Amir
Each night had a name as long as it lasted. There was the Arab Sea, the Red Sea, the Indian Ocean, the Bab AlMandab, the Suez Canal, the morning when you woke up and knew from the absence of vibrations that you were advancing through the sand. But above all there was the ocean. Around which people lived, slept, enveloped and prayed.
What can I say about a goldfish that died. That he was my companion, confidant, my "borg", pillar of strength, and curious. Immensity of tenderness. I am sitting here and thinking of the evenings we watched the TV, I in my blue chair, Amir from his oval shaped fish bowl. Dialy news, Indian movies, Devdas, Taj Mahal, Ethiopian top of the pops, Egyptian soap operas, interviews, pictures from Yemen. What it would think of the aftermath of the events.
But I have gone ahead of the story.
Sometime last January when Eid AlFitr was over, on an early spring day, I walked down the road to the House of Scents and bought a glass fishbowl with goldfish in it. I placed it on my white desk near the window overlooking the street and named it: Amir. It was about the time when, the apricot begun to show the first white blossoms prior arrival of the monsoon rains which wash the terraces. .
The rains here have the courtesy to wait mostly for the afternoon and are responsible for the rich greenery that colors evening, series of deep valleys. Below labyrinth of shops, restaurants, hotels. A feel of breeze, rain drops, scent of flowers, warming oranges of sunrise. The sun, the moon, the first star at night, twinkling stars at night, the monthly full moon, brunches in the garden
šIt is an gratifying experience, to emerge from under a thick canopy of blankets. I awake in a state in which I am aware of my five senses. The feel and taste of Life is sensed, not through the grandness of concrete establishments, but in the simplicity and fluidity of Being. Of being alive, of being wherever you may be and making the best out of it.
When my eyes open, they squint at the light rays escaping through the gaps of the window blinds before they stare more widely at the white-washed ceiling. I wake up as early as 6 o’clock in the morning, knowing that I have the whole of a long morning, afternoon and night ahead of me, to celebrate living and working before the eventual rest that marks the closure of an ordinary day.
Amir made his presence felt by a strong and silent presence, standing on the sidelines and watch from a distance. Immensity of tenderness. Two eyes that could laugh, were sad or mediating beyond horizon. Eyes like two buttons of gold glued on the face. When afternoon sun shone through the window, Amir mirrored in a million shades of gold. Wet kiss on the glass.
To look is to feel curious, to be interested. And Amir’s looks were always demarcaning. I could well imagine why the Chinese emperors choose to have a gold fish as companion. As Amir, they used to mirror the sun as labyrinth of spirals, the trees line up with an order never found in nature and the rose appears as dreamlike.
Yet it is this unconditional love that gives confidence and stills your fears. It brings out the best by seeing into the hearts and recognizing best intentions. Like the bass line in a musical score by setting the rhythm and anchoring the chord. Delighting with flowers and fruit, one is able to feel the currents, tides and trends. Like a master sailor handling a boat, you are able to take advantage of forces at work and set your sails to take you to your goals.
What I am doing now is both different and the same. Before were clear periods, those of which the light and night fell. There is a monsoon storm blowing, The wind is raging outside. Sum of voices, movements, mournful, dim on the street outside
The smell of the city is the smell of the villages. The sound of the city is so near, so close. It sounds as if they are all going through the room. As the sea, the immensity, gathering, receding, returning, she shrieks in the desert of life. Around which people lived, enveloped, slept and prayed.
.
On the side walks below the crowd is going in all direction. Slow or fast forcing its way. The way they are alone in the crowd. Going along without seeming to, without meaning too – just going this way. Never alone even by themselves, always alone even in the crowd.
Those evenings with Amir were all the same. It is as if nobody had heard – nobody had spoken. Founders of silence. Never any talk. Never any need to talk. Everything always silent, distant. Like the Chinese emperors. We were united in a fundamental fact, to live. .
Finally hope was given up. Like the struggle against the sea. I look out the window at the mountains of Yemen, brown and dusty, now almost black. Where dusk fell at the same time all the year around. In the rainy season, for days you couldn’t see the sky. In the dry season, though, the sky was bare, completely free of cloud, naked. Even moonless nights were light. And the shadows were clear cut as ever on the ground, water and roads. The light of the sun blurred and annihilated all color.
But the night I remember, the blue was distant than the sky. Beyond all depths, covering sounds of the world. We’d drove out to see the night as it was in the dry season. The light feel form the sky. Torrents of silence and immobility. The air was blue; you could hold it in your hand. Blue.
