Phantom Buffalo - Shishimumu (2005)

I don't know how to describe Phantom Buffalo. Soothing and strange. Kinda reminds me of the Flaming Lips. The lyrics, like the album cover and the song names are sometimes absurd, childish (Domestic Pet Growing Seeds, Distracting Salamander) and sometimes weird, alienating (Parasitic Wedding Vows, Ask Your Grandmother). The album starts off slow and builds up to some really intriguing pop tunes. The more you listen the more you pick up on insightful lyrics and melodies.. but it's a little disturbing, like the horizon burning in the corner.

http://www.mediafire.com/?bkm1bmbax3g

Dub Collosus - A Town Called Addis (2008)

Trippy dub music with epic chants, fat bass, soothing guitar, and funky horn/wind solos. Haven't heard anything like it.

http://www.megaupload.com/?d=OZF5TQ7Y

Take Me Away Fast

The story of a DJ who roams around West Africa talking to legends and digging for rare voodoo funk records. I can't wait for this documentary to be released.

Check out the trailer here:
http://www.trotroproductions.com/Works-in-Progress.html

Animal Collective + Vahsti Bunyan = Prospect Hummer (2005)

http://www.mediafire.com/?iblyvqn32zp

Juana Molina - Un Dia (2008)

Juana Molina, I like you.

Hypnotic, rhythmic, delicate, psychotic ambient stuff - pleasing to the ears.

http://www.mediafire.com/?uhwkzaegajz

Johnson & Jonson (2008), No Age - Nouns (2008)

http://rapidshare.com/files/156186272/J_J.zip

I have decided to change the format of this blog in the hopes of turning it into a music-sharing depot/forum. We will begin with some fresh hip-hop by the name of Johnson & Jonson and some fuzzy lo-fi punk by the name of No Age.

http://www.mediafire.com/download.php?xmjrmjjswvd

Wallenius Wilhelmsen Sightings! Wallenius!

My love,
it has been too long
since I have gazed on your form.
Your white and green hulk,
that mess of metal machinery.
Once we met on a hill outside Halifax,
in streams of upside-down trees.
I was alone on the foggy spine,
staring at the whispering seas.
You appeared out of nowhere,
your name engraved in my language.
WALLENIUS WILHEMSEN!

Fernando Moutchatcha

There are a few things I noticed about this tape other than the wicked music. First, notice the dignified Moutchatcha hat. Second, he changed his name from the Bambara name Yoro Diallo to the sort of hispanic Moutchatcha Fernando. Trois, it was his last album, so he may still be roaming the Sahara and Mali with his creepy laugh.

Check it out here:
http://www.awesometapesfromafrica.blogspot.com/

rambling

In the cities, every material thing was bent by the wind.

On the frontiers, not zombies, but real starving humans, wielding guns and bombs worth less than bread. The ones society had rejected. Caught in the dust and rain storms. Homeless, addicts, freaks, the elderly. Psychos, morons, communist utopians. Everyone who did not fit the form of the State.

Child soldiers were always on the front lines. Garrison armies guaranteed no protection.
Some were ruthless orphans with nothing to live for but the next day. Some ate bread and whispered ideas of revolution.

"Too sentimental," thought Clay. His eyes glanced up at those glaring down, his eyes on his editor, silently reading his work.
"You need more statistics," he said. "No one is going to believe this bullshit," in between sips of swirling coffee.
"Anyway, it's not even about children. Maybe our grandchildren."
The editor laughed and spat and stood up in his office. He walked past Clay down the dim, damp halls. Cameras were everywhere.

He felt sorry for Clay. These stories were never published, but he could pass it off as science fiction. There is no penalty without truth. The lives he was responsible for-- the lives that have lost meaning, and cling to fantasy, they only wanted good media. If you lived in the lens of the State you had nothing to be paranoid about, because you were monitored forever. Outside the cities, well...
Clay felt the cold in the room, like all the excitement had been extinguished from his life.
The editor crept back into his office.
"What history, what land, and some people were forced to leave it all behind!" said Clay. And how do you know?
"Outside the walls, well..."
There weren't even walls, just geo-spatial monitoring systems. You could be looked up by international sensors immediately. You could be looked at.
A percentage in a program. Eliminated by estimation. Clay had gone on for several minutes now, but he was no longer interested. This idiot had been living with them.
"There were very few illegal migrants this year," said Clay. "I think they're worried about, you know, crazies. I think the public has a right to know."

The editor knew better. The threat of airborne disease was the source of that frontier paranoia. Pretty much everything but that was licensed by the bigs.
This story could fly, if he kept out the crazy noise. Even if most of it was true, he had a hundred robots to churn out more lies. The editor sat down and told Clay not to worry, stories like this always fall through the cracks.

Crystal Castles

Some of you indie musicophiles may have heard about this up and coming Toronto band. I read about them in NOW and they are increasingly being touted as the band of the future, or simply 'the future', despite not yet releasing an album. Apparently they are blazing a path through clubs and record stores, leaving orgies of chaos and dance in their wake.

Seems to me their whole bag is based on atari-age video-game blips and beeps and every possible fucked up noise that comes out of malfunctioning household electronics. I could make some rambling philosophical argument about how their post-modern music represents the obsession and decay of our electronic society but instead I want the music to speak to you.

First let me say that I have tried many but have not yet managed to listen to an entire song. I think I made it 2/3rds of the way through one and then I reached a higher level of consciousness: Crap is crap, anyway you splice it.

People can dance to just about anything. Even me, a half-jewish boy from the burbs, did the Dakar bounce. But why/how in the world do you want to dance to something.. something without melody, or substance? And what the fuck is with her altered voice? Is she so self-conscious to not expose her real one? If this is where music is going (imo dance-techno is a rising tide) then I'm definitely going to be one of those old fogies who 'just doesn't get it'.

Carstorm

The sky was grey when I let the car slide to a stop near the old railway track. Clouds and wind talked and made me wonder if a storm was blowin in. Key turned in and taken out, the cylinders slowed and chugged to a stop. With the window down, I can hear it, feel it. I was just here to kill some time. The time that slips slower with your heartbeat. Out the window, a scarf walks past, head down. And then it started to snow, and I could hear the flakes being slammed and wooshed, clunking across the winshield. Rain and snow, then no more rain, the temperature began to change. Almost instantly.. it became snow, not heavy, but blowing everywhere. The windshield was covered. I was sitting, in perfect comfort and warmth and utter joy, waching everything take place in peace while this massive storm blows over. I would enjoy it outside, parked still like a car, resisting the wind. But here my body moves and shakes to the wind in the car. The wind lets loose a few howls, but there is a complete harmony of noise. I can only dream of the snow now, it's beginning to wrap me up. I am lost in my thoughts again, but only fifteen minutes have gone by. The car is filling up, all around me. Time passes slowly in a storm, but it is almost over. The remnant winds are brushing everything away, and no one will ever notice. But now the sun is shining somewhere else - to the west, very bright, creating rays across the page and my hand.

