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I seem to be FINALLY learning the simple lessons that others seem to have nailed down pat.

There's a saying 'Nothing changes if nothing changes.' Damn, man, this is true. Ya see, I want the benefits of hard labor without applying any effort. This shit don't work like that.

I realize that I need to work on change. When I apply just a little effort to change/improve my life/perspective I receive the benefits.

Example: Today is the second day in a row that I have jogged. Granted, I only run a half mile at a time but it feels GOOD. Why? Because I'm actually doing something to improve myself as opposed to simply wanting to improve myself.

This jogging thing is another example of how most changes in life are slow and gradual processes. I won't see the physical results of my efforts immediately but, in time, I'll have that elusive ideal body that I seek.

From a recovery perspective, the 'work' I'm doing (taking chances with new people, speaking honestly in front of a group, opening up to another male regardless of potential judgment) is starting to show results.

Change is uncomfortable for me (sometimes terrifying) but I do things differently regardless because I KNOW it will benefit me long term.

I just need to continue to apply effort towards change for my long term benefits without expecting instant results.

These are some pretty cool lessons I'm learning about myself.

I kind of dig it.

Same date as my previous entry, 456AM, same locale.

Recap: I talked about a form of "Gaydar," as well as some other inconsequential nonsense.

This entry: One thing that strikes me, that sticks out in my mind so much from my time in Mindanao, was a day that took place in the summer of 2007. The island like the rest of the Southern Philippines is starved for infrastructure. This spring they blamed El Nino for the lack of electricity. For the weatherly challenged among you, El Nino (I have no idea how to place the accent "~" over the 2nd "N" on a computer keyboard) describes a phenomenon that produces less precipitation than usual.

The thing is, contrary to what descriptions of the Philippines say, there has always been a "Dry Season" that takes place at that time of year. This year, regardless, water levels dropped and because that fair island is dependant upon hydroelectricity, there were what they call, "Rotating Brownouts," actually total "Blackouts" but schedualed a day in advance: "Tomorrow from 4PM until 12AM Butuan will be having a Brownout."

To me? The schedualing makes all the difference. We are huge consumers of electricity. Aside from several mills I have a sideline, a small factory making fertiliser, machinery takes electricity, you get the point.

Worse than that, it means no air conditioner, no PC, no DVDs. At times like those I go crazy. When I was still with Rizza her sister Marian (now almost 11) would fan me and sing tonal Chinese songs as I napped (usually nodded) on my sofa. For some reason they are teaching them Cantonese songs in San Francisco College, her school, go figure.

In 2007 though, the lack of electricity was due to terrorism. 1 of the 1st principles in Oppositional Warfare is to neutralise the infrastructure of land you are operating in. I won't bore you with the "why's,"etc., only to say that Insurgency, operates on different principles. Yet, when one is telling a utility to pay X amount of money or we will blow up your pylons it really does add up to terrorism for its effect on the consumer (electricity is a neccessity even in a place where most homes don't have it, think of people depending upon dialysis or respirators). The utility though faces sheer criminality. Anything that works on the island is paying out the ass.

Also affected were telecommunications companies,like "Philcom," a cable,internet and cellular provider. On the summer day in question we had electricity, but no TV, cable or internet. What to do?

I took Rizza in the Sportage, the SUV we use for driving around town, and went to the internet cafe across from our main bank. In the cafe school girls and those slightly older, who didn't know me (we had just moved to the village ) would go apeshit.

The memoury that I am getting at involved one such girl. As I got online, in fact, it was Bluelight, I heard them talking in Bisaya but couldn't make out much of what they were saying, the cafe was mad loud and I was trying to read a thread I was posting in.

Afterwards, Rizza came to me and I asked what they were talking about. She told me, "The girl? She asked what site I met you on." I said, "Site? What does she mean?" Rizza explained that this girl had thought that Rizza and I had met on a website! I was floored.

I guess I am a bit innocent in some ways because I had never really thought about all those 75 year old men and nubile 20 year old virgins they ended up marrying.

In Israel we have a good many Filipinas as well as Thai women because of Guestworker Programmes but you don't see too many Jewish men marrying them (banging is a different case, unfortunately). There are no old Jewish men bringing home 19 or 20 year old Filipina wives.

So this was my introduction to the sordid world of "Online Dating."

I was talking about it with Mom and Dad at dinner and they told me about "Uncle Pete." I had heard the name while in Israel.

One of Mom's childhood friends was a woman named Mylene. An only child, she cared for her parents until both died and then, a virgin at 35 (not unusual in the Philippines), she joined a convent and became a Novice, a "Nun in Training."

Always living a sheltered life she felt unfufilled, decided she wanted a family of her own to fill that void. What to do? She went online and met an American man named "Pete."

Pete was about 60, but told her he was in the CIA, and working on assignment in Iraq. I only learned of this bullshit when he came to Mindanao, which I have to admit is a lot more than most men do (most never show up).

When he came she asked Mom if they could stay in our compound because she was afraid that an American man wouldn't accept the local standard of living. Mom and Dad, being who they are, accepted and the loving couple spent a week in our compound.

During that week he promised this woman, in front of Mom and Dad, that he would buy a helicopter so he and the woman could travel easier (hahahahah). The really sad thing is that most rural Filipinos, even with money, are so sincere that they accept whatever a person says as truth, until they see otherwise.

Then he told them he's a CIA agent (before the woman merely said it), then he became a Mercenary in Iraq (story changed). A 60 year old Mercenary...

I kept telling Mom and Dad that he is full of shit, don't let him come near anything of ours, and don't talk to him again because some white man talking about the CIA could get us all killed.

In the end his week was up, he left with a promise to return 2 months later to marry the woman.He never returned. On his 1 week visit he took her virginity, made a fool of her to the whole town, then, it turns out that he was trying to fuck another friend of Mom's.

In the end he wouldn't come online to talk (after leaving).To make a long story short, the lady ended up dying, truly heart broken with nothing to show for her life while that cocksucker went on to romance that other woman. I wanted to "talk" to him in person but of course he never showed his face again.

