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חיפוש בבמה

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מדורי במה







רון מוגלי
/ Over the Cliff

I sat on my office chair, and waited for silence to come.
The hum grew for a second, and then the computer shut down.
That's it. I was ready to go.
I slowly got up, lifted my traveling backpack, exited the
house - and left.
I headed for the airport. The drive there is forty-five
minutes, but I wasn't driving, I was in the back seat dazed
from last week's work - from my lack of sleep.
The bag was heavy. I let them carry it for me. They escorted
me, but I insisted on carrying my guitar myself.
We kissed and hugged, "goodbye, have a nice trip."
I headed to the Check-In counter and tried to look alive as
security personnel signaled that I was next.
"Do you understand why we ask all these questions?'' was
their last question. "Yes sir I do", and they gestured me
forward.
The Check-In girl takes my name and weighs my luggage. "Can
my guitar come with me aboard the plane?"
She turned and asked her colleague. It seemed like I was
going to get away with it.





After being awake for fifty-three hours, I thought sleeping
on the plane would be a given; the only thing I got was a
headache to go with my fever.
I had a note in my pocket: "Plane only, REALLY!"

I read it and smiled. It was true, I finished work and I was
heading where I've been dreaming of.
Nowhere special, that's true. It's a bit like home I guess,
but it isn't - nowhere is home.





After six hours the plane touched down.
I sat, letting everybody move out. I don't mind being last;
it's better than standing in the slowly moving line.
Besides, I have time.
My guitar case on my back, I could see my backpack on the
conveyor belt.
I found a trolley, exchanged some money, and called to
inform I have arrived safely. I made it.
As I Walked out of the airport the sun began painting the
sky pink. It's been four years since I have seen this
country's morning.




It was weird speaking this language again.
My voice estranged to me, the words like someone else's.
I have forgotten how the public transport works here; but
the few people around were kind enough to help me.
I made it to the city, picked up the receiver in a phone
booth and talked: "hello. I made it. I landed. I guess you
are still sleeping. I'll call later'' and I hung up.
I was in the central station. I picked up some fresh bread
for breakfast, and headed for dropping my luggage.
Then I headed for my first destination.





Really it seemed this journey only had two destinations -
the sea and the hills, the waves and that road. God and
something else - that I don't think can be defined in
words.
My first destination was the sea.
I walked slowly towards it, my shoes tied over my shoulder,
warm grains of sand sifting between my toes.
I reached the shoreline and looked forward, at a familiar
view of a long ago seen breakwater.
The water between the breakwater's center and shore is so
shallow you can walk across; and I walked.
A foot away from the breakwater I stopped.
There was a beautiful black bird with a red beak standing on
one of the rocks. We just looked at each other for a while.
At this point the water reached just under my knees, and my
jeans were carefully folded to remain dry. I headed back to
the shallower waters, put my shoes down on the wet sand and
lay down on my stomach, facing westwards and south - seeing
the open space between two breakwaters.




I lay that way and played with the wet sand in front of me,
picking some in my hand and letting it drip through my
fingers, and join the sand of the sea again.
You are wasting your time, you are just playing with mud...
But then I remembered - wait, this is my time; I can do
whatever I like with it; that is the idea. And right now, I
am enjoying playing with mud.

I don't know how much time passed, but it was getting
warmer, and my urge to go for a swim was getting stronger.
I had nothing with me besides my cloths, which were still
relatively dry, though a bit moist.
I began unbuttoning my jeans, but decided to fuck that and
just ran into the water.
My hair wet, my cloths hanging around me, I happily swam
between the waves, smiling to the sun.
Walking out in the early noon, I felt like god was upon me.
Slowly I walked, in my wet T-Shirt and jeans, the sun ahead
of me, my long hair on my back.
I picked up my shoes and walked south on the shoreline, my
feet tickled by the coming waves, my cloths slowly drying.





