13 broken pencils

echoes in 3's

2012-01-16T23:37:00.014+02:00

Wine and cigarettes and thoughts and thoughts and thoughts.

Sadness and happiness and all those in between.

Rain storms and thunder and lightening and the calm that is before the storm that never really exists, because it's always calm before a storm. There is no such thing. It just is.

* * *

Music and words and words and words.

"You have a lot you want to say don't you?" she asked me without expecting a reply.

And it was cold and the words in my head made me shiver. The dogs were antsy.

And my silence was heavy and I nodded slightly, but it was the weight of the words I had in my head that made it move. They swirled and panicked and crashed into each other and got louder.

Yes, yes, yes I had a lot to say. yes. Yes I wanted to release them because they were so heavy.

My heart was so heavy.

Some one share the burden. Some one help me with this.

But instead I limply waved it away, and walked to the car with no one to hear me but the absent passenger sitting right next to me.

* * *

Dawn is breaking, and there are skips that have been done in the middle of the road among a haze of white wine, but I'm not drunk, not on wine. No, not on wine.

Laughter is drowning the ticking of clocks, and the passing of time.

And the dawn is breaking, breaking, breaking.

and in breaking it made me whole again.

* * *

This is where I am. This place is somewhere, and nowhere, and here.

And in it's novelty it is so familiar like deja vu, or a recurring dream, or your reflection in the mirror.

And you are somewhere, nowhere, and here.

Until you are elsewhere.

And that adds them all up, collapses them all into "where?"

And I wish I knew.

I am Somewhere, Nowhere, and Here.

I once heard... About the compass that didn't point North

2012-01-15T19:17:00.014+02:00

I once heard about a worn down compass that never pointed North.

In fact, where it pointed was relative to whoever held it in their palm.

They say it finally made its way to a small shop that sold pretty much anything and everything from old horseshoes made of "good energy" metal, to toy light sabers, to espresso machines, and even iPods.

It wasn't a very distinctive compass when it came to its appearance, made of cheap metal and plastic, nothing made it stand out. Its skinny needle sat in lightly tinted water that had developed a couple of air bubbles over time (something that had caused many a potential buyer to put it back with a grunt) and its dial was very simple, no ornamentation or decorative nature to it at all.

It really was a pretty basic, mundane compass. Except for the fact of course that it never pointed North.

No one really knew where it pointed, since it would change its direction depending on who held it, its needle teetering one way or the other slightly at ever exchange of hands.

Some blamed the air bubbles that floated around in its water, while others said it must have been put together in some far off country with no quality control, and some even blamed global warming (how this was relevant, no one knew, but there is always someone who blames global warming).

Magnets did not hinder it in any way either. All sorts of magnets were introduced to try and tamper with its curious way-finding to no avail. While other compasses went haywire under the pull of magnetism, this one simply kept pointing wherever it was pointing.

They say that on a dreary day in November, a young woman walked into the shop having passed it many times before, finally surrendering to her curiosity and her bizarre urge to rummage among its knick-knacks.

After picking up a few old movie posters and a piggy bank in the shape of an oversized gummy bear, she spotted the compass lying on a shelf collecting dust.

I heard that as she picked it up in her free hand, its needle spun around frantically for a few seconds before pointing somewhere, nowhere, not North.

They say the shop keeper warned her that it didn't work from behind his wiry spectacles, to which someone overheard her reply, "It has to point somewhere, right?" before making the purchase and leaving.

They say she followed the compass' needle many, many days. Some say it was over the course of a year, others say it was only a month. No one really is certain, and at the end of it all, it really didn't matter. It pointed her to different places and new faces, but always shifting slightly as though its destination had not been discovered. Of course, until she bumped into him.

Being taken by the compass' mystery, it's said she had become focused on its face, and one day while maneuvering her way along the streets of the city, head down (as she now had a habit of doing), bumped into a tall stranger. Apologising under her breath, they both carried on their separate ways, only for her to get an odd feeling, and to hastily notice the compass' needle swerve the complete opposite direction. She paused, slightly baffled, before changing her course which led her to a nearby café.

And in the café the compass led her to a table.

And sitting at the table was the tall stranger, a cup of coffee, and a book.

Not really aware of herself, she set the compass in the centre of the table, and sat across from him.

They say that she didn't need the compass to tell her where to go anymore.

No one knew why the compass had led her this way, no one asked, no one had to.

It was not the force of a magnet, or air bubbles, or global warming.

It was something else, and that was all anybody really knew. Nothing more.

I once heard of a compass that didn't point North but pointed somewhere else.

And of the young woman that wears it around her neck to remind her that she is exactly where she should be.

merry k*ristmas

2011-12-25T11:32:00.003+02:00

Sometimes wishing is all you can do.

Peace on earth, and good will to all men (and women!)

Merry Christmas everyone. I'll be seeing you more in this new year. I promise.

Remember to pay it forward...

sometimes you're lucky

2011-12-23T11:27:00.003+02:00

A new trend I've adopted... Stating how "sometimes", just sometimes, you're lucky. It started as a Facebook status and has grown into a daily mantra. Just a moment to ponder on them. So I've begun to collect them on here.. Perhaps will post an update every once in a while.

sometimes you're lucky. like when you find a parking spot right next to your work.

sometimes you're lucky. like when you're headed the same way the motorcade is.

sometimes you're lucky. like when the dj plays a song you love that no one really plays.

sometimes you're lucky. like when you can actually remember why there's a red helium balloon floating in your car.

sometimes you're lucky. like when your companion in the car is a silent red balloon, and that's exactly what you need.

sometimes you're lucky. like when you find what you looking for right before you give up.

sometimes you're lucky. like when it's so sunny in december you have to wear your dad's sunglasses.

sometimes you're lucky. like when your friend keeps gummy bears in the fridge for you because she knows you love that.

sometimes you're lucky. like when you just about miss that huge pile of dog crap in your path.

sometimes you're lucky. like when you wake up early and you know you're going to get things done.

sometimes you're lucky. but not when you wake up from a weird dream, and have one thing on your mind.

sometimes you're lucky. like when you're at a pink floyd gig. even if it is a cover band. ♥

sometimes you're lucky. but you're not sure how yet.

sometimes you're lucky. but you're not sure why yet.

sometimes you're lucky. but sometimes others are just luckier.

sometimes you're lucky. well, and sometimes you're just not.

for those with trouble sleeping

2011-09-05T01:46:00.002+03:00

I remember sleeping to this only a few years ago when I was in London working.
It helped me when I needed it the most.

I had the Stacey Kent version on repeat running on my laptop till i fell asleep, and awoke with my laptop battery drained and a misty feeling in my eyes.

It isn't far to hushabye mountain.
and your boat awaits by the quay...

Click the video

and this is the Gilmour version

Goodnight...
Sweet dreams

Birthday Letter 2011

2011-07-06T08:57:00.001+03:00

I didn't need a reminder this year.

I've been wanting to write you for the past few months. I've been waiting to write you for the past few months.
I even considered writing you a letter and then publishing it on the 6th, so that it coincides with your birthday, but I thought that would be sort of cheating.

This year has been tough so far.
And I'm angry.

I'm angry at you for the first time I think. I'm angry for you leaving.
I miss you differently this year. It's not like you are a romantic idea anymore. It's like I want to tell you, the joke is over, it's time for you to come back now.

And the dreams only confirm this sentiment.

The dreams I've been having baba, the ones of you of course, are always the same. It's almost to a degree where the dream becomes a favoured reality. I always dream that you are away on business, or travelling, and in my dream, you have just returned. And in most dreams, I am upset because you have been away too long.
In the last dream, i'm at the airport picking you up, and I tell you that mum has not been herself, and that she's been on edge and upset and in a lousy mood since you've been away, and that you can't leave us like that anymore.

I always wake up with a sunken heart.
I always need a minute to realise that I haven't been at the the airport, that you aren't on a plane, that you are not coming back.
And so I'm angry. I'm angry at you, goddamit.
And with the anger, destructive thoughts come around. And I wonder if you fought hard enough to stay. If maybe I had battled my way into ICU to see you against your wishes, if that would have been enough to keep you fighting. To keep you here.
I wonder if you just chose to rest.

But then again, that's not the reason I'm angry. I'm just angry that you left. Not how, when, or why.
And yes, I suppose my dream was right when it portrayed me telling you about mama. Because no, she's still not ok.

And I try. I'm impatient, and sometimes I'm rude. And sometimes I'm hurtful. I even can be downright cruel. But I no longer have control of the fuses related to her. Sometime I lose it. I really do. I no longer can see the light once we get into that big black tunnel. Sometimes she strings out the words that come out of her mouth in a way she does not realise destroy me somewhere, even a small part. Sometimes the words, or more correctly the lack of them, comes out so sharp, it cannot but graze me.

Maybe it's not her fault . Maybe I've changed. Probably I've changed.
And i just need peace. I need a bit of margins to breathe in. I feel suffocated by everything in the real world, and sometimes I don't understand how mama doesn't understand that I am off battling these dragons and working hard and living hard. And at the same time, I know her fears. I know her attachment.
And I guess maybe part of my anger at you is that. You leaving caused a misbalance that she specifically either refuses to see, and is suffering the consequences of, or cannot balance out. In either case, it's not something good. I can no longer see misery. In any amount. That too, has made me angry.

The thought of moving out to my own place has more or less crystalized. I need to move out i think. Not because of anything in particular, but I think for the past couple of years I've become a whole person on my own, in every sense of the word. I want to pay my bills, I want to decorate my own space, I want to be able to wake up in the morning and fall asleep at night the way I feel I want to. And most importantly it would do wonders to my relationship with mama. I think the space would do us well. I'm sure of that in fact. I just hope she sees it that way, and not that I am running away.

it's been a stressful, tiring, thought provoking year on many a level. And still it drags on.
I am always working. I am always worried, and I am always waiting for things to turn the right side up.
I'm working 3 jobs, between the office with Rana, the freelancing and work with Saadi and other people, and the DJing, I have come to realise I can no longer breathe. I don't have weekends, I am always thinking of work even in the back of my head, and I have this weight of over responsibility, that by me stopping to watch TV for a bit, or go have dinner with friends or with Jose, it will suffer. That I'm slacking off.

That weight of induced over responsibility is so heavy...

Once again, I've reached that point that I'm sure, now more than ever, is heridetary.
That point when I feel I am not establishing myself. That i am wasting time doing what I should not be doing by working for someone. And as for what should be done, what I should be achieving, I'm not 100 percent sure I know that yet... But I see the light. I should be doing somethign that fulfills me, and I have not reached that yet. I guess I'm not destined to work in an office. I want my own space, with the etching roller, and a silkscreen area, so I can spend my life making prints of all sorts of graphics and words and worlds.

I want to sit and carve into and paint onto and print over and cut out and stitch up and all of that.
I want to draw and illustrate and design my own projects, my own products, my own ideas.
I want to write, layout, print and publish.

So why am I not doing that... I'm not sure. Fear I suppose, that I won't succeed. That I won't be able to sustain myself. That I'm over confident of what I can do. That I will procrastinate and get lazy.
So what do I do? I want you to tell me...

Anyway.

At least I've started one project hands on... The one I promised myself I'd start ever since I found those photos you had tucked away on the lower shelf in your office. That book will come out. Rain or shine. And soon. Just as soon as i can free myself from the binds of stressful work loads...

I'm sorry if this year, the letter is heavy. I'm sure you understand.
I wish you were here more and more, maybe because I feel I need you. Does that make it selfish?
I realise more and more, everyone is really, truly on their own. Whether to fight that by always being around others, or whether you succumb to it gracefully I am still to discover. But everyone somehow, is alone. And that makes the longing even harder.

Happy birthday baba. I love you very very much.
Till next year.

Please visit my dreams more often, but stay.

Bintak Karma

Birthday letter 2010
Birthday letter 2009

Solitaire sanctuary

2011-05-27T13:45:00.007+03:00

Suddenly, there's Solitaire.

I havent played solitaire in a really long time. And then suddenly, it's in my life again.
It's not as tangible as I used to play it. This time it's on my blackberry. Shameful.

But, nonetheless, it's back. The 12 royal disciples watch as I line them up with clicks and cursors, ever teaching me that opposites attract and that things pile up in chaos but end in order.

I remember when my mother used to shuffle her deck of cards, murmuring a wish under her breath over and over, in the tradition that if the cards played out right, they would magically charm fate into fulfilling it. She would sometimes go on for a couple of hours, shuffling and reshuffling in a ritual that on one hand gave her hope, and on the other the patience and perseverance to follow through till she had a promise of a wish fulfilled by the energies that lay in paper with worn rounded edges.

It was calming even to see her lay the cards out in 7 coloumns, in increasing degrees, flipping card after card pausing to see if the one in her hand could land anywhere helpful. She would go on and on, on the same wish till it "opened up" in front of her.

(does this mean our fate and wishes are in our own hands?)

And so, I'm back to solitaire. I don't know where it came from, but now at every chance I get, I open the application on my phone, whether taking a cigarette break at work, or trying to drift off to sleep, or even on the toilet (yes. on the toilet.)

And like my mother, I catch myself making a wish in my mind, a request to the powers within the microchip and bits and bytes to help me move things along, to help clear obstacles, to tell me things will be alright. This ultimately leads me into a cycle of thought, of reasoning, weighing outcomes and their consequences. I am dragged into a bubble where I am reassessing and reevaluating, and retracing. I forget there is a game of chance and luck, but there is a magic about it, a romantic and whimsical thought. And then of course there's the microchip.

Solitaire is made for one. But I slowly realise that that is sometimes more than enough.

I'll dream you closer

2011-03-30T23:40:00.005+02:00

"You love me from afar" she says.

A bittersweet sentiment that leaves her lips purely by mistake as her mind puts the logic of it together.

He looks at her confused. Asks for clarification.

"It's a present absence... or maybe more like an absent presence... I don't know really."

His expression does not change. The confusion is a constant.

"I see glimpses of it. You let it go by mistake. And in those slip ups I see it so clear and it's like the light of day, and it all makes sense and it's beautiful. But then it's eclipsed again, and for the life of me I don't know why."

Her head bows down slightly in wishful melancholy.

"it's like the lacking of something you know you have...Or the same thing spoken in a different language that after a while becomes frustrating trying to piece together into the beautiful thing that you know it is... Or like sunshine warming you on a chilly day through soft cracks in passing wisps of clouds"

He's confused.

"I'm confusing you. I'm confused. It's confusing."

She realises he does not follow. Or perhaps would rather not.

She leans in with a soft sad kiss, with a hint of a smile gracing the corners of her lips.

"Goodnight." she says. "I'll dream you closer."

And with that she drives off into a dawning city, leaving him on the sidewalk, hoping he slips up more often.

I once heard... About the joan of arcs among us

2011-01-26T15:10:00.027+02:00

I once heard that Joan of Arc didn't burn at the stake and die.

I heard she was beaten by her mother, abused by her father, thrown into rooms and told to shut up. I heard she was victim to drugs and the streets and all the dark creatures that may roam it. I heard she died a thousand times while on her feet and burned a million more while she lay under the temporary cover of her duvet, tears trailing her cheeks in persistent lines that would've left grooves if that was possible.

I heard how her love overflowed onto pavements and into gutters nevertheless.

Books hid her gaze from the world, occupying it with words that twirled and swirled around her into a shell of another time and place and that was all she needed.
I heard how the tops of trees brought her closer to the sky and further from the ground and that made her sing and sing and sing
perhaps birds would adopt her and she could fly away from here
I heard how she built her armour from scraps of disappointment, hinges of steel determination, bolts of fear, and plates of pure survival. Piece by piece she would find them on her path from somewhere to anywhere, not looking back except in quick glances over her shoulder.

Her tongue became a sword she whet with time, using it to keep unwanted confrontations at bay, and beguiling who she pleased to with its gleen and glimmer. And she would go so many times misunderstood by many. But she knew it was just another strength to her armor. So be it.

the tree tops were still her fort

I heard of Joan of arc who never gave up on her heart, and although locked into her armor, it found nooks and crannies to pour out of not asking for anything back.
Sometimes it fell through the cracks, got stepped on, but being the saint was, she did not lash out in revenge or draw her sword in anger at anyone, as deserving as the situation was.

she simply added another layer to her armor, and moved on.

She, like many like her, was a joan of arc. Not for merely suffering. But for taking that stake and making it a ticket to somewhere new, somewhere different, till the flames caught up again. She never complained nearly as much as she should.
And of course, she was never canonised.

She saw the whisky glass (there was no better way to douse the flames, to thicken the shield, to add to the armor) half full, not half empty.

Yet as beautiful from ugly as that was: the dousing drink, the armor, the sword, the tree, and the path, there was always a wound that would sting with every mouthful of whiskey, a moment the armor would crumple into paper, an instance the sword would dull, a flame that would engulf the fort tree, a night with no stars to light the path forward and away.

Her "wisdom" was gained unfortunately, but gained nonetheless, and that demanded a level of respect, even among the cynical, or the doubtful or the apathetic. She would be on top of that tree, yelling "I SHALL NOT SUCCUMB", even when the fires of the hell that was her world were lapping at her toes. A life like hers would make one tough as diamond.

Even if it was in the rough

If you were one of her "folk" she would stand in the faces of dragons for you, many of which she had slain before, or seen their tails in the dark. She would stand firm with her flesh sword and her scrap armor.
All you had to do was genuinely care, and she would reciprocate ten folds without a question. That, she did not fear.

Love, did not spook her.

It was what beckoned her.

I once heard about the living martyrs that were not canonised or written about and who walk among us. The Joan of Arcs of our time.

Always martyrs never saints,
I meet them, everyday

insomelancholia

2010-12-29T04:04:00.004+02:00

"you have a tendency towards sadness"
this is what had been said.
and it lingered and echoed in the canals of her mind.
She hated to admit it. She hadn't when it was first said.
(but she didn't deny it either)

Why?
Why the melancholic disposition?
Why the want and desire to be happy, and yet so easily shattered into states of sadness and loneliness and, and , and ...

And why were the most drastic of states nearly always linked to sleepless nights. When all is quiet outside, everyone tucked away in their bed, or in a car, or in a bar, or someone else's bed for that matter.

Could it be that the white noise that accompanies reality and her day-to-day is turned off with the lack of street noise and television and people living, that the echoes of the canals become inevitably louder and clearer and unavoidable?

Ok. So assume that is why. Why always the thoughts that mellow her out in some sense, and the ones that plant the doubts and the insecurities and the questions and the looping loopholes? But then again... that's a rhetorical and, it's safe to say, ridiculous question. That's just what the white noise leaves behind.

"Smile baby. Why don't you smile?"

She doesn't know. She wants to!
you must believe her
Perhaps somewhere, sometimes not alway, she tunes into a frequency of her own without being aware of it herself.
And it makes her not smile. She has every reason to. But she doesn't. It's stuck like a frog in a throat.

That frequency frequents the quiet nights quite often

"They should find a cure for insomelancholia..."
she mumbles under her breath, as she turns over onto her other side for the nth time.
"..and a disease that makes you smile."

between this line and that line lies your salvation

2010-12-17T01:50:00.008+02:00

- "So, I have a problem. Theres this thing."

- "A "thing"?"

- "Yea. A thing. Theres this thing I'm dealing with..."

- "Ooh. A 'thing'. Those are nasty. "

- ".. And it's making me feel like this..."

- "This! holy shit!"

- "And I hate feeling like this, you know? It just gives way to that, and before you know it, that turns into those, and those are never good 'cos those make me fall into these.. And I hate these and those and feeling like that and it's all because a stupid fucking thing that really shouldn't be anything. "

- "Right, right... "

- "And when I tell them about it, they just tell me what I know about it, about this thing. And how it is. I KNOW what it is. For godsake if I didn't know what it is it wouldn't be a thing and I wouldn't feel like this, you know? They don't get that I know what IT IS. i want to know how it ISN'T. Man fuck this. Seriously. What is this thing that won't let me be that! It can't be so complicated so that this is what it is. Can it be all that? I'm giving myself a goddamn headache... and over what? ..."

-"... Over it?"

- "Yea. yea. That. I should be over it. I should just get fucking over it."

I once heard... About the green-eyed monster

2010-12-07T12:49:00.017+02:00

I once heard about a green-eyed monster that dwelled on the outskirts of a town somewhere in the plains of a Mediterranean country a long, long time ago.

I heard that it balanced on a the tapering coil of its lower body, that resembled the body of a snake, and when wasn't slithering from one place to another just like one, stood at a height close to that of a large man.

It had a top heavy body that was covered in a thick coat of matted grey-green fur that was anything but inviting to the touch, and had two horns that protruded menacingly out of its spine upwards. A thin scrawny neck held up its lizard like head that was crowned with another bony spike at the forehead. Its mouth was said to house few but fierce teeth that guarded a tongue that was forked not once (as though that wasn't enough), but two fold. And as for its wide nostrils, they fluttered and flittered with every breath emitting a low rasp that rippled and disturbed the space around it.

But these details seldom stuck in those rare sightings. It was the glaring green eye that was paramount.

It's emerald glare was bewitching, so I'd heard, and no one had ever seen such a deep, fascinating colour ever exist, and never would do so ever again.

They say that despite the unsightly appearance of the monster, the eye itself held such a captivating beauty that any fear that would naturally materialise at encountering a beast as repulsive as this dissipated into welcome paralysis.

And it was with this paralysis that the beast cast it's infamous poison. It was not a poison that ran through its fangs. Nor one that it spat out of its gruesome mouth. It didn't run through your veins, or seep into your skin. It was far, far worse.

It plagued your mind. It planted eggs of doubt, envy and madness. It fleshed out detailed visions that shook its victim to the core, riddled with lies and falsity so calculated and devious there was not much hope of turning a blind eye.

It didn't matter what age, race, or sex you were. You could've been a young boy pining over your friend's marbles, or a young girl who envied her sister's happy relationship, or a mother who is jealous of her neighbours fine linens. It didn't matter. You were all prey to the same green-eyed demon and its blight.

They say its first ever victims were a married couple it had shadowed unnoticed, slithering around their modest house on the outskirts of that Mediterranean town. It had cast the fear of infidelity on the wife after catching her eye as she picked apples from the garden, haunting her with concocted images of her husband's betrayal, of his lust for other women that lived in their town. The monster went as far as to feign strange perfumes that wafted by her nose when her husband passed her, driving her into a rage that bubbled under her skin silently. After that, the slime that had infected her simply fed on itself, snowballing and infecting her senses. Her vision was now distorted, catching inexistent glances between her husband and the inn keeper. She confronted her him time over time, the episodes were long winded and loud, their incessant yells heard throughout the neighborhood, to the pleasure of a low shadow that slithered under the winter logs in the backyard.

