I have pried open my chest, ribs and all, and energy flows out. I am no longer restricted to this body. This body has not much to do with the energy around me. Something watches over me and takes care of me.
The drinking is not the problem, it’s our relationship. We have some matching pieces that fit into the puzzles of our lives, with a connection beyond us and in the hands of God. Our control? We are not in control. Something else guides us, with very slow progress, though nonetheless progressing, inching us down our paths.
I think too quick. He thinks too quick too but he thinks I’m moving too quick. He did think that at least. Maybe no longer, since I explained on that last walk to the beach that he was scaring the shit out of me. I can feel myself putting up a new wall often. I asked if he considered the fact that I might be pushing away and am so close, so ready, so scared that I want to leave. He thought I meant Essaouira. I said, no, I want to leave you. He asked if I wanted to break his heart.
This was the beginning of the end. He had run me down, forced me to let it all go and expose the raw me, to see if it’s what he really can take. He pushed me and pushed me and now I wonder why? Was it to see how much I can take before I fall over and have to be picked up?
He picked me up that night. He said he’d get me out of there and take me to Agadir. He said he was wrong for convincing me to stay those extra three days, that it’s not good for me, and it’s time to get me out.
I know it was a big deal to drive down with me to Agadir, especially to stay all night. There were several times he was contemplating a return trip during the night. I was making him extremely nervous because of my extreme unpredictability. Every time we pull up to any liquor store, he’s not sure how I’ll react, or if and when I’ll lose control. Last night I beat the shit out of the driver’s seat, slamming the palm of my hand against the vinyl seat as hard as I could until I was tired and out of breath.
I am sick. He sees this now where he didn’t see it before. He was genuinely sorry, I believe, God blessing every member of my family for my understanding and forgiveness. Please forgive me, he said, for all I’ve done. Teewahleeneenoo (my eyes), habeebeeteeno (my love), tafokteeno (my sun). And clapping, Dorian, oh Dorian, oh Dorian. He took hold of my hand as I took hold of his. We leaned forward, and kissed one another’s hand at the same time.
He left Essaouira with no one to run the gallery. His brother ran off to Rabat. His sister is in Agadir. He has a lot of business to take care of. His life is totally out of control. There is no room in his life for a relationship, and unless he can clear a space, I should stay away.
The night ending? The ending of this part? He said, I just want to wash my feet and sleep. He washed his feet in the sink while I washed my face, dripping soap onto his hands. In bed he turned facing me and held me close, wrapping around me, our hearts talking to one another, and our skin...it’s like heaven.
Mohamed woke us up at 5:10 am so I could get on the 6 o’clock bus to Tata. I decided to stay in Agadir, so our clothes came off, he placed my hands where he wanted them, and then an hour went by before we showered.
1.29.2008
1.28.2008
A Kiss
detail of Road with Cypress and Star (Artchive)
One time he talked about the devil crouching in the corner of the room.
Sitting at Nordine’s on the patio last night, watching K talk to God with his head lifted and arms out, even on his knees at one time, I was having flashes while looking at him that I was looking at myself. I felt myself for several moments inside the body I was watching. I turned in my mind to talking to my father, introducing this man as my father, my mother, my lover, my brother, my self, my life. I spoke this exactly as so in my mind.
When we left and sat in the car, K said, my mother, my father, my lover, my sister, my life. I lost my breath and told him that strange things keep happening.
Towards the end of the hellaciously overwhelming night that I’m recovering from, K asked me to kiss him from where I was sitting. We were opposite each other at the table. Nordine and Mohamed were across from one another next to us. We looked deep into one another’s eyes, each closed our mouths, and took one long deep breath in through our noses. As we breathed in, the air spinned around us, dizzied us all, and K said, while pointing to all the other buildings around us, shame on us. We could wake up the whole neighborhood like this.
Sitting at Nordine’s on the patio last night, watching K talk to God with his head lifted and arms out, even on his knees at one time, I was having flashes while looking at him that I was looking at myself. I felt myself for several moments inside the body I was watching. I turned in my mind to talking to my father, introducing this man as my father, my mother, my lover, my brother, my self, my life. I spoke this exactly as so in my mind.
When we left and sat in the car, K said, my mother, my father, my lover, my sister, my life. I lost my breath and told him that strange things keep happening.
Towards the end of the hellaciously overwhelming night that I’m recovering from, K asked me to kiss him from where I was sitting. We were opposite each other at the table. Nordine and Mohamed were across from one another next to us. We looked deep into one another’s eyes, each closed our mouths, and took one long deep breath in through our noses. As we breathed in, the air spinned around us, dizzied us all, and K said, while pointing to all the other buildings around us, shame on us. We could wake up the whole neighborhood like this.