It hurts your back.

'Their eyes are dead, but the body don't mind'. Saw some weird things on tv. The history station. An assassin gunning down an entire Indian family of kings and queens and sons and daughters. His eyes were concentrated, and the empty body followed his direction. On to better and brighter things.
The new Radiohead album for one, one good reason giving me reason to type and sit in once place. I think my favourite song is weird fishes but in truth they all have a tremendous power over me. I did not fulfill any summer goals to write about Dakar, except when I was there, because it was always summer, in a way. Most writing I can remember comes from emails. There were very few trees, because it was the dry season. It was hot and dry and sandy, cool at night, and people rose and prayed before the sun. I passed out in the bathroom and woke with a seizure (maybe because I hit my head), but recovered by the next day.. met a crazy Nigerianne and next week got chased half-naked off some cliffs by a cop. It was hard to get many things accomplished in one day. Going to the beach was an adventure. Gambia, so close yet so far, was an adventure. And you talk to the same man who made fish and tea with you, and you see the toubabs that you know. You eat the chocomousse with bread every day and watch old ladies sell their little bags of peanuts. Talibe children chase you banging sticks on rusty tomato pots.

It would be very disorganised to go on. I can't seem to fit my thoughts in a straight line or direction. They veer off wildly. I have added some new posts - Once, fogs, feeling around in the dark, and more recent stuff.

Trying again now, a few days later. A brief history of post-Dakar. A few weeks after the culture shock wore off, I received news that Karmelius Karmelion the 1st, the prophet, would be my son. Alas, supposedly he was killed many weeks ago, but we will never know if one day he will live to defeat me. This is a mysterious, message .. moving on.

I searched for employment and found it, and lost it, and now I am back on the search. Craigslist of all things (really my first time exploring it) revealed some good leads. Freelance music journalists needed, a small company publishing science-fiction children's novels and other erotic stuff, and academic freelance writers. Though I seem to be bad at willing myself to write. Awful in fact. Now going to publish a few things I've left out for a while.

I wonder how these internet jobs work.. you could write all day, double, nay, triple your time working on multiple projects. Then strange visions enter my head, some terrible pyramid scheme, with underwriters writing for contracted writers, passing their stuff to the grand editors and copy writers for the big scheemers.

april - dakar

Nakh yeneen gi ci jam? Is everything in peace?

Some more news from off the beaten trail..
Casamance did not happen because the farmer was taking too long, making preparations, so instead I joined 4 Canadian ladies and decided to conquer Gambia.

Ah the Gambia. Many times I would wonder how and why this place actually exists. A former British colony surrounded by French Africa with a river winding through, now a 'peaceful' dictatorship with no infrastructure but tourism.. the smallest country in Africa seems like a continent when the roads are so bad that you drive beside them or through village paths. Hard to recap the journey in so few words.. and as I've come to experience here, it isn't about the fucked-up things you see but the wild people you meet..

Gambia is kind of like Jamaica, a rasta haven, except much more poor and the people speak Mandinka and some English. I learned some Mandinka and my Wolof improved.. people are far more warm, open, and welcoming when you make genuine attempts to learn their culture. A popular Gambian expression: "it's nice to be nice". They seemed more warm and less sneaky than some of the Dakar city dwellers.

We travelled from Dakar to Barra, took the slowest ferry ever to Banjul, and after 5 police checks (these were constant throughout our journey) we left for Bakau on the coast. It was beautiful in Bakau: clean, lush, the trees smelled delicious, the existence of grass was shocking. I frolicked and rolled in a beautiful patch with some goats under a massive billboard of president Jammeh who looms over every busy intersection. There was also a sign with an infantryman's legs inside a condom. It read "The soldier protects the nation and the condom protects the soldier." - funded by the US Department of Defense. While this was the touristy, coastal part of Gambia, the people here were also laid back.. in short, this seemed to be the opposite of Senegal and the rushed Dakar mentality. But we figured this was only a polished version for the tourists, and we decided to go inland, to see the real Africa, which is also where the insanity began.

We bused to Serekunda, a bustling place with sandy roads, a market that puts Dakar's Medina to shame.. stayed up late as someone took Claire and Leah and I to the town dance hall. Ate street meat, snapped a great picture of a man serving spaghetti in the wee hours. Some graffiti behind him said "knowledge is power". In the morning, sugary tea and greasy eggs in tappalappa (bread) gave us strength. They don't just add sugar, they drown their coffee and tea in sugar and sweetened condensed milk. It was a bit odd. We went to a nature reserve and saw renegade chimps, hyenas, and vultures. Life was still too normal here so we headed for Soma.

Standing in the heat at the terminal in Serekunda the buses all seemed to be taking the north bank road (the lying bastards who write Lonely Planet claimed both roads were equally treacherous but called the north one "dire") so hardly anyone would take us.. I made a friend, Musa, he gave me his picture, and his helpfulness and generosity was so moving it was painful. We waited hours for a ndiaga ndiaye to Soma, [luckily we had these cold sweet things, kind of like mini mr. freezies] finally got one, waited another hour for it to fill. I wonder if one could enjoy life here without patience. I wave to Musa, who I'll never see again. While filling up at a gas station, across the street a luxury car collided with a cyclist. The windshield exploded. The cyclist was thrown and slid on his face until he came to a stop. Moans and gasping prayers rushed to surround his twisted body. He did not die, but this was a bad omen - our driver changed three times before we left. The road was nothing but craters, ground up rock, and sand. We didn't even make it to Soma, got stranded in this village called Kwinella.

We slept at what seemed like an awful adult summer camp with a crocodile pool but no crocs. I wondered around the compound walls plotting my escape and met an old man in the wall named Ura. In the morning we returned to Kwinella (on the main road) to pick up another bus. 5 toubabs with 3 packs is a tight fit when every bus is packed to the brim. With Ura, we waited hours in the blistering sun with hot water and 30 village children with unsatiable attention and demands. Many were fascinated by my leg hair. My four wives played with the children, braided hair, we played football and sucked candies in the desert heat. We finally got a bus (I tried to give Ura my seat but he promised he'd have better luck catching another bus) that had space for us, and though I was kneeling on a gas tank up front in pools of sweat, this was the best moment ever, and I remember thinking "How can this be the best moment ever? What is happening to me!"