They say it wasn't long before the thunder and the roar subsided into a shower of red.

And they were found the next day, murdered by their own hands, but guided by the venom of another. It is rumored that one of the townsfolk, a wood cutter, glimpsed something as it was slithering away leaving a trail of blood, and guided by pure reflex brought down his axe. With a screech that quickly disappeared into the nearby bushes, all that remained was the furry tapered tail of something that was never there.

I've heard that the next time the green-eyed monster was sighted, two golden rings circled its scraggy neck, and although exaggerated in dimension, they say they were the wedding rings of that very same destroyed marriage; a sick token, a bloody keepsake.

I once heard of the one and only green-eyed monster, the one who started all the jealousy-driven woes in the world, all with one long stare of its brilliant green eye.

I once heard... About the girl with the gravity-defiant hair

2010-10-11T14:43:00.011+02:00

I once heard about a girl whose hair stood up, while everything else followed the laws of physics. It was not a matter of hair styling, or any sort of prank.

The story I heard tells of a girl that had been falling ever since she could remember. She used to fall into ditches as a child, fall out of trees, fall down flights of stairs. Anything she could fall into or off of, she did. And every time she fell, anyone within a fair distance of her heard the tune of a piano scale tinkling from high notes to deep low notes. They sent her to brain doctors, spine doctors, any doctor, hoping they could find a cure for her clumsiness and her affinity to falling. They could not find a cure, and they could not explain the piano notes either.

Slowly with time, it's said she grew accustomed to falling, and found ways herself to combat it. But it didn't solve more than bruises and broken bones. She fell into arguments, and fell into deep sleeps at obscure and odd times of day. She fell into wrong crowds, always getting herself out of it just in time. They say she was fatigued by the fight against falling, weakened by the weight of her kismet.

They say her hair refused to fall to her shoulders anymore, they had been stretched straight up by the falls over the years, and just stood up, they just stayed that way. If it grew too long, someone had to step up on a chair and snip her dark locks at it's edges. But it never changed its orientation.

All the while, she kept falling. Never mind the years that passed, the places she went, the falls continued. The only thing that changed was the depth and echo of the ethereal piano scale that descended on imaginary ivory keys that no one saw or knew the origin of. She was falling into love, and falling hard. Inevitably falling into depression when those her heart desired left. And with that, her tears also fell. As well as the corners of her mouth. But, still, her hair grew upwards.

I once heard about the girl who spent her life falling, and her hair that did not.

And how, with an orchestra of descending scales that echoed far and wide, she finally fell to pieces.

Get away

2010-08-15T09:51:00.006+03:00

Get away. Getaway.

strange word(s)

You need to get away. So getaway.

What from exactly? When you get away because you need a getaway, where do you go? What are you leaving? And why? All valid questions. Can you get away by just staying where you are? Traveling in your head to other places, other times?

What if you need to getaway from yourself? Your life? Your mind? How do you separate those exactly?

Where's the Getaway for that?

I sometimes travel to specific memories. I put my present in pause, and watch the reel run in my mind. I smell the scents, hear the timbres of familiar voices, sometimes even feel the comfort or happiness or relief you had then and there. And then you have to get back.

I was contacted by timeout beirut to draw the piece for their "Photo Finish" segment. They send a photo with a theme, The theme, was, of course, Getaway. You can choose to understand it in many ways. It might possibly depend on your current demeanor. It could be sad, happy, or relieving.

I know that somewhere in this illustration, I am longing to be.

Enjoy your getaways this summer. And take this the best way you can, but I sincerely hope one day you get to a point you don't need a getaway. That really would be something now, wouldn't it.

Birthday Letter 2010

2010-07-06T19:54:00.002+03:00

Another year, another one of your birthdays.

I nearly forgot that I promised to write you a letter every year on your birthday, and yet, just like the time that crept up on me last year and tapped me on the shoulder, I got a tap that brought it to my attention that it's time again, and that I should sit down and give you the gift I promised I would give every year. A little time to sit and think.

I read last year's letter, and it's surprising how much has changed since then. I almost feel like a fraud, a liar. Then again, I wasn't lying so, I'm neither. Nevertheless, I didn't move to Australia, (but I think you know that already. Silly me) I really wanted to, and for the right reasons (ok, so perhaps one or two reasons weren't very 'right', but they were right as well. You know what I mean) but I didn't end up going. I think part of it was fear. That little frog that creeps up from the bottom of your belly and just sits in the most uncomfortable part of your throat that although still allows you to breathe, makes it increasingly claustrophobic. Maybe I got your claustrophobia after all, somehow. The longer it took me to make those determining steps towards that move, the more that frog got comfortable, and the harder the thought of leaving Mama and Musha (who you haven't met, but I'm sure you would love as much as mama and I do) scared me. The more the thought of once again having to start over paralysed me. But I have no regrets. I still have moved in terms of what I want to do. No, I don't want an office job, I still am freelancing, and yes it's difficult sometimes but it's ok. I'm working on my discipline. It's not there yet, but it's getting there. Somewhere is better than nowhere.

It's been a big year for music Baba. I've been eyeball deep in all the wonders and all angles of it. I've built a library I'm proud of, I've become a reference (humbly) of sorts for friends and even acquaintances. I've been DJing for around 8 months, and I love doing it. Yes, long nights, and yes, it can be tiring, but I get paid to do something I love. I get my drinks for free (more or less) and I get to play music I love. If only it was something I could do full time. Come to think of it, it can be, but I don't think that's what I want to do. Not in the long run. I've also met a lot of local talent, and they never cease to impress me. Some of them at least. I work for free sometimes, helping them promote their gigs, and their projects. Yes, I know it's never a good idea to, but part of me feels that the pay off is much greater than the cost of those few hours. I think you know exactly what I mean.

I'm also trying to push the illustration. I think you'd like that. I sometimes try and imagine what you would say when I show you a drawing I finish after 7 hours of not moving and zoning out while I get those lines cleaner, and a specific style pegged. I sometimes really really wish I didn't have to imagine. Sometimes I wish so much the wish goes numb, and I put it in that jar of fireflies on that shelf in my mind that's made just for you. It glows silently at it's own pace among the others, existing but non intrusively. There's nothing much I can do with it really...

Where I am in the scheme of things, I'm not sure. I have a feeling I'm on the right track. Yes, I may get side tracked sometimes. But it's ok. Right? You only live once. I might as well see where that little alley leads as long as I don't lose site of the headlights on the highway.

So I'm still in Beirut. I'm more stable, I'm in a relationship that although can be frustrating sometimes, it's a good exercise in patience and balance. And so far so good. I'm happy on that front. Work is work. I'm fumbling in the dark but it's a warm dark. It's a nice dark. Like closing your eyes when picking a sweet from a bag of pick-and-mix. You may get the jazzie instead of the fizzy cola, but you end up making the best of it. (That made no sense to you. Or complete sense. Either way, I can feel you smiling.)

I visited London recently, and it was great. It was nice to be around those familiar faces, familiar places. But it also reminded me why I left. I felt tired, and felt I wanted to be home. So expensive, and so big. Everything needed to be planned, and the pace was too fast. So I although I enjoyed my time, I looked forward to going back home to those I love, and the streets that are familiar to my gait. And that's a good feeling. I think I know now how one know's where they should be. Or at least where they shouldn't be.

I hope you feel my good thoughts wherever you are. You're sorely missed. And more and more I'm bumping into your friends, sometimes by mistake. Sometimes they don't know you're not here anymore. And I have to see their faces shift, their eyes suddenly react in split seconds of despair. It's never easy but I keep my head up despite the added weight of yet another person feeling your loss burdening my heart.

And I make sure they know that you're alright. We're alright.

Sometimes I feel I'm lying, but it's an ok lie to lie. Because it's a lie that everyone knows the truth it's sugar coating. And then the despair in their gaze that quickly becomes a warmth and comfort at being in the presence of someone who carries your scent makes my heart lighter, and somewhere the apple shining "daddy's girl" part of me scurries around to make you proud, though it is only through someone who is a stranger to me when compared to you.

I have to go now, duty calls. Musical duty yes, but duty nevertheless.

I love you very very much. And I wish you a happy birthday baba.

See you next year. And tomorrow. And every day till then.

Bawsat.

Karma

Birthday Letter 2009

Dream

2010-06-28T15:17:00.003+03:00

It's been a long day,

you get home,

the burdens of the days seem to have fused into your skin, with all the grime and the dust of the city you live in.

Your eyes are tired, your black eyeliner is smudged at the corners, and your shoulder hurts from carrying the bag that you carry everyday, all day.

You take off your flip flops, you hear the neighbour's tv blaring some show that you tune out slowly, and slowly in the dark you peel off your clothes, take a look in the mirror, (if you're able, it's the bathroom mirror and you manage to brush your teeth like the dentist told you you should) and sink into your mattress, probably on top of the book you were reading, the top you tried on in the morning before deciding to change it, your deoderant bottle, and some crumbs from the cookie you had last night while watching a movie on your laptop in bed.

Your dog (or cat, or dragon, or whatever pet you may have) curls up by your side, and you feel the heat escalate, but you're too tired to move her or complain, after all signs of affection are scarce these days so who are you to complain?

Your face cools down on the pillow case, and slowly all the weight of the day seems to crumble away and seep through between the mattress springs.

And you dream.

But what language do you dream in? Your native tongue? The language you learnt at school?

I can't remember what I dream in. I think it's English. But I don't know.

I've come to the conclusion that I dream in my own language, a mix of everything. A language that is familiar like English is familiar to me, but not quite.

I dream in dream language.

Sometimes

2010-06-11T18:30:00.004+03:00

Sometimes you never leave where you grew up, even if you do.

Sometimes you wake up on the day you're heading back to your neighbourhood, and the first thing that comes to mind is a number.

And you realise that it's the number of the bus that takes you from the station to the street you grew up on. It just appears in your head, and you just know.

Just like you know when to press the button on the bus to get off. You see the park you played in, the library you went to religiously, the corner with the white wrought iron railing, and your finger pushes the button without needing the command from your brain.

Sometimes you don't know why this happens. You've been here before, you've visited many times over even as an adult, but this time you don't scan the street signs and concentrate on figuring out when you should tell the bus to let you off. You don't need to wait to get to the bus stop across your home tube station to remember the number of the bus route that takes you there.

Sometimes you turn your head to the left knowing you'll see the office building your father spent his days in while you were growing up. You see the office in your mind, smell the corporate carpet, see the ivory letter opener with the crocodile handle on his desk. You see the Cuppa Noodle machine in the entrance, and remember how you thought it would be the yummiest snack to have while waiting for your father to finish. And you remember the disappointment when it tasted like card.

You'll stand under your street sign, and you'll look up at it like it was what you were looking for all along. Like it's normal to do that, to cross the street, and instead of walking towards your neighbour's house to see them after so long, you stand under that street sign. And you look up at it. Like it's something everyone does. And you look at it from every angle, like you're looking at the face of a long lost friend, a sibling, a mirror after ages without a mirror.

Sometimes you'll look down the road where your house used to be, and you're not tempted to go see the doorstep you sat at on sunny days, the doorstep you bound over rushing to get to the ice cream man in time for gumballs and a 99 flake.

Sometimes you know these things, you're not tempted, and it's like any other day, because sometimes, just sometimes, you never leave where you grew up.

Even when you do.

Smoking demons

2010-04-28T18:10:00.001+03:00

Every time I light my cigarette with a match, I think of the Devil.

It's the smell of sulfur. They say that when a demon or something equally macabre leaves a place, a sulfuric scent lingers in its stead.

So, I think of the devil. In some way I banish him when I light a cigarette with a match, let him dissolve with the first puff of smoke I exhale, and as if my body acknowledges this victory over evil, I feel a rush, albeit a short, small one. But a rush nonetheless.

My cigarette becomes one of celebratory triumph, a well deserved one. Karma the Deadly Devil Banisher. The bane of all demons. A heroine in shining armor, sword dripping with the rancid blood of fiends. Ok, so it's a little bit of an ego trip. Sue me.

A silly thought perhaps for a person with a bad habit. I guess sometimes it's thoughts like these that help us get through the day, sometimes it's excuses like these that make bad habits excusable. Who knows.

So next time you see me fumbling for matches, don't take the pleasure demon banishing away from me. Don't offer me a lighter. If anything, offer me matches.

Bats and Blogs

2010-04-01T16:00:00.009+03:00

Dear Blog,

I think you're sick of my excuses when it comes to why I've broken my own promise to myself to post at least one thing a week.

You're right to be.

I'm ashamed.

I really am.

Nothing can really take back the pain and anguish I've caused (myself) at the breaking of this promise.

So I won't say anything, or write anything. I'll show you why I have not been posting as often as I promised. Ironically,

what I'm about to show you, in itself, is another reason.. But only a fleeting one. It is the result of a 5 day workshop I participated in that took up most of my day.

So, without further delay, I present a bat in the city:

Heart Junkyard

2010-02-14T03:35:00.009+02:00

I walk to my car at 3 a.m. on February the 14th, and the intoxicated masses of flesh and bones that are supposedly my generational peers walk the streets in zig zag bee-lines of desperation and misguided emotions.

Their slurred street sonnets and serenades spew sordidly onto the cold cement of Beirut city's streets, as some of them find false comfort in the embracing arms made easier to open with every beer top that's popped, every wine glass thats poured, every shot that's downed.

They surround me, the many that are like this.
I walk in a straight line towards my car, imagining the amount of meaning and clarity that could be worth something or anything, imagining the many flushing toilets that will drag the latter into the guts of the city, leaving it to dissipate and thin out in the rivers of waste. Becoming waste.

Those who are alone are finding each other and losing themselves simultaneously, and those who are in pairs are falling over each other and tripping over their dribbling tongues and cackles and those who are in control are slowly hovering away from the madding crowd, the forlorn masses, stumbling into their cars, or their friends' cars to be claimed by the distant vanishing points of the streets.

A guy leans with one arm against the wall, staring at the ground or his converse all star peeping out of his tattered-ended jeans. His head swaying slightly, body following the sway at a variance. I approach him, grab him by his shirt and yell into his inebriated face to go home and stop looking so pathetic, but only in my head.

I walk among these writhing beings. And wonder how such a scene so far from the simplicity of affection and love can unfold on the day chosen to celebrate that very same thing.
But then again, it's Valentine's.

I once heard... About black cats and their reputation

2010-01-27T18:29:00.014+02:00

Black cats weren't always bad luck, or so I once heard.
How long ago their reputation changed differs from one person to the next. Some say it was only last century that this superstition manifested. Some say it was much, much earlier than that. And some say it happened with the first ever black cat. But one detail never falters. The cat that started it all had 3 eyes. I cannot say if all cats at the time had 3 eyes, this, I do not know, and never bothered to ask. I was taken aback by the mere fact that a three eyed cat existed that nothing else would have surprised me more.

It is said that this cat was slender, slinky and svelte with long legs that ended in neat dainty paws that could easily be expected to pat around a ball of yarn, as well as scratch out the eye of unwelcome company. Her tail was of an abnormal length, wrapping around her body, and slithering between her legs and rising above her crown, swirling and swishing continuously with a life of its own, and how ≈ much of the latter depiction is metaphorical, I'd rather not ask, know, or think of.

But of course, the most notable feature was its tri-ocular nature.
It wasn't that the third eye was different, or alien or acted any differently. Other than the occasional dis-synchronised blinking, it passed as a simple mutation. But of course, I wouldn't have heard of this feline, or the events that occurred around her if a simple mutation was the case.

I've been told that each of these fabulously clear and piercing eyes, coloured an amber gold with a glint of green when the sun shone on them at certain angles, had a supernatural power.
When this cat stopped in her tracks and looked at someone, the right eye delved into their heart, and saw what they desired, their dreams, their wishes. The left eye delved into the dark crevices of their mind, tracking their fears and nightmares. And the third eye, searched their soul for their nature and intentions.

It was this eye on which everything depended. Once she saw you for what you were, it was then that your fate was sealed. It was then that what the two other eyes saw would matter.
If the person had a wicked soul, an ill-intentioned mind, a cruel heart, the cat would arch its back making the hairs on it stand on end, and its tail would whip around violently. And then it would be only a matter of days, if not hours that one of the fears she had learnt of would materialise. Whether it was the loss of wealth, a horrible accident, or an opportunity that went down the drain, it would happen. If, on the other hand, the person her gaze fell upon had an untainted soul, a clear mind, and a pure heart, the cat would purr quietly before scampering off into the shadows. And that person would deservedly be blessed with one of their heart-felt desires.

This, of course sounds quite even-handed (perhaps even-eyed?) and just. But why was it then that the black cat gained this infamous and ominous name for itself? The answer is in the question itself... Mankind in its majority did not have the qualities that would allow the right eye to make use of its knowledge. Not to say that no human was pure enough to avoid the wrath of the left eye, but that they were few and far between, and the ill-fated are far more spoken of and vocal. After all, it is the unfortunate things that are mostly remembered.

I once heard about the first black cat and her three eyes, and how her unbiased and virtuous nature brought about the bad omens and superstitions that marked her kind in our eyes.

I once heard how we never deserved anything less.

My heart was once a Ruby Red - fuselage6ofthe13thbench post

2009-12-02T18:15:00.005+02:00

This blogpost is my latest entry at fuselage6ofthe13thbench thought it would be nice to post it here too. Read through the couple of posts before it to kinda get the jist of our concept

My lover gave me a vial the day he left with the rest to find the colours of the world.
In it lay the fragile frame of a hummingbird that had fallen victim to the Great Monochrome Sleep.

It had been a few years since the GMS. Many had died. Most in fact.
Who knew humans could not cope with no colour?
The few that had survived had already been drained of some colour by life. They were ill, or sad, or just simply pale in complexion.
The few that remained were now the Rainbow Warriors. They had now awoken to the tragedy of a bleached and blackened existence, and seeing their surrounding being consumed by the dark and the white, they decided to reform, reshape, and resist.

He had left me 24 white suns ago, and I had sat by the shore of the grey sea, watching sunset turn the sky gradually from white to black sun after sun after sun, waiting for a shout, for a cheer from far off, a sign that they had come back, that the colours would come back, that they had found the solution.

We had begun to lose hope once again. Our bravest, strongest, smartest had gone, and come back, and gone again, and come back empty handed. Our tomatoes were still grey, our bread still pasty, our appetites bland.
The GMS had claimed the red blush in the cheeks of young girls winked at by doting boys, the blue in the face of the old man who coughed and coughed, the green envy in the eyes of the wife of the two-timing husband.

The days were black, white and every shade and shape and form of grey in between, but after all that time, the grey was just one.

The Rainbow Warriors were our continuous hope. Our only colour.

And then that day came. I opened my eyes, head still resting on the soft pillow that I usually shared with the crown of my heart's prince. And I saw it.
The hummingbird. In it's clear glass vial, colour spreading slowly but unfaltering through the plumes, like blood in vessels. Blue, green, turquoise, teal, red. They flooded its being, and with every colour that appeared, the words that accompany them flowed through my head like a gushing river that broke a tenacious damn. Ruby red, emerald green, Sea blue, grass green... My eyes began to sparkle, and my now pink lips stretched into a smile. The lifeless bird glowed with colour and verve, like a brand new sun rising from the sea.
I straightened up hastily, and quickly my head turned toward my window, where I heard people shouting and laughing and cheering with glee at the orchestra of hues and shades.

The Great Monochrome Sleep was over.

And I waited, day after day, grapefruit sunset, after grapefruit sunset, by the sparkling sapphire sea. But my love was no where in sight.

And while the rest enjoyed the red of a freshly picked ripe apple, the purple of the wild irises, and the indigo of dusk, slowly but unfaltering, my world started to drain of its tints till my heart bled its last red drop, and turned to cold grey stone.

I once heard... About a tree of broken promises

2009-11-28T13:42:00.023+02:00

It towers so high, people say it reaches an 8th heaven; a tree, bare and naked and rough with lanes and lanes of grooves etched into its dry bark by old man time. So many in fact that one could believe that they each represent the lifeline of each being on earth, at least, that is what is said. This tree holds no fruit, no leaves. Instead, it stretches out into hands that reach towards the sky, yearning for something to hold. A gypsy once told me he watched as a new branch sprouted out from the side of its trunk, and a hand slowly drew it up, up and up until it stopped, and by that point no one was able to see it for all the clouds that had masked its wooden appendage. But not all of its branches were high up in the heavens. Some branches hung low on the tree, close to the earth, close to us. And they held bones; wishbones that dangled desperately, distressed and desolate.

I poured the gypsy a drink of moonshine on that autumn evening, standing by the back wall of the tavern, and he told me what he had heard of this tree.
"It lies in a no-man's land somewhere and everywhere," he gushed, slurring slightly under the influence of badly fermented cheap gin. "A tree, like no other, striking fear, awe, and melancholy all together. An orchestra of muddled feelings that you cannot begin to comprehend...I have seen it once when I saw that hand-branch shoot up, from afar. And when I blinked, I could not see it anymore." His head bobbed left and right before tipping as he lowered his eyes and stared through my knees into the back of his mind where he conjured his images. "It's the Tree of Broken Promises..." he uttered silently, more serious and less grandiose in his expression. "All those hands, reaching towards the hope of a divine consummation of the promise made between two. The universe has ears, and it whispers your promise to this tree. Don't think no one hears. Do not make that mistake surioară. Do not make that mistake. Mother earth hears, Brother Wind hears, Sister moon hears. And all comes to the Tree of Broken Promises. I have heard that that's when a branch breaks through the bark and goes up. That must be why it does that, it waits for the promise. Waits. Reaching up, up, up...", and as he is saying this he raises his jar with the murky homebrew in steps with every "up" he utters.
"And what have you heard of the lower branches? Why do they hang low like that?" I slowly and quietly ask, curiosity gnawing at my insides, as I hold the bottle of booze towards him as an enticing bribe, and perhaps a shield.

