dwale
“I want the following word: splendor, splendor is fruit in all its succulence, fruit without sadness. I want vast distances. My savage intuition of myself.”
Sitting at a Moroccan diner with the locals and a few ex-pats who speak only their native language. German. Dutch. Something else I cannot place.
The secreted hallways between rooms of the apartments nearby. A small boy screams in the corridor. His mood matches the weather, boiling, and dark.
I arrived early and took a spot overlooking the dunes and the Atlantic that touches the grey sky with its tongue. There is no sun or moon, just a cauldron of blue that bleeds into white waves and fish fins that poke up and break the glass. The blur reminds me of the weeks sailing with Greg.
A dozen flies have gathered on my table. They are worse dining guests than the little spotted cat who joined me for eggs. I fed it with one hand while the other cradled my coffee. The kitten tried to stick its face in the froth of milk. I would do the same if my ribs were poking out.
I layered butter and sweet red jam—perhaps strawberry—to the thin slices of white toast that arrived with a dark liquid that looked like pureed dates. I close my eyes and let the layers of French and Arabic comb my hair from the surrounding tables. The beach is speckled by tall, dark-haired men playing football. Proper European football is what we call soccer in Canada. It is a slow day, not many people about it, and mostly locals. The tide is out and the surf is poor. A boy I met yesterday told me so; I would not know to look. The tide’s magnetism is not as grand as on the West Coast, where low tide reveals unraveling seaweed and crabs the size of a palm.
Children wear bracelets of small beads, whispered rainbows on a wrist spun with hemp and elastic. They scamper like the cats and hide under tables, waiting.
A small black dog followed me last night on my walk to the north end of the beach. The same dog found me this morning, only today, it bore a small white dot between its brows. I have worn black every day for the last four and this morning, I chose a silver, pink, and blue scarf to weave through my hair. I am dirty with salt and brown from the sun. My face is freckled and my armpits hairy.
I am invisible and indivisible.
Photo source.
