MOROCCO

And it was like this. I didn’t know what it was but I knew that whatever it was was something that I liked and that it would continue to go on even after I stopped liking it. And something else was coming on that seemed to intrude upon the mood but didn’t intrude upon the mood at all and only complemented it. And it was continuing the same and not the same and I liked that about it because I didn’t want the same and the same and then the same as I’d already had too much of that. And it was enough. And it seemed about to stop, but instead it was continuing, continuing to continue even if I wasn’t ready for that as it did not take me into account. And I also liked that about it. I liked that a lot. I even thought I might be in Morocco, though I had no idea about Morocco, or very little idea about Morocco, as I had never been to Morocco or even been close to being in Morocco. I closed my eyes and was taking in the atmosphere, the atmosphere of Morocco and not Morocco. I was translating Morocco or my idea of Morocco by having no idea about Morocco, but only a mood about Morocco, though I was calling it “Morocco,” although I knew that it was something else, and also that this didn’t matter as for a few moments it actually was Morocco or at least an atmosphere of Morocco and the fog was coming in and we were being warned by something in the atmosphere that very subtly had changed although the fog itself was not and would not at any point become visible. And I felt a deep longing for something like the stutter of a car engine that could not be started but was nonetheless holding on and stuttering itself into another kind of being, a moving being that could not move at all and yet felt right to me and I was responding to an echo in the stutter that I could not articulate, an off color that was not a joke but an absorbing of itself into a larger canvas than I was capable of looking at at once, all of it at once. It was an instant that was not an ounce of anything. And this instant kept insisting in its no longer Moroccan way that I might be onto something or that this something may be onto me or maybe someone else, somebody else, as it might very easily just pass me by without an interruption of its stutter as another way of being what it was and not itself.