It turns out though that the "playing" takes place on the other end as well. Men fall in love online, lose their life savings and worse but there it is, the lovely character count so I will have to talk about it in my nest entry.

I need to vent some more. Here's another long rant. I put it in NSFW (not safe for work) tags. Click "show" to open.

Today is Saturday, August 7, 2010 and it is now 107AM here in the South Bronx,New York City, USA.

Recap: Finally finished the relation of my 1st conviction, while in the IDF (Israeli Defense Forces).

This entry: Still here in New York. This time around I am staying with an old friend of mine, on the Grand Concourse. I have a bedroom to myself, in a 6th floor walkup, overlooking a courtyard where people are always partying. Me? I couldn't care less, my mind is 19,000 km away, in the Philippines.

It's funny really. The other day, when I was sitting on that bench at the Farmers' Market (I talked about in my 2nd to last entry), I spotted 2 Filpinas. The "Filipino" is a fictional character. You have Tagalogs, Illokanos, Kapampangans, Aeta and of course dozens of other very distinct tribes all coming under that all-encompassing label.

The Philippines is separated from Indonesia, Malaysia and Brunei by some colonialists' pencils. In other words, you can find Tausugs, like Jackie's ex, in the Philippines, but also in Malaysia and native to both lands. Ergo, when I look at a face, or faces and am able to discern nationality and/or ethnicity I am always amazed.

Gays have "Gaydar," the innate ability to meet a stranger and almost immediately appraise their sexual orientation. Jews, despite their wide range of physical appearances can usually perform this same feat. I suppose it is based on subliminal cues, hints that aren't noticeable on the surface but which reach out to us none the less.

So I saw what looked to be, a couple. I looked at the female, I smiled, and I said, "Pinay," the Filipino term for "Filipina." She looked at me for a split second and then broke out in a huge smile and acknowledged that I had gotten it right. She and her companion began talking with me. Naturally she asked how I had known, and I replied that I live in the Philippines.

Her question then, was where in the Philippines do I live. I told her Mindanao, she asked what part, and I told her, "Agusan del Sur." She corrected my pronounciation. Then it turns out that she had never been south of Cebu City and even then only 1 time so I was a bit irked. A woman who doesn't speak Bisaya, who has never been to Bisaya lands (OK, Cebu 1 time) sees the need to correct me?

The rest of the conversation, about 45 minutes long, was pleasant but for the 1st 15 minutes or so it ran pretty much like a quizz to see if in fact I really knew anything about the country. As is usually the case I knew much more than she did and so it kind of blew her mind.

Her companion, as it turns out, was a woman, "Maryanne." I remember in university how very few, if any males and females are 100% of a single gender. It is really a sliding scale and up to a point we begin looking like members of the opposite sex.

Knowing that it is unheard of to receive hormone treatments in the Philippines, I surmised that even though she was now in the US, she had always been "mannish."

It is kind of weird. Filipinos have an affectation for all things European. They love long noses, even the stereotypical "beaks" that Semites have. Myself? I have a European nose, I do not look like a "stereotypical Jew," whatever THAT might be.

To mimic this appearance there are travelling quacks who sell injections of silicone that are placed in the bridge of the nose. Uncle Allan, the leader of the faction we are feuding with, had this procedure done as did his wife. About 2 months later the silicone began to shift so that his nose, for quite a long time, appeared to resemble to "Elephant Man."

The weirdest thing? They have a procedure for the penis as well! SE Asian men have the smallest penises on earth, in terms of average. They top out at 4 inches.To get around this sad fact of life they get what they call, "Bolas."

The word is a Spanish word and simply means, "Balls." Now, when I 1st heard about this I thought they were talking about some sort of testicular implant, like a fiberglass ball that cancer patients and accident victims sometimes get. Uhuh, nope. This is a small plastic bead surgically implanted under the skin of the penis, in the area known as the "corona," the ringed area below the head of the penis.

They get 2 or 3 small plastic beads and the effect is like a surfaced condom, or even dildo. I suppose when you are batting with 4 inches anything helps but the fuck if I will EVER let some do-it-yourself-doctor operate on my dick!

Filipinas have told me, "A woman whose man does this? That woman can NEVER leave him." In other words, his sexual prowess is so wicked that she is strung out on his bumpy 4 inch dick. OK, got it, thanks for the news.

Asia, as I have said, is a crazy place. In any event I will have to get to my "title" in the following entry.

Today is Saturday, August 7, 2010 and it is now 1235AM here in the South Bronx, New York City,USA.

Recap: I was talking about the South Bronx a bit.

This entry: Back to my 1st arrest, bringing red hashish into Israel, from Lebanon, in a Merkava 1 tank, while attached to AMAN (IDF Intel), Shouf Phalangist Section,Central Sector...

Inside the Border Administration Building they had put me inside a huge holding cell, and since this was 1984 it was chock full of narcotics offenders such as myself. Most were junkies, as heroin in Lebanon was costing 3 US Dollars for a 1/2 gramme piece in a paper fold.

Of course, when addicted to heroin you need a dosage at least every 8 hours of you begin physical withdrawal. The stink was unbearable and I was used to combat...when a man is killed he will shit all over himself until his system is almost empty. The stink in that cell though, with its ancient plumbing and men packed like sardines was beyond sickening, or at least I thought it was, since I was wet behind the ears (the things I have seen since make it look like a 3 Star Hotel).

In the IDF we don't have a "JAG," like Western militaries (JAG being the Military Legal apparattus). Our equivalent is "MAG," and so someone from the MAG came to interview me that night. Until they interview you your interrogation can only consist of absolute particulars, name, unit, military ID #, etc.,etc. After they evaluate you and make their recommendation for prosecution, or dismissal, you are given actual interrogation.

In my first contact though I had admitted that the hash was mine, and so they didn't go hard on me. In today's IDF it is very different. In my day your CO (Commanding Officer) could beat you, you got beaten in training and you can best believe that in Full Interrogation a lot of unfun things can happen to you.

