Nocturne, Opus 9, no.2

A poet can't speak of love, with the most zealous and passionate phrases, if they haven't experienced it before.
That's what I think. And that's what makes me cringe when I read a love poem made of cheesy metaphors and empty descriptions.
Romantic feelings are sacred, they don't just come to us when we set down, pen in hand, ready to elicit verses of passion.
That's why, batushka, I have no respect for a poet or a writer that feigns feelings; it's an insult to all the real romantics out there...Not that I fully grasp what it means to be in love myself-the real sentiment, the possessive ,mad, woeful kind of love, despite experiencing romance once upon a time..which is why Chopin's Nocturne drives me to tears every time I listen to it.
There is something special about it...I always feel that it summarizes a love story... a sweet ,delightful love story from the time of Shakespeare.

Although I don't claim to be a poet, for I never wrote about love before....maybe because I refuse to be possessed by something as wicked and manipulative as Kitsch, or maybe because "we can never establish with certainty what part of our relations with others is the result of our emotions - love, antipathy, charity, or malice- and what part is predetermined by the constant power play among individuals", and hence we never know the difference between true love and caprices ...caprices don't give birth to poems, my dear batushka.

Perhaps I would finally be able to describe love beautifully if i do fall in love again ..some day...but until then, the Bohemian in me that wakes up with the first droplets of rain every year, shall resume her slumber until next November.

For You In Full Blossom II

To my one and only friend, to my eternal enemy.
----------------------------------------------------

It was summer of 2006. You probably wouldn't remember since many years has passed since then, but i perfectly do, because it was one of these moments one faces once or twice in their life time that causes a hurricane in their heart. That's how it felt to the 14 years old me.

You said, while we were making the beds, "Why do you look so miserable when no one is paying attention ? it's like you have two personalities and you switch to the cheerful one when you are around people."

What you said threw me off-balance I couldn't say any thing for a while..
I heard the crashing sound of glass somewhere..and the sound of strained strings snapping inside of me one after another :
Tuk. Tuk.Tuk
I was caught off-guard.
I felt utter confusion ..."what are you saying, silly ? pfft ", is what I wanted to say, but a grip of betrayal started clutching at my neck, slowly making it harder to breath...

My whole world fell crumbling upon me...

Why did you have to say that ? Why did you notice ? And why didn't you say anything before, choosing this peaceful moment of childish innocence to reveal to me that I've been seen through, all this time.
I lied to myself for years, telling myself that i can be normal, i can be if i pretend to be happy, if i practiced smiling until i perfect it, if i become a joker that mocks life and mocks sadness and sad people.
I thought I was coming closer to my perfect lie...but you had to ruin everything by one single ingenious comment on a lovely day in June.
I failed.

I knew deep down that you were the only person that perfectly understood me in this entire world, and because of that i knew also that we can't be friends for too long...

Didn't you notice how the slumber parties ceased ? How I never show up when you are leaving to the airport ? How I only stay for an hour or so when you come back ? We stopped being close because we became too close..

You bring back all my insecurities to the surface, you remind me of my litost, you see right through me, you peel the layers under which i've hid myself for years, one by one, until there is no where to hide, you take off my theatrical masks and break them, you corner me, standing akimbo, with a sly, yet comforting smile on your face.
There is no way to run to.

I feel naked in front of you.

But then you look me in a way that says "I understand, it is okay to show your real feelings when we are alone together, you don't need to pretend".

You might read this letter one day out of curiosity, and realize that it is addressed to you. Well, i made no effort to make this letter ambiguous in any way, because I want you to know how much you mean to me, and how much you changed me. I keep saying that I'm not that person anymore.

But I just couldn't bring myself to answer your question after all these years. I'm deeply sorry that I left your life so suddenly.

I love you.

El Baronessa Rampante

Once upon a time, there was a little girl

She was walking through a prolific forest

And her thoughts were a whirl
She had no purpose for the day

Just walking about,
Greeting squirrels and nodding at jays 
Hopping between the branches, 
Boasting in furry vestures, being merry and gay
Their tails bent in elegant twirls

"These fellas got it all figured out",she thought

"Just fancy, how splendid it would be 
To choose your own tree, give it a name
And make it your home
Ascend above feuds and bigotry
And rule your own land,
Like an earl"
She stumbled upon a lofty pine

Adorned with a beautiful gnarl 

Up she climbed, and seated herself in glee
"This branch shall become my throne",she said

And then she, proud ,and free 
Named herself a Baroness
On a tree.

