Shahrazad, Shahreyar and Steps along Retail Row

I heard it. I’m numb. I’m in disbelief and sure as hell weighed this in my head for possible body counts. If I do not say a word, it goes on and inevitably gets worse. I’ll open my mouth another day and let key typing rule the night.

She told me that city hall, on the down low, has been waiting for me to become a prostitute. I did not yell and scream. On the contrary I took it in stride and did not waste with the when or who. Several there and elsewhere in my little ‘burb have been wondering why I have not moved on to the next city with my belongings in tow. Seems this is the trait and tradition for prostitutes out this way. Not having a clue that I did not participate in that trick bag, they all have been pinching their gums for a kickback of some sort. She told me that the sacrifice happens in city hall once you take on the nomer. From there to slumming with the citizens and off to bigger money in the next town over. If I remember correctly one town deeper behind us gave haven to a forced prostitution ring. The leader was plastered across the new for a few days as he had missed his court date and was now a fugitive. So from a little town to little town to bigger ‘burb and then a piece of Dallas. To me it seemed a sham that appeared like 1,001 Entertainments. Many a woman being sacrificed to some man’s justification for being a misogynist. Translate royalty in the story to be the top echelon of small city government. Think in terms of the city being sieged by another entity, government body or business. The citizens are beleaguered with taxes and lack of premium services because the payouts must happen one way or another. In the depth of the economy while some cities are shutting down, we seem to be making a life work. Though while the daily toil mans the day for the citizens, this slice of pie is dressed in the form of human trafficking. I do not know where the highway comes from or to where it proceeds. Mind you, the stops on the way to the destination may waylay one for a bit of time. So, some are told that the cash of flesh is in the next town over. Others know they are hidden in the next town over from Dallas, east in Rockwall.

W.H. Tespid ERT

Beyond the Rise of the Hill

So, there are are few nuances and turns in what I am trying to impart. Branches of ideas and lessons all to build larger intellectual tools and a reinforced pair of eye for you to notice the world. Some say it is hidden and I say, it is all right there in plain view. Some things we choose to ignore and other times 20/20 vision shields a larger blind spot than we choose to acknowledge.

I wrote previously about not reading the book cover to cover. I slid into shame later, but it is true. I have a habit of yielding to targeted reading and shunning books that total over 300 pages in writing. My patience then was lower and now my eyes have developed to target knowledge in small scraps. If you can not make your point in brief, how wise are you really about the topic? With verbosity is revealed an intellectual who chooses to verbally masturbate in public. It is a point of pride and lauding for he/she and the stacks of books next to a desk that collects dust these days. “Educated Fools” is what dad calls them. Me? In all of the education I have pursued, I’ve gotten picky in what I read and write. Process reigns supreme and I must confess to you that at this point it is the image that strikes me as more vital than the word. A bit of a play on “Do as I say, but not as I do”. Still living by example and not by the law seems to have preserved some of our ancestors for generations.

So, here is what is forming in my intellect. I’ll try my best to impart. Like my approach in college to looking at Holy Blood, Holy Grail, I’ll defend the mastery of the image. I still grind my teeth on how reading was essentially a tool and talent for the wealthy even back to the ancient Egyptians. Those who could read and write where of the priestly and scribe classes. Not to mention those of the wealth who held land and slaves. The general population, by all means, was illiterate. Imparting direction and guidance for them came in realistic images not with the complication of symbol and sign. To me this was the rule of thumb for centuries in treating and managing the poor. God knows if the poor became literate and any age then and later, the world would be different.

I used to harbor a secret joy about imagery and the preservation of histories. To me, every piece that came out of Michaelangelo’s workshop was a preservation of ancient rhyme and reason. I remember looking at the sculptures in the garden at a Catholic Church I used to attend. On the edge of sundown I told myself that if it all dies away, at least these and their like will remain. The passion could still be told by looking at the figures. Their posture and placement says it all. Even if you did not know who each figure represented, you could tell a story. A story you would not likely forget. Even if you change the names, the significance remained.

I never studied as a children’s librarian, but I love picture books. At this age, the pages of the picture books I like line the walls of a myriad of art museums. Here art and artifact become one and I look into the glass and a movie begins to run in my head. Who? What? When? and Where? All of it answered as I back away and sit on the bench. I had started a wonderful habit once of writing poetry for what startled my conscience while viewing at the inner galleries. It was not just about the King and his courtiers, but about the people who harvested the rubies, diamonds and sapphires. History deserves to know about them as well. Dad tells me their stories are the ones that put the meaning in ju-ju and hoodoo. Blood he tells me. Those who died bringing that precious up from the center of the earth. Not to mention the wars that ensued to place the jewels rightfully in justified hands. In one manner or another he intimates the crown jewels are cursed somewhat like the Hope Diamond. The day I go to the U.K. and gaze upon history, I hope I am strong enough to reach back for the bench and patiently wait as the movie plays in my mind.