Why does it hurt to open hearts?
Doing karate moves on me in the kitchen, he said to his mother, look at her...American, as if saying how the fuck did I end up with such a thing. It was nice to hear her laugh and take my side when he yelled for me to clean.
I took two codeine and a Benedryl last night to pass out. I was absolutely exhausted from these last few days. Today, standing over the wall, looking down into the gallery with his coffee in hand, K looked at me squating against my packed bags. As I put almond oil through my curls, he said, did you know I didn’t eat yesterday. No lunch, no dinner last night. All I did was cry.
I asked him last night while walking to the ocean, why does it hurt to love another person? Why does it hurt to open our hearts? He said if it didn’t hurt, it wouldn’t be love.
I took two codeine and a Benedryl last night to pass out. I was absolutely exhausted from these last few days. Today, standing over the wall, looking down into the gallery with his coffee in hand, K looked at me squating against my packed bags. As I put almond oil through my curls, he said, did you know I didn’t eat yesterday. No lunch, no dinner last night. All I did was cry.
I asked him last night while walking to the ocean, why does it hurt to love another person? Why does it hurt to open our hearts? He said if it didn’t hurt, it wouldn’t be love.
Is this what love is?
There is the Italian man in the balcony of the square. He’s closing his window and I know he’s been watching me down here at the café. Of course he was watching everyone else too, but I know he saw Ancie look at me from about 15 feet away. I looked up and he was looking here, smiling.
I can’t take much more of this. I’m tired, exhausted really, and need affection. I feel beaten down. I understand his point. I tried to stay out of the way and then came all the love stuff followed by the jealousy followed by the anger followed by the love stuff followed by the anger and more anger and more anger…
I’m really tired. I’m lost again. Feeling crazy again. Why can’t he admit to me what he really thinks…why can’t he see the sickness? So I do what…I listen to him and don’t get listened to. I get a hard dick when I can’t have it and a soft one when I want it. I get peace when I don’t want it and no peace when I need it. What’s it all for? Is this some test for me? When do we take the things in life as a test and when do we decide that it’s a test too long and going no where? When do I decide to let this go? Are the good things in balance with the bad?
I’m ready to leave. I don’t know why I even stayed. It’s one broken promise after another. I’m scared, really. A fear like no other and is this what love is? Being so afraid? Us both so scared?
Later-
I am sitting at the bar that K just left from, sitting in K’s chair actually. He was butt-drunk wasted when he left. A sick man he is. I don’t think I’ve seen him any sicker. It’s this fight against something.
How do I do? What do I do? I do just like I am and be honest with myself, with my life, with everything. How much patience it takes I don’t know. But now, I’m secure and safe with this city. I think that makes it hard for him. I have been fed by these people in all the ways I want him to feed me. I am loved in all the ways that I want to be loved. It is passionate, and sad at times, but this is a story of a time in my life. I am learning what I need to learn. It is a true test of character, of grace, of destiny, and of miracles. It’s of angels and devils and God, that big big that’s reaching out to me is breaking through. Such strange things are at play.
The readings of these Sufi masters are affecting the way I look at my life. These mystics are still here, playing. Maybe I am one of them. Maybe he is. Maybe together we strike up the heavens with thunder and rain and blossoms and weeds and life as well as death. Perhaps perhaps perhaps…something is at play…he will see that he has to let go of me in order that I fly.
The amount of gifts falling into me I cannot understand. It is truly a holy thing the way I am looked at here. How I, a woman, can be sitting here so safely alone in this bar writing. With not a soul grabbing at me but all reaching out gently to make sure I still stand. They are telling me to be patient, that all this means something. That I will be loved by people no matter where I am.
I can’t take much more of this. I’m tired, exhausted really, and need affection. I feel beaten down. I understand his point. I tried to stay out of the way and then came all the love stuff followed by the jealousy followed by the anger followed by the love stuff followed by the anger and more anger and more anger…
I’m really tired. I’m lost again. Feeling crazy again. Why can’t he admit to me what he really thinks…why can’t he see the sickness? So I do what…I listen to him and don’t get listened to. I get a hard dick when I can’t have it and a soft one when I want it. I get peace when I don’t want it and no peace when I need it. What’s it all for? Is this some test for me? When do we take the things in life as a test and when do we decide that it’s a test too long and going no where? When do I decide to let this go? Are the good things in balance with the bad?
I’m ready to leave. I don’t know why I even stayed. It’s one broken promise after another. I’m scared, really. A fear like no other and is this what love is? Being so afraid? Us both so scared?
