My Egyptian Wing at Hotel California

The difference between Islam and Gringolandia is not as complicated as blabbered via the telly or in piddle stream media or by way of an academic class of #MENA pundits pedaling the latest in rounds of dis-information, stupidity, and blatant back channeling.

During the last three years, I observed my friends in social media fall into a category no one on Earth is tracking.  I am connecting to people who follow the faith of Islam.  Until recently, my estimated reason for the why of these friendships is I simply report on #Egypt.  Today, the LEDs went into a spin-cycle of color patterns any 1977 disco would have gladly installed to enhance Saturday night fever.

Friendships with the followers of Islam are certainly non-serendipitous – although I never say never because God’s humor is superior.  Do to my daily digestive researching input and subsequent flittering output regarding Egypt I appeal to English speaking creatives of the land by the Nile.  You can take the 60s freedom seeking revolutionary out of the fracas but the freedom freak revolutionary remains a prickly pinpoint on the small screen?

Yet, as time slugs along a buoyant doggedness layers an inspiring air to my Islam-based friendships.  Viola!  We, even with experiences swirling from diverse universes, are both sober and clean.  We soberly – sometimes with funny one-liners – discuss issues and communicate.  There is almost no mood altering substance drifting like Chinese killer smog over our connections.

An intrinsic poetic nature of learned Egyptians along with a genetic predisposition to be unfettered in emotion and opinion is to my cynical liking.  It was setup by my brother marrying (circa 1977?) into a Lebanese brain trust with an intersecting Egyptian gene pool.  In-between a Christian minority majority of five prayers per day is a societal dignity beyond western colonizing comprehension.  While many review our western Protestant work ethic as planetary hip, it is in fact, funky rue.


Fetching a dimension of additional clarity, not all my Egyptian buddies are moderated practitioners and scholars of one of the trefoil Abrahamic faiths.  A couple of my cyber buds are pot smoking seculars with one in particular a diabetic in alcoholic denial, or vice a versa.  As I am a recovering addict and alcoholic closing in on 29 years of sobriety, I, of course, tenderly gravitate toward dysfunctional Egyptians.

An Egyptian man whose plaintive social media postings support his sanely insane trap in a circumstance making purgatory look good  is one of my favored and valued sources.  This politico refugee wrote his suicidal short story 14 years ago while looking down on the Nile from his high-rise ormolu apartment.  He is a seer of what will be in Egypt.  My dear friend collects Egypt’s sociological remnants and has done so for decades, yet the last few years he collects via his YouTube channel and Fedbook page.  In his hard drives and memory is a lifestyle he fashioned as a self-made business guru and raging hedonist.  The prior life is today dust in the White Desert while the later is not a cyber fantasy.

Although there is statistical improbability, my oracle political-slugging friend unwittingly started me on this journey of knowing the loving followers of Islam.  I made a statement somewhere on the web about my buddy the prophet’s amazing alabaster LED art.  He invariably sent me a blind chat via Fedbook, opening a door for our exploration of a deep diving alliance.  He is in his bell chamber in South America.  I am a Costa Rican jungle hermit, the widow on the jungle hill, with panoramic views, monkeys for neighbors, birds as teachers, and clouds for cover from Google mapping.

In my Egyptian friend’s wandering abyss and my predictable ignorance, our intensifying rapport is an ancient fortress for a smorgasbord of mutual understandings.  Chat by chat we lay a stonework for me to know other astute creatives who are Egyptian.  Because you are typical Americans you probably know no one who is from MENA or in MENA, or what MENA, the acronym stands for – I offer a whitey primer on Egyptians.  Educated Egyptians are the utmost creative, talented, seductive, intellectual, craft-driven, worldly, scholarly, and super polite people on the planet.  They are also beyond jealous of someone else’s camels, Arabian horses, ideas, tales, and emotions.  They are centered in a worldview of desert poetry, whirling music, and roses sprinkled with jasmine and the blue lotus.  The Nile and the ancients are their wellspring.

You bet cowgirl my mother’s Rosicrucian mystical leanings and a vague possibility I would become a curator of ancient art attract my hard drive to the Land of the Nile and its inhabitants.  Yet, there is another layer to the siren calling. When I communicate with Egyptians, male or female – they get me, and I in return get them.  Who knew?

