Among other highlights in living, here are a few you missed in the past twenty-four hours:
– a young man expressing extreme displeasure over the obvious, manifest and irrefutable fact that holding a block party-type event in the park facing the mosque was a blatant display of irrespect for his religion and the elders in his community.
– sitting for a solitary hour under off-again on-again shade from dwarf palm trees, and discovering the clickety-clack sound they make when they rustle. (duly noted in French in a notebook where I use mostly French words).
– the uplift provided by a seriously slow little boy who rushes toward you with arms outstretched and calling out your name as if he’d reunited with his reason for living, at last. And carries in his wake three other boys who consider scribbling in a huge book something of a special event.
– which brings me to the object itself. Fifty-seven centimeters high, thirty-eight across and about the weight of a well-developed three year old. A nothing concept consists of putting down a few words on a page, or glueing a few pics, then letting kids and adults free to scribble along on a general theme. I guess it works because you can write, scribble or draw any old thing you want and no teacher comes along to mark your mistakes in red ink.
– a three am wake-up is all right if it’s to finish reading the final pages of L’amour au temps du choléra again. But to the sound of Pink Floyd beating down The Wall between your bedroom and the neighbor’s house?
– the astonishing discovery at four am that Pink Floyd is quiet music when the relentless pounding from a war-inducing rhythm gets you dressed for a four am visit to the neighbor’s. The door: unlocked. The air: pungent with natural high-inducing substances. The sound: deafening. The scene: six or seven of the twenty-something crowd that set up and struck down the outdoor stage, enjoying a quiet moment of relaxation inside their sound cocoon. I joined my hands in a gesture of prayer, then used them to signal toning the cocoon wayyyyy down. And repaired to my bed, waiting for my characters to decide who picks up where in the present or next scene.
– (the drawing represents the dreamer’s bed, as drawn by the artist. The text reads: I dreamt that I woke up and flew through the air and through a wall and having magic and making myself intelligent and transforming the clouds into stones and staying in the sky and the world was a universe that everyone loved. Signed: Jouhry.)