Water and words

I’m writing from Marrakech.

The minarettes gleam under an orange,  milky sky. The clouds are like frozen steam over the far atlas.morocco is a cold climate with a hot sun. the minarettes reach out for Allah in vain. He is not paying attention to us. The garden has decided not to co-operate with winter.no sex.no seed scattering but shedding it’s clothes to stand naked and celibate until the spring.

I had the joy of three Arabic plombiers having an argument about a fuite in my house for an hour this morning. At one point they had piano wire wrapped tight around their heads, about to burst. Our housekeeper looked like she had learned to smile from a book, trying to keep the peace.

The next moment I am being kissed by three men and my housekeeper. This menage a quatre means they have found accommodation. The fault is with the sulky French woman a coté who will not let anyone into her house to fix anything! So we are now blood brothers and sisters, united by a common enemy.

Now it’s quiet. All the plombiers and housekkeper have gone. The water continues to drip like a Japanese torture onto the tiled floor, a constant metronome reminding me that in Marrakech it’s talk, not action, that drives the agenda.

This morning I escaped the deluge which has now spread to the kitchen. I went for a massage (something the Marrachi do very very well). I lay on a slab guiding my genitalia away from the smooth sensual stroking with no hint of arousal. Instead I went into a reverie of just how many pretty women and men they find for TV series in America and that, because of my age, I realise half of them are dead.

I have lunch with my friend Abdel and tell him about the ongoing plumbing catastrophe. Abdel is a realist. “it’s Marrakesh”. He kisses me. “he pats my tummy, now without a gall bladder since three weeks. “now you are beautiful and sporty and you look young. Maybe I’m gay now”.

I listened to a twenty minute track again yesterday and thought about the singer, currently living in a small fishing village in the south of France. She said she is wondering whether to give up and learn to run a restaurant. I wrote to her.

“You are wondering whether to speak your mind with poetry and song or whether to learn to run a fine restaurant. It’s no choice at all. A fat angry man with nothing in his head but hatred and nothing in his veins but ice can run a restaurant and make a success of it at the expense of others who serve him.

You cannot be like that person. You have to be your potential. Where there is no choice there is no fear. That’s life.

All the best