After I walked along Avenue Mont-Royal, Three very TALL Mounteds! I knew them from the TV episode Due South.
Monday, July 13, 2009
The Mounted & the Plus sign
Tonight the first time I saw the plus sign on the mountain of Mont-Royal. And that is not the end.
Monday, July 6, 2009
The Jolly Elf
The Jolly Elf
By Cevin Soling
Deep within the groves of the Coconut Vally ...
in a remote section of Cuba, there lived a ...
Jolly Elf.
Not only was he jolly, but he was merry too.
The Jolly Elf's songs could be heard throughout the entire valley, where he kept local residents up all night long.
Now, in most situations, neighbors complains about noise ~~ especially when it's "Get Up and Boogie" and other disco hits of the Seventies sung at four in the morning.
These residents, however, never complained, except maybe amongst themselves. And there's a reason too.
It's bacause the elf was criminally insane and collected shrunken heads. So, the local townfolk feared him. Whenever they spoke of him, they refered to him as "that psycho jolly merry killer elf who loves to sing (especially at four in the morning). "
The townfolk knew they had a problem. So they went to the yellow pages to see if they could find a knight who would be willing to destroy the psycho jolly merry killer elf who loves to sing (espically at four in the morining)."
They were unable, however, to find even one knight who would accept the chanllenge. For while there is great honour to be gained by slaughtering a ferocious fire-breathing dragon, there is very little for hacking and maiming a midget. So the folk of Coconut Valley were stuck with the psycho jolly merry killer elf who loves to sing (espicially at four in the morning). There's a moral in there somewhere.
When the townsfolk that lived deep within the groves of the Coconut Valley in a remote section of Cuba realized that property values were declining due to the physcho jolly merry killer elf who loves to sing (especially at four in the morning), the town was in an uproar.
They quickly organized a lynch mob and went to find the elf. Their cries for blood echoed throughout the valley, until they reached the ears of the psycho jolly merry killer elf who loves to sing (especially at four in the morning).
Without hesitation, the elf cast a spell that immobilized all the townsfolk of the Coconut Valley. Well, alomost all the townsfolk. For some reason his spell did not affect the Mayer of Coconut Valley.
This is bacause civil servants are used to being in a state of inertia, so immobility would not impede them from performing as they usually do. When news of the elf's deed spread, there was a bit more interest in the cause. The task of slaying a dwarf did not seem too difficult, but since he was magical, one could still boast. Realizing this, two knights came to the valley to slay the elf: Sir Render and Sir Real. Both were relative unknowns who hoped to gain some publicity.
Before taking on the elf, the knights negotiated with the Mayor of Coconut Valley as to sponsorships, the Cable TV rights to the slaying, and how much the Mayer intended to spend on promotion and advertising. This plan was counterproductive, as the massive media blitz warned the psycho jolly merry killer elf who loves to sing (especially at four in the morning).
Shortly before the battle was to commence, the elf offered Sir Real some psychedelic mushrooms and a half dozen buttons of peyote if he would end his crusade. Sir Real agreed to think about it. After ingesting a button or two, he considered the antelopes that were grazing on his skin and all the wondrous stars he inhaled every time he breathed. The pharaohs smiled at him and he knew he was one with all things.
With Sir Real disposed of, Sir Render decided to give up as well. The Mayor took a big loss with the promotional efforts, but hey, it was the taxpayers' money anyhow, and seeing as they were all paralyzed, his reelection wasn't in jeopardy. After a couple of days, the elf became quite dejected that his singing bothered no one. He lifted his spell and freed the people of Coconut Valley ...
only to be beaten to death ...
and have his head shrunken, where it eventually found its way into the Smithsonian Museum.
