Luanda, Angola

An ordinary morning opened as I focused my eyes on the room around me. The sun beaming in through the blinds reminding me I needed to lift my body from the warm nest within my bed and trod to the bathroom and start the ritualized preparations of the day. I passed Tom’s room and saw Pokey curled on top of the bed peeking out from half-opened eyes as a stumbled toward the bathroom. Each morning a familiar surprise to see myself reflected back in mirrors. It was as if an actor lived on the other side, that cold glass world, and we were both startled to see each other on the same schedule. Something inside me, reminded me of the decadent surroundings. These feelings would follow me through the day. Now that I had seen life on the other side there was a nagging question as to what was fair and who deserved what. The room was filled with brilliant white, flowing from the shower curtain to the towels to the tile. A hygienic hue to remind one of the miracles of modern day cleanliness.

I left all of this and stepped on plane and stepped off again onto the tarmac. Jostled from left and to right as I pushed without concern toward the customs counter. The sickly sweet smell of sweat and old fruit permeated everything. Why does it always smells the same? As I left the baggage claim area I saw the flashes of eyes searching for an opportunity to help, to drive, to earn my money.

I turned the page and like reading a blank book I found it necessary to fill the space with my own projections. I could find divine meaning in the happenings and events or leave it all to entropy. I chose to create a narrative heedless to the possibility that there is no meaning but chance: A twist of statistical probability that allows my mind to invoke meaning on the meaningless. Looking down I read the familiar words. I put my ear against myself. Like listening to a conch to hear the ocean, I want to hear what is inside of me. If the sea is the origin of the conch, what sound should be the origin of me? I slept restlessly and looked out like a ghost in a shell. For surely I am not that different from all of them yet I feel so far apart. I walked on the broken sidewalk amidst the broken spirits, as Land Rovers and Mercedes sped by. I purchased my water and my sandwich. Retreated to my hotel, my room, my bed. These days are for others, I told myself. That is why I came. To change the situation for someone else I cannot see. To give hope to someone who doesn’t know the blindness that is waiting for them. If Derek Jarman spoke of blue blindness and Jose Saramago spoke of white blindness, what is the blindness of not knowing your enemy?