Writers need a readership, no matter if one, 323 on YouTube, 860 on Fedbook, or millions, who relate/identify to the writer via stories, read.  Abstinence is not a handy cloaking device for most writers.  While writing inside sobriety, wonders come forth.  These attributes arrive as true to one’s self-assuredness, and clear headedness.  There is an unsaid willingness to listen and follow (highly signatory) a story to its climatic, or not, conclusion.  The basic requisite to creatively act with compassion, brutal honesty, quick intuitive analysis, and moderate humility is inborn not artificially instilled. Writing is of the same seed.

Channeling and scribing is not a joke.  I mean I regularly yoke this joke yet it exactly describes my writing.  I sit here at my MacBook laptop or Korean android with no pre-conception or wanting.  What flows are essential to my well-being in hopes I suppose wispy aerial seeds land and take root somewhere near yours, dear reader.

Secrets are the foregone inclusion of Egypt.  The ancient cultures left you and I with too many clues, and not enough.  Our current vast array of tech tools, expanding brain and cyber networking, and an unending passion to uncover the past (to not repeat its human horrors?) pulls us along a faceted linkage of nether awakenings.

Egypt is a mystery, a place, a culture, and a geo-political state that also resides in millions of hearts who have never been there (maybe in former lives?), and if so, only as 30-day tourists.  Droves of humanity trooping around and in pyramids, boating the Nile, standing in awe in chambers 6,000+ years old are pulsed by a feeling the Sphinx is essentially their personal icon.

Magical thinking is not necessarily a negative viewed from the Hubble telescope or waiting in line at a checkout desk in Lord and Taylor considering the meaning of life holding chic garments and an armful of votive candles.  We are human.  We are overwhelmed by wonders if for no other causation because our wonky spirit senses something grander than ego.  A prerequisite experiencing an epiphany sober is an acceptance of the mythical unknown materializing in the here and now.  For those who only find the rickety pathway to a new improved download to life by an upload via a sacred vine I laugh.  Not out of righteousness or a need to play one-upmanship.

Religious experience, the doorways to perception, finding oneness, seeing God, being re-booted happens for the residents of Hotel California in hours and once addicted these minted betas keep taping the lever for one more hit. For those bathed by a religiosity where prayer, study, and memorizing translate into a honest-driven culture where nobody charges interest, where nature is God’s gift, where sacred texts are illuminated inside hearts while helping brothers and sisters extending into concentrated circles of right action – well, it is a not a distinction of decrees nor methodology.

Do not presuppose I am thumbing my homey Napa Valley girl culture and going camel wild for MENA.  I am not covert converting to anything.  I am merely standing in my regular too wordy cornfield.  Here scanning a 360-view, I discovered a life-affirming stable of folks who are sober and clean with sweet hearts and astute brains that hail from the land of the Nile, not AA/NA groups.  Who knew?

Those who contend Ibogaine cures heroin addiction and pot gets them off crack and Ayahuasca brings maturity enlightenment I offer this not as a lecture or a Ms. Know-it-all.  Please take down your shields in this singular likely ineffective intervention.  I took a lot of Owsley LSD, ate peyote milkshakes, and puffed up opium soaked hash as if every day was my last day getting high.  I have a valid perspective of been there and done way too much of that in my flaky, five-act play with its somber prologue to find God.  Consider this writing an echoing schematic from the top of the mountain 5,000 miles from the paisley undulating landscape of colors, shapes, forms, and bliss.  I am calm from solemnity the path of peace set my course.

Prayer, maybe going to Mecca (Dunno, never been there), living a life very real, not mood-altered surviving on leftovers or a wished for encounter of the spirit life is a working stability thousands of years old.  Taking magical natural drugs to instantly get there (read on) while skipping over the shaking out of life is aberration disguised as self-awareness.  Druggie hallucinatory events may break open an emotive intellectual logjam yet what keeps a soul in balance is daily practice of being in a state of sober well-being.  For me, such soul gravity is writing, communing with birds, expressing my inner caca, and meditation while under no induced drug.  I have mediated my stage presence since the age of 18 years.  After three years sober and clean (8/8/1988), it morphed into a 28/9 clear satiated consciousness.  I take no credit. What defeats my spiritual Linus blanket is firing up the body/mind/spirit with bad combos of food stuffs, letting my brother get under my skin, not sleeping well, or succumbing to an incessant drive to get you dear reader to value working for freedom over posting kitty kat memes.

Balance is an odd set of scales for any human.  What we put on one side of the weigh bridge compared to the other is never learned in years of being mood altered.  It is daily understood with diligent installments of surrendering to sobriety be it through practiced faith, a 12-step fellowship, the miracle of grace, or some rockin’ combo.  I know almost nothing and why I keep paddling my kayak toward the waterfall of knowledge draped by jasmine.