---The End----
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Mr. Dombey, the Zombie
Mr. Dombey, the Zombie
------------------------
GEOFFREY DRAYTON
Mr. Dombey, the zombie, took the 8.10 train every morning of the working week. On the way to London he read a newspaper, carefully digesting the spate of words so that its essence might be spewed up again in a form acceptable to his hounsi(a voodoo priestess, according to Haitian Houngan rites.) His hounsi was always interested in the latest murders and rapes, but her interest was never sufficient to let her read through whole columns for the sake of the few sharp thrills they might provide. Anyhow, it was to save herself such bother that she had gone to the trouble of acquiring a zombie. Mr. Dombey not only read the newspapers and books--Crime Club for the most part--but he kept her garden tidy, mowed the lawn, washed the dished. He could not, of course, earn very much money because, being a zombie and capable only of habitual action, he was forced to work at mechanical tasks, under orders from a superior.
At times this annoyed her and she berated him for it; but since it was not really his fault--and, in any case, he could not argue back--she was restricted in her displeasure. Usually she vented it by imposing on him some especially disagreeable task-- like cleaning out the chicken-coops or scrubbing the kitchen floor. The chickens were an unfriendly lot, perhaps because they knew that they were only kept to serve as sacrifices at the right time of year; then never appeared to lay eggs--or so Mr. Dombey would have been led to presume if he had been capable of presuming anything. They pecked him when he came near; but by his nature he was oblivious to the pecking of hens. No doubt if he had been human he would have been less oblivious, perhaps even fearful.
As it was, his only fear was of the woman who had charmed his spirit out and obtained control of his body. His spirit was now imprisoned in a large, curiously carved and decorated gourd which reposed on the mantelpiece in the sitting-room. Until the gourd was broken, and the spirit rejoined the body, Mr. Dombey would be incapable of dying, would have to continue in serfdom indefinitely.
This state of affairs had gone on for more than thirty years, when suddenly one day the hounsi fell ill. She tried various herbs and remedies of her own concoction, even certain spells that she had inherited from the mamaloi of her faith; but all to no avail. Eventually she was forced to take to her bed; and since she could not trust anyone else in the house, Mr. Dombey no longer caught the 8.10 train to his daily task in the city. He remained by her bedside, fetching and carrying. She grew worse. At last she decided to summon a doctor. Obviously the god Damballa was angry with her. She had gone through the rites necessary for his placation, but all had failed; she could now do herself no further harm by resorting to the sorceries of Science.
But the hounsi had waited too late. The doctor discovered her in the final grimaces of life. In the post-mortem he diagnosed death by arsenical poisoning.
It was all a ghastly mistake. The hounsi had been in the habit of taking a stomach-powder--for some strange disease of her kind known as flatulence. The last time he had been sent to purchase this commodity, Mr. Dombey had been ordered to buy arsenic as well--for killing rats. A malignant hand of Providence--Damballa's no doubt--had substituted the arsenic for the stomach-powder, with the result that the hounsi had been attempting to cure her flatulence with arsenic.
The newspapers blamed Mr. Dombey, the zombie. They were, of course, quite mistaken; but neither the journalists concerned nor, later, the police knew anything about voodoo and zombies; and Mr. Dombey was incapable of informing them. The result was a gross miscarriage of justice. Mr. Dombey was found guilty of murder and sentenced to death by hanging.
Had matters proceeded in an ordinary fashion there would be no merit in recounting this old tale. But at that point what had seemed straightforward suddenly became bizarre. The newspapers screamed with delight and Mr. Dombey was transformed, overnight, into a sort of hero. Some even found proof that he could not be hanged. On the first occasion the trap-door failed to open. The rope broke on a second attempt. But--great climax of all--when the apparatus finally worked and Mr. Dombey had been seen to swing in orthodox fashion, the corpse showed a most unexpected co-operation in helping his executioners to lift itself down.
Mr. Dombey's sentence was commuted to life imprisonment. He was said to be nearly sixty at the time, and judging by his gauntness, the death-like pallor of his face, and the fact that he had recently undergone unnerving experiences, everyone who thought about it decided that the State would not have to support him for long. At that point the newspapers turned their attentions elsewhere, though keeping the matter in mind, anticipating an obituary in which the sensational hanging might again be used to edify the public.
