Friday, March 31, 2006
The two women were palpitating, shivering with their eyes closed
Two bodies possessed with random emotions
A man on the stage
He had a sad face.
The saddest face I have seen.
He rearranged the chairs, not to stop their bodily explosions
The saddest music I have heard.
The saddest thing in the world is when a man cries.
"Habla con ella
Talk to her
But her brain is dead
Women’s brain is a mystery
Talk to her.."
"De la morte emergo la vida
De la masculino emergo la feminino
De la tierra emergo la etereo, la unpalpable, la fantasma.. "
"I made love last night
It wasn’t good it wasn’t bad
Stayed till dawn
Then I woke up
It dawned on me
My baby’s gone..
I cry when I think of all the beauty I can’t share with her
The saddest thing in the world is when love dies..”
She dies at the end but
She cries right before
She cries to her love
She cries to her betrayal
It was like she knew
And she prepared herself to leave
To the sweetest voice
The voice of Caetano Veloso
after the fight...
la pasion mortale, Maria...
(Almodovar's Habla Con Ella)
Thursday, March 30, 2006
" The greatest gifts are often seen, in the course of nature, rained by celestial influences on human creatures; and sometimes, in supernatural fashion, beauty, grace, and talent are united beyond measure in one single person, in a manner that to whatever such an one turns his attention, his every action is so divine, that, surpassing all other men, it makes itself clearly known as a thing bestowed by God (as it is), and not acquired by human art"- Giorgio Vasari on Leonardo Da Vinci.
He is upset i haven’t written about him yet
He doesn’t know that I did
He thinks we’re worlds apart
He doesn’t know he lives in me
He thinks I left him behind
He should know he’s on my mind
He tries through the window. Sits there for a while every day.
Then tries through the door. Then gives up.
Where does he want to go?
Excuse my poor little attempt to recap on a topic that I do not grasp the first thing about. I did not go to seminars about it and sure did not read guidelines for it. I am not talking about love, I am talking about dating. The business that had launched carriers, made hits out of idiotic shows, sold books, yet left many of us clueless. I also do not want to talk about dating games and rules. For the mere reason that I am not aware of these rules. I usually am a straightforward person. I express my likes and dislikes and keep the other party updated.
In light of a conversation with a friend today and in response to people who mislabel one’s vulnerability and excitement towards the matters of heart as immature attempts to relive one’s adolescence, I think back. After a decade (man I’m old) of trial and error, I am still hopeful and still looking. It amazes me that we still do. After years of disappointments and thousands spent on drinks and fashion and trips, we still go back as troopers and still put ourselves out there with the same excitement of a ‘teenager’.
I used to think that I had it figured out. When you throw yourself into the dating arena in an environment that you have grown familiar with, you cannot go wrong, at least not at the beginning. You have a decent assessment of the other person’s character. Through preliminary questioning, you can formulate an idea of the person’s background and the values he was brought up on. You can anticipate his reactions and prejudices. You can evaluate his ability to care and give and love and hate. You have an intuition about his expectations, dreams and ambitions.
This, in fact, might still be true. Having said that, what is the palette in hand of a person who ventured out of that safe, predictable environment? Let me give you some examples. I met a French guy in Paris. We clicked immediately. Swinging at the Monte Cristo and melting to his voice and his lovely words over coup-de-foudres at the Café des Arcades. Lovely. He sang Georges Brassins songs and kept on complementing me. Fine. He lived in a world of dreams and would not stop singing. Had to go.
An American.. I was willing to learn. We met on September 11 (I still did not foresee the problem there). We studied together, watched SNL and he liked to cook for me. Divine. He had too many girl buddies, liked to bake and would not leave the apartment. Fine. His teasing words about my culture turned into heated discussions. He added the suffix Witz to my name at my doorbell and he hated cats. He dressed up as a woman for Halloween. He drank buds and smoked pot all the time. Had to go.
The German. We met at Zum Shneider during Oktoberfest over a pitcher of Hefeweizen. He previously was an accomplished full-blown surgeon in Switzerland. Rough around the edges but handsome and a great dancer. I was happy. He had a temper, hated my smoking. While he was training for the marathon, got edgier and colder. Still acceptable. He expressed a genuine hate for the non-German race, disliked my friends and style of fashion. He also had a wandering eye. Had to go.
The Canadian business man. A slightly older gentleman who was very busy and who ran his company from Canada. We met over steak and wine. I liked him. He was very reserved and called me his gentle lady. I liked to be pampered for a while. He brought me cigars and chocolate. We met in town like secret lovers. I was enchanted. His schedule got tighter and his ill-spirit surfaced. Alright. After a month, I inevitably ask him why he was not married still. It turns out that he was. Had to go.
The Lebanese politician. Summer vacation and an evening with friends. We spotted each other across the room. I was introduced to him. He picks me up and we go to dinner. Lebanese meza and a bottle of Arak. He wanted to give me the world. I did not want any of that. I liked his attitude and his vision. He started to show off. He did not need to do that. He got me gifts and told me stories about London and the playboy mansion. I did not like the facade. He cursed his ex-fiancee and attacked Rafik Hariri. He had to go.
...The Russian? Screwdrivers at Pravda and Tchaikovsky
The Moroccan sailor? Café Espagnol and Sangrias
Egyptians? Don’t get me started on the Egyptians...
I feel exhausted writing about it!
Still clueless? I feel the same. No regrets. Throughout all of it though, do not give up on love. We get more particular and more ‘picky’. Nothing wrong with that, otherwise what was the point of the journey. We’re not as stern as we’re made to believe. We do compromise when compromise is due and when the person is worth working for and working with.
Do not lose your childhood excitement,
at least not yet.
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
Her name is Corina
‘what’s the deal yo’
She dove in the marina
In every shore you know
We went to san fran
To Vegas and LA
I lost her once in San Juan
Found her at the end of the day
We're soon going to Germany
Spain, Italy, France and Libnan
It will be a great journey
Unless i lost her again
She’s my Opera cohort
And my biking friend
We have the same white coat
Mine is missing a button at the end
She gets my ups and downs
She says I’m sometimes rude
And when we’re on the town
She saves me from the wrong dude
She says she’s from the hood
A tough chick with a heart like honey
And when we’re in a bad mood
We dream of summer, warm and sunny
She has a thing for teeth
No funky business at all
She wants a guy like Keith
The dear actor, nice and tall
Her Arabic is better than mine
Her favorite word is majnoun
she says my fattoush is mighty fine
and loves falafel from Ma’moun
I tempt her to eat meat
she says 'Man you're mean
In hell you have a seat
i'll stick to my rice and bean'
In science we face the same threat
Same frustrations and altercations
but now she shouldn't sweat
On my blog she's a publication
To her nephew she's a great aunt
she's very giving and very caring
to give her enough credit, i can't
at least not with the readers sharing
True we drive each other mad
But I won’t give up just yet
She’s been there through good and bad
In her friendship I won the bet
- And what's that called?