Later-
I am sitting at the bar that K just left from, sitting in K’s chair actually. He was butt-drunk wasted when he left. A sick man he is. I don’t think I’ve seen him any sicker. It’s this fight against something.
How do I do? What do I do? I do just like I am and be honest with myself, with my life, with everything. How much patience it takes I don’t know. But now, I’m secure and safe with this city. I think that makes it hard for him. I have been fed by these people in all the ways I want him to feed me. I am loved in all the ways that I want to be loved. It is passionate, and sad at times, but this is a story of a time in my life. I am learning what I need to learn. It is a true test of character, of grace, of destiny, and of miracles. It’s of angels and devils and God, that big big that’s reaching out to me is breaking through. Such strange things are at play.
The readings of these Sufi masters are affecting the way I look at my life. These mystics are still here, playing. Maybe I am one of them. Maybe he is. Maybe together we strike up the heavens with thunder and rain and blossoms and weeds and life as well as death. Perhaps perhaps perhaps…something is at play…he will see that he has to let go of me in order that I fly.
The amount of gifts falling into me I cannot understand. It is truly a holy thing the way I am looked at here. How I, a woman, can be sitting here so safely alone in this bar writing. With not a soul grabbing at me but all reaching out gently to make sure I still stand. They are telling me to be patient, that all this means something. That I will be loved by people no matter where I am.
Ancie, protector of me
It’s Wednesday. The man next to me is playing his instrument, the Essaouira type Gnaowa guitar, and the man at the table is singing a song in Tashlheit, I think to me. Ancie, K's rusty dog, is here. I always thinks of Ancie being a girl. But he’s a he, the protector of me. If I’m not with K I’m with Ancie. Oops. Now I’m alone. Ancie ran off to the ocean.
The woman next to me has this straight blond hair down to the small of her back. Maybe she’s English but I don’t think so. She’s speaking English to Ancie, petting him. He decided to come back and watch over me. Yesterday I could feel the woman watching me while writing. I asked her for a lighter twice and the second time she gave it to me. She has on a maroon tank top dress with a tattoo on her breast, With her legs crossed, she holds her chin up very elegantly, smoking a cigarette with big silver rings on all her fingers.
I have all these people (tourists) telling me how surprised they are to find the people of Morocco wonderful, that what they read in the tour books is not their experience at all. It’s like the writers of these guides step off the boat in Tangier, have their first bad experience right off, which sets their whole tone, and their bad time is written down for the world to learn from.
The woman next to me has this straight blond hair down to the small of her back. Maybe she’s English but I don’t think so. She’s speaking English to Ancie, petting him. He decided to come back and watch over me. Yesterday I could feel the woman watching me while writing. I asked her for a lighter twice and the second time she gave it to me. She has on a maroon tank top dress with a tattoo on her breast, With her legs crossed, she holds her chin up very elegantly, smoking a cigarette with big silver rings on all her fingers.
I have all these people (tourists) telling me how surprised they are to find the people of Morocco wonderful, that what they read in the tour books is not their experience at all. It’s like the writers of these guides step off the boat in Tangier, have their first bad experience right off, which sets their whole tone, and their bad time is written down for the world to learn from.
The Ghosts are taking my side
I think that the ghosts are taking my side, as well as the dog. Ancie comes with me everywhere, senses where I am and shows up. The ghosts? Well, a painting fell last night off the wall downstairs and broke something. I heard the pieces crash against the floor. It startled me. I jerked when it happened, woke up scared, and held on tight to K. I felt something brush across my shoulder last night, a ripple like the fingers of a hand. I thought it was K but his hands were at his side. I thought it was the covers but they were under my arm.
I was in the balcony room the other night looking for my toothpaste, getting really frustrated, throwing my things about the room. I thought I heard the dog, Ancie, whine on the balcony. I looked out the door and didn’t see him and went back to the search for the toothpaste. I started getting pissed, let out a big sigh, and heard another whine from under my bed. I lifted up the blanket hanging over the edge of the bed to the floor, went right for the place I heard the whine and there was my toothpaste.
K’s got this pain running from his toes to his ass on his right side. He says it’s the sciatic nerve. And now he thinks it’s because he’s been cursed, had a spell put on him because “Moroccan women do those kinds of things.”
I was all itchy last night and told him we were both falling apart. I know now that it’s because I drank opium tea last night with Alex and Zachary. They were also itching last night. I knew too last night why I was throwing up into the toilet like something straight from the Exorcist because of the last time I had tea. But I didn’t tell that to K. He doesn’t know about the tea.
