the Garden of Omar
Flashback. Couple of weeks ago I'm in Marrakesh, watching the snake men in the market... gambling on the camel races... buying carpets that may or may not be forwarded to L.A. I'm in a slow manic drift, a dream spiral, thinking of Hendrix and wondering if I'll run into Brian Jones... as I'm sure neither of these two rockers are really dead, just hanging out in Morocco... stoned transcendental slaves to the mysterious occult of dope, desert, and Moorish music. Boy sopranos of the hashish dens, pipe orchestras of the Atlas... phantom vocalists of the star desert and ex-pat avant gardists dedicated to the 21st harmonic. I carry these images like a gambler carries a deck of cards.
But... somehow none of this is working for me. Marrakesh is almost civilized... a theme park for the unbelievers with bucks, a merchant mall like any other. Maybe it's because I'm alone. I'm looking inward, as we all need to do at key moments in a life... but reality keeps getting in the way.
Was staying in a boutique hotel called The Garden of Omar. Nice. This is where I run into Kate. Thought it was my sister, no kidding.
This is when I take my cell, throw it in the fountain with the gold fish.
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