We drove 5 minutes, and then while avoiding a pothole for the roadbank the tire exploded and shattered the brake disc. We filed out into the scorching savannah with no shade, and I was feeling nausea, with friendly people urging me to practice my shitty wolof and hitting on my friends/'wives'. With my lips peeling off this was probably the low point of the journey. But the amazing drivers managed to repair the bus in 20 minutes and we got to Soma.

We wandered into Soma with our filth and dirt-caked faces, and I think the locals were scared of us because no one jeered at us too much. I even saw Ura again! Soma is described as a "dusty junction town" but it also has no electricity, no running water, except for 5 hours during the evening. The streets were all sand and dust, and it was as hot as Kwinella, but at least it was sundown. We ate street meat here (few alternatives) and possibly got sick, but the Moses Motel was friendly.. Souleyman (aka Notorious because he was a chubster) took me to see his parents, everyone was friendly and laid back.. but the young lads were sometimes just mooching to get close to my 4 wives. Some were genuine though.. and Khady, who ran the motel bar, what a sweetheart.. she makes a dollar a day but spent hours teaching us language and joking around.
Sipping on my Julbrew under a full moon watching endless spliffs pass by, I remember these rastas are Muslim, and they smiled when I come back from the bar with cold bottles of pop.. what a luxury, a cold drink with friendly strangers.

Anyways, we then left for Georgetown, aka Jang-Jang Bureh, supposedly an interesting and historical colonial town, but that was all lies! It was even hotter than Soma, and there was nothing to do! There was really no where to stay, and everything was absurdity at this point. The taxi that took us into town from the river (JJB sits on an island) had no interior, it was just a metal shell! But the hotter it gets, the friendlier the people become. The place we stayed in had lizards, roaches, and a huge rat in my room which I abandoned. After I took a tepid shower and lay on my bed in humid bliss until the sun went down. I remember sinking into my mat, feeling like the heroin overdose scene in Trainspotting, just waiting, waiting for a breeze, anything to relieve the heat.. I was drifting away..

Luckily there were two friendly Swedes here conquering all of West Africa. In the middle of our heavy discussions I got sick for the first time since I fell. The ladies left for their own dinner and the Swedes fed me their lentil soup and garlic, and I got better (just sick from dehydration) and wandered around Jang-jang-bureh. I remembered my wives were out and about and went looking for them. The village had very few lights, but it never felt unsafe. My friends met some wonderful citizens and we hung out with them down by the river. JJB became beautiful when I remembered the existence of water. We ate from a huge plate of yembe, a tasty peanut/rice dish which we shared with the cicadas and cooks. Back at the hostel, writing by candelight with Leah and the two Swedes, a strong breeze knocked leaves and kola nuts from the trees, and under the moon I started to appreciate how the very smallest things in life are the most beautiful, and I was happy that we had made it this far, even if it was nowhere.

The next day we got up at 7 to take a boat ride. With the people bathing bodies and washing clothes along the cool river, this was another high point. In their tin can raft we drank attaya, saw some beautiful birds (kingfishers, a grey heron, others) monkeys, watersnakes.. no crocs or hippos though. Passed a prison and their vegetable garden. They showed me plants that cure certain maladies, and I was happy to learn. On the way back the entire town comes to the water to bathe and wash and I was reluctant to take pictures here because it's insulting and there's no way to share them, but I will remember this colourful scene forever..

Anyway we left the next afternoon for Farfenni, another dusty junction town just south of the Senegalese border. And we almost cried when we got to the road. It was a fucking highway! We were doing 75km/h instead of 15! We were very happy to cross the border into Senegal and enter civilization again. We had a nice relaxing beach day near Mbour on the petite-cote and stayed at a beautiful place. That night, I got back to Dakar, and stayed up until 430am dancing at a Youssou N'Dour concert. I feel better but I am smaller now.. I only weigh 69kg.
When I come home your food is going to make me laugh.

In love and peace,
Adam

march- Dakar, St. Louis

Hey everyone.. hope you are safe and happy and enjoying your world. The time just flies.. I can't believe this will be over in a month. I have finally put some pictures up on this program called "facebook". Pictures aren't really my thing.. what I can't describe are the sounds and all the little things.

A few more stories.. After pushing past a thousand drivers and their lackeys in the sprawling Gare Routiere (road terminal), our group split up for the trek north to St. Louis. I like escaping from the city- you breathe fresh air again and hear no noise but the wind ripping past the open windows of the half-dead bush taxi. Moving north I suddenly realise I'm in Africa. We pass giant baobab trees, villages, grandfathers on scooters, desert, baraks (wooden shacks) lined beside the railway that doesn't run anymore, and so on.. when you stop old women race up to your windows with peanuts andbag water and fruit. Dropped off in St. Louis at sunset and wandered around to find our hostel. There were two exciting journeys here.

Jon and I were walking across the "boardwalk" and an old drunk man leaning on his cane pleaded with us to talk with him. After "blessing" us with sand and a bottle cap he demanded a gift. He pushed Jon's coins away, reached into his wallet, took out a 10,000CFA bill (about $20) and ripped it in half, saying money means nothing. Needless to say Jon was enraged, but the man's friends ran away with the money, probably to give to their marabout. (while the talibe children collect coins, and you might think it charitable to help them, as Scott told me, chances are they're just going to give it to their marabout and get beat up). Anyway, to make a long story short, Jon left to find a gendarme and told me to watch over the man to make sure he didn't escape. He tried to flee, and I felt compelled to help him.. he had a bum leg. I looked away while he urinated on a broken truck. He accused me of various things, I accused him of being a drunk old man. He wandered away, and he never left my sight (easy in St. Louis where the streets are in a grid and never far from water and suddenly I hear someone yell my name. I turn around to see Jon sitting up front sandwiched between three officers in a huge paddywagon. They pulled up beside me.

"Where is he?" I looked away. I tell them "..il vaut pas la peine. Mungi dof !" (It's not worth it. he's crazy!) Nevertheless, I directed them to the steps he was resting on, floated in between the small, cheering crowd that had gathered as the officer beat him into the back. The police insisted that I get in the back too because I was a witness. So I climbed in beside him, and he yelled in anger all the way as we drove around St. Louis picking up the rest of his crew, one by one. We were dropped off at the gendarmerie where they were locked behind bars in front of us and Jon gave a deposition. It was fantastic.

