the old quarter
it's humid outside. sweat clings to my clothes. my throat closes up with gulps of sun. the children are running around with ice cream bars in each hand, fists slick with sickly sweet lashings of lassi. the smell is overwhelming when the dust settles around the concrete bench. the trees tower above me in a frightening way, like mean old men lecturing the mere mortals who cling to their claw-like roots. dried fruits, pollution, fresh lime, stewed beef and cigarette smoke. trash stuffed into a coke can. torn ads for whitening creams covering paper thin stalls like badly chosen paint.
i put out my first smoke of the day and rub my feet. this veil of third world culture has changed my point of view. changed my life. i crawled back into loveliness a few days ago. crawled into the sun, holding myself for fear of being over exposed instead of nurtured. i finally realized that letting go was the best answer for me, even if no one else understands why it had to be done.
and now i sit here surrounded by filthy tourists. rubbing their thick bull-like necks with blocks of ice from the communal icebox. a woman cries out in french. she has the tattoo of a chinese symbol on her wrist. i see it as she attempts to tie up her hair with a ratty shoelace. all i want to know is, what does this ceremony involve? do i need flowers in my hair and incense in the background? will we sit side by side in silence after, contemplating the stretch of rivers ahead of us. the years coursing through our veins with every beat of the city that is so old and so young all at once. stuck in the limbo of being born into the wrong generation. the beautiful, confused creatures of yesterday trying to live in the twisted rose colored life of today.
i put out my first smoke of the day and rub my feet. this veil of third world culture has changed my point of view. changed my life. i crawled back into loveliness a few days ago. crawled into the sun, holding myself for fear of being over exposed instead of nurtured. i finally realized that letting go was the best answer for me, even if no one else understands why it had to be done.
and now i sit here surrounded by filthy tourists. rubbing their thick bull-like necks with blocks of ice from the communal icebox. a woman cries out in french. she has the tattoo of a chinese symbol on her wrist. i see it as she attempts to tie up her hair with a ratty shoelace. all i want to know is, what does this ceremony involve? do i need flowers in my hair and incense in the background? will we sit side by side in silence after, contemplating the stretch of rivers ahead of us. the years coursing through our veins with every beat of the city that is so old and so young all at once. stuck in the limbo of being born into the wrong generation. the beautiful, confused creatures of yesterday trying to live in the twisted rose colored life of today.