(Pointing to his finger)
- What about that?
(holding his hand up)
- Finger, finger, finger, finger... kteer..
He calls me bivvad. He wants to drive to Amerca to come see me. After all his teta got him a new car. He hates hair and so tries to pull mine out. He's scared of strawberries so he throws it at the neighbors. He has a genuine connection with animals. He tied the dog up to himself one day. He loves to go to the beach but hates the water. He tells me, "let's go to drink coffee?", in other words "baddek ahwe? eh?". I play along, then he draggs me to his room (loomte) to play ball for 5 hours. He draws on his shirt and you ask why, he says " ma 3ande wa'a". His first words were la la la' la' and ana ana ana ana. When he wants your attention, he compliments you!! I guess it's in their genes.
When he cries, my world collapses.
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
“The difference between false memories and true ones is the same as for
jewels. It is always the false ones that look the most real, the most
brilliant.”- Salvador Dali
Scene: Our Last Tango.
A studio apartment.
She had her back to him. She was looking through the window, trying to follow that distant sound. It is the ice cream truck. This music. This melody engraved in her head like a door to happiness and excitement and endless memories of lazy summer afternoons. She heard his voice on the phone and had to run to him. He was her only friend. Tonight she needed a friend. She needed his pillow next to hers. She needed a kind face. She needed ample arms where she can throw herself and forget for a minute… Just for a minute...
- But I love you
- No my sweetheart, you don't
She flips through the pages.
- Yes I do
- No, not like that. I don’t love you like that either.
Closing her book now. Walking to the kitchen in slow steps.
- I’m going to make some tea. I got this great chamomile...
- Don’t change the subject and how can you say it so calmly?
- Because I thought of it endlessly (she smiles)
- So what do you call this?
- This? She puts her arm around his neck. Don’t be bitter. You’re just used to me. We both know that you have this need.
- What need? A need for a woman in my life? Well, who doesn’t?
- No. I mean a need to be embraced every night. A need to hide in somebody’s conscious. A need to cry at a woman’s chest. A need not to be left, to be listened to with no judgment, a need to be tended to with endless giving, with endless love. The love I have for you my darling is endless. I love your exquisite insecurities and your unpredictable childhood, but I cannot be your mother.
She turns the music on.
- Don’t you love Tango? It is so sensual, so abrupt. Our teacher says that Argentine Tango came from the people, the common people as a reaction to ballroom. That is why it is so simple, as a dance and so sexy. It is about a man and a woman. Two bodies wired together by the same beat, moving as one..
- Why do you keep doing this?
- What darling?
- Ignoring me? Listen. You are my friend and I love you. What could be more perfect than that? This is real... What else could you ever want?
- Love. Irrational, angry, unexpected, never perfect, surreal… I want the Tango feel! I want fireworks...
- You will never find that
- I will die trying my love. Meanwhile, come, come dance with me…
(Michael Cammer, untitled)
It was one of the days she would never forget. She could not forget. She still had the scars. And everytime she looked in the mirror, she would remember. The day that taught her what guilt felt like and what fear tasted like. His screaming voice would always echo in her mind. She is bleeding. She is bleeding. Her mother runs frantic to the door. Her father holding that man that she likes so much. That man who always brings her books and asks her to recite the new poems she learned at school. She sees the back of his neck. She knows it is him. The man is not moving. She sees the car moving fast and as her uncle holds her up she loses consciousness. She can remember the explosion voice, the glass shattering. She remembers feeling a sharp pain that took the focus away from what was happening. She remembers the needle and the strain. She remembers his still head. The fear on her father’s face. The blood running on the floor. The dim faces and the green suits. People screaming and her mother…
Her father is finally here. She asks about the sweet man.
He could not be here baby but he wanted you to say a poem for him.
She still recites poems for him...
(Dali, Metomorphosis of Narcissus)
They have been dating without knowing it.
He had seen her at all the places he went to.
It was a small community.
People around them were pushing them towards each other
they felt it.
They were aware of one another
He came to her one day
She said, so today is finally the day
They talked about Paris and the Louvre
He promised to show her the Metropolitan
They read together, he cooked for her, she picked movies for him,
She agreed to a friendship, coffee, date and more…
Like water for chocolate, like heaven
At last she thought, at last
except it didn't last,
one day it happened
they were all out
with the girls
and he drinks..
she went for,
there he was
and kissing her…
she felt dizzy,
her friend's there
her dear friend,
she grabs his hand
plants her nails in his hand
he holds her as she shakes like a leaf
in the storm of her tears, they would pick up and leave
she shall never fall in love again and she should never, never
go to the Metropolitan.
A day, a week, a month went by. He spoke, said it's the European in him.
But he still loves her...
She walked. That was the Arabic in her...
Scene: What women talk about...
Monday, March 27, 2006
"Don’t ask me why you stayed. Ask me how she laughed. How she breathed when sleeping. Ask how she gets my headaches and I feel her cramps. How I slammed the door. How she drank her coffee. How I lit my cigarette. How she broke the glass. How she broke my heart. Last time she cried..."
Don't let me forget you. Don't leave our walls. Full of dreams and happiness. Don't leave our ghosts on the 8th floor. Our child-like laughs. Resonating in the darkness of my years. Remember my smile splattered in the empty corners. Remember your hand wiping my tears. Remember my breath cooling your sweat. Remember my lips appeasing your pain. Don’t slam the door. Don’t break my heart…Don’t you dare burry me in your sheets… Don’t you dare forget me… Don’t you dare leave…
Sunday, March 26, 2006
How much do people affect your life, your behavior, your personal opinions, your relationships? More than you think. How much of being politically correct and socially correct and helpful and NICE is your ‘self’ and how much is the ‘other’? When you do a good deed, where do you throw it at? The cosmic balance and order of things? Who is judging your acts and why should you care?
In the realm of duty and being humane and self-righteous, is being neutral enough of an act as long as you do not commit harm? Do you do good so that you do not feel the shame? Let us talk about shame. Sartre elegantly describes the implications of the self and the other through the example of shame. He describes shame as a non-reflective entity or feeling since it involves the person and the observer. In this case, the other person in one’s consciousness becomes ‘the catalyst’ and a "mediator between myself and me". It makes sense thinking about social behavior which would only be considered vulgar in the presence of ‘others’. The extreme example of renouncing one self to the other, I think, is the masochist practices that occur in religion. Exemplified in the oriental philosophies, Buddhism, Hinduism and Jainism, as well as in the old Catholic practices, the mutilation of one’s self provides an ecstatic mystical feeling. With this feeling of euphoria, one would argue that these practices are about the 'self' after all.
