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Omar Khayyam And Etta James Mooning Santa Barbara and Gertrude Tennyson, Your Protruding Colossal Bush Has Really Got Me Going!
(Where Truth and Fiction Waltz) An Autobiographical, Improvisational Novella
By Pat Arnold
AuthorHouse LLCCopyright © 2014 Admiral Pat Arnold
All rights reserved.
A Letter From Anais Nin August 10th, 1971
Dear Admiral Arnold,
Yes I do remember and regretted you did not let me know about your play. I would have understood it, as you understand my work. You write like a poet and that is our language. I wanted you as a friend immediately. You didn't have confidence in my invitation! Would you like me to send you Vol I, II and III? I'd like to. And when you are finished with your book, let me see it. I may be able to help.
I am overworked, it is true, but I have time for friends always. This summer I tried to rest because the Spring was so heavy, and an extraordinary heat wave helped to slow me down. I am not so happy lecturing except that in the end one is really talking to one or two and I wouldn't know them but for the lectures. I'm preparing for a circus in the fall when Volume IV comes out. I can't write long letters either, but I am glad you did not simply disappear. I'm sending House of Incest, my first book after study of DH Lawrence. I'm glad you have a shelter while working. If ever any of my novels get filmed, I will remember you are an actor. Work with joy and thank you for saying I sing rather than talk.
With love, Anais
P.S. Your account of dinner with Henry was truly inspiring. But at least one person knows how he suffered in Paris.
Note: At that particular dinner Henry Miller had bowed his head and both explained and lamented to me seven or eight times, repeatedly, "Nobody knows how I suffered in Paris.... Nobody knows ..." Earlier he had asked, "Would you like some of my bread?" when he had heard me request more bread from our waitress. I nodded, speechless, feeling I had died and gone to heaven.
He broke off half of the French roll in his hand, reached across the table and handed it to me. Breaking bread with one of my masters, don't you know?!
— Admiral ArnoldCHAPTER 2
Omar Khayyam and Etta James Mooning Santa Barbara
Sat. Oct. 6th, 2012
When Etta James "socks it to us," "steam rolls" our souls, "Lord knows" she ain't doing nothing but "showing her ass." When Omar Khayyam staggers merrily underneath the bough with Saki, his companion, a loaf of bread, a flask of wine in tow and waxes poetically to us, he's sho' nough dropping both his Epicurean pants and drawers ... At this point you're probably conjecturing, "How in the tar and feathers of common logic could these two Sacaramouchesque clowns who existed during such vastly different eras of time have ever possibly met and mooned Santa Barbara, California, of all places? And furthermore, how are their umbilical cords connected to the thread of this yarn?" Easily explained – they're both highly unlocalized.
Gather round, if I play my cards right, how it all comes to together will unfold: "God Willing and the creek don't rise?" (As we ever pant so healthily, back in Texas.)
My legal moniker that was given at birth is Shane Honeycone, but I go by an Indian spiritual name, Slim Rock. Just because I have an Indian spiritual name don't assume I'm a European Indian or a Native American one. Although I have a degree of Cherokee Indian blood mixed in my African-American-Irish background. More on this contentious subject later. I consider myself an artistic jack-knife of a spiritual guru whose universal consciousness is ever-evolving to higher levels of enlightenment; the dividends from investing your energy into elevating your consciousness are closer bonding with the Great Spirit (automatic instant richer peace of mind from enlightened understanding and awareness it feeds you) and more and more swifter deposits of bliss into the bank account of your soul.
From somewhere in the illusionary veils of consciousness of this incarnation I reason and chide myself that I'm a 68-going-on-17-year-old child of the Great Spirit.
Sunday, October 7th, 2012
Yesterday in the opening paragraph I went on and on so emphatically about Omar Khayyam dropping both his Epicurean pants and drawers way back in 11th century Persia as I've witnessed him do countless times in the last four or five decades. I wasn't really so cocksure of this as I seemed. But today I'm more than alright with it. As I said, "if I play my cards right." About an hour or so ago, I went to the library on Anapamu Street for a little "panhandling book mining," as I'm so fond of calling this little precious adventure. And the first nugget of a book to flow into my paws off the cool contours of the Paris green bookshelves was Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, rendered into English with illustrations by Edmund Dulac. An exquisite nugget of literary gold reflecting biographical info on Omar Khayyam's historical background, providing emphatic reference regarding his mooning shenanigans. Check it out verbatim from the book!
Our Mr. Edward Fitzgerald's exact words — wait! Before I bestow Mr. Fitzgerald's pearly prose on ya, I must comment on the shagreened, oil-like aura I'm getting from the interdictive tone of my own chicken scratch, which reminds me of the images and sensations I received when my mother once related to me the ease of her child-bearing experiences: "Being down in the country on the farm at the time, except for your birth – you were the only one delivered in the city at a hospital. It was a piece of cake. I delivered your four older sisters Indian-style. I squatted over the hole in the ground, grabbed a hold of the pole and they just slid out like kittens. It was just smooth as silk!" Over the years whenever I recalled her description it piqued my memory of the smooth, silky feel of Indian pussy. Or Oriental pussy. Or Mexican pussy.