*Italo Calvino

Paradox

I'm a lump of contradictions

I hide my real face behind =truths that take the form of deceit
Yet I long for a person that sees through all my masks

I'm sympathetic, I'd cry when you cry
But not when you die, part of it is because I scorn hypocrisy
Rigid as a mountain, while I say "Al Baraka feekom"
I seek love, but I kill its seeds before they sprout in my heart
I run away company, but I'm scared of being left alone
I like my space intact, but I yearn for a breath of fresh air when I'm indoors
I see through people, I'd like to believe that
Eyes articulate the words clearer, but I don't even know myself that well
I can't catch myself on a lie
I indulge in self-laceration, but at times I adore my very shadow
I'm my best friend, and my worst bully
I'm a lump of contradictions
One thinks that the long years
And the quiet retreats of reveries would unravel all mysteries
I shift faces more than I shift my moods
Perhaps, it wasn't that I had many faces I assumed at leisure,
Sir Milan, it's true, that I didn't know which face to wear for the day
As I looked into the mirror, mine was cracked in half.

November Sky

November is my month;
I opened my eyes for the first time on Nov 17th, which happens to be today.
But that's not why I love November, mind you, dear reader, so much that I enter a state of vivid intoxication for a month  skipping every other step while walking, chanting to myself ballads of romance, and falling in love with the world and with love itself.
You will pardon me, batushka, for my overflowing joy when you understand how much and why I blossom in this month.

I love November because it's the only month that contains the letter "V". 
This might sound a bit silly for those who don't realize the importance of symbols to dreamers.

"V" is the symbol of peace, victory. V for Vendetta ,legitimate justice, V for Vladimir Nabokov, for Vittorio Monti, for Vivaldi, V for Viktor Espinolla ,V for velvet, V for violin ,

V for violet.

Love has"V", Forgiveness has"V",  so does Virtue, ...There is only so many symbols and so many meanings..

I realized how much this single letter became a collective symbol of everything I love and everything i want to be, and unconsciously developed this attachment to names, object, ideas, even occurrences that contains it.
You'd think it's absurd, eccentric or even naive ; but suit yourself, that's the way of all dreamers out there...
After all, aren't we all absurd, a little eccentric, and especially naive ?

Living in my heart, there is a poet, dear batushka, a simple-hearted one, with the most candid expressions. She doesn't jot down rhapsodies, but sings her prose in a frenzy of passion when it rains; from heaven or in her soul.

She travels along with the gypsies around the soul's Bohemia ,chasing after the rainy clouds and the mystical rainbows. But she often gets left behind by her negligent companions, when she has too much love to drink and oversleeps on the morning of the departure,
It happens a lot.....she would open her eyes and realize the extent of her solitude, and decides to go back to her dreams till her folks come back for her.....next year, perhaps.

It is the time when my gypsies, my folks, come back, merry and gay as ever, to celebrate the rain with me.

This poet rises from her long slumber, and, dozy ,she stretches a bit and joins the festivity; she starts pouring down the thoughts that came to her during her long dreams on scrapes of papers ,on petals of roses, on the sand by the beach, on the misty windows when the rain momentarily ceases.

She is eager to live, she has so much to tell the world to which she has opened her eyes after a long apathy, so many feelings she wants to convey,
so much love to share, and new seeds to sow.

This poet doesn't need a tribune, batushka, for the world is obliged to become her audience when her vitality shouts, when her soul rises to the surface and screams at the top of its voice:

"I'M HERE AND I'M SO VERY MUCH ALIVE !".

I close my eyes and take in the scent of rain, feeling the droplets landing on my forehead and nose and lips, sliding along my temples, feeling the blissful shower through my fingers.

What is more cleansing ?

When I open my eyes again, I'm laying on a fluffy bed of clouds, facing the sun, bathing in its golden rays.
Wouldn't it be wonderful ? Oh, to be able to just stay there forever, trapped between the chilliness of the clouds and the warmth of the sun ?
To just lay there in bliss and ecstasy, not counting the days nor keeping track of time, forgetting it all, listening to the distant folk music beating somewhere, staring at November's sky for eternity...