What is curious about the followers of Islam I meet is they see sobriety as not a goal.  It is another part of the way, period, end of discussion.  An acceptance of God’s will rather than one deployed by humankind and/or nadakind is a given.  Extremists inside any faith are like every nut job on Earth – riddled with bullets in their hearts. These sad cases are desperate for an illusion trolling for justification. I edit these mistaken fallacies and stick with the winners.  It is about people, places, and things – trigger points.

I offer friends who join ‘sacred’ druggie circles on a regular basis one challenge.  Go one year without taking your preferred drug, or any others.  If you cannot be absent from the lure and allure then you have taken not a room at Hotel California, you have booked a wing.  Ring for room service and your next smoothie of drugged reality is delivered.

For those who see clearly I am sorry to report there is a whole she and he bang of drug dealers. Most of these black barred souls are not living in Mexico as drug lords rather they attend Envision (recent Costa Rica drugged Bacchus event) and other faked orgasms of living.

Breaks my heart into a cosmic field of energy yet it could be our species is doomed by its own dopey doing. Our species swept up by ever more consumption of drugs (be mind expansion, medical marijuana, or happy pills), accepted slave states, and where more is never enough in goods. The suffering we deliver each other in the name of the empire is the norm (Syria, Egypt, Gaza, Detroit, and so forth). In addition any operating drug culture is a lurid mistake the empire is so pleased with today. The rulers are making it legal, a tax collection, and prodigious.

When the day of reckoning arrives, and some portend it is peeking out from behind the sun (or maybe Jupiter), my hope is to stand up, not be forced to bow down.  Petite in stature looking at life squarely with courage derived not from a drugged state, within or without govt. organized, I plead to accept our karma.  My preferred insight, while holding hands with a cadre seeing the whole deal without stoned lens, is we move to the next plane.  Anything else may be more of the matching crapola Americans and a certain flash of Euros are famous for – subsisting as elitist escape artists.

To those whose sobriety is fashioned from Islam or the 12 steps or some an unknown sober well-spring I cannot begin to thank you enough.  To those hiding within an enabled enticement of drug inducements – grow the f**k up.  A Kiddieland of repeatedly getting high is childish self-absorption our species can no longer endure.  You are prey for the slave state because your non-reality perception is askew imitating a primitive’s worldview. Dropping out, stoned, secures the slave state and another 50 footballs of Amazonia jungle are eliminated (every second).

A conceptual howdy duty is a wondrous perspective if you are a native shaman in the Amazon. Yet, it is an absurd level of active denial if you are a Gringo of sacred circles.  You wonder why round-eyed blood prodigies are drug addicts slipping into insanity?  Karma is a bitch.

Stoner sheeple are more dangerous than smack addicts on Wall Street.  Why?  At least the jerks selling voracity are not claiming and selling the next trendy cure for humanity.  The arbitrage greed-masters wield only as much power as we buy from them.  Can you hear the drum roll?

To the kind-hearted followers of Islam who provide art designed perspectives and softly spoken critiques please pray for borderless western, eastern, northern, and southern enlightenment that is bloodless and drug-free.

If I have offended anyone taking drugs, and/or using ‘sacred drugs’ with this rant, then hallelujah buddies.

Tick tock.  Tick Tock.


Latest Macomber Manifesto – Opus #?

Photo: One of my favorite pastimes. The person is not me. Montauk Pt. New York.Image

A kinky portion to our feathery broadcast has manifested in the Nilo light. Instead of my regular cheap shot analysis of one more backchannel this post I am telling you what too many decades in the political arena burned into my third eye:

1) There is no existing socio political economic system on Earth worth much more than a plate of Siamese cat turds. These not-working matters of social organization stretch out across a continuum of failures from a historical fantasy like Marxism to the drill baby drill, drone on of the United States of Hillary. We need a borderless sparkling civil society paradigm for our lame species and for Pachamama’s sake – and fast.

2) Unless we practice principles above personalities, social media (and life) is tar baby whining. 

3) Freedom is given. For Buddha’s sake never ask me why not. 

