with memories & an imagination, what can we not create?

today i am sitting at a table on a patio in the place known as atlit. i am waiting for to find a song for me – the one that inspired the title of this post. in the meantime, my ears are full of the reel of a small motored garden tool, something moving through the air – a helicopter? or just the mild, distant turbulence of ground traffic sound waves cutting across the football field length between me & the highway.

deezer is failing me.

men’s voices. the operatic call of hebrew – the surge of the small motor again – the whoosh of a truck on the highway – someone’s front door shutting – the song that deezer cannot search quickly enough to offer me singing itself in my head, and with it, images from a room two years in the past unfolding like a badly written journal page –

arabic. how can i tell? a weight in the gutteral tones.

dear god: let me become a linguistic anthropologist. let me understand how it came to be that we could not understand each other.

for a moment i hear johnny cash the dog padding by outside the gate, but it is some conglomeration of other sounds. bird sounds. a breeze in the stiff greens that heave out of the dry ground. a tapping of tools on another patio nearby, echoing.

flies land on my shoulders, small ants crawl near my elbows, there is an itch on my ankle.

coffee & place make me frenetic. the sea is nearby – if she were a woman, i would keep my distance from her today. if she were a woman & i met that sea today, i would shove her, cry out shrilly to her, blame her for her haughtiness – just think of how many languages she knows, she has known & still she will not deign to make cousins of the men and women of her shores.

in israel, in atlit, a small settlement – a huddling together of residences with a highway running below a low rift of hills for a view – i am sitting on a patio – you can think of me playing a little song about a walk in paris, since that is how i started my morning. a paris song, bread & cheese, a cup of nes. you will notice, in your imaginings, that i am also accumulating frustration with each fly that makes a landing on my bare skin, sending my arms flailing to send their six legs into the wind.


About scribblelip

walking down the road with a book of conjugations in my hand.
This entry was posted in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s