"Ah, va. Yes. those branches. The tired fallen ones. The promises that cannot hold anymore. Where the tree gets its name. You see surioară, they reach and reach and reach..." (once again, pushing his jar up representatively with every "reach",) "till the branches dry up, and they start to shrink and bend and fold onto themselves. This is what I've heard surioară. They fall to the earth, hanging low on the tree, and grow a wishbone. This is the tragic fruit they bear. A dry, brittle fruit that with one hand, very much like a clap, has no outcome. When a promise breaks, the tree makes a wish. It wishes that the promise will be fulfilled someday. So it holds its wishbone close to us, uselessly waiting for someone to end its wait. It waits with its heavy promises. încă mai este în aşteptare..."

I once heard about this tree from a gypsy with a gold serpent earring. We shared a bottle of moonshine under an autumn moon, behind a tavern in the town Segarcea. He told me of the heavy heart this tree unwillingly held, and the weight that mankind wickedly lay on its branches, bending and breaking and drying it up. And of this tree, I do not wish to hear anymore, for fear my heart may unwillingly bend and break and dry up.

A Case of “the Deaf Leading the Blind”

2009-11-16T19:10:00.009+02:00

I never was into Hip Hop. I started a “flower child”, so to speak, raised in a household that revered idols like Bob Dylan, Jimi Hendrix, Cat Stevens, Don McLean, Janis Joplin, James Taylor, and the list goes on. My parents took me to a Pink Floyd concert when I was 3 (well, they had to since they couldn’t afford a babysitter in London at the time, but I’m not complaining). Perhaps it was since those days that music began to seep into my blood, and over the years, into my soul. As any audiophile, I went through my stages, at some point refusing what my parents listened to, at 13 writing Leonard Cohen off as an “oldie”, busy with my Nirvana, and my Greenday, and even Marilyn Manson. Slowly I moved up in the musical atmosphere, passing by the more studied Alternative and acoustic folks of lyrical expression, entering the Realms of Classical masters like Beethoven, Rachmaninov, Mozart, and then swerving left and right to go through neighbourhoods of Jazz and Blues,,appreciating Nina Simone years after I saw her live, being, once again, dragged to a concert in Lebanon, by my parents who unknowingly were creating a musical fiend.
I could go on and on about my travels with the bars and the notes and the crescendos and the melodies, but I’m trying to get to a point. I nearly forgot about that point.

The point is music in Lebanon. Underground music in Lebanon. The bands that are coming up under the surface, untainted by the mainstream stain, working slowly and surely and adequately on their sound. There are many of them. Like weeds, mushrooms, in the dark damp places of the country they strive, slowly building an army of sound armed with calibre.

The point is I never was into rap or hiphop. Ok, so I heard Eminem when I was 15 and happily sang along to “My Name Is..” and sure, I still like his first couple of albums, if only for nostalgia’s sake. Perhaps I’m more into old school sounds like Beastie Boys, and Jurassic 5, and Run DMC. But still, their air time on Karma Radio was very little.

I never was into rap or hip hop. Until I heard some freestylers in Sydney, playing with instruments, not a beat loop. And after pulling off a somewhat successful event at Zico House in July (Kharbish Bilsanak) I was introduced to one of the alleys of Lebanon’s Underground Music city. I heard many rappers, hip-hoppers... They all seemed good, but still, as I said before, I never was into rap or hip hop. So it was me trusting what little knowledge i had.

Until I heard Fareeq il Atrash.
That simple.
The rush of blood to my ears that I had felt watching those amazingly talented freestylers in Sydney was reiterated. The beat, the music, the lyrics (dare I say poetry? Yes. I dare) the performance, the overall choreography... Stunning.

I now knew what my ears wanted to hear. I knew the calibre I was craving for. Actually, calibre is a good word in this situation.

Fareeq il Atrash are different than the other Rappers/Hip Hop artists I’d heard. This is not to say the others are worse, but that at least for me, Fareeq il Atrash hit that high note. They demand a calibre (there’s that word again), a specific maturity of their audience. They too, like the Sydney peeps, played with instruments live. John Imad Nasr on bass, dealing out a bassline that resonates as a solid foundation for Ghassan Khayyat (aka Goo) with his masterful guitar improvs and welcome interruptions, Fayez Zouhairy (aka Fz) with his beat making machine mouth, Nasser Al Shorbaji (aka Chino) with his bi lingual flow and dramatic presence, and of course Edouard Abbas (aka L’Edd) with his deep timbre and words that I’d like to coin as urban poetry.
Together, these famous five are able to pull a performance that the appreciating ear is more than happy to experience over and over and over again. A performance of calibre, that requires a maturity.
A far cry from the type of loud rappers that yell and shout and scream their, albeit, valid messages that yes, are usually written well, the voice used from the Atrash’s body, is smooth, mellow, and shrewd. Their messages are subtle, not literally stated, and range from social, to political situations, to loves and people worth remembering. The “deaf” portray what many are blind to, and they are genuine in doing so. Their street “voice” also makes it obvious that being cultured and worldly doesn’t negate street “cred” or devalue their concerns within the social folds of the country. Their first EP is even strewn with musical “intermissions”, or ”2atshe’t” that feature a beat that sounds like it’s being played on a muted drum set (I think thats the best way of describing it) and even a taxi driver reciting a couple of lines of ‘zajal’, recorded on L’Edd’s phone during his ride.

My point is, i never was into rap and hip hop. My honest point is that Fareeq il Atrash have shot over this definition into a medley of studied musical styles, playful experiments of sound and production, pages of urban poetry that brings a smile to your face when you hear something you haven’t heard that last 20 times you played the track, and of course a down to earth demeanor that make them accessible to so many different types of people, as well as makes me grateful for knowing them.

Perhaps you think I’m easy to give praise, and although I could write more and more details on why I’ve done so, I think they can convince you themselves. Music is worth a thousand reviews.

Follow the “deaf” and hear them for yourself.

Pissing in the wind

2009-11-01T01:01:00.007+02:00

"Yea, I got it. I understand your type now. I know exactly why someone like me interests you, but only till I don't.
It's because you're drawn to fuck ups. I'm not a fuck up. I won't make it too difficult. I won't light your kitchen on fire, or break down at the drop of a pin, or step on your charming advances to reach the next in line but pull a ball of yarn along to keep you at my tail.
I won't give you a run for your loving.

You're drawn to a fuck up. Until you aren't. And then you're drawn to another fuck up. Until you aren't. And so on, so forth.

It's that simple. You love the fuck ups. The problem with that, is sooner or later, the title is transfered. You become the fuck up.
And a lonely one at that.

And that's just the saddest thing I could think of happening to you.
It really really is."

The king is dead, long live his cause.

2009-10-25T08:58:00.012+02:00

It's with a lump in my throat that I write this blog post.
Adam died a couple of days ago, after fighting his malnutrition, his aches and his pains.
This news hit me harder than I ever expected it to. Maybe this is because I had spent a silent hour staring at this king of beasts, through the bars of his prison as he lay weak. Maybe I had had a silent conversation with him, without the need of words. Just energy, and thoughts and feelings. At the news of his death, I found myself nearly immediately tearing up, and immediately wanting it to be a lie. A mistake. Something dark and dismal that slipped someone's twisted imagination, only to be unravelled by reality.

I like to think that he found the love he had wanted to feel from the many that had become concerned with his well-being in the last month, after living two years in a caged hell desperately hoping it was out there, this love he sought.

I like to think it was with a sigh of relief and tranquility that his last breath left his body, as he lay in the sanctuary of the Lebanese mountains, a cool breeze caressing his young mane.

I like to think that he'll be buried here, that he will be our mountain king. The patron saint of lost causes. And I like to think we'll honour his cause, when we find ourselves faced with another one.

I like to think, somewhere in Africa, a pride of strong healthy lions is looking up towards the Savannah sky at a new star roaring its light down, protecting them from the malice of mankind.

As Tom Waits so rightly sings in 'Misery is the River of the World', "The one thing you can say about Mankind; there's nothing 'Kind' about Man."

Rehashed Post ~ Reflections on Return

2009-10-12T01:13:00.006+02:00

A few days ago, friend of mine asked me to submit something I've written about Beirut by today for a reading she wants to do in New York. Being under a lot of pressure work-wise (refer to previous post), I decided to take parts of a post I wrote a while ago, rehash and add and modify. Snip snip stitch glue tada. There is also a whole new Scene added (the first one)

I made the Beirut references more obvious too, since, well.. Not everyone is aware of my situation at the time, or what I am talking about.

anyway. this is it.
~

Reflections on Return:  4 Scenes in No Particular Order 

I.
The Thames River always saw the worse side of me. As I’d cross the bridge going towards the art museums on South Bank, I’d leer at the murky brown waters from above. A frown would form as I brought my shoulders up around my neck to protect it from the sting of the cold, I’d shake my head offended, then pause at one point, before reaching the other side, to face the waters as I cursed it, calling its feeble attempt to pass as a body of water pathetic and shameful, ending with a dramatic spitting motion. It became a ritual of mine, an infamous tradition that I carried out regardless of the weather that day, or the company I was with, or the mood I was in. With every outburst, I felt the spite within me grow, balanced with a longing and a melancholy that just made my existence harder to cope with. When they asked me why I was so angry, why I was bitter, I told them I was hurt. I told them I took the Thames’ aesthetic (or lack thereof) personally.  After all, I told them, I was a daughter of the Mediterranean, and next to that, the Thames was a muddy, stagnant puddle on the side of a soulless city highway.

II.
The sun stained the Mediterranean pink, Grapefruit pink, as it melted into the water, dissolving and tinting the sea. The warmth from its glow was slowly cooled by the salt whipped wisps of breeze that kept the hair out of my eyes. The waves rippled slowly, creating an illusion of migrating fluid creatures, moving from one horizon to the other, moving in unison and in tempo, with the music in my ears setting the beat. Rachmaninov, and Moonlight sonata.. As I sat still in front of this sea of love, my sea of love, all seems to make sense. In fact, nothing makes sense except for the sight in front of my eyes... Why would I leave it's side? The waves may snarl at me warning me of its depths.. but it suffices to sit on the sand and watch the sun bring a day to its end, with the glorious city of Beirut behind me. It will rise tomorrow.. the Same Sun. The Same sun sets and rises over this city, we live one day. Our whole lives have been one day continuously, and continues to be one day. Same Sun, but never the same sea.

III.
I'm in the shower, and I'm tired, and agitated and I stand there naked, arms crossed and clinging to my shoulders. Through the small bathroom window the Mosque calls to prayer, and I can hear the laugh track from Seinfield playing on the neighbour’s TV. The rooster inconveniently living on the roof of the building next door crows in unison. I look up through my closed eyelids at the ceiling, letting the hot water flow over my face, over my lips, and divide onto each side of my nose. I splutter out water from my nose and mouth every once in a while, panicking fleetingly and unnecessarily as I suppress my phobia of suffocation and drowning. And then water fills my ears, and the sounds are drowned, literally, except for a low rumble. It's all I hear. Its the twin sound of the rumbling you hear on board a plane. And suddenly I'm on the plane back to London. i've left Beirut and my mother, my friends, my beautiful sea, my bar on Sadat St., and I'm on a plane, strapped in economy, trying to shift away from my neighbour whose asleep, tipping slowly towards my shoulder and beginning to drool. And I move my head. And its gone. All I hear is water hitting the tub floor, and spurting through the shower head, my eyes open and I see my feet, wet and naked, standing the in the shower in my bathroom in Beirut.

IV.
I take the long way home after a night out at the Cabin, with music in the passenger seat. He talks, I listen. He tells me of his broken heart, the rain dogs, the barfly, the weight on his shoulders. He recounts stories of catholic girls, the girl at the bottom of his glass, the red house his baby lived in, how we could be heroes just for one day, and sometimes he hums violins and pianos. And I listen. He sings in English, in Arabic, in alto, soprano. He can hit high notes, and low notes. He makes heads turn as I comb the city streets after midnight, a cigarette in my hand, buildings to my left, the Mediterranean to my right. He's my favourite companion. An ironically silent one. And he does not get annoyed if I drift off. After all, I drift off into his arms. It’s with Him, and Here, that I am truly home.

Nowhere is now. See you there.

2009-10-08T23:03:00.006+02:00

Dear Blog,

I'm writing to apologise.
I've been neglecting you.
I apologise. I know, I know. I said it already, but the way I feel is that I should say it twice.

I've been very busy you see. And tired (Insomnia is a whole post on it's own). And unable to write without it being provoked, insincere, and well, simply unworthy.

Anyway, I had promised that I'd post at least once a week, groom your lines, clean your spacings, water your drafts. I haven't kept my word. In fact, I recently went a whole month without posting. How could I have let you nearly starve. I'm so grateful you didn't abandon me and leave for Error 404.

So please, accept this post as an apology, and even though I haven't written, I'm posting a photo I took. That counts remember?

We are Nowhere. And it's now.
Such a statement... A simple line, scribbled on a concrete street divider in Sydney with a purple paint pen, has rang more true and proved more thought-provoking than many things people have told me, many things I've been taught, many things I've read.

That's how I feel at the moment Blog, but you understand. I know you do. We're one, you and I.
Maybe Nowhere is not such a bad place to be. At least it's somewhere.
And at least We're Nowhere together.

Till our next rendez vous, I bid you farewell, and wish your HTML code well....

Much love,

K*

The fallen king of the concrete jungle

2009-09-26T10:52:00.007+03:00

A few weeks ago, and thanks to the efforts of BETA, an organisation that works hard to protect and shelter animals in Lebanon, a lion was rescued from a harrowing reality and an inevitable death.
A pet shop near the Beirut port, famous for selling tropical and rare animals had been keeping a lion in a a cage the size of a small car. Emaciated, weak, sick and sad, this king of the jungle lay nearly motionless as volunteers fought for his right to life.

A friend of mine had been there at the time of the rescue, and it was she that called me and told me about the king, to my utter disbelief. But I did not realise how bad his situation was till I saw photos the next day, and even that was nothing compared to what I would feel when I journeyed to see his majesty at Animal Encounter, an animal reserve in the mountains where he had been moved to recover.

The two year old lion, young and yet larger than you would expect, had been fed intravenously for god knows how long. A carnivore that was deprived of being a carnivore. The facts around how long his "jailer" had had him for were hazy. He had changed his story many times, but it was long enough for the lion's paws to get infected due to lack of exercise. Long enough for a lion to become a cat.

It was a large cat I saw. It could not be a Lion, the King of the jungle. It could not be an "Aslan", with long thick mane, rippling muscles, glistening fur, and a roar that shook the earth.
It should have been. But it was not.
What this "lion" was, was a frail body, with a belly bloated and full of anything but food, skin that clung to ribs, eyes that could speak stories, in volumes of hurt.

As I stood in front of him, numb and paralyzed with empathy, anger, and disgust at mankind and his unfaltering ability to destroy, my face got hotter and hotter and my eyes felt like coals as I held back unexpected tears.

In this concrete jungle, the King of beasts has been mercilessly dethroned by a monster: Mankind's ever growing capacity to put his selfish, greedy desires above all else.

"I'll move forward, and you'll move backwards, and somewhere we will meet"

2009-08-23T10:11:00.012+03:00

I bumped into Jackie years after I had first met her. She had not changed much, despite the time that had spread itself between us, she was still short, slim with slight curves that hinted at a plumper past, eyes that were wide and inviting, and of course a cigarette in between the fingers of her right hand.

I had met Jackie at a bar after I had graduated college, she was with the younger crowd of newly admitted students, and there was no doubt that she imposed a presence.
Whether or not that was always a good thing, is a completely different subject.
Not to get me wrong, I didn't dislike Jackie. Au contraire. When I first met her, I found her bubbly, carefree nature admirable. Her surprising familiarity with subjects brought up by older more cultured acquaintances was intriguing. She seemed so sweet, with a smile that was instantly mirrored. It's safe to say the disillusionment didn't last very long.

The more I got to know her, the more her carefree nature turned into reckless exhibitionism, craving attention, banking on her charming package to push the brash euphemisms of her definition under the carpet. The more I got to know her, the more her knowledge of obscure, mature topics thinned out to become snippets of feigned interest for the sake of shock value. The more I got to know Jackie, the more her smile screamed fears of rejection, the need of affection, and the inability to break away from the gold framed self portrait she had prescribed to herself, for all to see. The more I got to know her, the more her drunken evenings became a manipulative tool in the winning of attentions.
She charmed nearly any guy who met her, after all she had looks on top of all the wild child attitude and subsequently, was on the bad side of many girls. But none of them could really act on their feelings, after all, how would you get around accusing sugar of being salt?

When I bumped into her those many years later, I was stepping out of the corner shop, headphones on my ears, drinking a smoothie out of a bottle. She was on her way in, and stopped suddenly. She smiled that very familiar smile, this time less able to hide a deep misery. She said "hey! Oh my god! I haven't seen you in ages!", and all I could hear was the same undertoned, self-muffled cry of help. Her face was less bright, and her eyes less lively. She asked what I was doing these days, and I told her I had set up a small home studio to do my writing and drawing in, and was about to send my first book to publishers. She chimed her awe, as she always did, thickly layered. I shrugged and told her it was just what had to be. "But what about you?" I asked.

"Oh! Well, you know, I graduated with a English Lit degree. Yea. Travelled around for a few years, you know. Saw some family in Europe, went to the States for a bit too. I'm not working at the moment, not sure what I want to do still, haha, a little late for that huh? Hahaha," her nervous laughter trailed slowly as we looked at each other silently for a second or two. I broke the silence by asking if she was with anyone, she replied that she had met her boyfriend a few months back at a concert. And he was a star in the making of course. He was younger than her, but who cared right? As long as he loved her and was there for her. I nodded and told her I guess that's what was important. I asked her who she was still in contact with from her group of friends, who I had known only briefly, except for a couple that had become close friends of mine.
"Oh that old group? None. Yea, shame I guess, but I think we had different interests and yea, well you know. Stuff. Whose still close to their college gang after graduation anyway? Right?" I smiled and laughed slightly, not wanting to tell her that nearly everyone of my good friends were friends I met at college, and their respective friends were, and so on so forth. I had predicted this of Jackie, whose nickname in the day was Jackie O, credit to her charisma and looks and "fame" amidst her peers.
I remember one night, after a particularly flamboyant evening in which she ended up barefoot, singing out loud, dancing on the street outside the bar at 3 am in the morning, how a friend of mine watched on, shaking her head. "She's crazy. She's just too much! How does this not piss you off?" I sighed and told her I foresee doom in her future in a deep voice, and she giggled at my impersonation. "Seriously though," I added, "this will end sometime. And I wonder what she'll have left... That's why I don't get too irritated. I actually feel sorry for her."
I'd had friends like her. The popular joie de vivre-ettes of my generation. Willing to try anything and do anything and all in a package sprinkled with sugar and spice.
They craved drama, they craved attention, they craved to be anyone but themselves, and yet were unwilling to change for reasons unbeknown to me. Who knows. Maybe it was pure comfort zone. Maybe some of them had actual prerogatives, but whatever the case, it was a long, winding, lonely road that finally lead them far from everyone else and far from their own true happiness.
"She's going to wake up once day, alone." I told my friend as I sipped my wine glass. "People are going to move forward, and she's not going to be able to catch up and grow up. She's like a really pretty flower. Lovely to look at, but you have to go on your way sooner or later, and if you pick it, it will just wilt. The life of the party is only ever needed at a party. And parties have to end sometime."

"So, I'll see you around sometime?" Jackie asked me, snapping me out of my recollection. "My boyfriend's friend has a cool hang out spot and he has all this alcohol. We can totally get tanked and party it up!"
I smiled at her, seeing her face light up. The warmth of escapism is an alluring one.
"I don't know, I have to finish off the illustrations for the book. Maybe.."
I was never good at hiding what I was thinking, and she understood me beautifully.
She took a last drag from her cigarette, smiled once again at me, then put it out with her foot before saying she'll keep an eye out for my book, and to take care.
I nodded in recognition, smiled, and wished her luck in whatever she wanted to do.

We both turned our backs to each other, walked our seperate ways, knowing that if we were to ever meet again, it would be by pure coincidence alone.

I once heard... About the wolves and their keeper

2009-08-17T15:02:00.014+03:00

Bloody Lunas don't happen often.
The moon is tinted red, and there's a halo of ominous fog around its full face. But I once heard of a country where they happened often, and it was never a good sign,or at least for one man.

They say howls could be heard far off, like a warning, and within a few days a beautiful woman with a head turning gait would visit the town. No one can recall a unique description, the stories bounce back and forth, and details are changed. But they say her hair was thick and shimmered silver moonshine, and her skin as pale as warm milk. Her eyes were piercing grey and her lips were blood red, although accounts have stated the opposite.
She had no voice in her slender body, or at least no one ever heard her speak, or even breathe.

The morning after every Bloody Luna, a pool of blood would be found in the main square of the town, bathing remnants of what looked like flesh, ripped apart to thin slivers by beasts of size or number that could only ever be imagined.

Not until the townsfolk gathered and checked would they know who had become a raw soup of wretched flesh, lying in the cold sun.
It was always a man. And always one who would never be missed.

They say the wife of one of the victims saw her, this omnipotent vigilante, while she sat on her window sill the evening after, her bruised eye healing slowly, her broken jaw recovering painfully.

They say she saw her, but only her silhouette against the light of the moon, and in her hand she held several golden leashes. The leashes shone with the sparkle of stardust, and some have said that they were made of stars themselves to explain how every month a star would disappear from the night sky. The end of each leash bound a great white wolf that walked tame in her shadow, but only in her shadow.

It is said, it seems, that every time she is seen leaving a town, there is another wolf in her pack, bound to her by gold, forever in her service.

I once heard... About the tower of drawers and it's girl

2009-08-10T00:20:00.012+03:00

Under the three moons she slept, on top of a tower of drawers. A year at a time.
And at the end of every year, she would wake up, groggy, rubbing the sandman dust out of her eyes before stepping off and falling great heights into the cool water below. It would wake her but before she could swim to the surface, its depths would claim her.
And in the drawer she went.
Year after year she'd live a life, and shed a body, drowning to connect the two dots.

They say it was so since the day she was born, that if you were to open the first drawer way down at the bottom, you'd see a baby's frail frame. If you were to open the second one, a slightly bigger skeleton lay, and so on and so forth. Sometimes there were other things in there, like a fish skeleton grasped in the hand of the 16th drawer's occupant, or a clear glass pebble in that of the 19th.

Some could say it was a curse, as well as a reality that she was never awake enough to know of. The older she got, the longer her fall to the pond below, the more she could grasp and see of the land she was on, that lonely 3 mooned planet with nothing and no one on it but a bottomless pond, a tower of drawers and her. The longer the fall, the more of her dreams she was able to remember. The longer the fall, the more the endless night's breeze caressed her skin. The longer the fall, the more the light of the 3 moons (that never were in the same phase mind you) fell on her silhouette.
But it would always end with a splash.