4) My agenda is straightforward. Its bleeps along with no planning, no marketing, and no subservience. Plus, I do not need to wheel out cupcakes at bake sales or used crap on E-crave. I served my time. No, I will not send you money. Being barely solvent is not a negative. It is freeing. I am a few degrees above there. I am a land owner in a social democracy where legally anyone can come onto this finca and claim some portion of it as there own if they daily live on it for ten years, and I am not here. Being free and clear is not an ad for a fancy arse line of cosmetics. I live in a jungle by the ocean in paradise as long as you are not in a hurry to get anything fixed. 

5) Writing is how I make it through 28/9. Without concepts, research, communications, phrases, words, politics, and birds I become invisible. 

6) Birds are my teachers and some other stuff.

7) Suspended under The Hubble watching the hands of our human mistakes tick tock toward oblivion does not mean I am a fatalist, a conspiratorial guru, a mandala sculptor, or i have thrown in the towel. Being here in SM (social media) proves I am carrying a petard. It says, GET IT?. 

8) I believe in God yet know not a clue exactly who or what or where God is, was, or will be. This is called faith. Oneness is its recipe. 

9) As a jungle hermit nature is the path set in right action. I believe in all religions, and none. 

10) If you are rankled, or say to yourself, Oh now I see, I must be doing something right-on. 

11) Take what you want and leave the rest. Contribute or not, just keep it tolerable. 

12) Egypt is where my mystic nut gut is. My heart is none of your business. 

13) There are several enlightened individuals in my friends and followers list (, Twitter and Facebook) who are worthy of the short description – gentle, brilliant, actual human being. I implore you to join ranks with these free-thinkers. 

14) As societal and soul alienation becomes the reality, the antithesis is social media. Lets not f**k it up. We are only as significant and wondrous as our lowest common denominator. 

In Service, 
BE Macomber 
Lady of the Waves, Birder, and Goof-Monster.

The Conumbrum of Curiosity – Or, Are You Happy, Hoopoe?

We can rise to the occasion and opportunity presenting itself in social media or slouch around yammering about meaningless doodads and faux everything as if hunky dorky. Don’t read on Jan B. – you probably will not like my concluding statements even though I have not written same, yet.

My mother was huge on manners, civility in each and ever case, and style expressed with creativity. Resourcefulness was engaged as a key component in her recipe for happiness. Her working theory was anyone with beaucoup bucks can buy stuff to make their life beauty bound. What makes us truly artists is putting together aesthetics on a shoestring, be it home, outfit, cosmology, or civilization. 

Fedbook becomes unbearably uncivil when people abuse/use mood altering substances acting out their emotionally unbalanced crap raging-on at another person they have never actually met, in person. Say what? Someone ventured netizen insanity is a cross cultural societal dis-ease of the times – borderless, frightful, and annoying considering options available. There are 1.6 billion humans on-line at any given moment. 

The blatant not-news are these attack chats and/or self-loathing bouts of he said, she said, they said, us vs them, and infinitum across the globe are easily edited out by those ones (I mean this phrase), and fortuitously, you and me. Click off, maybe block the basturd, yet plainly do not engage in trying to convince someone mood altered they could be off the wall. Flip over one’s mind set, dis-engage ego, and re-focus on right action. Nothing is to be gained dueling with a nut job in cyberville because their discourse has absolutely nothing to do with you. Mad cows wringing in their agony have nothing on our species.

The admission of guilt of human manufactured bull corn is never going to be made internally or externally by those flinging caca unless inside the rooms of a heavy duty therapist while under hypnosis? Self-loathing (always in denial) rules a poop-covered roost of its own scary cobwebbed pokemon. 

Existing by an imaginary river in pretend Egypt is a mighty intricate f**ked up force preventing self-awareness and brutal self-honesty. I know from my own mucking around in the trenches. Denial led me through hell and high water filtering a faked life via my brain and my heart circa 1974 through 1985. Being a functioning successful human being with a personal life in 28/9 shambles is a duplicity compounding itself, regularly. They (read anyone but me) had the problem, not moi. After a reinvention it turned out, it was me, albeit a mood altered smart working creative. Highly screwed up on what the nature of intimacy and my instant gratification process of choosing partners (personal, political and business) was the stoned viper eating its slithering tail.

The bubble brigade, my not at all clever estimation of the Sheeple, are another subset of our waning species. No amount of 2 x 4s bounced off their third eyes are going to break through channels. These folks prefer to not think, not consider, and not evaluate anything beyond their immediate needs and those of their nuclear dysfunctional families. Captured by the slave state their daily grind is one long brain pause punctuated with drone work and trying to make ends meet while bending over and taking it up the you know where. 

