=au05022b
Being the continuation of =au05022a.txt
And so being bloc 6 of my 2nd Autobiograogy

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Their next-door neighbor liked to change her clothes when my back
was turned , she did it very quickly, but I ssuppose she wore only
one garment, a long dress.

I had driven up there with Susie on a UCSB vacation.  They kept
pressing pot upon me, hoping I suppose that I would get high
enough to see and appreciate my relationshiop with Susan, and act
accordingly.  But I did not.  At one point the couple next door
came back from killing and skinning a deer, and took a shower in
the Shragers' apartment, but I went out to our tent to sleep, and
so I suppose, from Susie's smile next morning, missed a bit of an
incipient orgy.  Shrager was not above playing a few head games,
mubmling in an undertone at one point, 'I am not as harmless as I
seem.'
Well, our vacation week in the woods ended, and we drove back to
Santa Barbara for our respective graduate school programs.  I was
faking philosophy, she , at my insistence, going through an M.A.
eduatetion.  I assumed we would eventually break up, and wanted
her to at least have something to show for that time.  She had
been planning to go to Hong Kong for a half year, but cancelled
that at the start of our affair, without telling me beforehand.  I
quite regretted it, I had not seen this as a particularly serious
affiar, though it was her first.
The next summer, at Lama Foundation, I asked her to live with me
when we went back to Santa Barbara in the fall, and she said, I
don't think you're worth the trouble.  I insisted, threatening to
end the affair, and so she did.  Well, we got a rather modern
apartment near the somewhat tarry beach of Santa Barbara -- a five
minute walk or so, but the oil-spill tar made swimming uninviting
whatever reason Susie would go over there to secretly knit me a
sweater for my birthday.

Whenever I spoke of an orgy, which I suppose I did as a leitmotif
not an intention, Susie would say, I'll play the record-player.
She did love music, especially the Beattles.  And dancing.

Oh well.  I suppose I'm still recounting the saga of how I left
Rodos.
I suppose Chabad should be put on a convoy to Hong Kong, and
encouraged to sail far enough east of Manhattan that it could be
torpedo'd without disrupting the fishing floor.

As I say, I had balked at going back to isael because I felt
myxelf unworthy.  If I was going to mess up, better to do it in
Greece, or at least the USA, and keep Israel clean.
Charming notion that, most Chabad.  I saw them once chase Crazy
Lou Kessler back to the USA, and we ain't heard from him snce. 
Crazy Lou haCohen, as innocent a looney as ever walked the
streets.  I mean, I had him at Bet Zayit campground, where I was a
volunteer, ie cleaning the ruddy bungalows and then jumping into
the swimming pool to share the dirt with the tourists -- there was
once a lovely mother and daughter staying at the Campground,
Indonesian, and this young kibbutz kid let us in after hours to
use the pool, but that was perhaps because she swam nude.  So did
I, but she failed to take the hint.

Well, that Chabad notion is some sort of heresy.  The basic
principle of Zionism is that Israel is a haven for all Jews.  And
a secondarily principle is "build and be rebuilt" -- that, even
without Jesus to do it for you, one is redeemed from accumulated
klippot, the assorted sins one picked up like stickers in the
underbursh, by rebuilding tghe land of Israel.

As I say, by their 3rd try at deporting me, I did not want to get
hit again, so I put up no resistance to speak of.
I think a main reason I did not want to leave was that I believed
I was still under Shabat -- I mean, if Joel Glick taught us that
one could meritoriously extend it a few hours into the evening,
why shoiuld I not have extended it for a few years -- 
and I wonder what has happened to R. Joel Glick, who had lovely
wife, Naomi, for he had fallen under the sway of this guru chick -
- bit of an ageing old duck actually -- whho specialized only in
orthodox Jews -- I mean, some vultures are epicures -- and off he
went to France.  It was Joel Glick who created Chochmat haLev,
which did not outlast him, as fine an institution of progressive
orthodox Judaism as one could imagine.  
Since then progressive orthodox Judaism has not existed.
I did want to draw him away from her to PVK instead -- I mean, PVK
once remarked to me, as I balked at the last gate before
initiation, remarking, "I am Jewish" -- he replied, "it is not our
intention to interfere with the practice of anyone's religion" --
so on the strength of that, tho I have not hitherto mentioned it,
I always insisted on not working on Shbat, and no-one ever
challenged me on it -- well, once Aziza wanted me to come to an
Abode membership meeting on Shabat, and I said no, because I
intended to hustle my way into the Abode with a few slightly
shaded truths, rather than humbly submitting to the collectdive
wisdom, and hustling is work, and you cannot do work on Shabat, so
I snuck out back to Cambridge instead for the weekend, and as I
recall spent quite an uninspired Shabat walking along the shore of
Charles River, on a nice spring day, and then I met Ciel and asked
her canoeing -- and so on, so I had an affair with her instead of
living at the Abode , for a few months at least.
To their credit, Akbar and Aziza, who were new on the job and had
probably not seen that many Jews in the Tennessee Appalachians,
did reverse their position, and at the autumn retreat he told me I
was indeed welcome to stay at the Abode, but by then I was
involved with Ciel -- I mean, she really could be quite attractive
-- rather a glow one might say.  So I saidd thank you, but no not
now.

