Utah Phillips, can't get you out of my head.

"As I walk the concrete canyons here in Fresco by the sea
There's lots of room for plutocrats, but no place left for me
The flops are gone to condos, the skids are down the chute
But looking don't cost nothing, boys, so look for me in Butte.

Look for me in Butte, Montana, high up on the hill
Where it seems that you can live a month on a twenty dollar bill
Come, Bessie, put the kettle on. I've been out on a toot
When there's nothing left worth looking for, you look for me in Butte.

In the Big Rock Candy Mountain, the jungle fires have died
These piggy bank containers, there's no place a bo can ride
The bulls are getting surly, they're more inclined to shoot
I'm tired of being civilized, so look for me in Butte.

Look for me in Butte, if you're looking anywhere
Whatever I've been missing here sure is bound to happen there
Come, Bessie, put the kettle on. I've been out on a toot.
When there's no place left worth looking for, you look for me in Butte.

And when my life is over, and the final race is run
I'll think about the good times, and all the things I've done
When I'm packing my last bundle down the Indian Valley route
If I can't get into heaven, boys, you look for me in Butte.

Look for me in Butte where my ragged soul can mend
In a world that's full of strangers, you can always find a friend
Come, Bessie, put the kettle on. I've been out on a toot.
When there's no place left worth looking for, you look for me in Butte.

Look for me in Butte, where the mountains touch the stars.
I'll be drinking with the miners in the old Helsinki bar.
Come, Bessie, put the kettle on, let's go out on a toot.
When there's no place left worth looking for, you look for me in Butte."

~ Utah Phillips (written with Mark Ross), Look for Me in Butte.

Nightly musings:

There's something strange about my perception of pleasure. Spine-tingling pleasure isn't hyperbole enough to explain the intensity of the tiny shivers that dance over the surface of my skin. These inexpressive tickles ripple out from my scalp, down through my hair, bursting out lightly onto my arms.

Each tone of the music - the change of even just scale - laps the pleasure ripples out gently, and quickly. The only outward indication a slight closing of my eyes, born of concentration on this licking of tongues. At times, when my perception is transformed, rather than small the tongues become large... blowing over my skin in large gusts. Waves moving greatly out from my mind, like a slow stepback from the world.

April, don't be cruel.

"April is the cruelest month, T.S. Eliot wrote, by which I think he meant (amongst other things) that springtime makes people crazy. We expect too much, the world burgeons with promises it can't keep, all passion is really a setup, and we're doomed to get our hearts broken yet again. I agree, and would further add: Who cares? Every spring I go there anyways, around the bend, unconditionally.*"

I, too, go around the bend unconditionally at the beginning of every spring. Blankets become picnic places, lawn coverings, places for basking in the sun. Flowers tempt me to lie down amongst their fragrant blossoms, to disregard meetings and obligations. Everything about spring makes me crazy; it adds a sort of hazy covering to my life, a constant awareness of the environment around me. I want to plant flowers, eat vegetables as soon as they stick their feathery heads above the soil, and dance around the proverbial May pole (or the real one, in my case).

Mr. T.S. Eliot, I disagree. April is amongst my favorite months, second only to October. That's me: lover of the bookend months of the year.

* Barbara Kingsolver, in Animal, Vegetable, Miracle

The Rules of Egypt

Official rules:

1 - It's better than nothing.

2 - They like to fuck with you.

3 - "In Egypt, there's always another way." *Asharaf Barakat, Grand Guide Extraordinaire

4 - Everyone's Paul in Luxor.

Unofficial "under the table" rules:

- Expect Kharga. Be pleasantly surprised.

- Don't make time estimates. You'll get there when you get there.

Irreligious Urges

Egypt does something to you.

You visit mosque after mosque after mosque, not to mention the churches and synagogues randomly thrown in. Instead of enjoying the religious symbolism, the majestic architecture, the awe-inspiring continuity of it all, I find myself thinking of the possibilities of a make out session in a minaret. The women's quarters in a traditional family home - with their harem window shading and secret passages - present themselves as the perfect place for a certain set of clandestine activities.

Oh land of the sexually repressed, what hast thy done?

Movies Camille needs to watch:

Sullivan's Travels

The Red Shoes

Strictly Ballroom

Center Stage

Bedknobs and Broomsticks

Stairway to Heaven

The Boy in the Striped Pajamas

Code 46

Gattaca

Soylent Green

Before Sunrise

A Man for All Seasons

The Man Who Knew Too Much

Accepted

P.S.

Wet Hot American Summer

The Lady Eve

And a couple television shows:

The Middleman

Coupling

The World of the Alphabet

"R, M, and D are strong, unbending and faithful. The sometimes silent B and G and the slippery K follow strident codes of conduct. Even the redoubtable H, which can make P sound like F and turn ROOM into RHEUM, obeys etymology. Consonants are the camels of language, proudly carrying their lingual loads.

Vowels, however, are a different species, the fish that flash and glisten in the watery depths. Vowels are elastic and inconstant, fickle and unfaithful. E can sound like I or U, -IBLE and -ABLE are impossible to discern. There is no combination the vowels haven't tried, exhaustive and incestuous is their couplings. E will just as soon pair with A, I, or O, leading the dance or being led."

~ Bee Season, Myla Goldberg

The Evolution of the Ma'taf

A ma'taf is the peculiar device used for transporting sand by Egyptian workmen from excavation area to refuse midden. It is a bucket-like carrier made of old rubber tires and somewhat inexpertly hinged together. Some pour sand out of the bottom, making the transportation nearly useless, and almost all let out at least a trickle of sand on its path from trench to pile.

All in all they are useful. They are only used in Egyptian archaeology, as far as I can tell. I have theorized that a story of their evolution would double as a chronicle of the history of Egyptology. If ever I choose to write that particular story, this is the title I will use.

*That rubber thing beside Darryl is a ma'taf.

I never had a security blanket.

I did have my very own, extra-special, one-of-a-kind (because of the little holes throughout, each of which told its own little story) security sweater. It's been with me on-and-off throughout my life. You know, it was one of those relationships.

Now it's gone. Completely and utterly gone. Forever. There's no reclaiming a sweater that is in an entirely different oasis from the one I am currently inhabiting. In the past, when I had lost it, it has always returned to me. I claimed it had special powers. For the days we remained in Kharga I kept half-expecting the police officer who had taken a liking to Fatma and invited our group to a party to bring it back to our hotel. Needless to say, my half-expectations were not fulfilled. I never saw that particular member of the security detail again, and I didn't get my sweater back.

I miss it, and now I need a new sweater.