And just as before, she'd end up a year older, asleep atop a new drawer, that held a fresh body.

Over and over and over...

You blackened my face...

2009-08-09T00:06:00.005+03:00

Another installment in the literal illustrations of Arabic slang.
"Sawadtilli wijji" means, literally, "you blackened my face". In context, it means you've embarrassed someone, or brought them shame (which we all know is a sin in Arab culture... Punishable by death - that actually isn't even an exaggeration)

Personally I couldn't care less if you blackened my face. I'd just throw some back at you.

Fortune telling dreadlocks, farewells, and hallelujah

2009-07-29T10:10:00.005+03:00

I walk into the Cabin, a hot Tuesday evening, intending on having a couple of drinks before dropping a friend of mine, Nick, at the airport to take that flight home one last time.

A "KARMA! I need you!" comes from a corner and I turn around to find another friend, a completely different Nick, is calling me.
He leads me to a table in the corner, sits me down, looks into my eyes as though he has seen the light of God and come back to tell about it, and says: "Ok. You are about to be connected to someone."
....
A slight dramatic pause, a silence, accompanied by a look on my face that can only be described as part worried, part smiling, part confused, part pitiful. The whole shebang.

"What?"

Again. He repeats. "You're about to be connected to someone... I don't know if it's bad or good, but you're going to enter some one's life and be something special to them, or vice versa.. "

I have the mentioned look on my face still, this time it's become more of a "are you crazy? I'm going to back away slowly to not startle you" look.

"What are you talking about man??"

Nick, frustrated with my "look" and my obvious disbelief points to his head full of dreads and shouts "LOOK!" firmly.

Wait. I haven't told you about Nick's dreads have I?
Oh.
Well it's a crucial element in this story, and an element worth knowing.

I met Nick G. around Christmas last year. A skinny fellow not to be mistaken for lanky, with a head full of dreadlocks (proper dreadlocks. As in Get up Stand up dreadlocks) that reached his shoulders. We shared many a drink at the Cabin, many a conversation, and eventually became good friends without the time in between. We even started a blog together.
On one of our nights conversing over a drink at the bar, I noticed a bolt in Nick's hair (yes. A bolt as in a nut and bolt). Pointing it out and laughing, Nick explained that "everything" was in his dreads and seeing that I didn't really believe him, he bent his head forward slightly so I was face to face with a mess of dreads, and started rummaging through them.
Lo and Behold. Earrings, pieces of string, bolts, beads, whatever could be put in dreads, was in my man Nick's head.
"They're souvenirs," he explained. "Bits of people that stay with me. You have to give me something for my dreads..."
I cracked up, and then noticed he was serious. I was wearing my keffiyeh round my neck, a 30 year old Keffiyeh that was once my mother's before I claimed it as my own. The years had faded out its rich black to a glorious grey, and had given it a few torn edges. One of those edges was long time tear-worthy. So, I ripped off a greedy slither off the edge, and gave it to Nick.
Five seconds later, it was on a dreadlock, claimed as mine. Beats sticking a flag in his head.

When he got back here in May, the first thing I asked him about was my conquered dreadlock, and he'd shake the left side of his head towards me till, you guessed it, my Keffiyeh strip dangled among the forest of dreads that boy has.

Coming back to my story, he had said "LOOK!"
Still with that amalgam of emotions in one expression, I went through the different dreads, Nick's hands frantically separating them also, till I found my dreadlock. Keffiyeh still there.

"Ok.. What?"

"LOOK! It's connected to another one!"

Following his fingers up the dread, I saw what he was talking about. My dread had linked to another dread all the way to the middle.

"Er. Ok?" I said, being ignorant of dreadlock protocol.

"They NEVER do that Karma. Maybe at the roots, sure. But NEVER all the way down to the lower middle."

Here, I paused. I still had that odd look on my face, and I'd held it so long that my eyebrow had begun to quiver slightly.
I'd heard of coffee cup readings, tea leaves, palm reading... But fortune telling dreads? Now, that was something.

I found myself split between two emotions.
One that told me this was as ridiculous as the fortunes in fortune cookies, the practical, down to earth grounded line of thought, and a second that was more whimsical, wishful, more willing to put faith in the unknown, the part that kept fortune cookie fortunes in my wallet whenever I felt the need.
After all, Nick wasn't just anyone. He was someone I respected, and had a feel for his spirit. I took him very seriously. And now this.

I laughed nervously. "Fortune telling dreads. Seriously dude. Come on..."

"Hey, no matter what we think, it's worth considering."

I scruff up his dreads, shake my head slightly, and get up to the bar. Yeah. Perhaps it is worth considering.

On the way there, I spy a pyramid shaped object on a table near by. My friend's bag.
It's been designed to look like those Bonjus juice pyramids. The ones that we used to drink as children that are now not as popular. Also the only juice boxes my father drank while he was in hospital before he left two years ago. It had been a sign once.
And then I realised what day it was. The 28th of July.
And as it all strung up together during that short 5 second walk to the bar, I leaned my arms against it, and heard familiar chords sound among the noise of the bar crowd. I didn't recognise it at first, and then as more and more chords strummed into place, i knew what it was.
Hallelujah. Originally by Leonard Cohen, covered by Jeff Buckley.
Hallelujah. One of my father's favourite songs. One that always, always reminds me of him, on the day I lost him.

I stood there lost in my thoughts, organising all these things that just flew at me. Before shaking it all off.

Ok. this is what must be. An odd night, high with emotions, in a Bar in Beirut, with the prophecy of companionship, a friend's farewell, and a song in the background of it all.

I turn around to join my friends and spy my dreadlock Nick, shake my head at him with a smile, whispering "fortune telling dreadlocks indeed..." under my breath.

120 stories

2009-07-26T22:36:00.009+03:00

I saw a man, by the pond, reflecting on reflections.

We danced in the fountain, and our laughter dropped into its waters, and the ripples embraced them.

I watched the light sit on the bench from afar, and enjoyed it's company. From afar.

I carved my name in a tree. And then I carved yours. At least the tree still holds them close.

The buildings were conversing. "I've never seen you light up like that before."

I watched the ferris wheel go round and round. True, it turns round in the same spot, but its stories are never the same.

I can hear you, you know

2009-07-24T20:54:00.005+03:00

I've decided to document things I overhear in different places, some are quite funny, others quite sad, and some just horribly out of context, although I try hard to keep them intact.

Some things are just made to be overhead.

It's all locked up in my head...

2009-07-14T09:49:00.003+03:00

Another literal interpretation of Lebanese slang, and literally meaning "it's locked with me", "M2afli ma3i" means usually that someone's stuck, can't think. A mental block on all levels.

I once knew what this heart was for...

2009-07-11T19:41:00.002+03:00

Not anymore. Not anymore...

Birthday letter 2009

2009-07-06T14:30:00.002+03:00

Well, it's your birthday today.
It's been on my mind for a while, I'm not exactly sure why since birthdays were never really big for you, and after you went away, dates surrounding you aren't important to me much either.

But this year it's been on my mind. And I think its because of Time, not dates. I think now I've felt the Time. It crept up on me, I was not aware of it. Suddenly, like a tap on the shoulder I turn my head and two years have gone by.
And I realise that I miss you.
And that we have not spoken or seen each other in two years. Then again, how could we?

And, being as stubborn as you know I can be, I decided I was going to talk to you, tell you how I've been, and that it was going to be a yearly thing. there's nothing that can or should stop me.
So, on your birthday, as a gift to you I'm going to take the time to look back at the year, and tell you about it, and tell you of things I've thought about or done. You not being here doesn't have to stop that. You're still my father after all, and maybe by writing it out and asking things I want to ask, I'll hear your voice in reply somewhere in my mind. Sounds a bit silly no? No, of course not.

I took a big jump this year baba. I don't know if the jump was right or not, and I've come to believe that there is no such thing as a right or wrong. It just leads where it does. It's not the jump that matters, but where you land. I haven't landed completely yet, but I've taken the jump. I decided to pause my life as a typical graphic designer. I've realised I don't like the corporate world, and the job it inscribes to me. This makes me remember when i was into my second year at AUB, and you told me how you would have preferred I'd gone into architecture. I got so angry! How could you, a graphic designer, tell me, a graphic design student, that! Maybe because you were feeling then, what I felt now, although I really doubt architecture would have been the way to go.
Anyway.
I decided to stop the cycle. I was not enjoying my work, and I realised that i was being drained by it all, and my creativity was waning. I was tired, and the weight in my head was getting heavier.
So I'm going to Australia for a bit.
Crazy I know, but perhaps not as crazy as one would think. When I went there a bit more than a month ago, i was lucky to be in the presence of people who spoke to this part of me. I had conversations with strangers about one's essence and need to do what they feel deep down they must be doing. to not fear failure, and just follow one's heart and instinct. I have a feeling I need to be concentrating on my writing, and my art, and my creative outlets, and the atmosphere there as well as the people I was lucky enough to be around seem to be the perfect medium for it.

Thank you for the sign by the way.
I got it loud and clear, and I'm sure this is where I'm supposed to be now. And I'm sure if it is, you know that already.

I'll probably take small jobs bar tending or waitressing (I'm sorry, I know you never liked me to do those but have faith in my up bringing. I do), or maybe even design freelancing. Whatever comes my way to make my ends meet while I concentrate on satisfying this part of me is up for grabs. The corporate machine can wait. I'm making it wait. It's now or never.

But I'd also be lying if I told you I was not a bit scared. All this confidence I have in voicing my plans collapses sometimes, and I feel like huddling and staying close and just falling into line. But I suppose fear is meant to do that. But it's not for too long, and whatever happens during my stay in Australia, it'll be something that I'll learn from.

Did you used to feel alone? Regardless of having mama and I and anyone else who meant anything to you around? I do sometimes. I thought about it the other day. The stereotype of the artistic mind, the creative personage who is tormented by their thoughts and their inability to produce at the pace that their mind works. The inability in making it clear to those around how they think, or express and how this leads them to shutting the world out, and isolating themselves. I said this to a friend of mine, and he wondered how I could feel this way, considering the amount of friends I have. I told him its not about the friends you have around you, but how you feel inside. Sometimes I come back from a night out spent laughing and enjoying myself, but I get in the car and it's like I'm another person. I cannot smile, and I feel like it was not worth the time or effort. That I did not learn anything new. And I feel alone and disappointed with myself, as though I have not been true to myself. I started to think if you felt this way. I never stopped to notice if you had that in you, if I've gotten it from you, inherited this weird feeling of being a part of many scenes, but the one that matters the most feeling lacking, and unaccomplished. I'm so sorry if you felt that way. At least now I can tell you that I understand.

I wonder how different I am now, then I was when you saw me last. Not in appearance, but in attitude. I wonder if I'd surprise you, if you'd be happy, or proud. I'm sure that sometimes I do things, or act in ways that I know would instigate that look you sometimes give me that spells out "you know better than that", and I do, but I'm trying.
I'm noticing more and more things that I do, mannerisms, or ways I think, or talk, that reflect you strongly. I remember when you first left, how I once froze solid when in the middle of a conversation with someone, i clasped my hands together behind my head, leaning back with my legs crossed, and continued the conversation. This was not something I'd ever done. This was your seating position, not mine, and although it startled me, it also comforted me that you were coming through in all sorts of ways. I find so much comfort in that. I even think twice these days (Sorry Bob), once for me, and once for you, regardless the situation. I ask myself twice, and in my head my voice comes through, and I try to imagine what you would say. I try my best, I really really do.

I am realising now that this letter idea is more than I thought it would be. I'm writing and writing, and although I've told you a few things, there's so much more to talk about,
but it'll have to stop here for now. Till next time.

Here's to another year. Here's to moving forward and taking you along with me. Here's to you, and mama, and everything in between.

Happy Birthday baba.
I love you kteer kteer.

Karma

The man's got a tin can for a head.

2009-07-04T10:34:00.012+03:00

Literally.
"Leish rasak mtannik?" is a slang phrase in Arabic (well, Lebanese) that refers to someone whose stubborn for no legitimate reason, boxed in, and unwilling to be receptive.
"Mtannak" comes from the word "Tanak" , which means tin, usually tin can. I decided to start a series of illustrations depicting literal translations of phrases such as this.
Procrastination hold your ground, come not near here.

Wish me luck.

Dream Sketch #7 ~ Another way to feel alone

2009-07-02T15:13:00.003+03:00

Working overnight...

2009-07-02T03:12:00.008+03:00

... just like I used to do when I was in university. Just like I was the night I started this blog. So much has happened since, so many things. I feel like going through all the writing I have on here, and trace my life through a cyber window, see how I've changed, if i have. See who has affected me, and why. See what I have to say about everything, and what that says about me، see where I'm going.

But I won't.

I'm going to hide behind the excuse that I have to finish this rushed job before I hear the neighbours rooster crow in a couple of hours. Of course, I could tell you that I'm scared of seeing myself in chronology, just like someone is fearful of putting his hand into a dark strange box. What if I don't like what I was, and I disappoint myself again? Or what if I find I've arrived nowhere? No no. Where's that excuse I needed? Ah yes. I need to work. Maybe I'll look through that window some other day, but not today.

I'm up after all the beings on this side of the earth have fallen asleep, and all the beings on the other side have begun to go about their days. And all I can think of is the next entry I want to write. Musha is sprawled on the floor, her paws crossed, and her muzzle twitching slightly every once in a while. I wonder what dogs dream about...

That excuse is becoming the elephant in the room. I guess I have to get back at it.

Good old days at the studio overnighting with everyone, smoking cigarettes, going crazy once in a while, and drinking diet Pepsi till my brain began to make that fizzing noise. I miss that.

There's the Mosque calling to prayer. The rooster's cue is in a bit.

Till the next post. A tout a l'heure, and goodnight.

(And seriously... what do dogs dream of?)

Hula Hoops and Pavement Tiles

2009-06-19T00:12:00.006+03:00

I remember hula hoops.

I remember how adamant I was as a child to master the art of hula hoops. And I did.
I used to run out at recess, hurry to the back playground where all the toys were, and grab the lime green one. Nearly always the lime green one.
With a shove of the plastic circle in one direction, and my hips in the other, I could go on for hours if I was allowed it.

I remember hopscotch too. And that game that resembled cats cradle but instead of on our hands, elastic was stretched between the legs of two persons, and we would jump over and on the elastic, and do all sorts of crazy moves till we tripped up or ruined the pattern.

I remember all these things. All those days before I knew any better.
I say "better" but I don't know how much I believe that. Why is it "better"?

Those were days before I knew anything of sorrow, or death, or wars. Before I could understand what depression was, what loneliness was, what agonies failures and disappointments brought. Before honesty was scarce and caused complications instead of simply being the truth. Before I felt the weight of a broken heart, or the cold shiver a betrayal can give. Before I knew anything of life and all its onerous baggage.

Maybe back then was better after all.

So I suppose it should make sense to you when I do "childish" things. When I run through sprinklers, jump in puddles when it rains, pretend that the existence of humanity depends on my not stepping on the lines in the pavement tiling. When I feel like flying a kite, or hiding behind trees, or making shadow animals in the middle of a projected class presentation.
I love doing all those things. It makes me feel happy, free. For a tiny bit I'm granted the peace I once had, cradled in the arms of naivety. I feel invulnerable, and untouchable. I feel, if only for moments at a time, that I didn't grow up too fast. And why not?

I'm with Tom on this one. "I don't wanna grow up".
Shame I didn't realise it before I did; before I forgot how to spin a lime green hula hoop on my hips.

Dream Sketch #6 ~ Dreams of something

2009-06-02T02:23:00.003+03:00

Dream Sketch #5 ~ Nightmares are better

2009-05-23T12:13:00.003+03:00

Dream Sketch #4 ~ Happiness and the sea

2009-05-08T10:57:00.002+03:00

The little things

2009-05-05T01:17:00.005+03:00

What is it about silly romantic B- movies that can make someone like me, whose skin has been thickened by many an ordeal and considers herself a strong person to tear up silently?

It must sound ridiculous, to tear up at an imaginary situation, with imaginary characters, and an imaginary love. But that is, alas, the case.
A fantasy of sorts, having someone be head over heels for you, setting up the building roof with lights and a dinner to surprise you, leaving notes where they know you'll find it, walking the extra mile to show you they would do so for you, simple gestures, glances, touches that fill the heart like nothing else does.

Despite the ridiculousness of tearing at a B-movie, I've come to realise that it is not as a sign of weakness or naivety. No. On the contrary, it is a sort of mourning, a wish, an extra jolt of adrenaline in the race to the end. The race to being happy with your heart. After all, it is at the core of you, literally and metaphorically. It's a reminder in a way, of what some of us really would like to feel.

"But these things don't happen in real life."
Perhaps not always. But aren't movies supposed to be imitating life? Someone must've done it, or thought it, or seen it happen for them to write it up, cast it, direct it.

I don't know why I'm writing this post, I don't know what compelled me to write it. But I suppose this is just what this blog is for...

So why not fall into the moments of "you complete me" and "olive juice" and guitars in front car seats and take them for what they are ...

After all, it is the little things that count.

Shooting stars

2009-04-23T22:52:00.010+03:00

He sat on the edge of the world, hands by his sides, his legs swaying slightly back and forth.
The scene before him was breathtaking, the sun rolling under the curvature of earth, staining the sky shades of yellow, orange, red, purple, till it hit a deep lilac and then a blue of night ever so rarely noted.

But despite it all, his face had a subtle sadness in it, only visible in the slight sloping of his eyebrows, the gentle dip of his lip edges, and the light creasing of his forehead. His wings were folded neatly, the feathers clean and slick, a silver radiance reflecting the vanishing light.

As a sigh escaped his being, he looked down at the stars that twinkled awake in the new born darkness, and started to count the shooting stars.
He whispered names as they streaked by, each one weighed down in its letters, falling one after the other, tumbling from his mouth to nowhere the eye could see. Each ending just as the their corresponding trail of light withered and extinguished.

More than a few names later, he brought up one leg onto the ground, pushing himself up with his arm till he was fully stood, head still slightly lowered towards the ether. His wings shivered slightly, ruffling in an attempt to relax.

Burdened, and tired, he rubbed his face, sighed once more, and accidentally allowed a tear to escape and roll down his face.

I cannot do this anymore, forgive me, he whispered this time louder than before, looking to his right.

Without even flinching, his wings opened up suddenly, the fronds of feathers unhinging and separating in what seemed like a couple of movements till they were full breadth. They embraced the breeze in their stalks, giving it a slight whistle.

And he fell.

He did not jump head or feet first, he simply fell forward, allowing the arms of gravity to pull, and the blanket of wind and cloud to envelope him.

Faster and faster, his fall took him, till he was blurred. Faster and faster till he burst into a flame, a flame brighter than ever.

In a garden, a girl laying on the grass suddenly smiled and pointed at the sky.
"Look, a shooting star!" she exclaimed, a smile gracing her lips, its light mirrored in her eyes briefly before being claimed by the night.

Dream Sketch #3 ~ Doomed to dream

2009-04-16T15:58:00.004+03:00

Bruise beautifully

2009-04-11T10:14:00.006+03:00

You bruise beautifully baby.
Rainbows line your skin
Under the darkest of skies, the fullest of moons
Is there gold at the end you think?

You bruise beautifully baby.
Every cloud has a silver lining
A bit of colour in a world of black and blue
See? You do it without even trying.

You bruise beautifully baby.
Wipe the tears from your eyes, because
at least you bruise beautifully baby.

Dreams of cars and snow and crashes

2009-04-08T13:13:00.006+03:00

I had a dream last night.
It was more like a nightmare.

No monsters, no demons, just enough discomfort to make me twist and turn till the anxiety finally sprung my eyelids open at 2 a.m in the morning.

I had a dream about driving, I had a friend in the car, someone I hadn't seen for a while, and someone who had caused some discomfort in recent months.
I was driving my car, going somewhere I'm not sure where. And I was speeding slightly, the feeling was that I had to get where I wanted to go.

I'm winding on mountain roads, and there's snow, and for some reason this surprises me, and I attempt to slow down. But it's too late, the car is swerving and twisting left to right to left, and I have no control whatsoever. I can tell there's not enough momentum to gravely harm me or my friend, but the car becomes a priority, and I'm worried about hitting it badly.

By the time I get the car under control, it's only a few minutes before once again the car is beyond any command. And the feeling was horrible.

I see the edge of the road, and it looks like I'm headed there, a cliff that overlooks a deep deep ravine, and the only option I have is to crash into a parked car.

And I do. I get out of the car, look at the damage, it's been destroyed from the left side. My friend gets out of the car inspects the car, and begins to talk to onlookers who have come to check on us.

It's snowing, and cold, and I realise my car is missing wheels.Three in total. This takes over my thoughts, and I begin to look at the road we had come from, skid marks in the snow, wet dirty slush christening the slight uphill, and someone shouts that one of the wheels is further down. I run down, my breath fogging up and drifting into my eyes, cold wind pinching my cheeks.

I see one wheel on the side of the road, and its dismantled into two parts. I may not be a mechanic, but I know wheels don't do that. The inner balloon tube is a weird flower shape, and as I look on, I find another one of the inner tubes off the road, dangling from a tree coming out from the side of the mountain.

What exactly possesses me to reach for it, I'm not sure, but the next thing I know, I'm kneeling on the snow on a cliff side, the cold damp seeping through my jeans, reaching out for it.

I can hear my breath, and the warm blood pulsing through my neck as I stretch and stretch and I feel feeble and weak and I begin to lose balance. The anxiety of being in a car crash is adding up, images of my car side crumpled, the fear as I attempted to keep it all together, the helplessness. I'm upset, and distressed, and I wake up.

My phone is blinking blue, I check and find a message, reply in a groggy daze that I just had a nightmare, and turn over to my other side, thankful that my car is parked at the end of the road, thankful that it's not snowing, and thankful that I woke up before I felt any worse.

I read that among other things, dreaming about car accidents is a sign that one feels they are not in control of their lives, or a situation, whether the situation has or will happen.

Why are my dreams telling me what I already know?
A rude awakening at 2 a.m. doesn't make things any clearer, just more disturbing, with a twist in the stomach and slight fear as a cherry on top of a rotten dessert.

I guess I'll be more careful driving my car these next few days. And I'll check my wheels too.

