The Swords of the Desert

can * nois * seur ( kan' us sur' ) n. one competent to render critical judgement on the qualities and merits of cannabis

"The most amazing property of cannabis is its ability to fog the minds of those who do not use it."

Heads Up: Medithrive patient delivery @ 415 562 6334 is an outstanding service. Originally one of San Francisco's premiere medical cannabis dispensaries, featuring state of the art ammenities and compassionate community outreach programs including contributions to a nearby school--which ironically led to their closure* by the now infamous U.S. Attorney Melinda Haag--has reinvented itself as a first-class delivery service. Their excellent selection is enhanced by imaginative marketing which ultimately benefits the patient and enables consumers to avail themselves of a variety of high-end strains without going over budget. They have liberal discounts and in my experience have honored all of their many special offers. Their staff is polite, knowledgable and quick to solve problems. Visit their website or give them a call. You'll be glad you did.

*(Speaking of hypocrisy--located directly across a North Beach grammar school on Broadway, is a strip club that serves alcohol, and yet a cannabis dispensary needs to be 1000 feet from any school)

The Swords of the Desert: Morocco1970

The Marrakech Express lived up to its name from Tangier to Casablanca. After that it slowed down considerably, morphing into a milk train that stopped often for six hours or so before arriving at its fabled destination.
The first thing i noticed was the clean, sandlewood air, warm and pure. The second was the low throbbing of the drums.
While faint at first, the sound deepened as we neared town.  We took a room in a small hotel in the Euro section, dropped our bags and walked in the direction of the drums. Passing through the large gates we entered a new world.
Djemaa el-Fna means gathering place of of the dead Once a place of public execution, it had evolved into a teeming marketplace of human imagination. A clash of cultures spilled across the stalls and carpets that displayed all manner of goods from dentures to aphrodisiacs. Blue turbaned Tauregs sporting curved daggers, brushed shoulders with tall, impassive Nubians in white robes,  Berber women, faces marked with tribal tattoos, water sellers in tasseled hats, their brass cups clanking like cow bells, mules laden with vegetables from the mountain farms...all wandering through a multi-ringed circus of acrobats, magicians, jugglers, fortune tellers, soothsayers, card sharps, pickpockets, food vendors, snake charmers, and trance dancers. Everywhere the smell of kif mingled with the breath of mint tea and musty scent of a hundred spices. Crowds would swirl around the various performers then disintegrate, only to reform somwhere else. The high pitched oboes of the snake charmers rose above the constant drumming.
Beyond the open area were tunnelled souks selling rugs, jewels, cosmetics, robes, dried fruit, musk,  antiques, whatever...dusty sunrays slanting through the thatched roofs overhead. Indeed it was magical. Everything seemed edgy, primitive and authentic. On the other hand it was a show biz oasis at the cusp of the vast Sahara. An age old Vegas for merchants fresh off the caravan.
Personally i felt blessed to be there.
At night the market was lit by kerosene lamps and the dancers took over, their feet blurred in the flickering light, barely touching ground, spinning in time to the relentless drums.
Later we spotted Mick Jagger racing across the market.
For eight days i remained dazzled, then headed back to a now tame Tangier. However over the next month i saw that the small town at the mouth of the Mediteranean had layers, and everybody was a player.
The weather had become balmy and we had taken to sunbathing at one of the cabana clubs that had opened early. It was there we met John Hohnsbeen, an art afficianado and collector, who as a younger man had lived with Philip Johnson the architect, in the famous glass house and was a pal of Peggy Guggenheim. He was in Morocco with his current friend Roland, and a brilliant dude to hang with: funny, wise and hip. Another face from America was a character named Alan Strohl who was a friend of Andrew Loog Oldham (of the Stones) and Baby Jane Holzer (night club debutante). Alan had a wild pre-punk look with bleached hair and razor thin features. We met at a hamburger stand run by an ex-Nazi named Eric. Alan ran in extremely fast circles in New York. A few years later he had a fatal heart attack. However at the moment he was traveling with one of my ex clients in the herb biz.
As spring blossomed we decided to sail to the familiar island of Ischia, off Naples, for the summer, where we knew of a good little hut to rent and a great beach.
Now Tangier has two beaches, one on the Atlantic side, another on the Mediterranean bay. But the Atlantic was rough, and the bay too industrial, being within swimming distance to the dock area. So we booked passage on the next passing Yugoslavian
freighter, carted Lady M's many suitcases and trunks aboard, and sailed off to Italy...

Author's Note: This post is dedicated to Keith Deutsch
                            publisher, editor, poet, friend
                       
                       Thanks to editor Robert Gilman