12.03.2007


January 26, 1996

I’m on the way to Rabat, now in Agadir, beachside with a coffee. I saw the most spectacular sunrise this morning. I didn’t want to go to sleep for fear I’d miss out on the changing brilliant colors. Behind the still black mountains began a fire red then gold to yellow and pink-bottomed clouds with purple tops. The sun seemed dangerous this morning.

I later woke up to greener fields than I’ve ever seen, a result of all the rain that’s been going on in every other part of Morocco. I pictured our bus on the map of Morocco, traveling the path of Agadir to Marrakech to Rabat, bypassing Essaouira. I went on to why it was that I was bypassing Essaouira this go-around. I imagined changing my mind and hitting that road, arriving at the gallery, and then....

The next forty-five minutes were an ugly daydream. After I snapped out of it I turned to Liz and said, I’m angry. I mean really angry, which means I’m also hurt. Anger usually follows hurt. With feelings like this, boiled over, it’s not necessarily the present situation that overwhelms us. It’s all the past events in our lives that have brought up these same emotions.

Dorian, there is something I can tell you. Look at how many people
you’ve known that you’ve seen change.
-Dad

I dreamed of ghosts. Over the center of a table was a small white worm, attached by its center, to the end of a silver chain. The worm hung in midair by the chain swinging like a pendulum.

I had been moving for some reason, all this furniture into a new home. Someone videotaped it because later we watched it. It was a movie of me moving furniture with an invisible ghost. He used his invisible hands to lift these tables, desks, and chairs through the air. Following behind me, as I brought pieces of furniture to the center of the room, would be another piece of furniture, moving in midair by nobody, then set down into a pile with all my belongings.

I had another quick vision before my nap, like the cat swallowing my hand. It was a long snouted weasel this time, attacking my hand with fine, razor sharp teeth. It would latch on to my fist, sink its teeth in and not let go. Each time I tried to shake it off, it would growl and shake its head about, much like a dog playing with a sock. It wouldn’t let go. Finally, with a hard flick of the wrist, it flew through the air, slammed into the wall at the other side of the room, and scampered back across the tile floor to my hand.

1 comment:

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Reda