The second adventure came when Omar (a random friend we made) insisted we join him on bikes to a wildlife reserve, about 15km away. And us crazy canucks followed him. The mountain bikes could not really change gears, many seized up, two flat tires, and Megan got heatstroke. Once or twice, I saw monkeys beside the road as we rode. The park was abandoned. Indeed, what animals would wander around at noon with the sun beating down and no shade for miles? We were too hot to laugh. We saw some rare gazelles, and giant turtles burrowing in the ground, trying to escape from our stupidity. I asked the guide if there was a river nearby. He told me yes, but when we got there it was a dried up wasteland. I kept walking towards it, but the cracks in the earth got wider, and my feet sank in the mud, so it was probably a mirage. We got high, drank overpriced water and gained strength for the ride back. It was better with the wind behind us, but my lips were cracked and peeling by the time we made it to an ice cream store to recover.

This weekend I went to the Senegal-Tanzanie match at the stadium, and it was my favourite experience so far.. drinking cafe touba and buying biscuits from vendors as the sun set behind us, Senegal triumphed 4 nil and I felt lots of pity for Tanzanie, who managed maybe 3 decent shots on net. It was great to yell football chants and hear advice shouted from all directions in every language, along with dancing and drumming throughout the game. I will try to add my friends' pictures. I got a ride home in a tiny stalling Renault with reggae blasting and no gas. Here is the best part. The driver (Abdul-Karim), a host brother of one of the Canadians, is from Casamance, and his grandmother has a farm about 5km from Kafoutine. I was about to call this off because I'd be going solo, but I have decided to drive with him across the Gambia to their endless tropical forest. [This did not happen, I went to Gambia instead, but it would be cool to go someday] Unfortunately, no one is coming with me, they are scared of Casamance but I know this place will be the best to come. Free mangos and mandarins on the trees, campements, bikes only.. I will spend most of my time in Kafoutine, floating on the ocean, where everything is baba cool, mon. I'm leaving friday and I don't know how long I'll stay. I also want to see Ziguinchor and Bignona, the current and colonial capitals of Casamance. Here's hoping I don't encounter any rebels. Without technology I have a lot more time to read. Finished Wind Sand and Stars,by Antoine St Exupery, it was difficult to put down, the writing was wonderful. I have also finished a few other French books, right now reading Une Si Longue Lettre by Mariama BÄ. A while back finished The Great Shark Hunt by Hunter S Thompson, along with other articles of his, very entertaining, an amazing journey. Finished the Old Testament and now I'm reading the Qu'rân. I also bought a flowing green boubou which I may or may not wear to the airport. Don't know where I'll go after this.. maybe Morocco or Spain for a few weeks to ease the transition to real life and work, which I am dreading but not thinking about.. how can I change this pace of life? Hope to hear from you. Love, Adam

february - dakar

Asalaamaleikoum,
Another month has passed..
..and every day I walk through a hazy cloud of diesel, burning goat flesh, canal sewage and flaming trash. The trees have been butchered clean to help them regrow in the rainy season, so there goes my shade.. but there is some relief.. the dry Harmattan wind blows south from the Sahara, the soothing waves of the ocean are never too far.
A few stories.

A while back, our group (the canadian toubabnation) bused to Lac Rose to see the Dakar Rally finish line. We passed ourselves off as residents at the posh lakeside hotel (our beds were over a mile away on the main village road) smoked hash behind huts, floated through a djembe concert and stumbled in moonlit darkness back to our three huts. There was an incredible party that night near the road. Back in our rooms, one was empty (overtaken by spiders) and the other filled with sleepy souls. In the third I drank myself into a monsieur Bronson gin oblivion (40oz for $8) with two strange Brits, the sleeping spider refugees, and even stranger lizards- three people to three tiny beds. That's about the only time I've been noticeably drunk here so far. The hotel manager came knockin' at 0700, yelling,
"Le Rally! Le Rally c'est la! Le Rally vient!" and shaking me out of slumber. Avec une guele de bois and no press pass, I left the unshakeable bodies and wandered into the chaos with village children and an unfazed will to slip past the Senegalese gens d'armes to launch myself into the frenzied hordes of rally-fanatics. None of this went as planned. I chatted with officials, offered them small bribes, eventually got inside, waited only to learn the moto-racers were making their way across the beach a few miles north. Unfazed but thirsty, I returned to the nice hotel and had free peanuts and cheap beer for breakfast, hypnotised by the same drummers from last night. I said goodbye to some kids. My friends did see the Rally, but it finished yesterday. The ride home was 11 people sandwiched into a 4x4 swerving past thousands of waving singing villageois who lined the streets and took us for french rallyers.There was a fat middle-aged Australian beside me who hitched a ride. He took up space, talking incessantly about the evils of the World Bank.

The last day of january- tamxarit, ashûra, the muslim new year. Suma beer fes na, with a belly full of cous-cous I hit the streets and found my liquid love, attaya (strong and minty) tea, flowing at every corner. I will try to bring this black gunpowder back to Canada. Diallo, a friendly toothless mason, was pouring la mousse (there is a complicated ritual) from a broken silver kettle, so I sat beside their safara fire with members of the Tidiane brotherhood. [There are a number of Sufi brotherhoods in Dakar- Mourides and Tidianes are the big two but there are also the Baye Fall). We fumble with words- exchanging sayings, stories, songs.. Diallo bolts up to greet a customer- his cart sells cigarettes, candy, phone cards. What else do you need, really? There are so many marchands ambulants and informal baolbaol work because there is nothing
else.. what can you do when your country literally produces peanuts? The smoke is in my eyes.. waawaw, jeere jef, mangi dem, I must be going. Conversations about religion and existence that I have never ever had with a stranger, and here, it's completely normal.
-Why are you leaving? When will you return? Remember my name..
This reminds me in a mangled sort of way of last time when I said everything I know is across the ocean and I want it to stay that way... yungi suma xarit bu baax nga, you are my very good friends, I love you and miss you, don't misunderstand me.

