Ssalam Alekum
Ssalam Alekum - I'm back in Orzazate after two weeks without contact and communication, and so reflection is long overdue for me, and all you family and friends who have been so kind in your emails and your letters deserve updates on my life, which becomes more and more strange and unrooted each passing day.
Since I last contacted you all I returned to Ait Ben Haddou for 4 days with my host family which becomes more and more comfortable though communication is still naturally weak. A highlight of those few days was a late night trip to the Kasbah to play Ganowa music with Nordin and his friend Hussein who is a wonderful artist and a quiet though enchanted soul. His walls were decorated from top to bottom with paintings, blue men on horseback charging towards the viewer, depictions of the old city, landscapes, all commercial for tourists, but all somehow capturing the spirit and culture of this place and these people, who hold fierce ties to their way of life. His music, all in 5/4 time, singing the notes he plays, no chords, quarter-step differentials, on a three string guitar with a plastic pen used like a kapo, to give each note a buzzy twang, with others chanting around him, "express", "express", and me playing mandolin, to my own ears in keeping with the feel and mood and notes, to theirs a confused effort like my language, comic, then annoying, then interesting. Jumping from sandbag to sandbag across a river, no moon, guided by constellations, the saharan cross which is a compass to those traveling through the desert, Hussein explains, roughly, mapping the stars with rocks on the mountainside, into which his house was built 500 years ago while Magellen was off at sea, and Enlightenment thinking was preparing to give birth to Western Civilization. Laughing, Nordin the actor, mumtil I called him to everyone's delight, Hussein the creator, me the comedian at my best, the wanderer at my worst. Alone and failing despite their attempted explanations to see the joke I had just made, giving up, "rmig, rig adgent, la sul ahuzayz, la sul tashlihit, afek", twisting my hand aside my ear as if driving in a screw. im tired, i want to go to bed, no more music, no more tashlihit, please...its making me crazy.
The following night we went to another friends house to help build a roof of bamboo, mud, cement, and a plastic tarp, blue. I left for I began to feel uncomfortable with this man, who seemed to mock me. Seemed. Intuition is a miserable means(philosophically speaking) of discerning anothers sentiment in and of itself, but it is all I have to go on here. I went and had tea with Paul and his family and we discussed salt mines up river, and the cost and methods of distillation and his son whose right eye is clouded over, blind, in need of American care, in need of a visa, would I help please, me unable of course. lla shyll - may god make your life easier. sounds like life is hell. went home and played cards and music with abdulawhad, home from school in orzazate, kind, intellegent, and withheld.
Last week the pace of life slowed down a great deal. Field trip to stay in Toubkal with a current volunteer, one year into his training. Bus to marakesh, taxi to Asni, then wait 3 hours before the first taxi to take us the last 9 km. Would have walked if we'd known of course. Arrived late, and cooked hot dogs for dinner. played chess, played music. Talked about his life. No rule that he hasn't broken. Not a rebellious kid, not a model volunteer. Just trying to get by and hang onto what he knows. Determined to finish. Implementing a fairly big water project to bring tap water to a village divided in to because ten years ago investors brought water to the lower village to attract tourists and put up resorts, leaving the upper village to fend for themselves. Nearly 400 people his project will benefit. Two resevoirs, all the water meters in place, all the piping lines drawn, just waiting for the grant money to come through. Visited a gazelle and big horn sheep reserve, low population count because 8 years ago all the animals got out and were either killed or lost. none recovered. Berbers like to hunt and the Water and Forest is undermanned and ussually indifferent.
Marakesh last night, 3 bottles of wine, negotiated with above average language skills. Marakesh is an enchanting city, a city with a pulse, and these are few and far between no matter what part of the world you find yourself in. snake charmers, music festival atmosphere, lost in a maze most of the time, hashish, me leading others through it all with my shirt which reads "you'll never get out of this maze" others following it, annoying overconfidant me with their concerns about place and time and policy and rules and dangers. They are scared to see me so unafraid and free, and I am scared that their fear might at any moment descend upon me and leave me asking myself where I am, what I am going to do...looking for a way out. A polish woman finds us, perhaps in her early thirties with bright blue eyes, penatrating, amazing, and hair already beginning to grey. She alone for two weeks in Morocco, backpacking, trying to see everything, meet new people. She spent 6 months in northern India teaching English. Familiar with Dostoevsky. Unfamiliar that Americans could be as well. "Ussually when I am travelling, Americans are the last white people that I will meet up with, for they are closed minded and hide themselves away. No desire to get to know other people." Me thinking what could she believe in if we Americans are set in our beliefs, for I have begun to fear our blankslate tradition relativism driven towards nihilism, protected against it by our physics and our optimism that things really are better today than they have ever been before, and tomorrow we'll be even better. Only economic depression can kill the Dream. Or lull us awake for a little while.
