One Night... Two Dreams...

19 Olga Street was the address in the first of last night’s dreams.

The dream concerned a packet of seed, seed given to me by an antique lover as I lingered on a mysterious isle surrounded by turbulent surf. Crossing to the mainland carrying the packet with my right arm raised above the choppy sea while swimming with the lone stroke of my left arm would have been unsafe for the seed the seed was not to get wet, wet seed would swell and burst out of the packet... For its safety we resolved to send the packet by helicopter while I swam my way back…

On the mainland shore an unknown lady in a gold BMW would be waiting for me, we would ride together to collect the seed. My historic lover revealed the packet's address was 19 Olga Street…



End of dream… I woke up, it was 2 am… I turned on the TV but couldn’t keep awake,
I fell asleep and dreamt again:

My bed was a raft floating on lake Titicaca. The unknown lady with the BMW had dark skin and was seducing me. Her penis was of average size, made of real flesh, not a dildo. Apprehensively I conveyed my vagina was sensitive, unaccustomed to penetration, the last time I had sexual intercourse was 17 years and two weeks ago. Inserting her penis inside me she whispered hers was a loving and gentle act, I need not fear…

Her motion was the ripple of the lake, in my ear her erotic murmurings transported me out of the sexual act to experience the flight of the albatross.

Softly, the dark lady whispered the penis was not entirely her own, it really belonged to her male twin, but they shared it amicably… On my back, on the raft, on the lake, with the dark lady between my legs and her shared penis halfway in and out of my vagina, I thought of the Graeae, the three Old Women of the Sea who lived where the sun never shone, between them they possessed only one tooth and one eye which they used in turn…

Laurie Went to Africa

Adventures in Zambia


Souvenirs of a Banquet Server

Dear Banqueteers,

Greetings to all. This CUSO job is a lot of work, lots of meetings, meetings, meetings-very political, and that’s a pain. I am struggling not to get mired down in all the art community feuds here. I miss the simple pleasures of the dish-pit.

I hope you are not too worried about me here in Lusaka-city from Hell-or as the local hospital is called, ‘The departure Lounge’, the gateway to the other side. If you’ve seen Woody Allen’s film “Bananas” that will give you a rough idea of this place. Rush out and rent it. Don’t worry about me.

Luckily someone was at home when the thieves set fire to our grass fence with the ultimate goal of stealing the vehicles in the yard. Maybe 2:00 p.m. is not the most intelligent time for theft but one must abandon logic here. Anyway if our night guard isn’t asleep or bandits don’t beat the pulp out of him, we are safe at night. I feel most secure knowing there are thick iron bars in front of all our windows and doors. Too bad the alarm system is broken though hopefully our two vicious guars dogs Max and Skinner will alert us if trouble occurs. They were sleeping during the fire episode.






Also don’t worry about my passport. I will be returning in the Spring. The thief didn’t get anything when he slashed my bag while I was shopping. I am not sure which is the most dangerous activity here – shopping , sleeping, eating, or driving?

Maybe driving, as a prerequisite for attaining your license is absolute and irrefutable incompetence. If another car doesn’t get you, a pothole the size of a volcanic crater will – or you won’t even have to worry about driving as your vehicle will be stolen from you at gunpoint while you sit outside waiting for your guard to open your gate. But one needs transport as this city was laid out with an affluent car driving populace in mind. I have purchased a second hand pink bicycle but it is pretty tough trying to get around. Pray for me. Most drivers are on a personal mission to destroy all others on the roads. I believe that in order to pass your driving test you must always accelerate and swerve towards all pedestrians. A red light means that the next six cars go through. I swear. My friend’s sister had a collision at an intersection and was charged for going through a stop sign. She protested that there was no stop sign there. The policeman replied: “But Madam, there used to be one there”. Case closed.





Everyone I know has been ill with a terrible virus – vomiting and diarrhea. I am healthy as a horse thanks to three years of bacterial immunity build-up from the infamous Chattery’s food. I hope my luck holds out as I am going to the Copper Belt next week. There is a cholera epidemic there. A lot of people have died. But there is an art exhibit to judge and the show must go on.

I survived white water rafting on the Zambezi River at Victoria Falls. It was spectacular. We only saw one crocodile and our raft only nearly flipped. Everybody who got tossed fortunately got picked up before the crocs or the whirlpools got them. This is a world class rafting river which will disappear in the next few years as they are building a dam. So sad as it is an incredible place.

It is hotter than Hades here. This is the worst drought of the century and the hottest October anyone can remember. It is nauseating. I am doing rain rituals as I want to see what green grass will look like where all this red and brown dust is. I am sure we have a lovely yard. Well, the cactus tree is thriving anyway. It is covered in beautiful yellow blooms.

I am finally sleeping now that I have a fan, and I’m sure those black bags under my eyes aren’t permanent. The fan’s noise helps cover up the all-night-dog-barking, the 4am cat-howling at my bedroom window, the 5am continuous rooster- crowing, and the 6am onward-crying of Frank, one of our housekeeper’s six children. We call him Frankenstein.

