.
...8 p.m. i am sat down, listening to that old Stones album: whilst the dusty bass of Bill Wyman is just rumble for the Stray cat blues, the Sun of the Bay of Biscay goes shining in agony for the last rose of summer.
That is golden concrete among the queue of buidings: the glow comes in across my window, and i wonder about a story someone referred me once.
...And once upon a time...
________________
The Spanish Sahara aka Western Sahara it's a territory of the occidental Africa, where the women produce an extraordinary disturbing noise, screamin' and makin' tremble their tongues at once.
The algerian women used to do the same during the revolution against the french domination in the 1950's.
The Western Sahara got its independence from Spain in the mid 70's, but was occupied by Morocco.
The status of the territory's unclear and conflictive yet. And Spain got much to say about...
---------------------
...Juan Alvarez is a soldier. He's 19 and was recruited from Cadiz, Andalusia, to go to the conflictive colony; he belongs to the glorious legión.
Is 1973, are the general Franco last days and the situation in Villa Cisneros is as rare as the very habits of the saharawi ones...
Juan is commanded to wear turbant and white long clothes like an arab; he's got to stay all day in the sun, to get tanned as a bereber, and oint himself with goat's grease: to copy the saharawi customs and ways...
Sometimes the training it demands to eat rat or lizard.
All this is pretty strange, but was real: i heard the story by his own lips, one of those rainy nights of the north.
...And how the story goes on..?
Maybe i heard the story during 1001 rainy nights. Even before hear it...
------------------------
B) Les mirages de la nuit.
...Juan is awaken in the Sahara night, close there are 2 Jeeps dripping gasoline on the sand; the wind's getting colder every hour and every hour gets longer. Longer...
The radio plays a tribal tune that seem to fly lost among the sexual dunes; round like tits.
A moon shine such a round automaton in a sky of Bertolucci...unreal metallic whispers coming from El Aaiún dementialize the aspids' eyes: gamma rays in the night to the erected phallus of Atlas, that bursts in an airy örgasm.
The silvery airwäves fill the Juan's eyes, moving away like violet spectrums in caravan.
...The spectral oscillations of the desert can drive a man.
Insane.
...When Juan fall asleep the harpies of Cape Bojador fly such angels of Albion...
-----------------------
C) When the sun falls on the rocks/the days of our exile.
The noon sol pauperize some rocky prominence naked of sand; the soldier is watcher of summer in a landscape of Man Ray.
Is the soldier's exile.
Everybody needs an exile. Several exiles.
...The sun gets tangerine, surrealistic; almost french...i got my exile too.
But i suposse i'm dead.
------------------------
C) Epilogue.
The algerian women used to do the same during the revolution against the french domination in the 1950's.
The Western Sahara got its independence from Spain in the mid 70's, but was occupied by Morocco.
The status of the territory's unclear and conflictive yet. And Spain got much to say about...
---------------------
...Juan Alvarez is a soldier. He's 19 and was recruited from Cadiz, Andalusia, to go to the conflictive colony; he belongs to the glorious legión.
Is 1973, are the general Franco last days and the situation in Villa Cisneros is as rare as the very habits of the saharawi ones...
Juan is commanded to wear turbant and white long clothes like an arab; he's got to stay all day in the sun, to get tanned as a bereber, and oint himself with goat's grease: to copy the saharawi customs and ways...
Sometimes the training it demands to eat rat or lizard.
All this is pretty strange, but was real: i heard the story by his own lips, one of those rainy nights of the north.
...And how the story goes on..?
Maybe i heard the story during 1001 rainy nights. Even before hear it...
------------------------
B) Les mirages de la nuit.
...Juan is awaken in the Sahara night, close there are 2 Jeeps dripping gasoline on the sand; the wind's getting colder every hour and every hour gets longer. Longer...
The radio plays a tribal tune that seem to fly lost among the sexual dunes; round like tits.
A moon shine such a round automaton in a sky of Bertolucci...unreal metallic whispers coming from El Aaiún dementialize the aspids' eyes: gamma rays in the night to the erected phallus of Atlas, that bursts in an airy örgasm.
The silvery airwäves fill the Juan's eyes, moving away like violet spectrums in caravan.
...The spectral oscillations of the desert can drive a man.
Insane.
...When Juan fall asleep the harpies of Cape Bojador fly such angels of Albion...
-----------------------
C) When the sun falls on the rocks/the days of our exile.
The noon sol pauperize some rocky prominence naked of sand; the soldier is watcher of summer in a landscape of Man Ray.
Is the soldier's exile.
Everybody needs an exile. Several exiles.
...The sun gets tangerine, surrealistic; almost french...i got my exile too.
But i suposse i'm dead.
------------------------
C) Epilogue.
