Sometimes the drive is hectic and infuriating. Other times, the constant barrage of sounds seems to disappear and everything around is quite. Silence. Not a sound; just the faint whisper of small cars swishing around in harmony. It is a strange perception that I assume I have created for myself, but it works. I can listen to songs and effortlessly get to my destination while my mind can wonder at its pleasure.I confess. I feel most inspired not when I first get up in the morning, and not when I am in the shower. It happens when I drive. Amman being not the most walking-friendly city, and me being lucky enough to have access to a car, I drive often, also because I regularly need to get to the other part of the city from where I live.
I think of words, image and sounds. If I want to keep any of those, I worry I would forget them once I reach where I’m going. Sometimes I stop and note things down. Sometimes I have to tell the first person that I see. Sometimes things get lost.
Who’s despair is it anyway?
Gustave Corbet's "Self Portrait" or "Desperate man"
THEY said we were tainted. We were colorful.
THEY said we were a minority. Minority rules.
THEY said it was a mistake. It was an uprising.
NOW, look what’s left of your farce. Dust and stone and a little bit more. You are lonely. You maintain your pretenses. You have broken this place, perhaps successfully so. I will not believe you. Yes, you, you know who you are.
I have tried to translate this impression process here, to read out my confessions as all that was over the past two months converged around you (the Duwwar), as you became a place of slogans. A place for confession. A place for make believe.
Last night as I was driving home, past the Duwwar I took a longer route. The city seemed so eternally quiet it begged to spend more time with it. On two separate spots I saw a bunch of striking stray dogs. Once I had to wait for them to cross the street, the second they had to wait for me.
Daido Moriyama's "Stray dog"
On the way I was thinking of how to end this blog, but then realized that it cannot end. The Duwwar is still there, the ‘monument’ is still there, the people around it are still there, and I will continue to pass them everyday. Has the way I react to the Duwwar changed since I started writing here? Yes.
Feelings of approach.
Repeat acts of driving by. Repeat. Repeat.
Glances from the window, only for some seconds.
Sometimes longer, there is traffic.
Expressions of the state of things.
Through the looking glass.
The construction of realities and myths will continue, as a traveler and as a protagonist – as I am the place. Thank you for reading, so far.
This blog is not THE END.
From Frank Miller's "Sin City"