Through the Dark

i wrote some stuff but it was all scrap so I started over. this is a draft, but so is everything.

Hi reader. It’s been a while. Have you missed me? I’ve been missing me.

I meant to write from roof of my school in Rabat, but the sun blinded me, so I did cartwheels instead. I meant to write from the bus to Ben Smim, and then a week later on the bus to Agadir, but I got carsick, so I slept instead. I meant to write from the train up to Asilah, but I stared out the window for three and half hours and listened to The Shins instead (ditto for the ride back).

I want to tell you a lot of things; I want to write pleasantries and “wish you were here”s. I want to tell you how stunning the clouds are. Cumulus, cirrus, doesn’t matter what kind; they are stunning and every day I dream of floating away on one. I want to tell you about the church Jess found in Rabat, about the simple stained glass and franciscan cross; about how much peace I found in those pews. I want to tell you all about the winding walls of the medina I live in, how cats lurk around every bend, how they make me uneasy and sneezy. About the discomfort of every fifth guy winking at me in the street, about the comfort of my host mom’s cornbread, jam, and eggs. About how my host grandma sleeps in the room adjacent to mine and Jess’s, how she snores, and how one night she came home with a pet hamster named “Hamster.” I want to tell you about how the living room opens to the sky, how birds fly down to eat breadcrumbs out of a pan next to the couch. I want to tell you about the street art I bought and how psyched I am that it’s made out of recycled trash. I want to tell you I’m having a great time.

If someone told me that I wasn’t actually in Morocco, that I was actually in an industrial blender, I would be like oh, yes, that makes a lot of sense……

 I saw hundreds of cases of plastic water bottles, shrink wrapped in more plastic, in a bottling company that exploits its workers and natural resources despite widespread drought in the region: set to “shred.” I held a packet of hybrid seeds and listened to the farmer discuss how the seed company, in conjunction with national agricultural policies, forces him to grow a single type of tomato based on market interest, how it won’t grow without pesticides sold by that company, and how the plants aren’t pollinated by local bees, but rather by mail order bees from, yep, the same company: set to “pulverize.” I saw french colonialism booming in the form of a lavish resort, but I ignored the contradictions because the pool looked inviting and the cocktails were complimentary: set to “puree.” My brain whirs. Constantly. Every now I hear a crack, followed by some grinding, a surprise piece of ice I’d thought had melted, then back to whirring.

Last night I took a shower. On my way upstairs, I looked up at the moon. I laid down on my couch-bed and recited the first two pages of “The Very Hungry Caterpillar” to Jess. (In the light of the moon, a little egg lay on a leaf. One day the warm sun came up and pop out of the egg crawled a very tiny, and very hungry caterpillar. He started to look for some food.) I closed my eyes and tried to allow for some settling. But even as I was still—as I rarely am—I could feel these last days, weeks, months stirring around inside.


and as per usual, a music suggestion from my playlists of the past: 

I used to talk with honest conviction of how I predicted my world

I’m gonna leave it to stargazers, tell me what your telescope says.



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