sketch skeleton and life

I had this sketch drawn in my sketchbook for a while. Drawn at 37º in Monot.

Decided to digitalise and try a different illustration style.
And hey presto:

Sorry for the lack of posts.

There's one coming up shortly, as soon as I draw the illustration for it.

Birthday Letter 2012

Where do I begin.

It's been one hell of a year since I last wrote to you.  So much has happened, and I'm not sure where to start.
It's been a year of lessons I guess. Tough ones, but necessary ones none the less, and I believe now more than ever that things tend to fall in place one way or another. Some ways more painfully, some ways more rudely awakening than others, some just magically I suppose. At many instances I really would have liked for you to be there. I think your insight would have been indispensable, then again, I think you were there.

There has been a real change in me. I don't know where to pinpoint it, I don't know where the beginning happened and I'm pretty sure the end is not that near. There is something in me that has changed. I am more of myself. More at peace with my mind, my heart, my soul. I feel that of the many paths that come up day to day, I have patiently and serenely chosen the ones that lead to dark dismal places, that take me away from what I know is where I should be going, wherever that may be, whatever that is, and blocked them off one by one. My head is less scattered, I now know that when my being is haywire, I am doing something wrong, or at least something is wrong, and I need to change it.

Perhaps that's why I'm at peace.

I found my footing again. I don't know where that takes me, but I'm no longer doubtful that I'm getting there on steady feet.

I've become more patient. (I can see your face as I write that. Yep. Me. Patient)
It's one of those things that have changed in me. I'm not sure how or why, sometimes I think it's because a part of me has given up on slamming my head against walls and worrying. I surrender to whatever must be, making sure before I do that I've done what I can to ensure that when I place my head against my pillow at night, I'm at peace. Part of that is sad, because part of it was truly me giving up. Simply put.
Then again, I guess when those dark thoughts subside, I find that it's just a matter of me walking the path, not worrying where it goes. It'll go somewhere worth going as long as I step steadily. Right?

A lot of new friends have entered my life this year too. And I wish you could've met them, I think they would have loved you, and you them. I always get a little hiccup in my throat when I find myself saying "I wish you'd met my dad", or "My dad would've had something to tell you about that!" or simply "My dad would've loved you."
My curiosity drowns me when I think of that. Perhaps also because I would have liked to get your impression on them, to read your face.

But I think you'd be proud of what I am now. Where I am, at least in some aspects. My mind is more focused, or at least has cut away a lot of what was weighing it down. And when I do what I must, as painful as it sometimes tends to be for me, I have a silent voice, a faded image, a nod of approval in the back of my mind. All yours. And it helps me know I've taken a step in the right direction.  I had lost myself somewhere along the way in the past few years, but now I'm closer to being me than I ever was. And I wish you could be here to confirm that somehow.

The football was going on recently. And being at Brick's watching a lot of the games, I noticed how a friend of mine would always end up watching the game with his father. It didn't get to me till one of the last games was on. I think it was just the sight of his father walking in, and my friend being in the corner, having saved him a seat, calling him over. Something about them finding each other and having a place to sit I guess that is meaningful in some sappy soppy hypersensitive way. One of those things that comes to me, you know.
It was then I wished we had something like that. You weren't really into football, you had the boxing thing. Man, how mum and I would wonder how someone like you, against mindless physical violence, could enjoy such a "sport". But I remember when I asked you once, semi disgusted as the sight of a boxer having his lower jaw punched so hard I swore it wrapped around his neck. You answered something along the lines of how it was not the violence that you enjoyed, but that it was a "smart" sport, boxers studying each other's moves, a game of wit and swift dance. Knowing when, where, how to hit. A physical chess, yes granted, with sweat and blood. However you managed to explain, it was a good answer, and although I would flinch every once in a while, I no longer complained when you were watching.
Maybe we could have the boxing thing. A bar, a beer, and the boxing.

I went to the office recently. I've decided to use a room to work in. One of the things I'm doing to try and keep focused.
I  can't lie, I thought I'd take it with a heavier heart than I did. It didn't make me sad. But I walked lightly, rediscovering it again through new eyes, looking for you in a new way so you could be my companion there in a new way.
Thanks for helping me find the switch for the air conditioning by the way. You know how I am with heat.

