Chocobis?

Hmmm...

Back in the _____ Again

God, it was good to be there for a little while... It became quickly apparent that I had prepared poorly. Though it must be noted: if you are going to be broke in Morocco, Ramadan is a good time to do this. True, I have benefited by returning...in some ways. Ways more valuable to others than me, considering I would make the same choices again. I regret that I have chosen rather expensive hobbies, but mektoub as we say. Carry on, and come up with a more sustainable way to serve these ends.

As If Anyone Cares

Finally… a blank paper. I have a notebook, but this vexing condition makes it easier to write by typing. Naturally, my laptop is 1) in America and 2) rather broken… but I found a keyboard still. So what if it’s French ?

Got scrubbed last night. Lost about 10 lbs. of dead skin, felt great ! Man you guys are missing out.

Still a little flared up… I am still mad dizzy and my left side is somewhat numb. But it doesn’t keep from puffing, even during Ramadan.

New gig : Pigier. Seems alright, though Frenchy. Also salary is not fixed, but rather related to the number of students. Sure.

Next: to throw down on some film and put up some good pictures. Maybe.

FUCK ALGERIA!!!

Wow, those people are WAY too paranoid... I was judged as an unprofessional failure before I even left the airport on the basis of my inconvenient luggage and my lack of socks. (Thanks, dear friends.) Well, screw all that. I have arrived in a far more sane land: Morocco!

I will write here again in maybe a week or so when I have more cash. In the meantime, feel free to write me (though I expect you won't) or even call: +212 0.54.48.33.11. Talk soon.

Someone Else's Idea

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Well alright then.

The Worst Muslim on Earth

Just watched Le Grand Voyage with my roommate. I know I'm supposed to go on this trip, but I don't see how this would ever be possible: the expense alone is exorbitant. But it's important. Suffice to say that Islam makes a damn sight more sense to me than it used to. I (breathlessly) anticipate that I will be closer to my spot in the sun for Ramadan, which I find quite compelling.

I feel no compulsion to explain this to anyone; I believe God gets it (insha'llah) and the rest of you can get knotted.

Let the Questions be Answered

Because it's her birthday. She's 21 today. Jalila Benlali, she's awesome. She didn't believe me when I said that her looks would turn heads in New York. But I don't lie about legs like that. Enough mournful drooling.

So God has commanded you to write; and offers no comforting justification. Do not write of yourself. Write instead of a fierce land clinging to the edge of a sharp stone, nestled in the sand. Only by God's mercy and grace is the land made green, any shelter found therein. For you are blessed in the eyes of God, who commands you to follow the Path He has cleared. The Way has never been clearer, so embrace and cling to it. In time, you will learn and grow. Do not lose the Path.

Summer Jobs Never Again to Be Endured

There were only a few types of doors. The desperate poor resented the intrusion by the bourgeoisie into their jealously guarded space, and were further insulted by another invitation to privileged society commercially rescinded. They would see a cultural foreigner, an unfamiliar creature from another world, divorced from adult responsibility, unconcerned with clipping coupons and the price of gasoline. Shame at their capitalist impotence was palpable. (This was Geneva, NY.) The conservative right happily welcomed the chance to grapple with their ideological adversary, all don’t-tread-on-me, drowned-in-a-bathtub outrage. Bored by their static companionship, their eyes lit up with righteous disagreement. (This was some nameless suburb of East Rochester.) And finally, there were the guilt-stricken bourgeosie, eager for absolution from their industrialist sins. (This was well-heeled Brighton, and would be Ithaca too.) All were amazed at the left’s effrontery. Imagine the nerve, they would mutter inwardly. To approach me on my own property! As if this has anything to do with me! Few saw a person. Most were culturally embedded enough that they saw only a symbol.

But gripped with unwavering optimism, blind to their own inconsistencies, the group would ramble on. Selling indulgences, leaving a path of literature in their wake, pressing each with empty words of solidarity. Stranded thirsty by secularism, they did not see their proselytizing ancestors, nor their distant cousins across the sea. The religious parallels were unheard of. Ignorant of their brethren, they remained numbingly American.

Poor scattered people! All aching for community, for social intimacy, for release from paranoia and anxiety. Many contributions were fed as much by loneliness as by contention. So the organization was sustained by the same qualities it represented against.

Man, I miss Morocco... But I will be in Turkey soon. Close enough for now. I almost made it to Tetouan, but I can count Bursa on the Matt-map.

Iwa?

Wow, she’s nice. Of course she is. But I knew this before. I wonder what she thinks.

So what’s next? One must always maintain a view of the future. Struggle with your problems of the present, but do not let them overwhelm you. Even a disagreeable nervous system can be dealt with. Beshwiya.

I am agreeable with marrying in Morocco, but I realize the giant difficulties with leaving the place that this would pose. Maybe not completely, but at least I’ve got that far. I think I already had my “get out of jail free” card: that was Zoe’s mother, unfortunately. I think one is enough. Jalila was not such a refusal; this was medical. You can’t play baseball if a meteor lands in the park.

This is Jalila, incidentally. Draw your own lascivious conclusions.

Dig how Simo VI is the only one wearing shades. And everyone else has a dark suit.

Incidentally, they're building this nifty windmill park near Essaouira.

The rain is gently pattering the stony driveway outside. It's well-suited for the midnight hour, quiet and anonymous as the wolves now flushed from the hills. They haven't lived here in quite some time.

I'm sure their presence would astound me as much as my continued existence. My internal muttered dialogue this evening: This seems about appropriate, my last meal shared with foreign strangers in an unfamiliar land, the paradoxes crawling over each other like worm-infested kittens... But I didn't go. Though I could do so, on any similarly worthless, empty night.

You should have some idea of the mischievous land that stole my heart.

Welcome to Chaouen. I was never quite the same after I was here. Still.

Not a very good cropping but you get the idea... At least notice that Coke comes in a glass bottle, and is prepared with actual sugar, not corn syrup. The Spanish hippies were (are?) puffing behind me, not sharing, dreads tangled.

Regardless, this is fairly typical for a small terrace restaurant. Note the Mediterranean architecture prevalent in this part of the world, er, kingdom.