I will not forget the random kindness of strangers. One night I'm lost in Liberté 5 and my foot gnashes against some raised concrete. I think nothing of it until I feel my toes sliding in blood. I hit the nearest shop (a shoe store) and it's disinfected and bandaged without any hesitation. I proceed to bank on my good luck and wander into Derkle where lots of stimulants are offered to me. The only one I accept is cafe Touba (on the street it costs about 10 cents, a sharp jolt of sugar, salt, and strong coffee) and I talk in broken wolof about how Senegalese have this ability to age better than anyone. Along with every drug I am offered a free scooter ride home, but I decline these treats and find my own way..

Two weekends ago was Toubab Diallo- an old fishing village about 60km south on la petite côte. A perfect beach with a killer undertow.. the sun beats the others into a deep slumber and I make friends with Baye Fall, djembe drummers for the local disco. We share knowledge and smoke and they invite me back to their place on the beach the next day to make ceboudjen. I sleep at 4 on a hotel floor and in the morning they take me to the village and their families. They took me to their unfinished concrete castle and here ended my 40 day break from drugs. The Baye Fall are soldiers of peace who wear dreads, smoke a lot of yamba, and pray to Allah and their prophet, Ibrahim Fall. A skinny young Belgian lady who was married to one of them lent me her bodyboard, and I got raped by 12 foot waves and wobbled back, all stirred up from the current. An image of their camouflaged terrace is locked in my head.. they invited me to make the pilgrimage with millions of other Soufis to Touba in three weeks.. we shall see. It might be too hot for me. I left at sunset, tired and happy. For the canucks who left earlier, it took 4 hours to get home. That gives you an idea of the trafic insanity here.. you don't want to be stuck in les banlieus.

There is a lot of poverty here that you cannot ignore- people with severe leprosy, the talibe children, les sans domicile fixe (homeless), old Sereer women from the countryside plunk down at streetcorners, faces cracked from the years in the sun, they grill peanuts and sell tomatoes and wash clothes. We lose power every few days for hours, everything is under construction, nothing is finished.. but this is not the point.

I am learning lots of things in school, but I learn a lot more from the people. I disagree with my professors quite a bit.. even rented La Haine to spice up our urban sociology class. Gloria is Nigerian but despite her 'broken' english she teaches me a lot.. everything is going well with us but, even though she's coming to Canada in a few years, it's a drag to know it cannot last. Last friday we ate yaboy (bony fish) on the beach, from the water to the grill to my shrinking belly. For some reason I've lost almost ten pounds here. Maybe parasites are the key to staying thin. Xadim has been teaching me Arabic. The old man who calls himself the child of the island of Ngor (Dakar is surrounded three villages called Yoff, Ouakam and Ngor) told me hilarious and depressing stories about Senegalese politics- he was strangely poetic when he recalled days when, if things did not change, people would be forced to eat sand. I play soccer and cache-cache (hide and seek) with the cap-verdian kids in our neighborhood, leap over walls and hide behind cars as old people give me funny looks. There was a marriage that closed off our street and lasted all weekend, and be it funeral or marriage you get to see a thousand people in hundreds of colours come together in unity to make good rhythms that push the evil spirits away. A walk to the essencerie (gas stations are local grocery stores) is an adventure, with drumming and dancing or chanting that suddenly appear out of the neighborhoods full of walls and sandy paths.

Both in the city and at home there is no privacy of space or noise. Parks are unheard of. It makes writing and thinking difficult. Families consider it strange not to sit around the TV from 8 until midnight. Dated Portugese soap operas translated into French are enjoyed here. Dallas and 24 are watched every week. Aissatou and Fatou laugh, Ramatoulaye is quiet. The domestiques take more than their share of abuse. Everyone else in my family is great, but when my grandmother isn't coughing up phlegm or shouting orders at everyone she sometimes lets out a beautiful hoarse cackle that make me smile. But she can be a disrespectful ogre, treating everyone like garbage and her personal slave, but you have to bite your tongue and respect the elders, because they're not all like that. Besides, the griot chants des anciens are so voodoo they can steal your soul.

Campaigning is reaching a crest now as national elections are in five days. Forget the ten independent parties, it's a race between the socialists and incumbent democrats led by 80 year old Abdoulaye Wade-- fueled by the Mouride brotherhood which dominates the informal economy and all transportation. Every night candidates make prepared speeches or elaborately staged rallies with caravans of music, dance, and insanity-- once on my way home a mammoth tractor blew past hauling nothing but a billboard and amps, cranking out mbalax,
trailed by cars towing rollerskaters. Mbalax is a style on its own.. a fusion of latin, reggae, jazz, funk.. but none of those do it justice.. crazy rhythms, drumming, and chants.

I'm sure there is a lot I left out.. but you can't share everything in these scattered rants. I'm heading down to the Dakar port tomorrow to hopefully pick up some vile palm wine and a brick of hash from Casamance. [This failed miserably- another story] Aparently the Diola tribes from there live in an egalitarian society, the man and woman share time for all domestic duties. I would like to visit, but last month the rebel MFDC declared open season on foreigners! I'm hoping to do some election coverage as well but that depends on the violence. Nothing will happen, but today, like most other days, we were barred from going to the university because of student riots.
I am healthy, happy, hoping to hear from you all..

Adama

dakar - janvier, kane

le 6 janvier, 2007

A rendezvous chez Mme. Kane in Mermoz.
Perfect, beautiful day of sula music, food, dance (yes, I shook my bones) and after she read words of précaution and sagesse..
Music was provided by two, a toothless smiling fou and his friend in toque, shades and manteau. Under a lime and lemon tree, ate ceboudjene in the shade. No order, just chants and string, my face stung by the sun. Melting into the rhythm and the wolof cries. Malik (Kane's son) and Yassi? (her daughter) were kind, they insisted I return. The mint tea, attaya, was strong and sweet. I took the canadian children back home because they lost their way. Impossible to recognise what I will become. Last night I dreamt of playing the djembe with bananas. Music floats into my room from Papi's stereo. The birds chirp constantly, you run into animals everywhere..time for a short nap beforedinner. Tonight Just4U and tomorrow the beach..

