A Joyful One

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Perched at the edge of the Moroccan Atlantic in the village of Taghazout, currently overtaken by vacationers who crowd the beach during the day with footballs and paddleballs and camel rides and surfboards and stand-up paddleboards and fried sardines and donuts. The clackety-clack of castanets and psychedelic buzz of tambourines and the occasional blast of Despacito. At the end of an itinerant summer that began in Brick Lane in London, where I walked and talked with Yasmin and Tina and Jules and wandered into a production of Macbeth, then to Berlin sitting under the eaves in Neukolln trying to hash out a draft of a libretto about a case of wrongful imprisonment with Raluca, smoking bedtime joints with Antonnis and drinking deadpan Augustiners with Achille, and attending a two-day thing about Arab Futurism where Refqa talked about Habibi’s green man, and where I saw Maha and Heissam after many years, and got to see a film Maha made of one of Heissam’s stories, where a drug dealer was transformed into a goat, who turned out to be not so much a drug dealer turned into a goat, but just a goat.

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