The result of my full admission was that within 48 hours I was shipped to IDF Camp 394, popularly known as "Prison #4." At the time we had 2 prisons, 4 and 6. 6 was for Command Seargents and above, Prison 4 was for all others, such as myself, I had actually been promoted to Sgt by then but only on paper, so I was a Corporal, a rank that doesn't even exist anymore in the IDF.

Prison #4 was a huge place, I say "was" because although it still exists it is almost a totally different facility inside and out.

My first home was Absorption, where I was given a cell in solitary, thoroughly checked for any physical conditions (at the time mental illnesses weren't classified within Military Prisons), and was classified per unit. There were 4 "Companies."Military Prison of course functions entirely along military lines. I was assigned to "Company Dalet," or "Company D."

I was happy because "D COY" was a detachment of minimal security, and though I was in pre-trial detention, my placement in that company was seen as an indicator that I wouldn't be serving that much time.

On my 5th day I was transferred to D COY and was given a bunk in a cell built for 2 but housing 8, all narcotics offenders such as myself.

Now, in the IDF, since the 1967 War the minimum age for service has been 18, BUT we are not now nor have we ever been party to any Convention related to age. Our actual Manpower Figures are based on a minimal age of 14.5. I began my service just as I turned 16 for a couple of reasons.

First and foremost I had been educated in the Merkaz HaRav (Centre of the Master) school system. Merkaz was the school founded by Israel's 1st Chief Ashekanz Rabbi, Rav Kook the Elder. I will not bore you with all the nuts and bolts, sufficient to say that it was a Hard Right Wing school, with a very through military indoctrination. I began my full time military training before I turned 12 and by the time I was 15, I was already better trained than IDF Infantrymen/Paratroopers.

Then factor in, as I discussed previously (Prison#1), the war had killed the equivalent (per capita vis a vis the US) of 200,000 Israeli soldiers. It wasn't a huge choice for me. Our IDF liason (liason for our training programme) asked for willing bodies, I was more than willing, voila. In truth I have never regretted my choice but the point is that as a 17 year old in a military prison things COULD have turned out very badly for me, VERY VERY badly. The nature of my charges coupled with my brief but bloody combat experience earned me the respect of my cell mates and soon after, my Company mates as well.

The hardest part for me was that when I was ajudicated (sentenced), which took place in my 2nd month, the IDF immediately knocked off all but minmum rating neccessary to re-ntegrate to my original Battalion. In short, the need for soldiers allowed me not to be booted from the IDF, to retain my rating as an Infantryman/Paratrooper but did nothing to save me from losing my Intel position. Frankly I didn't give a shit except for how it might affect me down the road, in terms of promotions and such.

I ended up being sentenced to 180 days, with 42 days credit in pre-trial detention. I ended up serving 118 days in total and was immediately sent north again, to kill and kill again.

Speedin over the freeway you see the outline of a city that everybody tries to forget....Most folks will never know the simple struggles that happen here every day. Never taste the breath of salt tears and blood , stunned silence and slammed doors as they will their feet to go faster over the stairs, the tiles, the concrete stoop and out onto the street, glass windowpanes still vibrating from the screams inside. To have that be your every and always life.
Stop...go back...to a place where the every day relations take on a mythical energy under a pink stained sky , polluted by the lights of the living breathing over population that spills out the seams of this inner city dream, sweaty bodies pressed into tiny rooms, table cloth curtains and dry wood floors creaking under the weight of five generations of welfare. The night time play ground of a unforgivable feen. I stand tall, proud, my silouette a tight straight middle finger pointed at the sky, I have sinned, I have lied, I have pawned my soul out, cent by cent. And I dont repent. Fuck the world, inked on the brown, caramel, and pale milk skin of a thousand inmates and boys on the corners the world over, is my personal battle cry, and the image of curly cue letters, script against tan silk, leaves me fortified. Laugh now, cry later, the secret is die young, to never make it to later so you never have to pay. The hollow bombed out shell of a civilization sprawls over the stretch of tangled come up the block and go around the corner. shuttered, boarded up windows are un seeing eyes, the wind whips little wax paper shells around the pavement, useless, discarded, all the meat been pulled out and devoured. The carcass of the city aint nothin but liquor stores, check cashing, high interest pay day loans, stretched over the skeleton of fractured bones,and its all that is left but we take what we can get. Doorways and hallways, broken elevators and busted locks, sagging front porches and window grates, inside is hiding so many of coulda-been Brenda's babys, just waiting for their futures to get sucked up, stolen from them and dissappear before they even knew they had a chance. Garbage stacked in alley ways, the hidden corners where the junkies play, with the prize in their eyes as they scatter away. to pull themselves under with a push on the plunger. Outside cold brick walls , stories tall, its always open for bizness, but narc cars wait, lurking with the lights off, the real predators in this concrete jungle. Red lights glow in the dark, nextels bleep and echo down the street and the only sound is my own two feet as i stalk the block . just another faceless , aimless ghost in the night. Everybody got a story, mine aint no less, no more, than yours....We all stay busy with our private wars. As the moon rises over the silk city every life contained in its decayed , frayed structure blends together into one long sad song , a little broke down ditty. And still I love it, the energy, the electric rush that rockets thru my being, the feeling, that thru the dirt and the grime that Im purer, realer, that my heart is beating seven times stronger, on a different plane than just simply a high, the air cut with adrenaline, I feel so alive....I hate this place , handcuffs eight miles wide, but i never love life more than when Im inside. As the taste rises in my throat , I want to spit it out and swallow it deeper, the warm crash of the chemical reaction hitting my brain, get me strung out on it , jonesin for another one, dopamine flood. Swallow the feeling, choke on my blood...