I had a British guy pick up the book I’m reading. It was laying face down where I set it when I squatted to talk to him. He was on the tile street against a wall having coffee and pastries with a South American girl and Alex. The guy turned the book over and said, “Oh,” surprised-like as if it explained everything and answered all his questions he had about me, “so you’re a writer.” I’m reading the Creative Writer’s Handbook helping me focus on this relationship as if it’s a story and not my life. But it is both I suppose.
I’m listening to the song “Romeo and Juliet” by Dire Straits, and it reminds me how I often feel K and I follow this Romeo and Juliet thing. I just saw a translation of Shakespeare’s “Romeo and Juliet” in Berber. The other night K said (while holding me tight), if I stop breathing, please don’t try and start it up again. I just want to hold you and then die. The next night I said it back to him exactly the same way. More so that he’d see what it feels like to be told that.
I was in the balcony room the other night looking for my toothpaste, getting really frustrated, throwing my things about the room. I thought I heard the dog, Ancie, whine on the balcony. I looked out the door and didn’t see him and went back to the search for the toothpaste. I started getting pissed, let out a big sigh, and heard another whine from under my bed. I lifted up the blanket hanging over the edge of the bed to the floor, went right for the place I heard the whine and there was my toothpaste.
K’s got this pain running from his toes to his ass on his right side. He says it’s the sciatic nerve. And now he thinks it’s because he’s been cursed, had a spell put on him because “Moroccan women do those kinds of things.”
I was all itchy last night and told him we were both falling apart. I know now that it’s because I drank opium tea last night with Alex and Zachary. They were also itching last night. I knew too last night why I was throwing up into the toilet like something straight from the Exorcist because of the last time I had tea. But I didn’t tell that to K. He doesn’t know about the tea.
I had a British guy pick up the book I’m reading. It was laying face down where I set it when I squatted to talk to him. He was on the tile street against a wall having coffee and pastries with a South American girl and Alex. The guy turned the book over and said, “Oh,” surprised-like as if it explained everything and answered all his questions he had about me, “so you’re a writer.” I’m reading the Creative Writer’s Handbook helping me focus on this relationship as if it’s a story and not my life. But it is both I suppose.
I’m listening to the song “Romeo and Juliet” by Dire Straits, and it reminds me how I often feel K and I follow this Romeo and Juliet thing. I just saw a translation of Shakespeare’s “Romeo and Juliet” in Berber. The other night K said (while holding me tight), if I stop breathing, please don’t try and start it up again. I just want to hold you and then die. The next night I said it back to him exactly the same way. More so that he’d see what it feels like to be told that.
Jealous of us
Today is March 13th, I believe, and I’ve just gotten away from K for the first time since last night at 11. It’s about 8 p.m. now. We got out of bed at 4:00 I think. Maybe it was 5. Because it wasn’t until 6:30 that he got out of the shower.
My welcome to Essaouira this time is absolutely positively fascinating. Unremarkable. Ok. Remarkable perhaps. I walked out of K’s last night to go to Toufik’s and was interrupted in the walk by “Ashkeed Hetta!” yelled out from the restaurant nearby. So I walked back by and in, was told to treat his place as home while he left for cigarettes, leaving the fort to me. Then into Toufiks where I must have seemed to the British couple like some Essaouira goddess the way K’s eyes got so big and he jumped up out of his chair over to me. And how Toufik yelled my name from the back of the restaurant to come kiss my forehead, my head, my cheeks over and over, telling me how happy he was to see me. And then to watch K push him out of the way, tell him to not ever touch his girlfriend again, and accidentally whack Toufik’s head against the wall.
We left to get fish tonight, K walking with someone and me in my own space on the street ahead of him, appearing to be alone. I love it.
At Toufik’s, he said, I’m jealous of us. That’s why we fight. I thought a lot about that these last twenty four hours and will have to agree. I, too, am jealous of us.
My welcome to Essaouira this time is absolutely positively fascinating. Unremarkable. Ok. Remarkable perhaps. I walked out of K’s last night to go to Toufik’s and was interrupted in the walk by “Ashkeed Hetta!” yelled out from the restaurant nearby. So I walked back by and in, was told to treat his place as home while he left for cigarettes, leaving the fort to me. Then into Toufiks where I must have seemed to the British couple like some Essaouira goddess the way K’s eyes got so big and he jumped up out of his chair over to me. And how Toufik yelled my name from the back of the restaurant to come kiss my forehead, my head, my cheeks over and over, telling me how happy he was to see me. And then to watch K push him out of the way, tell him to not ever touch his girlfriend again, and accidentally whack Toufik’s head against the wall.