Yes, I was on the phone again. "ok, which road is to your
right?" "Excellent." "Walk straight on, keep walking." "now
wave. Ha ha! I can see you!"
I put the receiver down and ran.





My second sunrise, this time I am in a car.
"I'll show you what I like doing'' she said from the driver
seat. I smiled to the sun. "Sure thing."
We were moving up though the hills and this memory of Jacob
hit me; as we drove out of the countryside and into the
city, he said "back to the real world."
And I guess, in a way, there was truth in what he said. But
driving away and up and down hills seemed like going back to
life, at least for me.
"Put your arms up."
"Hmm?'' I asked her.
"Just put your arms up'', and she hit the gas pedal, and I
was flying.
Rushing down the hill the view is a beautiful valley, and I
was flying.
She slowed down and smiled at me. Then her eyes darkened.
"Sometimes I imagine driving right off."
I smiled back. "Well, thanks for not actually doing it."
And we drove on, the two happiest people in the world.





After a few days in the hills I went back south.
I spent some time in the city, on the spring knoll, seeing
old friends, going to concerts, seeing how the streets
changed.
Then I went further south.





It is a very rich country. Green hills in the north, then
cities and beaches; and then deserts and great mountains
that slope to the sea in the south.
This sea is the closest thing to home that I have. No, I
wasn't born there, nor have lived there for a substantial
length of time; but as the locals would say: ''I know it
like the back of my hand'', or something like that.
I didn't have much time to stay there, ironic as it may
seem, considering all I had was time; but I told my friend I
will drive with her back to her home in the north, and I
wouldn't miss that drive through the hills for all the time
in the world.
I stood and stared at the blue sea. There is one big rock
sticking out from the peaceful water.
The mountains seen far on the other side seem like shadows.
These are the mountains of Aqaba; and the mountains behind
me are great mountains painted in red - and their reflection
on the water is what gives this gulf its name.





There was one thing I always wanted to do here.
I walked on the beach to a small dock I remembered from
years ago, and took out my guitar.
I played and sang that song by Otis Redding, and I let my
whistles fade with the wind.
That's it. I was sitting on a dock of a bay watching the
tide roll away.
Wasting time.





There she was, in her uniform, talking on the phone, with
her back turned towards me.
I slowly moved towards her car, reached it and put my bags
quietly on the ground and stared at her.
Someone said something funny - she laughed, and I smiled.
She turned around quickly, suddenly feeling she was not
alone.

It's a long drive through the empty desert and cities before
the hills and what she calls her home.
Through it all the music played loudly and the sun played on
our faces.
We smiled to each other sometimes, other times we sang along
like two little idiots.
There were times we both drifted, her fingers stopped
tapping on the steering wheel, and we knew we were heading
somewhere good.





We reached the hills, and before going home we drove further
up, just to stare at the setting sun and enjoy the great
view.
We stood there, with our backs against the car, until the
sun was barely visible, and the wind began to cool us down.
Then we stepped back in.
"Do you recognize this road?"
I smiled back. "of course I do, I will always remember
flying here."
And she feigned a sudden turn of the steering wheel that
would have thrown us over the cliff.
And we smiled at each other.
I reached and grabbed the steering wheel, like I secretly
imagined doing the first time we drove here together, and
pulled it towards me.





In what seemed like no time, we were over the cliff.

The car swerved to the right, broke through the small
barrier and flew.
And we were flying too.

Serenity seemed to follow that second of madness where tires
screeched and crashing noises roared.
We were floating.

Nothing but the valley
Nothing but Time
And time seemed to move slowly
And we spent the rest of our lives this way
And it wasn't only me.
We both felt it.
As we flew and hovered - slowly - over the cliff


May 19th - Aug 10th 2007

I would just like to add a special thanks to three people:
To Gal and Mike: Mike for driving me that day, and saying
"back to reality", and Gal for making Mike drive me, and for
asking me to tell a story.

Thanks to you Ella, for that road, and for letting me fly.

I love you all
Ron







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בבמה מאז 15/9/07 11:59
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