> “We live in disharmony with the universe, as if we were not part of it.” — Brazilian photographer Sebastiao Salgado

> “You have not yet understood that the world of thought is done for…. All is nothing but disorder…. There is nothing but…antagonistic action.” — Soul-shattering character Raymond, from Blaise Cendrars Moravagine, the writing of which overlapped his Brazilian experiences

If Homeland Security schnooks can look into my records at the local library, why can’t I find out who donated Li Yang’s *Blind Shaft* to the Circulation Department there? I’ve always thought local libraries could provide a great public service by serving, in part, as a connecting link for like-minded individuals who might not otherwise ever meet.

I mean, couldn’t I at least leave *my* number to be let loose? Passed on.

“What’s the deal with everyone evacuatin’ the bayou rushin’ inland from Koreenah, when history shows it’s the people who are inland days after the first hit what gets flooded and killed the most of all?” — The author’s cagey Cajun cousin only getting the hurricane name wrong

Sing-songy these so-called natural disasters, Acts of God. Got that way for me some time between the release of Dylan’s “Corrina, Corrina” and today, on the Eve of Destruction.

The stuff’s not real for the vast majority of the country, and for clear reasons…which I’ll get to before I’m finished. Long before the million go homeless.

> “A fallen soldier’s mother said Thursday that the an anti-war vigil she started nearly three weeks ago near President Bush’s ranch won’t end when she and other protesters pack up the camp next week. Cindy Sheehan said the day after she leaves Aug. 31, she will embark on a bus tour ending up in Washington, D.C., on Sept. 24. Then the group will start a 24-hour vigil in the nation’s capital.” — AP wire

Way too many *alternativos* salivate like Pavlov’s dog — on cue — over any antiwar analysis Stan Goff provides. Ditto respecting responses to/from the grieving members of military families who have lost loved ones in our current wars. I guess those with bloodsoaked hands we’re glad aren’t ours…with spines we don’t share carry more weight than they should. Ditto for the inconsolable in mourning.

Out of Bangladesh: Out of Luck? Three Ground Zeros and We’re Out? Outting ‘Mmmericans? 24 Hours to Get the “F” Out? All titles rejected within seconds.

The frustration of fiction. No more.

“‘The chilling scope of the bomb attacks that swept the length and breadth of the country yesterday should have no one in doubt as to the intent, organization, and capability of the terrorists that were behind it,’ a leading English newspaper, the Daily Star, said in an editorial.”

That was straight up from a Reuters report on the desk of Richard Martin Oxman. It knocked him clear out of *the person* he was using.

While the police were high-fiving themselves, and jiving the public around with their low-profile profiling underground in major cities around the country, a new kind of baby stroller was introduced into the the nation’s subway system…and elsewhere.

The one that carried a bomb in the baby carriage.

Meanwhile, Big Al’s carriage and Bad Al’s carriage changed quite a bit down roun’ Al-’Ayun around the same time.

Their *marriage*, following Malone’s knock on Good Al’s Desdemona door…ostensibly to apologize for the slash in the windsurfed sea off Essaouira, was a shock to their collective systems; suddenly they just wanted to be alone with one another.

But when they ventured into the Western Sahara, Morocco’s illegally occupied territory, to escape…Matilda followed in disguise. That would have shocked them even more had they known.

“Not even the rain has such small hands,” whispered Good Al, in appreciation. “I like Cummings too,” dripped The Bad Malone.

Run, don’t walk or waddle, to see Luc Jacquet’s *March of the Penguins*.

Don’t waffle on this, please. Unless many more people experience something soulful like this soon, the world is doomed. And unless we do something to “separate ourselves” from the vast majority who suffer from *Madagascar* mentality (wherein ignorance about this subject is compounded)…our individual existences will count for naught.

It wasn’t compulsive Dostoevsky Syndrome that compelled me to put some action down on the A’s a few days ago, well over a week now, I’m sure.

It was something that perhaps only those with some knowledge of gambling will understand immediately. For others, suffice it to say that when the odds for a given bet are way out of whack — when an *overlay* exists — it’s time to consider jumping into the *saddle exotica*.

To clarify just a wee bit more, when you study horses in a legitimate race — wherein there is a basis for evaluation of all contenders, conditions, etc. — and one pony with a very decent shot at the pot ‘o gold — is slated to go off at 60 to 1…when you deem his chances to be only *slightly* worse than the filly favorite (with the even-money profile), you MUST enter into the fray, not wait for another day.

“The wind stood up and gave a shout.
He whistled on his fingers and

Kicked the withered leaves about
And thumped the branches with his hand

And said he’d kill and kill and kill,
And so he will and so he will.” — James Stephens’ “The Wind” (1915)

“…to know which way the wind blows.” — *Subterranean Homesick Blues* (1965)

To the south of Essaouira, due west of Marrakech, there’s the windy beach, the one with gusty winds so strong they drive people to relief in *madness song*, seeking shelter in the medina.

At the estuary of Wadi Qsob, on the far side of the beach, vestiges of the system of defenses built on a rocky promontory by the sultan, silly/senile Sidi Mohammed, are visible. They crumbled long ago, but thick walls can still be made out at the spot where Good Al stood August 7th, one month to the day of 07/07/07, before meeting up again with his off-road mates.

An awful lot of people wouldn’t be playing ball anymore — even if they wanted (to) — if they were…able. But Matilda’s table didn’t anticipate that.

The way the cards fell compelled our Great(ly Rejected) One to board the Royal Air Maroc jet, totally ignorant of Big Al’s presence in the North African nation. She didn’t like the way he ended the relationship, but she certainly wasn’t the type to track unrequited love.

Tracking what came up with the Tarot, however, was a different matter. *Journey, journey, journey*.

Good Al got good and tired of The Great Matilda’s *goodies* around the same time that he lost interest in *civilization* falling apart all around him. Bad Al’s most ingenious means of destruction no longer fazed him much, and he was so fed up with filling Matilda’s *cup*…he just gave up on hard…on all normal human intercourse.

Perhaps that’s how he landed in Merzouga, 33 miles southeast of Erfoud, a small oasis at the foot of Morocco’s Erg Chebbi Dunes.

His *Hummer Holiday* commenced with a 19-mile climb into the desert, 820-feet up…to greet the half-light of a Saharan sunrise. Fascinating colors climbed with him as his bloodlusty companions — strangers all — screamed out of scrunched faces…language most foul…most fatal for the fowl ahead.