Morocco

So, I wrote a couple things while I was in Morocco. I was looking for something, and strangely enough I sort of found it. The things I wrote were from the beginning of the trip -- I was cold, uncomfortable, nihilistic, unable to relate to people, including my travel companion. By the end of the trip, I had happiness and peace. I'm having trouble holding on to those now, but I at least have more of an idea of how to get them back. Something about opening myself up not only to new experiences and places, but to people. Once I found what I was looking for, I stopped writing. I've started again since I came back.

13 Sep, Marrakech:
I want to lay in the middle of the square and feel the eyes, the mumbles, the concern and confusion of 1000 people so similar and yet so far removed. Now I remember I have been escaping my prescribed world since I was a child -- climbing mountains to free myself from the deafening thoughts of others, hiding in the woods, a vantage from which I can see them but they cannot see me -- a hill, a rooftop, the canopy of a tree. I can see a scenario taking me further and further into the glorious mysterious foreign unknown, until it is impossible to find my way back. It is already begun. A donkey is braying -- in pain or frustration? I cannot relate to the place from which I come. But isn't it just natural, isn't it the way it's supposed to go? I will go further and further into the vast mysterious unknowable unknown and it will only make the answers muddier, only make the confusion more palpable. What choice do I have? I can't live that prescribed life, I can't go home, one never can. My parents will grow old and die, and in due time I will follow suit. There is now way around this, the process has already begun. I'd like to lay in the middle of the square, the drummers and the dancers, acrobats and beggars and storytellers, gawking white tourists surrounding me and devouring me piece by piece, digesting me and turning me into their music, their energy, their confusion and their obvious answers (humility, prayer, fasting, faith), the light from their lanterns, their wonder and amusement, their roasted goat heads and snail soup and 1000's of years of history that seem to give them something more solid to rest on than what I've got.








15 Sep, Marrakech:
It is a bit of a violent shock to see how much I've changed in the context of another. It was that I could not find anyone else I could stand to give so much time to. The reality today is that I cannot seem to give anyone that sort of time. But I'm jealous too. Everything seems so straightforward - a good plan, thoroughly enjoyable work. What am I . . . scouting locations for films I'll never make, too wound up in my own inner life to make any sort of step forward. What a bore it all is. Everything. I am over-ripe and not yet blossomed. It is an utterly illogical contradiction. This place moves me, it gives me hope, it alleviates some of the darkness. This place is all sunlight and blue skies bright colors mind boggling patterns sand and mud and smiling faces hand holding humility and worship sacrifice and cleansing. It is so different from how I thought it would be and so important because of it. I am still so much more naive than I like to think which is a fucking beautiful thing to discover. I want to weep and scream and dance and even the fact that I feel these things without acting gives me some solace because it means I can still feel something and I am not so far down that I cannot see some light but I cannot feel for any one only for an anonymous multitude but at least it's a start. The steam coming off the lantern-lit food stalls catching the light and lighting the night and I want to sit here and not speak for as long as it takes because who knows when I'll be here again if I'll be here again and even if I am it will not be the same it simply cannot be the same because no place is ever the same as the first time, it cannot be. I want the blue-frocked man with the barbary ape on a leash and the drum circles and storytellers and women so beautiful walking down the road with linked arms in beautiful bright flowing robes that make me long for a moment to live in their shoes -- I want these things to make an indelible mark and move me to a place from which I will not return - move me forward and block the retreat so the only possible direction to continue is forward. So how do I explain to an irony obsessed technophile with a brilliant mind but no context to process what he's witnessing (less context, even, than me) that sometimes sincerity is infinitely better than irony that sometimes you just have to let things wash over you and come into you and the context you're trying to place things in simply has no relevance here, that there is no shame in embracing your naivité, no shame in saying I know nothing I have all questions and no answers I cannot make heads or tails of this this but it's ok it's natural it's the first step in a positive direction. Do I believe all that? No, but I'm trying.