Those of us who are library junkies, art and music freaks, and book anteaters barely ever cease exploring the net. We do not surf the web, exactly. More like selective seductions beyond the first page in Google to light upon a fertile site and dig in deep seeking to know something fresh and sparkling. Linkage research is not actually taught. You either have a snooper’s snooty nose for it, or you don’t.

A long time ago, in a groovy hipster land far far away (Northern California) a Zen buddy of mine, a painter, a gay man, a chef, a builder, a thinker, a gardener, a philosopher, a humble shaman, explained to me why curiosity is not teachable. In fact, it cannot be transferred or layered on as the human need to understand is intrinsically centered in the faith one knows little. 

Being ego-less as possible is a tenant of Zen, as is nothingness becoming. The former concept is not available to all humans. The later requires an understanding given, never earned, and obviously by nature on-going, and as rare as a Whooping Crane in Idaho.

As our wailing on each other species crowds Earth and the globe shrivels with the internet our differences disappear, if we are curious. If we insist on turf wars and greed then ego and fear win the day, destroy cultures, and mangle the environment (our home nest) beyond livability.

A dear friend of mine, Mr. Hoopoe, sent me a short story I had not read in decades. I offer it to you (see the link below), Somerset Maugham’s Mr. Know All.

Mr. H proffered this story was him. And, indeed, many moons later, knowing and loving him, I concur. 

This is a tale as touted below about culture, manners, first impressions, values and prejudices. Is this not the operating essence, the funky ball of tin cans and sticky tangled string making up social media?

Dear Hoopoe: Reading Maugham’s tale, one more time, made me happy. For a man to know who he truly is could be perceived as a cross to bear, then again it may be why God exists. Possibly cyber anywhere is not vacuous and silly. Maybe, Gore Vidal was not right, when he said, “The unfed mind devours itself.”

Transversing the Body Politic of Clowns

This is a back room, back channel attempt at what (see far below)? The so-called kiddy pool analysis in the piece offers nothing fresh for an eroding imploding horizon known as Egypt.

Do the Brits have the next Lawrence of Arabia in the blocks? Are they expecting to keep up this London misty crap to get better prices from OPEC? Is this another sign the western powers are hoisting their next orchestrated falsetto flag? I read this and there is no rethinking – this is pro forma in the Brits buddy holding with the US gubberstand, and vice a versa.

Next: Congresswoman Nancy Pelosi supports the Bush/Obama NSA spying program called PRISM. On June 22, 2013 she was booed at Netroots Nation for saying Edward Snowden was a criminal.

She is the only woman to serve as the House Speaker and to date is the highest-ranking female politician in American history.

I worked with Ms. Pelosi when we published The California Democrat in the late 70s. She called me one day to scream (I was managing editor) the guys doing the solicitation for funds (display ads) should be called (and I quote exactly), “Scum-bag, Inc.”

Needless to say, I then began to pay closer attention to the way Fannie Nannie (my irreverent handle for her) moved around the arena. She used her butt and and her bodice to attract and lure political mentors. Like the Catholic school girl who never grew up sexually she proceeded to tease her way to Washington. There are reports this roadway was paved with more than teasing. I decided to give Pelosi a pass because at the time I thought any woman in politics was better than none. I now rescind my young woman stupidity.

While Pelosi is always on the PR side of her district, I think a well healed progressive could beat her.

Next: Cindy Sheehan missed her shot. In my professional estimation, Ms. Sheehan needs smarty pants advisors who can explain to her the value of presenting a far more articulate public image and working progressive philosophy backed by adept white papers.

Sheehan needs to dump her ranch mommy backyard act and bring forward intelligent calls to action both doable and bankable to raise funds to finance a poignant campaign.

Crowdfunding for a politician is how Howard Dean went up the totem pool of grassroots fundraising. Sheehan has yet to tap this platform with any inspiring strategy. Independents by nature are not consensus builders and usually not especially brilliant. This is okay if one surrounds yourself with more than hoola hoop photo ops and hoke-isms (see Sheeham’s FB page).

If Sheehan has a burning desire about moving beyond her current piddle media non-status, where she is barely listened to except by a band of devotees with no money, she needs to seek advice on how to disseminate her passion and how to plan and implement for an adroit public service.

An analysis of her personal reading of the arena matched to an input of soothsayers and highly insightful policy makers who get her concepts must teach Sheeham how to speak as a stateswoman not just someone who annoyed President Bush and made effective anti-war copy points (she subsequently abandoned?).

