tweakin
Bluelighter
Down the line nothing is clear.
That fear, that they speak of day after day – that tangible fear coating the city streets and the know-it-all speech of coffee talk chatter – it does not live here in the land of the Free – the home of the Brave.
This isn’t where the mind-gripping panic knocks on people’s doors day after day.
Over there, in the land of the holy desert – scattered with palm trees and abandoned roads that lead into the horizon of Jerusalem – that, the most peaceful of places, is where heads hang low in mourning. A permanent veil that overshadows the burning sun. And I love it – the little beggar boys at the traffic lights who scamper towards those familiar friendly cars, and cringe at the rich men in their flashy cars as they threaten to call the police. The decrepit yellow taxis that roam the streets far into the night – their gaudy lights and window decorations branding them with an honest form of tackiness.
There I can smoke. The cab driver offers me a cigarette from his 50 cent pack that is no doubt 5% nicotine, 95% woodchips. I light a cigarette in the airport as I stand beside the smelly porter who offers me a lighter – in the hopes that I’ll throw in an extra JD on his tip. The clock on the wall behind customs is the same clock I used to stare at as a child – an American child journeying to this far off place. I love that clock that has yellowed with age – the sturdy black hands that have been ticking constantly, steadily for years before my time.
The air is different here, and with my eyes squeezed tightly I know that I’m home. Home where the rich are rulers and the poor are the art and life of this old city. Home where the sidewalks aren’t fit for walking – the olive trees planted in rows down the center have grown too large, and the branches catch my hair as I duck down to pass. Home where I drive down the country roads with the windows open and where I stop at the edge of the mountains and stare in awe at the majestic landscape – no skyscrapers live here, no flashy buildings that block the sky, no towers where men in stiff suits plan our futures and rule the world. Home, where everyone is free – not by law, or governmental decree – but free in spirit, free from rules and fast-paced capitalistic behavior. Here, there is life, there is land, and there are happy people.
Inside homes, people live, inside their hearts there is a missing piece. A missing peace. The beauty and wonder of this enigmatic land is a lost treasure. Consumed by cold steel and heavy greed, those men in business suits cast our fate with the greatest of ease. They do not know what I know, nor do they see the things that I see – the pictures that I have forever painted in my mind. They will never understand the aura, that tingling feeling that lingers in the air like fairy dust. They do not care. A land so blessed, a land so precious – lost among the thirst for power, that unquenchable thirst.
We are a simple people, and here we do not ask for much. We ask for a cup of sugar – a pie plate from the neighbor. Here, we are not content with being content – here, there is a spark and the flame is blown out by the winds of tyranny. Here is where I belong. For every grain of sand that covers the ground – waiting to be lifted by the breeze – there is a prayer for this place, and the people who wait patiently, hand in hand with god.
That fear, that they speak of day after day – that tangible fear coating the city streets and the know-it-all speech of coffee talk chatter – it does not live here in the land of the Free – the home of the Brave.
This isn’t where the mind-gripping panic knocks on people’s doors day after day.
Over there, in the land of the holy desert – scattered with palm trees and abandoned roads that lead into the horizon of Jerusalem – that, the most peaceful of places, is where heads hang low in mourning. A permanent veil that overshadows the burning sun. And I love it – the little beggar boys at the traffic lights who scamper towards those familiar friendly cars, and cringe at the rich men in their flashy cars as they threaten to call the police. The decrepit yellow taxis that roam the streets far into the night – their gaudy lights and window decorations branding them with an honest form of tackiness.
There I can smoke. The cab driver offers me a cigarette from his 50 cent pack that is no doubt 5% nicotine, 95% woodchips. I light a cigarette in the airport as I stand beside the smelly porter who offers me a lighter – in the hopes that I’ll throw in an extra JD on his tip. The clock on the wall behind customs is the same clock I used to stare at as a child – an American child journeying to this far off place. I love that clock that has yellowed with age – the sturdy black hands that have been ticking constantly, steadily for years before my time.
The air is different here, and with my eyes squeezed tightly I know that I’m home. Home where the rich are rulers and the poor are the art and life of this old city. Home where the sidewalks aren’t fit for walking – the olive trees planted in rows down the center have grown too large, and the branches catch my hair as I duck down to pass. Home where I drive down the country roads with the windows open and where I stop at the edge of the mountains and stare in awe at the majestic landscape – no skyscrapers live here, no flashy buildings that block the sky, no towers where men in stiff suits plan our futures and rule the world. Home, where everyone is free – not by law, or governmental decree – but free in spirit, free from rules and fast-paced capitalistic behavior. Here, there is life, there is land, and there are happy people.
Inside homes, people live, inside their hearts there is a missing piece. A missing peace. The beauty and wonder of this enigmatic land is a lost treasure. Consumed by cold steel and heavy greed, those men in business suits cast our fate with the greatest of ease. They do not know what I know, nor do they see the things that I see – the pictures that I have forever painted in my mind. They will never understand the aura, that tingling feeling that lingers in the air like fairy dust. They do not care. A land so blessed, a land so precious – lost among the thirst for power, that unquenchable thirst.
We are a simple people, and here we do not ask for much. We ask for a cup of sugar – a pie plate from the neighbor. Here, we are not content with being content – here, there is a spark and the flame is blown out by the winds of tyranny. Here is where I belong. For every grain of sand that covers the ground – waiting to be lifted by the breeze – there is a prayer for this place, and the people who wait patiently, hand in hand with god.