So. The images in a museum. Crusty,, dusty and old to some, but every bit of history and peoples long forgot. All of them a repository of rights, laws, permissions and dreams that may have gotten realized after an insurrection or two. Archetype, parable and allegory, every single one, packaged simply and direct for us to understand our environments. I heard/learned that 80% of the information that goes to our brains to understand the world is visual. If reality is a initial rule of thumb for depiction and parable, then I understand the coding inherent in learning letters, grammar and phrases is more difficult than it need be. Visual language is important then, even in constructing still life paintings. I remember reading briefly about painters sending code in works back in World War II. I could be wrong, but the fog has not cleared in my mind.

I’m stopping here. I believe it would do me good to bolster my arguments with specific examples. An article perhaps to publish somewhere? Maybe. I’ll sit on the musing for now till I am ready to pursue a sounder document.

Limestone Grave Marker in the West Corner

I have my problems. Like we all do. Though their importance weighs more heavily on our shoulders for the simple fact that these problem belong to us and us alone. Sooner or later we become selfish in their ownership and develop a righteous posture in our suffering. From then on it is the attachment to them that cripples us indefinitely. Well, only if we let it.

I used to pinpoint my problem(s) to occasions in youth and high school. Sooner or later I intoned that we all grow up. These occasions were all a matter of being human and growing old. It is all the same person to person and year to year, but we do not talk to each other. We do not share and then the burden weighs more heavily on our shoulders. Our knees buckle and we fall to the ground somewhat defeated. This little issue in my head had at one time forced me in the cavity called my chest and I grew quiet as the years went on. I almost completely silenced myself. Not out of shame, but out of ignorance and fearful that if I talked the shoe would drop and the world would end. So, I’ll tempt fate and tell you. If the skies darken, I’ll be patience for lightening and drops of acidic water to forge a mark on my head. You’ll know me then.

In college, like high school, I had a thing for libraries. Not so much checking out and forging discovery at home, but lingering between shelves and finding the window seat in the back of the second floor. Wandering by the archives and saying hello to the librarian was a thrill. Especially looking forward to that day when I could peruse the pictures from early in the college history, Let’s just say that the college grounds as well as the library where steeped in dust and uncleared mental dust bunnies. Age showed through character and that included the staff as well. I do not remember his name, but he was the government documents librarian. I saw him at least once a visit to the library. He always had some interesting comment about holdings and told me where I might find the odds and ends I was researching. The best part was that he taught cultural anthropology. As my itch for anything tribal was growing beyond Africa and onto Oceania and the ancient European continent, I needed more help in understanding primitive cultural development. He encouraged me to audit his class that coming quarter. After that I was hooked on everything he had to tell me.

I think it was late in the winter quarter that I stopped by his office. The door was open, but he was not there. My heart sank in my chest. “Oh indeed, what to do today,” I started questioning myself. So back down though the lattice work of government documents and there he was before I got to the stairs. Chit chat ensued and then he hit me with a hush hush. He told me about the book Holy Blood, Holy Grail. From knights in armor to Christ and secret societies, I was riveted. Honestly? I was not a church goer or a cult appassionata. I hung onto science and art. My God was becoming a paint brush. My friend did not stop there. For all intensive purposes, it seemed a quick primer in the occult and Masonry. Before I could get back into my body, I was hooked. I took everything he said to heart. The next stop was a bookstore. Seriously though ad sorrowfully though? I never read it. I was glued to the pictures and deciphering images with my own understandings. I took more leads from my conversations with him which sparked an inner fire and interest that lasted for years. Here is where the research began and the “little things”, like place and people coming to life. A gateway if you will. Mind you and I hate somehow to admit it that this new source of education did not came neither by book or pen nor codified notes and conferences then. I went totally on visual information and instinct.

The hush hush syndrome which developed around it all I gather from the people I spoke to. I do not know what they know most certainly, but for me it seems timely to divulge and thread these memories so someone can understand where I’ve been. In the least it makes for compelling writing and reading.

With a careful reminder to myself, its still early for me and for you more librarian stories later.

Enjoy your Saturday.