Thursday, May 03, 2007

Because it's there


And it has carpets and mint tea -

I'm going to Morocco.

Signing myself up with the school of thought that says if you don't just pen it - schedule the damn thing and let other appointments fall about -
then it just won't happen,
I scheduled 10 days in Morocco.

Last week actually I scheduled it.

But I thought it might be a shock to the blog and so only mention it now.

(I fly in and out of Marrakech)

Now that I've gathered up my sheltering sky and Edith Wharton and booked my riad...

Morocco - more, soon.

But just so you know.

C - of the medina

2 comments:

Erin Gates said...

I am so jealous...can I hide in your luggage??

Marie-Helene Carleton said...

LOVE that you are going. I have always dreamed of it. Report back! Drink the tea, walk the souks, ride the camels, wrap yourself in scented cloths. Wonderful! When are you going?

I found something this weekend that reminded me of CircaTrade - of one of its offerings over the winter months, those great socks, which I wear at night when I read when I want to feel extra cozy.

What I found was Pablo Neruda's "Ode to My Socks" and it seemed a fitting poem for CircaTrade. Here it is. Enjoy.

"Ode to My Socks"

Maru Mori brought me
a pair
of socks
that she knit with her
shepherd's hands.
Two socks as soft
as rabbit fur.
I thrust my feet
inside them
as if they were
two
little boxes
knit
from threads
of sunset
and sheepskin.

My feet were
two woolen
fish
in those outrageous socks,
two gangly,
navy-blue sharks
impaled
on a golden thread,
two giant blackbirds,
two cannons:
thus
were my feet
honored
by
those
heavenly
socks.
They were
so beautiful
I found my feet
unlovable
for the very first time,
like two crusty old
firemen, firemen
unworthy
of that embroidered
fire,
those incandescent
socks.

Nevertheless
I fought
the sharp temptation
to put them away
the way schoolboys
put
fireflies in a bottle,
the way scholars
hoard
holy writ.
I fought
the mad urge
to lock them
in a golden
cage
and feed them birdseed
and morsels of pink melon
every day.
Like jungle
explorers
who deliver a young deer
of the rarest species
to the roasting spit
then wolf it down
in shame,
I stretched
my feet forward
and pulled on
those
gorgeous
socks,
and over them
my shoes.

So this is
the moral of my ode:
beauty is beauty
twice over
and good things are doubly
good
when you're talking about a pair of wool
socks
in the dead of winter.