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The heat. 


The heat.






It holds you.






What is it? 


a sense




ex cite ment




if that is even possible.












It is possible.


We drive along the dusty road, across the low bridge that sits astride the wide river, heavy with flood water, past fields of tall bamboo and glossy, green alfalfa.  A young boy watches us from his donkey, loaded with freshly cut alfalfa, on his way home to feed his sheep.  The sun is high and the car window is wound down, letting the hot air circulate in the car, around my ankles and through my hair, I lean out of the window to take it all in.


Turning into the familiar track we bump and judder past the Mosque into the familiar but still spectacular sunbaked crumbling grand courtyard of the old Kasbah.  The sleepy dogs look up, but decide not to move, saving their energy for this evening activities of barking through the night.


We are greeted, I am greeted as if an old friend, a family member has returned after a long absence, it is so welcome after the long drive over the mountains to get here.  My body begins to wake up and find a new form with a stretch of the arms and a big







*  e        x        h        a        l        e  *





(This is where I need to be, this is the right time, the right place, here and now. 

For what? 

I don’t know.


It keeps on calling.)


Angela Coates, UAL, Central Saint Martins, MA Arts and Cultural Enterprise October 2019

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