What a dream I had — or film? — of Westerners in Araby: 30s set scene, sepia. Streets of clutter-crush and rot.
Quadrupeds loped burdened, or roasted, skewered above pits where veiled women bellowed sparks, coaxing flames to rise like cobra. Some sang, as they bellowed. (joyfully? perhaps not — their voices seemed so strange).
Shirtless children sold the news.
Fez Men, Fez Men, Fez Men grinned. They were not pleased.
“Can’t smell,” I cried. “I can’t. Smell.”
Made sense, these non-scents flickering non-linear Time of cinema/dream. As did the Opium yen to (must I really, really must I must, I must) inhale:
Anxiety burned misery. Streaks of electric Other — magnetic arabesques! — drew me to the light, where I sizzled in my colonial white suit, removing neither hat nor tie.