But newspaper men die, and their dreams die with them. Mr. Domby, on the other hand, persisted in living. He was still alive seventy years later--growing parched and withered to be sure, but by no means an invalid. He had seen many prison wardens, many convicts come and go. But as he did nothing to bring himself to their attention, he was successfully forgotten and his age attracted no comment.
Mr. Dombey was, in fact, a hundred and thirty years old when his great-great nephews decided to spring-clean their attic.
After the death of Mrs. Dombey and the imprisonment of her supposed murderer, Mr. Dombey, the zombie, relatives had taken over the ill-omened house, the chickens and the gourd. They had slaughtered the chickens; but not knowing what to do with the strange sitting-room ornament, they had put it in the attic along with several other inherited monstrosities. There the gourd had remained, for two generations, growing wizened and dusty, but with Mr. Dombey's spirit safe in its bowels. Now, on the day of spring-cleaning, it was again brought forth. Quite unceremoniously--since who was to know it had a value above that of a cremation-urn?--it was thrown on the bonfire. Without a murmur it dissolved into ashes.
And so Mr. Dombey, the zombie, again cheated the newspapers and the seekers after truth--and, to be exact, the police records. If a little pile of ashes in a prison courtyard had been able to speak it might have related that Mr. Dombey had felt a sudden raging fever. The next moment he was dust. Then the wind blew and Mr. Dombey was dispersed among the other particles.
[I like the Zombie role, Zombie on the train to London, unhappy chickens, where the spirit of Zombie's is saved, newspapers role, great-great nephew's spring-cleaning, felt a sudden raging fever]
------------------------
GEOFFREY DRAYTON
Mr. Dombey, the zombie, took the 8.10 train every morning of the working week. On the way to London he read a newspaper, carefully digesting the spate of words so that its essence might be spewed up again in a form acceptable to his hounsi(a voodoo priestess, according to Haitian Houngan rites.) His hounsi was always interested in the latest murders and rapes, but her interest was never sufficient to let her read through whole columns for the sake of the few sharp thrills they might provide. Anyhow, it was to save herself such bother that she had gone to the trouble of acquiring a zombie. Mr. Dombey not only read the newspapers and books--Crime Club for the most part--but he kept her garden tidy, mowed the lawn, washed the dished. He could not, of course, earn very much money because, being a zombie and capable only of habitual action, he was forced to work at mechanical tasks, under orders from a superior.
At times this annoyed her and she berated him for it; but since it was not really his fault--and, in any case, he could not argue back--she was restricted in her displeasure. Usually she vented it by imposing on him some especially disagreeable task-- like cleaning out the chicken-coops or scrubbing the kitchen floor. The chickens were an unfriendly lot, perhaps because they knew that they were only kept to serve as sacrifices at the right time of year; then never appeared to lay eggs--or so Mr. Dombey would have been led to presume if he had been capable of presuming anything. They pecked him when he came near; but by his nature he was oblivious to the pecking of hens. No doubt if he had been human he would have been less oblivious, perhaps even fearful.
As it was, his only fear was of the woman who had charmed his spirit out and obtained control of his body. His spirit was now imprisoned in a large, curiously carved and decorated gourd which reposed on the mantelpiece in the sitting-room. Until the gourd was broken, and the spirit rejoined the body, Mr. Dombey would be incapable of dying, would have to continue in serfdom indefinitely.
This state of affairs had gone on for more than thirty years, when suddenly one day the hounsi fell ill. She tried various herbs and remedies of her own concoction, even certain spells that she had inherited from the mamaloi of her faith; but all to no avail. Eventually she was forced to take to her bed; and since she could not trust anyone else in the house, Mr. Dombey no longer caught the 8.10 train to his daily task in the city. He remained by her bedside, fetching and carrying. She grew worse. At last she decided to summon a doctor. Obviously the god Damballa was angry with her. She had gone through the rites necessary for his placation, but all had failed; she could now do herself no further harm by resorting to the sorceries of Science.
