A project in process:
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Sidi Ifni, Morocco // November 2018
Sidi Ifni.
I want to remember the full moon and the silver ocean blending with the sand and the sky. That feeling of the sublime. The mist when we arrived. The white washed flatness of the town.
I want to remember Hotel Suerte Loca on first arrival, the feeling of coming home. I want to remember Restaurant Nomad and their sly acts of rebellion; the banned red wine fetched from somewhere secret; the woman with the dreads and the artist with the ego; the waiter with his songs and his strong Saharan pride.
I want to remember how we woke up the next day in the open-air riad with the blue detailing on the walls. The walk along the beach. The dark grey tidepools to my left. The sea urchins, crabs, and fishermen. The mist that never lifted. The red, purple, deep magenta rocky cliffs to my right. How they twisted and turned in a protective loom from above. None of us speaking, quiet smiles instead. The man who shared his hashish in the quaint cave and the many warnings of the rising tides. The reminder of how quickly the ocean’s beauty can turn deadly.
And the mist.
The mist remaining.
How it seemed to follow.
Sidi Ifni.
I want to remember the full moon and the silver ocean blending with the sand and the sky. That feeling of the sublime. The mist when we arrived. The white washed flatness of the town.
I want to remember Hotel Suerte Loca on first arrival, the feeling of coming home. I want to remember Restaurant Nomad and their sly acts of rebellion; the banned red wine fetched from somewhere secret; the woman with the dreads and the artist with the ego; the waiter with his songs and his strong Saharan pride.
I want to remember how we woke up the next day in the open-air riad with the blue detailing on the walls. The walk along the beach. The dark grey tidepools to my left. The sea urchins, crabs, and fishermen. The mist that never lifted. The red, purple, deep magenta rocky cliffs to my right. How they twisted and turned in a protective loom from above. None of us speaking, quiet smiles instead. The man who shared his hashish in the quaint cave and the many warnings of the rising tides. The reminder of how quickly the ocean’s beauty can turn deadly.
And the mist.
The mist remaining.
How it seemed to follow.
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First stop (above): Rabat, Morocco. 2018.
Warm and open, a home in the medina.
I learned here that true love given is the same as recieved.
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Then (below): Montreil-sur-Mer, France. 2020-21.
A blanket of lockdowns, long walks by the sea.
An opportunity to study the mind and its kinks for which I am grateful.
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Montreuil-sur-mer, France // Oct 2020
Full cups just beyond my reach.
Full cups just beyond my reach.
I thirst,
I seek,
I fall back to sleep.
There’s a storm churning. It’s been churning for a few days.
They’ve been bickering more. She’s stressed. He’s sick and scared. I feel upside down when I feel what he feels; dizzy, blurry edges, muffled sounds.
Heat lightning tonight.
A pause, then pounding thunder-
The thing is still brewing, the wind blowing,
But no rain yet.
I think about the forest fires,
And human moods reflecting nature’s swellings,
And I go out to turn the lights off in the trees.
I look up-
More forks of lightning above-
We’re in a heat wave.
All this burning, it’s transforming and a lot of it scares me.
...
It’s raining finally,
The sound soothes.
I’m watching the water fall in droplets into the pool.
And I feel like the ripples are waving, telling me goodbye,
“The rain is so welcome, it is so wonderful,” his words curve downward at their ends.
He looks so tired.
He asks me if I remember how to lock the door.
Homps, France // July 2022Toulouse, France // Oct 2021 - May 2022
my love, my life,
