Playing Fair and Being Kind

TUAREG

I Have Sisters and Brothers Living in Mali

Someone asked me recently if I’d ever tried writing in stream-of-conscious style. I can’t remember who it was even though it was just a few days ago. But today I clearly demonstrated to myself I can certainly think in that fashion. Especially if I have an idea for fiction. (I wonder if it counts as fiction when it really comes out of my head which contains only true stories.) Oh, yes! I remember who it was. I spent a few hours with a good friend the other day and we had a refreshing early light dinner together in Brunswick. She asked me that question and I responded that I couldn’t imagine writing that way. My brain would interrupt and try to correct every thought that was coming out.

Today, though, I got caught in a jet stream-of-conscious. I’ve been communicating with friend Naomi in Santa Fe about visiting during October. It would be a comfort to us both to spend some time together there and I need to get away for a while. I’ve been home in Maine since the end of April. That’s a long time in the mind of a Nomad. Thoughts about travel kept slipping into my stream-of-conscious all morning. I was listening to Herbie Hancock’s “The Imagine Project”. One of the tracks caught my attention. It was one of those with several artists. You really must get a copy to listen to. The track that interrupted my process is titled, “Tamatant Tilay/Exodus”. The artists are Tinariwen, K’naan, and Los Lobos. It is exotic. Tinariwen is a tribal member of the Tuareg in Mali, Sahara. K’naan is a Somali Canadian musician/poet, and Los Lobos is a rock band from East L.A.

Well, after listening and reading up on the artists featured on this track I had to follow my mercurial mind to google the name Tuareg because it looked very much like the name of the Volkswagen model “Touareg”. Sure enough the car was named for the people of this formerly nomadic group from the Sahara. The extra “O” in the name is there for whatever reason; variation in spelling. Not sure. But there is another automobile with that feature.

I’m thinking about the Toronado. This car was produce in 1966. It was the first front wheel drive, FWD, made in the U.S. since the Cord was produced for a few years in the 20’s and 30’s. It was innovative and quite a pretty body style. The odd part was the spelling of the name. There is no such thing as a toronado. Then it was revealed in an automobile magazine that one of the design engineers sent the drawings to another department with the intended name, Tornado, with an extra “O”. There’s that extra “O” again. And both times with an automobile. The car became “Toronado”!

So, along the way I began to wish I was doing my nomadic thing and through a series of texts I informed Naomi I was going to drive Rocinante from Boothbay to Santa Fe. I am going to enjoy the drive. I’ll have Rocie checked out this week or next at the mechanic’s and then start the process of eating all that is in the refrigerator that could spoil before I leave. I’ll leave first week of October and return before the end of the month. Here is a photo of the person I’ll be charged with protecting and riding herd on for the time I’m in New Mexico.

I hope you all have a pretty day and if you were caught in the hurricane I hope you recover soon. Hurricanes and earthquakes! Yow! What a season it’s been! Peace out.
Below is an experience from my youth in Dorchester, Massachusetts. I am what is known as a Dot Rat. A kid from Dorchester.

G. M. Goodwin 22 September 2017 Fall Equinox

JUMPING FENCES

I run to the fence and
Jump for the top,
With hands and one foot bracing,
My imagination is all ready
Over the barrier.

Perched and balanced
I scan the ground for seven-day-itch,
Pick a likely spot and launch my body
Off the fence into space,
Flying toward earth.

My springs-and-rubber body
Come to earth,
Hands helping the break,
Landing in chicory and
Broken glass.

I feel the slice,
I stare with mixed thoughts
At the new hole in my thumb
Near the wrist,
It’s bizarre.

A chunk of me is gone,
The flesh is white
Like salt pork,
I can’t see blood,
Just white flesh.

I stay frozen in this
Crouch
My eyes locked onto the
White hole of no blood,
I stay like this for an eternity.

Confusion
Nonsensical this wound,
Whoa! The sting and the blood
Arrive together,
Now it comes and it hurts like hell.

G. M. Goodwin
20 August 2014