night breaks and the wind howls around the corners, thru your bones, gets into your soul and a deep vibration comes up inside , the scream of the city as it comes alive. 8 square miles of dope bags and dimes. measure the size with how many tears we cried, how many hurts we forgot and let die, quicksand blocks and streets paved with lies. The truths we suppressed, thousands of times, I wish you could hear me Im screaming inside, and the thought that I am, means I cant say goodbye....If the empty air in my throat could make a sound, the sky would be tore in half, the wail of five hundred thousand sirens, the pain of every time my heart dropped and I saw those lights blind my eyes and wanted to drop into the ground and yell WHY! The aggression that bubbles up from inside my stomach and puts a red veil over my eyes, chokes me with hot tears and enough rage to tear your face from your skull, your heart from your flesh and fling my self against the pavement and DIE...The reality that hits like a blow to the solar plexus, knock the wind out til you can only stare wide eyed and furious that you did it again, the understanding as every bone in my body gives up at once and I just want to fall....the sound of sheer emptyness, of nothing at all. If you could hear me, you would hear the fierce , crazed animal roar, as one more time I stick the needle in, blinded by hate, and draw blood, again and again, a flood at the crook of my arm and i just let it drip, and flow, and snake down my skin , I need this to feel real. If you could hear me, you could hear the lakes, rivers, oceans of tears, of mothers who just want to believe, who been prayin since the day they noticed blood on babys sleeve. the sorrow of losing themselves while they grieve for their seed. The roar of an army of merciless screams of women whose lifes turned out far from their dreams....If you could only hear me, maybe you could see. That its bigger than that, its bigger than me. Its every disssapointment I ever felt in my life, its everything i ever seen that made me want to cry, and fall down, bury it deep inside my self and wish i never been alive, its every hurt, every loss, everything that ever made me feel at all, and its me , its my life, and its all wrapped up inside this little brick of wax paper bags, the map of purple bruises and red bumps on my skin, and i boiled it down into one and I push it deep in. And it aint just me, its the caged beast inside every feen, scratching, furious, tearing at the wall of rib cage and flesh, scrambling, frantic, spinning , straight crazy with claustrophobia, and the fear elevates to blood lust, rage, as we prepare to hammer one more nail into our coffin, its the voice that begs us to stop or just to TRY, and we ignore it, and change it, just call it butterflies inside, who dont get excited before they step on the ride? You could hear the guttural, broken sound of our hearts last protest, stuck there in the chest, in the belly, trapped and broken and pumping with the blood of a dying mans last stand, that one last gasp, the brokenness that is far beyond able to get fixed, it pulses with the urgent need to be free, and its caught there , somewhere, down in the middle of me, and as we load up the pipe, the cooker, the set, it knows that it lost and gives into regret. with one final howl it lets go and breaks down .And the scream of that creature, that struggle , that fight, is all that is left of our old self and life....If you could hear me, you could taste the hellish symphony of the sounds of hate and shame, the private, burning absolute rage that eats up my self worth and reduce me to ashes. the force that drives me to kill myself 40 units at a time. The pure lust of the rush as it eats me alive.

I wish you could hear me, But Ill never cry, not as long as Im under this spell...Ill survive. As I fall away piece by piece, in my personal hell, a tear will never let you tell. but maybe, if you knew how to look deeper, you could read between the lines....The only way youd ever know is the pain in my eyes...

This week has been great! I visited a couple of mates for several days and we had a lovely time. It was so nice getting away for a few day, being by the beach with two great people.

This court/ police stuff is such a mess, I don't know what to do.

For now I need to work on getting a job, sitting that exam which I missed and coursework I never did so I can go to my 2nd year at uni.

I've applied to loads of places but go no response. The only job offers I got where escorting and dirty phone lines.. fuck that! I'm going to try and sell my blood to medical studies and take part in some too. I've been phoning up charity shops so if I can't get a paying job, I can at least have a voluntary one which will at least chuck me back into the world, give me some recent experience and keep me busy. I would love to work abroad as a ski rep, have been looking into it but should probably wait tilll after uni, then I can work a whole season.

to do list-
eat healthier, excerise more, revise for resits, do c/w, sort out a car, get a job or anything to make some money, sort out a budget for what I have got.

Many would assert that using drugs is ultimately pointless. And yes, I agree to an extent, but then again recreational sex is quite pointless as well. I've come to conclude that a common purpose of both is that they give a taste of happiness--maybe even greatly enhanced happiness relative to one's norm for those who are well off genetically. Our lives are tragically short and, at our current stage of development, we cannot sustain states of extreme elation for very long. For this reason alone, I find reasonable drug-use well justified. If I can't have it, can I at least borrow it, fondle with it, examine it--if only for a day or two? (three you're getting yourself into trouble!)

Better to live a (few) days as a lion than forever as a sheep.

Heart rate murmuring trouble typing. Maybe I got the mix right, maybe I'm sorry and peace be with you. Sorry we were never real friends it,s mmy fault I did it on purpose.

fits as a printout on standard A4 type printer paper (8"x4"). fold it up and keep it in your wallet / bag / etc just incase you run across any of these :] click picture to download the full quality png file:

Okay after that binge on saturday i have come to a few realizations. My brain simply can't take the abuse alcohol slings at it like it could when i was 21 and neither can my body. I feel edgy as fucked, depressed and on the edge of tears. My mood has been going up and down like a yo yo since i woke up sunday. I also came to the realization that i could have been easily killed coming home as i damn near fell out in front of a car on atleast 2 occasions. Only because i ran into a few people who knew me on the way home who where kind enough to drop me off at the house i might have very well have ended up in the ditch or worse.

I also need to stop nick this in the bud right now as it could get out of hand pretty easy. Im not one for self delusion and i have been a alcoholic since the age of 18 so i don't need to go back there again. Blackouts still have that nightmarish quality to them that they always had but thank fuck i didnt do anything this time that could get me in trouble.

Only time will tell if i make it or not. Hell i stayed sober before for years without a drop so why can't i do it now?

So, I got another email from this "dude". He goes on to say that he thinks I am cute, that he knows me and that he wants to have a 3some with terry and I. Well obviously he doesn't know me if he for one cant spell my name right, for two thinks I am into that shit -- to each their own but not into that, laughably thinking that terry is into that shit, and lastly the person is definately not in the loop of knowings or even comes on any of my writing / journaling sites to see that i am no longer with terry.

I was so disgusted by "his" email that I went looking for "his" IP and found it, then went looking to see where it originated. Normally it just gives the ISP and approximately where they are from -- the city only usually. This time though I struck gold. It was an IP for a major company in Toronto, so it listed the company's name.