Within the paradox of self versus others, the human being or Sartre’s ‘existent’, irrespective of social implications and values, consisted of the ‘being’ and the ‘exterior’. I wonder the extent, to which, the exterior is affected by others and, consequently, the being. In Nietzsche’s ‘on self realization’, he conceptualizes the point of the quest from the ‘being’ to the ‘nothing’ as to realize one self and to achieve one's identity. Can we ever realize our self-truth and achieve our identities separately from others. Shame, in my opinion, should be within one self, so should happiness, self-gratification, doubt and confidence. On the path of self improvement and during the ‘quest’ how much of it is us and how much is the ‘other’. Should the belief that ‘the idea of eternal return is the heaviest of burdens’ be our incentive to aspire for our modern form of Nirvana? In Buddhism, as opposed to Hinduism, Karma is an ethical principle rather than cosmological explanation of the world and the state of Nirvana is about one’s self.
If it is in principle about one’s self then do people really matter? Who determines our vulnerability, our moral values and our emotional baggage? If people do not matter, then we are above insult and above shame. Who can cross the line if you are above the line? Let us ponder within ourselves and try narrowing the gap between what we want to appear as and what we truly are. After that, let us strip down to our raw selves with all the insecurities, the ugliness, the rage, and the fear. Today I look at me. This is me. This is what I have done and this is what I aspire to do. This is what I love and this is what I hate. This is why I cry and this is why I smile. This is whom I live for and this is whom I work for.
Tell me now, how much of this is just you and how much of it is the ‘other’?
Friday, March 24, 2006
"Lorsque je leve les yeux
Je rencontre le ciel
Et je me dis mon dieu mais c'est sensationnelle
Tant de bleu
Lorsque je leve les yeux
Je rencontre tes yeux
Et je me dis mon dieu, c'est vraiment merveilleux
Tant de bleu..."
(Plus bleu que tes yeux, Edith Piaf)
Thursday, March 23, 2006
He had not been home for 3 days now. He always calls when he goes on trips.
She was worried. She kept trying to redirect her focus.
She kept trying to get rid of the kinks in his pants.
To her, he will always be a child.
He had not been home for 3 days.
His sisters were here with their kids. All the family is worried.
No one would say a word. They prayed he will be unharmed.
In his young years, he is unarmed.
She cooked his dinner like she always does. His coffee cup is still where he left it,
Along with his cigarettes and his glasses, He would not go far without his glasses.
She was distracted by her anger.
How dare he be so indifferent?
He had not been home for 3 days.
The door unlocks and he appears. He stood ashamed,
He stood shy and could not look into her eyes.
She was relieved to tears. She was too stubborn to take him into her arms.
He embraced her and asked for forgiveness. She would not forgive his act,
He had not been home for 3 days.
His sister followed him, She knew he was hiding something,
She hugs him, she startled him. What is the matter my darling?
She saw his injured back...
She saw they worked their whips into his dear back...
They whipped his childhood away that day,
They tortured his soul and robbed his spirit,
All had happened when,
He had not been home for 3 days,
They tell her and she runs to him,
She threw herself at his feet...
Forgive me my child...
I wish i could take the pain away,
How I wish it was me,
Oh God, how I wish it was me...
He was not himself that day,
He was never himself again,
They stole his dignity, his manhood, his heart
And he had not been home for fifteen years…
Had not been home all these years...
Stranger who are you?
Your shadow passed me and I sat still
You passed me and I was quiet still
You looked, I looked away
You whispered, I ran away
You called me, I turned my face
You cried, I froze, I stopped
I listened, I suffered, I learned, I lived…
I thank you stranger
How many men wished they saw your silhouette,
Or your distilled lazy rays.
You are a song,
To be sung in a lifetime,
Am I one day to perform?
Weaved by the stars and carved by the rivers,
You live in my nights naked like the sun
And like a storm you revive the ashes of my days
You my original sin
For you I abandoned my truth.
Ready to sail in your waters to the unknown
Like all the prophets, let us err into your world…
I travel in your eyes, but where?
Two boats that shear the fog
To the far away lands
Are we reaching the passion shore?
Where I float with your embrace
Where I pray with the rosemary of your youth
Where I spread my skin in your sand…
My angel wrote for me...
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
How can i hide
My blushing looks
My drunken steps,
How can I save my pride…
Secretly I grieve
Will my heart forget
Will it mend the wounds,
What will my spirit receive…
To shy away and conceal my thoughts
When you read me
When you see me
When you look fiercely into my soul..
I know.. I don't deceive
.... Scene: His Eyes
Spring 1995, Beirut, AUB.
She saw his eyes in the rear view mirror. Only his eyes, the most enchanting eyes she had ever seen. He was speeding down in his convertible. He probably wanted to catch up with her. After all, he saw her eyes too. She stepped down on the gas. Before she knew it, she lost control over the car. She steps on the brake but the car keeps speeding. She is horrified and she looks in the mirror for his eyes. She loses consciousness. She wakes up on the seat next to him.
- What happened?
- Try not to talk and keep your head up. You’re bleeding. I’ll get you to the hospital.
She’s thinking that he’s driving really fast. She’s terrified. She wakes up in the hospital bed. Her hand in her mom’s and she looks up to see his eyes.
- Hi, she smiles, you saved my life
Ten months later, across the room they lock eyes.
- Do you know that woman?
She walks towards them.
- That’s the woman who saved my life.
Scene: Tough Town.
Spring 2006, New York, Manhattan.
Shoe repair store. She could only live in a neighborhood that had a coffee shop, a film rental store, a flower shop and a shoe repair store. He made fun of her for that but he’s gone now.
- Yes sir, can you please make the heels stronger? It broke when I was dancing.
- You dancer? Yes yes I know, dancer. Ballroom?
- No, no dancer. I just dance. Never mind.
Her feet always hurt. Pourquoi tu presses les pas? She's been asked many times. She's always in a hurry.
She goes into the embassy. The first thing that struck her was that list of countries, including hers. Her beloved country. A diagram of a veiled women. Not that she ever cared for veils but what if the veiled woman was a nun, she wondered.
- Madame, j'ai besoin de tous les documents.
She could speak the language but she refuses to.
- I do not understand why this is not sufficient. I have an invitation to your country; otherwise I would not even bother visiting. You are obviously not the most courteous people in the world.
She takes the bus back home. She’s weary and all she can hear is the music coming from her neighbor’s headset… I ain’t sayin’ she’s a goldigga’…she ain't messin' with a brok' brok'.
She fell asleep…Woke up 2 stops after hers…
She’s tired of this town. The fierce steps, the unkind eyes, the lose morals, the fast tracks and the concrete hearts.
Scene: L'Ete Indien.
Summer 1998. Beirut, Saint-Georges
(Pic. City Island)
She has been kicking out that habit. She had worked on it all summer. Far from the eyes, far from the heart. Withdrawal, sweat and tears. Long nights with the girls crying and dreaming. Last she heard he had left for the summer. Things have happened since. She kept busy. A boy approached her, through her friend, glorious as a fresh summer night. She said maybe. She was dragged to a night out for celebrations. A dear old friend hosting an event. The boy came close. God he looks so good. They started dancing. And then she looked away for she knew he was lurking behind her back. Her love was back. He had grown a beard, his skin was kissed by the sun and he was wearing the shirt she liked. She looks at his direction and smiles to him. He spreads his arms into the air. Suddenly, all was gone. She lost track of her dancing partner. She did not hear the music or see the lights. She cut through a crowd of resentful eyes and disapproving glances. She held his hand. He smiled and she smiled back… You are now mine... She caved.