But the hounsi had waited too late. The doctor discovered her in the final grimaces of life. In the post-mortem he diagnosed death by arsenical poisoning.
It was all a ghastly mistake. The hounsi had been in the habit of taking a stomach-powder--for some strange disease of her kind known as flatulence. The last time he had been sent to purchase this commodity, Mr. Dombey had been ordered to buy arsenic as well--for killing rats. A malignant hand of Providence--Damballa's no doubt--had substituted the arsenic for the stomach-powder, with the result that the hounsi had been attempting to cure her flatulence with arsenic.
The newspapers blamed Mr. Dombey, the zombie. They were, of course, quite mistaken; but neither the journalists concerned nor, later, the police knew anything about voodoo and zombies; and Mr. Dombey was incapable of informing them. The result was a gross miscarriage of justice. Mr. Dombey was found guilty of murder and sentenced to death by hanging.
Had matters proceeded in an ordinary fashion there would be no merit in recounting this old tale. But at that point what had seemed straightforward suddenly became bizarre. The newspapers screamed with delight and Mr. Dombey was transformed, overnight, into a sort of hero. Some even found proof that he could not be hanged. On the first occasion the trap-door failed to open. The rope broke on a second attempt. But--great climax of all--when the apparatus finally worked and Mr. Dombey had been seen to swing in orthodox fashion, the corpse showed a most unexpected co-operation in helping his executioners to lift itself down.
Mr. Dombey's sentence was commuted to life imprisonment. He was said to be nearly sixty at the time, and judging by his gauntness, the death-like pallor of his face, and the fact that he had recently undergone unnerving experiences, everyone who thought about it decided that the State would not have to support him for long. At that point the newspapers turned their attentions elsewhere, though keeping the matter in mind, anticipating an obituary in which the sensational hanging might again be used to edify the public.
But newspaper men die, and their dreams die with them. Mr. Domby, on the other hand, persisted in living. He was still alive seventy years later--growing parched and withered to be sure, but by no means an invalid. He had seen many prison wardens, many convicts come and go. But as he did nothing to bring himself to their attention, he was successfully forgotten and his age attracted no comment.
Mr. Dombey was, in fact, a hundred and thirty years old when his great-great nephews decided to spring-clean their attic.
After the death of Mrs. Dombey and the imprisonment of her supposed murderer, Mr. Dombey, the zombie, relatives had taken over the ill-omened house, the chickens and the gourd. They had slaughtered the chickens; but not knowing what to do with the strange sitting-room ornament, they had put it in the attic along with several other inherited monstrosities. There the gourd had remained, for two generations, growing wizened and dusty, but with Mr. Dombey's spirit safe in its bowels. Now, on the day of spring-cleaning, it was again brought forth. Quite unceremoniously--since who was to know it had a value above that of a cremation-urn?--it was thrown on the bonfire. Without a murmur it dissolved into ashes.
And so Mr. Dombey, the zombie, again cheated the newspapers and the seekers after truth--and, to be exact, the police records. If a little pile of ashes in a prison courtyard had been able to speak it might have related that Mr. Dombey had felt a sudden raging fever. The next moment he was dust. Then the wind blew and Mr. Dombey was dispersed among the other particles.