le 7 janvier

Dakar rises with the sun as the mosques wail the shahâdah and sourates from theQu?ran. The planes roar by every fifteen minutes, but soon you ignore thosehumming turbines and learn to dance around the roaring engines and cargo of theroads. From dawn to dusk the streets are packed with marchands ambulants(street vendors), horse-drawn carriages lugging petrol and bottles andconcrete, talibe (street children) line the streets with sticks and cans andoutstretched hands. If you have far to go, the best way to get around is in thewhite ndjaga ndiaye or the blue and yellow car rapides, both operated by theMouride brotherhood. These worn-down Mercedes buses from the 40s cost tencents, you're guaranteed a seat, frequent stops, a bumpy ride, and thedroning Soufi chants from the radio.Dakar is an oasis on a peninsula. You could spend hours walking through dozensof districts, from the colonial centre-ville through the chaotic merchantparadise of Medina into the sprawling UCAD campus of Fann, and then along thecorniche cliffs that mark the end and beginning of Africa, past the tree andbarbwire lined embassy strip, turn east and walk through Mermoz (a littlestatue commemorates the crash), through quiet stony paths that wind around thegrand mosque, past the sprawl of boutiques and dibouteries (eateries) andshacks living beside the airstrip, into Liberté and Grand Yoff and openmarkets. There are three autonomous villages (Ouakam, Ngor, Yoff) that surroundDakar to the north; they line the ocean and are inhabited by generations of Lebou fishermen.

january - dakar

asalaamaleikoum.

first the changes in my dreams-moving from english to french, from white to black,from one family to another..that has been the strangest transformation of all. apart from that, i have settled into this space, ci jam ak jam. in peace and peace.
the planes roar by like the white ndjaga ndiaye trucks on the streets filled with sand and dust and fumes that fill my lungs but stronger and sweeter still is the spicy onion sauce that comes with every meal.. but for breakfast, every meal is bread and jam, or (my favourite)- chocomousse.

the cargo of dusty roads are filled with horse-drawn carriages lugging petrol, silent hums tugging bottles and cans, mbalax beats, gorgeous boubous, (the colourful flowing robes) praying with their gris-gris, talibe (abandoned children) as young as five scatter the streets from dawn until minuit- people make a living any way they can.. sous-verre glass and artwork, street hawking anything and everything, colliers, soulis (sandals and shoes-you go through them fast) maillots, peanuts roasted in the sand, green oranges, nescafe rules..
Dakar is divided into a dozen different districts, you could spend hours walking from the centre-ville through the chaotic merchant paradise of medina into the sprawling ucad campus and then to the corniche cliffs that mark the end and beginning of Africa, further into fann and the tree and barbwire lined embassy strip, turn east and walk through mermoz, quiet stony paths that wind around the grand mosque, past the sprawl of boutiques and dibouteries and people living beside the airstrip..
one day i walked past the airport into the dry hills of mamelles.. thorns and the odd dead dog lined the road. made it to a beautiful beach. i climbed down a thousand steps and collapsed in sweaty glory beside the water. breathed the air. drove my fist into the ground and dragged a million bits of colour across the sand.. let them filter through my open fingers-thought-we are just flecks of dust, flying blind in the wind. on my knees, i found a place i love. i'm squinting, tracing the sun's reflection, and it happens. god is all, all is god. the twin minarets behind me seem to sway, the colourful pirogues (fishing canoes with motors) begin to sparkle, the blackest skin glistens, the waves break and breathe again. instead of dissecting the world, drowning in the past, disturbed by the surround, here you are the rhythm.
everyone i know, everything i know, it's all across the ocean, and i want it to stay that way.
i adore the senegalese. they are warm, open, genuine, witty, and good god how beautiful.. no sense fumbling with adjectives, anecdotes are better-some i will try to remember, others will come back to me when i'm gone.
everyone you meet, instead of giving orders and taking direction, you learn to ask about their day, their health, their family.. thankfully i can do this in wolof, but it will take another couple months before i can be conversational.. i am eating well, sleeping well, dreaming and loving all. some days you live on nothing but the kindness of strangers.
i live with scott, papi, daouda, fatou and astou, and maam. people stay up late watching portugese soap operas dubbed in french, the news, and the latest drama concerning la lutte- wrestling with a senegalese twist. the controversial fight between tyson and bombardier, quelle histoire.. i will explain someday. today my grandmother had friends over (who also made the hajj to mecca) and they put their hands together and with all the noise around them found a perfect silence.

i wake up to sweeping and birds and chanting from the mosque, every day and night in fact, the shahadah-alxhamdilulah, allah akbar. my feet are strong and leathery from walking sand and stone, my teeth are strong and salty from chewing fish bones, my head is strong but it took a beating a few days ago... sunday i went to the zoo, used the swings, threw peanuts at monkeys, listened to an old lion roar-ostriches are bizarre. papi is crazy, poking a caged python
trying to get it to stretch out.. monday night i woke up with a slight wheeze, went to the bathroom, inhaled once, felt nausea and vertigo and waited until it passed, inhaled again and then blackness- i don't remember passing out, but i awoke in the midst of a violent seizure. i won't describe to you the worst feeling in my life. inshallah all i did was cut my head. tuesday i decided to brave school and i am glad i did so- after class my friend gloria from nigeria took me to the falaises at the corniche and we made out until i realised my head was still bleeding. the next day i had some tests done and they say i am not epileptic, but they cannot explain the seizure. but i am here, i am alive, i feel good.
that's all for now, i'm kind of tired, and you shouldn't try to do too much. please, take a minute to breathe in silence during the day. slow down. don't think of me.

ba suba ak jam
until next time, with peace

adam

Phili/Jersey/Reading/Pittsburgh

We left and caught the sky waking in the deep blue dawn. Thinking about the long miles ahead.

Crossing the border was no problem, Americans should fall for any travel alibi that involved baseball. We had some lovely breakfast foodstuff at McDonald's in Niagra Falls, but we didn't see the falls. Picked up some duty-free bourbon, and bounced through Buffalo, gray under the clouds. The real fun started when we entered Pennsylvania. Hours of huge downpours, broken by valleys and bridges and toll stations. We circled up old coal hills, most of them had their tops sliced off. There was forest all around. The sky turned black, so dark and wet I could barely see. Making our way over the endless twists and valleys, we made it to Philadelphia at 4, and by then the rain had stopped and it suddenly became a scorching humid day. Driving into the valley forge, winding down into the city, there was horrendous traffic at this point and I was quite agitated. There were also madmen on the radio, talking hosts screaming about parasites like hobos, homos, and atheists. We parked the car in a quiet, shady tree-lined district and of course our first desire was the infamous Phili cheese steak and o we indulged in a massive American meal. We didn't do too much that day.. we just kinda lingered around, bloated, walked slow. We passed through empty lots, saw beautiful graffiti, rode the transit, just moved our bones around. Made it to the water (found no waterfront) had a few beers on the patios in the old district and ate ice cream at night. Kieran suggested we sleep in New Jersey because it would save money.