It is my birthday, and I truly feel I'm granted a new life with the coming of the rainy season every year. Every time I feel the rain on my face, every time I talk to the rain, I remember that I need no one , absolutely no one to celebrate my life ; because I feel that the entire universe celebrates with me..I remember that I need not the love of mortals , because God loves me, that I need not material gifts , because God has sent me one of his : The cleansing of my soul. 

Es Muss Sein

Or Raison D'etre

He and my dad were conversing about politics or some serious topic that concerns not many people. The only thing I remember was that I was following their discussion with a great attention. I've always liked to listen to adults talking; especially when they spoke in low tones, and had these grave looks on their eyes. Of course it was a great privilege to be a "child that doesn't understand" in their eyes as it allowed me to practice my observations without raising suspicions.
He glanced at me, mid my eavesdropping, and suddenly said to my dad.

"You know, your daughter will turn out to be someone of great significance, one day."

"..........................the question is when."

You might think a 7-years old wouldn't heed such random lines, wouldn't understand their real weight, contending herself with being praised in such sophisticated terms.. But were they truly random ?
"Great" and "When", standing like two giants opposite each others, comparing their heights, meant a lot of things and I perfectly understood them.
That moment was especially carved in my memory because it was the first time i heard the calling of my Es muss sein ! (Beethoven's no.16).
Es muss sein is symbol for a weighty duty. It has to be done ; it can't be otherwise, or it would crush your ego under its massive weight; a purpose that you choose, or it chooses you, it doesn't matter which.
I found a purpose that crowned my life with a meaning. I was happy.

I don't think it's that sorry of a thing to lead your life for the sole purpose of fulfilling a purpose imposed upon you by someone else. I didn't understand at the time that every person is supposed to find their own calling in life and carry its weight up the mountain. I only knew that he told me to be a great person, and I sat about trying to do just that.
My calling was personified in him. This person's function was to remind me that I was ,basically ,worthless. Not in a demeaning sense, but in the grand scheme of things, I needed to understand that "I'm not yet there", because he still didn't nod..

No matter what I did, no matter how far ahead I got, no matter how satisfied with my achievements I was, that person would shrug their shoulders. It meant it's still not enough.
I'm not good enough.
I need to try harder.
I need to strife more.
More
More

But he wouldn't look at Me and acknowledge Me no matter what I did.

He threw that weight on my back and turned around without a care that I should break.

And slowly, I believe, my life became nothing but a comic, yet woeful ,soap opera displaying my struggle for recognition.

When I was called "Young Scientist" and summoned to the stage, when I slit my way among a crowd of strangers clapping and smiling and nodding at me, saying unintelligible phrases between their congrats, I didn't understand what was the big deal;

Is it that impressive to do what one is supposed to do ?

Isn't the satisfaction of expectations the natural course of action?

What you are applauding for isn't Me, it's a deceitful facade that doesn't represent me.

When I mounted that stage and looked at the unknown faces cheering for me I had but one thought :

He isn't here.

He, and he alone was the one I'm pursuing. And he wasn't there.

My whole life was summarized in this moment : it was supposed to be a moment of pure joy and victory, esteemed victory, it should have made up for my life that was consumed by continuous pursuits and internal wars. But there was no closure.

It was a very important turning point during my adolescence because it marked the end of a long, long struggle between myself and my duty ,by the glorious win of the later. Or was it?

You know, when you take a deep breath and look at the big picture, great yet obvious realizations suddenly hit you :

Would he have truly been proud, if he was here ? Was there a way for him to know that his "Yes, you did well" meant the world to me ? An end to a struggle ? Would he have possible understood that words can make or break a person, if uttered at the right time, at the right moment where their bones are shuffling and their mind is taking form for the last time ?

Did he think I was caged for too long and it was time to release me, whether I succeeded in my mission or not ? Did he perceive, quite late, that he imposed his Es Muss Sein on me without heeding my youth, not realizing how hefty it was on my shoulders, nor how it crushed me, and crushed the dreams that I was yet to have ? So he fled.

Bewilderment took possession of  me.
And then came enlightenment.

Whether my duty was accomplished or not, it doesn't matter anymore, I thought. Because I , yes, "I", for it was high time "I" finally spoke , decided to break my own chains and flee; it was the time I let myself out of this odious cage called "expectations".

I felt a spiritual freedom...and freedom tasted good.

