Saturday, 26 September 2009
Every Tuesday I go to a little cafe called Picnic. I don't quite know anybody in there, it's like a human stew, a jumble of people who gather there to drink coffee, eat cake and gossip. It's not terribly big, but is the perfect place to sit, watch the world through the window, draw and write letters. The window looks out onto three other cafes. The other day, I was sketching and drinking coffee, when a large circle of Moroccan men caught my eye. They were sat sipping coffee and sharing stories in their mother tongue. It was intriguing to watch them, whilst telling their stories they get up wander about they are so animated whilst the stories were been told. I love the dynamics, passion, the overwhelming need to share their stories and the continuous heckling throughout the dialogue.
I go back to my scribbling and try to listen to what people are chattering about, in the cafe it's quiet today everybody speaking just above a whisper, as not to share their business with the world. Why in this country are we so worried about encroaching on others space? The only thing I hear with any clarity is that "he said his wife's face looks like a mouldy sandwich". Charming! For all I know that's what they could of been storytelling about over the road in the Moroccan circle. I really love that Moroccan people understand the importance of their storytellers as they keep the flames of their culture alive. We all have stories to tell, their in our bones.
I would just like to say how grateful I am to my Dad for his storytelling throughout our lives, and how lucky we were to have known his stories especially, little red riding hood the little raver.
Posted by patchworkbutterfly at 08:55