[I like the Zombie role, Zombie on the train to London, unhappy chickens, where the spirit of Zombie's is saved, newspapers role, great-great nephew's spring-cleaning, felt a sudden raging fever]
Mont Royal
Mont Royal
-----------
JASPEREET SINGH
When I moved to this city, ladies, I though the cross on the top of the mountain was actually a mathematical sign, you see, I came here to study Engineering and I kept on believing that the cross on Mount Royal was a "plus" sign until the Pope died, because it was on that day my boss pointed from the office window, Look Irfan--today God has turned purple, and he will remain so until a suitable man is chosen by the Vatican, and I wound my wristwatch several times, part embarrassed at my ignorance, and part delighted that I had managed to give a new meaning to old icons in this city,
ladies, and while I wound my great-grandfather's watch I felt deeply nostalgic for my home in the High Himalayas, where I was born on the day the Prophet's Hair was stolen from the mosque with a single minaret, the shrine by Dal Lake, brimming with blue waters and ninety times bigger than Beaver Lake, the one on top of Mount Royal--although this "mount" is not a real mountain I am indebted to it because while following its narrow numinous trails I would forget my fears and failures and loneliness, and I would become one with nature,
ladies, and it would reignite my passion for unsolved problems in Engineering, for I was trained in that old-fashioned way--which derives its inspiration from the fact that the word engineer comes from the word ingenious, nothing in common with the boys who roam around these days with Apple computers, wearing nickel rings on their little fingers, so when I was a young grad student I turned my attention to sand and deserts, and developed a material which could bloom gardens in the semi-arid regions of the world--Egypt, Israel, Palestine, Arizona--and those days after finishing hard work in the laboratory I would dine at Restaurant Balkan, where an eighty-year-old Welsh woman would serve me meals, she had moved to the city many years before with a French-Canadian soldier who fought in WWII, Mrs. Prosser her name was, and she would ask me about home, and serve me an extra piece of bread or dessert, and one day she inquired about my mother, and I said, Let's not talk about Mother, I miss her okay, but all my mother desires is to marry me off "arranged," and Mrs. Prosser said, your mother means well, and one day she didn't show up and the manager informed me that the waitress was dead, and a few days later I found her up on the mountain, buried in the potter's field, and there were flowers on the grave to her left, and flowers on the right, and this saddened me immensely, so I took it upon myself to install roses, and jessamines, and pink and blue flowers on her grave every weekend, until my thesis supervisor beckoned me into his office, Irfan get yourself a real girl,
and ladies, one sultry day, 15th or 16th of June it was, I found an Irish girl, a younger version of Mrs. Prosser, Molly, she was eating bagels, waiting for bus 80, and one evening I brought her to my apartment after dinner at Restaurant Balkan, and we stood on the balcony for a long time looking at the + sign on the mountain, and slowly I turned toward Molly's freckled cheeks, but she lifted her hand in mild protest--I have a boyfriend in Shannon--she said, so, I wound my great-grandfather's watch several times, and politely asked Molly if she fancied Earl Grey tea, and to my surprise she agreed, and when she left I was on the verge of tears because my head pounded with my mother's voice(Irfan, tell me your key requirement?--and I will find the suitable bride here in Kashmir), and it was then I realized that I had failed with Molly because I didn't know the first thing about kissing, I grew up in an un-kissing culture, ladies, and for a long time I flipped through the book Molly abandoned in my apartment, touching the pages as if I was touching her brown hair, and I wrote a strong letter to Mother that the girl of my choice must have read Ulysses, by Mr. Joyce, and whenever I missed Molly's freckled cheeks and her arms and her legs, I would turn to Ulysses, but the material was not easy to grasp, so I tried again, and again I failed and I could not go beyond page 27, so I turned to the last page, and it was the most beautiful passage in literature, O and the sea crimson sometimes like fire and the glorious sunsets and the fig trees in the Alameda gardens yes and all the queer little streets and pink and blue and yellow houses and the rose-gardens and the jessamine and geraniums and cactuses and Gibraltar as a girl where I was a Flower of the mountain yes, and I promised myself to read the entire book before the millennium change, I read the last page again and again until I knew it by heart, and I even considered using it as a seduction device to drive the girls in the city crazy,
