I am ashamed as I type this...Why, you ask?  You see, I have just finished one Paul Bowles, Magic and Morocco by Dr. Allen Hibbard of a university in Tennessee, and I now have the desire to write a letter to him just as he once did to Paul Bowles.  The oddest part?  A friend of mine is taking a class with him this coming semester.  I'm a bit jealous but at the same time happy to be a part of something else, happy to be here.  But as I delve deeper into the mysteries of Bowles and the country in which I'm living, my desire to write grows more and more intense.  It's sad to realize that the Great Era is gone...of all of the writers I've idolized since before I was old enough to idolize them (when my peers were reading R.L. Stine), precious few are left.  Precious few to harangue, as it were.

Soon I will be a writer.  A real one, not the kind I've been for years, the internet-journal and intense-handwritten-letter kind.  The kind who publishes her work in underground zines she'd loathe for her parents to discover.  Today, perusing the weathered paperbacks of an English-language bookstore, I came across two copies of the book I'm contracted to re-write.  It only made me anxious to know that they're as far-reaching as Meknes.

I start work tomorrow; after two weeks of that I'm taking a bit of time to travel.  While it's tempting to stalk Inmeuble Itesa, the former residence of Bowles and current of Cherie Nutting, I think I'll stick to the magic of Marrakech, a short visit with a friend in Casa, and the beach of Rabat.  Tangier, another time.