strikhedonia
“Whether she won or lost, she would continue to wrestle with life. It would not be with her own life alone but with all of life. Something had finally been released within her. And there it was, the sea.”
Dear Simone,
Taragalt festival was in the small town of M'hamid. It was a nine-hour trek from Marrakesh, where I am currently living. For the time being, this is my home. The sand and sea are so much of who I am now, whereas before, it was the forest.
I am used to the salt; I know to protect my skin and I didn't suffer from cracked lips and bloody hands. Some of the girls used the blood to add roses to their cheeks and I asked for some too. We put blue glitter on our eyelids and blood on our cheeks. I wore a gold kimono and ran barefoot until my feet burned. My legs are darker than when I left and I lost a pair of white socks in the red sand. In the daylight, the sand looks gold. By nightfall, it is burnt orange. I thought about pumpkin seeds as we walked to the festival. We had to sneak around the fence because many in our gypsy crew did not purchase tickets. I had a wristband but did not want to ditch the family.
I had no expectations and because of that, I was happy the entire time.
I want to write of my experience without the fettering of understanding that comes with looking up who went. Social media provides too much and blots out the space for imagination. If I look at pictures from the festival, it will tint my memories. I took no photos. All that I have is in my mind and will be a poem when this post is complete.
I want so badly to land somewhere, even if I don't know what the place is. What would I want it to feel like if I could pick a place to park? Perhaps like a hot air balloon, puffing up slowly in the starry sky.
My favorite part of the festival was dancing under the Milky Way. I've never been under such a vast canopy of stars in such a way. My entire life has passed by without the quiet knowing of space. I kept tipping my head back to catch each star in my eye and I'd surface in a web of bodies with my arms flailing. I was sinking in the dunes and the only way up and out was to dig deep. Dig a well. I didn't drink enough water the entire weekend. It was such a trek to get water and I lost every bottle I purchased. My stainless steel cup was in a tent and I didn't know how to collect it without being difficult. Nana kept telling me to slow down, though I only had one speed. Like a blender, I spin in one direction. Up-up-up. A little bird looked down at me and tossed a net of worms that I could pick up between each finger.
The Brazilian girls and I went for a white bean soup with hard-boiled eggs and crepes on the festival's second day. We had done a yoga class in the shade of a tree with two girls from Isreal. I led the class and taught hips and heart-opening because that is what I prefer, and it was too hot for twists. I taught Bhumi Mudra with one hand on the earth and the other on my heart. I led Brahamari Breath and only Ana joined me. I can never tell what class has affected people because I get so fluffed up in my head about everything. During the movement, I could connect to the rhythm and the breathing, though in Savasana, I was so high it felt like a kite was tied in the tree and someone had to use a knife to strip the cord.
Someone laid out grapes and nuts and cucumber with a bit of lemon water and we sat on our mats in the sand under the white-bark tree and ate a little bit. The boys were playing rock music and soon someone had the idea of writing a poem in all the languages and a little notebook and pen went around and around the circle until the pages were full.
I never got to read or hear the poem.
Some things are better left unspoken. Like love, it's felt first. Feelings are a fact, and everything else is marbles. Take life as it comes; this is what Nana should have said. Never slow down - my heart gallops at its own speed and I've flung the windows so far open the glass shattered. Blood is the residue of dreams. Sacrifices must be made, no matter where you live or what you believe in.
Horses keep appearing in my dreams and it is symbolic of travel. It's the idea over the impression, or perhaps it is the other way around. I think it depends on the person. I feel like the scent of camel scat will follow me out of Morocco. It's in my clothes and hair like cigarettes; I cannot rinse it out.
Before the festival started, I stayed in a clay hut twenty minutes out of M'hamid. I met a couple from France and a man from Marrakesh, and a fellow traveler from the UK. I won't give them names because that is part of the bag of marbles. This was my intellectual crew, which I rolled with intermittently. They were the philosophers, prone to pondering and chain-smoked inside and outside. A pack of cigarettes and a case of light beer followed us and we stood out in the sands and watched the sunset burn lavender from the bush and it was glorious. It is a dear thing to be alive, telling stories from the city and the sea.
The other crew I rolled with was the Tanktrikas. The hub of crew two is the three boys I met in Taghazout. They were the reason I wound up at Taragalt in the first place and why I am where I am currently. Sitting on a lambskin with a glass of dark wine and Ganesha at my side. I am writing to you, Simone, to stave off the craving. I have such a deep burning desire to go out and do something- though what that thing is, I cannot know. It's right in front of me and yet too close for me to actually see what it is. I need to continue to move backward in order to get ahead. I didn't understand this element of my personality until this moment: look back to get ahead.
Thus, the art of reflection.
What am I meant to see through the discourses I lead with others?
This weekend I got to tell my story, again and again, faster and slowly to those who did not speak English. It was such a mixed pot in the gypsy circle. French, Arabic, Portuguese, Hebrew, and Catalan. We made it work, and whatever was misunderstood was never that important. I've realized that people will get their point across if they need to. Two men with injuries were able to summon a doctor from the dunes so they could walk and dance a few hours later despite their infections. One from a mosquito bite and the other I do not remember. There were so many stories recounted I barely recall my own!
Every time I say what I say, the message becomes a little more meaningless.
If I speak less, fewer people hear me, though if I say a lot, my words are marbled. Shooting in the dark doesn't require skill; it needs faith.
Most things in life require very little. Hope and faith are not the same, though I mix them up like a sweet cocktail that sings in my mouth!
I am running rampant and it feels glorious!
Photo source.
