23.06.07
a hollow mountain risies. A whale crawls the steep north face carrying weary travelers. Can he breath without water. Tall bushy firs + pines stand erect march up the southward face. All go up up up to meet this sage at the top of the mountain peak. No matter for the whale that there is no water. No matter for the trees that they have no legs. On a ledge you stand facing this wise woman, roly poly and open hipped. You spin in circles talking a mile a minute to get it all out. She sits. Quietly. Listens. Leaning closer closer closer to your spinning mess. Below the thick sea waits humming our names.
21.06.07
a mother and daughter rest. They will walk a long way. But now, they sit huddled close. The little girl whispers something to her mother -- who listens carefully. Kneeling, head tilted down to hear her daughter’s every sigh and breath. A mountain smokes behind them. They way before them is slippery and they will always work to find balance. There is no clear path, just footholds and the sun’s knowing smile greeting moon.
The girl’s story I part nightmare -- Hands to head: oh no.
a girl with braids who becomes a snake a minatoar a low flying cloud a tall thin shadow of a spirit watching carefully on tiptoes.
The mother’s story is meant to soothe the child as mother’s stories do. “I am listening child, but you need to calm down. There’s no such thing as girls that become snakes and minatoars. That is the stuff of fairytales. Take you time. I’m having trouble keeping up with you and you must not leave without me.”
near death experience
you walk towards the lighthouse looking for someone with a match. you left your lighter at home. you pulled out a cigarette; it hangs from your lips as you dig deep in your pocket. you try the next. again nothing. you must find someone smoking. you look farther down the corniche. you know that at this time of day, the sun preparing to sit down at the very edge of things, you will find a couple of young guys hanging out, smoking one cigarette after another. you are desperate to smoke. you will quit some day. you've quit before. you can quit again. but today, right now you need a cigarette.
30 seconds later. 100meters back.
gone.
explosion.
pow.
boom.
boom.
boom.
you turn back. you keep walking.
you keep walking.
you see lots of young men. none of them stand waiting to light your cigarette. they stream past to follow your footsteps back. you keep walking. pushing against the steady flow.
you run now.
its an emotion you can't express in words, just your feet quick against pavement, your hair pushing up against the strong breeze. let air burning down your throat into your chest and cough it out. tilt your head up to the sky a few clouds and the sun cooling and now your face wet -- the smoke and dust you tell yourself, the smoke and dust from the explosion burn your eyes red.
you will quit some day. you've quit before. you can quit again. but today, right now you need a cigarette.
do you remember that day.
You said goodbye. But didn’t leave.
We went for coffee. Then a walk. Then more coffee.
And we continued to walk up and down the corniche. Look to the sea.
“That juice is not fresh.”
Another day.
From here the shouting, honking, commotion on the street reaches me by way of a journalist’s cell phone. He is in his apartment a block from the ferris wheel, he moves to the balcony to see young men on mopeds streaming past, clamoring drawn to the scene of the crime.
They prove their loyalty in their outrage. I stand at the top of a dune and look out to the ocean - panicked and lost. What next. Who next. The reports say something like “anti-syrian parliamentarian and son killed in car-bomb blast with 6 others.” Later they confirm that 9 are dead. I want to know about those 6 people. I want the headline turned upside-down. 10 killed in bomb blast by a popular swim club and amusement park along the seaside boardwalk where families and friends meet to fish, walk, drink coffee, smoke shisha, swim and enjoy the cool breezes from the sea. One of those confirmed dead is Walid Idon. He was sipping coffee, playing backgammon with his son and generally shooting the shit with friends in a popular café when the car bomb exploded. The seven other yet to be named victims include a two wait-staff, one surly one pleasant, a ful vendor, a bright eyed woman with a promising career as a poet who, sitting at a neighboring table had just asked the parliamentarian’s son for to light her cigarette, two bodyguards to Mr. Eido, and an anxious young man puffing impatiently on his water pipe looking expectantly towards the long entrance to the outdoor café hoping she would come soon, a middle aged woman hurrying her daughter along as they are late for an appointment.” I want the report to tell me where you are. If you are okay. That you were nowhere near that café on that day at that moment smoking a cigarette because you quit last time I visited.
A near death experience.
We sat on your balcony talking about near death experiences.
I can tell a good story.
You and your friends have images and blank spots.
Silences.
Curfew and doing homework in the dark.
I think about all the windows open so that glass does not break when the bomb explodes across the street.
My life.
Yours.
longing.
pushing forward.
raising our voices.
coming together.