The night lit up everything! Each night had a name as long as it lasted. There was the Arab Sea, the Red Sea, the Indian Ocean, The Bab AlMandab, the Suez Canal, the morning when you woke up and knew from the absence of vibrations that you were advancing through the sand. But above all there was the ocean. Around which people lived, slept enveloped and prayed. A immensity of tenderness.
Love does not end if one goes places or is no longer around.
I miss you, Amir!
But I have gone ahead of the story.
Sometime last January when Eid AlFitr was over, on an early spring day, I walked down the road to the House of Scents and bought a glass fishbowl with goldfish in it. I placed it on my white desk near the window overlooking the street and named it: Amir. It was about the time when, the apricot begun to show the first white blossoms prior arrival of the monsoon rains which wash the terraces. .
The rains here have the courtesy to wait mostly for the afternoon and are responsible for the rich greenery that colors evening, series of deep valleys. Below labyrinth of shops, restaurants, hotels. A feel of breeze, rain drops, scent of flowers, warming oranges of sunrise. The sun, the moon, the first star at night, twinkling stars at night, the monthly full moon, brunches in the garden
šIt is an gratifying experience, to emerge from under a thick canopy of blankets. I awake in a state in which I am aware of my five senses. The feel and taste of Life is sensed, not through the grandness of concrete establishments, but in the simplicity and fluidity of Being. Of being alive, of being wherever you may be and making the best out of it.
When my eyes open, they squint at the light rays escaping through the gaps of the window blinds before they stare more widely at the white-washed ceiling. I wake up as early as 6 o’clock in the morning, knowing that I have the whole of a long morning, afternoon and night ahead of me, to celebrate living and working before the eventual rest that marks the closure of an ordinary day.
Amir made his presence felt by a strong and silent presence, standing on the sidelines and watch from a distance. Immensity of tenderness. Two eyes that could laugh, were sad or mediating beyond horizon. Eyes like two buttons of gold glued on the face. When afternoon sun shone through the window, Amir mirrored in a million shades of gold. Wet kiss on the glass.
To look is to feel curious, to be interested. And Amir’s looks were always demarcaning. I could well imagine why the Chinese emperors choose to have a gold fish as companion. As Amir, they used to mirror the sun as labyrinth of spirals, the trees line up with an order never found in nature and the rose appears as dreamlike.
Yet it is this unconditional love that gives confidence and stills your fears. It brings out the best by seeing into the hearts and recognizing best intentions. Like the bass line in a musical score by setting the rhythm and anchoring the chord. Delighting with flowers and fruit, one is able to feel the currents, tides and trends. Like a master sailor handling a boat, you are able to take advantage of forces at work and set your sails to take you to your goals.
What I am doing now is both different and the same. Before were clear periods, those of which the light and night fell. There is a monsoon storm blowing, The wind is raging outside. Sum of voices, movements, mournful, dim on the street outside
The smell of the city is the smell of the villages. The sound of the city is so near, so close. It sounds as if they are all going through the room. As the sea, the immensity, gathering, receding, returning, she shrieks in the desert of life. Around which people lived, enveloped, slept and prayed.
.
On the side walks below the crowd is going in all direction. Slow or fast forcing its way. The way they are alone in the crowd. Going along without seeming to, without meaning too – just going this way. Never alone even by themselves, always alone even in the crowd.
Those evenings with Amir were all the same. It is as if nobody had heard – nobody had spoken. Founders of silence. Never any talk. Never any need to talk. Everything always silent, distant. Like the Chinese emperors. We were united in a fundamental fact, to live. .
Finally hope was given up. Like the struggle against the sea. I look out the window at the mountains of Yemen, brown and dusty, now almost black. Where dusk fell at the same time all the year around. In the rainy season, for days you couldn’t see the sky. In the dry season, though, the sky was bare, completely free of cloud, naked. Even moonless nights were light. And the shadows were clear cut as ever on the ground, water and roads. The light of the sun blurred and annihilated all color.
But the night I remember, the blue was distant than the sky. Beyond all depths, covering sounds of the world. We’d drove out to see the night as it was in the dry season. The light feel form the sky. Torrents of silence and immobility. The air was blue; you could hold it in your hand. Blue.
The night lit up everything! Each night had a name as long as it lasted. There was the Arab Sea, the Red Sea, the Indian Ocean, The Bab AlMandab, the Suez Canal, the morning when you woke up and knew from the absence of vibrations that you were advancing through the sand. But above all there was the ocean. Around which people lived, slept enveloped and prayed. A immensity of tenderness.
Love does not end if one goes places or is no longer around.
I miss you, Amir!
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