Sunday, July 29, 2012

Highway 13

Its 03:01 AM in Algeria time and the muezzin will call for the start of fasting in an hour. I noticed that I didn't wrote in my blog since about a month. I wanted something to stimulate an issue to write about. I decided to start by putting my photo in the Roman Theater in Jordan/Ammar taken about three weeks from now when I was waiting for the airplane to take me to Algeria to spend some days with my parents and sisters.  

In Jordan I used to spent the day reading the daily journals and watching T.V.

Songs used to stimulate me to write something good and since I got nothing specific to say I tried to listen to radiohead but the song was frightening. So I typed "John Lee Hooker" in the youtube search bar and chose a song I never heard before named "Highway 13". I like the title. I like 13. It is an old friend of mine.

But the song is so boring. I am trying now to hear something better. So that I can at least, something, that is not boring. Eric Clapton and B.B.King: Crossroad 2010 live:

A good start my heart. So let the rambling begin:

If one day I should have a hallucination
O God
Let it be guitar blues
Or a saxophone solo from
New Orleans

If one day I should die my God
Recreate me as a tiny hair
In the hands of a berber grandmother
So that I can smell all the dishes
That she makes

Why the hell I am bitter. Sami, let your wish be more joyful please. Okay camarade, here is it:

How it is cool to be a string
In a maroon guitar
Waking up when the tiny pick
Tickle me and I giggle a blues tune
A tune of dementia and delirium of the early morning

I would smell the mixture
Of the musicians' cigarettes
Will fall in love with a tiny bird from Nicaragua
Colored as a Chinese toy
Or a berber woman dress

Silly? It is 03:27 AM still and I want to write something silly at last in this blog that seriousness had made it gloomy as a black lace tissue in front the face of a cold thin white widow standing in front of her deceased husband who liked to collect jars from Africa. When she went back home she gave all the jars to the mental retardation institution next to her house and when she came back home and before sleep she found another jar, half broken, at the corner of the room and muttered the word "shit" as she was finally putting her head on the pillow. The last Gauloises had lest a taste in her mouth that she now tastes with some satisfaction. She even smiled to herself as she turned to her side and closed her eyes after taking in a fast deep breath releasing it slowly and calmly. Finely alone.

It is 03:33 AM and I think I should put an ending to this rambling. What to say?
I don't feel I am ready for marriage but my parents had opened the issue with me. What to do? I didn't find her. I dreamed about her once. She run away when I wake up in the dream and I wanted to see her face so I chased her in the corridor of our house. She opened the door and tried to shut it. I tried to open it but she was on the other side closing it. I knew that she was smiling. Then there was a well bellow a huge tree in front a church. The skies were gray (about to rain?). Her hand came in a slow motion from behind my face. My movements were also in slow motion. I didn't deliberate that. It was like the time was elongated. Her hand was carrying water to my mouth. I drank. It was cold heavenly water. She slipped away. I didn't see her face.

It is 03:41 AM and I think I should stop to go to drink a cup of coffee with a croissant and fume a cigarette or two from my Gauloises (Blue) waiting for the muezzin to call for the prayer so that I finally..... sleep.

Will leave the title as "Highway 13" since I got some fidelity to those who inspired me the first, and an ambiguous relation with number 13 

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