the five star empty quarter (or Buddha finds the void)

The desert is strong; it's light encompassing, all-embracing. It was like we were nothing, like nothing in the world; an image maybe, an image refracted deeply in a dark mirror...

There are reclining chairs in one section of the airport, overlooking the runway. You sit there uneasily, since you're far too accustomed to sitting on the edge of your seat, to not relaxing. the distant lights are stacked up there on the horizon; cream, light green, sage green, an arc of white spanning out into the night sky, slightly unreal, timeless. Passengers collect a token and wait, look, readjust their bodies until they've reached a perfect still moment. It's like some ancient ritual, this wandering of the mind in the dark, this looking into bright lights for some kind of solace. These lights, burning without religion...

Some look at their laptops, connected by some invisible forces to home, the past, loved ones; others just huddle together, seeking some human warmth or conversation. Sit snugly in your saffron blankets. some pull the blankets up to their chin whilst others let the blankets fall half way to their hip. Here we are, like Buddha staring into the void. This could be anywhere. We could be anyone. This is Vegas, wired up, one's senses dazed, stunned. So, here we are; we could be sitting on Brighton pier, our mouths agape in the expectation of the first lights, or our hearts saddened by the last show, the dim understanding of all that's gone wrong in our lives. So, here we are, in the dead hours, all bleary-eyed, shot through, the mind reduced to a blank functionality. Stare, and stare into the darkness. We could be anyone or no-one, a man in a Hopper painting, looking out in the small ours of Saturday night. So, here we are, 100,000 years ago, peering into our tribe's fires, fascinated and hooked to the disintegrating flames, the cooling embers' last glow. We sit in a broken circle, without names or words for one another or the world; just the spectacular display of lights, the departure and arrival of strangers like ourselves. We try to find peace. We try to forget. The wheel of desire has become unhinged.

~~~

When an Arab woman says "Khalid" it's sexy as hell; such a difference from the solid, mind-numbing and boring, no-frills English pronunciation. Almost becomes something exotic. Eastern promise, as opposed to the gravely, pragmatic, gritty, way of saying it.

~~~

You sit in the airport, closely observing everyone's face; you want to judge every one of them or stand up and preach some to them in a high-pitched tone of moral righteousness: for Christ's sake, there's gotta be more to life than Costa coffee and the scramble for duty-free goods! This is where we are. The Americans are way behind on the scene. Why, their fakeness sounds positively old fashioned in comparison, almost old world. There are no classics in the 'bookstore' (I use the word loosely). Most of it management guru stuff and silly romances for the Bedouins.

~~~

On t.v. you hear an Egyptian peasant/labourer say: "We want our freedom, we have a 50 year-old civilisation". All of a sudden the other protesters stop their shouting and turn to him, flustered: "you mean a 7,000 year-old civilisation, right?". Cut to the next scene. The Egyptian peasant/labourer: "We want our freedom, we have a 7,000 year-old civilisation." Priceless.