This "dude" works for Toronto Community Housing, lives in Scarborough, and apparently has a profile online that discribes himself as 210Lbs, blonde hair and brown eyes. Yeah, i think not.

I don't know anyone that works for TCH, I don't know anyone that fits that physical discription, and nor would I willingly know this pervert.

I reported it to TCH and since then I haven't heard anything from him. I guess he got the message. haha.

We'll see thoguh.... 8)


Forgot to add that he obviously doesn't know me if he's thinking that I still live in Toronto because I told ALL my friends and people that I know that I wanted to know that I was moving to a new city. So I had to laugh at that too.

I hate when people send me weird emails. I got an email from someone that shall remain nameless for now until I know what the fuck is up.
Sends me an email saying "Can I ask you a personal question?" and other stupid retarded stuff. Then they never bloody well ask. I really don't give a fuck to begin with but I saw that in my email and was like -- what the fuck?!

Well, I am in my new city now. Its wonderful here and I am enjoying myself besides this throat infection. No more Toronto, hello new city.

This new city shall remain nameless for now, and is FAR from Toronto.

I will be getting my new house within the next couple weeks / months and I can't wait to get into it. I love everything right now but having your own home is 100x fab-u-lushious. 3bdrm, 1bath, full house with basement, washer & dryer hook ups. Friends all around, my brother about a 20 minute drive away.

I'm getting better now with the loss of my father. Its not consuming my every thought at the moment BUT I haven't been alone very much in the past 4 days. We shall see when I am on my own with the kiddo.

I am fighting each day to stay away from drinking and smoking, last time I eventually fell off that "wagon" but I am hoping this time that I can be stronger.

Life is a curious thing. We shall see how it goes from here. %)

Im new, can you tell? haha
I was wondering how I go about asking a question.
Or maybe you can answer my 2 questions here

1. How long does it take for Liberty Caps to lose their effect if their stored in a sealed ziploc? Will they still work after a month and a half?

2. If I take 1 pill of ecstasy I get a really mild high cuz of my tolerance but when I take 2 I get nauseous, horrible headaches, and basically want to die.
Anyone know what I can do?

Listening to Bauhaus on SOMA FM. Music to slit your wrists by.

Last night, my gf A_ , demonstrated how she thought I should to get into bed. She folded down the upper (pillow end) corner of the blanket and sheet (which were folded in a fashion that kept them stuck together). Then she had me sit on the edge of the bed about halfway down on the bottom sheet. Then she had me tuck my feet under the sheet/blanket and lie down and she covered me up. She said it was like an envelope so I could "be mailed to Jesus [ACK!]" if I died in my sleep. Then she said stop getting into bed by climbing over the foot of the bed frame.

And I'm still in agony from sleeping in that too soft bed. I need to sleep on my firm pallet on the wood floor again. This will relieve the constant aching in my shoulders and back and the cramping in my gut.

The mellowness of last night was an exception -- Overall, A_ is still being aggressive and domineering. Sometiems I feel like I need space. This morning she did nothign but yell at me from the time I got up until I left on my bike. She didnt' leave anyting out. I didnt'clear the breakfast table the right way. I picked up and put away tools that she had left outside. I was in her way in the bathroom. I didn't help pour the coffee. I didnt' feed her cats. My clothes are too baggy or too tight. My socks have holes in them. blah blah blah....I can't take drama, especially not early in the morning.

This month, I'm going to spend a couple of weeks backpacking in the desert, alone and without her.

On the start of my morning bike ride, I passed something odd -- a female wearing Islamic religious clothing including head gear doing muslim-style kneeling prayer prostrating herself, facing the rising sun, in front of the neighborhood kollel and Jewish Community Center.

I went dumpster diving in an electronics bin this morning and dug out a color printer (one that uses cheap ink cartridges) and a scanner. Having my own printer will keep me from having to spend $10 at an internet cafe every time I want to print my resume or something.

Skimboard
Skimboards
Skimboarding
Skimboards

Today is Tuesday, August 3rd, 2010 and it is now 958AM here in the South Bronx, New York City, USA.

Recap: I was slowly relating the story of my 1st conviction, for a drug offence (drug smuggling) in Israel, while in the army.

This entry: I will continue the previous post in a sunsequent entry.

I am sitting on a wooden bench on the west side of the Grand Concourse, the most famous street in the Bronx, 1 that runs almost the entire length of the Boro. For those that are unaware, NYC is comprised of 5 "Boros," or individual cities: Manhattan, the nerve centre, Brooklyn, Bronx, Queens and Staten Island. The last one is not a city per se, but an island with rural to urban environments, but a Boro never-the-less.

The Bronx is the northern most Boro and the only 1 actually located on the Mainland United States. Brooklyn and Queens are on Long Island, and Manhattan and Staten Island have 2 entire islands of their own.

The Grand Concourse was built in 1922, finished in its present form in 1927. It was modeled after broad Parisian avenues like the Champ D'Elysee. For many years it was one of the richest areas in the entire city and for 3 decades, until the early 1960s served as the main artery of the world's largest Jewish Community.

In the 1950s a Jew by the name of Robert Moses began vivisecting the city with what he and his defenders claimed were the best thing to happen to New York in decades, modern hiways.

While they indeed saved time for happy motorists (when not snarled in their ever present traffic jams) they also divided very cohesive neighbourhhods into 2, and sometimes 3 sections.

NYC neighbourhoods are small cities unto themselves. Indeed, many have populations rivalling many small cities across America.

Neighbourhoods here have specific ethnic themes, since humans have a tendency to settle with people much like themselves. The "Jewish Bronx" actually comprised several different neighbourhoods, albeit as 1 conigious area.

When Mr.Moses drew his pencil across a map of the Bronx to create the Cross Bronx Expressway he created a natural barrier that allowed a section called the "South Bronx" to expand north, up to this new hiway, and consume all other neighbourhoods in its path.

The South Bronx was home, then as now, to the city's poorest residents. The US being what it is, this means that they were and are black and Latino. As these groups moved northward groups like the Jews and Southern Italians fled en masse. This wasn't due to their colour of their skin but out of fear of crime and illegal drugs which has already been destroying black and Latino lives for 2 decades.

