Nomad in Exile (Part V)

by Tim Leonard

Out in the vast Sahara a traveler told the Berber it was really about economics. Berbers understood this basic need having been conditioned to survival, weekly markets, bartering, trade, and getting the best possible price. Not too low and not too high. They knew they could not drink or eat more than they needed. It was about hospitality.

“Your enemy is my friend,“ the saying goes.

They had conquered and ruled Spain for 1000 years. It was nothing new then, this shifting dynamic, just a little different technology.

He had seen planes fly over the desert. He watched the odd television image which was boring compared to human conversation. He considered it the most insane invention of all time, which covered a lot of inventions.

After that, well, stories developed themselves, like cultures in petri dishes multiplying and creating their own destiny, their own language, art, music, design, architecture, historical futures. They took on new identities. They went to the Predator’s Ball in full dress apparel hot off the designer’s racks.

“Buy low and sell high,” whispered the Berber. Sand shifted beneath their feet and the sky was a brilliant blue.

“I see what you mean,” said the nomad looking low and looking high.

“Yes,” said the Berber, “It’s not really now all that difficult. Never has been.” He was a man a few words.

They contemplated the vast, silent emptiness.

“No language, no culture,” whispered the Berber as they sat on top of a dune watching shooting stars play celestial tag.

The nomad thought of strange but true elements of fear, double edged messages, disinformation, misinformation, bias, lies, half-truths, whispers, paranoia, irrational transmissions being issued by authorities in every language on the spinning rock in space. Human brains overflowed with data.

Therapy in the form of _____ was issued to the populace. Their remote control device was broken. Too many channels. They chewed, swallowed and digested daily distributed high concentrated dosage of wisdom, clarity, and insight. Distance, health, balance and harmony of spiriti sanctus.

Scholars educated at the finest universities and institutes of erudite study started speaking Latin and telling stories about the rise and fall of civilizations. It had been written well before their time with hieroglyphics and cave pain paintings. Caves were full of survivors. Candles sales were brisk. “A tisket a tasket, we need a casket,” sang multi-lingual children.

Historians, political scientists, talk show experts, taxi drivers, fortune tellers, morticians and beauticians took calls on their hot line. The number of callers increased exponentially. Suicide search and rescue teams were put on alert. Citizens packed hospital emergency rooms. Medical schools increased graduation classes to meet the growing manufactured need. Demand outstripped supply.

“Take a number,” the nurse said. There were 31 flavors in life’s waiting room. They spilled into the street where they were assaulted by strange ideas.

“What happens when they run out of drugs?” a child said to its mother.

“Don’t worry, my sweet,” said the fraught and anxious neurotic mother living her worst nightmare, “They’ll invent something new and improved. The manufacturing sector will rebound when the shelves are empty. We’ll always have sugar and we can always go shopping.”

“How long will that take?” wondered the kid.

“Hard to say,” said the mother. “Could be we won’t live to see it.”

“I was afraid of that,” said her daughter.

“There is only F.U.D.,” said her mother twisting her hair until it caught fire.

“What is the F.U.D. mother?” said her child.

“Fear, uncertainty and doubt,” answered her mother. “Been with us along time.”

“How long?”

“You ask too many questions, child,” said the mother fanning her daughter’s flame. “A long time. A century is nothing.”

“It’s good to know some things,” said the girl.

“A little knowledge can be a dangerous thing,” her mother said. “I’ve already told you a lot.”

“Tell me the truth,” mother. “I want to know the truth.”

“The truth is,” the mother said, “It’s all a lie. It’s all evolving. Life is a party. Life is short, nasty and short. It is a dream. There’s no rhyme or reason. Just keep breathing and be.”

“Can we go out and play now?” said her daughter. “Can we take the day off and be creative?”

“Yes, let’s invent a game,” said her mother and they went out.

Tim Leonard a Vietnam veteran, is a graduate of the University of Oregon. A poet, writer and digital photographer, his work has been published by PoetrySuperHighway.com, Stirring (V2E1), JournalE.com, Kid's Highway.com, Babylontravel.net, and Comrades.org.uk., ozimages.com.au a photographer's cooperative in Australia, grazalema.ws, and zonezero.com. He published a children's book with ebooksonthe.net and is a book editor with atlanticbridge.net. He finished his first novel, a memoir, last fall and is looking for an agent and publisher. He recently returned from gathering material in Morocco and Andalucia for a new book and is sitting down in the Northwest, where he chops wood and carries water.
Note: Featured author in December 2000
E-mail: tmleonard@earthlink.net
Writing interests: Travel, Children, Poetry, Prose
I.D. Theory articles: "Going North from Santa Fe", "Bali Creativity", "Old Man Hands", "Roof Ball", "Commentary in December", "Sun River", "Leaving Through DIA", "Pawn Takes Pawn", "Elements of Surprise and Laughter", "Field", "Gas is Cheap"
Digital art: "Cutting Fingers," "Error 404 File Not Found," "Scratch," "Remain in the View," "The Orchestra is in the Pits," "National Poetry Month," "Untitled Means Exactly What It Means," "Woman in Thorns," "Royalty Discussing Just Desserts," "Truth Clarity Power Immortality"
Links: Tim's Website