Little Miss Muffet in the desert

2009-04-05T16:37:00.007+03:00

In this city of sand and fake life, I sit in the peculiar cool of building shade. The trees they stand tall, but despite being real, they seem frozen and a sham, green statues unhappily planted in pots and plots cut out of concrete, forced to bring a bit of green and verve to a metal and glass kingdom built of dreams bought by clammy back pocket wallets.

The people they are like the trees somehow. It's a weird sensation to walk here a visitor, among those who live here. They function normally, almost too normally. Stepford wives with a damning and horrible twist. Perhaps this is just my feeling. I'd rather not find out.

I sit on the patio furniture that's orphaned from an actual patio, and listen to my music, drowning out the talk of work, social scandals and sighted fashion faux pas', sipping on a milkshake with artificial berry flavouring.

"And along came a spider and sat down beside her..."

It must've landed on my hand from a grey office windowsill, craving a bit of warmth, a tiny little thing, with 8 legs that wouldn't measure up to a fingernail. And I crack a smile.

It walks around the playground of my hand, as I twist and turn my wrist to keep it in view and keep it level headed. Even spiders feel gravity.
It sits on my tip of my finger and decides to change the scenery, but not leaving me completely, it dangles on its silk, weaving it slowly to gain momentum, and hey presto, a swing set to go with the palm playground. I hold it up and watch it shorten and lengthen its rope to swing smoother in the light breeze.
Thinking it perhaps would like to get off this merry go round of a ride, I offer it a table top, but the glass is not as appealing, and it scurries up its life line towards my finger. Fair enough spidey. Fair enough.

It takes a few more strolls along my love line, my health line, a little promenade on my soul line, and life line before once again venturing to the edge of a digit and dangling for a quick swing.
This time, I need to let it go.
I place it softly on a fake straw chair, and it reluctantly disappears among its weaves, once again to roam a fake plastic, metal, and glass jungle, an ambassador of what is real, a lion among cats.

Time to look for another real Little Miss Muffet.

Try a little tenderness

2009-03-30T00:22:00.002+03:00

"Remember that guy I once told you about? The one I had the thing for a few months back, but ended up giving up on? The guitarist?" she asked, reclined on my sofa, smoking a cigarette with the TV mumbling in the background.
"Yeah, I think so. The one that started as fun, but ended up turning emotional." I replied, taking a sip of my tea.
"Yeah.. ha, him. Did I ever tell you about the time we ended up making out against his car one night?"
"Which time would that be?" I smirked. Yeah, so it was a cheeky response, but she and I were friends enough to let things like that slide.
"Funny. You're funny. Anyway, he said something that night. I still think about it sometimes." She paused for a second, as if just mentioning this spun her into a spiral of thought about that very same thing.
"We had stumbled out of the bar near that restaurant on Hamra street. It was near to 3 a.m. and he offered to drive me to my car. What a lame excuse for a goodnight kiss if you ask me, but the mood was right, and he was a sweetheart, so we walked towards his car, and well, ya da ya da ya da, I pulled him towards me and we sorta fell onto the side of his car. We kissed and stroked and well, you don't need all the details, you've done it before..."
"Of course... so? What's the point of your mini risque story?" I interrupted.
"Well, there was a moment where I slid my hands under his shirt, and caressed his back, and sides. Softly. There wasn't anything very animalistic about it you know?" She took a drag of her cigarette, and I heard the slight crackling of the tobacco. "He stopped, pulled his head back and looked me straight in the eye, smiled slightly and stroked my cheek with his hand, so I asked him what was wrong, you know what he told me? He said no one had shown him tenderness like that before. It practically made me flinch in shock, and then I felt sad for him, you know? Can someone really not feel simple tenderness before? I mean, is it even possible?" Her eyes and tone became twisted with confusion and slight melancholy.
"I don't know... I suppose yes, at the same time no. I guess it shouldn't be possible to never experience that sort of basic affection, but surprisingly, a lot of people don't." I say, and realise how scientific and dry I sounded.
She turned out her cigarette in the ashtray on the low table in front of her. As she blew the smoke in a straight stream that slowed and dissipated closer to me, her mouth curved slowly downward, and once again, I lost my friend to thought. Her eyes were a tell tale. They slowly strained with sadness, and as they fluttered slightly, I saw her lower eyelid line with silver.
"I think that's the saddest thing I've ever heard..." she said still staring into the space in front of her, heavy with remnants of smoke, before turning to look straight at me and continuing "..right?"
I sighed softly, and felt the burn of her question.
"Yea... it is. It really is."

She straightened up, stood, and walked out onto the balcony letting some fresh air in.
And in the sunlight, she lit another cigarette, and looked up at the sky.

(day)Dream Sketch #2 ~ Love and Smoke

2009-03-25T09:36:00.004+02:00

Dream Sketch #1 ~ Fireflies and Keys

2009-03-15T11:47:00.004+02:00

Despite everything...

2009-03-12T17:24:00.000+02:00

... it caught up with me.

Shaving with Occam's razor

2009-03-06T00:00:00.002+02:00

She realises things are getting too much.
And everyone is loud.

She decides to shave it off. All off.
She grabs the razor, and glides it over the layers of excuses and questions and thoughts that clog up her lungs, and blur her vision.

Things don't have to be so complicated, she thinks to herself.
The simpler the better.
Don't overthink, don't make excuses, don't wrap yourself around yourself, looking for yourself, she tells herself...

She grabs the razor and shaves. It all falls to the floor and spills through the gaps under the doors, and out the windows and into the drains.

Thank you Occam she whispers. Thank you for trying.

3 a.m. minuet

2009-02-22T03:59:00.007+02:00

"You know what your problem is?"
"Which one?"
"Hah. funny. *raises glass*"
"Ok... what.."
"You're a very good person...."
"That's my problem??"
"Ok. No. Wait, let me finish. You're a very good person, and I'm being honest here because I'm sorta tipsy, ok? You always put your self in these existential inner turmoil situations."
"Ok..."
"You're a very good person... and I think that you want to be happy. You'd like to be happy."
"Ok..."
"But I think that somewhere in that head of yours, you don't think you deserve to be."
"Maybe."
"...*short pause*... drink your goddamn wine."

Reading cards

2009-02-18T20:37:00.007+02:00

She shuffles the cards in her palm, her elbows resting on the old mahogany table in the garden.
Her fingertips stroke their delicately ornamented gilded backs as she layers card over card from one palm to the other, and crickets chirped in the undergrowth under a sky stained dusk.
"This is the last time" she whispers. He tilts his head at her statement.
"Huh?"
"This is the last time I do this. No more readings." She say, this time with more irritation in her tone. She sighs softly.
She flips the first card in the pack over. It's the Queen of Cups.
"Interesting. She is royal. And that is in no way literal. She seems to be like anyone else, but she is not. She is far more superior. The Queen of Cups is wise, and governing but with love and tenderness. She is a mother, a friend, and a lover all in one..."
He clears his throat slightly, taking it all in, and again, she flips the next card.
"The Moon. Although the moon does not shine its own light, it allows for one to look at it in the face. It is honest, the light from the sun allows it to shine, but not bright enough to blind, just bright enough to show you the way. It is never the most obvious light source, but it is there, always."
He rests his head on his gripped fists and closes his eyes, listening carefully and trying to understand where the pieces fit.
"Two more cards" she says, as she reaches for the pack, caresses the card and flips it over.
"The World. Hmm." she pauses. "This card links to the first...the Queen and the World..." she rubs her chin with her forefinger, and the lines in her forehead form slowly.
"The Queen, all loving, all giving, is offering the World.." her voice trails as she starts to flip the last card.
"The Queen is offering the world to...."
He looks at the card, and looks up at her as she utters the words as if to reaffirm what his eyes already see.
"...the Fool."
He stands up. "And what does the Fool stand for?"
She looks at him and smiles briefly. "Come on...That's something I don't think I need to explain."
He laughs slightly, before crossing his arms and losing himself in thought.
"You never were never good at reading Tarot" he says.
"Then why do you keep asking it of me? There are only so many times things can be explained."
An owl swoops and hoots low. And the crickets stop chirping for a moment.
She sighs, and looks at the ground near his feet. "If you cannot see what there is to see, I cannot be your eyes. I wish I could, but it is not my place to be your eyes. I have no right to be your eyes. But let me leave you with this cliche of cliches : You won't know what you're missing until its gone. And then it could be too late."
She gulps the last bit of wine from her glass and stands up. Stroking a loose strand of hair from her face behind her ear, she picks up her cat and strokes it, looking up at him for a second.
"The moon is out already, and I'm tired. No more readings. I'm done... I'm done" she states, her voice twisting with melancholy.
She turns her back and walks away, the grass crunching quietly and crispy under her feet.

"The fool.." she whispers to her cat when she is sure he cannot hear her. "The fool.. if only he knew.." The cat shakes its head as a tear lands on its fur, meowing as if in sad agreement.

And as the distance between them grows bigger and bigger, he notices the motif on the back of her jacket.

It spells "Queen".

Strangers at a table

2009-02-17T21:59:00.004+02:00

"Can I use your outlet?" he asks, holding a laptop charger plug in his hand and eyebrows inquisitively raised.

She nods after lifting her eyes from the work on her screen.

He sits opposite her and starts to type. Every once in a while he humphs or sighs annoyingly or grunts sarcastically. He has an irate demeanor about him, scowling constantly, with a smile like democracy - nonexistent.

He intrigues her. He seems to be gay from his mannerisms, and although she knows she must be generalising, she can't help it. She spies on him every few minutes from behind her screen and from in between her headphones, careful to not appear to.

She orders her diet coke, a few minutes later he signals to the waitress to bring him a cup of a coffee.
He is disturbed by the smoke from her cigarette.
She feels a bit guilty, and tries subtly hard to keep it from floating in his direction.
It worries her unnecessarily. Also something she cannot help.

As she works he becomes more familiar to her, a quiet friend, companion.
I'm not alone, she thinks, as he sits opposite her living his life while she lives hers, completely separate.

And then a few hours later, he gets up. He politely points out that she's plugged her charger into his extension chord and if she could remove it.

"Of course" she says, the only words she's uttered the whole time they were there.

He packs up while organising a plan on the phone he is balancing on his shoulder. He's hurrying, and fumbling, and as soon as the zipper on his laptop bag closes he turns and leaves.

She sees him walk away through the window, his back turned.
And she suddenly misses him, this stranger.
She suddenly feels like she's been dumped by someone who doesn't know her, jilted by someone who she probably would not like. Walked out on by a scowler, and a grunter, and someone who sips his coffee loudly. She suddenly feels a tinge of pain, albeit briefly.

She looks at the empty seat in front of her, and in the crowd of the cafe, she feels terribly alone.

A Conversation with Holden Caulfield - blast from the past

2009-02-09T15:33:00.003+02:00

I was mentioning this poem I wrote like 6 years ago to a friend of mine that had to do with Holden Caulfield, and I decided to dig it up. I forget the context I wrote it in, but in any case, here it is...

Conversation with Holden Caulfield

I spoke to Holden Caulfield
And he said everything would be alright.
I asked him why,
He said because of the stars
in the sky at night.

I asked about the ducks,
The ones that flew away.
He said he didnt care anymore
To him, they were just another day.

And the stars?
The stars were different, he said.
The stars were different.

They were as perennial as
the sight in his eyes
They were always in the skies,
in their perfect constellations.
Free in space.

The thought of stars,
brought a light to his face.

"I cannot wait till night falls
to see my own festival of stars
From within these four white walls
And through the this window
this window with bars.."

I left Holden Caulfield,
who had said everything would be alright.
And I found out that they would be
That very same night..

(21/2/2003)

"Did you know him?"

2009-01-28T08:37:00.011+02:00

Nobody really knows exactly how old Will Donovan was when he died.
Well, no one really knows exactly if he died at all.
Some say he was 20 years of age, others say he was around 35, some even go as far as to say he was actually very old, but had that disease where you aged very very slowly.

All that is known for sure is one day he was there, and the other he wasn't.

Tales are spun in the dinky bar in Beirut that Donovan used to spend a lot of his time in, about what could have happened to him. Many say he just packed his bags and left without saying a word to anyone. Some say he went to explore the shadier parts of Beirut and never returned. Some say that he was a CIA agent that had a change of heart after falling in love with Beirut, and was "liquidated" in the name of American national security. Some say he decided to walk into the Mediterranean Sea, but ended up walking on water, and never stopped.

Those who knew him best said nothing at all. They just whispered his name under their breath at every sip of their drink that they took, slipping into mundane conversation and feigning normality, but always with a far look in their eyes.
Maybe in hopes that he'll hear them and come back.

Many facts surrounding Will Donovan's appearance are blurry. Some say he was blond with wide shoulders and a baby face. Some say he was darker haired, lanky, with a beard and stern eyes. Some say he wore suits with torn converses, while others say he wore tshirts with boots. But the two things that were always mentioned no matter who was describing him, were his tattered fedora hat (where it came from is a whole other story, whether he found it on the Lebanese shore or was given to him by Tom Waits himself, we'll never know) and his differently sized pupils. One of his pupils seemed to be dilated as though it was in the dark, while the other was sharper, tighter, and more focused, as a pupil would be in the light.

Perhaps this was no coincidence. It would be no surprise to anyone if Donovan was able to see into the dark and the light of everyone and every situation, taking in all he could, only to focus it all and go forward with it. A balance of sorts, a gift.

Stories of his nights at the bar range from him sitting there quietly, as if not wanting to be noticed, (gazing every once in a while at the TV trying to guess the movie that is playing), to heated debates about politics and life and philosophy. Sometimes, it was said, if he had had enough drinks, he did a little dance that he called the "old man dance". The bar's patrons still manage to dance that dance every once in a while, before stopping to remember who coined it, and how he was not there to join them.

One thing is for certain, he left something of himself with everyone he met, and those who were awake enough to see it were all the better for it. And those who saw and were able, gave him of them selves, because it was no coincidence that their paths crossed, and to some, it was a blessing.

I've heard that years after the disappearance of Will Donovan, a prayer was passed on from those who were close to him, those who loved and cared for him, to their children, and then to their children's children.

"Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep;
And a Will Donovan, in my dreams to meet"

Ever so often his name is mentioned in a bar in Beirut, and the question always comes up among strangers...

"Did you know him?"

The untimely death of Tilou Pouline

2009-01-24T03:28:00.006+02:00

They say she jumped.
But I knew she was pushed.

The splash was heard for miles, and people on the opposite end of the city saw its spray rise into the night sky sparkling in the light of the full moon before dissipating into the nothingness of the moment.
It was not her weight that caused such a splash. No. For Tilou Pouline was a small framed frail lass, with bones brittle as sticks and enough meat on them to barely feed a cat.
It was her heart that was heavy.

They say she jumped.
But I knew she was pushed.

She was pushed by someone who knew her well. It was not vindictive, or malicious. It was a push that was meant to take her over the edge, and alas; it did.
She plummeted to her death onto rocks that tried hard to sharpen their edges to save her the pain of lying there bleeding slowly, broken and alone.
They say the stars shone brighter to keep her company, the moon blinked, and that the waves that usually crashed against those very rocks caressed her softly as she drifted, claiming her tears and wetting her lips as she cracked one last smile.

They say she jumped.
But I knew she was pushed.

Dogs far and wide howled the very moment her heart stopped, their owners frantically attempting to calm them down to no avail. Their howls swirled in the evening breeze, collecting and flowing up towards the heavens, pushing the light rain clouds around till thunder boomed and lightening struck and rain poured. Those that were Street Dogs ran in packs along the pavements, all against traffic, jumping onto hoods of oncoming cars and any other obstacle till they formed a wave of their own, a wave of fur and teeth and howls. To this day those who witnessed this phenomenon shudder at the memory of the relentless onslaught of beasts that struck fear and awe and bewilderment into their hearts.

They say she jumped.
But I knew she was pushed.

She was pushed as an act of mercy. As she sat there on the rails of the bridge moments before her fall, she took a drag of her lucky stike cigarette and saw the city lights burn into the skyline. She heard the music from far off cars, catching songs at random; Ada, Karma Police, The Jeep Song, Born, Iris. Words from each hitting a chord in her heart, strumming her ribs, plucking at her lungs.

They say she jumped.
But I knew she was pushed.

She was pushed by someone who gave her one last laugh, one last cry, and a pat on the back for a job done as well as possible. As the cherry of her cigarette kissed the edge of its filter, Tilou flicked it from between her index finger and her thumb into the ocean below, watching the glow get smaller and smaller and exinguish in the surface of the rippling waters. She held the rail she had wrapped her legs around on each side of her, looking into the sky, looking for an answer that could be no where but there. Some say they heard someone whisper "Geranimo!"
And then she fell...

They say she jumped.
But I knew she was pushed.

She was pushed by Tilou Pouline.
And no one can convince me otherwise.

Riding with apathy

2009-01-21T02:13:00.007+02:00

"This is a beautiful country" She says.
"I love this city."

He looks at Her in his rear window mirror. "Yea. It is the best country of all," He agrees.
The traffic is horrendous. It would usually take Her 10 minutes to get where She was going. Roadworks are plaguing the streets.

"Elections are coming up. They need to act as if they're actually doing anything around here," She mutters, annoyed.

"In that case I wish we had elections every year!" The eyes in the mirror say.

"Everyone should cast a blank vote. Maybe if the whole country did it, it would shake them a bit. The message would get across," She says, staring out the window at stationary cars stuck in a traffic jam that breathes fumes of soot and fuel and carbon.

"What's the point? There's no point," He answers, " I don't intend on voting at all."

"Your voice should count for something" She adds, hearing the words become naive as they come out of her mouth, mingling with cigarette smoke, saving it slightly by adding "That's apathy. That's a very strong weapon to go against. Apathy is the biggest demon. You're giving up."

"Listen, its not a matter of giving up. We tried, it didn't work. That's it. You know, this woman who was running for a position ten years ago won by 45 votes. 45 votes! It's enough to have your family vote. No my dear, this country isn't going anywhere. It's not going to change," he replies, his eyes lost in a thought that no longer exists, an image of happiness that no longer applies.

"But you can't just give up..." She says, partly to herself as she looks at a nearby soldier fixing the strap of his rifle.

"Listen, I've been young, and now I'm older. You haven't been older yet. The things we've seen, the obstacles we've gone against. It's a lot. Sometimes you just see that things can't change so easily. Maybe in 200 years..."

His eyes lock onto her reflection, and He notices She is fighting disappointment. And is stubborn.

"I'll illustrate with an example," He says, clearing his throat. "Imagine you open a business. Lets say a Butcher's. You used to sleep 6 hours before you opened it. Now you sleep 4 because you wake up earlier or sleep later to work on it. You're putting effort into it, because you want it to work, and give you profit. Ok. You do this for a month, two months, three. Nothing. No change. Sooner or later, you take back those two hours of sleep, maybe even more. You realise there's no point in working so hard if nothing is going to come of it. You understand my point?"

"I don't agree" She says.

"You're young. I commend your patience and passion and determination. I am not telling you to let it go. But I'm telling you it won't result in anything."

"Well then I'll just keep trying. I'll get tired. We'll get tired. We'll rest, and then get up again. You can't tell me that there is no point. You can't tell me it'll be for nothing. That would end me." She says, feeling her face get warmer.

He falls silent. He seems a bit ashamed.
"Don't lose yourself kid." He mutters.

"I'll get off here please," She interjects, and as She closes the door, looks Him in the eyes, without the middleman mirror and says "I can see it's already too late for you. I'm sorry."

The exhaust pipe chokes on a few coughs of smoke, and She's left on the pavement, her lips pursed, hands in her coat pocket, head held high, staring as apathy takes over another wheel and drives off.

Here there be dragons...

2009-01-12T21:27:00.013+02:00

After reading many status updates on facebook about last year graphic designers (some of them friends of mine) panicking about giving in their thesis, I decided to look back on mine. It had been two years since I'd read it, and it was weird reading that voice of me, writing academic essay voice. My thesis was about mythological creatures, composite ones in specific (made of parts of different creatures) and the idea of Collective Visual Imagination, a term I coined after reading Carl Jung's writings on the Collective Unconscious.
So after reading it, correcting a couple of typos (oops.) I thought I'd paste a couple of paragraphs from it... Maybe it'd interest some of you.

"Many of us today do not really know where they [mythological creatures] come from, do not know their purpose or if they have any, and yet we do know what they are, and how they look like, probably from our exposure to them in the contexts such as the ones I have mentioned. Personally, I have always been fascinated with creatures such as these since I can remember. I would hear about them in stories my mother would tell me, see pictures of them in books, see them in cartoons and movies, and I did not bother to question their existence; they stirred oceans in me, they rang true, and let me soar in my mind with wings made of imagination. But the older I got, the more I knew, and it was no longer a matter of whether they existed or not, but it was their aesthetic nature that appealed to me, and especially the creatures that were mixed, composite. How did they come to be, or who created them? How were so many stories written about them if they did not exist, and how could it be that there were many instances of striking resemblance of a specific creature between different cultures and mythologies?"

* * *

"Perhaps we are all like the doomed artist or creative, who is forever envisioning and imagining the perfect artwork, and never able to hit the nail on the head when executing it; that these magnificent creatures are embedded in our unconsciousness, dormant, awaiting to be portrayed and expressed, while we fumble and never get to describe and apply visually what we see in our heads. Perhaps we are endowed with the essence of a Collective Visual Imagination that unites us in our struggle for the ideal illustration of certain creatures, and yet in the process of application, we drift apart slightly due to factors of culture and context, making this world of creatures one that is destined to keep us gaping in awe and wonder. To quote the German director Werner Herzog, 'What would an ocean be without a monster lurking in the dark? It would be like sleep without dreams.'”

* * *

" The Collective Visual Imagination is a theory that leans on the geographical widespread of a particular creature that has physical similarities between the same creature of different localities. The reason for these findings is very unclear and so the theory alleges that the reason for these similarities is due to our already formed visualisation of it that is inevitably within us. I would have called it the Unconscious Visual Imagination, but I am wary of the fact that we can never actually ‘see’ or envision that which is unconscious, as I have come to understand from my readings by Jung. The result of the existence of these ‘moulds’ or templates in our minds drives us to manifest them, simply an attempt to solidify this otherwise conceptualised idea that wants to break free of us. And yet somehow we are incompetent in completely comprehending and controlling this hidden part of our imaginative mind.

