November Haiku

The warm pretty quilt
On my half-empty bed covers
icy long ago dreams.

black dog

I wondered why the Maitre D’ said nothing about the mangy black dog that had entered the terrace of the upper-scale Greek restaurant where I was savouring seasoned Calamata olives with my extra-dry gin martini. The man he followed did not strike me as blind; this much seemed apparent by his attire, a sapphire shimmer to his grey Versace suit, the crisply pressed French cuffed shirt and a silk yellow tie. One would think he had awoken this morning and decided to coordinate his clothes with the weather. Spring had erupted with urgency yesterday and so had the tulips, crimson reds and sunshine yellows dotting the front yards I had passed on my way to Delphina’s. The neighbourhood awoke from its lengthy white season and filled the carpeted fawn coloured parks and street-side cafes. Despite a slight mist in the air, the sun’s warmth broke through convincingly and the breeze carried with it the scent of newly blossomed lilacs. It wasn’t until the dog yelped near my feet, looked straight up into my eyes, his tongue and tail (both) wagging that I (and the Maitre D’ ) realized that the black beast was no one’s companion - rather, he was merely a customer of the four-legged variety, he too wanting to take in the fresh aromas of sunshine and ripened tomatoes.

grey cup

The longing cries of the loons announce the end of another day on Dogtooth Lake, and the whippoorwills awaken me before sunrise. The crisp sound of the cold metal zipper seems unduly loud as I exit my makeshift sleeping chamber to fetch some water. Flames crackling, coffee percolating, metal spoon against tin grey cup – these are the sounds of morning in my haven. Mesmerized by the earliest tints of sun as they strike the undulating lake, I tell myself (again) that I have never felt such peace, never seen such perfect beauty.

Just Another Word

part five:

In his mind’s eye he saw Moyad still bowing to their God before him those many years ago, at a time when life made sense to Illaam, when Illaam did not think to question freedom. But how could he have allowed himself to be here, to sleep, to dream?

He made his way to the sink. Curses escaped his lips, fear took hold once again. Cold water splashed several times on his face, a rivulet making its way through his thick, black chest hair down to his navel and then beyond it through thick black hair once again. With a shiver, he straightened and looked into the mirror. Two faces looked back. Then came the familiar voice, "Illaam. You were not so easy to find, my friend."

Just Another Word

part four:

“Mr. Qashqai?” The woman cleared her throat and with more force she tried again to awaken the man with the funny name, “Mr. Qashqai. Can you hear me?” Not getting a response, the commissary worker grabbed a vegetarian meal from her cart, and filling up his water glass with ice she sat it onto the patient’s bed stand with an impatient thud.

Illaam is in the desert under the late afternoon sun when the prayer bell strikes. For Allah, all activity ceases. His mother and father by his side, Illaam feels peace in his heart at the sound of their voices conferring in unison to their God. Hoping his voice will reach the heavens, his arms lift towards the sky. This is when he sees Moyad several feet ahead, looking tired and sweaty from the chase. When his arms reach the ground, Illaam grins and he prays to Allah that things might stay this way forever.

A second bell chimes. Resisting that fragile state between sleep and waking, Illaam feels himself being pulled away from home. Soon his eyes will open and he will realize that what he hears is the back and forth motion of ice against the hospital melamine glass. He closes his eyes tightly, wanting to be eight for just another moment. Enshallah...Ensha...

He was damp under the bed linens but his throat felt as dry as the desert he had journeyed behind his lids. Illaam brought the bended straw to his lips and insatiably, he emptied the glass of ice water left there for him.

A Bushman child will be carried a distance of 4,900 miles before he begins to walk on his own. Since, during this rhythmic phase, he will be forever naming the contents of his territory, it is impossible he will not become a poet.
Bruce Chatwin

Just Another Word

part three:

He felt dizzy and decided to sit on one of the benches that lined this side of Bloor Street. He wiped the sudden sweat off of his brow. Overtaken by anxiety Illaam closed his eyes and tried to slow his breathing, to no avail. When he opened his eyes, he was no longer on a public bench breathing in Toronto fumes, no longer sitting amidst its turbulence. He blinked and wiped his eyes. I...I am in a hospital. A great desire for calm came over Illaam, and allowing himself to find peace at the apparent safety in the bleached white lines of the room, his eyes closed once again. This time he dreamt.

Illaam is running through the crowded Bazaar, occasionally getting tangled up in some of the women's hejabs. But he doesn’t mind. He’s playing hide and seek with his cousin Moyad and he is the one hiding. He passes the spice vendor, stopping a moment to take in a deep breath of what he has already decided heaven smells like; then spotting his cousin across the center aisle of the market, he plunges into his grandfather’s carpet shop nearly toppling over a customer in the process. A commotion ensues.

Illaam, born eight years ago in the province of his name-sake, burrows his slender boy body into one of the larger Persian rugs rolled up against the far end of the tent. His grandfather reaches in, grabbing his grandson by both arms with this one landing on his feet before the old man. Illaam is not afraid of him, but he apologizes out of reverence for his beloved grandfather. He turns then to the woman who doesn’t like children and bows to her in apology.

She leaves his grandfather’s shop uttering words he cannot make out and his grandfather resumes the weaving of delicate fibres, his gnarled hands homage to his life’s work. When the old man thinks the boy is no longer in sight, he smiles as if remembering the games of his own childhood those many years ago, when Reza Shah reigned over Iran.

Just Another Word

part two:

Would they listen to him? Would they care about what he had to tell them? His pace had slowed now that Illaam was nearing his destination. Having escaped one danger, only now did he begin to process the consequences of what he had perhaps naively understood as saving himself. The men he ran from were only as powerful as they believed themselves to be, but the men he ran to now, feared what they did not understand and that gave them all the power in the world.

It might be more convenient for the government to throw him in jail and worry about the details later. After all, Illaam had no inside connections and accidentally thrust into a situation he wished he might awaken from, all he had to share with them were words. What were his words worth to a country who might not see past the colour of his skin, a man not native to the land he knew as his own (his only) for nine years now. And for this, was Illaam willing to sacrifice his freedom?

CYBER HAIKU

I have heard it said
that until we have faces
we shall have facebooks.