We left to get fish tonight, K walking with someone and me in my own space on the street ahead of him, appearing to be alone. I love it.
At Toufik’s, he said, I’m jealous of us. That’s why we fight. I thought a lot about that these last twenty four hours and will have to agree. I, too, am jealous of us.
Wisdom Teeth
Last night, just hours after getting my wisdom teeth out, Suzanne and I were sitting in our room at the Central motel. She started giggling from underneath her blankets and said, this is just so funny.
I looked up across the room at her. More like glared. She continued, I mean you come into the city to get your wisdom teeth out, stay in a hotel with 24-hour electricity, and a big bed with two blankets, and you say all you want is a buda gas flame and a pot, sitting there against the door on the cold floor, eavesdropping on the two men in the next room. It’s just so funny.
It is. Wisdom teeth. That’s what I want to write about. Three nights ago I was angry with K because he wasn’t considering where I was coming from, how I was leaving at 5 am to get to Rabat just in time to talk to Marina, cash my mandat, and eat my last solid meal for two weeks. His response was, oh my God! Wisdom Teeth. I could write a fucking book on your wisdom teeth.
When I first walked into Marina’s office yesterday, she assured me childbirth was much worse. I thought of that last night, unbathed for five days, sitting Indian style on my bed with my eyes closed and a cheek about to explode. It was a pain that wouldn’t allow me to think, speak, cry even. I kept saying, childbirth is much worse, in my head, imagining myself giving birth. I tried a lot. I tried spreading the pain out over my whole body. I tried concentrating on localizing the pain where it centralized. I could feel every little nerve and stitch and empty pissed off raw space..
Hmm.
The flexible Peace Corps volunteer, taking this in such good sport, as I’ve seen fellow volunteers get flown home to D.C. to get the same thing done. They were hooked up in Peace Corps apartments with free long distance and cable TV. Oh my God! How could they do this to me?
Well, they did. They have refused me a decent hotel. They have not shown even remote concern for my well-being and sanity, and I’m still not complaining. Everything is just how it is and just how it’s gonna be and I can do with it what I will.
I looked up across the room at her. More like glared. She continued, I mean you come into the city to get your wisdom teeth out, stay in a hotel with 24-hour electricity, and a big bed with two blankets, and you say all you want is a buda gas flame and a pot, sitting there against the door on the cold floor, eavesdropping on the two men in the next room. It’s just so funny.
It is. Wisdom teeth. That’s what I want to write about. Three nights ago I was angry with K because he wasn’t considering where I was coming from, how I was leaving at 5 am to get to Rabat just in time to talk to Marina, cash my mandat, and eat my last solid meal for two weeks. His response was, oh my God! Wisdom Teeth. I could write a fucking book on your wisdom teeth.
When I first walked into Marina’s office yesterday, she assured me childbirth was much worse. I thought of that last night, unbathed for five days, sitting Indian style on my bed with my eyes closed and a cheek about to explode. It was a pain that wouldn’t allow me to think, speak, cry even. I kept saying, childbirth is much worse, in my head, imagining myself giving birth. I tried a lot. I tried spreading the pain out over my whole body. I tried concentrating on localizing the pain where it centralized. I could feel every little nerve and stitch and empty pissed off raw space..
Hmm.
The flexible Peace Corps volunteer, taking this in such good sport, as I’ve seen fellow volunteers get flown home to D.C. to get the same thing done. They were hooked up in Peace Corps apartments with free long distance and cable TV. Oh my God! How could they do this to me?
Well, they did. They have refused me a decent hotel. They have not shown even remote concern for my well-being and sanity, and I’m still not complaining. Everything is just how it is and just how it’s gonna be and I can do with it what I will.
A Jewel to offer me
K said last night that he had a jewel to offer me. There is a plot of land near Essaouira, set not but 200 meters from the sea. There is a river that flows through the land and the river flows into the ocean. The ground is green on a hill with the closest village a couple of kilometers away.
A Frenchman bought a thousand square meters near the property, and has already started building. Another German couple bought land and finished the deal yesterday. The property is cheap and the value will only increase, for Essaouira is just now getting international attention for being what it is...Essaouira, a small town of creative culture--artists, craftsmen, tailors, writers. This is a town with my soul in it. I am healed here.
I think I’ll cry now.
A Frenchman bought a thousand square meters near the property, and has already started building. Another German couple bought land and finished the deal yesterday. The property is cheap and the value will only increase, for Essaouira is just now getting international attention for being what it is...Essaouira, a small town of creative culture--artists, craftsmen, tailors, writers. This is a town with my soul in it. I am healed here.
I think I’ll cry now.
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