'Je est un autre...'
So here I am. Off again. On the road. Off my head. In a dream. Off a plank. On the march. Lost my head...Isn't life wonderful! I can't sleep. You know it takes an entire day, a purgatory t-w-e-n-t-y-f-o-u-r h-o-u-r-s to get here on bum-numbing minibus - higgledy-piggledy-wriggledy, up-and-down, jump-around, no seat-belts, wacko-jacko driving, aaaawwwwl the way from Adis Ababa. Here being Harar, ancient walled city splitting at the seams and spewing its contents into surrounding Sorghum fields. Harar has countless city gates. I enter through the 'Bab el Salaam' (the Gate of Health) in Arabic but confusingly Bud Ber (the Gate of the Evil Eye) in Amharic. The sun beats down on this evil eye gate. The people stare. They are oblique, their hair tightly curled, they are chanting spells - on me. I need to sleep. What am I doing here? I don't know. I don't know. Now, that I am here...I wonder what am I looking for? What was it again? Ha, I remember, a feeling. I am looking for a feeling. A feeling I read somewhere. I want to recreate this feeling. To nab it. Not a scent. Not a place. Not a sight. Not a taste...but a feeling.
...but does this feeling exist on its own? I asked myself this same question on the minibus. Or is it, like most feelings, composed of a smell, a taste, a sight, a place...? I am tired...I am meandering...I have dreamy eyes. I need to sleep.
See the curtains of my room. Do you see? My little scabby room, with the fan, the shutters and the tin irony roof, they are undulating like waves. Like the sea. Maybe if I stare long enough, I will fall asleep. My head is thick and creamy. My nerves are shot. I am running a marathon inside my head. Too much thinking. Too many thoughts. Too much going on. Slow down! - I can't sleep. I tip toe to the window and look down onto the street. It is all quiet. Apart from, ah yes in the distance, dogs yapping, barking to god knows what - cats perhaps. The dogs are mangy. They rest during the day, on stewing piles of refuse heaps that stink to high heaven. Hear now some History. Pay attention little children or the pedagogue will get angry:
Harar - pronounced 'Harra', with the stress on the first syllable and a thin Arabic trill on the 'r' - is not quite, as Rimbaud says, a 'splendid city'. It's still isolated like the old days, but not as much as when Rimbaud was down here...running away - from himself. It was founded in the 12th century by Arabs from across the Red Sea - part fort and part market town and part stinkypot, and its coffers so filled with wealth from the caravan route snaking from coast to interior. It prospered in human bondage and 'Kawa' (slaves and coffee) - a great combination if you ask me. But no one is asking me. It is also the 4th most holy city in Islam after Mecca, Medina, and Cairo, and as a result, has a disproportionate number of mosques, whose skinny minarets rise like spikes in the desert - I guess I'll find out in the morning won't I? When the muezzins compete for my ears. I am tired. Time to go to sleep. To sleep now. To dream. Will I still be here when I wake?...Off to sleep. Off to sleep. Life is sweet. Life is sweet. Ahh, this bed feels comfortable. THOUGH THE BEDSHEETS DO SMELL!... Shuuussh! SLEEP. SLEEP. GOTO SLEEP. Life is sweet - life is sweet. Sleep baby, sleep..
ZzZzz...I dreamed a dream in Harar - I don't know who I am, who I was - Tried finding me in a dust storm - Maybe I was lost...ZzZzz
...but does this feeling exist on its own? I asked myself this same question on the minibus. Or is it, like most feelings, composed of a smell, a taste, a sight, a place...? I am tired...I am meandering...I have dreamy eyes. I need to sleep.
See the curtains of my room. Do you see? My little scabby room, with the fan, the shutters and the tin irony roof, they are undulating like waves. Like the sea. Maybe if I stare long enough, I will fall asleep. My head is thick and creamy. My nerves are shot. I am running a marathon inside my head. Too much thinking. Too many thoughts. Too much going on. Slow down! - I can't sleep. I tip toe to the window and look down onto the street. It is all quiet. Apart from, ah yes in the distance, dogs yapping, barking to god knows what - cats perhaps. The dogs are mangy. They rest during the day, on stewing piles of refuse heaps that stink to high heaven. Hear now some History. Pay attention little children or the pedagogue will get angry:
Harar - pronounced 'Harra', with the stress on the first syllable and a thin Arabic trill on the 'r' - is not quite, as Rimbaud says, a 'splendid city'. It's still isolated like the old days, but not as much as when Rimbaud was down here...running away - from himself. It was founded in the 12th century by Arabs from across the Red Sea - part fort and part market town and part stinkypot, and its coffers so filled with wealth from the caravan route snaking from coast to interior. It prospered in human bondage and 'Kawa' (slaves and coffee) - a great combination if you ask me. But no one is asking me. It is also the 4th most holy city in Islam after Mecca, Medina, and Cairo, and as a result, has a disproportionate number of mosques, whose skinny minarets rise like spikes in the desert - I guess I'll find out in the morning won't I? When the muezzins compete for my ears. I am tired. Time to go to sleep. To sleep now. To dream. Will I still be here when I wake?...Off to sleep. Off to sleep. Life is sweet. Life is sweet. Ahh, this bed feels comfortable. THOUGH THE BEDSHEETS DO SMELL!... Shuuussh! SLEEP. SLEEP. GOTO SLEEP. Life is sweet - life is sweet. Sleep baby, sleep..
ZzZzz...I dreamed a dream in Harar - I don't know who I am, who I was - Tried finding me in a dust storm - Maybe I was lost...ZzZzz
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