So good it transfigured into something akin to rage. In my head, I started cracking my way out of this rigid, mute statue of perfection that everyone admired and inside which my real self was kept hidden..or rather trapped.
I broke out and fell over the broken pieces smashing them, grinding them under my feet with such wrath, such frenzy pumped with haughtiness and vanity. I've conquered the one and only obstacle in my life, the spines that was stuck in my throat, his expectations ;my chains. It was an epic escape.

Nobody understood why I quit. Let go of a chance to be "as great as my predecessors". How could I not continue down the brilliant road paved ahead for me, fulfilling all the great things that others thought I could do ? I'm just a child though.

If you knew me personally before this revolution, my dear reader, I would like to tell you that it wasn't out of spite that I rebelled, of that I'm sure. It was a necessary step to enforce my identity. To separate myself and my Es muss sein. One look at where I ended up and where I was supposed to go can tell a great deal about the cyclone that occurred inside my mind when I realized this : there is absolutely no material purpose that deserves to be your raison d'etre.


And...ever since that day, I believe, I never took anything seriously. To my great joy, and woe.

مِـــنّـــي و إلٓـــــــيّ

لا أدري كم من السنوات مرت منذ آخر خاطرة لي بالعربية 

قد يكون السبب قوة هذه اللغة المذهلة في التعبير عن بعض المشاعر الانسانية كـ "الألم" و "الغضب" و "الحب" بطريقة غير ممكنة بأي لغة اخرى ، و هي بالتالي لغة فاضحة، تجرد الكاتب من اقنعة التعابير المنمقة...

لا يرغب كثير من الكتّاب باظهار ذواتهم الحقيقة من خلال ما يكتبون ، فذلك يجعلهم عرضة للمحاكمة بإجحاف ... لكنها لغتنا الأم على اية حال، و لا يمكننا تخطيها لنكتب بلغة اخرى قبل ان نمنحها شرف الكلمة الأولى.

عندما بدأت بالكتابة كان لدي مفكرة على غلافيها وجهان احدهما ضاحك و الآخر تعيس 

كتبت على الصفحة الأولى "مِنّي و إلّي"

و رحت اخط على صفحاتها اشجاني الطفولية بتعابير واهية ، الارجح انني سأموت ضحكاَ اذا قرأتها الآن..

اتخذت من مفكرتي أنيساَ للّيالي التي قرر النوم الّا يشرفني بالزيارة فيها، و جعلت ما بين دفتيها ملاذي الآمن : لقد كانت مملكتي التي احكم اطرافها بخيالي و أخط حدودها بقلمي.

كنت اشكو اليها ما يزعجني ، و اقص عليها غرابة هذا العالم و لا منطقية ساكنيه ، و نعم المستمع كانت مفكرتي !

أليس من الغريب ان نجد عزائنا في وريقات تصنع من لحاء الاشجار ، وان تكون تلك الشرائح البيضاء افضل صديق و أنبل رفيق قد نحظى به في زمن ندر فيه المستمعون و كثر فيه اللجوجون ؟

الورق يستمع بلا مقاطعة ، يتلقى بصدر رحب رصاص كلماتنا و خدوش اقلامنا، غير مبال بسُمّيَّتها او سذاجتها ...الورق يتسع للكثير الكثير من الاحاسيس ، لكن الاهم ان الورق لا يحاكمنا. إنه يستمع بصمت و تفهم عجيبين يجعلك تفضل صحبته على صحبة الآدميين.

عندما ظننت انني اكتفيت من الكتابة ، اهديت مفكرتي لصديقتي المقربة عند تخرجنا من الثانوية..كانت مسافرة الى بلد اجنبي وأردت ان اعطيها شيئاً يذكرها بي. ولم أجد افضل من ذكرياتي .
سبب آخر دفعني لذلك هو أنني كرهت ان اودع اسراري في خزنة واحدة ؛ مفكرتي كانت تعلم الكثير عني وكان علي ان ابتعد عنها من دون ان امزقها بنفسي...لم يكن بإمكاني التخلص منها بالتأكيد فقد كانت اقرب اصدقائي في وقت من الاوقات و لست شخصاً دنيئاً الى هذه الدرجة لأخون احد اصدقائي، حتى وان كان كائناً غير حي. لذلك فكرت بمشاركتها مع شخص آخر له القدرة على محاكمتي ..
و ماذا ان تمت محاكمتي ؟
كل منا يخفي جانبآ لا يظهره للآخرين و يرغب في ان يدفنه عميقآ حيث لا يرى النور و حيث يفنى شيئاً فشيئاً ..
و لكن من منا فكر في فصل ذلك الجانب و جعله يسافر بعد عناق طويل الى الطرف الآخر من العالم  ؟
انها لفكرة شاعرية ان تفصلك آلاف الاميال عن جزء من ذاتك، من دون ان ينقطع الخيط الذي يربط الجزء بالكل...عندها لن تضطر الى محو جزء لا يتجزء ممن تكون و لن تضطر الى مواجهته ايضاً. انها الطريقة الامثل لتحقيق التوازن بين التقزز من الذات وتقبل الذات.