An Analogy
An analogy that could clarify my explanation, is if you consider someone who is trying to express him or herself verbally, and is stuck on a word, he knows what it is, and yet is unable to convey what it is, and sometimes he or she end up spilling out words that are either close in pronunciation or meaning in attempts to bridge this gap. If I were to apply this to the Collective Visual Imagination, the word we are thinking of would be the actual representation of the creature, while the different words that we end up saying in attempt to get the right one are the different representations and portrayals of the creature. But it is important to keep in mind that the main difference between the analogy I am giving and the Collective Visual Imagination is that this search for the ‘model’ depiction of the creature is not something I consider to be conscious, we are not aware of its existence within us, or of the fact that we are expressing an urge to find the ‘one’, while when searching for the ‘word’, we know we have it in us somewhere, in the many folds of our brain, we are aware that to complete our message, this ‘word’ needs to be found. This is the relation I find between Jung’s concept of unconscious archetypes and my hypothesis. Also, although the idea of the ‘collective’ seems to steal away the possibility of diversity, it is in fact this feature that allows diversity in my view, since in our attempts of expression, we have harnessed diversity, allowing the many factors and influences of our existence to play a role in shaping images and forms."

If only you could see the tables and maps I filled up with research... 60 dragons, 22 mermaids, and 16 unicorns.. Anyway, there's obviously more to it than the excerpts I put, and it would make more sense once read from start to finish.. but its a 30 page paper! Wouldn't know what to do with it all.

And with that, I'll leave you with the last paragraph of my thesis as food for thought...

* * *

"I once read somewhere that when dealing with uncharted waters, cartographers in the days of yore would draw a dragon like creature on that particular area of the map, and jot down the words “Here there be Dragons”, referring to something that we are not sure of, somewhere dangerous, undiscovered, with undiscovered monsters and creatures lurking. Perhaps our minds can be compared to these old maps; and perhaps in the areas that we cannot reach, that we cannot understand, ‘there be dragons’."

What Alice would say today

2009-01-11T16:47:00.003+02:00

Things that shouldn't tell tales, but do

2009-01-09T01:18:00.008+02:00

the glass of wine tells me of jesus' blood drank by cannibals to no avail.
the paper cranes on their shelf tell me of a girl lost in thought but found by paper trail.
the winged and horned equine silver saviour around my neck tells me of things that I wish, but can't be.
the eyes I see in the mirror tell me of things that could be but aren't.
the heart beating within me tells me of things that are but don't.
the silence of my voice tells me of things better left unsaid.
the hands on my watch tell me it's time to go to bed.
if only these thoughts and rabbits would get out of my head.

Yeah, it's a new year, but...

2009-01-07T18:06:00.001+02:00

Here's wishing you a monster-free year, whatever kinds they may be...

When the Heart makes sense and the Mind does not...

2008-12-30T13:55:00.006+02:00

I lay my head on my pillow and breathe.

I hear my insides rising and falling, and my heart beat gets louder, and louder, and I start to distinguish the words... "Believe in me. Believe in me. Believe in me." Over and over and over, a perfect way to lull someone to sleep. Except the gears in my mind are clanking and turning and twisting and it's loud and distracting and tiring.

1+1=2
5+2x=15 makes x=5
heart+faith=hurt

and the lull of my heart is drowned and my head hurts and it all equals fear and disappointment and sadness and insomnia.

I have faith in you Heart. I do. Give me some strength to ward off the demons of my consciousness. Give me a sign, a faint promise.

Then again, that's my mind talking. The need of proof. Force of habit I suppose, or a defense mechanism against hurt that it has calculated to come about faith in my heart. Am I that damaged? Have I been metaphorically beaten within an inch of my ability to give myself this gift? To have faith in faith?

I would like to be free. And sometimes I am, I am free of my mind, happy with my heart, not in a world of expectations or results. They come later, and the wait could drive me insane. No, I find myself happy in the existence of my heart and its words in the present.

I try to strike the balance, it's not an easy one, and it is tiresome.

I should stop asking for anything. Only then will I get something.

Genocide 101

2008-12-27T21:51:00.009+02:00

I found my cross.
Remember my Jerusalem cross? I found it a couple of weeks ago. It was chewed up, the wood gone, the metal crumpled (yes, it was my dog being patriotic).
Now I look at it, and feel it has become so as a foreboding sign of what was to come. The cross Jesus was on (refer to 'Jerusalem on the Shore' post) crumpled in the face of the violence that has been unleashed on Gaza.

A whole people quarantined by the Israeli government like animals, but that's to say the least considering that animals get better treatment than they have gotten these past months. Shut off of food, power, any decent form of health care (sorry did I just list the basic human rights?) left to starve and weaken and get sick and get more and more angry, just to end it with carpet bombing of the whole area, killing and killing and killing, just this time faster and more efficiently than before.

It is the kind of thing that begs no words. I've seen this happen over and over, the Grapes of Wrath, the second Intifada, Qana, the 2006 War, the Gaza Massacre earlier this year, and now this. Same images over and over, one becomes desensitized at the sight, but it doesn't make the feeling inside any different, or easier.

In fact it wells up, and adds up. And it becomes harder and harder to believe in faith, and justice, and good. Definitely harder to believe in good.

It happens over and over.
There's a saying in Arabic, "التكرار يعلم الحمار" - "Repetition teaches the donkey"
Well whose the donkey here? And what is he being taught in fact? Are the Palestinians donkeys? The Lebanese? The Arabs? And on what basis?

And what are they being taught? To be civilised? Or that the only justice in this world is the justice of power? That some people are more important than others? Four legs good, two legs better?

No. This is genocide 101.
They're being taught genocide.

Except they're on the wrong side of the stick. And apparently, to pass this course, you must be 6 feet under (if you're lucky enough to be buried, and not scattered or deformed beyond recognition).

I'm ranting. And I don't want to anymore. Words are useless here. This is a question that no longer begs an answer. It begs action. And will. And justice.

My brothers, my sisters in Gaza.
I haven't prayed in a long time. I'm not sure I know how to pray.

But tonight, I'm praying for you. A wordless prayer.

Neither/Nor & Both. But rejected.

2008-12-20T12:15:00.005+02:00

my first attempt at making a comic for a collaborative comic/zine in Beirut called Samandal Unfortunately it was rejected. I'll try not to give up...

Back story: This comic refers to my leaving London after living and working there last year (despite my great attachment to it) to come back to Beirut. It is completely made out of scratcher board, please click on the images to see enlarged.

A Perfect Day

2008-11-30T14:12:00.011+02:00

Today was a perfect day on all accounts.
I couldn't have asked for a better one.

It started with visiting the Sabra and Chatila refugee camp after stepping out of it 7 years earlier and not turning back.
I had been in contact with a youth recreational centre at a young age due to my mother having a friend who teaches English there, and as part of my social service requirement for my IB education at school, I taught art to 9-12 year old Palestinian refugees.
I was 17 at the time, and to work with children who have lost one or both parents, living in what can be described as the slums of the city, where the roads are part dirt, and Swiss cheesed full of holes, where everything is squished into a space meant for half of everything there, was difficult to say the least. I got emotionally drained after a couple of months.
But now I was more capable, and more emotionally mature. And the day started beautifully.
I picked up my friend Will and we brainstormed on ideas for a quick activity for 5-7 year old kids, since my original idea for a flip book workshop with the older kids fell through. Will came up with an excellent idea involving shapes cut into puzzles that each child would draw on, and when put together would make a whole new drawing. We picked up the supplies rushed to the camp manoeuvring cars, driving over elevated manholes and puddles of muck.
The children were great. Shy at first, and although having only half an hour to put all of it together, it worked. We got them to loosen up, they sang us welcome songs as I drew out shapes and Will cut them out (into what we later found out, were not very simple puzzles!)
The result? Very happy kids and a bunch of beautiful drawings (one that i distinctly loved, of a boy with rays coming out of his head. When I asked the boy who it was, he said the Sun. "The Sun is a boy?" I asked, to which he nodded. "What about the moon then?" I added. To which a girl behind him excitedly jumped up and said "The moon's a girl!")
As the children filed up to change out of their school aprons, we started to bid farewells and the moon girl, Nadine (a smiley bright child with eyes that sparkled and a messy pony tail) came up to me with her arms open. I knelt as she said "I want to hug you!".

(Perfect moment number 1)

I felt a bit deflated after that visit. Dealing with children can take it out of you, no matter how much you enjoy it. Especially when these children live in a hell hole. So as I drove silently, it dawned on me that the only thing I really wanted to do was go sit on the seashore, sewage pipe rubbish and all (refer to Jerusalem on the Shore post)
No questions asked, I turned the car around and went to Ramlet il Bayda.
We sat there for maybe half an hour. The sea turning golden under the bright sun (The sun is a boy called "Sun" in case you didn't know...It's true, the boy who drew him told me himself) watching the waves multiply and roll onto the beach. I took out a piece of paper I'd been given as a gift. It was simple really. Perhaps one of the most meaningful gifts I'd been given in a while.
"Patience". I read it. Sometimes I read sentences over and over, like they held answers that I was yet to find. With the gift of Patience.

(Perfect moment 2)

Ever so often I would glimpse something moving on the wet sand, maybe it was a tiny crab, but it didn't matter. I was sat on a piece of driftwood, talking to a good friend, and losing myself in the sea, watching the horizon and enjoying my face being kissed by a boy called Sun.

(Perfect moment number 3)

Cutting shapes out and driving through refugee camps can work up and appetite, so we went to Japanese Please on Bliss St., a sushi place I eat Fushi at (Fake sushi, being a person who can't even fathom the idea of eating fish... brr). A long conversation there led to a place I never expected to go. My father's office.
I hadn't been to my dad's office since he passed away a year and a half ago. The reasons are many and few. But I got pushed off the cliff, and I took the dare. Why not. Why not go? And that, ladies and gentlemen, was a step that should have, and did happen. As I fumbled with the keys, and managed to get in, my knees shook a little. I gulped and cleared my throat and walked into my dad's actual office. Newspaper clippings praising him were on the door, and they startled me. They weren't there when I used to visit him before. I sat on his desk, and felt odd. I was on a tightrope of emotions, teetering and focused at the same time. My arms left shapes in the dust as I put them on the table, looking at the photo of our trip to Greece.
I started looking through drawers and on shelves. It was a treasure chest of memories and things that I didn't see before that were always there.
And then I tripped onto a box full of old format photos. There must have been around 100 of them.
They were photos of the war. The big Lebanese one. I had heard of some of these photos before, overhearing conversations between my parents and their friends many nights, and in an odd way they became familiar. Photos of my mother before she was my mother, or my dad's wife, photos of my uncle when he still had hair and was a skinny twig. Photos of my house when it was simpler and less cluttered, furnished with throw rugs and pillows and straw mats on the floor. Photos of the road in front of my house when it was deserted, with a few holes from shell fire. Photos of our balcony glass doors cracked and broken. Bullet holes, teenagers with guns, children on swings rigged at the back of pickup trucks.
The war, my parents as people, my house as a hang out. Beautiful photos.
Tears were inevitable. But it was ok. And the thought came to me. I was going to put these photos into a book. They were the war through the eyes of my father the poet. And they would not go on being pieces of memories in a box in a dusty office.
As I walked out of the office, I felt awake, and re-energized. I was alive.

(Perfect moment number 4)

As I drove home, I found myself breaking into a smile. It soon escalated into full out laughter. The odd thing was that I was crying at the same time. Perfect...

The smile was in no way weaker a few hours later at the Cabin as I sipped wine in the company of friends and my brother (yes, non biological), I couldn't stop smiling (in fact, I scared myself)
Friends, wine, a cigarette, and a bartender you can count on. A perfect end, to a perfect day.

Love's Labour Lost

2008-11-26T16:50:00.010+02:00

8:30 am. January 23rd. Hoylake Rd.
I'm walking to the bus stop in a morning haze on my way to work, tunes pumping into my ears, cigarette smoke mingling with morning mist, eyes groggy and unappreciative of the harsh white daylight.
I step off the little grass roundabout onto the coarse gravel and come across a crushed bouquet of reddish pink carnations.

As I look down at their flattened heads by my feet, my mind wanders slightly to what could have happened here the night before.
Maybe it was the 15 year old boy I see riding round on a bike, proclaiming his love to the girl down the street and being rejected. Maybe it was an apology bouquet from an unfaithful husband to his heartbroken wife. Maybe they were thrown out of a car window as it drove by carrying a couple in a heated argument after what seemed to have been a perfect romantic dinner.
Whoever they were from, whoever they were intended for, they now lay in the middle of the road, crushed by more than one car by the look of it.

I took out my camera, and snapped it. The days would go by, they would rot, or get blown away by the wind, or get picked up by the rubbish collectors. But for now, I was the only witness this early in the morning to someone's lost labour of love.

And that was a moment worth holding on to. No gesture of love should go unappreciated, even if it is by a perfect stranger at 8:30 a.m. on a chilly Wednesday morning in the middle of Hoylake Rd.

Jerusalem on the Shore

2008-11-13T19:25:00.011+02:00

My friend visited Beirut for the first time in 11 years a couple of weeks ago, and where else should one take a close friend to in Beirut but the sea?

I parked at the corniche near Ramlet il Bayda and we walked down the newly done up pavement with the oddly proportioned lamps as the sun beat down on us on that clear November day.
Scaling down the broken steps to the beach, I warned my friend of the broken glass, the rubbish, and pointed to the sewage outlet that moulded the sand around it into a big empty murky spill, trying to bend it into as much of a joke as I could.

We walked down towards the shore where the sea lapped and licked smooth the sand, shifting shells and orphaned shoes and pieces of card as far away from it as it could, and I proceeded to squeak with glee at all the small shells that had collected, and to my friend's slight annoyance, cut of the conversation and began aah-ing and ooh-ing and "look at the colour!"-ing as I picked and poked and sifted through marine treasure.

After picking up around twenty shells, dodging a dead crab, and pausing momentarily to joke about a condom we found still in its packet, my eye tripped upon a cross lying lob sided in the wet sand. It was a plain dark wood cross, very simple with no overly ornamented detailing, just a plain wooden cross, now pregnant with sea water so that the texture of its veins were easily distinguishable against my fingertips. It had a crudely finished piece of metal across its horizontal beam, pressed into the wood with typewriter font letters indented into it, spelling Jerusalem.
My heart stopped for a second and I couldn't hear anything or anyone, and my friend's conversation rolled out of my ears and down to the edge of the sea.
This is the cross Jesus was on.
This was the cross Jesus was on. All the way from Jerusalem. to Beirut. to my hands. A simple, modest cross of wood and thin metal. I stowed it in my bag and held onto it like I had stowed the spirit of the holy ghost.

I showed my mother the second I came home, spinning stories of hope and redemption, of the cross of Palestine crossing the great Mediterranean, braving hungry fish, swooping gulls, and jet ski blades to reach us. To send a message that the cross has not fallen. Jerusalem has not fallen. My mother tried to bring me down to earth from my romanticised clouds, but for some reason, this felt like a sign. Perhaps it was some one's cross, a girl like me who threw it into the sea out of anger, or desperation or both, crying tears of anguish and frustration at the reality of her world. Perhaps she cast it out because she wanted to save it, perhaps to rid herself of the constant reminder. Perhaps hoping someone would find her message in a bottle and feel her, come rescue her.

I lost the cross the same day. I don't know if I placed it somewhere to keep it safe and forgot where, or whether my dog decided to ingest it out of patriotic urges. All I know is that I found the cross of Jerusalem, and just like that

POOF

it was gone, and with it some part of me felt it had betrayed trust, maybe a dream, maybe just a meandering thought.

Depsite trying to convince myself that it was merely stopping en route to a much worthier journey, that its mission was not yet done, my heart still aches at the thought of losing it ever since...

Don't Cry Sister...

2008-10-23T21:16:00.003+02:00

It rained cats and dogs and every other animal rainable this morning.
I woke up at 7 am to the sound of thundering and roaring answered with echoes of sudden light that teased my sleep trodden eyes. The rain hammered against the balcony tiles and the roof of the building right above my head so methodically that I got lost in its thread of meteorolgical harmony.
The last time it rained like that I was still in London. It was February or March of this year. Still quite cold in London, and I was at home alone. My housemates were each out going about their lives, while I hovered from room to room going about mine. My laptop was playing music through the speakers we had gotten as a hush-gift from a friend who had had a little (and by a little I of course mean ridiculous amounts) too much to drink and had managed to act inappropriatly at our houseparty (this included running off with an unopened bottle of vodka that nearly 10 other people could have benefited from the contents of.) As I attempted to clear my room, I tripped over one of the boxes I had shipped from beirut. It was sitting in my room, still un-emptied, and now just waiting to be shipped back in a few months.

Out fell a deck of cards wrapped in a hairband.

And suddenly I heard it. A girl cry.
It started with low breaths and sniffing and escalated quickly to terrible gasps and cries and wails.
As I heard her, my skin crawled with the emotion that filtered throughout my room. Her pain was of depths unfathomable and unexplainable. I saw her grasp at her throat unable to control this flood that broke through a dam so well preserved before, scared at this foreign phenomenon that gripped her.
It went on for what seemed ages. She wailed and cried and sobbed and lamented and everytime I thought to myself "She must be getting tired. She has to be getting tired...", she went on for longer and longer...

Hearing her began to exhaust me. I felt like a caged animal, moving from side to side, scared, alone, hearing this sister in arms pour out ungovernable sentiments, her body shaking and vibrating with her shuddering breaths in the hollow of my ribs, her tears splashing slightly on to my arms that held hands caressing fingers.

And then, thirty minutes of non stop sorrowful crescendos and diminuendos later, she stopped. Suddenly. Just as suddenly as she had begun.

I slept exhausted of fatigue, on a damp warm pillow, sinking into a battered mattress.

The Part You Throw Away

2008-08-17T16:46:00.005+03:00

I'm sifting through it all. Pour it into the fine net, shake it shake it and watch the powder rain start forming beautifully smooth powder hills on my life below.
And the rocks and pebbles and complications and unnecessary strifes and noise stay behind, being teased against the wire, like sins on fire. The instability of it all. Turbulance galore. And so they should stay behind. I have never done this before.

This is the part I throw away.

I have no times anymore for bits and pieces that are not smooth. I've had rocks and boulders to chew through and swallow and this is where I tell myself enough. Sift on through. Sift on through to the other side.
I dance and roll on powder hills that smell sweet and fold me into blissful silk cocoons. I should sift more often
I look at the rocks stuck in the wires above and smile.

This is the part I throw away. Good riddance.

And half an hour later there's a lemon cake with rainbow chip icing to go along with my contentment.
I sit on my sofa, legs entertwined and up on the table, music in the background, and rocks and bits scattered in the kitchen bin.

4 am Speechless Rambling

2008-08-17T04:15:00.002+03:00

happy birthday...

2008-07-06T14:29:00.000+03:00

...to you

i love you.

on couche toujours avec les morts...

2008-06-29T03:16:00.003+03:00

On my way to work, after I alight at the corner of ladbroke grove and begin walking towards Golborne Road, there are many things that greet me day to day. The pigeons on the side of Best Buy that crowd around discarded bread and rice and doughnuts, the TimeOut ad on the side of the black box that houses all the wires of the area, the Dub Shack with its yellow sign and lion head in the middle, roaring the availability of hip hop, soul, and RnB vinyls, and the funeral sevice "shop". I say shop because it has a window front like any other shop, framed in black painted walls, crowned with wilting funeral wreaths that are changed rarely, and holding a shiny coffin staff that brings it all together as an intert morbid surrealist painting amid the hustle bustle of the living that walk up and down and go in and out of its neighbouring "Best Buy" with their sandwiches or bottle of juice or fresh krispy kreme. I give it my glance as I pass, noting its classical serif-ed sign, and neutral marketing of death, and stagnant existence. My heart sinks ever so slightly nearly every time, more like a blink underwater than a sinking. Never changing, always paused in a purgatory of inanimation.

Except that day.

I pass the pigeons, note this week's theme of TimeOut, contemplate a croisant from the lamp warmed cupboard posing as Best Buy's "bakery" and then before I have a chance to look ahead of me and walk my course, I pass 3 men standing in a row, in matching light pink shirts, and black trousers in front of the window queen of death.
They all are looking at a black car parked right across the funeral shop, and suddenly things happen really fast and I realise its a hearse and my eyes stroke its abdomen and I see it's blooming with fresh lillies and small pink roses hidden in green blankets of leaves and if thats not enough to make me quiver, 2 men are pushing a white coffin to fill the void and the coffin is glowing in the diffused light and it is a small one. A small coffin. Tiny in fact. And then I feel it hit me. My insides twirling and turning and pulsing and twisting and a gag a little and it goes very slow. very slow.
my eyes are no longer in my head but in the head of a bird on a low branch of the tree above me and I see myself in slow motion, my head still turned at this scene and switching to the 3 men in pink (its a girl) and my body follow my head and twists round and I see myself pause slightly before falling to my knees with tears streaming down my cheeks as my head is playing home videos of a baby girl coming home from the hospital in her mothers arms, her first birthday, her blue dress and her red shows as she runs in the grass of the garden smiling and shining, her favourite teddy bear that she could not sleep without, her thumb in her mouth... I see it all. And I see the coffin as it darkens, shielded from the sun by the gaping mouth of wheeled black. and its all in slow motion as the bird from the tree swoops down and passes me turning its head to keep my face in view and its all turning and my stomach is turning, and then SLAM. i hear the jaws of the car shut and I realise my eyes are in my head and I'm not on my knees, or in slow motion, in fact I'm just a few metres further on my route, and the sceen is all in my head. But the tears are there, and my wringing insides are there and I take cover into the side street and stand as hidden as I can by nearby bushes and gag and spit bile and poison and horrid horrid feelings and images.
The terrible glass visage of the queen of death has proven her point. She reigns my path with an iron fist. I will not make the mistake of looking her in the eye again. I do not want that burden. I cannot carry that burden more than I have.

Hair of the Dog

2008-06-10T01:51:00.007+03:00

Weirdest thing happened today while on the bus from work. I was standing up leaning against the luggage area near the front after giving my seat to an old woman.. (yes, I'm a good citizen, thats not the point though) balancing my Nick Cave book in one hand, holding onto the rail with another, and adjusting my ipod volume with a loose thumb, when all of a sudden, I see it.

The hair of the dog. My dog.

