A Fork in the Road

This morning, I pushed open a door that was stuck to its frame. When it sprung open, a hot splash of sunlight landed on my face. Or maybe, it was me. I was the one who had suddenly landed there, wobbling and stumbling into the path of the sun.

Somehow, the heavy clouds that had just washed the city in a grey rain were already blowing off in some new direction. So many different paths now seemed to sprawl before me, twisting and winding, narrow here, broad and airy there. Bright brass lamps beckoned to the right, and to the left, woven carpets draped the coarse coral walls of the short stacked buildings; all perfumed by the scents of cumin, orange blossoms, and fried fish. And now my own thoughts also spill and spread in disparate directions.

I have begun and left unfinished Comma Directory entries about: eels and Camus, the persistence of New York City, victimhood in the writing of Paul Bowles and Jean d'Ormesson, food in Japanese film, the depiction of gangs in Latin American and Hong Kong cinema. Instead, I have let myself go deeper into the souks—buying nothing, jumping out of the way of motorbikes, looking at cats, thinking about the improbability of a new year and of Marrakech.

- Andrea