Well so there I am again at the Athens airport, in the hands of
those security thugs or whatever they were, getting sprayed with
floral scented tranquilizer from a little aerosol can, and I
reckon they will take me to Istanbul, or maybe to a Greece safe
house in Tel Aviv where I will be beaten up.

On my previous excursion George, a clean-cut guard, the one who
addressed me as Satan and hit me repeatedly, said I would be taken
on a plane to Israel, but would only stay for a few days and then
be taken back to Greece, and that he would hit me all the way to
Israel.                                                  

When I resisted, he had me on the floor of the lobby of the
detention building or whatever it was, and almost broke my arm,
but I yielded and he did not.  Well, heaven was surely with me all
the way, with a bit of coaching from my Sufi friends maybe -- I
did remark to ZR when I returned and I complained over supper in
the Refugio that they had never come to get me -- as indeed they
should have, even if the campers had to eat cold sphaghetti for a
week to pay the cost of it -- as it is said, in Talmud, he who
saves a single life is as one who saves the world -- so I did
remark to him, maybe you foliks saved my life with your prayers --
though bringing by a boat ticket to the bum on the beach would
have been a lot more efficient.
 
Ok, so to my surprise, after I am given the bum's rush past all
the security checks, I rewally am put on an El Al flight.  I think
I was put in the Economy class section, the only person in it,
with the two guards on a seat across the way.  The rest of the
passengers I suppose had been upgraded to business class.  It was
an excellent airplane, smooth with a very short take-off , and a
nice display that told you on a little map just where you were,
and that it was really too cold outside to think of sneaking off.

The girls who attended the cabin -- they were scarcely older than
girls, but Israelis are Israelis -- asked me a few questions, and
I responded in poor Hebrew that I had been in jail.  As no doubt I
looked and smelled.  The girl who asked me was genuinely
sympathetic at hearing that, and in no sense patronizing.  Well,
Jews have often been thrown in jail abroad, and worse, for no
fault of their own.
One of the senior flight crew also asked me a few questions, in
English if I recall.
I figured that when the fllight ended I would be doomed.
As we approached Israel, one of the cabin girls asked one of the
thugs if I had any passport -- they took off the handcuffs as soon
as I got on the plane, and sat quietly sipping tea after I was
served -- if I recall, I politely offered them some of my snacks,
as they were now my guests, it being the airplane of my people --
so anyhow, they rather reluctantly showed her my passports, both
the Israel and U.S. if memory serves, and I was so outraged at
seeing that they still had my Israel passporet -- I mean it did
belong to me, not them -- that I asked for it back, and they sort
of looked at the cabin girl, and she indicatgd that yes, they had
to give it to me, and so they handed it to me, and that too was
maybe something that saved my life, as will soon be seen.  As
Hemmingway would say, Some cabin-girl.

Well, the nobility courage and grace of the Israeli people, and
the loyalty to all members of the Jewish community, however
apparently degraded, can sometimes move one almost to tears.