One lone hair, on my shirt. I can tell it was a dog hair, my dog's hair. Theres not question about it. The near bleached white colour, tapering at the tip to become a golden sandy tint that is almost translucent.
My dog has been gone for two years now. Thats a long time.
I'd worn this shirt before, never a hair in sight.
Maybe it was my jeans jacket. Must be. I hadnt worn it in forever, and i used to wear it quite a lot.
I smiled to myself as I wrapped my arm around the rail keeping me from breaking my teeth on the bus floor due to the driver's insistence on being the next Collin McRae, and picked the hair up, and studied it closely. The thin filament echoed the setting sunlight and broke it within it miniscule frame, resulting in the finest gold. Well I never...

I smiled to myself as I recollected a conversation I had with my friend just the night before, about how I was planning on getting a dog in summer when I moved back to Beirut. "Which breed?" she asked.
I said "the homeless kind. I'm going to adopt."

An interesting conversation ensued in which many parallels were drawn about my choices regarding my furry companians and my own outlook on myself.

I'll explain. I'm sure I've lost you, or sound like someone who is lost.

The day I was called by the vet to tell me that new Labrador puppies had just arrived if I wanted to take my pick, I rushed to the clinic as though my life depended on it.
2 puppies were presented in front of me, one bursting with energy and running around the elevated table, licking the fingers of all who gave him attention, and they were many, while the other lay in the middle of the table, paler, and still groggy from being sedated on the flight to Beirut. But aware. Very aware.
I looked at him and brought my face closer, inspecting his wide eyes that looked up at me, creasing the furrow of his brow slightly in a curious pose, and then relaxing slightly. Bringing my hand closer to stroke the bridge of his small muzzle, he lifted his head and licked me with a velvety tongue, rosy with youth. That was it. Runt he may be when compared with his vivacious brother but my Runt he shall be.

Still confused?
I chose the runt. Because he would have been the least obvious choice. Any person would have preferred to take the bouncy ball of love and fun that circled the edge of the table, spreading excitement with his little tail wagging away, and of course saliva. But what of his thinner paler comrade?
I did not want him to be the one that "had to be chosen". I stuck by my choice. Picked him up and cradled him in my folded arms, and a little nuzzle towards my armpit with his nose told me we were going to be just fine, told me he knew I'd pick him and as he burrowed into the warm darkness of my sweater, I too knew I would have picked him out of 100 puppies, let alone a couple.
No one wants the runt. The less obvious. The less appealing. But I do, for that very reason.

He gave me a similar look 5 years later, as he lay on the table at the vet's, suffering slowly from a cancer that he had managed to keep a secret from us all for a while. Except this time his look was not curious. But loving, tarnished with some fear. This time, it was I who nuzzled into his neck. And this time I did not get to take him home.

So now I am making the same choice, although choice could be the wrong word, since I don't believe it's that at all. It's just pre-chosen.
I had rattled my brain about which breed of dog to get ever since I took the decision to go down that road of companionship again. I thought of them all, taking into account my previous experience when it came to size and energy and shedding patterns (please refer to the trigger of all this entry.. the hair of the dog)
And then it just dawned on me. Why bother? Why the beauty contest? Why the need of a "new" dog. All dogs need love. There is no doubt about that... But isn't a dog that had been given love and then have it taken away more worthy? A dog at the shelter is not waiting to be bought, has not been taken care of or treated to fit any specific routine or measure.
They just ask to be loved. Half hound half retriever, half spaniel quarter alsation quarter husky... Concoctions, mutations, rehabilitations. They have no pedigree to fall back on, no lineage to claim.
Broken dogs. Not needing glue, or bandages. Just needing affection.
So I will adopt. No. Not adopt. That could infer a nonreciprocating relationship.
I will not adopt. I will welcome. I will love.

You see, I am a broken dog. A rain dog. A shelter dog. A runt of the litter.

But so are you. Only difference is I'm just not ashamed to say it.

Seven Poems (including a Sonnet) about Stars

2008-06-08T03:46:00.004+03:00

I wrote these a while ago.. should have put them up before I suppose. Sometimes I get the illusion I'm a poet..Oh well..
-----

Untitled
Fireflies swirl in the hollows of her eyes,
And galaxies form above us in the skies.

-----

Night Dreamer
Counting the stars,
As they greet her one by one,
She traces lines across the sky,
Her finger an imaginary brush
Painting a celestial masterpiece.

Catching fireflies
She names them one by one
One after hope, one after promise,
And one after love’s labour lost
Closes the jar, and watches them glow

Cursing the moon,
As it lights the rooftops one by one
She leans on the windowsill,
Arms crossed cradling her chin
Wishing she could be far far away.

-----

Man on the Moon
Do you believe they put a man on the moon?
And if he’s up there all alone, what does he think of?
What does he do?

Does he dance on constellations,
Dropping sandman’s dust onto closing eyes?
Giving us the gift of dream,
Gracing our dozing faces with smiles,
And our minds with a door to his abode
Where we can join him, jump from star to star
And watch comets explode.
Where we can sing to the universe,
our laughter echoing in the galaxies.

Do you believe they put a man on the moon?
And if he’s up there all alone, does he dream of us?
Or of visiting soon?

-----

A Sonnet of Moonshine and Fireflies
Her outline soaks in a soft silver
Cast by the moon’s fullest of faces.
As she searches for the big dipper,
Up towards the night sky she gazes.

Her thoughts are stolen by the stars,
And her breath by a passing breeze’s sigh
Could this fire she feels inside be a farce?
Does it only warm the heart within her, and why?

She wipes away the trails of moonshine
That crawl slowly down her visage
Looking up, she prays for a sign,
Or for a way to erase his image.

But all she can see is more stars and fireflies
And no where to hide from the full moon of lies

-----

Bird Bird
Bird Bird,
High in the sky,
The clouds your companion,
The sun a rider on you back.
Come tell me a tall tale
Of places east and west.
Come weave me a tapestry
Of feathers, of wind,
Without a word to be read.

Bird Bird
High in the sky
Don’t settle and sink
Keep on flying,
Stay high.

----

Poor Lucy
Lucy’s in the sky with diamonds,
She tells me
How she cries sometimes,
Because all she has
Are diamonds.
Diamonds aren’t
A girl’s best friend when
All she has
Are diamonds.

-----

Night Rider
She rides through the night sky
On a steed of dew soaked light
Her hair whistles through the air
Whipping and snapping and whisking
Clouds into shape

She rides through the night sky
On a steed of electrifying might
Her laugh booms throughout the heavens
Echoing and resonating and shaking
Into storms and rain

She rides through the night sky
On a steed of fire so bright
Her gaze splitting into slivers
Falling and trailing and glowing
Into shooting stars

And I sit here eyeing the sky,
On a quilt of feathers soft and white
My breath held in my chest
Watching and fearing and gaping
At the moody mistress of the dark

She rides through the night sky
On a steed of waning shade
Her strength thinning out in sheets
Dispersing and withering and dying
Into a bright new dawn

these pages fell out of an old digital journal

2008-06-03T22:13:00.002+03:00

an older version of me. an older version of you.

Journal Entry: Tue Jun 13, 2006, 4:04 PM
the stars of cigarette cherries hover in the darkness of her eyes,breathing fire silently in a glow of relapsing hope. and the dragonflies envy the fireflies, while the eyes that housed them bled adversaries in slow quiet trails

------

Journal Entry: Tue Nov 8, 2005, 3:38 PM
And yes, you look familiar,
I think I've seen you in a wishful thought,
a place I found
while counting stars
and reading skies..
with my hand on my heart

-written after 32 hours of no sleep.. on a torn paper, in my car.

------

Journal Entry: Thu Oct 27, 2005, 12:48 PM
Silence sits beside me in the car whenever its just me. We both listen to the loud blaring music from the radio.

He sits there, looks at me sometimes..reaches his hand through my ribcage, and strokes my heart.

Silence is my friend.

------

Journal Entry: Thu Sep 29, 2005, 8:50 AM
Beirut. Lebanon
14 explosions since november 2004.
over 25 dead. 100 wounded.

I sit there straightening my hair, and wish it was as easy to straighten out a society.. a government.. a world.

------

I wonder if we change.

"If Lebanon were not my country, I would have chosen Lebanon for Homeland..."

2008-05-17T00:57:00.002+03:00

- Gibran Khalil Gebran

I have not written in a while, and with the events that happened in Beirut and Lebanon the past week, I was unable to write more so for fear that tears and blood would stain my keyboard, and that I would not know when to stop, and I would not know how to make sense.

Friends have told me that I convey a feeling in my writing that is genuine, addictive, touching... for once, I do not think that there are enough words in language, or enough order in my mind to explain and express what I feel about the events that have scarred May 7 to May 14.

So I will not write. At least for now. Not about Lebanon. My homeland by blood, by choice, by conviction.

Soon. I promise. Soon.

Happiness is a tiny Spiderman

2008-04-23T02:09:00.007+03:00

I've seen true joy and happiness. The embodiment of joy and happiness and innocence is a little boy. In a spiderman suit.

This is the third time I see him on the 70 bus, and everytime I see him, I'm overwhelmed with smiles and warm feelings.
He can't be older than 4 or 5. A little asian child, with eyes that are laced with jems that reflect glee. He rides the 70th steed with his mother, who is patient with him and as willing to humour him and play his little superhero games. The first time I saw him, he was sitting on the seat in front of me. I lie when I say sitting. He was anything but. He was standing, balancing and jumping, while his mother held out her arm protectively all the bus ride, keeping him from the clutches of the bus floor, or the rails or the bruising brakes that always happen on these godforsaken buses.
He was facing me, and throwing smiles and little bursts of laughter and noises one would expect to come out of a kitten. And suddenly, he flicks his wrist at me, and makes a PSHHHH sound. I'm caught. I'm in his net.
Of course! how could I not see?! this was Spiderman. My favourite version of spiderman! I suppose it was the lack of the Spidey Suit that threw me off. Thinking of it now makes me smile and even laugh.
After casting a web at me, he proceeds to attempt to climb onto the bus window, scaling the glass like a real pro, with his mother holding on to the back of his shirt to keep him from toppling (what does she know? spiderman doesn't simply slip!)
I giggle and smile at him, and PSHHH. Another web to keep me quiet. He means business. This time, I dodge. Not foreseeing this defense, he pauses for a second, shocked, then grips the game by the tale, and ducks behind the back of his seat. And suddenly its a war of wits. Batman and Spiderman are battling it out on the first two rows of seats on the number 70 bus to Horn Lane. Marvel, eat your heart out.
This skirmish lasts for the next few stops, with a lot of dodging and ducking and diving, and of course, some hits for Spidey followed by screeches of victory.
For those next few stops, I was in a comic book, with speech bubbles and loud sound effects drawn out in capital block letters in bright colours and warped in action. No one mattered. This was a battle that I was more than happy to lose to such a valiant opponent.
Alas, comics end. The mother lovingly gestures to the boy that its their stop, and has to tear him away from our little game. She smiles at me, and I would've smiled back at her were it not for the fact that my face was frozen into a silly smile anyway. As they tumble out of the bus, I look out at my little hero, on the pavement, jumping around, with bundles of energy needing an outlet. And already he's doing a little show, and I'm so taken by him that I nearly don't notice the random giggles and chuckles and "awww"s that the passengers are letting out.
But comics come in series. I saw him again today. With more if not the same amount of energy.
And this time I was sure he was Spiderman.
He was wearing the Suit...

breakfast

2008-04-17T01:40:00.002+03:00

"hey k. what did you have for breakfast?"

"a cigarette"

"with butter and jam?"

"no. Just jam."

"Oh. Cool.. (pause) HUH?"

Six Scenes in no particular order

2008-04-14T23:32:00.007+03:00

I.

The sun stained the Mediterranean pink, Grapefruit pink, as it melted into the water, dissolving and tinting the sea. The waves rippled slowly, creating an illusion of migrating fluid creatures, moving from one horizon to the other, moving in unison and in tempo, with the music in my ears setting the beat. Rachmaninov, and Moonlight sonata... And i sit in front of this sea of love, and all seems to make sense, in fact, nothing makes sense except for the sight in front of my eyes... Why would i leave it's side? The waves may snarl at me, and warn me of its depths.. but it suffices to sit on the sand, and watch the sun bring a day to its end. It will rise tomorrow.. the Same Sun. Same sun sets and rises, we live one day. Our whole lives have been one day continuously, and will continue to be one day.
Same Sun, but never the same sea.

II.

I'll call him Abou Nour. I don't know his name, but I know he has a daughter. And I see a light in his face, a tender glowing ember in his wrinkles and his sun whipped skin. Pupils outlined in a light blue of age, leading to a soft brown of tenderness.
He doesn't beg. He walks Bliss St, with a few lighters and packes of gum, and occasionally some lottery tickets. I first saw him in my second year of university, he came up to a group of people I was with, and when they waved him away or apologised, he did not persist. I saw something in this worthy of respect, so I went after him and I gave him some money. I don't usually like to give beggars money, except if they are old. But like i said, Abou Nour doesn't beg. He got used to seeing me, and if i didnt have change, I'd apologise, and he'd reply by placing his hand on his head or on his chest, and say "thank you thank you, your kindness humbles me".
I saw him on my last visit to beirut. He was buying a coffee from Abou Naji's, so I said hello, and asked him if he needed anything, to eat or drink. He, as usual, placed his hand on his chest, and thanked me, but declined. I persisted, a sandwich? His coffee? a bottle of water! He gratefully refused. As I went to the till to pay for my cigarettes and bottle of water, I asked Radwan behind the till, if Abou Nour usually gets coffee from here, he nodded, with numbers in his eyes and floating above his head, as he calculated the many amounts of change he was returning simultaneously. "Add 4 coffees to my stuff". The numbers paused and fell momentarily as he made sense of what i said. "What?". "Take the price of 4 cofees from me, and don't forget that i paid when he comes for the next 4 times." A brief smile as he nods his head downwards. "Tikrami". As I left, I saw Abou Nour, who was unaware of my actions. "3am, let me get you something to eat, please? Its nearly lunch time. Change your mind. A zaatar saj? It'll take a minute". He kept refusing, showering me with praise of my generosity. In the end I told him i was traveling, and he wouldn't see me for a while, and afterall it was only a sandwich, and he accepted. He ordered the cheapest sandwich without any extras. As the Saj dude was making the sandwich, Abou Nour disappeared for a while, and came back shocked. "You paid for my coffee also?!?" "Yes, please, don't think of it. If we don't take care of you, who will?". Abou Nour looked at me in silence, searching my eyes for some sort of explanation. I think at one point he was thinking whether some ill or harm had come to him as a result of me, or someone I knew, and this was me making up for it. To be honest, I found his confusion confusing. If people did more selfless acts, it wouldn't be confusing. And thats the way it should be. I cannot explain why I was doing what I was doing, and I cannot say I was getting anything out of it. I'm not praising myslef, not feeding my ego. This was something that one does. period. Abou Nour doesnt say anything for a few minutes, and I feel him looking at my face, searching for answers, while I look at the saj being made. He breaks his silence by stating "I'm from the South". I do not flinch, perhaps he's trying to provoke me, to see if I know, or to see if this will change me. "Ahla wa Sahla' i say, and ask him about his being in Beirut, to break the stare and the silence. I find out his lives in Beirut with his wife and daughter, and here I tell him, i am an only daughter too. And he becomes my father in 20 years for a mere 3 seconds. I give Abou Nour the saj, and tell him goodbye and he thanks me silently, and i walk off quickly. I do not want thanks, I dont need it.
And then the oddest thing happens. My dad appears in my head, and nods, and smiles, and cries. and I'm crying his tears. I'm suffocating. I'm gasping for breath as I walk up Jean D'Arc and i can't explain it, and i'm trying to stop it because I don't like to cry in public, and if I'm crying here of all places its like crying in a roomful of my peers. But I cant. So i put my head down, and cry.

III.

I'm in the shower, and I'm tired, and agitated and I stand there naked, arms crossed and clinging to my shoulders. I look up through my closed eyelids at the ceiling, letting the hot water flow over my face, over my lips, and divide onto each side of my nose. I splutter out water from my nose and mouth every once in a while, panicking fleetingly as I battle my phobia of suffocation and drowning. And then water fills my ears, and the sounds are drowned, literally, except for a low rumble. It's all I hear.
Its the twin of the rumbling sound you hear on board a plane. And suddenly I'm on the plane back to London. i've left beirut and my mother, and my friends, and i'm on a plane, strapped in economy, trying to shift away from my neighbor whose asleep, bending onto my shoulder and beginning to drool.
And i move my head, and its gone. All I hear is water hitting the tub floor, and spurting through the shower head, my eyes open and i see my feet, wet, in the shower in Beirut.

IV.

Look man, I don't like pain. So bear with me.
He looks at me, clasping my wrist in his gloved hand, and nodding slightly, but not really caring. And I hear the familiar sound, like a dentist drill, but not in your mouth, and needle-wielding.
Man, do you mind if i play my music loud? Inno, will it disturb you?
What are you going to play?
Hendrix.
Akhouna Jimi, no I don't mind. he says, monotone and with a poker face that could make anyone fold.
Ok, ok. Yalla. Leik, its important you get it perfect? Ok? Ok. I'm talking to much. Khalas, go. Just dont let me shift or stuff. OK. yalla. Ouf. ya lateef.
and it burns. Shit, I forgot this part.
It burns and I swear out loud, and he raises his eyebrow towards me, and still concentrating on my wrist, he mutters "TO me or the pain?"
La2 man, la2. To the pain. Kiss ikhta akhou sharmouta, ikhsssssssssssssssssssss.
Trial of fire and ink.
5 minutes later, Little Wing is flying in my head, and I'm in pain, but unmoved, and its numbing and therapeutic and cathartic. And in fact, part of me is enjoying it.
No, its not sadism or masochism. Give me a break.
I'm not sure what it is, perhaps its a pain I can control, I know its beginning and its end, so I know when my relief is served. And that makes me happy. To be able to draw the rainbow after the storm myself.
Power.
45 mins later he's done. And my arm is hot and throbbing and signed.
and its perfect, and I'm smiling. I've been smiling for he past 30 mins, to the surprise of his assistant, who at one point asks me if I'm in pain, possibly to check I've not gone catatonic, and I guess some concern considering my anxiety in the beginning.
Yes I'm in in pain. It hurts like hell, i tell her, but its ok. No pain no gain. (Cliche feefmeiser, cliche)

No pain no gain.

V.

They killed the Captain.
They butchered Bob Dylan.
They made Cobain turn in his grave and Bowie want to be in one.
They made Bryan worse.
They pissed off Andre.
They suffocated humour.
And on top of it all they were unnecessarily loud, invading my territory, and delaying the playing of good music.
eh

They killed the Captain.
...Bastards

VI.

I take the long way home after a night out, with music in the passenger seat. He talks, I listen. He tells me of his broken heart, the rain dogs, the barfly.
He recounts stories of catholic girls, girls at the bottom of his glass, the redhouse his baby lived in, and sometimes he hums violins and pianos. And I listen.
He's my favourite companion. An ironically silent one. And he doesn't get annoyed if I drift off. After all, I drift off into his arms.

Method in the Madness

2008-04-05T01:45:00.003+03:00

I don't know what happens to me in the night.
It's not a physical transformation (obviously.. although that would be beyond the coolness that can be contained in this realm of existence)
Its a mental one I suppose.
I get Ramblings. I guess thats where the title "After-midnight Ramblings and Daytime dreamings" came from.
I ramble after midnight. I get sudden bouts of thoughts. Or sentences. I become a receiving antenna for the random words and reveries riding the atmosphere. They click in place and I get a thought. A sentence. And suddenly its said outloud in my head. Like i'm supposed to hear it.
And it grips me. And I'm transformed.
it would be wrong to say they're completely random when they are spelled out in my head. That isn't true. It couldn't be. They must be words that I'm meant to hear. Meant to construct into a sentence. It's my psyche finding a way to talk to me.
Communication within my system, for my system. I'd be thinking of something, a situation, an emotion... and voila. Hey presto, c'est ca, bob's your uncle. Message received loud and clear.
i don't always like it. But who am I to silence myself?

You think I'm crazy... So do I.

Rambling of the night?:

I'm not perfect, in fact, I'm anything but.
And I don't want to be.
If that's what you want, what you're looking for..
Then dont stop, just skip me.

Skip me...

Poem in a time of cholera and contradiction

2008-04-02T02:14:00.007+03:00

Burn them,
Burn them all.

Burn the fairytale endings and the moonlit nights,
Burn the heart shaped carvings on the old oak trees,
Burn the kisses off the young lips,
and the skin off the hands that caress.

Burn them.
Burn them all.

Burn the books that tell of eyes that sparkle
and hearts that warm.
Burn the Neruda poems, burn the Sonnets.
Burn the tales of Lost Lenore.

Find the lovers, find the Romeos,
Build walls to keep them in,
and set fire to the kindling underneath them all.

Burn the tears of joy and the echoes of laughter,
Bottle them up in a jar,
and toss it to the floor.

Burn them.
Burn them all.

Tear the sheets from the beds, and the pages from the books,
Cry treason, treason, treason, till you can no more.

Let it all burn to the ground,
Throw ash and smoke to the heavens,
In flames that burn hotter and wilder
than both Joan and Fawkes could endure.

Burn them.
Burn them all.

No redemption here
No mercy, no more.
Burn it all.

Burn it all,
And toss into the fire your soul...

Because without them,
What is there to exist for?

Making love to Jimi Hendrix

2008-04-01T02:03:00.004+03:00

This post is not going to be long, I've come back from a night of listening to good live blues music at Quadrangle, where my friend Hassib was playing with the Monday Blues Band. I haven't heard them in a while, and hearing them brought back many memories, both good and bad, but I don't mind. Memories brought back for a quick drink are always welcome...
I'm drunk on a few glasses of wine and more than a few good solos. And its the best feeling I can conjure at the moment... My smile has driven my cheek muscles into a fit of pain, but once again, that pain is welcome to stay. Its a friend, and all friends are welcome.

Lightening is striking outside, and thunder soon follows like a loyal dog, and all that is running through my head is Little Wing.. My friend Mich (who was singing as a guest performer tonight) blessed me wih the gift of Hendrix.. While he sat on our table, catching up, I told him I wanted to hear some Hendrix, I looked at Kamal (the guitarist and leader of the band, in his 50's) and mouthed "hendrix!" a couple of times, but he was busy and I dont like to intrude... Especially when music is being played.. Mich looked at me and smiled "just shout, Karma", and I smiled and looked at my shoes, telling him no, let him play his vibe.
Mich went on stage, sang a few songs, (many improvised, mentioning his visit to London and his failing to call me, let alone see me,) and then i heard the opening riff, and my heart was stuck between skipping beats and beating too fast. Mich looks at me, smiles and points, as he starts... "Well she's walking... through the clouds..." and I can't contain myself... the whole night had passed without a sign of Jimi, and now, a few moment after I decided to leave, Jimi is in my ears, and not just any Jimi, THE Jimi song of all songs, the mother load, the big kahuna, my oxygen.
I am sat there, smiling and wanting to cry, and wanting to jump on stage and hug him for choosing the perfect song, the right song, THE song.
I look at Maria whose sat next to me, and I tell her how i'm going to cry I'm so happy, and she has a look on her face that tells that she already knows...