ladies, but I was unemployed, and unable to forget Molly, and it was around then I heard from the CEO of a big Engineering company, he had come across the material I had developed for blooming the deserts, Mr. Irfan, he said, We would like to stretch the scope of your invention, We are hiring you to help the women of the world, he said, Your job would be to design the next-generation feminine care products and to investigate the flow properties of menses, and I thought about his offer seriously,
ladies, my mother said, Irfan at least join Boeing or Microsoft, not a company that makes you work with women's thing, Irfan that foreign city has stolen your sanity the way out Prophet's Hair was stolen from the mosque, but in the end I accepted because I badly needed to forget Molly, and I joined the laboratory where 375 dedicated scientists and engineers worked, mostly men, skipping cricket and lunches I spent the best years of my life in the laboratory designing pads and tampons, and applied for 138 patents, half of which were granted, and slowly I began to forget Molly, but around the lost days of the millennium, my boss was away on Christmas holidays, and I decided to read Ulysses in the boardroom of my office, mornings I would make myself a cup of black coffee, and tell my sickly secretary not to disturb me, and there sitting on a green swivel chair I read Ulysses by Mr. Joyce in eleven straight days, I drank a glass of red wine and recited the last page from memory when the clocks turned, yes I said yes I will yes, and finally I was able to make peace with Molly, but then, just like that, I resigned from the Engineering company, my boss's last question was, Do you love women more or less now--after this experience? I refused to answer, and I handed him my resignation and simply stepped out on the Mountain street and walked into this pub,
ladies, thinking about Ulysses, and my great-grandfather, who handed me his watch long ago and said, Irfan there are books one must read just like one reads the Koran, one must read as if the book is being revealed to you, and only you, for the first time, and while reading Ulysses, ladies, I found my true vocation, and it seems as if I will spend the rest of my days in this city, allowing myslef to be consumed by the gentle flame of stories.
[I like :
the plus sign; the mother is saying; Ulesses, read Ulesses in 11 straight days, great-granfather's watch and his words and the whole structure.]
-----------
JASPEREET SINGH
When I moved to this city, ladies, I though the cross on the top of the mountain was actually a mathematical sign, you see, I came here to study Engineering and I kept on believing that the cross on Mount Royal was a "plus" sign until the Pope died, because it was on that day my boss pointed from the office window, Look Irfan--today God has turned purple, and he will remain so until a suitable man is chosen by the Vatican, and I wound my wristwatch several times, part embarrassed at my ignorance, and part delighted that I had managed to give a new meaning to old icons in this city,
ladies, and while I wound my great-grandfather's watch I felt deeply nostalgic for my home in the High Himalayas, where I was born on the day the Prophet's Hair was stolen from the mosque with a single minaret, the shrine by Dal Lake, brimming with blue waters and ninety times bigger than Beaver Lake, the one on top of Mount Royal--although this "mount" is not a real mountain I am indebted to it because while following its narrow numinous trails I would forget my fears and failures and loneliness, and I would become one with nature,
ladies, and it would reignite my passion for unsolved problems in Engineering, for I was trained in that old-fashioned way--which derives its inspiration from the fact that the word engineer comes from the word ingenious, nothing in common with the boys who roam around these days with Apple computers, wearing nickel rings on their little fingers, so when I was a young grad student I turned my attention to sand and deserts, and developed a material which could bloom gardens in the semi-arid regions of the world--Egypt, Israel, Palestine, Arizona--and those days after finishing hard work in the laboratory I would dine at Restaurant Balkan, where an eighty-year-old Welsh woman would serve me meals, she had moved to the city many years before with a French-Canadian soldier who fought in WWII, Mrs. Prosser her name was, and she would ask me about home, and serve me an extra piece of bread or dessert, and one day she inquired about my mother, and I said, Let's not talk about Mother, I miss her okay, but all my mother desires is to marry me off "arranged," and Mrs. Prosser said, your mother means well, and one day she didn't show up and the manager informed me that the waitress was dead, and a few days later I found her up on the mountain, buried in the potter's field, and there were flowers on the grave to her left, and flowers on the right, and this saddened me immensely, so I took it upon myself to install roses, and jessamines, and pink and blue flowers on her grave every weekend, until my thesis supervisor beckoned me into his office, Irfan get yourself a real girl,
