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Étincelle dailleursAs Love is Not EnoughAs Love is Not EnoughTAOU2AMlivhis01livhis02livhis03livhis04livhis07livhis08livhis09livpo017livpo018livpo019livpoe01livpoe02livpoe03livpoe04livpoe05LeDroitDePartirlivpoe05AkaleidoscopeLo que el silencio enmudició
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Visitors - الزوار
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27 - يونيو - 2017

 

1 - New York  

New York Airport
Does not care who leaves

Every arrival
Is a newly born
Dream.


I had no dream other than subduing a language that slipped through my fingers each time I tried to get hold of it. And since I am naturally not used to submission, especially when it comes to language, I decided to combat it on its own ground.
Thus, with Christopher Columbus’s determination, I found myself setting off to America to rediscover it personally.. believing that every new gaze is an act of re-discovery.

I arrived, at night to the city that never sleeps,
Not because of insomnia, but because  time is a hard currency here.

The vastness of streets is unable to contain the crowding steps.
I drag my feet to the hotel, with a case heavier than it should be.
I see shadows alternating on walls at a pace which almost competes with the speed of light.
"It is the era of images," Time Square confidently proclaims, "It is the era of spotlights",
lights of eyes, eyes of light. Who does watch over the night?


New York
Devours its past
Every night
To remain

Princess of the present


In the early morning hours, the hurrying steps of businessmen interweave on sidewalks, their cellular phones stuck to their ears. The homeless follow carrying their history.. all their history in shopping carts.
New York doesn’t care about history.. It invents it daily.

On sidewalks, passers-by walk holding huge American mugs of coffee or cappuccino in their hands.
New York doesn’t care about eating on the streets, as if these streets were an extension of homes, or as if it exercised one of its physiological rights of expression concerning a particular characteristic of freedom.


Between white, Red, Yellow and Dark complexions
A sense of belonging fills me up

Dispelling every sense of foreignness
Where all are foreigners.


It was necessary to start with a visit to one of New York’s symbols: “The Statue of Liberty."
New York likes symbols the way it likes stars and heroes.
I set off through land and sea, and waited with the big crowd until Benjamin Franklin’s: "Where liberty is, there is my country" Allowed us in.
I do not think any site, other than the one that Liberty stands on, is worthy of it.


Feet fixed to the ground
Hand extended to the sky
Eyes sailing the ocean

A thought
Touching the horizon.


Not far from the Empire State building, on the green grass in Central Park, New York rests from height vertigo.
It exchanges the cold of missile-competing elevators with the intimacy of bicycles and horse carts. It undresses and shows off a body that is compact for the heat of the season. It devours Hot Dogs, quenches its Coca-Cola addicted thirst, while scrutinizing the bodies of fashion models on the Oprah pages.


I lie down on the green warmth
Hoping the glacial pole of the heart
Melts down
Under the sun of temptation

Next to me, a middle-aged man reads a letter. I deduced that from the shape of the paper despite the lack of any envelope, and from the movements of his lips biting one another as if, so trembling, they tried to hold back a hot tear on the verge of falling, that it might have been a love letter, a farewell one, or both. It might also have been a letter from a son who migrated in the opposite direction of our lost youth, or a notification of dismissal from an employer, as it usually happens in America where nothing is ever truly acquired or guaranteed.

I do not know why at that moment I remembered Simone De Beauvoir and her lover the American writer Nelson Algren. I had read the French translation of her letters to him.
Distance sometimes fuels love, and sometimes causes frustration and abandonment.
I thought how letters like planes erase distance by upholding it.
In distance there is an implicit confirmation of geography.

I got on a taxi bicycle driven by a Turkish youth who came to America to study, but college expenses turned higher than his ambition. To avoid height vertigo, he made of the green breast of New York a carpet on which he awaited a better tomorrow.
Dreams might rest in New York... but never fall asleep.

I gathered my thoughts and left the park in answer to the call of the city. It does not matter where, as all destinations are new:

Wandering
is my compass

Astray
On a path
Drawn
By others

Learning
The search again


I was not looking for something other than surprise, and it was present in everything around me, like the almost “Unbearable lightness” of the presence of my feelings, as Kundera said; a lightness that might have originated in the breeze of freedom wafting through space.. and that might have slipped into my lungs spreading in every cell like oxygen atoms. I remained lost in the maze until lights were suddenly on, announcing a new night.


Night in New York
Is similar to wakefulness

Alive were we
Drinking up seconds

Wherein wasting time
Is a luxury


In defiance of those who evoke New York’s lack of culture, New York brings together all cultures in a harmony so full that it is hard to believe, as if it were the world condensed in the painting of an artist deft in colors.
This is New York, the home of contradictions brought into harmony.. Its equilibrium lies in fluctuation between poles.

"Anyone who speaks English and pays taxes is an American...” declared President Barack Obama.
A nation united by language and contribution to the development of the country.
Neither difference in race, color, culture or religion can divide people.
Only one thing can make the difference: the will to have a dream come true, to be what you want.
For in New York dreams flourish, ramify, and grow out of proportion like sky-scrapers flirting with heaven.
Building is a continuous process without rest as the future in New York puts on a new dress everyday, a new meaning.
You have to be productive and show what you accomplished.
Humility is not a profitable value in America.

In America, reasons are many but the dream is one.. a dream without limits.. called success.
To succeed is to improve continually.

In New York
You become what you want?
Very possible!

You get what you want?
Very possible!

And very possible also
You lose everything.

2 - Miami Beach

Bodies lying down drinking the sun to the dregs.
Bodies of different colors and shapes reflecting on their nakedness the white of the sand. Others throw their heat into the arms of the warm water that enchants as if it were the water of life.
Is this really the same Atlantic Ocean that I love and rush to every morning, along the Casablanca Corniche so that its coolness bites my feet spreading over me a chill that seems essential for the start of a new day?
Where would all this warmth come from, then?
Where would all this frivolity that brought me back to the years of my childhood, come from?
Paradise was never so close!

Time gets out of its sequence to become a mere idea afloat on water,
And freedom embodies its own meaning in an endless touch of warmth.

Or is it the smell of iodine liberating breath from its silence?
Or life turning every essence it touches into a voice of its own?

At sunset, to a newlywed couple who came to specially celebrate their wedding on Miami Beach, and before exchanging kisses in front of an elegant crowd of bare-footed people, the voice of a pastor rises to say: "I declare you husband and wife!"
The husband was Italian, the wife French and I, a Moroccan, taking pictures of them, and trying to hold back a tear before the extremely romantic sight.
The whole world on Miami Beach was witnessing the realization of a dream advancing from Europe.. Let Miami sands bless its advance!

Love in Miami is like its climate, hot and humid, generous and spontaneous.
Here, to remain faithful to itself, love made of bilingualism a communicating rule..
It is impossible for the foreign visitor to tell which is the official language: Spanish or English?

But does it matter when body language is universal?

Fatiha Morchid
  Translated from Arabic by:
Norddine Zouitni

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