Otherwise, things are moving. Things are going. I keep saying it, but perhaps I can't help be happy that I feel I'm going the right way, or at least not the wrong way anymore. Mama and I are better. We have our slips, but she has been so supportive at certain times this year, and I am grateful for that. She is slowly finding the right ground to reach me, and I am slowly trying to be better at taking it too.  That too is going more or less on a better path.

I miss you differently this year.
Yes, I wish you were around. But I don't find myself wishing it naively. I don't get weepy at the idea of your loss. I just, miss you I suppose. And it annoys me that I have to focus sometimes to hear your voice the way it was. But it's still there.

Although July loomed at me in the distance this year, and I could see it creep up on me sadly, it once again passes with grace.
I wish you a happy birthday baba.
Till next year.

I love you so very very much.

Bawsat.


Bintak Karma


Birthday Letter 2011
Birthday Letter 2010
Birthday Letter 2009

football: notes & observations

I'm not really one to write about football. I'm no fanatic and my knowledge doesn't really go much further than knowing who wears what colours, and a few names. But I do enjoy watching a game every once in a while. Doing this has resulted in many a conclusion deduced by observation during this year's 2012 Euro Cup around Beirut. I couldn't help myself.

It's very possible more points will be added to this list as the games continue... So keep an eye out.


1) Don't mess with Germany supporters. Ever. Those dudes are nuts.

2) A lot of Italian supporters tend to be of the female variety. You can tell this by the "Oooh"s and "Yiiiii"s every time there are closeups on the field.

3) Swedes are sore losers.

4) It doesn't matter how many times you explain it to me, I still don't understand offsides.

5) Footballers make the most ridiculous faces.

6) Slow motion replays look so dramatic and serious that it ends up looking epic. (slightly makes up for point 5)

7) Angry Swedish sounds funny. (check point number 3)

8) There are more Germans in Lebanon than I realised. They stand up when their Anthem is played. And they really do drink a lot of beer.

9) Flags flood the city. They're everywhere. Cars, shop fronts, bars, facebook profiles, mopeds. Well, every flag but the Lebanese one.

10) Sleazy, snide remarks vocalised by Lebanese men during Russian games are guaranteed. During closeups of the female audience of course. Good to know macho stereotypes are still alive and kicking.

11) The Arab commentators speak at the rate of 10 words per second, volume control is lost on them, and the amount of knowledge they have about the competing countries is scary. Screw the history books, you want to know about a country? Watch a game, listen and learn.

12) The music a DJ plays after a game is directly related to whether or not the team they're supporting wins or loses. You better hope it's the former. (Trust me, I would know)

13) Nearly every Lebanese viewer has a back up team in case their primary one loses. This confuses the hell out of me.

14) When someone's team of preference is not playing, their choice of who to support during a game is usually NOT the team their friend/s is/are supporting.  Team choice is a weapon of mass spite/taunter.

15) Lebanese supporters of the French team forget how to speak Arabic during games.

16) French supporters automatically sneer dismissively at you when you say you're an England supporter. They must've forgotten they're French supporters.

17) Every player with a remotely Arab name is pointed out with pride. Relentlessly.

18) While Lebanon was playing to qualify for the Asian Cup, #GoLebanon was trending on Twitter, and a waterfall of support flooded all social media. Well, at least till the Euro Cup started.

19) Cristiano Ronaldo is a douche. That's a fact no matter how many times he changes his hairstyle during a match.

UPDATES

20) Ibrahimovic is 1 metre 95 cm tall. Do not discuss football with anyone who takes it literally and gives that reply when you say "Oh my lord that dude is a giant! How tall is he??". Anyone who has that amount of information about football is dangerous, and could probably bury you.

21) The amount of female supporters a team has is porportional to the number of good looking players it has. And their average collective hair length, of course.

22) If you are out somewhere that isn't showing the games when a match with Germany is happening, don't fret. Hear those loud shouts in unison that happen every once in a while? That's a goal for Germany. Count them, and you know the score. (note:if Germany and another popular team are playing, the Louder shouts will always be Germany)

23) The chance that someone who owns a BMW is a Germany supporter is very, very high.

24) Sorry France, but quesadillas are way yummier than snails. Viva España.

25) I was wrong. Italian supporters are way nuttier than the German ones. It must be the Mediterranean in them.

26) Apparently a good hairstyle is not a factor in how successful a football player you are. Look at Balotelli.

27) If their team hasn't made it to the finals, the Lebanese tend to support whoever is against the team that kicked their team out. Hence all German fans became Spanish, and all the French fans supported Italy.

