And then the baby begins to sway. The ghost whirr of the AC dying hard in our ears, we’ve grown paralytically hot in the living room, some whiff of something gunpowder-like coming through the window, and all of life suddenly, wrongfully without power. Somewhere not far mephitic men with weapons must be raising those black flags marked with the statement of the faith in white rudimentary abjad, behemoth beards bereft of all mustachios, shrieking their support for the President of the Second Republic. Before long, enraged guevaras will be heading straight for the fuckers. They will be wielding slogans as they die of what, through rev-o-lution, they have brought upon themselves. The streets are quiet except for gun shots sounding a slow beat when the baby slithers off her mother’s lap and crawls to the center of the room, quarreling with balance and gravity until, plump legs ending in all but edible feet in two arches across a few square inches of the carpet, she is sitting. Her miniature fists grab invisible parallel bars as she rocks to and fro, up and down, shaking her head along the opposite axis and humming a crude rhythm in the candlelight. When she notices us notice her, she gathers speed. While she sways she is neither crying nor laughing her high, raucous laugh, the one that comes with a flurry and directionless shaking of the limbs. Now, as she rocks with martial regularity, her face is dead serious. This is evidently a matter of great importance; it must be done in a professional spirit. And then the father too rises, finally, wading in the humidity to the nearest flat surface, a closed door, where he manages to stand. And, taking my cue from a gun shot, my wife clapping along with me, the baby like a pendulum while Egypt burns, I begin to drum.
From Waiting for Civil War: an iPhoneography work in progress