Scene: What Women Talk about....
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Like a river that flows down on our life
Our needs, our spirits, our truth, our lies
You washed our sins with your years
You alleviated all our fears
And through it all you kept the ties…
Don’t you cry my darling
Don’t you shed a tear
If you tell her not to run
She’ll say there’s more work to be done
To you, she will always be here
And the end is in no way near
You said my work is my religion
You said it all will be well
You were my angel, my premonition
And now, to him, you are as well,
I ask, you love him
You say he is your life, your eyes, your soul
You say he is your baby’s baby
He’s your rhythm, your sun, your whole…
I saw your love in his eyes
His dear, dear eyes
And I loved him even more
The hours of giving and delicate care
It looked familiar to me
This is the bond that we share
Pass down your love my love
Mama, mama, mama…
In you I hide no more
I embrace him with you
I embrace him for you
Take him to your safety shore…
(pictures: my nephew and my mom)
Monday, March 20, 2006
200 protests and demonstrations took place around the world since the debut of the Iraq war. 19 people were arrested on 5th avenue during the march. "Organizers with the War Resisters League said they had not intended to block traffic..."
Meanwhile, "If you don't make them bleed, they can't prosecute for it." "According to Pentagon specialists..."
And as carefree as expected Mr. Bush celebrates "third anniversary of the U.S.-led invasion that toppled Iraqi President Saddam Hussein"
It is officially Spring, to the whole world it is. If God sleeps in New York City, I am quite sure that he has not slept for a while. It is 23 degrees out. I am declaring a new wrinkle under my eyes. Girls are particularly familiar with this area. The place that we only touch with the delicate fingers. It is not sleep deprivation-induced, it is not a laughing line, it is a wrinkle. I counted. I have four. The gray hairs, I stopped counting. It is the Spring to the whole world but it is the summer of my life today. Today I own a broken smile, four wrinkles and a lifetime. It ought to be lovely to be old. To be full of the peace that comes of experience and wrinkled ripe fulfillment. We spend most of our childhood and adolescence longing to be taken seriously and to belong. Wanting to be naturally included in a world of confidence, that is far from irresponsible lies. Then we transition into adulthood tired and busy, overworked and overstressed. We go from the Spring to the fall to the winter. I am stopping today to celebrate the summer. The hot, hectic, fast, uncomfortable, active, and lazy refreshing summer of my life. We have just started boys and girls and man we're in for a ride...
Sunday, March 19, 2006
Talking one day with this teacher, mother, researcher, from my floor..
- So your hair is blond now i see.
- Blond helps you fit in.
- Excuse me? We are still in the Bronx, are we not?
Do you fit in with your brown hair?
- Then why blond.
- I dyed my hair black for years. Black hair is too good for me.
- How do you mean?
- Never mind.
- So your hair is naturally what?
- Red (not really)
- I have a friend who went to your country once.
- People followed her on the street.
- Did they now? and why is that, i wonder..
- Yes because she had long blond hair, color of gold.
- Gold is cheap in my country (mumbling).
- Beg your pardon?
- That surprises me.
- And girls would rub her locks on their own hair hoping it would...
- But girls in my country don’t show their hair, they’re all hidden in veils.
- Oh yes.
- Yes, they wouldn’t be on the streets either.
- Really, in fact after the dark, some come out.
- Only in the dark?
- Only with men pulling them behind. They go into dark alleys…
You’re totally buying this aren’t you…
Saturday, March 18, 2006
Every now and then I look up and I know you’re looking down and smiling,
showing those big teeth of yours,
tapping me on the back,
calling me by my nickname,
You taught me, if you really love you should let go…
Ironic…But I can’t let go..
We heard you left happy..
We said we will reunite, ten years after.. All of us..
At our little green table…
So save a seat for me in heaven, my friend..
Borrowed from Jane Austen and Wystan Hugh Auden’s:
“…You tell me of his enormous capacity for joy. When joyful, when joyful for highly vocal drunkenness. But joyful is how I hope you'll remember him. Not stuck in a box and reduced to gray clay...”
"Stop all the clocks,
cut off the telephone.
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone.
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum,
Bring out the coffin...
let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle,
Scribbling on the sky the message:
He is Dead.
Put crepe bows 'round the necks of public doves,
Let traffic policemen wear black, cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East, my West.
My working week and my Sunday rest.
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song,
I thought love would last forever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now,
put out every one.
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun.
Pour out the ocean and sweep up the wood,
For nothing now can ever come to any good."
We love you and always will...
Picture: Woods Hole, 2004
Friday, March 17, 2006
Went home that night,
to find a letter from you that took me back,
I see your name and I am in a dream,
i see your cold smile between the lines,
Has it really been 10 years?
You left me numbers to reach you.
You commanded that I reach to you, Like you always do..
Some code for a foreign country, We never will be in the same country.
I dial the numbers.. And I freeze,
your voice shattered the silence...
- This is me..
- How are you?
Waiting for you,
my one and only,
aching for your embrace,
longing for a glance of your face
- Where have you been all these years?
- Here.. working, living, studying…
Looking for you,
at our places,
stalking the memories and the old traces..
Struggling not to forget, but how can I forget.
I still cry at night,
the past is still too bright.
I see my solitude and your lies,
my scar that never dies.
- I see you got what you wanted
- I did…
I don't remember what i wanted..
How I missed you.
How I missed your heart,
that master of disguise,
that sadistic master of my heart..
- Has it been 10 years?
- Give or take.
- I have missed you.. I see a girl, fresh as the spring, i see us by the river, i’m playing with your hair and you’re holding my head with your sun-kissed arms.
( I smile)
- I know you're smiling..
( I recollect my nerves)
- I am not that girl anymore..
I wish i was that girl.
I wish it still was easy to love you,
to give in to you,
i wish i could shed one tear for you again..
But i am a woman now, a castle
I am a shadow, a broken spirit
I am a deserted island, stranded between shores..
I am a heart in shreds and a body of debts..
- Did you forgive me?
How can i love and forget?
I never hated you..
I see a boy, an innocent little boy…
- Come visit me
- Absolutely not.
- i have changed, i promise..
You will never change
don’t ever change,
you were born to make me suffer,
i want to suffer..
- you’re 10 years late!!
My love my one and only my first love..
Take care of you for me
take good care of that face
of that smile that i crave
of those eyes..
you will take care
you’re a man now
and you know how..
To my dear J.
I woke up in a pond of fear after a nightmare that took its toll on my nerves. Do you still have nightmares? A little peculiar at my age. What are these subconscious fears that possess me at night. Places and faces and an immense feeling of insecurity that resonates in my heart. The following events in the day were as strange. I see Shaun White with short hair. My neighbor who looks just like him. Fears and threats that accompany my every move. I wrap the day early. My next order of business is my most anticipated event.