I will put my mosquito net up on Wed. so hope to keep the blood-sucking highly virulent demons at bay. But if one gets me I can feel confident knowing that I’ m ingesting the controversial anti-malarial drug Mefloquin. I have agreed to report all side effects such as depression, hallucinations, hearing loss, etc…

On Monday I go to Ndola, (4 hrs away) to buy Acrylic paint. Can’t get it in Lusaka and they just started mixing it there. I can get black, white, blue, yellow and red. That keeps things pretty basic.

Can’t even say the word ‘feminism’ instead it’s ‘gender equity’. I am helping with a women’s artist workshop that will happen on January. The bottom line is, it’s the shits to be a woman in Africa. Lots of wife-beating here. ( My roommate works for the YWCA). The new government in Zambia came in on the platform of improving women’s lot but things are worst than before. And so it goes.

Please don’t worry about my nocturnal habits; I am as chaste as a nun. Aids is very bad, there are funerals constantly. Doctors say that for every case officially reported there are 9 more. Nobody talks much about it but the cemeteries are overflowing.

Well that’s it for Adventures in Zambia. Lusaka is an urban nightmare, Seventies gone bad. I guess the 70’s were prosperous and it’s been decaying ever since. Lusaka is the fastest growing city in Southern Africa. My theory is everyone is moving here to pursue a career in stealing. With the drought no one can survive (or just barely) off the land. It is so parched here yet still so beautiful outside the city. I’ve been traveling quite a bit and really enjoy that. It may be difficult here sometimes but it can’t compare in hellishness to that LAST BIG ITALIAN WEDDING, ( the one where VanderZalm sang ‘On Top of Old Smokey all covered in cheese’) so I’m hanging in here. So long for now,
Laurey

Copyright©2000-Laurey Nevers

The Plea of the - Wanna-Be-Famous Poet -

Dear National Editor

when navigating through the internet poetry rivers and streams the unknown poet never really knows where the flow will lead... PIW is an unexpected, unusual, stop. For years and years I tell myself I write my stuff and don't care anybody reads it... But once written, words want to be read, want all to see the pain or joy with which they can embroider a naked page. I read the FAQ which is quite clear on the NO NO of unsolicited submissions, yet simultaneously opens fireworks by suggesting the wanna-be-famous poet email - his or hers - website URL.

A description of my material is available at the mere click of the mouse over the http thing below... It may appear a bit long but like a jigsaw puzzle it separates into a 1000 pieces. At the mere asking...

Humbly yours

Mirella Della-Marina

My web: http://www.landscapeblues.com/

Five Card Stud

Watching Dean Martin as Van Morgan, cool dude gambler, detective, charmer, shuffling cards like a pro in a western whodunit was a bit of a tickler, Robert Mitchum’s portrayal of black-garbed, Colt-toting, Bible- bashing revenge-seeking Jonathan Rudd with “the you-know-he-is hiding-something” strut, well matched with cigarette-butt flicking, poison-spitting Roddy McDowall, felt right at home in Mama Malone’s saloon or Ms. Langford’s establishment where a man could avail himself of a $1shave, $2.50 hair-cut, $3.00 shampoo, and miscellaneous… $20…

Western movies, in particular those with Dean Martin remind me of J.C. J.C. was smooth, suave, debonair, charming... a very handsome con-man with a very high I.Q; he was simultaneously a gambler, a bookie, a forger, a safe-cracker, a thief, a mining prospector or a devoted stock market agent… He wore raw-silk suits in various shades of grey, preffered alpaca sweaters and Ferragamo shoes and his permanent address was the ***** Hotel. Apart from personal apparel he didn’t own anything but a black convertible Thunderbird with red leather upholstery, he had an interesting foot fetish, a passion for western movies, drank Crown-Royal and 7up and would trade any fancy steak and lobster dinner for Deluxe Kraft Macaroni and Cheese.

I was his friend! I was often invited to his bed yet by each other hardly aroused, we frolicked once, maybe twice, without great success. We watched late night westerns on TV, talked and slept. Casual and anonimous was the best sex for J.C. He liked show girls, Las Vegas girls, Playboy girls, call girls, strippers and teasers... Beautiful but not permanent, briefly delightful not domestic…

The Bourne Ultimatum

The Movie:
e
I suppose somewhere along the strets of Moscow, high-rising in New York, navigating through Waterloo Staion, Torino or the rooftops of Tangiers, decifering the machinations, maneuverings and scheming (fictitious or genuine) of the CIA, surviving computer searches, telephone eavesdropping, superman-like roof jumps, shrieking motor-scooter rides, heightened-hype of whirlwind photography heightening endless car chases and crashes, blasting bombs, gun shots and the cacophony of the sound track, there was a storyline… Indeed, after all the “action” there really was not much of the script left to demand any sort of great acting… In the entire movie there was ONE scene with two funny lines, the rest (for me) was filler… Even so I left the theatre with some degree of satisfaction… The bad guys got what was coming, Jason Bourne recovered his true identity, and as David Webb survived… But if there are to be future sequels I suggest they give him time for a cup of coffee…

Human Fate

Buddha said, “Look at that cloud in the sky. Look long enough and you will see how its shape changes constantly. Human fate, like a cloud never stays the same, like a cloud man’s fortune ever shift, today he may live like a rich man and tomorrow a beggar, a gentle cloud turns to rain or thunder, a person’s life alters, happy or unhappy in its course. The cloud doesn’t change shape on its own. The wind, the heat, the sun, night and day force the change…