As more Jews and Italians fled, more Latinos poured in to the vacuum, with blacks having peaked in the post-WWII Era and the great South to North Migration that took place when poor southern blacks came north to take jobs left vacant by whites serving in the war.

As this "changing of the guard" took place, from Jews and Italians to blacks and Latinos, property values plummeted. Hoping to recoup imminent losses, property owners began burning their buildings to gain the insurance pay off. By the 1970s a Jew in this area was a rare sight.

My mother's relatives, whom I considered my granparents (my mum's family was exterminated in the Holocaust), had gained entry to City Housing ("Projects") when they were built in the post-WWII Era Refugees, like my mum, they were placed in Housing which had been primarily created for returning soldiers and their families. At that time Housing didn't accept people on the dole (Welfare), and families had to be intact, no single family households, except widows with a source of income. Refugees were given a very limited quota system and thus my "family" gained their flat, in Millbrook Houses, and others in Webster Houses in the larger Claremont Village complex, one of the largest "Projects" in the US.

As I discussed in "My Life" entries, I came to the South Bronx when I was about 11, because I had begun "assimilating" in Brooklyn, becoming Americanised in the worst way, cutting school, smoking cannabis. Of course the South Bronx only made this worse but that is neithere here nor there since I have covered this in the afore mentioned entries.

I am here, on this bench, because I came out to wire some cash back to Manila, to Jackie. If it was Rizza, my wife, she would have gone to a Jewish man we use for private cash transfers. I will not let Jackie get near that because IF I did, she could simply go to him on the basis of her friendship with me and borrow up to 10,000 US. Imagine that...

Her rent is due on the 9th but she ran short on her food and spending money so I sent 200 US, about 9400 Pesos, enough for this rent, utilities, food and savings.

When I came to do that I decided to see about modifying my data plan on my cellulars (I use 3, 1 for internet, this Sidekick, 1 for phone, my Nokia, and 1 strictly for my business affairs, a 2nd Nokia). The store hadn't opened yet so I came to this Farmer's Market they have on the Grand Concourse and E161 St, every Tuesday. I ended up spending 40 US, go figure.

Enough for now.

Today is Monday, August 2nd, 2010, and it is now 920AM here in the South Bronx, New York City, USA.

Recap: Flew to NYC,USA for a family issue. I was talking about my 1st arrest, and conviction, in Israel.

This entry: I was sitting on the turret, talking to the CO, the commander of the tank, as we waited for the traffic jam to move through the Inspection Station at Rosh HaNikra on the Coastal Hiway, moving from Southern Lebanon into Israel. As I watched that German Shepard I finally understood why Semites hate dogs. I was praying he would hit on another vehicle...I know it isn't morally just to hope for another to suffer just to save one's own skin but fuck it, I aimed for a career in the military!

The tank kicked into gear and rumbled into the paddock. The MPs were looking cock strong, angry at us real soldiers, as if we had made them pussy out of combat, acting as if they were getting bounties for each fool they nabbed.

It took all of 20 seconds, though it seemed like 20 minutes, for that dog to begin bouncing around and barking. The CO gave me a look, because he knew what was happening. The K-9 Handler shouted to an older soldier with a young helper and they took off that panel a hell of a lot faster than I had put it on! He told the Handler that he could inspect the shelf and of course, out came my burlap sack full of coffee beans and Red Lebanese Hashish.

I was told to dismount from the tank and to follow 2 other MPs into an administration building on the Israeli side of the border. Inside they were matter of fact about the affair and I began to convince myself that it might turn out OK, after all we were incredibly short on manpower and I was deployed to a high priority echelon, Intelligence.

When they strip searched me I still imagined that at worst I would have to deal with a loss of rank, having made Corporal upon that re-deployment, and perhaps 1 digit on my Security Rating,something I could easily re-obtain in no time.

Yet, when I entered the large holdijg cell and saw it packed, absolutely packed with soldiers and NCOs I knew that the reason for the MP's non-chalant demeanour was the huge number of detainees and not the lack of intent on their part.

I entered the jail cell of my life. Except for transfers I wouldn't be leaving jail for what seemed to me to be a very long time. Right away I saw 2 men from my brigade, my original brigade since no matter where you end up down the road your "brigade" is the initial one you enter when you first enter the army. In addition I recognised a couple of other faces from Lebanon, times had begun to change in Israel.

Today is Sunday, August 1st, 2010 and it is now 529PM here in the South Bronx, New York City, USA.

Recap: I had been talking about the history of drugs in the Philippines.

This entry: I arrived back in the US late last night/early this morning after a direct flight, Manila to JFK, the largest Metro New York City airport. I had to come back for a quick hop to take care of some things having to do with 1 of my 2 American sons. The flight, directly, is about 22 hours on the clock because you have to cross the Date Line which means you cannot really go by anything other than Greenwich Mean Time or a stop watch.

The flight actually wasn't that bad and I am getting spoiled, this is my 2nd time back here without getting the full on digital search (hand up the Hershey Hiway). I am a convicted drug felon with a record in 2 nations soooooo...

I never got to that part of my life in my "My Life" entries so I suppose I could take some time and talk about it;

My 1st conviction was in Israel, in IDF Court (Military Court). I was assigned as a Liason to the Phalangist Office during my 1st (almost) 7 years in Southern Lebanon, when I was a teen. I had entered Active Duty just as I turned 16 and was deployed to a re-formulated Infantry Brigade, NACHAL, usually known as "Nahal" when talking to English speakers. The word Nachal is akin to the Arabic word, "Wadi," which really doesn't translate well into English. Basically, it is a dry creek bed in the desert that, during the very short tainy season is filled and even overflows with rushing water. The word for my Birgade however is an acronym for words meaning, "Young Fighting Pioneers."

It was one of the original Infantry Brigades in the nascent Haganah, the original Israeli Army but was deactivated in the late 1950s.