So we crossed the river and entered what some would call the suburban wasteland. We didn't even see any homes. It's just a rotting electrified pile of highways and interstates and turnpikes and exits and fast food chains and gas stations and box stores and sleaze motels. Maybe there was more, but it was out of our way. After being turned down at one and turned around and unable to make left turns for miles upon miles everyone just started gathering rage at the absurdity of New Jersey until we finally found a place, where we tried to haggle (we were 4 when they gave prices for 2) and apparently Kman got caught in his own web of lies so he sent me in and I pleaded for mercy and we eventually got a room. For some reason most the motel landlords are Indian. It was a small smoky room but clean, with AC and ice and we drank sweet bourbon, watched Top Gun but it was too drunk to see. Cyrus and Sean got burgers and probably picked some fights around midnight.

The next day was fantastic, we went back into Phili, had an amazing breakfast at a diner with mmmperfect eggs benedict, and walked around the old district. Beautiful streets, some older than Montreal, but no one living there. We watched street music and almost went into the constitutional museum but it looked like a sham, praising freedom and stealing ours. After some more Phili cheese steaks we decided to look for Will Smith in west Philadelphia (born and raised, on the playground maybe). We entered the ghettos, saw bulletproof windows in corner stores, street bbq's, police cars everywhere that closed off entire streets, basically all black (though there weren't many whites downtown either which was a nice change) We were just cruisin' in the minivan but the place gave off some strange vibes.

We probably looked ridiculous as we each bought blue 30oz gatorades in a pharmacy (outside was a drive through pharma-pickup station). All in all we decided Will Smith probably wasn't there and we drove back into Phili to maybe find Brett Thalmann on the U Penn campus. This was a cool green area and obviously a university district. We reverted to our white bread ways, bought a baguette and Sean got a carton of camembert and we picnicked on the campus grass. Some crazy hippie traveller spoke to us but he was about the only American on the trip who shared a sustained conversation. We lounged around, threw the ball, unfortunately I think Cyrus got heat stroke. We drove way down South to the river to catch a ball game, drove through another ghetto, bought a dozen $1 miller pint cans at a corner store and got a buzz in the parking lot along with another thousand drunk Americans. We sat in the bleachers and it was nice to have a break and look North towards the smoggy skyline but it was a blowout so we left
a bit early and Kieran soberly drove towards more accomodation. We stayed outside of Reading, PA. On our way it seemed like the darkest highways and brightest headlights. Stayed in a luxurious Days inn for another negotiated price and this time Cyrus and I slept while Kieran and Sean got smashed on wild turkey bourbon until about 4:30 in the morning. Good God they even tried to get more Phili cheesteaks in some gas stations.

The next morning I was well rested but Kieran was incapable of coherent speech and we quickly left the room, drank as much coffee as possible at the "continental breakfast" with ludicrous Disney cartoons blaring at us and staring at us were fat babies. The drive to Pittsburgh was a breeze, great speeds on winding highways through valleys and tunnels but again, scorching heat, we were sweating profusely. Stopped just outside of Steeltown for some disgustingly filling rest stop burgers along with hundreds of others. Food, gas, energy, grease, bliss.

We drove right to PNC Park to see the second half of the game (it was a 1:30 start) got some scalped tickets and got burned because they weren't together but it didn't matter because after one inning a massive thunderstorm descended on the city. I mean beyond massive, this was one of the greatest. Everyone huddled by the walls, just barely inside, the stadium is mostly open but has some protection under the bleachers. It looks out across the river (Pittsburgh sits on the banks of the Ohio, Allegheny and another one) into the skyline and electric bolts lit up the buildings. You don't need homeruns for fireworks. The wind howled constantly and children screamed as rivers fell from higher up, everyone seemed to be having a blast, they played an old 70s championship game on the screen but no one watched. No baseball, the field was drenched, there were trenches of water (2 feet high) in the stands, it was chaos.

We eventually got back into Pittsburgh but it was completely deserted being a Sunday and of course we returned to McD's for more burgers and coffee. A few rainy day walkers were out, the city had a strange vibe too it, pretty dying buildings. Modern and forgotten. We just wanted to book it and get back home plus it was already 6 or 7 so we wandered some more, saw the fattest man in the entire world barely hanging on to the earth with his ass and drove north, away from the hills and back into familiar lands. Paid a large toll that ate our meat money and we blasted the coffee sweats and both new and old school chili peppers funk. Kieran took the wheel as I took a short snooze. Night descended on us somewhere south of Erie and we stopped at Wendy's to complete the cholesterol parade, Cyrus had his 5th cheeseburger of the day, Kieran ate 4 more and chili to boot and we were really fearing for his life back there but I had to relegate him to the back seat. More gas and grease. A great drive home, the pace quickened by Fela Cuti past only a couple of midnight crazies. We discovered that Buffalo is a scary place at night, and finally back on the QEW, past the buried treasure. On the bumpy ride home I watched the lines and my passengers fade in and out of sleep.

ARAZ

Ali Raouf Abdel Zaki,
Salaam Alaikum. I wonder if we will ever meet again.
You cannot read my words. My eyes pass over the last record of you that I have kept, all these years. It contains a few addresses, some names, hurried notes from strangers, little maps directing you where to go. The fading blue scrawls on this sheet of paper give me no comfort, nor do your notes hiding in the margin, written in frantic Arabic. I had them translated, only to learn the words have no meaning. Were you a deceiver, Abdel Zaki? Forgive my caution. I often look back on the day we met. I remember the despair of those who could not help you, and I regret the ignorance of those who could not speak to you. I regret this, and I resent the feelings of hopelessness that rise up in my stomach and stifle my lungs, when my mind drifts back to that day. There can be no other explanation but to… no, was it not possible... no, no! A thousand times, no. I will not condemn you and submit to shame, submit myself to this blindness of convenience.
I only ask, do you remember?