I had fallen in love with their story a long time ago. I had a date with Cyrano and Roxanne and a woman I called grandma for the night. She had a load of shopping bags with her which normally I would find insolent, but not tonight. Tonight she is sweet. She had sawn a pink silk dress just like Roxanne’s for her little porcelain doll. How lovely. She thinks Roxanne is a blue stocking aristocrat who deserves to be serenaded. I personally think that she is a heartless white gloved girl who needs to wake up and smell the blood, but who cares. Domingo’s voice made her cry. He speaks to the soul this man, this giant. I found myself crying too. The nocturnal setting was both dreamy and melancholic in the most intimate way. The most heartbreaking character talked in the most intoxicating voice. I look at her, she looks back and nods. We understood eachother. We were both flying. She saw it in my hopeful looks and i could read the stories behind her tired face.
The final scene. The autumn leafs and Cyrano is dead. I walk out.. she is still sitting.. she is still with him.. I wave goodbye.. she does not wave back.. She is probably still flying..
Thursday, March 16, 2006
A book by Hanan al-Shaykh that traveled with me to Beirut but I never got to finish. My sister always takes custody of the books I carry. Reminded me of the days gone astray in this land we migrated to. I thought of the short stories these women had to tell when I talked to my friend Tina. She is my Hanan this Tina. She is a Hala and Suha and Amar. I like to scrutinize into people’s little practices, little habits that anchor their void existence into an impending scenario we call life. I tried to resist it but eventually gave up to it. With time, I even began to cherish it. I began to look closer and my routines grew more stubborn and more tenacious.
Having a mother like my own, you acquire a respect for womanhood. A privilege and an honor only descended upon me when I begin neighboring a subset of her traits. Her warmth, her understanding, her colors, her smell, her presence. The little things she does, the little phrases she uses. One word that builds you up and takes you home. The lack of which throws you into abysmal despair and loneliness and fear. I found my mother in my solitude. I make a pot of fresh coffee every day. One spoon, two spoons, three spoons, haven't gotten it right yet. It does not taste right. Keep on trying, I’ll get there. It brings me closer to her.
I go to Tina, with a fresh pot of coffee and a fresh garland of stories. We sit facing the window, as we always need a window, and we talk. Women of sand and myrrh, of dreams of better days, of aching to our mother’s embrace. We act like little women, we have to. Beneath the surface, we know what hides. I see her escaping glance into that window after she arranges the cups on the tray. She made some sweets today. The kind her mother makes. She did not get it right though.She will keep on trying till she gets it right.She has to keep on trying.
One spoon, two spoons…
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
They say they lived a Fiesta,
only worked to take a siesta..
Bathing in San Remo for days,
Argentine Tango in moon rays..
Wining in the valley for hours,
teasing life sweet and sour..
They say she left him gasping,
stranded with dreams of the spring..
Vanished without a trace,
no keeping with her pace..
He roamed the poles for a flair,
of his rose who thinned in air..
She is rotten at heart they claim,
a femme fatale, a worldly dame..
She is a memory in his drawer,
and all is fair in love and war..
She is the flame in his heart,
they are not to be apart.
He hated her and always will,
her notion turns him ill..
He washed his sheets in vain,
her smell gave him pain..
I was just playing with rhyme,
if you're still reading,
you have too much time!!!
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
I don’t know who said that, Roosevelt?
I try to live with my feet on the ground. Do the daily routines and achieve what needs to be achieved, but I feel haunted by many interests and passions that need to be catered. The multiple facets of the modern life border an existence with multiple identities. It is particularly more significant to the islands of us. People who migrated but still live, at heart, in a parallel world. Back home… It reaches a stage, though, where you might lose sight of your personal truth. Our identity, as Kundera defines it, is a reflection of people upon us and the effect of our perception of them and the world. If that is true, then do we ever know who we truly are…
Thursday: Good day at work. Meeting days is when I put on my professional little outfits and act like a dignified business woman trying to sell her ideas and defend her data. Then off we go… Feed the cats, small talk with the neighbor, throw on a classy little number, hair down, humble attire, and pearls? Hell, no…A lovely evening at the Met with Romeo and Juliette. Opera is so dreamy.. If you can’t live it, watch it. Got a bite to eat, did some compulsive shopping, went home early that day. Listened to Eddy Izzard..He helps me sleep.
Friday: Sexy number. Cute movie with cute friends. I ran to meet the girls. Beer at the local all-American Rodeo bar, apple Martinis at Marquee, belly dancing in west village with the fabulous Jo, then Latin ambiance till dawn…
Saturday: I have my Hip-hop hat on today. Strutting down on Soho, the art gang, blue note and all that Jazz.. Little comedy routine by the upcoming Improv kids. Diner at my favorite little Indian restaurant. Shots with the NYU crowd and Cappuccino at a café trottoire in east village, meeting you..My artist, Kung Fu master friend. Hip-hop moods and wasting in a cloud.
Sunday: Nostalgia in the morning as I sip through my cup of Turkish coffee talking to my mom on the phone. My nephew said his first word today. My sister cuts in, like she always does, okay baby I’ll see you soon, like we always say. Fresh bread from the corner, cooking for you. I feel like your mother sometimes. Dessert at Sensa. They’re out of fondant au chocolat, I have a melt-down, we leave.
Monday: Great day at work. Then the New England symphonic ensemble. Traveler got through to me, depicting the journey we all go through. The energy in the music in the beginning reflects a quick beat of life in full stride and the meditative quiet ending reflects the tapering of life’s battles as the soul is preparing for the next step. It leaves you breathless.
Thursday: Back to the Opera…
I don’t want to stop, not for one second. Not to think of you…never to think of you…
Keep your eyes on the stars and your feet on the ground..
Sunday, March 12, 2006
Muffled faces and reprimanded treasures,
unchastened landscapes of earthly pleasures,
you invaded my sanctum
fused our palms together.
You led me off my feet,
my heart throbbed with a new beat,
you planted those whispers on my flesh,
and worked your way through my heat.
You embraced me then sent to my way,
Along with the first and the last sway,
I looked for a signal…
You spun me away.
Then you talked, asked for my name,
Little boy, play the game,
Salsa ser lo pasión ante lo noche,
it is my secret and not my claim
1, 2, 3 step…5, 6, 7…
one to the left, one to the right...
Saturday, March 11, 2006
Friday, March 10, 2006
...Stop playing now, cesses de jouer, arretes.
no listen, do it, close your eyes
for a minute now and listen...
I see you, i see you drifting,
I see the sorrows in your eyes,
I see your trembling lips,
I see your dazed look...
I see your pain..
How can you forgive him?
after you gave him your everything.
How can you listen to one more word?
How can you turn your back
How can you forget?
You were not born to suffer
You were not created from his flesh
You were mourning as he was living,
So break free my little one, break free...
go and love and be loved..
break your heart for another man...
what are you waiting for?
go and live...
