rock and roll and hooka pipes

the evening began with a bottle o' beer and some turkishbread, ripped in chunks from under tk's arm, dipped in runny hommus as we walked home from a sailor infested northbridge, shiny friday night people and puff daddy styled boys just cuttin loose on their free dress.

[there is an aircraft carrier parked in the port o' freo, gigantic in size, boasting flags and steel and enough power supply to run a small town, like freo, for example. but the lights are off and the sailor kids are out for good times].

after a little discussion about the middle east crisis (little did i know this was only a foreshadowing, a taste of what was to come) in the tiny kitchen, mainly between, of course, tk and G, we finally make our way to this opening party, rtr fundraiser at pica, where there are girls in stripes and dots and red shoes and faux leather belts and pretty faces, and boys with paint on jeans and fabrizio moretti facial hair and sometimes, both boys and girls, with quiffs. and there is good music and good vibes all round and rock n' roll antics to finish, an then we're out in the night air, arms linked, guided by the frequent explosions of D's contagious laughter down to the moon cafe, where there are coffees and chips, dipped in coffee, and milkshakes alternated with beers. where there is jenny who is flirtin with the cute waiter on our behalf, and there is bent over laughing and the boys shakin their heads.

and then, late into the night we find ourselves smoking an unspecified liquorice like fruit molass in a sheesha pipe, in the back of that egyptian place down the road, and there is more coffee, made with cloves this time and spices and sugar. a sickly sweet smell invades mouth and nose and there is a droning feeling, and the conversation quickly propels to politics once again, and even the bulgarian waitress feels compelled to join in [and maybe it is her accent, but mainly what she is saying, but i get flashbacks of that day, that 12th september 2001, when a few of us were sittin around the reid cafe discussing what had happened, over there in new york, and some of the serbian kids who had just joined us would smile and joke and give out high fives to each other] and suddenly...
my head is on the table and heavy and i listen to the circles of words and it seems they are coming from the hookah pipe, swirling and puffing above my head.
and i realise things these days, about politics and about justice, and think tomorrow i will write, tomorrow... but maybe some things are better left up in the air, swirling in circles.