في ذلك الوقت بدأت ادرك ان مجرد التنفيس عن الغضب من خلال الكتابة ليست افضل الطرق لمواجهة اي مشكلة، ففي النهاية ، طيات دفاترنا مجرد مهربٍ تخيليّ نأوي اليه عندما نكون محاصرين..

بدأت عندها برؤية العالم بمنظار آخر يرى ابعد من الوجهين المتناقضين: السعيد او التعيس. هناك اوجه اخرى..و كلها حقيقية ، اي كلها جميلة ، و كلها اجزاء مني سأرسلها مع كل حبي و تقديري في رحلات حول العالم لأعود لقرائتها بعد ان اصبح شخصاً افضل.. وربما تترقرق دمعة او اثنتان بينما اقلب صفحاتها.

لقد كانت مرحلة من حياتي لا اريد ان اتذكرها و لا اريد ان امحوها ؛ مرحلة يدعونها جهلاَ "أزمة" المراهقة و هي في الحقيقة مجرد موسم عابر من الاعاصير يحدث الكثير من الغبار و الفوضى عند قدومه لدرجة فد تعمينا عن رؤية الحقيقة...

لكن الفوضى ليست سلبية في كليتها ؛ الفوضى تعلمنا ان لا وسيلة للعثور على ذواتنا المدفونة تحتها سوى البدأ بالتنظيف بأنفسنا.

اخبرتني صديقتي بعد ان قرأَت ما اهديته ليها ان العواطف المتجسدة في الكلمات هي اروع هدية يمكن ان تقدمها لأي شخص، لأنها مرآة مصقولة لا تعكس سوى روح كاتبها، مجردة من النفاق.....
كلماتها كانت عميقة جداً لكنني لم ادرك صحتها الا بعد سنوات، بعد ان "عدت الى الحياة"...و بعد انشائي لهذه المدونة ، و التي هي مهداة اليها و الى كل من تعزه نفسي. اهديكم جميعاً اكليل افكاري و زهور كلماتي، كما كتبت في اول تدوينة.

غير انني لم أجرؤ على الكتابة بالعربية منذ أيام المفكرة ، قد يكون السبب انني في عقلي الباطن، خصصت هذه اللغة لفترة احتجت فيها الى كلمات حية ، قادرة على الصراخ بفحوى معانيها، و هي فترة موسم الاعاصير في كياني..

او ربما بسبب احترامي الشديد لهذه اللغة ، مما جعلني اصاب بالرهبة كلما اقدمت على نظم كلمات لا تليق بمستواها، و لكن ها انذا اعود اليها من جديد لأنني لم اعد اخشى ان اظهر روحي من خلال كلماتي.. لقد ولدت من جديد و سأروي قصتي مجردة من كل الاقنعة.

The Old Man And The Sea

On my way from RAK to Sharjah , the bus always passes by the bay. I would abandon all my reading or studying by which I occupy my time during such long trips and fix my eyes at the beach and its dwellers, watching this mesmerizing scenery with great delight : The clear sky, the dark greenesh-blue bay stretching along the road with thousand crystals scattered on its surface in glory, kids running around in thier trunks, little girls gathering shells, mothers unpacking picnic baskets, youngsters playing soft ball with their legs smeared in white.....It's a very warm scene, it reminds me that life is still as amazing and enjoyable as ever , that "الدنيا لسة بخير" despite all the gloom of this world.

