Friday, April 07, 2006

hands in a need of a keyboard

The little green cat went across the street and into the forest, dragons be here, said the sign at the entrance of the dark pathway leading deep into the wilderness. What can she do anywas, she had to go on, her mothe rtold her that the only apth to salvation is to prove that she isn't afraid of little green cat-eaters. She could hearthe jazz of the jazz trees singing that spasnih song, no hay nada que se puede mirar tudutud..tum tum, the bass coming out of the big hole in the 300 years old tree on the left , the voices flying out with the wings of the olw circling the skies above. The little green cat, why was she green, was she really a cat?And who are these jazz people singing in the forest.. questions that haunted the inhabitatnts of this forsaken
land for centuries to come, and only one man could give them the answer , alas he was so stoned that day when they asked him, that all he could say was 'ninety nine!!!'. And so the legend of the misterious 99 was born, and so the story begins...
The sand between my feet, the sand in my hair, the hot hot sand that felt like air, and that was everywhere, the berbers, wearing their head to toe blue clothes and headsrafs, talking french to the french tourists, and English to us poor idiots who came so far away to find out we speak the wrong language to be here. Where the sand couldn't get , the sun would be, high above our heads.. and it was slowly getting dark, making the colors of the sky and the land so much surreal, there is this strange effect of drinking 6 liters of water in a day, and your
eyes get blurry and start seeing things a bit differently, and the hands, well , the hands all they could feel is the sand in the air. The song of the desert slowly creeps in your brain and takes over, like the monotonous chanting of the rails of the train as it goes south, tudum tudum , tudum tudum, tudum tudum...then comes the land of the carpets, the carpet tents and the green menthol tea that is so sweet it makes you high. Then this dude starts his story about his desert, months later I read Exupery and his desert stories, and it's as if I met one of the
characters in the book on that hot desert night, I could feel the ancient bond of this guy with the desert, it was as if she was his long gone lover, one that he's been trying to forget all his life, and yet somewhere on the back of his mind, she's always there, reminding him to keep awake if he wants to stay alive in this place. Exuperry, yes, and the berbers.And Hemmingway, I cannot imagine what it's like to imagine the sea if you have never seen water outside of those wells where they take it and fill up their containers and leather water bags, and yet this guy knew, he knew abou the old man and the sea, and the forces that make people walk the thin line between life and death.. and then the sun is gone, and suddenly the whole world shrinks to the light of the little lantern in the middle of that desert tent, and it's all quiet, and the songs of the heat in my head are slowly dying out, and all that is left is a memory of that feeling of constant thirst that the boiling water we carry with us would not satisfy. It is quiet, so very quiet, there's nothing to make noises around, no trees to gently move in the rhythms of the wind, no crickets to sing the songs of the stars, no cars passing by, no streetnoises or whatever.. and slowly out of this quietness rises a distant rhythm, a drum, and the echoes of a horn, playing some moroccan tune that reminds of happy times and celebrations, of people from faraway places that gathered
together to mark the end of the hot day.. a wedding they told us, in a village some kilometers away , on the edge of the desert. So let's sing now, they say, and off they start some song, the empty water tank is the drum and their voices, lost in the haze of my memories, like some dream that slips away as the sun breaks through my eye lids on a sunny sunday morning, and my window's facing east.


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