Morocco Mon Amour,
I feel forgotten by you, but I can’t forget you. I can’t bury you in the cemetery of the past. It’s a hoax, this business of forgetting. J'ai interrogée mon cœur ce matin de l'architecture de l'oublier. I questioned my heart this morning of the architecture of forgetting. I think back to your near fatal car crash on the expressway from Casablanca, returning to the hotel room to be by my bedside then my deliberate attempt to get you intoxicated. My ill-advised instantaneous cure for when death flashed before you. These near misses come to pass in life; quotidien and what of memory bliss is that to left to rot, left to decay along with that expressway – left forgotten, buried in the past. And, day by day, time puts a space between your memory and that love act, that expressway and all your left with is an old faded watercolour painting of Morocco, a violent haze of ochre and tangelo light if Turner had chosen those colours. That is all that remains now, a painting in my mind of a feeling of being scorched, of touch and go, a tortured twisted raging violent wind, of water and sky of life’s lived fury coloured in ochre.
I walked over the Harbour Bridge yesterday; it has a view of one of this city’s few saving graces, the Opera House. All I saw was six lanes of metallic and the roar of petrol but I’m comforted by the rattle of the train as it passes over the bridge. With work I feel like I pass the day in perpetual silence, chained to my desk, drowning in paper. My friend said, “It’s just a job… change your attitude.” I don’t know… I’m going to continue to write to you and I will not get a reply. It will cost you 89 centimes for a stamp. It seems too much to ask…
I feel forgotten by you, but I can’t forget you. I can’t bury you in the cemetery of the past. It’s a hoax, this business of forgetting. J'ai interrogée mon cœur ce matin de l'architecture de l'oublier. I questioned my heart this morning of the architecture of forgetting. I think back to your near fatal car crash on the expressway from Casablanca, returning to the hotel room to be by my bedside then my deliberate attempt to get you intoxicated. My ill-advised instantaneous cure for when death flashed before you. These near misses come to pass in life; quotidien and what of memory bliss is that to left to rot, left to decay along with that expressway – left forgotten, buried in the past. And, day by day, time puts a space between your memory and that love act, that expressway and all your left with is an old faded watercolour painting of Morocco, a violent haze of ochre and tangelo light if Turner had chosen those colours. That is all that remains now, a painting in my mind of a feeling of being scorched, of touch and go, a tortured twisted raging violent wind, of water and sky of life’s lived fury coloured in ochre.
I walked over the Harbour Bridge yesterday; it has a view of one of this city’s few saving graces, the Opera House. All I saw was six lanes of metallic and the roar of petrol but I’m comforted by the rattle of the train as it passes over the bridge. With work I feel like I pass the day in perpetual silence, chained to my desk, drowning in paper. My friend said, “It’s just a job… change your attitude.” I don’t know… I’m going to continue to write to you and I will not get a reply. It will cost you 89 centimes for a stamp. It seems too much to ask…
I want to frame those first three months I was in Paris with you, and that month last year in Morocco. I want to hang it next to the wooden clock on the wall above my bed. Those hot nights of waiting, talking, making love with our words on Rue D’Aboukir. Waiting for you to return to my fourth-floor apartment with ice cubes for the Martini Rossato and the loud love making that would follow next to paper thin walls where I could hear the neighbours cough. Paper-thin walls never mattered in that hotel room in Morocco. Calling out “Oui”, bent over the bed and the knock of the chamber maid on the door.
What to make of all those moments of ecstasy past? I want to unfold you again, not curl up in the misery of an unanswered phone, or worse, answered with a woman’s voice. I want to smear my lipstick all over your shirt collar with my lips. I want everyone to see you are for me, like yesterday, like before and for always. I don’t want to know another man’s touch or form. I want you to keep me; to make love to me in the mornings before work. To make love so loud the neighbours blush. Oh mon objet d’amour, I will return to you and your embrace.
What to make of all these frayed threads of my heart …?
Je t’embrasse forte, (I kiss you hard)
Ta chérie
Fayroze
Je t’embrasse forte, (I kiss you hard)
Ta chérie
Fayroze
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