They're all very similar. White pussy and black pussy are slightly different. But don't get me wrong, theirs are just as equally delicious in their own slightly different ways. I'm in my fine feddle — as one of my masters, Mr. Henry Val Miller would surely shout, "Well, fuck a duck!"
Back to these exact words of Mr. Fitzgerald on Omar Khayyam: "Though the Sultan showered favors upon him, Omar's Epicurean audacity of thought and speech caused him to be regarded askance in his own time and country. He is said to have been especially hated and dreaded by the Sufis, whose practice he ridiculed and whose faith amounts to little more than his own, when stripped of the mysticism and formal recognition of Islamism, under which Omar would not hide. Their poets, including Hafis, who are (with the exception of Lindasi) the most considerable in Persia, borrowed largely, indeed, of Omar's material, but turning it to a mystical use more convenient to themselves and the people they addressed."
Ahh-hah. There! You see, most "apposite evidence" of enough betrayal and strife to make any man wanna drop both his pants and drawers. But yee Gods! Omar Khayyam was no ordinary man as his sanguine legacy ever so buoyantly pontificates. And if Etta James was a "steamrolling" diva-of-a-mama, Omar Khayyam was a shape shifting Houdini and then some: one minute he was Omar, the next he was "la luna" and in between shifts he simultaneously remained both entities as a sacred gravitas duality comprehended by only a very select few kindred spirits. And I kid you not! Think of the transcendental supernatural prowess he had to have been endowed with to moon his ass through the timeless portals and vistas of our cosmic magic theatre, all the way from 11th century Persia to 21st Century America to "kick it" with Etta James in Fort Worth, Texas and Santa Barbara, California.
Who knows where else? A spiritual Sancho Panza, this particular Odyssean journey I did also witness, the memory of which is ricocheting in and around my noodle like a "thousand profane phantasmagoria" in cities, suddenly the mud seemed red and black like a mirror when the lamp moves around in the adjoining room, like a treasure in the forest! Good luck, I cried and saw a sea of flames and smoke in the sky; to the right, to the left, all the reaches of the world flaming like a billion bolts — hail Arthur Rimbaud, with a zillion thanks! One of the few select kindred spirits "hipped" to Omar's intriguing duality! Peace and ever more and more longevity to you Rimbaud, wherever you are, sweet Prince ...
I first witnessed the mooning shenanigans of these ode rascallion "rastabouts" in Fort Worth, "Cow Town" Texas in 1957 when I was around 13 or 14 years old, in junior high school. And they "blew my mind!" At that time I was living in the brick projects on the outskirts of Fort Worth in the "sticks," located between Fort Worth and Arlington. Stop Six got its name for being the sixth train stop between Dallas and Fort Worth. Get it?! But not only did I witness the mooning shenanigans of Omar and Etta from my various "hangouts" in Stop Six and Forth Worth, I dug them flashing their asses all over the county — any and everywhere during the following years that I was there, til I graduated high school in 1963 and moved to Los Angeles, Hollywood, California.
They were doing it deep down in funky gorges of the entrails of the city, on the rooftops of skyscrapers, under surreal licorice boughs and even at unbelievable super altitudes in outer space — at one point catawampously casting two silhouettes across Saturn, creating a kind of "oh-so-shitty" cataclysmic eclipse that I'm sure blew more than a few astronomers' minds. That is unless my ole trusty telescope, Night Spear, was playing tricks on me again, or there was just a little too much cosmic Oy Vey in the stratosphere at that moment ...
Tuesday, October 9th, 2012
There's this rather interesting and attractive young lady who works as a cashier at the McDonalds on upper State Street just west of the Arlington Theatre and across the street from The Granada Theatre (a mostly opera and concert venue); just to set the stage and give you a little bit of the atmosphere around the stage where all of our scenes had been played out, until yesterday when I accidentally bumped into her at the Lotus Boutique (an artsy antique shop located on the corner of Chapala and Ortega).
Bear in mind this is my second pilgrimage to Santa Barbara in the last twelve or thirteen years or so, not counting the three or four occasions that I've come up here for two to three day riotous excursions which date all the way back to the early nineties. I use the word "pilgrimage" in regards to journeys to anywhere I end up staying at awhile and dispensing all of enlightenment, love and wild oats as the spirituality in my soul is perfectly balanced with the hedonism which also resides there.