So anyhow, we got off at the airport, and took the bus to the
terminal building, me never saying a word like help I think I'm
being kidnapped, and the returning Israel passengers rather
turning their nose up at this smelly old bum in rags -- and all of
them VIPs no doubt, who could have rescued me with a word -- so
there we were, and the thugs seemed inclined to follow the signs
to the Transit Lounge, and no doubt on to Istanbul -- I think they
had told the cabin-girl that that was where they were going.  I
asked one of them if I could have my U.S. Paasport back, and he
said wait, or so I seem to recall.
So then I saw the booth for the passengers with Israel passports -
- there are the two sets of booths at Israael points of entry,
Israel passport holders, and all others -- so I just walked up to
it, and showed my passport, and the young woman officer asked if I
had any other Israel ID, or any other ID at all, and I said no,
and I rather hoped that I would be stopped there, but they let me
thorugh almost at once, and I walked on, and saw the exit sign,
and walked through the nothiing-to-declare customs gate -- this
was some time after midnight, so there were no crowds, and then
out, and then found my way out the exit road of the airport,
taking a bit of time, and then found my way to the highway, and
sat just down from the edge of it for a while.  I remember lying
on the ground, and feeling glad to be back in the land of Israel. 
So then I wanered in the fields, in the general direction of Lod,
and found some over-ripe persimmons on the ground and ate some,
they are incredibly sweet.

And so I walked into the Modi'in forest, which is not exactly
forest primeaval, I mean anyone who could not have followed and
found me would seem to need a mountain-guide to the grocery store.

And it was about a month later, after a rainy week from which I
could not get dry, and for just about having the trots from eating
the wrong delicacy from a garbage can -- I mean I had gone through
years dining that way, thanks to some sort of psychic
discrimination except for the odds bits of cigarette ash now and
then.

And then end of this story I told at the beginning of it, so
enough already, so let's have a drink of apertif even if it ain't
yet past breakfast time, Honest George should only sell breakfast
here some year, he should go out on the streets of Switzerland
selling fresh-caught herring today because I haven't had an
omlette since almost the last cafe on the Midrahov.

Zieu, which means, in Israeli, enough already.

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sa Campra, 20 Feb '05, 11 Adar A , a quiet overcast day with no
wind, about 5 below. Centigrade.
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Maybe I can fill out this doc with a few lurid reminiscences of
one-night stands.  Tacky, but I do need some nice memories for a
chaser.


Well, I was commencing the usual with Juanita, and Travis walks by
the open door or some such, we being guest in her house, and I
address myself to her blouse and she extrapolates, she being a bit
lesbian anyhow I suppose, and then this is an infinitude of
pulchritude, houri heaven, though eventually I resolve matters
with Juanita as she looks discreetly away, I being the sort who
always walks slowly into the water rather than diving in.

And then there was the chick I drove home to her old house in
Santa Barbara, and as she fell asleep I would first think loving
thoughts, and she would put her arm about me, and then I would
think thoughts of rebuff, and she would curl up away from me, and
I tried that a few times, and then she w“ke up and for some reason
suggested that it was time for me to leave.

And there I was in the loft at New Buffalo, and this visitng
journalist was a bit down the floor doing it was Beattle, who
quickly fell asleep, so then she looked over at me but I pretended
to be asleep too.

Or the first time with Millea, which also was her last fling
before getting married, "your agreeable rattle and all that", and
she was tight, it being that time, and retired briefly to the
washroom but to no avail, and so I tried Shrager's bed instead, no
doubt expecting his virtue to rest upon my shoulders, though that
too did not avail, and Shrager comes back that evening and says,
its always nice to find a girl in your bed, though it detracts a
bit to find your house-mat in with her.

And now Millea is gone, but she did live when she was alive.

When Marilyn died, I think the first thing she did is get plenty
of good sex -- she always did thing most highly of the occupation,
though always too a lady, if that matters -- and then I suppose
she went on into the upper reaches of muscian's heaven.

Someone once said, I once had two men at once and it was most
uncomfortable.
Pity we can't do it all in virtual reality.

Well, I suppose I shoud have another drink of Cynaar with soda,
and take a walk, and then go back to reading Vanity Fair and fall
asleep, and by then maybe I'll think of something else to write
about.

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I might write of the change of shomer, for it's quite serious in
some respects.