My heart breaks to pieces when you shed a tear,
so do it for me...
for you my darling sister...
Thursday, March 09, 2006
it had just happened not so long ago. She had to be out that night, in good spirit nonetheless. She met a swell gang of New York upper east so-called intellectuals, the "last Boheimans" as she calls them. As every gang is, they were of odd ages and interests. she particularily gazed upon the unappealing, almost depressing demeanor of Mrs. Finland over there compared to the running theme of the night with the blinding bourgeois gold and the newly enhanced breasts popping out of Dr. Schnessler's wife's maroon bustier. Four years of Greenwich Village misfits and mishapps and she is still learning. How did i end up here she thinks as the loud voice of that abnoxious woman brings her back "i finished my wine darling, let's go for a drink at the corner bistro". She thinks about home, her unpretentious little space. She has not finished the paint job she started earlier that week. The cat must be making a big mess. "Come on darling, it is not gourmet but i like the red room at the plaza, the cocktails are divine".New York, New York...The village, Cosmopolitans, the Metropolitan, central park...The small spirits and the big brands..union square, Chelsea and the strandopening nights and Broadway's lightsMr. New York is here too...She loves her city...At least for now..Till we meet again..This will be my home,my life, my love, my city...
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
"And the other one? The other one is my cello.
I listen to her music night after night. Languid and dreamy. Reluctant to please, but pleases to the very soul.
Her music flows down my hills, like a lazy, lazy melody on a still Beiruty night… atonal, confusing, then rhythmic and enchanting… She enthralled my heart and will never give it back. I love her. And she loves me.
Today, she’s happy.
She sits on the balcony, sips her coffee and embraces the sea with a gaze. She plays her music. Her lazy, lazy music. I see a smirk on her lips. She is content. She knows life now. She knows how to play, and she’s ready to strike another game".
my dear, dear friend wrote for me.
Monday, March 06, 2006
Sunday, March 05, 2006
The disproportionate political power of Jews, which is pound for pound the greatest of any cultural group in America, is worth noting. "The Jewish economic influence and power are concentrated in Hollywood, television, and in the news industry". Jewish dominance of major Hollywood studios is no secret to anybody; Jewish screenwriters; Jewish filmmakers, comedians. Jewish and Zionist influence in the creation of "multiculturalism" and the continued Jewish attack upon Christian identity and institutions aimed to the deconstruction of the Christian-oriented status quo.
Lately though, we have been witnessing a more direct effect of the bipartisan politics on Hollywood. With the overwhelming control of the republican administration in office, we have seen an academy award celebration last year that reminded us of the republican national convention. It was as if Hollywood turned its back to the Democratic Party, which is usually the party, supported by the Jewish elite mass media intellectuals. Last year’s awards show was black, black, black... a reprimanded approach usually attempted by white America (over-compensating red states and the christian lobby ). Last year, Chris Rock rocked the house. Jamie Foxx was strutting with both Halle barry and Oprah, Kanye west was Hollywood’s golden kid, even P. Diddy was there (only very few in the audience knew who the king of Rap was). This year, we had an award show with a softer edge but bigger headlines.
As the Democratic national convention hosting city emoted to migrate from the west to the east coast (expectedly LA), the Oscars turned Jewish, gay and black. The Democratic Party has always been more sensitive, more metro-sexual and had to appeal to a larger group (being the party with no clear inclinations or decisions). As the political agenda required, the colors spanned the spectrum and the issues ranged from racism to sexism to sexuality to freedom of journalism to science. The movies reflecting internal turbulances, world famine and civil wars were substituted with those tackling issues of racial and social terrorism. The theme of the night was the impact and the role of the major films on these issues. As eloquent as usual, John Stewart tactfully steered the night with cleaver, yet polite humor. The night was completely void of surprises and a complete bore (more like the general feel in the DNC) and a trip back to cinema from the 40’s and a pre-Harlem renaissance era (my favorite part of the night was the commercial for M&Ms candies). Ludacris was there and with the music of “ it is hard out here for a pimp” some color was covered. The belles of the ball were Jessica Alba, Reese Witherspoon and Charlize Theron and UMA UMA UMA. Personally, I thought that Will Smith’s wife looked divine in her Roberto Cavalli.
Although the gay friendly atmosphere was prevalent with the Stewart/Clooney number and Luke and Owen Wilson delicate boyish looks and Ben Stiller’s leotard, the brilliant performances by Heith Ledger and Jake Jyllenhaal were marginalized. The show was racism-intensive “people are so isolated, they almost need to crash into each other in order to achieve human contact”, yet paradise now did not win and Anne Bancroft’s memorium overdid that of Mustafa Akkad.
The Democrats Lobbying Reform aimed to uncouple political agendas in the house of Senate from financial influences. Who was first, the chicken or the egg?
And who is black and Jewish America in bed with?
As much as i oppose the oil-thirsty, blood-thirsty, lobby-driven, religion-exploiting macho redneck America, i also despise the spineless, causeless, "we won't do as bad" "we appeal to everybody" pro-choice, pro-life, pro-war sometimes, pro-troops at the same time, civil right defenders, terrorist labelers, minority exploiters, flip-flopper democrats.
Some insight from a coloreful Awards show, so
Good night and good luck America..
Mon petit prince...
mon petit prince,
que fais-tu quand il fait tres sombre..
peux-tu voir ta rose cherie?
que fais-tu quand tout est fini,
quand tout est perdu?
que fais-tu parmi ces gens insolents,
et dans un monde intolerable
a part de jouer au destin de sable...
des gens de l'air et des esprits legers.
tu es la blague des temps...des temps n'importe!
et les ailes du temps t'emportent..
aux chateaux, des chateaux forts
des chateaux de fumee blanche
cette fumee qui te tue, tampis
ce n'ai que l'histoire de la vie
la vie qui te fais du mal
a chaque fois que je rentre
faute d'amour ou de foi,
je te vois...
a l'horizon tu coules,
tu disparais parmi les foules,
mais tu me trouves a chaque fois,
la....a cote de toi....