and ladies, one sultry day, 15th or 16th of June it was, I found an Irish girl, a younger version of Mrs. Prosser, Molly, she was eating bagels, waiting for bus 80, and one evening I brought her to my apartment after dinner at Restaurant Balkan, and we stood on the balcony for a long time looking at the + sign on the mountain, and slowly I turned toward Molly's freckled cheeks, but she lifted her hand in mild protest--I have a boyfriend in Shannon--she said, so, I wound my great-grandfather's watch several times, and politely asked Molly if she fancied Earl Grey tea, and to my surprise she agreed, and when she left I was on the verge of tears because my head pounded with my mother's voice(Irfan, tell me your key requirement?--and I will find the suitable bride here in Kashmir), and it was then I realized that I had failed with Molly because I didn't know the first thing about kissing, I grew up in an un-kissing culture, ladies, and for a long time I flipped through the book Molly abandoned in my apartment, touching the pages as if I was touching her brown hair, and I wrote a strong letter to Mother that the girl of my choice must have read Ulysses, by Mr. Joyce, and whenever I missed Molly's freckled cheeks and her arms and her legs, I would turn to Ulysses, but the material was not easy to grasp, so I tried again, and again I failed and I could not go beyond page 27, so I turned to the last page, and it was the most beautiful passage in literature, O and the sea crimson sometimes like fire and the glorious sunsets and the fig trees in the Alameda gardens yes and all the queer little streets and pink and blue and yellow houses and the rose-gardens and the jessamine and geraniums and cactuses and Gibraltar as a girl where I was a Flower of the mountain yes, and I promised myself to read the entire book before the millennium change, I read the last page again and again until I knew it by heart, and I even considered using it as a seduction device to drive the girls in the city crazy,
ladies, but I was unemployed, and unable to forget Molly, and it was around then I heard from the CEO of a big Engineering company, he had come across the material I had developed for blooming the deserts, Mr. Irfan, he said, We would like to stretch the scope of your invention, We are hiring you to help the women of the world, he said, Your job would be to design the next-generation feminine care products and to investigate the flow properties of menses, and I thought about his offer seriously,
ladies, my mother said, Irfan at least join Boeing or Microsoft, not a company that makes you work with women's thing, Irfan that foreign city has stolen your sanity the way out Prophet's Hair was stolen from the mosque, but in the end I accepted because I badly needed to forget Molly, and I joined the laboratory where 375 dedicated scientists and engineers worked, mostly men, skipping cricket and lunches I spent the best years of my life in the laboratory designing pads and tampons, and applied for 138 patents, half of which were granted, and slowly I began to forget Molly, but around the lost days of the millennium, my boss was away on Christmas holidays, and I decided to read Ulysses in the boardroom of my office, mornings I would make myself a cup of black coffee, and tell my sickly secretary not to disturb me, and there sitting on a green swivel chair I read Ulysses by Mr. Joyce in eleven straight days, I drank a glass of red wine and recited the last page from memory when the clocks turned, yes I said yes I will yes, and finally I was able to make peace with Molly, but then, just like that, I resigned from the Engineering company, my boss's last question was, Do you love women more or less now--after this experience? I refused to answer, and I handed him my resignation and simply stepped out on the Mountain street and walked into this pub,
ladies, thinking about Ulysses, and my great-grandfather, who handed me his watch long ago and said, Irfan there are books one must read just like one reads the Koran, one must read as if the book is being revealed to you, and only you, for the first time, and while reading Ulysses, ladies, I found my true vocation, and it seems as if I will spend the rest of my days in this city, allowing myslef to be consumed by the gentle flame of stories.
[I like :
the plus sign; the mother is saying; Ulesses, read Ulesses in 11 straight days, great-granfather's watch and his words and the whole structure.]
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