Forgive the voice, those of you unfamiliar with it. I felt I needed a little bit more literary freedom than I have previously permitted myself. I will be returning to Ait Ben Haddou on tuesday after a tree-planting project tomorrow. Furthermore, this thursday is the birthday of the Prophet, an important Islamic holiday, and I will be celebrating it with my Moroccan family. I have not looked ahead past that on the schedule, but I will be in touch, and will have electricity and rizzo, so feel free to call. Hope all is well. I miss you all.
Brother -
You've been on my mind a great deal as always, and perhaps more than ussual, for I always find that my heart and mind turn to you when I am challenged and lost. I received a letter from C.R. today which posed a question to me that cut me to the quick, and unable to respond I chose to drink his question away in hopes that it would lead me to a more honest place with you. Three hours later, I find myself here, on a rooftop looking out over all the emptiness of the sahara desert, listening to the alien drunken shouts that seem to dissolve as soon as they are released. Chris asked me why I was not able to have a conversation with you the night before I left charlotte. He told me it weighs heavily upon you. How can I say to such an inquisition that the whole of my life is a dialogue with you. And am I even able to defend the legitimacy of that dialogue when the actual communication which ties our temporal worlds together ceases to exist. I here you there. You accustomed to putting your voice to paper and me feeling daily that I am losing the fluidity of my thought amidst the foreign voices which fill my head. I can only say that you are in my heart as I walk through what are often difficult days for me and the assumption that the same holds true for you is one which is beyond consideration for me. I do not dare raise doubt on this matter. And if perhaps I robbed both you and I of something essential in not permitting our spirits one more convergence that evening, it was only because you were to remain even after the others had departed, though distance stands between us. This appears to me now as cowardice, though at the time it was certainly emotional exaustion after an agonizingly beautiful night of goodbyes(how could I have said goodbye to you first) And at the end of the night and the following morning, what words would have been unearthed that would have escaped that miserable realm of saccarine sweet cliches, and exausted apologies, and yes yes yes everything and nothing. I cannot answer this question with any certainty, but I have observed that I choose to build my most important relationships on silence and understanding. I believe you know this of me. For better or worse, it is me, and now more than ever, for my life is a silence, albeit a frantic displaced comedy where I find myself hanging on every word of the most borgeouis surface conversations and repeating words like rock (azzru) and river (wissef) and I'm full (shabaH) in fear that I will need them later. Silence is my sanctuary, though it is lonely and of dubious merit.
I do however wish to share with you a thought I had late yesterday evening, following a brief reverie over morrocan wine and dostoevsky with a well educated polish lass on a hotel terrace in marakesh. (despite chris's hypothosis, women it would seem are more in and of themselves than a mere social phenomenon, though perhaps this is more apparent when one's dealings are with continental women.) we as Americans or perhaps participants within a liberal democracy, care little for truth it would seem, our principle concern being our capacity to manipulate nature not according to our needs or even our reality but in allignment with weimer republic/nietzscean ambitions, new gods, man gods, hallowing and worshiping whatever shadows confront us within the abyss of modern self, humorous or horrific, contradictory or self-validating, theraputic or revolutionary. forgive me, for this is not the intended subject of this letter, though I wish as always to encourage you to ground reality within nature, and the nature that is a part of our self, without falling into the trap of reducing self. For nature is the ideal which should be cherished most when it withholds itself from man's corrupting hand, and without the truth that nature reflects, we have only man's manipulations of himself to hallow as art and call clever and innovative and new. In short, affirming the classical in every possible romantic way. this is indeed a shortcoming of mine, but one which I shall not concern myself with any longer for this letter is for you, and chris shall remain a witness.
Written on the first page of my Tashlihit notebook under my name Bn-Jamil (translated (imperative) build beautiful OR shepherd)...
What is the whole of friendship divided in two but man in his completeness; the yearning for perfection balanced with the realization of degradation.
