"I dream of a hard and brutal mysticism in which the naked self merges with the nonhuman world and somehow survives...Paradox and bedrock."-Edward Abbey

30 January 2011

In the Moroccan Shadows

Porcelain kisses from a China doll face. A kabuki mask of amore, even if only for the moment. A half-remembered dream from a very long time ago. I don't think I got the name, or if I did, I no longer recall, but her eyes were like abalone shells. The eyes are what I remember most, but I'm a sucker for a pretty and/or intense set of eyes. There was a silhouetted figure dancing to Moroccan rhythms through veils of jasmine scented smoke and multi-colored wall hangings and carpets.

Men supposedly smell manly. That's the lie the social construct of reality tells. More than one cat, mostly female friends, have remarked I don't smell like a man. Of course, detractors would more than likely slanderously say that's because I'm not one. Most often, the scent of incense is noticed first, then all the exotic spices I like to cook with, or perhaps tea. I might not smell like a man, but I do not require cologne neither.

Someone once remarked I had the bearing of faraway lands. Given to traveling in nexuses and the dreamtime, I thought this was a neat trick. Once upon a time, I was told I walked between worlds. That cat was tripping acid, but I catch myself wondering if she wasn't on to something, because others have shared that sentiment. To this day, I still want to know what more tastes like. More of what? Maybe one day I'll have a tangible answer to that mystery.

I knew someone whose scent was that of far away places, but that's because they'd been there in the waking. It was a scent I enjoyed. If they worn perfume, I never rightly noticed. Call me insensitive, but unless it's overpowering, bordering on marinade, I notice an individual's natural scent before anything they put over it. Often, it's that scent I go on. It can take me years to describe one's scent if queried. Sometimes, I get lucky, and know the right adjective off the bat.

Once, I fell in love with a girl who smelled of parchment and old books. How could I not? Her eyes were like those seen in a dream on a night of Moroccan shadows. That, and the scent, got my attention. An omen or coincidence, depending upon your philosophical bent. She once asked me where I'd been all her life until that moment, and I flippantly told her I was looking for her. That's okay, she said she was waiting for me.

Sometimes I dream of a cozy little places and remember silhouettes. The smell of good home-cooked meal. Adventures where time stood still or warps in pleasing ways. Moments in the Moroccan shadows. Messages in bottles, postcards, and love letters. Some real, some imagined. But since reality is, in fact, a phantasm, and I am wide awake in the dreamtime, it's all one in the same.

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