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I had no difficulty recognizing the authentic character of bizarre visions of mandalas in my Abadan dreams

March 8, 2002
The Iranian

I let fly a super fart on the Khorramshahr road in Abadan when All-England lawn tennis championships were held with strawberries and cream at Wimbledon in 1962. I have proof. We were all tattooed with the sign of the white buffalo.

In the past black tents went up in flames as bloodsucking ghosts of English knights provided opium in exchange for oil and lifted their arms in glee, full of cash, building castles tucked in English gardens fertilized with Persian oil in the bank. Like a ghost in the wind English men mingled with the sweet stink of petrochemical mixed with pale yellow ozone of the National Iranian Oil Company stinking up the never to be white butterfly burned in the baked blue sky. It all soon faded as we became a pile of Persian bones coiled over oil pipelines delivering death on the installment plan.

I had no difficulty recognizing the authentic character of bizarre visions of mandalas in my Abadan dreams with snakes under the blue flower hiding deep wild secrets in the NIOC pool. I formed the Midnight Strong Heart Society which met late at night. You could count on fortune and fame when you rode with me.

I practiced Indian yoga and all its exercises with a strict vegetarian diet. Memorized the Baghavagita by heart and sucked on mystic silver psychedelic pills. Went to work at six and plopped down for a nap after lunch at two and dreamed of the white buffalo.

All I could think about was my office chair which I had finally learned to sit on for eight-hours-a-day for seventeen years between breaks for tea brought on a cart through the halls. War whoops were prohibited. Only the bark of a dog here and there joined the incessant beating of drums.

Before I became a buffalo, I was a crack shot in the hills of Masjed-i-Solaiman wearing the black felt hat of the Bakhtiari. The dried testicles of a bobcat hung over my right ear for good luck. Everything was four: the Earth, the Sky, the Rock, the Sun.

The stink of iniquity rocked the past where all the buffalos danced on top of their desks singing Bakhtiari folk songs accompanied by a big twisted flute carved with an effigy of a horse. The most ardent of all animals. All anyone wanted was to be the Iranian Oil Council General in Bombay.

Hermitage masterpieces from St. Petersburg were on the office walls. Titian with a picture of the Shah across from the Qajar Shah nicely done by Vernesi. A spankin' new gray filing cabinet held records of wild white buffalo in the hills and running antelope. The age and color of each animal was recorded and how they could be captured. Everyone smoked a peace pipe and prayed that they would live long enough to go to bed in Shiraz.

A plain cell with a bad attitude was provided for each buffalo who passed the cancer test in the gut and could walk on the sand barefoot in 120 degree heat. There was only one window in the office and it was high on the wall so that only the blue sky could be seen.

As to the specific claim that Abadan buffalos settled in Shiraz on land purchased with distortions of memory it is possible that they did and arguable that they didn't. That the area in Berkeley, California could give the buffalo and antelopes a perfect hideaway is obvious if you took the trouble to see the hills dizzying twists of clans with earrings.

The sacred core of Abadan was black oil and white buffalo. It was the Abadan way of the buffalo to preserve itself by waiting - no matter how long it took - to retire with a pension or lump sum to the hills of Shiraz. A ceremonial life that embraced Wakantanka in all its forms. To burn charcoal with esfand mixed with bits and pieces of orange peel into ash. A white feather to brush off the moonlight falling on the black teapot. Once THERE they would bow to the four winds and disappear.

There were records to suggest that Manzarieh and Golestan Club imported black buffalo from Berlin. It was an hour after sunset. Giving the Naft Club a reputation for harboring Deer Woman, a beautiful woman who always disappeared as a deer before she could be turned into a buffalo. The Jockey Club in the moon of yellow leaves had an affair with the Czar. He sang Edith Piaf street songs in the bazaar.

On the third moon of ripe figs from Arabistan before the stars came out, I purified myself in the sweat lodge. Then rose and let out a silent fart in the sun temple of Choghazanbil to start the Sun Dance. I took a picture of the white buffalo dancing in the sky. I rode back to Abadan on the straight road and retired with a pension in 1977. Like all white buffalo I bought a house in Shiraz and lived in California.

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