a paradise cleared from a surrounding green forest. The forest in and of itself was an adventure: "to all who dared enter". Byro and his brothers did time after time.
Underground Fort in forest
Sally the pig raising
Riding bikes down treacherous mountain forest paths
Life in the Tree house in the forest behind
Careening down through long needle pine evergreen trunks, narrowly missing, pushed by brothers on a cool Dad-built wagon/soap-box cart, rugged machine of joy and five brothers delight.
And the house. Oh the house. Front wall of glass, peaked open roof, Iroko wood doors, spiral flint stone stair case, balcony above, carport below. Flower garden beside and in the center of that flint stone spiral staircase a bed too of flowers. Byro’s mom loved flowers. And sweeping slopes either side up around to the rear – a stone fire place / water heater. A backyard squared-in by short 2 foot flint stone wall which kept the rear forest as well at bay. And in the storage shed in that same backyard, of zink built, rough iroko beams, shallow concrete/flint stone foundations and chicken wire walls, lived the family pig….
Ramp for with to jump the Mini bike, all of them evil keneevils in making.
Learning to driving the kuble (umlaut) wagen, popping clutches and lurching around.
Dad raising his ever patient voice a notch er two
It was a paradise cleared from a surrounding green forest. The forest in and of itself was an adventure: "to all who dared enter". Byro and his brothers did time after time.
Underground Fort in forest
Sally the pig raising
Riding bikes down treacherous mountain forest paths
Life in the Tree house in the forest behind
Careening down through long needle pine evergreen trunks, narrowly missing, pushed by brothers on a cool Dad-built wagon/soap-box cart, rugged machine of joy and five brothers delight.
And the house. Oh the house. Front wall of glass, peaked open roof, Iroko wood doors, spiral flint stone stair case, balcony above, carport below. Flower garden beside and in the center of that flint stone spiral staircase a bed too of flowers. Byro’s mom loved flowers. And sweeping slopes either side up around to the rear – a stone fire place / water heater. A backyard squared-in by short 2 foot flint stone wall which kept the rear forest as well at bay. And in the storage shed in that same backyard, of zink built, rough iroko beams, shallow concrete/flint stone foundations and chicken wire walls, lived the family pig….
July 05, 2006
Al cHair in'sh'Allah (By Morning, If God Wills...)
Hope is that elusive ingredient that makes a story good. Change in it self, gives us hope. When we read a good story, we hope things will turn out good in the end. We give ourselves much license to accomodate the buildup of anticipation of our hope fulfilled. Yes hope is what makes a story good however, I think often that Byro’s life; all the things pertaining to Byro’s life, as stories go, would make a fairly bad story for there is no hope in it. No hope, that is, of ever being told exactly as he thinks it ought to be told by him to a willing audience. And yet the hope exists that one day Byro will get over his fear of getting it wrong or telling it badly. Where the hope for Byro does lie too, in this untold as yet story is in this: that He will be, soon, finally able get things right. After that, the Byromaniac’s hope lies in actually beginning that all too familiar, rigorous, process of committing that right writ to paper - to write the story that needs should be wrote. Also there exists a hope that the right writ will not point its gleeful fingers at Byro himself the author. there exists a hope that the right writ will not point gleeful fingers at his life as reported in the third person singular, as if the hope-filled story is readying itself from the start to shift blame for the inevitable unrighteousness, gaps in reason for the sake of poetry, and similarities that don’t or ought not to bear any resemblance to real persons therein.
The hope that drives Byro forward to eventually write this story right is the hope that the expose’ doesn’t expose too much. Yet too, that enough will be exposed so as to be believed as a good story, accepted; it’s main character(s) identified-with, redeemed by and forgiven of and loved by and liked by, even, readers wide. For what is the point really of writing an "everyman" to a narrow readership? In the spirit of the "everyman" then, the story is not about Byro, as some who imagine, having done their thorough research into the author’s life and times. Rather what follows is the story of an everyman. It is a story correctly writ enough to be filled with the kind of hope that we are stayed for. It’s the story Byro’s supposed to write after finally getting many things right. Though by the profit margin dictated by the publishing schedule, still there remain the many almost right passages not only to be written from this day forth but also that could be a bit better in the next draft. In the mean time the beginning of Byro’s story is here published just so, for now. And so it begins, the story rightly writ, by Byromaniac.
Once upon a time there was a boy named Byromaniac who was born in the middle of the night, during a right nasty, ill –timed, Taurus in the sky Canadian blizzard, in the civilized-enough Canadian city of Edmonton. The doctor smacked his bottom and a black Bic pen fell from the heavens into one of the Byromaniac’s little hands to match the color of his thick wild black crew-do and into the other fell a little golden eaglet. Edmonton is a city of a million, planted smack dab in the middle of the largest wheat producing field in the world – the Alberta prairie. The Byromaniac was born surrounded by wheat and people saying "eh" a lot. For exactly three months, the first three months of his life. Then just as whisk is an onomatopoeic term connoting, denoting, downright meaning briskly changed from one state into a foamy ‘nother, his byromaniness was whisked off to Africa by blessed Parents with the compulsion and the churches backing offering a tangible vs intangible mission of healing to Africans and to do the many interesting things in Africa that make deep lifelong impacts on those family members along for the adventure that inevitably accompanies such, in the very vien of that ancient tradition that harkens to mission and the call of almighty God. This, rather than work three decades, retire, get a work-gift, and handshake.
A mind-bogglingly beautiful manor estate facing the west is built onto a bulldozed Plateau, near the top of one of Mbingo, Cameroon, West Africa’s many gigantic hillsides was Byro’s home for the first year of his life. Byro, mom and dad, Byro’s brothers, a dog, and a monkey lived here in a perpetual state of bliss me slowly, bliss me quick for a whole year in our African manor. It is of course all a fog for our young man Byro but in the telling of it, yet another hope in this yet to be told tale is that the reader can imagine and perhaps begin right here and now to appreciate with some degree clarity, the wonder of African manor living and the profound effect it would have on a toddler of one….
As inspriration kicks me gutwise so will I write further.