Shifting away from homespun is not necessary. Yet, Sheehan’s delivery system has to be Mark Twain, rather than Ma Clampett. I  follow Ms. Sheehan on FB. I find her act frustrating and embarrassing.

Sheehan lives in Vacaville, California, and I wonder why. The area is outside Pelosi’s district, but there are no residency requirements for congressional members, according to the California secretary of state’s office. Reminds me of when one of the greatest Manhattan illustrators, Frank Frazetta, moved to podunksville, PA and expected to continue being top brush. Frazetta and his wife ran a costume shop near their 67-acre farm/museum in the Poconos to make ends meet.

If you want to be in the big leagues you have to be under the brightest lights, not flitting around in the outskirts in a farm house.

Any one successfully advising within any arena will instruct a candidate to stay the course for one seat they can win by building a body of followers and media awareness from election to election. Dumb as it sounds, eventually one will succeed. Pick three significant issues and beat the drum about same incessantly because the American voting public (even in over-educated hipster San Francisco) is more involved with Netflix renditions of politics (#House of Cards) than the real stuff.

How we gecko-hopped from UK policy about #Egypt to the highest ranking woman in American politics to Cindy Sheehan is not a handful of balloons held by a street artist working Pier 38 in San Francisco. It is a short history how no matter what arena – if centered in California, Washington, DC, London, or Cairo – politics is currently controlled by clowns from the same circus.

What our world needs are MLKs and Gandhi-like leaders in corduroy pants, silk skirts, or hand woven burkas backed by savvy support people. Advisors who instantly and intuitively read the body politic based on intrinsic ethics are worth attracting and if necessary employing. These get-it-done folks carry handy andy toolboxes of how to go from current events stupidity to actualizing the greater good for humankind.

Tick tock. Tick tock.

Yea, for a clever barter, I could be available as long as it is understood I have zip interest in self service (yours or mine) and hanging around with dunderheads (yours).

Nancy Pelosi’s voting record as US Congresswoman –

Weirdos Who Write

Writers are from a defiant different weave than painters. I went from brush to keyboard because the brush was a trigger. Too many years alone at my drawing table whacked out drawing, painting, illustrating, and designing print and storyboarding concept was a pursuit I did not seem to know how to do sober and clean.

I had always written news, ad copy, PR BS concept, marketing communications plans, letters to the editor, and political white papers. What changed too quickly to recognize is something huge yet minute happened one wintry icy day stuck inside Tara of the North. If it was a February, I started to spin stories using words instead of visual imagery. They were not great. They were fate.

Whatever the year or the day I began to puny write from my sober heaving heart and not for a NYC invoice. The mind-puking details are sunk in the past. What is hemispherically significant is the bamboo and wire bridge to the other fantasy land, the one of words, waited for me.

In 2008, when I sat here at Finca Vigia, alone with the dogs and wild creatures while my husband continued to run his business in The Hamptons my entire personhood flipped flop. Faced with nothing but myself and the jungle another paper mache boulder was rolled away from the tomb of my writing.

Today, I have no choice. I write as the only way out of the quagmire of a mental, emotional, love-struck, aching political, gecko-saturated, soul-bent space. (Note to Sherif: Verbose enough?) As so many pursuing the slogging path of words admit, we are an odd lot. A sober writer, like me, is rarer than Harpy Eagles in Costa Rica.

Freedom is another word to say we have nothing else to lose.

Fedbook at my intersection, this blog, oh ye fey sources who publish moi, my letters, notes, tweets, and books comfort me as much as birding and whipping up cool jewelry with my brilliant kid grand niece. Politics and social commentary polish the alabaster lens.

I am over cooked from beating the tom toms about the environment. I waited sitting in board rooms for decades to stand up to rant three minutes trying to cajole and convince ignorant elected officials (and NGO wunderkinds) we are sh*tting in our nest, like no tomorrow. Hordes of humans do not give a flying pile of Chernobyl top soil about Pachamama – unless it is their backyard (all hail Nimbyism [not in my my backyard]).

#Egypt is my adored focus and the land of the Nile has been since I was a teenager. It is not important to defend why. It is what it is. Be forewarned, I am not fickle about revolutions and will keep paddling my canoe against the rising tide of caca even when mysterious dead fish kills are clogging up the flow.

ImageRest? Retire? Vegetate? Yoga-bait? Turn Zen priestess? Hell, i am just getting revved up. If you think I am trying to convince myself, think again, and again.