28) No. 27 doesn't apply to women. They still go for who has more good looking players/coaches (refer to point 21). The dilemma was Italy vs Spain. I swore I could hear heads explode.

29) At the end of it all,  at least we'll still have pizza.

I won't forget.

I remember.

I remember the first day we met.
I was intimidated by you. You didn't seem very friendly at the time.
But then again, I remember the day we really met. I spilled my woes, and you spilled yours. And they took time.

I remember the night I gave you your improvised birthday gift.

I remember how you gave me your first gift, that now stares at me from my mirror frame every morning, reminding me of magnets and compasses and how they react when they're around each other.

I remember how we comfortably moved into each others lives, and then drowned in them.

I remember the night I semi skipped like a sheep on a Rage Against The Machine cover in the middle of an abandoned street.

I remember you saying how my dog was "Alright, as far as dogs go", and letting it slide.

I remember the many, many bottles of wine. But specifically how I was never drunk on them, but on something else.

I remember how you defended my dental structure one night, by refusing to tell me of the threats spoken against me by short drunken wenches with cruel tongues.

I remember how you straight out told a stranger you loved me.

I remember the book you gave me. And how I'm afraid to finish it.

I remember the book I gave you. And how I'm afraid you'll forget it.

I remember more than one movie a night.
And I definitely remember watching the first 10 minutes of the wrong movie at the cinema.

I remember being shooed out of bars because we wouldn't leave.

I remember our songs. And what they mean. And although they hurt to listen to sometimes, they remind me of beautiful things that I don't want to give up.

I remember our long talks in empty spaces with empty cars that lasted till the light signaled that it was time to (perhaps) go home.

I remember how you once told me you fantasise about my eyes, and I always remember yours.

I remember your scent, and how it would envelope me as I drifted to sleep, and how it translated into comfort.

I remember sitting doing crosswords and watching movies, and how that was more than enough. 

I remember how you would sit across me for hours on end while I worked, in silence, just so you could be there. And I remember how thankful I was for that.

I remember the night I lost one of my favourite lighters, and how I caught you googling a replacement.

I remember the timbre in your voice over the phone the day that was our last.

I remember the way we think things at the same time, in the same way.

I remember how you passed by just to say hello, but ended up staying.

I remember how you kept my cranes, and how much that meant to me, because they mean so much to me.

I remember how you made me feel. Happy.

I remember all the words felt, not necessarily said.

I remember always thinking I was crazy, and you assuring me I was not.

I remember us not needing to talk to know, and to be content.
And yet how it sucked to be us.

I remember how we never really got that chance..

I remember our many farewells.
And then I remember my last. And sometimes I wish I didn't.

I remember all these things and more. I fold them delicately and place them into a beautiful silver box, one after the other, and close the lid, and turn the key to lock them safe, and place them near my heart. Far enough to let me go, but close enough to keep it beating and warm.
I treasure them.

I remember all these things.
And I won't forget.

I won't forget.

a few things you should know about me

I believe in unicorns,

but I know they don't exist.

I've fallen in love once,

but my heart has been broken way more times than that.

I cannot tell a lie,

but I've heard more lies than I should or can take.

I cannot tell a lie,

And I doubt I ever will.

(I said that twice for emphasis)

I have many friends, to whom I'm thankful,

but most of the time I feel very, very alone.

I do what I studied to do,

but not what I should be doing.

I'm still working on figuring out what that is.

I love books,

but I read way less than I should.

I love to draw,

but I don't draw nearly enough as I know I should.

I have pale white skin,

but most of the times I'm not comfortable in it.

I love music, it is easily my religion,

but I cannot play an instrument to save my life.

(save a handful of chords on the guitar, and the "snake dance" on the piano)

I have grown up in London and in Beirut,

but still cannot decide which is home.

I cannot remember what I had for lunch a week ago,

but I can remember the phone number of the home I grew up in.

(998 9954)

I have a dog, and I know she's only a "pet" to you,

but she means a hell of a lot more to me.

I don't have any siblings,

but I've chosen my brothers and sisters.

I am young,
but oh do I feel old. So old.

I have helped put many-a-person back together again,

but cannot start to figure out how to put together the pieces that I'm in.

I dream a lot,

but don't sleep enough.

I also have my share of nightmares.

I have experienced sleep paralysis,

and would not wish it on my worse enemies.

I hope you never experience it either.

