I first met August Two Moons in 1993 in an arroyo seco in Denazin. August was crouched, looking for geodes and finding only coprolytes. We both paused in the paltry shade of a piñon. “Always be ready to meet your new best friend,” he said. I was put off by that.

In the twenty years since that meeting, our paths have crossed many times. A2M (as he signs his email) spends every moment he can outside. In the desert, on the mountain top, everywhere, we’ve shared water, gorp, poetry and stories. More than one of his stories has involved poor Etaoin Shrdlu, the unluckiest man either of us has ever met. Or, as Tink describes him, “this hero so suffused with tragic flaws.” Etaoin Shrdlu (aka Tao) inherited his name, and his misfortune, from his grandfather, who was killed by someone he smiled at.

A2M has more nicknames than anyone else I know. “Gus,” of course, but also “Auk.” They include many obvious variations on “Moon” and the more obscure “Teller” — my favorite. Indeed, it seems that each person who knows him has a variant; that’s how personal his relationships are.

August speaks 47 languages, at least the essential pleasantries and obscenities (which are one and the same in most languages). I’ve only seen him at a loss for words once, after Etaoin Shrdlu fell off a cliff. When we finally found Tao in a heap, he glowered at August and spat out something in Hungarian (along with blood and teeth). August was speechless. Much later, over whiskey and cigars, Teller told Tink that Tao said he felt like punching Jesus.

On a card by a case in an unvisited corner:

We don’t know much about this male, other than that he died of old age around

2100 CE at an age between 120 and 150. Analysis indicates he ate copious peanut butter. The brown teeth indicate frequent consumption of

a beverage called ”coffee.” There is really only one noteworthy attribute: his hand appears to have frozen in a gesture years

before his death. We speculate the extended middle finger is a ritual greeting of his people. We salute him in return. mjh

—–
Alibi

Short Fiction Contest (Deadline is Friday, June 11, at 5 p.m.)

Today is my birthday (note to identity thieves: I am lying). I am starting my

50th year (which makes me 49 for the math-impaired). 50 can scarcely be considered middle-aged; odds indicate that my life is 2/3rds over

(or, more cheerfully, I still have 1/3 left).

According to Social Security Administration statistics (Popular baby names), in the 1950’s, Mark was the 9th most popular

name for male babies; several of my oldest friends had even more popular names (James, Robert, John and David; Steven is right behind me

but Fred is way off; my first girlfriend — a 4th ranked Susan — called me Michael, #1 in the 50’s and 60’s). In the ’60’s my name

had risen to 6th place. But, for the last 30 years, it has fallen steadily in popularity (I blame the rise of the Radical Right); just

look at the 90’s (Popularity of the name Mark) — not

even in the top 100 anymore. My Mom told me Mark meant ”hammer or strength” — I don’t know where that came from.

The day I was

born was the wettest 24-hour period in New Mexico’s recent history (and that was during the last great drought). Not that I was born in

New Mexico. I was born in Hawaii, where the wettest 24-hour period was probably wetter than 24 years in New Mexico. I was born in the

middle of the ocean, where Anglos (Haolies) were late-comers and a cultural minority, a truly multi-ethnic, multi-lingual paradise, a

place of ancient cultures and traditions. For 20 years, as of July, I have lived in the middle of the desert, where Anglos (Billigaana,

etc) were late-comers and are a cultural minority, a truly multi-ethnic, multi-lingual paradise, a place of ancient cultures and

traditions. Some might say I haven’t come very far; seems just far enough for me. I remain grateful and hopeful.

I had a long and

complex dream this morning, which I should have written down immediately. A few things have stayed with me. In particular, I remember an

old(er) man, saying, ”I refuse to train people to serve a machine that is indifferent to them.” Then, he said, ”There is no

higher calling than to foster social interaction.”

I assume this old man is me. I like to think it is future-Mark once again trying

to reach back to younger-Mark across time. More simply, we are the same person who was a baby and will be old. The ‘rage against the

machine’ message clearly resonates with me. But the ‘social interaction’ message isn’t so clear to me. Is this it — the moment you

are reading this? mjh

Some say ”we got it right in Afghanistan.”

Out with the conservative Taliban, in with a new constitution guaranteeing freedom for all, including, specifically, women. Laura

Bush has gushed over the potency of her man’s power to change the world. Not so fast; it appears Bush got what he wanted from Afghan

women and rolled over to dream of other conquests, like your freedom of choice. Duhbya doesn’t finish what he starts. Duhbya can’t

satisfy anyone. mjh

Women banned on Afghan province’s TV and radio
JALALABAD, Afghanistan (Reuters) – An Afghan

province has banned women from performing on television and radio, declaring female entertainers un-Islamic. [read more…]

fuzzle (noun)

something that doesn’t work out or can’t be solved; something not

worth solving

past tense of fizzle or a play on puzzle

neologismo (noun)

the uncontrollable urge to coin new

words; a swaggering passion for new words; the brusque use of new words

(the ‘g’ is a ‘j’ so soft as to become a ‘ch’; a hard

‘g’ makes it mean ”a device for coining new words”)

neolojism (noun)

the inevitable byproduct of too much

self-indulging in neologismating

---

This all started when a word popped into my head. That lead to others, which seemed an

inspired blog entry. Until, just as I was about to post this entry, I decided to check google. So much for my ‘original’ thoughts:

Fuzzles (<shrug>who knew?

</shrug>)

Joho the Blog:

Words of the Years Michael Neolojism: A combination of neologism and jism meaning the end result of this particular type of

linguistic masturbation.

The Doc Searls Weblog : (Hmm… how about neolojism,

to denote a neologism about which its originator vainly brags?) [mjh: ouch! this one hurts.]

I might be able to claim

neologismo, as long as one overlooks that it is also Italian for neologism. ‘Neologismating’ was my least favorite; ironic that

it is my only original. Sigh. What a fuzzle! mjh

It is a good day to remember 47, though I think of it quite

often. After all, the equinox just past is the midpoint in the 47 degree swing the sun seems to go through (from Tropic of Cancer to

Capricorn).

Just the other day, I learned that Henry the Navigator had a 47-foot compass (and lived in 1647). mjh

The Meaning of 47

Ezekiel –

Chapter 47

It is wisdom to begin with that which is most easy, before we proceed to that which is dark and hard to be

understood.