letting fresh Georgia air go to waste.
It's that time of the year when moving your body makes you want to sweat, when shirts and shoes seem entirely superfluous, when I want to dive into the water of a cool lake reminiscent of stiles.
Instead I am working, and things are falling into place pretty much how I knew they would but will have a bit of trouble getting used to. Starting at JP licks in the coolidgest of corners tomorrow morning will be an interesting new experience that I think I will enjoy. Trying to juggle two jobs and a life in the allston heat and haze will be manageable and hopefully not stressful. I have to approach each new day with a purpose, and keep busy. I also have to find time for myself and keep the creative juices flowing.
I can already feel Morocco slipping away in a sense, not just in time either. It is natural I suppose, especially considering the circumstances surrounding the trip and how I ended up in Rabat living with Farida, Rachid, and Riham. But I think that some things have remained, and I know that I am a different person. I just have a little trouble nailing down exactly how.
I guess this is where I am supposed to write about the legacy of Morocco in my mind, how it is forming, how I frame that semester, how much I miss it, and all of the things that I miss. I don't feel too inspired to wax further about el maghrib, and frankly I can not say that I wake up everyday thinking about Morocco or how much I miss it.
Do I miss it? yes of course, sure, and if I pine for anything it is the visceral tastes and sights and sounds. These are the most obvious differences, things like fresh oj and olives of every type and preparation and how damn exciting it is to just walk down the street, the way you succumb to the medina as you push by dvd baskets, sizzling and tempting treats, djellabas and juicy couture, the up close and personal humanity and smells of everyone and everything. The Medina is not bland. Farida's fava beans were sometimes bland, but it is impossible to describe the old part of a Moroccan city as being bland.
There are plenty of things I don't miss, too many to elaborate on right now, but you will never hear me say that I regret going abroad. That would be false, and one thing that I will always strive to do is eliminate any gap between theory and practice, between discourse and action. That goes for my own life and the world I interact with. Of course I am not always successful at all my pursuits, like maintaining patience and calm, keeping in mind the importance of context to any situation, or keeping up my arabic. Just because the assurance of success is not present, that will not stop me from trying. I must admit that I have not been keeping up my arabic, although I have not been trying to, so there's no problem.
That won't change the fact that I studied Arabic for 4 months, I am literate (in the bare bones 3rd grader sense of the word), and I have a very basic understanding of the language. I stress the basicity of that understanding.
all things considered, the fact that I won't be taking arabic in the fall, or that I didn't have a crazy life changing time in Morocco and now skype with my Moroccan family everyday, does not in any way diminish the experience I had there and the memories I cherish. I am confident that nothing can take that away from me. Unless I lose my pictures, in which case somethings will probably become lost in the shuffle f time and the cavernous folds of memory.
I take pictures to remember the times I don't. It is that simple. Visual stimuli, cues, pictures, colors, drawings, words, notes, lists, doodling, all great. I love them. I want pursue more creative outlets, more writing and drawing. What if I draw for half an hour everyday? Is that forcing creativity, trying to manufacture something that is not there, and if so, is it a bad thing? I don't think it can hurt, and in fact it can only really help. Maybe I will try it, or a forced write, I haven't decided.
I know I should be resting my head down on these two lovely pillows of mine, for all too soon I will be forced to lift my head from those very same soft bundles of joy and comfort. I want to continue writing, but it will happen another time. There is always more to read, more to write. That simple thought alone makes happy. in me. it makes me happy. you get the point.
A few closing notes, presented in bullet form:
-I hate thinking about how, right now, oil is spilling out of a man made well into the sea. Isn't it someones responsibility to deal with such a catastrophe, both the causes and the effects?
-The Revolution Will Not Be Microwaved is a great book complete with scary facts and analysis, inspiring stories, deep natural though-provoking philosophy, and even recipes. Read it.
-Turn off your TV and read a book in the grass.
-I think I could be a bike delivery guy for a while.
-My brother is a good writer, and I admmmire his succinct pensiveness.
-I turned down a free vacation the other day. What is wrong with me!?
-I made kick ass open faced egg sandwiches today in the comfort of my home. I also made a breakfast burrito with pre-cooked, then frozen, then reheated, scrambled eggs. Pita Pit uses sysco, I said it. I know almost all institutions and many food service places use the big companies like sysco and aramark, but I also know how much better freshly scrambled, never frozen, eggs are, even if they came from Jack's Egg Farm in Brooklyn via the Russian Bazaar on Cambridge street in Allston. Jillian Mary, can I get a witness?
you got me
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