skinship
“There should be a non-writing, and it will come some day. A simple language without grammar. A form of writing consisting only of words. Words without grammar to sustain them, abandonment as soon as they have been written down”
Portrait of Daylight Rising
What are the conditions to create? This is the question on my tongue as I sat with the black fly perched on my laptop. The fly rubbed its arms together vigorously. Unvarying insects, their cleaning schedule is fastidious as my own; thus, I do not swat at them. I let them dot the computer with their black bodies and translucent wings. Better the screen to my skin.
I slapped my body excitedly with open palms during my first week in Morocco; thighs, chest, neck, waist, and buttock. I rarely hit the intruder; more often than not, it was a bead of sweat or misplaced hair that caused the tickle.
My pursuits are not always failures. I caught a spider on my wall with a small sparkly tumbler. It leaped in the green glass, and I slipped a torn page from my journal between the rim and the wall. The spider jumped fantastically from glass to ink. Its body is stamped with notes of my desire. I shifted the cup from the wall and presented the spider to the outdoors.
The walls are made of stone and painted rose. I am red during zoom calls when the sun sets and scatters light through the purple and orange curtains. Color adds so much to the mood, so I am careful not to frown. The rock sweetens my surroundings with silence. Encased by mudbrick, a fine mixture of straw, water, and mud, I cannot hear the neighbors.
I like to rise and sit with a wee mug of espresso and watch the yoga class on the rooftop terrace to the west of my apartment. My game is to guess the instructor; I cannot tell who guides the experience from the angle I sit. Child's pose and lunges are the preferred postures and many hip openers.
If I were to teach surfers, I'd do more glute, hamstring, and hamstring releases. The yoga class ends as the sun positions itself over the water. The students left satisfied (I assume from the expression on their faces), and I with my empty ceramic mug. What to fill it with is the anchor for my day- what to fill it with?
Seeking something outside my routine, I read a little before ambling the crooked paths to my breakfast spot: the Red Clay Cafe. Vegan cuisine with a mix of Moroccan dishes and European panache, I dine every day at one of the corner tables adorned with plants in skinny glass vials.
The Beldi is my standard order with Batbout, the classic Moroccan flatbread, with a selection of olive oil, olives, plant-based ricotta cheese, jams, and a spicy grated tomato dipping. An oat milk latte is served on a small dish with a spoon; dainty and delightful.
The owners are roughly my age- mid-thirties- and moved to Morocco in 2022. He's from England; she's from France. Her father lives in Agadir, which is a thirty-minute drive from Taghazout. They come from a background in hospitality, having spent many years in service before opening their establishment. The menu is simple and thoughtful; she rotates the dishes seasonally, save for a few staples, including the Breakfast Beldi. Local produce and fresh bread, baked daily, provide the nourishing foundation for each dish. I would never know that the baked goods were vegan; they're so moist and rich. Especially the cocoa peanut butter cookie and coconut sea-salt chocolate chunk cookie (my favorite.) Lunch plates feature eggs swapped for tofu and meat for fried mushrooms. They're travelling back to France for two weeks and already I'm remiss for the company and lovingly prepared foodstuffs.
Tempo is consistent and spirits are bright as I sit in the corner and write. A gregarious mix of expats and locals, like the menu.
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Midday, and I must transition from musing to the mundane. Editing brings little respite to my spirit. If I had the time would I spend all day writing poems and bringing little characters to the page? Perhaps not. I tend to romantisize the things I never do.
Photo source.