In June of 1982 Israel launched a massive invasion of Lebanon with the stated Objective of eliminating the PLO from lands bordering Israel since the PLO, of course, was using those lands to launch murderous attacks against Israeli civlians. Ideally we could have relied on Lebanon, the worst nation in this respect, to handle its own borders and reign in these terrorists.

Sadly, in 1969 Lebanon gave into the PLO and granted the organisation total control of its "Palestinian" Camps and a huge swath of land, in Southern Lebanon, called "PLOlandia." This abandonment of responsibility was formalised in the 1969 Ta'if Accords, signed in Saudi Arabia. Ta'if didn't sit well with every Lebanese faction and the Christians, of whom the Maronites were the most powerful, decided to do something about it.

This led to the First Lebanese Civil War in 1975 and Israeli involvement in 1977.

By 1982 we had come to a secret accord with the Maronites and the 1982 invasion was as much about this agreement as it was about neutralising the PLO's base of power in Lebanon. The 1982 invasion, "Operation Peace for Galilee" was so successful, for Israel, that within days our men were playing football (soccer) above the Presidential Palace in the hills above Beirut, having outrun their own supply lines, despite our government publicly committing itself to an incursion of less than 40km from our northern border.

The heady success of those first few days turned to abject horror when the Shi'a (Shite Muslims) who had thrown roses at us as we moved north began launching Suicide Bombings under Iranian tutelage. By the time my 16th birthday drew near, just after New Year's 1982 the honeymoon was over. On a per capita basis, in statistics relative to the US, we had more than 200,000 soldiers from Israel Killed in Action (remember our population was less than 3 milion at the time so that 1,000 Israelis in per capita terms equivocates to 200,000 US servicemen)!

This then is exactly why my brigade had been re-activated.

Imagine 200,000 American soldiers dying in 12 months? This is the war I entered officially in June of 1983, the war most Israelis see as our nation's equivalent to the American experience in Viet Nam.

Because of my speaking Arabic as a 1st Language, and my then having a promising Security Rating, I was kicked over to AMAN, Military Intel, and assigned as noted to the Phalangist (Maronite Army) Administration Building for Central Sector.

One of the fringe benefits of this deployment was that I was able to hitch rides back into Israel every other weekend for 2 days of rest and relaxation.

The Lebanon of the early 1980s was one that was a major heroin producer (Heroin #2) along with the top flight hashish that the country had been known for since the mid-1960s. Then, like now drugs in Lebanon were centered in the Beka'a Valley. Beka'a is a totally flat valley in the eastern part of the nation, near the Syrian Border. Syria itself had been a player in the heroin trade, as a processor of Turkish opium into Heroin #1, for the Corsican and Southern Italian and Sicilian producers operating in Italy and France. By the mid-1970s the Corsicans were shoved aside, along with Turkey, the major starting point for the Corsican trade.

Seeing a vaccum, some of the hashish producing clans of Beka'a turned their attention to poppy, or as in the case of some very smart producers, grew poppies for 140 days and then got in a crop of cannabis.

Israel up until that point was pretty much a nation without a real drug problem. Traditionally Jews have been users of both opium and hashish but it was seen as a vice of elderly men, or at worst something inbibed in 3 times a year (Jewish male adults are commanded to get high 3 times a year on certain holidays).

1983 changed Israel forever. Along with the equivalent of 200,000 soldiers dying, men were coming home severely addicted to cheap and incredibly potent heroin. In fact, "Rapid Detox" was invented by an IDF physician to treat seriously addicted Infantrymen.

Others, like myself, became addicted through morphine after being wounded in action but the end result was the same and finally the IDF found itself having to launch a major crackdown.

When it came time for my 3rd trip back into Israel for R and R one of my mates offered me a nice paycheck if I would ferry home 4 kilos of Lebanese Red Hashish. Seeing hashish as an innocent thing in comparison to the heroin, morphine and opium everybody was into I readily agreed.

He showed me how to secrete the nearly 10 pounds of hash inside a burlap rice sack packed with coffee beans, underneath a removable armour panel on an MkI tank. The panels were bolted on, remove the bolts of a particular panel and you had a readymade compartment for getting a small load across.

If the tank I was riding on was stopped I just needed to show my AMAN ID and Orders (a written letter stating that I shouldn't be uneccessarily detained at the Border). Sounded simple enough, famous last words.

So, on the day in question I was very confident...until we entered the Inspection Lane and I saw, for the 1st time, MPs with German Shepard dogs inspecting under every vehicle, even tanks.

About an hour and half later we pulled up and as we idled one MP inspected our papers, IDs and belongings in what was a new crackdown on contraband being shipped south (mostly souveneirs like weapons but also artifacts, bulk purchases in black market trade, etc).

As the dog bounced up and down by the armoured panel I felt naseous but it was if it were taking place in slow motion...

I will finish in my next entry...

Today I wept for someone I had never met. I only knew her mind as she presented it online. I loved her. I did not know that until now.

Soul Calibur IV has such fresh music. I mean the beats are just so dope. I want to remix this -- no wait -- I don't. I want someone else to do the work and remix this. I'm lazy and my remix would be the musical equivalent of having one's ears gang-raped by a pack of alpacas.

An alpaca pack.

Today is Thursday, July 9, 2010 and it is now 650PM here in Quezon City, Luzon, Philippines.

Recap: 2 entries ago I began talking about drugs in the Philippines and when I got to the late 1960s, in the 1st entry, I meandered into a detailed rant about the differences between forms of heroin. The last entry dealt with these differences.

This Entry: In the late 1960s there was roughly 10 kgs of Heroin#3 being sold in Metro Manila each month, not that much all things considered, though a hell of a lot more than now (because now there is none, nada, zilch and zero).

The 1st lab operators were Ethnic Chinese, "Tsinoy," or "Chinoy" as Filipino-Chinese are known. Most Westerners see "Chinese" as a monolithic group, all being basically the same as the others. Not so, at all.

At first, the labs were operated by ethnic Fukkinese, the largest Chinese group in the country. Then, in 1965 an ethnic Chiu Chiu, a man named Lim Seng, branched out from his resturants and printing company and opened his own lab as well.