Before I get into finishing telling you about what happened yesterday when I made my first pass at this particular young lady, whose name turned out to be Sonia Aguilar and whose nationality is El Salvadorian, which threw me for quite a loop as my first impression had been that she was Mexican-American. And of course we all know how very important it is to absolutely always distinguish correctly whenever we identify the nationality of any person of either of these two particular races in order not to ruffle any touchy feathers; the last time I mistakenly called an El Salvadorian a Mexican I received a "coattail pulling" — accompanied by enough spit to wash a van that lasted damn near an hour. When he finally slowed down enough for me to get a word in edgewise, I said, "Excuse me, Bro. I beg your—"
"I see you're not as intelligent and wise as all the neighbors and people in the hood think. Don't ever call me no damn Mexican! We two different cultures. You supposed to be a writer, you need to educate yourself about Latinos!"
"Sho you right!"
(If I play my cards right.)
I guess they're right after all, Chief Joseph, Trinidad and the other Indians on the various reservations who have all without exception accused me of being a rambling "shaggy dog" story teller. I hate to be obtuse, but I'm going to digress a bit, if yo' please into the long hairs of improvisational narrative to back eleven or twelve weeks ago around the time my sojourn in Sherman Oaks of North Hollywood ended, and I relocated here to Santa Barbara. I want you to understand about how when my two year engagement with an old school true blue Louisiana Creole mama – my fiancé – Vanessa, who was The Living End, flamed out, the state of heartbreak it left inside me, as well as how it contributed to my tumultuous exodus back here to Santa Barbara; and how the numerous "failed attempts" at trying to find someone to replace her deepened both the heartache and loneliness in my normally peaceful and joyous soul, so you can comprehend why I was in the somewhat desperate "state of longing" I was in yesterday when I made the pass at Sonia Aguilar. You see, Vanessa had been the only woman that I've ever met in this world whom I completely trusted and surrendered my whole heart to unconditionally creating a perfect ying-yang union that we both rhapsodized as "two butterflies in love;" before Vanessa, going back from 65 years to day one, I had loved a dozen women or so to varying degrees, but never completely trusted any of them or fully surrendered to any of them with the exception of one other of them; and as always, "it goes without saying," that "1 and only 1" other of them being the golden eternal sweetheart of my dreams, my junior college "main squeeze" who had been a fine, young 17-year-old thang from Pakistan, India. "Yes I had loved and trusted you Neely, but I had not trusted myself at that time. I loved you like a mother loves her only child." I had to protect you even from myself. And know that tears are falling on these two pages of this notebook right now as I write ... Let me also share and confess that over the course of the last 67 years or so I've made love and fucked around 450 to 500 women (and a few pathetic would-be women), roughly speaking off the top of my head not attempting to accurately recollect ...
Anyway, Vanessa and I shared a $1400 a month studio at the renowned Plaza in Sherman Oaks located on Woodman a block west of the 101 Freeway. We were basking in conjugal bliss; everything was ducky-wucky, so to speak. Between the both of us we had a monthly income in the neighborhood of $13,000. However, I lost Vanessa abruptly when her dementia receded into Alzheimer's disease at the ripe ole age of 73 and she became the ward of her family in San Francisco, who in turn became the inheritors of her substantial estate which included a fashionable, seven room house (Jacuzzi hut in back), a yacht, a motor home, a truck, a lifetime monthly retirement income of over $11,000, not to mention checking and savings accounts that due mostly to my lavish spending was down to about 70 or 80 grand. I guess her bizarre, supposedly Christian, but more hard-boiled family with their grave, desolate faces can now dispense with mantling the necktie party they had been concocting since they had, by devious means, found out that Vanessa was sharing rather large portions of her then-considerable fortune with me; immediately following this discovery they had commenced to phoning me, obsessively informing me in each and every call that they were dispensing a couple of hit men in my direction to 'wack" my ass. On the third day of this "sick" harassment, I had called the San Francisco police detectives who had immediately given them a warning against threatening me, putting an abrupt halt to their odious threats. But not to their endless meddling into our love affair, which continued like an abscessed chancre, up to the day they took legal custody of Vanessa's life through their doctor's and court's mandate due to her mental illness.
The mentioning of Neely, my old college main squeeze is conjuring up all kinds of vivid, loving, passionate emotions, unrealistic, romantic dreams and thoughts, especially this question I heard asked in the film, The End of the Watch, the other night: "Can you live without her?" Can I live without Neely? Not having seen her in thirty-four or so years withstanding, I'm still questioning. "Can I live without her?" Her whom I truly believe matches me reincarnation for reincarnation, endlessly? She who knows regardless of whether or not she'll own up to knowing that all Gods — whenever they reincarnate as mortal gurus or what-have-you from Krishna to Shiva always fucked around with countless mortals, cowgirls, maidens, teenyboppers, broads "what you will," but who always near the end returned to their one and only true soulmate — Goddess — be her Rada, Kali, Saki or whoever — to love solely as the two of them jostle down the road of life to their last hour upon the stage.
Excerpted from Omar Khayyam And Etta James Mooning Santa Barbara and Gertrude Tennyson, Your Protruding Colossal Bush Has Really Got Me Going! by Pat Arnold. Copyright © 2014 Admiral Pat Arnold. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse LLC.
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