Yakov Rottenberg was the best shomer that Modi'in has had, as far
as I know.  For that matter, he was just about the only reliable
shomer Modi'in has ever had, nor is likely to have.
Only the island of Rodos I slept quite soundly the whole night
through, often with clear and vivid dreams, some of quite a
prophetic nature.  But upon regaining my senses in the land of
Israel, I found I slept fitfully, and with dreams too vague to
discerne.  Ah, I do like Thackery, and sweet chocolates too. 
Whoever says the Swiss make good chocolate has purchased only
truffles, for the standard candy-bars are eminently forgetable, so
much so that one barely dares criticize them.
So so it was that I would often be awake, as I have remarked, "in
the wee small hours of the morning", of which Frank Sinatra, being
not much given to meditation, said "I'm in favor of anything that
gets you through the night."  Which for me meant putting on a
white hat and white T-shirt, the better to not get shot at
unintentionally, and walking along the Modi'in road -- though
carefully remaining upon it, the better not to be mistaken for a
politicized tree.
So I would often encounter Yakov, as shomer, riding around in his
shomermobile.  And he was always sober, unstoned (though much
given to fanciful talk, one he got rolling), calm and alert. 
Where almost any other shomer in the history of Modi'in would have
home in bed.

Perhaps there was someting questionable in his past.  Cohabitation
unasked with a neighbor's goat before mincha on one of the minor
festivals, perhaps, when to untie a rope is most forbidden.
The first time I met Yakov who was in full military camoflauge
gear, though of which army I could not guess, holding on leash a
dog somewhat larger than most ponies, and on his way to a meeting
with the Modi'in Vaad.  Some technical queestion regarding tenancy
at the house to which he had just broken in, perhaps.  Well, one
has to know the Modi'in Vaad -- with which one acquaintance is for
most quite enough -- to appreciate the propriety of a few minor
modifications in Robert's Rules of Order and if I don't find some
thing else to write about I'm apt to fall asleep before the end of
this

Well, that's whatever it once was, Yakov settled in again as a
member of the Moshav, and hence planted and carefully tended some
excellent olives and grapes.  It is said this his wine is
extraordinary.  And his daugher a gourmet chef.

In any event, it is said that the Radbash uncovered some unsavoury
incident in Yakov's past -- all but forgotten and properly so,
acording to a usually -- constantly actually -- reliable source. 
And so that conscientious fellow confronted Yakov with it and
requeasted his resignation.  Backed up by the goat I don't doubt. 
Or perhaps even brought it to the attention of the authorities.

I don't know how this story played out, but when I left, nigh-on 8
months ago, thre were two rent-a-cops who could, at best be found
napping beside the front gate at any time of the evening.

Which brings me to Sammy the Runt.  Schmuel haKatan , who gets
rather a bad press in the Talmud -- we see him once trying to
crash a meeting, and whenever there's something nasty to say, it
gets put in his mouth.  We recite a prayer called the Shemonah
Esre, meaning the 18, that being 18 blessings or brachot, to which
Shmuel haKatan added one more, in recognition of which the prayer
has henceforth been known as the Shmoneh Esre.  
What he added was a plain curse, not a blessing, and so if you
ever ask me to lead prayers I won't say it, which means I'm not
orthodox, which means you better not ever ask me to lead prayers
Amen whoop-do-doo.

It's a curse upon tattle-tales.  And so the common people believe
it means just that, don't fink on your buddies to the fuzz. 
Though of course the rabbinate can explain it all the way around
the block, so then you can go out and be a rat-fink or stool-
pigeon or singing canary and still throw stones at the infidels
out for a Sunday drive on Shabat.

So whoever finked on Yakov had better not lead weekday prayers,
for then he would have to recite the curse of Sammy the Runt, and
that would put him in the position of cursing himself, which is
somehting one cannot do.  Contradicts the survival instinct or
something Darwian of that sort.

Speaking of which, Israel grants all prisoners the right to
conjugal visits, if such is needed by them to lawfully procreate.
(Except of Yigal Amir, of course, for he took down old Rabin, who
is a posthumous sacred cow, for no man of note has been more full
of bullshit.)

Well, there you have it.  Avraham, of Avraham and Bracha, used to
live up near the Mount of Olives, and so he walked through Arab
neighborhoods every day.  They never harmed him.  They took him
for a Madzhub, a holy madman, like the Tarot fool.  Even though he
had done and might or may again do an antagonistic part in the
Israel armed forces.
You see, there is a certain chivalry amongst our Arab antagonists.
One could not say that of the Bushies, nor for that matter for
most of the U.S. armed forces in most situations.

