Eva,
I am very sorry to hear of the death of Aaron. Though I never met him, I trust that if you liked him, he was good. Good isn't the right word.....but you know what I mean.
How horrible it must be to not know whether he is really alive or dead. I imagine some of these guys can be difficult to track down.
North Africa - It is easy to become so disconnected with the world though it streams through the television. I have been watching the news a great deal recently. Tonight I sat on the couch in my bedroom and imagined myself transported through my window, down over the lowlands of Scotland, over England, over the agricultured lands of France, the Alps, Barcelona, the Mediterranean sea, the Atlas Mountains and into the arid areas of Africa and finally onto the streets of Tripoli. I imagine the bullets flying at night, the people fighting for freedom, blood curdling in the gutters. It is happening now as we speak, difficult to conceive of. It seems the pressure valve of the Arab world is undone. All the oppressions of 30 years rearing it's ugly head, rushing out with a hellish wining. Whispers of Algerian death-squads, Gadafi sweaty and sleepless fearing that his tyrannous grip is weakening. The media tell me the world is falling apart, It's difficult not to believe them.
Bucharest sounds a dream. Wine is ever-tempting me into it's motherly clutches. I think I may become one of those old men who remembers things not in dates but in which wines they were drinking. The promise I made to myself was to see you, no more, no less.
I shall dedicate a painting to Aaron.
I remain,
Omar
I am very sorry to hear of the death of Aaron. Though I never met him, I trust that if you liked him, he was good. Good isn't the right word.....but you know what I mean.
How horrible it must be to not know whether he is really alive or dead. I imagine some of these guys can be difficult to track down.
North Africa - It is easy to become so disconnected with the world though it streams through the television. I have been watching the news a great deal recently. Tonight I sat on the couch in my bedroom and imagined myself transported through my window, down over the lowlands of Scotland, over England, over the agricultured lands of France, the Alps, Barcelona, the Mediterranean sea, the Atlas Mountains and into the arid areas of Africa and finally onto the streets of Tripoli. I imagine the bullets flying at night, the people fighting for freedom, blood curdling in the gutters. It is happening now as we speak, difficult to conceive of. It seems the pressure valve of the Arab world is undone. All the oppressions of 30 years rearing it's ugly head, rushing out with a hellish wining. Whispers of Algerian death-squads, Gadafi sweaty and sleepless fearing that his tyrannous grip is weakening. The media tell me the world is falling apart, It's difficult not to believe them.
Bucharest sounds a dream. Wine is ever-tempting me into it's motherly clutches. I think I may become one of those old men who remembers things not in dates but in which wines they were drinking. The promise I made to myself was to see you, no more, no less.
I shall dedicate a painting to Aaron.
I remain,
Omar
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