Music is in my blood.. It's in me. I can't explain how I get when I'm around it. It's the constant muse and joy and happiness, and hearing my friends perfom made me feel so homesick and nostalgic and happy all at the same time...

As I walked to the car with Maria, I was a bundle of Adrenaline, and I let Jimi take the wheel, booming through my car speakers, crackling every once in a while because my radio station jammer is crap. But he steered none the less. All the way home..

They sang Little Wing man, they sang little wing...

Rest in peace Jimi. Hope you're lighting guitars on fire wherever you are...
As for me, I'm going to dream of Zebras, Moonbeams and Fairytales...

By the way, Mich, you're now officially forgiven for not calling while you were in London. Love you man.

Long Way Home

2008-03-30T01:57:00.002+03:00

(Written on the way to Beirut, 28th March)
I’m going home today.
I had a horrible time trying to pack the night before. I am usually the kind who takes an hour to pack, not needing a list to guide me, just a flow of logic concerning what I need and what I should be taking. The whole process comes quite easily to me. And yet last night it was like I had never packed before. I was lost, my head was jumbled, and all the crucial items were muddled with the trivial items in my mental list, jumping up and down on the ladder, and when I thought I had remembered one, I look at the list again and it’s gone. I was restless and zonked, and although my eyelids felt like they were being weighed down by my ten ton lashes, I couldn’t sleep. It was after midnight and all I had in my suitcase was a few tops and a pair of jeans, and I book I had bought for my mother. Basically nothing. And the suitcase had been lying open on the floor since the night before, a welcoming void waiting to be filled, a hungry hungry hippo waiting to guzzle whatever I give it.

But I had finally packed it, it took me four hours and a half, but I did it (please note this excludes my hand luggage which I did not do till the next morning, nearly forgetting my house keys and passport in the process – yes. I know.)
As usual the Loatey’s offered me a ride to the airport, and as I walked out into the rain with my suitcase, I looked at the grey sky. Sun. Soon there’ll be the lovely spring warmth of Beirut days and cool breeze of Beirut nights. I constantly checked my pockets and my bag for my passport and tickets, always expecting to not find them, then muttering to myself about my irrational fear when I did.

As I said my goodbyes, I walked towards the terminal building dragging my big suitcase, and I couldn’t help but feel the adrenaline rush into my blood, and my face warm up with the thoughts of home and familiar faces, and above all, a drink at Captain’s Cabin.

Check in took me literally 5 minutes, between finding the right counter and the flirting of the attendant, asking me “aisle or window?” I couldn’t care less.. really, just get me home, and get me home now.
Where are those ruby red shoes when you need them?

I’ve always found airports incredible. These areas of no-man land that govern our emotions with a tight grip, able to make us cry or laugh. I was always ready to offer my services as a ride to or from the airport, because I used to love to observe the humanity and the sentimental interactions that went on in that one specific building. The parents bidding farewell to their child, smiling and yet pain drawing lines into their face as that indestructible chord begins its stretch across continents, and the torment in the shimmer of their eyes reflecting farewell waves and kisses being blown into the sterile air; the crowd of friends applauding and cheering as the missing link in their group pops out the arrival doors, sporting a smile and shaking their head in approved embarrassment; the child running towards its father, being lifted up and soaring with joy in his arms and inquiring about souvenirs fervently, the energy and sentiments so thick you could cut them with a knife, but why would you? This is truly the paramount of humanity, and in my eyes, tampering with it would be criminal, no, pure blasphemy.

If there ever was limbo on earth, it is translated as airports, without a doubt Here Godot is reality, a constant. People are waiting to go to their relative heaven or hell, stuck in no man’s land. The big screen TV in the waiting area of terminal 2 at Heathrow is showing Friday Fry Up, yet another of the many many cooking shows that have taken over the British idiot box (of course sharing it with the equally obtrusive wildlife shows). I sit in one of the rows facing it that makes it feel like a fake cinema, minus the movie of course (unless you count chefs battling over the best dish that can be made in 9 minutes valid entertainment. In that case you should have brought some popcorn because this is your lucky day my friend!)
I don’t mind the solitary travel factor. I enjoy my mouth being shut (no seriously) sometimes I open my mouth just to check its still there. I usually end up listening to my music and observing everyone. All to my own soundtrack, making up scenarios and noting relationships between people. I take another sip of my chai latte, sitting there non chalantly, existing in space and time and yet not, my mind rolling out images of travellers and home all together.

. . .

At this moment I’m in Athens airport, phase two of my limbo. I pause to tell you this because I find myself in quite the comical situation. Let me draw a picture for you. I’m seated in the café/smoking area having some wine with some well deserved rollies after a three hour flight, and two hour wait in smoke free Heathrow. I haven’t spoken a word since I’ve gotten here (so my mouth is practically non existant at this point, were it not for the sipping and puffing duty it had) and judging by the fact that the man at the counter talked to me in Greek when I ordered a wine, no one really knows that I’m Arab, especially with my American passport on the table in front of me keeping my wine glass and ashtray company. Except perhaps for the Palestinian kufiyeh wrapped well around my neck. This is an important detail, pay attention now. On my left is a trio of Lebanese who walked in a few moments after me. The usual bunch of youths, one stylishly wearing a piercing and glasses, another a lanky charismatic dude, the life of the party cracking jokes and the sort. And the third a nerdy business man type, in a shirt and neat shoes, but obviously the most socially inept, sitting silently yet attentively listening to the conversation taking place between his peers, casually intervening with a comment or two. Now the interesting part. In walks a hippie looking guy, toting a guitar (and you know how I am with musicians, especially guitarists) so he grabs my interest for a few moments. He sits himself on my right, literally less than a metre away. He looks at me for a minute, and I cant crack the body language, but ok, I continue typing onto my computer rolling a cigarette simultaneously, and then guitarist dude opens a book upright, (i.e. not flat on the table) as if to make it a point that I am able to see it. And its in Hebrew. I start laughing, I can’t help it. I’m sitting in the middle of the middle eastern conflict, in limbo, waiting for a plane home. And now the Lebanese group on my left has been joined by a few Egyptians that were on a neighbouring table and heard the mother tongue and (as we Arabs do) invited themselves to unify the nations. And to top it all off earring glasses guy has taken out his laptop and is playing dabke music (since from the few words I caught in between the songs playing through my headphones their topic was music and fairuz and abdel wahab and so on)
Please, picture this. A group of arabs playing “Hela hela” and chatting away on one side, a lone Israeli/Jewish guitarist on the other side, and me with my politically obvious scarf in the middle. Don’t tell me the wine has gotten to me, its pure comedy. Someone bring in the clowns. Oh, and mr guitar here just asked (with the typical and expected spot of fear in his eyes) for some of my rolling tobacco. Hey. We’re in limbo. Reality doesn’t exist here, and if anything, I’m not going to react, I’m setting an example for those who think we Arabs act purely on our frustration and bottled emotions (although I was tempted to scream “WHAT? OUR LAND, YOU TAKE OUR LAND, AND ON TOP OF IT MY TOBACCO? YOU GUYS REALLY DON”T KNOW WHERE TO STOP DO YOU????) But I didn't. At least not out loud. There. There was my Arab anger. I feel a bit better now. Although I do wish I had some hizbullah march tunes to add a bit more spice to this already flavoured scene. Oh well.

Episode over, my laptop battery is beginning to pant and to be honest my fingers are tired. Next time I write it will be from home, and that’s a whole other story. If anything interesting happens on the rest of the way home, I'll be sure to mention it..
Oh, how nice. The one man band on the right of me has fallen asleep. I hope you get nightmares.

Over and out.

Snowflakes that stay on my nose and eyelashes..

2008-03-25T02:15:00.005+02:00

I was in a snow globe of my own this weekend..
What a feeling. The perfect beginning for a quiet sunday.
I woke up at 7 am, after sleeping quite late, (that was not the perfect beginning I can tell you) but as I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes, I turned in my bed and my eyes fell on a christmas scene. Snow was falling outside.

It had snowed the day before, but not this strong, and not at 7 am where no one was stirring.. not even a mouse (ironically we saw a mouse in our kitchen today.. but thats a story for another day, and to an audience of cats...)

I looked on, sprawled warmly in the sanctuary of my duvet, taking it all in, allowing my senses to rise and shine, listening to the sound of my heart beat and my breathing.
I haven't seen snow falling in so long, perhaps since I was 5 or 6 and still living in London.
I turn my head to the left, and gaze at the photo perched protectively on my bedside table. It's one of my father and I, taken when I was 5 or so, in the garden of our house in London, surrounded by snow. Dad is wearing an orange and red woolly hat, half bent forward sculpting a snowball in his bare hands as I look on, in a black hat with rainbow colours tapering at the end and a pink coat waiting to be given this gift only to throw it at him or at anything. Snowball of power!
I smile at the thought, and feel I'm 5 again, and any minute I'm going to go outside in my pink coat and hat and build a snowman and eat snow mixed with orange juice like we used to.
I sit up, still paralyzed by fatigue, and take a few deep breaths, and all of a sudden, a surge of energy runs through me, like the kind that possesses children when they wake up at an unholy hour on christmas morning and run down concentrating on the new bike they wanted or the gameboy or the My Little Pony they asked Father Christmas for.
i kick the duvet and stand up in my baggy pj bottoms that house many baaing sheep, and my black tank top and lean on the window, my breathe spreading moist mist across the glass.
I'm in automatic smile mode by now, and slowly words appear on the window. "I'm still here" form in finger thick strokes on the window.. and for a minute I stand back, quite disillusioned.. until I remember it must be something I'd written in a blank moment of rambling, probably during a session with Tom Waits and a bottle of wine (typical). I open the window and the cold air seeps into the room swiftly, and caresses my face with a sting.
I put my hand out, letting the snowflakes fall onto my bare arm, and I watch them slowly disappear, melt onto my skin. The melt is so seamless and uninterrupted that it looks more like the fragile lace of ice is merely continuing its descent through my arm, and not perishing in the warmth of my flesh.

The world seems to serene... nothing is moving but the descent of snowflakes, a veil of specks gracefully dancing in the wind... Rain seems so vulgar now. Harsh and heavy and just wet. Snowflakes on the other hand, well, snowflakes have a whole character of their own. The mature elegant feminine relative of rain. Ballerinas versus big fat construction workers. Yeah.
I turn on my laptop and play Rachmaninoff. Just because it felt like the only right thing to do...

I decide to poke my head out, and I completely forget that I'm practically naked in the cold, and I stick my tongue out and close my eyes (for future reference... snowflakes in your eye are not pleasant). The small stings flirt with my senses, and I'm oblivious to any sort of reality other than the skin on my face, and the surface of my tongue. I don't think twice of how silly I must look, a girl with bed head hair, in a black tank top, leaning out of a window tongue out smiling and giggling softly like a child, maybe madwoman.

Julie Andrews didn't lie. Snowflakes on lashes can easily be someone's favourite thing. Who would've thought that something so small and light can be felt as it lands on the tip of your eyelash. How extraordinary..

I sat in my snow globe, shaken by some big friendly giant, with music and nothing else as accompaniment. And I was happy. And serene; like a snowflake, while the giant looked in at me, a tiny girl leaning through an open window, from a house on an empty street, with nothing but a smile and happy thoughts going through her head...

These are a few of my favourite things...

Mad Girl's Love Song

2008-03-23T03:57:00.007+02:00

"I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)" -Sylvia Plath

I really do.. I always make them up inside my head..
and as I sit her and take another drag out of my limp crumpled cigarette, I think how much of a fool I am... and yet if I decide to get rid of this foolishness, it becomes pure compromise..

I am succumbing to the thought that there will never be someone perfect for me, that this ideal guy is purely in my head, and the search is futile, fruitless, pathetic.

What a thought.. that anybody that seems to be what my heart yearns for, is either in the wrong place at the wrong time, or in a relationship.. or just non existant..
I may sound like a broken record, or a whiny girl whose being picky and uber annoying.. but I've passed that now. Now it a matter of examination..

I had a conversation with a friend about the human condition the other day.. he had finally fallen in love, after many years of not knowing exactly what it was, and many messed up relationships that in my eyes he got into to find himself and find his place in this big role of ours, the "couple" and see what it was like in this part of the woods..

but now... now it was different. He had finally found someone that enriched him, and comforted him, and spoke to his heart. And then had to be separated by circumstance..
and it was over. just like that. A large green battlefiled, with the rational army charging forward from the west, armed with reality, time, practicality, space, location, and economics. While the emotional army stood in the east, small in number, armorless except for flesh shields of hearts, ready to bleed. Standing straight, and willing to bleed. And it comes.. like a wave.. crashes against this hopeless and helpless infantry.. and as they are plowed to the ground, the blood from the shields seeps slowly into the ground and the eyes shed tears, souls not uttering a sound, taking it because they cannot take anymore..

I learn from my life.. from my mistakes.. my experiences..and I've have quite a bit of experiences that deal a heavy lesson. And yet this is one thing I never seem to learn. I fall, fall hard, and break (usually at the impact of being dumped) and I realise, hey, expectations, come down a bit please. You're way too high. And they look at me from above, shrug, and do... until I am once again visited by the promise of someone who speaks to my heart like they've been friends forever. And my expectations jump, and I see someone I can become soup for, and instead of soaking me in,and wringing me out, turn to soup for me too... and we mix and mingle till we are just a load of soup, and that would'nt matter since at least we're soup together. Just a load of soup.

I've lost it I guess. In soup. Perhaps I can't put into words what it is, the only image i get is soup. damn soup.

The Human condition is a reality... this need to find someone who fits. Like a puzzle. (and that ladies and gentlemen was the prize winner for todays episode of "Cliche Please!" stay tuned, next comes "Puke-a-rama"!)

But its true. We look for that one. The one that is translated into the many, that is dispersed so brutally among a number of ones, than a one in itself. What a crock of shit.
Human condition? No my friends.. Human Curse. This search for love.. for warmth and comfort. Its a messy place to be.. And yet, time and time again, like waves we go in for it.. we reach onto the beach and try to drag all the pearl-bearing shells we can before we go thin out and weaken. And lose them.
All because of place, time, reality..
They say good things come to those who wait. Well if one is waiting somewhere Good Things can't find them.. how does that work?

I dont know. Its 3 am, and I'm thinking of the overflowing love that spills from my insides, and where it goes.. and what a waste. So I bid you goodnight after a rambling set in uselessness, a futile attempt to explain the inexplicable, to point to the stars behind the clouds and say "there! those are the ones! those are the ones I'm reaching for!".
I'm a mad girl, singing a love song to a phantom, stringing up my heart, hanging it from a tree as bait, and waiting for the right raven to come peck at it, ease my pain, and consume me all at once. I don't want to compromise.. If I compromise this, then everything is compromisable. If I compromise this, than all I believe in is a lie, and thats a road I'd rather not walk down, because its dark and dreary and so cold...
Human curse... human curse.

And it seems I'll keep making you up in my head my dear. It's a vicious circle till we meet..

But please..Don't slip on the soup..

the day the music died

2007-11-08T20:51:00.000+02:00

july 28th.
that was the day the music died.
my father went and took with him the string of harmonious notes that brightened my days.
and this is what I am left with.. so much to say, but it all comes out in silence...

Floods of silence.

(i'll name you) the flame that cries

2007-07-24T20:42:00.000+03:00

There are two doors between my mother and I.
Enclosing pressure and untargeted anger behind them A void in between them. Filled with vacuum so that if a door is opened, a spark conveniently there, horrendous backlash and a burst of heat will occur. So the doors will stay closed.

There are two doors between my mother and I. And I wish I mean it figuratively.
There are halls of doors between us these days, and not much ability to knock them down. I wish I were a big bad wolf, I'd huff and puff to blow them down, but I'm not.
I'm not.

And there is no energy in the world capable of giving me that strength. Because some of these doors are held shut by me, and I cannot let go.

Maybe opportunity will knock soon.

the band conductor

2007-07-13T22:17:00.000+03:00

sometimes i do the same thing...

different but the same

2007-04-16T14:39:00.000+03:00

"Knowing is different than realising. We don't notice this, but its true.
We know that we are mortal. We know that our loved ones will die, we know that break ups are possible. But we don't realise it till the time comes to make us realise it."

We know that our parents will die. But when they do, that knowledge is rendered useless. It doesn't matter. Its a fact of life thats true. But it doesnt change anything in the way we feel, in the way we grieve. It does not alleviate pain or loss or sadness.

Knowledge is useless.

Its what we realise that counts. And how we feel.
Unfortunately, realisation always seems to come too late...

building walls and breaking bridges

2007-04-02T11:36:00.000+03:00

it seems i'm unconsiously building walls these days.
to protect something thats been scarred.
But walls cant go up without breaking bridges.. and it seems i've done that too.

But what can i do when the walls are being built for protection? which type of protection? I'm not sure. It could be that i'm protecting myself from others.. and others from me.. But in doing that.. I'm breaking the bridges that friends use to reach me. And i have no control.
I feel i've become like a wild animal that has been cornered.. (hah. painted in to a corner.. referencing my previous post) and i have began to lash out, unaware of who i'm scratching, who i'm attacking, just aware that i'm overwhelmed, over my head, and a sensation that i'm drowning, and in need of air to breathe.. and theres no air around.

Its hard for someone to admit when they're is wrong when they are faced with it.. And its harder for someone to admit it when they're aware of the fact that they're wrong... and i think admitting when you're wrong when you know it, but are not in control of it, is the most humilliating..
Perhaps part of you realises what is going on, but hopes that those around you either understand automatically, or just simply don't feel that you are doing them wrong.. So as to save you having to explain that you are unaware of the reasons behind it..

Its getting complicated i know. I apologise..

I guess i want to tell whoever found themselves falling through a broken bridge, that i'm sorry.
I'm sorry.

But i can't control the cornered animal within me. I dont know what to do with it, I'm trying to stroke it tame, to feed it, to starve it, to love it, to hate it.. I want it to either leave me, or love me and those around me.

Till then.. I'll try to bark less, and bite even lesser. (that must be wrong gramatically.. But its ok. you can forgive me)
Just help me, when i bark or bite.. Don't run away scared.
throw me a bone.. maybe it'll help.

i just hope they don't give up trying to cross broken bridges..

the irony of pink pills

2007-03-28T09:55:00.000+02:00

I've been hating pink most my life.
I really never ever had a 'thing' for pink.. Ok sure. I had the usual pink frilly summer dress as a child, but the moment i had control over my fashion sense, I refused pink. I preferred blues and purples and ultimately, above all, Black.
I've been told black is dismal, dark, gloomy..
i've been called goth.. been mocked for attempting to mantain an all black wardrobe... (lovingly of course)
And i never cared.. I love black.
But it seems my long relationship with black has allowed it to seep into my blood, and has allowed me to be introverted and sedated as black can be sometimes.. Not loud, or alive like a pink...
and so now black is running through my veins, and although it is comfortable.. I'm feeling funny.
I'm feeling the need to breathe. I feel painted into a corner. Painted into a corner with black paint..
And suddenly, I need to take pills.
And the irony?
they're pink.

Pink pills.

I need to take them because the black has consumed me in a way that black would not usually do. But i have become weak and troubled, and those are the best conditions for the good black to change into a black less friendly, less comfortable...

So i'll take thhese pink pills for a while.. Not long enough for it to circle in my veins, and bring a rosy glow to my cheeks..
But long enough to back the black off for a while.. To sooth it.

I hate pink...

go ask alice...

2007-03-22T00:17:00.000+02:00

the moon is gleaming at me with a cheshire cat smile.. Thin and crisp and glowing. and i feel warm, despite the chilly feel in the air...
i kept looking for that smile as i walked.. it would peep behind the trees.. and the buildings..
and i'd always smile back.

maybe it matters that i smile back at the cheshire cat.. maybe his glow will infect me with a smile that makes me disappear.. but always remains..

i should ask alice..

unicorns in my head

2007-03-11T19:35:00.000+02:00

written after last meeting with my FYP advisor:

What if I found a unicorn right now?
Would it make everything ok?
I would just look at it. It would be my personal saviour. In its perfections it would dissolve those imperfections around it. It would simply be pure beauty. When I look at images of unicorns they hold a promise to me, they keep their silent word that I’m safe. That there is a lot more good out there, much more reason to be happy than sad.
I get angry when I see people not appreciating the beauty. It is as if sometimes I feel they don’t see the beauty in me.
Do I dare take them out of their endless glass cage; behind the immobile, the still? Put them into one much different, where they can be indignified -polluted?
I speak perhaps like I am saying they are pure as is told of unicorns. But they are, not because they are white, or they were said to be so (a symbol of purity) but they are intrinsically pure. They just are.
They’ve been said to be aggressive, to be dangerous to anyone but a maiden, but I don’t think they are. They are merely protective- of beauty and don’t want us to ruin them.
Maybe my love for unicorns is just like my love of stars- always watching them from afar, always smiling at their existence, but never able to reach them. Perhaps even not wanting to reach them.
(stars will burn you to ashes)
And I don’t want to reach the unicorn because I’m afraid.
Afraid either of being disappointed that the real thing is just overrated and over beautified by images that are results of dreams of wishes, or afraid that I will no longer be able to dream or suspend my belief.
It’s true that the unicorns I “see” in my mind are relatively similar in appearance, but seeing the one true form would destroy them.
Maybe that’s a harsh word- not destry them, but make them sterile, and merely “bad-copies”..
Merely the mental rantings of someone who has lost all core meaning.. a madman making ugliness out of beauty.
Maybe I love horses because in my head they’re the closest I can get to their “imaginary” cousin without “burning”, without fear of disappointment
But unlike something in my head, I cannot control my encounters – and when I am “turned down” by a horse, when I am ‘rejected’ so to speak, when my care is not wanted or needed, my affection scorned, I take it badly. I feel that the beauty within me does not meet the required level… That I’m not up to par….