I found you at the desk of the security agency, wiping your brow, glad to have the sun off your back, shaded from the sweating streets. There was patience here, before the flurry of words unleashed in the heat. You were first in line, and I was behind, beneath you, invisible perhaps. It did not occur to me what could have happened before this instant, but I knew the tension in the room had been slowly mounting. You wanted answers. You asked for a lawyer, a computer, directions, your hepatitis blood results, the location of your son. Not in that order, but in a jerky careless chaos. One must work up to such demands, in the presence of the state. “Min Fadilak, Min Fadilak!” you pleaded again and again but their words were foreign, and the authority behind the table could not trust your face or your gruff, pained accent.
“Whut is yur bizness, sir?” said the woman, slitting her eyes, curling her lips. Her hair was pulled back taut, it stretched her face and drew my eyes to her jaw, a pointed unmoving V.
“I need to know, please, this information, please.”
Would it have mattered, would you have believed it? What lies behind the table, what shameless fabrications of the truth, we spin. I could not imagine a greater torture.
No one could understand where you wanted to be. You dressed well. Your identity was overflowing from a bunchy dark purple denim jacket, retro, threaded in Singapore. Your sweat smelled of vegetables and tobacco. Your shoes were scuffed and dusty, like your face. I did not know why, but I wanted very much to touch your nose.

Things turned out for the worst on that day, Ali. Despite all that you would have me believe, I could not be your son. In that moment of inspection, you took my hand, you wanted me to be your freedom. Your eyes reached out, but we had little knowledge of your language. You became a mad howl, shouting for help, cursing perhaps, and we were all helpless there in that stuffy entrance. It was as if you had arrived from another planet to do urgent business, and you were unimpressed with our technology. What was it that you wanted?
“Wee can’t help yew, sir!” cried the receptionista at the table, for the seventh time.

I was there to see Joe. Joe Yoblonski. A man with a gun gave me his card once: “Corporate Recruiting Manager” it whispered, in fine italic font. Joe managed a security agency for State buildings and offices. I could have taken you to the Sheriff. Not the one with the ten gallon hat, the Sheriff of Lands. You must have been searching for the Registrar of Identities.
Just think! We could have abandoned them, made a fast break and a stiff drink for the road ahead. But no, we were barking up impossible dreams. You were focused on the moment. But the only place I knew was the Sheriff’s office, the only thing I understood was land title registration. It is not where I would have taken you. The results would have been exactly the same.
You were used to believe these places in your dreams existed, but you could not chase lonely paths through the network, not without an identity. They would only steal you from your children, Ab. They did not tell you where you could find them.

No, Ab, the strangers around us were not honest like you. There is no life for the faithful in a world that shows no hospitality. We are but tramps in a world that refuses to excuse our existence. You did not ask for money, or food, or shelter. You simply wanted information; access to the treasury of words and numbers that remain locked away in a blinking box. The voice of the authority behind the table was never meant to be revealed. She was mystified, trying to empty your identity into little digits on her screen, but no, she was not successful. Ab, you did not realise the irony of the moment. As they were cutting up your dignity, they feared you, because everything about you could not be represented. You could not see what I saw. The shaking beads of sweat on their faces, the empty blinking eyes of data fields… these things you could not have seen.

In the stuttering uncertainty, you reached for something deep within your jacket, and eyes seized your every move. They trust no one, accept nothing. You waited for their muscles to untense. With no destiny to mold, no papers bearing gold, they would betray you with suspicion. Without a word, you deposited your entire briefcase of papers on their desk. I bent down and began to pick up the ones that had fallen to the floor. I could not have seen your eyes, but the rage was bursting on your face, and without speaking, without a word, you asked them: what am I worth?
You were given the shove, the boot laced with gracious words, politely pleading exile from the property of the state.
“Yew hafta speak aienglesh!” she howled in distress for the seventeenth time, as you hobbled out the door, getting smaller through the doorway. You were the vanishing point in my perspective. You looked left, you turned right, and I never saw you again.
I would never judge you Ali Raouf Abdel Zaki, and forgive me if I have done so.

girl on a motorbike

Dans une maison sur une colline, il y avait deux amants. Une était le maître, et l’autre son esclave. Toujours ensemble, ils ne sentaient jamais les solitudes des heures incomplètes. C’était seulement en se perdre, tombant dans leurs pensées, qu’ils étaient libres. Dans le marché-super, dans la monastère, et dans leur petit lit.

-une dialogue-

[Esclave] – Si je mourrai demain, est-ce que vous me manquera?
[Maître] – Bien entendu, mais non. J’aurais les souvenirs. Approche, tu es bête.

-silence-

[Quelqu’un] – Je ferme la lumière. Toucher dormir vieillir.

-un jour-

[Esclave] – Si j’étais dans un accident de voiture, ma figure manglée et déchirée, des cicatrices vilaines, ma peau pleine de trous, ma cheveux toute brûlée… Tu me voudras toujours?
[Maître] – Quelle enfant misérable! Arrêter ces histoires. J’aurais tes ris, tes cris. La musique de tes mots, tournoyant des fils dans ma tête.
[Esclave] – Tu dois apprendre de craindre la peur.
[Maître] – Tu dois apprendre comment l’embrasser.

Et les jours tournaient, le cheveu devenait long, les lignes sur les visages s’étendaient. Un jour dans le train, l’esclave touchait la fenêtre avec son nez, en regardant les fils électroniques qui montaient et tombaient comme des vagues, comme la portée de la clef. L’esclave ne parler plus.

-un jour-

[Esclave] – Tu ne souffres pour personne, mais je souffre pour tout le monde.
[Maître] – Quelles beaux mots insensés, incompréhensibles.
[Esclave] – Je suis un objet de destruction, et mes pensées son les miennes.
[Maître] – Impossible. Je dois détruire tout ce que je ne peux pas posséder.
[Esclave] – Tu n’aurais jamais ma voix.
[Maître] – (En coupant la gorge de l’esclave) - Ma pauvre petite cigale. Laisse sortir toutes pensées de ta tête, bête.

Tout les sensations se vider; elle voulez lui toucher a ce instant. Ils et elles, toujours ensemble, fesaient des petits cris. Quand le stupeur et tremblements arrêtait, le maître tiré sur le duvet pour se dormir. Le duvet a crié des profanités terribles, dans angoisse profonde :
[Le Duvet] – Laisse-moi!

Le temps passe et passait. La neige et les feuilles et les moustiques tombés des arbres, du ciel. Ils et elles ont décidés de ne parler jamais de cette nuit, de l’oublier complètement.

-un jour-

[Maître] (Étoffant sur ses sanglots) – C’est… m-m-ma faute… Je suis fini, tout est perdu.

La voix de l’esclave lui hanter toujours, et le maître se noyé dans les sons.

Dans un moment sans les sons, tu tombes dans un rêve. Tu oublies les rencontres oubliables, et tu glisses dans la mer. Tu restes seul avec ton corps, quelques pouces sous les vagues, et tu dormes.