ana lak 3ala toul
khallik liyya...khod 3ein minni we rodda3alayya
I woke up still in pain today and with a temperature. My brain is fried and I have no feeling in my legs. My ankle is swelling even more and I started to hallucinate. It could be that I haven’t eaten in 4 days or the high dose of painkillers I’ve been shoving down my throat. The fever is affecting my brain. My eyes are teary and my back aches. I’m sweating and moaning and I don’t know how to start the day. In the midst of my illusions, I lost track of time. I was back in time.. 5, 6, 7 years ago. I don’t know how the time went by so fast. I still define myself as the girl who I was back then. I was happier back then. I was more hopeful back then. I had closer contact with who I value in life. I missed some faces from the past. GK, you were so warm and sweet. We’ve been together through some rough days and some good ones. LK, I do miss you. I can’t think for a reason we haven’t talked all this time. JS, the pampered prince and NH, my angel. G., my dear friend. I am blessed he’s still here. He’s always been my rock. The reason in my head and the anchor that brings me back. Or is he gone? I don’t know but I certainly hope not. My leg hurts and I can’t breathe. He tells me I'm okay. What does he know? I never took pride in anything that is being done elsewhere. Today I will, blame it on the fever. I am sorry about your heart my darling. Maybe that’s why you lost all feelings in this organ of yours. I admire you, a tour of strength, but I’m not that strong. I’ve suffered and cried every night. Tonight is the awards and I have to be ready for it. I’ll probably do some data analysis while watching it. Time management and multitasking, I’m sure I only learned these skills in this city that’s always in a hurry. I don’t know who’s going to win what. I like Capote and I commend Clooney for his multiple talents. Today will be a good day. I am out of cigarettes though. Leaving my country and my family so abruptly, I developed an unhealthy habit of getting attached to anything I find comfort and familiarity in. I love Saturday afternoons with Mia, talking about nothing and everything and eating the fresh baked goods we just picked up from the good bakery. We haven’t done that in a while. It used to remind me of sitting next to my mom as she slowly sips coffee with her friends. It feels so warm sitting by my mother. I will call her. I will call her and then watch the Oscars. For now, I will work on getting rid of my fever. I should eat something. I lost my appetite. I think I’ve been sick because…
“Ice cream castles in the air
I looked at clouds this way
But now they only block the sun”
Saturday, March 04, 2006
The cold in my heart is unbearable.
As I flip through the pages of this tired book I call my life, I think of all the memories. I think of people I have forgotten and others that I can’t arrive to forget.
I think of you, my one and only, my love.
You have been and will always be mine.
You whose millions of tears have been shed for no woman’s love.
You whose dignity has stood intact and shoulders taken the burden of shameful acts.
I think of you and only you.
The man of unsaid words, the man of now and then,
How is this life treating you my friend.
As I dance for others and celebrate your and my melancholy, did I dance the smile away my love?
Where is your childhood and innocence? Tell me where is the look of hope and eagerness?
Is this what the times take us to? And where do we go from here?
I won’t be using any rimes today,
I won’t mock the language of Shakespeare.
I won’t have the heart of gold today,
Today I speak and you will hear.
Long were the nights when I looked at your sleepy eyes
Waiting for a sign of tenderness, a touch of longing
A hope for forgiveness.
In all the foolness of the world, you came to hide beside me.
I am not the one to blame my boy
I blame the gods who made me a woman and you, a man.
I blame my heart
Oh! This heart of mine
This rotten hole of weakness,
I don’t want to wake up
I want to die in your arms..
A recent writer, whose novels I have grown fond of, used to say that storytellers are haunted with a thousand spirits. Here go some spirits I was haunted with…
Suddenly, I found the door to my own raw self. Suddenly I came into crude contact with my identity. Suddenly I refused my heritage and the burden of my name and political profile. To my own surprise my pen kept on writing insulting the coldness of the bare papers and it came to me under a scary name. The name was and just had to be” the walls of my life”. I had this very intense vision of the childhood of Chateaubriand and I kept on thinking of the game that I used to play in Beirut (do you remember that game?). I kept on thinking of what could be happening in all these windows and in the attics of all the houses where children play and dream. Today, I am thinking about the world cup. I guess four years have already passed, wiping away any trace of my remaining innocence. I had a small chat with a complete stranger once based on common heritage. I have missed the long hours of passionate conversations about everything that is happening and everything that is not. To my surprise, this friend’s basis for making any connection with another fellow was based on two questions, what religion do you belong to and whom are you supporting in the world cup, or the“ mondiale” as we so presumptuously call it. He repeatedly informed me that he is supporting France and that I should support them too. I wanted to tell this friend how insignificant and low he strikes me by his questions. I just wanted to convey him part of my longing to my country and their people. I wanted to tell him that I love him and miss him without needing to know what religion does he follow. I wanted to scream and cry and ask him” how is your father and mother?”. I wanted to ask about Lebanon and Beirut and my mom. Instead I said that I do not care. I am Arabic as you should be. And I felt a strange weakness in my bones and a sour taste of disgust and boredom under my teeth. At least, and for the first time in my life, I was on the other side and I was free of the guilt of a corrupt population. At least, this time and for the first time, I was honest. I was done with the human race, with politics, with aggression. I was turning my back for the last time .In my journey and my actual presence on the other side of what is happening, I had them in my heart but I had a bigger involvement and a better view. During the years of terrorism and turbulence, I came to see our problems from a different angle. War has taken another name that was horror and heroism simply ceased to exist. For the sake of the general opinion and the worldly consent, we lost our humanity. Once again, what is the meaning of a world that has gone mad and who is a man that has gone blind? Once again, who deserves pity or salvation when we are criminals and all of us are guilty and accomplices? Today I am dancing and celebrating the birth of million new spirits and the ugly death of our conscience.
At least, it was a new way of looking at things. New it is, but a cowardly way of taking the blame off my shoulder and getting rid of the guilt for good. Your war is not my war anymore and I throw the heavy weight on everyone but me.
It all has started since the beginning of times and this was man as God intended and created. Is this what God’s hands have made? I throw God then. Are these children his and he lets die? These are yours to protect and not my responsibility anymore. Goodbye to all the good things I have seen. I am tired and my eyes need rest. I saw miracles in everyday life and in all the people even the simplest. Nature is so divine and, still to the surprise of my modest judgement, we are as earthly and beastly as we have ever been.
War, my friends, is human-made and peace is a privilege we do not have anymore. I pray for forgiveness. The forgiveness of good, worthless, weak, pointless values and spirits. I pray for the forgiveness of my and of your parents and I pray for a god. Damned is this earth that has gone so small and tight to its own inhabitants. Damned religion and I scream outrageously at politicians. I carry the burden of all dead babies and my heart will rise and fall with the tears of millions of mothers and fathers and brothers and lovers. Damn you people. I curse the minute I came to a world full of ugliness and yet so full of beauty. Oh my God, my wise God would you give me a sign. Tell me you great powerful being that you have a reason. Tell me you are watching over us. Tell me that children are not dying in vain.
I quit and I leave, crying, as I never cried before. I don’t have a home anymore, I lost my roots and my leaves are burning. I look for my mother everywhere. My mother is the earth and my father is the country. But again we are people who let go of the country and who never sacrificed for the earth. My mother does not recognize me anymore, but I see she does but looks away… my mother is embarrassed with me.
We are all reflecting on each other’s conscience and awareness. Knowing this fact and truly acting upon it, it would be very hard for any of us and in the minute details of our life to do, to act and to exist as human beings and as functional entities of this place we call society. Imagine that a small detail you did not take care of could influence the well being of a child. Imagine that hatred could be contagious and imagine the baby you never had is dying. Being one of you and existing just for you, others…I hate you. From the way I perceive it finally, I see that animals are far more superior and civilized than we are. Defining society as a place of interactions and mutual services, who is the animal again?