Well, ok.  I wish a hot-dog cart would drive up this mountain, and
give Honest George a bit of run for his ducat.
This afternoon's repast was polenta with pigmeat, so I had the
freedom fries with ketchup.  Pig is called Miale in Latin, which
seems to evoke the last thing a pig says to the universe before
its apotheosis on your pallter.  Manya is the word for beef, which
sounds like a moo, and least is not a scream of distress.
We do not eat pig because they are too much like us.  The
canibals, who know of such things, call mankind 'long pig'.
Puran Bair says, pork clogs up the subtle bodies.

I think I learned this in Belmont Public High School, or Belmont
Massachusetts, but maybe it was somewhere else;
A great painter was commissioned to discern and depicdt the last
words of General George Custer Jr., hero or martyr or just plain
butcher of the battle of Little Big Horn.  
The mural was one day unveiled, and revealed, most mystically
depicted, great vistas of copulating native Americans.
For Custer's last words were, 'Where did all those fucking Indians
come from?'
Well, that's a Gaugin joke.

There once was a Taos Indian girl who went to Stanford.  I think I
met here when my father stopped at Taos pueblo on our way driving
out to Berkeley for his sabatical.  We exchanged one glance.  Then
one day I met her at some sort of outing on behalf of Caesar
Chavez' United Farm Workers Organizing Committee.  Saki was also a
volunteer with that.  And 6 or 7 years after that I was New
Buffalo commune, which is in Arroyo Hondo, which is land that the
Taos Indians once gave to the anglos.
They say that if you meet a great being, one glance may set you on
your life's path.   For better and/or worse.

Wittgenstein writes, I'm like a barber snipping scissors in the
air, waiting to see something to cut.
That's printed in 'Culture and Value'.

"Tell me how long do I have to wait.  
 Can I get you now, or must I
      hesitate."
If you know the maning of what you write, it was barely worth
saying.                           

Verbal tennis with an invisible opponent.

Justin Case said, What's wrong with giving somone your mind for
the evening.
Well, he was a tough old bird.
Been a part-time homo too, which is maybe not so easy.

I said to Aziz, I bless you that you should find someone stupid
enough to marry you.  As should we all.

I'm standing in line with Claudia to get tickets for the Hamburg
ballet.  There's this nice young Chinese woman ahead of us with
her consort, so I get to talking to them.  Claudia later says,
people in Germany don't do that.

He was known as Sheik Real, an heritary  honor graned in centuries
past, before the infidels returned to reclaim the broad avenues of
Seville, and equally to exclude the sons of the Prophet and those
of the  limping shepherd Israel.
And as for vorname, that too was heritary, granted some said be
the great Salahudin himself, at the battle of the Horns of Hittin,
for it was 'Rattelane'.
Heaven, which forsees our deepest needs, had blessed the Sheik, as
he had that man of wisdom Sokrates, may his philsophy rest upon
his,  with a shrewish wife, whom he had long learned toe ignore.  
Today, as is the wont of women, she was repeatedly inveighing
against him, as he sat at his desert coffee beside the dying fire
of shittim wood, seking to elevate his mind within the mysteries
of elegantly calliagraphed couplets.
"I said, Sheik Rattelan Real," she began -- 
Just then a mangy dog, which had been lurking in the shadows,
boldly walked forward -- for no dog ran in that desert heat -- and
seized in his teeth the well-cut leather with which the good woman
had been attemping to recover the bottom of the sheik's sandal. 
The dog walked slowly off into the brush, carrying that unexpected
breakfast, while the Sheik watched unperterub'd seeking as mankind
must to comprehend always the cause behind the cause of all those
ripples upon the ocean with which the fates chose to challenge us.
This had happened many times before, though his wife, unreconciled
to higher wisdom, refused to take the higher view.  Raising her
voice still further, as the animal disappeared once more with her
handiwork into the violet brush where only goates go, she cried, 
"and you never do nothing to save your dog-gone soul."

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Campra, 20 Feb '05 -- 11 Adar A -- and the sun nearly down on a
dull grey day with no Internet and so no known Islamic date
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================================================================