Do write to me when you receive this, and tell me of your life, your thoughts and your art, and of the unity in which these three stand balanced. I miss you more than any.
Since I last contacted you all I returned to Ait Ben Haddou for 4 days with my host family which becomes more and more comfortable though communication is still naturally weak. A highlight of those few days was a late night trip to the Kasbah to play Ganowa music with Nordin and his friend Hussein who is a wonderful artist and a quiet though enchanted soul. His walls were decorated from top to bottom with paintings, blue men on horseback charging towards the viewer, depictions of the old city, landscapes, all commercial for tourists, but all somehow capturing the spirit and culture of this place and these people, who hold fierce ties to their way of life. His music, all in 5/4 time, singing the notes he plays, no chords, quarter-step differentials, on a three string guitar with a plastic pen used like a kapo, to give each note a buzzy twang, with others chanting around him, "express", "express", and me playing mandolin, to my own ears in keeping with the feel and mood and notes, to theirs a confused effort like my language, comic, then annoying, then interesting. Jumping from sandbag to sandbag across a river, no moon, guided by constellations, the saharan cross which is a compass to those traveling through the desert, Hussein explains, roughly, mapping the stars with rocks on the mountainside, into which his house was built 500 years ago while Magellen was off at sea, and Enlightenment thinking was preparing to give birth to Western Civilization. Laughing, Nordin the actor, mumtil I called him to everyone's delight, Hussein the creator, me the comedian at my best, the wanderer at my worst. Alone and failing despite their attempted explanations to see the joke I had just made, giving up, "rmig, rig adgent, la sul ahuzayz, la sul tashlihit, afek", twisting my hand aside my ear as if driving in a screw. im tired, i want to go to bed, no more music, no more tashlihit, please...its making me crazy.
The following night we went to another friends house to help build a roof of bamboo, mud, cement, and a plastic tarp, blue. I left for I began to feel uncomfortable with this man, who seemed to mock me. Seemed. Intuition is a miserable means(philosophically speaking) of discerning anothers sentiment in and of itself, but it is all I have to go on here. I went and had tea with Paul and his family and we discussed salt mines up river, and the cost and methods of distillation and his son whose right eye is clouded over, blind, in need of American care, in need of a visa, would I help please, me unable of course. lla shyll - may god make your life easier. sounds like life is hell. went home and played cards and music with abdulawhad, home from school in orzazate, kind, intellegent, and withheld.
Last week the pace of life slowed down a great deal. Field trip to stay in Toubkal with a current volunteer, one year into his training. Bus to marakesh, taxi to Asni, then wait 3 hours before the first taxi to take us the last 9 km. Would have walked if we'd known of course. Arrived late, and cooked hot dogs for dinner. played chess, played music. Talked about his life. No rule that he hasn't broken. Not a rebellious kid, not a model volunteer. Just trying to get by and hang onto what he knows. Determined to finish. Implementing a fairly big water project to bring tap water to a village divided in to because ten years ago investors brought water to the lower village to attract tourists and put up resorts, leaving the upper village to fend for themselves. Nearly 400 people his project will benefit. Two resevoirs, all the water meters in place, all the piping lines drawn, just waiting for the grant money to come through. Visited a gazelle and big horn sheep reserve, low population count because 8 years ago all the animals got out and were either killed or lost. none recovered. Berbers like to hunt and the Water and Forest is undermanned and ussually indifferent.
Marakesh last night, 3 bottles of wine, negotiated with above average language skills. Marakesh is an enchanting city, a city with a pulse, and these are few and far between no matter what part of the world you find yourself in. snake charmers, music festival atmosphere, lost in a maze most of the time, hashish, me leading others through it all with my shirt which reads "you'll never get out of this maze" others following it, annoying overconfidant me with their concerns about place and time and policy and rules and dangers. They are scared to see me so unafraid and free, and I am scared that their fear might at any moment descend upon me and leave me asking myself where I am, what I am going to do...looking for a way out. A polish woman finds us, perhaps in her early thirties with bright blue eyes, penatrating, amazing, and hair already beginning to grey. She alone for two weeks in Morocco, backpacking, trying to see everything, meet new people. She spent 6 months in northern India teaching English. Familiar with Dostoevsky. Unfamiliar that Americans could be as well. "Ussually when I am travelling, Americans are the last white people that I will meet up with, for they are closed minded and hide themselves away. No desire to get to know other people." Me thinking what could she believe in if we Americans are set in our beliefs, for I have begun to fear our blankslate tradition relativism driven towards nihilism, protected against it by our physics and our optimism that things really are better today than they have ever been before, and tomorrow we'll be even better. Only economic depression can kill the Dream. Or lull us awake for a little while.