If one would think of the absolute social service that is considered good in our days, he would absent-mindedly and hopefully think about science. Think again of what science did to the human race. All throughout history, massacres and tragedies, ladies and gentlemen I would like to give science an award of neglect and exaggeration. Think again of what our life would have been without the tool of science. I call tool what to many others would be a profession and a life style and most dramatically the future of this earth we are on. I call it tool because, by God’s name and integrity, I will always put humanity first. I call it tool because, by the name of all good and evil, I will always cherish the individual human life more than the well being of humanity. Apparently this was not the case in the past times when it comes to research and performing trial and error methods on human subjects. Sadly and surprisingly, it still is not the case nowadays when all the reasoning and goals behind medicine and applied sciences is recognition and profit. Once again we are humans and we all need positive reinforcement in order to believe in what we do and what we are up to. Let me ask you, dear friends, does the need for believing takes away the real beneficiary behind it? Man. Does the profit serve the cause behind science? Health. I have a vision and I have a dream of a different world. I have a longing for another existence. Should it be heaven, as we know it? Should be the presence in a god’s love and protection. To spare you the answer, no. Heaven should be in this treasure of a life we have been given and heaven should be what we make of it and for it.
That is on the subject of science and I have made my resolutions regarding the scientific standards and I go back to love and faith. What happened to our principles? Where are our hospitality and good manners? When did we stop caring and loving and asking about others? One would think that we got too involved in today’s practicality and pace to the extent where love became a Eutopic ideological concept. Others argue that love is what makes us and is the seed of God in each and every one of us. I argue and say, if a seed of love you say, if planted by God you say, tell me where is your God and why doesn’t he love us anymore? And tell me what would be love without having someone to love or share? And tell me whom do you want me to love when everyone fell out of love right into the center of their own selves. By definition, it is a beautiful mutual feeling whenever you can reciprocate, so could it happen to us, humans?
I fell in love before many times actually and now I believe that I will never love again. It was an absurd childish feeling of existing and self-expressing. It was the pure belief that you should present and accommodate all of life’s pleasures and leisure to the person you deeply feel for. And correct me in case I could be mistaken but who among us does not wish to have someone to share the details of a boring life with. Who among us does not long for his other half, for the being he has dreamt of? Who again, due to our nurturing nature as humans, does not wish for the person he can protect and sacrifice his life for? I have found this person and this feeling before in my life. At that time, it seemed so strong that it was impossible to give away or lose. I lost my tasty secret feeling in the one assured way a person could fall out of love with others. Today I admit that I fell in love with me and you and a whole world called third and another world called powerful. Here’s my heart put aside and my soul torn on the other side. Here’s to you my country, my love, my lover and my passion.
Well I don’t know exactly what is this feeling that haunts me and dictates my identity but I know that it defines me with every breath I take.
I want the land of martyrs and heroes.
Of colors and disguises. I will be back to the land of love and hate and revenge and millions of feelings and emotions not hidden even if not understood. Today I miss everything I was raised to value and love and anticipate. I refuse to live in a world that has turned down any evaluation of human feelings and sacrifice.
A ce temps nouveau je fais le premier pas…
Je te vois toujours couler a l’infini,
Et me voila qui fixe le regard, m’ami
Meme une ame si vive que la votre monsieur
Ne pourra jamais errer des regards des dieux
Alors, ne vous cachez-en moi, non plus
Et arretez de vous accrocher aux illusions
Me voila casser les rimes, j’ai marre des rimes
Ton amitie est fort plus intime
Ca je le jure. A jamais tu seras la,
Avec les temps et tous les temps tu resteras.
Saches-le m’amour, tant que je suis proche
Jettes les voiles sombres sur mes armes,
Casses les chaines des soirs qui nous accablent.
Tu parles toujours des couleurs, sans les gouter
Tu parles des corps des femmes, sans les gouter
Dans mes yeux, tu sors des rangs,
Alors non, tu couches aux portes des cieux,
Je ne suis qu’une petite fille fatiguee.
Je suis la fille des temps perdus mon petit
Viens, nous exister
Comme la melancholie d’un jour ensommeille
Fuis-toi et flottes et embrasses tes fautes.
Cesses chercher les ombres surreels d’un amour
Et vas enivrer le monde par ta beaute,
tes sentiments si uniques
et ton ame translucide de clarete
et voila les rimes de nouveau
jettes ce poeme
oublies les mots
Friday, March 03, 2006
So it is Friday, and where it might be the day where sorrows end for a lot of blue collars that I run across at work, it is certainly the beginning of sorrows for me. Yesterday, a man walked through the door. A black suit (cheap a wrinkled in the tricky places) and a black tie!. He came up to me after a minute of hesitation and started talking. His words were so underwhelming compared to his looks. How do you expect people to listen to what you're selling when you look so lost yourself. His eyes were empty of any clever flirtation with life and he had a cut on his finger (no ring, just a cut). I wasn’t listening to him. I do that a lot lately. I kept looking at his finger and the stress vein pumping out of his neck. He's angry with life, i can feel it. How did he cut his finger this morning? Was it while shaving, was he trying to open a can of dog food with a knife because his girlfriend took away all the kitchen tools when leaving yesterday night? She never cared about him or his dog. Well why should she, look at him. He asked for a name, good thing I heard that. He adds my name to his little contact sheet. Even more pathetic than he is, was this contact sheet. I feel bad for him. I wonder if he looks forward for Friday. What could he be up to this weekend? Maybe sit in his mom’s basement, eating left over Chinese and playing with the dog (rusty). Maybe he’s wild underneath all that. Maybe he joins a cult that wears him down and cuts his fingers. He was then smiling, what is he up to now. Oh he’s leaving... he can’t leave now! It is Friday and the beginning of my sorrows… I am feeling down today, I don’t feel grounded enough to face the weekend. I would usually have plans stuffing down every minute where otherwise I would be empty of existence. It doesn’t always work. It certainly won’t work now. Not now. Sartre tells us to attempt life with no time out. What a load of crap that is. Today I need the time out. I won’t attempt to do any work, I won’t attempt to understand what my boss is talking about, I won’t answer any phone calls about diners to say goodbye to people and I most certainly won’t sit next to the phone in anticipation of good news. I wish I could even be angry like my friend in the black suit. Not today, after all it is Friday.
and his days in the sunny city
We were the night of the first gasp,
the first breath, the first light..
Stealing of the rain, moments of joy in the pain,
we forgot it all,
we took refuge behind the eyes,
the cold walls and the bleeding streets…
Melancholic and noble,
cowardice of love in a time of hate…
Humanity ceases when,
faced with the death of humanity
Facing the truth of times
and the insolence of nonexistence
In the pale face of destiny
and the dark age of the human resistance
The awe of tears in the presence of greatness
A life of fear and mundane persistence
she had her stories written on her face
rough lines juxtaposed with her grace
she committed dancing in the name of life,
oblivious to the days lost without a trace…
and she loved him.