Crimson heat rains down on ochre landscapes, the souk stalls spilling out much more vibrant colors: plush pink pillows, yellow bananas, green afghans, orange turbans, and violet roses. Beige and mustard-colored Berber carpets and more flamboyant magic carpets reminiscent of a Scheherazade tale protect the stalls from the elements—and for the right price, you can buy such a “roof” for your foyer or living room or, if you’re really opulent, your palatial outhouse.
But I’m here in this medina quarter for something more muted. My wife’s favorite tagine has stewed its last lamb salona, no thanks to my accidentally cracking it into three pieces, and I must replace it. I don’t visit the souk often. It’s not a place for me. I love the sights and sounds, especially the oud, ney, and bendir, played together or individually, telling the traditional stories or finding space for new tunes.… ...continue reading
I can still picture the scene in my mind’s eye.
I see my buddies lying face down on the linoleum floor, shielding their faces from the pepper-infused crimson sauce splattered everywhere. The cries of young men brought down in the prime of their lives by puddles of hot nacho cheese beneath their feet; the visceral smell of ground beef too damaged to ever be seasoned.
The hours after the lunch rush had been quiet, the summer heat keeping the customers away and lulling us into a false sense of security.
That’s when Charlie came calling.… ...continue reading
Gothic of course with gargoyles
wandering the ancient halls.
timeless despite the chiming
never to be heard in unison.
Clock hands close in prayer
where, gowned, the giant ravens
barely see the visitors’ gaze
in shades of admiration.
An aria sung on a bicycle
drifts graciously through the years.
“Wait to be asked” was sound advice
in finding a life worth living
among minds higher than mine,
their intellect as tangible as stone
were stone winged for flight
above reason’s indifference.… ...continue reading
“Your difference isn’t a detour. It’s the point.”
Before me came words that showed the way
for everything after me.
I knew exactly what I needed to do.
I’d been rehearsing for weeks.
I tattooed every line of that script
on the tendrils of my being
in case anyone forgot their lines
or became ill or perhaps died.
But I had no understudy
when I fell into an obscure coma.
For several days, I lingered,
the persona illuminated but quiet.
They had to start the show without me,
my twin brother quickly hired
to play my role until I woke up.
When I emerged from my chrysalis,
I realized the words needed to be different,
the detour actually better than the journey.
I shed my wings to walk again instead,
the flying comma becoming a voluble period.… ...continue reading
He angles his cart in the middle of the bread aisle. When she clears her throat, he mutters Sorry and looks at her feet. He’d singled her out because of her sandals, thinking it would be good to start with a solid foundation. He studies the length of her toes, shape of her ankles. When she clears her throat again, he moves aside.
—
There are so many vegetables to squeeze and thump in produce. He hears wheels squeak and sneaks a peek. She’s not as tall as the bread woman. She reaches for a tomato, her long fingers a tiny bridge. He takes in the creases of her knuckles and every chip in her bright red polish.
—
Most places, like the streets, are either too crowded or empty.… ...continue reading
Noah tapped the pocket of his swim trunks once, twice, three times, making sure he had his keys, phone and wallet. He checked the front seat, the back, and the cargo space beyond, making certain he had everything.
The twins, Natalie and Leo, stood by quietly, knowing from experience that interruptions generally resulted in additional delays.
“Right, let’s go then!” their dad said at last. Noah adjusted his backpack, slung a folding tent and a beach chair over his shoulders and tucked a boogie board under each arm. He took each child by the hand for the journey across the parking lot.
“We passed this before,” Leo noted.
Noah had circled the open lots several times before deciding where to park but he didn’t think the kids had noticed.… ...continue reading
Of Virginia Woolf
‘We are the words. We are the music. We are the thing itself.’ Moments of Being
Are we the things we think we are?
Or is there another music
with words we have never heard?
Something close to the heart
becomes the essence of us,
a truth enabling the sense to be
what is spoken, what is sung.
This sound evades the silence.
There lies the fear within,
of never being believed.… ...continue reading