The Chiu Chiu have dominated the SE Asian heroin trade since the end of WWII. While certain ethnicities like the Fukkinese dominate certain nations as the most influential or largest Chinese ethnicity (outside of drugs, just in terms of population), the Chiu Chiu have dominated smuggling throught the SE Asian Chinese Diaspora (overseas Chinese Communities) since at least the late 19th Century CE/AD. After the WWII Era it was only natural then that the Chiu Chiu would gravitate to the heroin trade.

First, as smugglers and couriers and later as actual distributors the Chiu Chiu managed to carve out a very profitable niche for themselves. Lim Seng gained financial backing from fellow Chiu Chiu and began obtaining Heroin#1 (finished morphine hcl.) from Chiu Chiu distributors in Kuala Lampur, Malaysia, and later directly from the Thai groups that acted as middlemen between Burmese Ethnic Chinese manufacturers (ethnic Kokang and KMT Nationalists who quickly intermarried and became the backbone of the Burmese heroin trade) and Malaysian #3 manufacturers and distributors.

After ramping up production Lim Seng flooded the local market, driving down the price of a "papelito"(little paper, the name for a retail uniy of heroin consisting of 30 to 40mg of Heroin#3 ) until it was selling for the Philippine equivalent of US20 Cents. This quickly sunk his competitors leaving Lem Seng the only show in town, in fact the only retail distributor in all of the Philippines.

Smoking was the dominant route of administration by far, but Seng was looking to move beyond the 10kg he was averaging a month. Realising that he needed to manufacture Heroin#4 if he hoped to truly make big money, because that was the type in big demand throughout the West, he shopped for some Chiu Chiu chemists, finally hiring a man from Kowloon, in Hong Kong.

Though Hong Kong was likewise dominated by #3, local producers had begun making #4 for export, and had been slowly building a local market as well for the more expensive white powder. The presence of this new local market left a surplus of trained heroin chemists, and so Lim Seng began manufacturing #4, and distributing it to the US.

By 1970 he was distributing 1 tonne of Heroin#4 annually, with the US pegging his product at 10% of the entire US marketshare, and virtually all non-Mexican Heroin west of the Mississippi River.

By 1971 the Philippines was in social and political upheaval. Dictator Ferdinand Marcos was facing a huge amount of political unrest centered in the capitol, especially in Manila's universities. Looking for ways to deal with this growing threat he was without patience for other social problems, drug addiiction being one of the most pressing problems.

Trying to shore up crumbling public support he came out hard against crime and illegal drugs warning his underlings to put a stop to the local distribution. Seng was warned by his protectors in government to either stop producing local product or else move his base of operations to a quiet corner of the nation.

Arrogantly Seng refused and by September, 1972 found himself sitting with a gun to his head as the new anti-narcotics unit of the "PC" (Philippine Constalbury), "CANU" (Constalbury Anti- Narcotics Unit) searched his printing shoppe. Stupidly, Seng had secreted a large #4 lab on the premises allowing the investigators to catch Seng red handed with 50kg of heroin.

Taken to Fort Bonifacio, the HQ of the PC, he was sentenced by a 7 man Military Tribunal to Life in prison, after bribing at least 1 of the military officers on the Tribunal. Chief Commanding Officer of the PC and future President of the Philippines, Fidel Ramos was livid, as he saw the arrogance of Seng as a challenge on many levels.

About a week later PC officers "discovered" a very well detailed escape plan in Seng's prison cell. Lobbying Marcos for a rescinding of the Life sentence, Ramos got his wish when Seng was re-sentenced to death.

Just after New Year, 1973 Seng was shown on live TV joking and guffawing as his handlers released him from his cell and escorted him to Fort Bonifacio's Parade Ground. The camera shown Seng as he face became absolutely radiant, apprently thinking that his backers had finally worked out a "deal," certainly they had been given enough of his cash to do so.

As he was pushed towards what appeared to be a telephone pole his smile turned to horror. It wasn't until he had been tied to the pole that he began actually struggling, and as the blindfold was affixed viewers could see a look of abject terror on Seng's face, a look that remained as the rifles fired.

As Seng bled to death on the ground the country was transfixed. The execution had a lasting impact on the Philippines but for the addicts of Manila it was business as usual, for a short while anyway. 90 days later those US 20 Cent papelitos had increased in cost to almost US 3 Dollars. By 1974 the papelitos were gone along with the country's domestic heroin trade.

By 1980 Marcos had outlawed even prescription opiates and opioids except for 2, nabulphine hcl.and butorphanol tartrate. The 2 substances were considered by American authorities to have absolutely no abuse potential. In fact, nabulphine was until the new millenium and Tramadol, the only opiate/opioid to never have been "Schedualed."

By 1986 Marcos was overthrown but nothing changed in terms of opiates/opioids...until West African organisations began taking advantage of Filipino naievete on the subject.

Unlike virtually every other SE Asian Nation the Philippines harboured no paranoia about the substance and so it was easy getting in and out of the country without invasive searches. Additionally, and most importantly, the US felt that since no trade took place inside the country travellers from the Philippines were not worth scrutinising (this was long before the country became a methamphetamine centre).

By 1990 the vacation was over, when a joint American DEA and Philippine PDEA sting against heroin dealers turned up an uncomfortable reality.. The sting ended up with the 2 Filipino dealers shot to death at close range, under curious circumstances. The case became even more controversial when an investigation found that the 2 "dealers" were in reality high ranking AFP (Armed Forces of the Philippines) officers.

To be continued...

(Edited for spelling)

there's a break in the stars where pipe dreams make way for the realities we can only brace ourselves for. among the hidden pleas of nightly calling i found your eyes transfixed on hopes in hues of indigo, clinging to fragments of simultaneous laughter and rolling down the long slope of each other. another point in coincidence that adheres to heavy planning, half chance but still all the wonders of the world.
i heard you alive in the trees with smiles that could reach for me and knowledge about tents and hand oils. with the night and the rain and the all encompassing deliverance of what my hand can feel in yours.
your taste left on the finger tips of daily happenings is more than agreeable. bountiful leavings of memory sweetly thought of in cool blankets. your things and my things. our things together.