Tuesday, April 28, 2009

From the Jungian Archetypical Landscape of Nightmares and Parkinglots

...its only 4am:
I awake to a dream in which I am holding or clinging, in some humiliating begging style, to Barts knees while he sits in a chair - sobbing into his lap because he and Gert are going to sell the house and I can't buy it for the price they could get for it on the market over there.

Bart tells me "...you can never,
never come back, etc..."
My heart hurts - it just doesn't stop - this heart - the beats or this pain.
Before also:
Dreamt I was in the Ardennen/Ardennes trying to drive in those hills and valley's during rain and fog and heavy dark low looming clouds.
I commented to Bart that I forgot how not flat Belgium was.
Now: Here in my Ohio waken life.... before sunrise...
....lost in a test market city
stuck in retail with no way out.
Like Bart came and went
Into my life and fifteen years of my life just vanished like they never happened
I just cant bare any of this interior pain...
...during the day or night
I ache - my heart aches
My hair is nearly blond again from the Ohio spring sun, my face brown and older looking
I do not recognize myself or where I am.
I speak the language but do not understand anyone. I wonder does anyone I know or don't know:
Know these depths of senseless, seemingly self inflicted, pain?
....it's probably Demonically true but I forgot one sinister dream sequence where Bart snapped back to my crying:
Speaking in implications the way that Euro-types do in cold hearted and nasty ways,


"...none of this would have happened if it wasn't for your little fad" - meaning my interest in Islam which I learned of and went on an Odysseus like experiential journey within Moroccan Brussels and then abroad to places Americans never go.

After acquainting myself with what I call the New Tangiers of the North

Meaning present day old city Brussels,

That new part of which Belgians try to ignore and pretend isn't there, yet, all that is crazy and wonderful and enchanting about the culture and people of Morocco in Brussel or Bruxelles and throughout Belgium - was what ended up intriguing me the most about old Flemish Bru-town... They, "the Marocians", like me (American ex-pal Matt) back then, we shared a common denominator - lost and stuck there in le Belgica - after having forgotten why or how we all got there: But life went on, caught up with us there anyway. Playing us out in ways we didn't like.

Now, I dream of going to al Maghreb, Maroc, Arab North Africa and on a transcontinental Saharan road trip headed East to Makkah and beyond - in some fantasy version of Nicholas de Bouvier (the 1950's euro Jack Kerouac - book, le livre en Francais, translated into English) "The Ways of the World" - Trying to be post literary Rimbaud selling guns in the Yemen of the past or building a rainbow window-ed lit house in Ethiopia of another century. In this sense my life is all different - like a wrecked car.

...all dented beyond recognition... ....if it weren't for these dreams or nightmares....
...it really would be like that Bart never came and took me away from here
as in Ohio here
saving me inadvertantly from the tyranny of the Bush II years
only to drop me off back here for the Obama Administration of our collective self empowered counter corporatist Hope and Change...
So we in G-ville could believe in ourselves again.

and I went back to where I never wanted to be
or in
or in
Ohio centrale
I forget which now.

This is when I am grateful for the mercy in ritual.

Right now, right here, as I write this: It is al Fajr - predawn prayer time in G-ville, YO'hi-O...

In that Qur'anic Arabic recitation and ritual repetition, in a foreign language I scarely know, there is comfort. Consolation, if not purpose.

I wish I could hear the call to prayer from the nearby but silent Minaret which stands aloof and in eye-sight - just down the street. A street I call Koning Albert2delaan or Avenue de la Roi Albert II - King Albert Avenue of Belgium - my street chez moi maison bleu - that here passes through what I call lil' Mogadishu: Where the minaret stands architecturally punctuating with grace this dusty third world style road I now live off of.

The birds are singing like it is the end of the world but it's just the end of one more night alone at the begining of another day. Alone again. Outside the air is fresh and a morning star or planet looms in the sky too bright and too low that it is unsettling.

Last night at Magreb time (evening prayers around dusk) - at that time just before al Fajr arrives to Makkah that I follow via Satellite - the crescent moon here hung over head in this comforting ways at twilight to be found in the tree tops.

Two raka's figuratively kiss the Earth and give thanks. Obedience yielding and returning dignity.

On a psychadelic magic carpet ride that I pray in prayer that takes me back to somewhere I have been - anywhere but here.

1 comment:

Matthew Crouch said...

Archetypical was not an accident or mispelling. I like recombining words - archetype becomes in Ohio southern dialect more meaningful when combined with typical into Arch-i-typical... it's humorous. Like the word Repuglikkkans...
repugnant republicans who don't even remember what the party of Lincoln was really about...