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

- 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

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

"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

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

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

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

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

(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..

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

"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

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

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

sometimes i do the same thing...

different but the same

"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

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

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...

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

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….

chasing ghosts (or demons) with alcohol (or lack thereof)

I had a horrible day today.
Started with a fight with my mother the minute she woke up. Not just a quarrel, but a fight fight. one that reminded me of the overly dramatic fights that used to happen 5 or 6 years before..
I had been in a bad mood the minute i woke up too.. I had a dream that agitated me.. it was a dream of people i was trying to forget, and situations long gone.. Wishful dreaming despite the attempts to amputate the wish for lack of probability, want of sanity, and need of relief. i dont want to hear their names, dont want to know anyhting .. i want them to disappear.
the cowards way out i kno. But at least i'm brave enough to say i'm a coward.. whatever
A beautiful dream under different circumstances.
..fucking circumstances..

so after removing my self body and mind from a house full of emotional highs and dramatic confrontations, I (as usual) armoured up with my music, and marched steadily and firmly to uni for a meeting with my advisor.

I'm working on my FYP this semester.. (final year project) the semester i graduate and start living (if only). My thesis concentration was on mythological creatures and my take on their representations.. and it all started from a personal love of these creatures, especially unicorns that had captivated since i can remember...
anyway.. this was my second meeting with my advisor, and we were discussing what i want to do and all that.. and he stopped me today.. he told me that something i told him last time had stuck in his mind.
i had told him that when i see an image of a unicorn.. my eye somehow felt complete.. I was happy, and awestruck and warmed with the glow of beauty.. sounds ridiculously corny or whatever.. but i couldnt care less what you thought about this..
anyway.. so he tells me how i'm someone romantic.. and a "lover" in search of a beloved.. and how a lover always ends up burning as a result of this constant pursuit.. constant search that either ends in disappointment or never actually ends..
i couldnt help myself.. i started to tear up.. i guess it was the result of the whole morning and night.. and feeling like crap..
I guess I do feel that way in a sense.. incomplete until i can love something or someone. In my past relationships i've always been the one "in love"... or been the one whose outlasted the other when it came to being "in love".... I think perhaps i'm just in need of being loved back sometimes.. that its no longer a matter of who it is.. but a matter of the love itself..
i dont know. I'm spewing words now in incohenrent sentences and thoughts that are just banging against my head and its hurting me sometimes to think or even try to catch them..

in the meantime i guess I'll just have to burn...

I (over)think, therefore I am (forever lost)

My ipod ran out of battery.
thats not enough to explain the anguish.
my i pod ran out of battery far from a source of energy able to bring my saviour back to life.

pfffft...
i hate when that happens. I really do.
It becomes very clear to me that i am a sociophobe. I think i hear my friends cracking up somewhere far off.. but its true...
i may be sociable when it comes to certain situations and places... I'll socialise over a drink, i'll spark up a conversation with the bartender, or i'll go up to someone and ask about their shirt or their hair colour or whatever.. I have no qualms..
except sometimes..
sometimes i just dont want to face anyone.. I dont want to hear someone talking, i dont want to think someone is calling my name and turn around (and that happens a lot.. the voices in my head seem to be getting better at that)
sometimes i just dont want to hear the most banal talk spewing out of the mouths of my peers.. it depresses me..
not that i dont say banal things.. but there's banal, and there's "banal"...
I feel exposed and naked without music blocking everything out. I wonder if thats normal..

but the worst thing about it all is probably that I tend to start overthinking. The voice in my head that is constantly talking to me becomes louder. And trails and turns and squirms and rolls over and twists and convulates.
I start jumping from one thing to another and overthinking and judging myself and wondering and and and ...
i guess this doesn't really sound like a bad thing.. but when you're drowning in it.. it's hard to not be afraid of it..

So i sat in the cab on the way home.. Musicless, and feeling cramps in my stomach.. and all i could hear was really bad bad arabic music crackling on an annoyingly low volume so that it's not clear, but clear enough to drill a hole in my brain, and the cranking and banging of the motor...
and my thoughts are going haywire.
I can't follow them anymore.. I'm overthinking..
its official..
i'm overthinking.. and i'm getting down.. and depressed.. and just thinking about it is depressing me so I'll shut up..
but yes... the moral of the story is

damn i pod batteries..