Forgive the voice, those of you unfamiliar with it. I felt I needed a little bit more literary freedom than I have previously permitted myself. I will be returning to Ait Ben Haddou on tuesday after a tree-planting project tomorrow. Furthermore, this thursday is the birthday of the Prophet, an important Islamic holiday, and I will be celebrating it with my Moroccan family. I have not looked ahead past that on the schedule, but I will be in touch, and will have electricity and rizzo, so feel free to call. Hope all is well. I miss you all.
Brother -
You've been on my mind a great deal as always, and perhaps more than ussual, for I always find that my heart and mind turn to you when I am challenged and lost. I received a letter from C.R. today which posed a question to me that cut me to the quick, and unable to respond I chose to drink his question away in hopes that it would lead me to a more honest place with you. Three hours later, I find myself here, on a rooftop looking out over all the emptiness of the sahara desert, listening to the alien drunken shouts that seem to dissolve as soon as they are released. Chris asked me why I was not able to have a conversation with you the night before I left charlotte. He told me it weighs heavily upon you. How can I say to such an inquisition that the whole of my life is a dialogue with you. And am I even able to defend the legitimacy of that dialogue when the actual communication which ties our temporal worlds together ceases to exist. I here you there. You accustomed to putting your voice to paper and me feeling daily that I am losing the fluidity of my thought amidst the foreign voices which fill my head. I can only say that you are in my heart as I walk through what are often difficult days for me and the assumption that the same holds true for you is one which is beyond consideration for me. I do not dare raise doubt on this matter. And if perhaps I robbed both you and I of something essential in not permitting our spirits one more convergence that evening, it was only because you were to remain even after the others had departed, though distance stands between us. This appears to me now as cowardice, though at the time it was certainly emotional exaustion after an agonizingly beautiful night of goodbyes(how could I have said goodbye to you first) And at the end of the night and the following morning, what words would have been unearthed that would have escaped that miserable realm of saccarine sweet cliches, and exausted apologies, and yes yes yes everything and nothing. I cannot answer this question with any certainty, but I have observed that I choose to build my most important relationships on silence and understanding. I believe you know this of me. For better or worse, it is me, and now more than ever, for my life is a silence, albeit a frantic displaced comedy where I find myself hanging on every word of the most borgeouis surface conversations and repeating words like rock (azzru) and river (wissef) and I'm full (shabaH) in fear that I will need them later. Silence is my sanctuary, though it is lonely and of dubious merit.
I do however wish to share with you a thought I had late yesterday evening, following a brief reverie over morrocan wine and dostoevsky with a well educated polish lass on a hotel terrace in marakesh. (despite chris's hypothosis, women it would seem are more in and of themselves than a mere social phenomenon, though perhaps this is more apparent when one's dealings are with continental women.) we as Americans or perhaps participants within a liberal democracy, care little for truth it would seem, our principle concern being our capacity to manipulate nature not according to our needs or even our reality but in allignment with weimer republic/nietzscean ambitions, new gods, man gods, hallowing and worshiping whatever shadows confront us within the abyss of modern self, humorous or horrific, contradictory or self-validating, theraputic or revolutionary. forgive me, for this is not the intended subject of this letter, though I wish as always to encourage you to ground reality within nature, and the nature that is a part of our self, without falling into the trap of reducing self. For nature is the ideal which should be cherished most when it withholds itself from man's corrupting hand, and without the truth that nature reflects, we have only man's manipulations of himself to hallow as art and call clever and innovative and new. In short, affirming the classical in every possible romantic way. this is indeed a shortcoming of mine, but one which I shall not concern myself with any longer for this letter is for you, and chris shall remain a witness.
Written on the first page of my Tashlihit notebook under my name Bn-Jamil (translated (imperative) build beautiful OR shepherd)...
What is the whole of friendship divided in two but man in his completeness; the yearning for perfection balanced with the realization of degradation.
Do write to me when you receive this, and tell me of your life, your thoughts and your art, and of the unity in which these three stand balanced. I miss you more than any.
posted by benjamin at 6:18 AM
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