Wilfred Thesinger, the man I have been obsessing for two months now, fianlly came to my dream last night.
He was in his safari-British-colonial-attire-blond-that-highlight-his-lean-lean-body and spoke in stiff English. The background is Addis Ababa, captial of Ethiopia where he grew as a child. He didn't talk but he knew my presence. As my walk leafing through his parents' house, his Eton dormitory, camp sites of his loyal Beduins in the endless desert of Empty Quarter, I tried to penetrate the silence and speak to him and wish to own his words like postcards while he rotating a Felucca
No, his words has been wood carved and paperbound. Not 3D or real-player. Not for souvenir.
Before my eletronic fan died down, he said " Aye, aye, in summer, rain is lethal. Like memory, drawns many."
