From the Cave: Arduous Journey

I am shocked to discover that a Gold Card has been installed on my accounts. I believe the Arabs may be again enticing me back to the camel races. I believe there might be one bank manager left, with the kind of influence in the structure of good versus bad risk credit. Who determines it, especially if all of your true assets exist but a mere twenty thousand kilometres away. One deposits one’s own depth of credibility, one plows or digs through sand or snow, or boulder, or washed out river, one strikes upon the steepest slopes, the rare trail or path in the rock. Sometimes a hopefully sturdy rope upon the steeper cliffs.

All of my friends moved on to Dubai Bank, a young-up start. But a bridge, a cast iron bridge of quality, fitted to any real endeavour. This quality has great frequency of fierce squall, swell, journeys on the rails, my rails scratch your rails. The engine does cross, need I incorporate, and avail myself of more suitable loan structures. If I commoditize my self-employment, I would. Merely attaching a little scrap of common sense could do a lot.

To yet another international bank I must inquire? The growth is not in oil, now, one collects one’s own ball of dung, and rolls away with it. One strikes upon world traveled routes, in my own boots, ducking when I needed to. Fighting off the monkeys and the thieves, keeping my own bananas, mostly scrounging, enjoying, touring, few things remain to ravish. To be free of ambition, to wear a Chinese fox skin hat. Ambition should be shared. Give it away. One declares the act of completing, on one’s own time, those contracts suited, anywhere at the right time, and the right benefits. Russian brides, or Thai, these poor ladies, I have been told love their husbands about as good as anybody else. The guarantee is like English Tea, or Green, the finest of hops, and hopes, and dreams. To next time share the path to the sunrise, the morning walk. Time together with your friends, your family, mostly from three o’clock.

Are we yet another culture that weeps at our successes. I built the barrel bridges through the marshes, of the finest standard timbers of my own replete and resplendent forests. Where the mountain dew is upon the grasses of the hills. The cuckoo remains calling upon it’s branch. The monk passes upon the way, grimacing and scowling at our crowds. Hong on the mountain, with his lean to, and the pickled pigs head on the wall. A mountain pig living among his mountains. Spires, and sun beams, and rain and cloud below. The painting of the landscapes by the humid valleys, the sky chair, the peaks of the Buddha with the rock tap, the Buddha of the Gold, the Buddha of Medicine, the Buddha of Hidden Places, the Buddha of the Tooth, the Buddha of the Sleeping Dragon, the Buddha of the Face in the Rock, the Buddha of the diamond sun beam of Sokkuram, the Hindu Buddhas, the Slim like Buddhas of the Golden Palace, the Golden Buddha, once the ceramic Buddha, the married Japanese Buddhas, the Island Buddhas, the Buddha of the Mummified Monk, the Buddha of Eui-Leong’s hometown, the Buddha of the old tree, the Buddha of the dinosaur footprint, every step there was a little Buddha.