I have never broken a bone in my body,

but sometimes I wonder if that would hurt less than the things I have broken.

I treat people as I would want to be treated,

but find that not many share that ideal.

I tend to come off as a tough cookie,

but as far as I know, cookies crumble.

I have an irrational fear of cockroaches.

I really do.

I love gummy bears. I love them,

but specifically when they've been in the fridge.

I sometimes drink more than you think I should,

but never more than I can take.

I talk to myself a lot more than I should,

but it doesn't bother us.

I sometimes feel I am owed a break,

but I am constantly being dealt tough cards.

I am constantly being dealt tough cards,

but I don't know how to gamble.

I am facing a long, winding, convoluted and terrifying road,

but I'm doing the only thing I can do. I'm walking.

I should be asleep,

but I'm writing this instead.

I am wishing you goodnight,

but dawn is breaking..

I will always believe in unicorns.

a letter to a voice

Dear Cat, Yusuf, whatever you prefer,

Thank you.

For an evening, you took me places I haven't visited in a long time and probably would not have found their path without the help of the timbre of your voice which, incidentally, has not changed one bit since I first began hearing it. That must've been around 16 years ago, through small black earphones connecting to a basic black Sony walkman with a wonky play button and a battery cover held in place with scotch tape.

Your self titled album was one of the first 3 albums I ever listened to (the other two being Bob Dylan's greatest hits, and Don McLean's American Pie) and they had been given, well perhaps lent is more accurate a word, to me by my father. I listened to those tapes religiously and in no time had pretty much all of the lyrics down and the melodies committed to memory.

For an evening I saw my younger self slouched in the back seat of our Daewoo, looking out at the dark sky with my cheek leaning against the car door, as my mother drove us back to Beirut from a weekend in the mountains. Nothing but landscape and stretches of road to look at, and 6 sides of tape to listen to. I remember how I used to rewind to the beginning of Matthew and Son at least twice every time I heard it.

For an evening I saw myself being dropped home by the school bus, walkman in hand, uniform shirt tails popping out the top of a pleated skirt, and sitting on the concierge's sofa with her 13 cats sprawled around listening to "The Days of the Old School Yard" as I waited for my mother to arrive from work with the house keys.

For an evening I saw myself at my first art class sessions in Beirut where I had to replicate classical looking drawings of corny scenes (like a boat on a sunset stained sea). My only consolation being "Morning has Broken". I think I even remember a specific moment where the colour of the pencil i was using was a ochre-y brown.

For an evening I saw my 16 year old self scribbling on her new guitar's cloth case with a tippex corrector pen, writing "I ♥ MY DOG" and humming it in her head as she glanced over at her Labrador licking his paws. And on that same guitar she would eventually learn to play "Wild World" and "The First Cut is the Deepest".

But most important of them all, for an evening you had my father sitting right next to me.

I could see him there, in the corner of my eye. I could feel his chest rising and falling at certain words of certain songs, and see him bopping his head, eyes closed sometimes, at other times open and smiling and smiling and shining.

I sat silently at moments absorbing every vibration, hoping that by doing that somehow my father would hear it too, perhaps I could do it on his behalf if I focused enough. I thought how he would have loved to see you there on stage, right here in Beirut. I sat silently at moments and let the tears that formed roll and fall, because ultimately they were not my tears.

For an evening my father was there again, the father I have missed for so long, the one with the music and the smiling and the out of tune voice that was not afraid to sing. The one with music tapes he had reclaimed as his own long after I upgraded to a discman, stashed in an office drawer ready to be played out and heard as he worked.

For an evening, missing my father was a sad, but beautiful, beautiful thing to do.

And as you sang "Father and Son" your voice became my father's, and I sat and listened to everything he could never say. And how he had to go.

I have to admit that I was secretly scared of going to your concert. Secretly afraid of all these things that you've helped me revisit. Scared to remember the warmth of those moments and the details in my dad's features, the sound of his voice as he sang along, the tapping of his hand to the beat on the arm of whatever chair he was sitting in.

But I was wrong to be.

And I sang along to every song I knew.

And I remembered. I saw. I cherished.

And for that I thank you, from the bottom of my heart.

I can only wait for the time I give my son or my daughter a collection of music, including yours, hoping they carry it with them for me like I do for my father.

Much love from Beirut,

K*

echoes in 3's

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

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

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...

K*

sometimes you're lucky

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

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

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

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

"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

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

"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

- "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

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

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

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.