But what I enjoy watching the most is this old man seated on a white chair facing the sea. He's always there; I would like to think he has always been there , although I don't know for how many Saturday's he has been pulling his chair to the beach and spending his afternoons in tranquility, just sitting on his chair, not moving, not talking to anyone, not appearing to have any sort of company nor heeding attention to anyone else..It almost looks like he is having a heart-to-heart conversation with the sea and the setting sun, in a language that no one else can understand.

This old man has always intrigued me, the title of Hemingway's novel "The Old Man And The Sea" jumps to my mind whenever i see him (although I've never read the book as I'm not in good terms with Mr. Hemingway's ways), but regardless,

I face a great difficulty in calming this strong urge to stop the driver, leave the bus, abandoning all my plans for that day, and just walk up to this white-haired fellow, and sit next to him on the white sand, not asking him who he was, or why he is always alone, for I don't want to interrupt his important dialogue with the blushed horizon ; I just want to see what he sees.
I need to sketch this scenery and post it here so whoever is reading this can understand the depth and beauty of the sight of this solitary creature finding company and consolation where nobody else can find.

The Lone Tree

Have you ever been to a place and thought "I came here before, I know it. I can almost remember it",
when, in fact , It was the first time you went there ? Or have you looked at a stranger and swore that you knew them, even made conversation and became acquaintances, except that you didn't ?

Deja vu is a mysterious occurance indeed : Why would your subconscious mind pull such a prank on you, making you think, falsely, that you have already experienced a specific incident ?
Human mind has its methods of confusing memories and illusions and feelings and dreams; it all gets mixed up to the point where you can't even tell what's real anymore..But I can't help but think there is something gravely romantic about being attacked by deceptive pangs of nostalgia.

I was passing by this row of houses the other day while taking a stroll, all of them looking neat and new, with similar fronts, crammed together like they were trying to fend off cold, when i stopped...
what stopped me was one old house without a gate, which seemed abandoned and scheduled to be demolished.. I peered inside.. the yard was as empty and lifeless as a cemetery, there was a black wooden hedge covered with rampant, almost grey ivies which looked pretty out of place being the only remnants of life there ....and there was one tree at the corner, or rather, what was a tree.
I considered this tree for a long time..I didn't know why i was so absorbed in this whole scene that looked like it was projected from another dimension, frozen and forgotten by time..something about it attracted me, I just couldn't fathom it, or I couldn't remember what it was.

Could it be a memory ?
But it was the first time in my life that i saw a dead tree, so dead it was rather charred and almost crumbling.

Was it a feeling, then ?

I think it was, because feelings are not necessarily associated with previous experiences, they lay asleep withing us and decide to wake up at the most unexpected times. This is because unconsciously relate some scenes, colors, shades, smells,sounds, vibes with certain feelings.

Solitude .It finally hit me.

I remembered solitude.
I wanted to go up to that tree, hug it with all my might, whisper to it the most sincere words of consolation, and listen, hearken, concentrate all my senses to find the faintest traces of life , the weakest calls from the depth of its trunk, caress its wan branches ,trembling from breeze..I wanted to tell this poor creature that I know how it feels to wither out of loneliness.

Vanity Fair

I'm incapable of falling in love because I'm a sore loser.
That's the conclusion I reached after a very long contemplation.

This might sound very comical, but you will have to understand, dear reader, that It was with a great difficulty that I came to this realization, and more so making peace with the idea of writing about it here. I'm not obliged to make such disclosures about myself of course, but I get the feeling that I owe some people a decent explanation,I think.

Going back to me being a sore loser. Yes, exactly. I can't help but compete with anyone i consider deserving of my rivalry, i.e cocky assholes who think they are the smartest in the room. I get a great satisfaction from crushing them the most. Well, if they are within my zone of rivalry.
I don't like the feeling of being looked down upon and I certainly don't succumb to anyone who doesn't provide proof of them knowing better than I do. That's how I rolled ever since I could remember.
But that's not the real issue here; the problem is what drives me to be so competitive : It's the satisfaction of my vanity.
Vanity is a very sly,two-faced friend. It makes you feel great about yourself, superior to those around you, in fact, but it's also the most gruesome bonds-torpedo.
Which is why many poets and philosophers argued that there is no place for pride and vanity in love. But they just don't get that that is impossible for some people with extreme cases of arrogance. So extreme it penetrates their cores and circulates in their veins.

When it comes to romance, I can never, ever, and no matter how hard I try, bring myself to admit that I actually have a thing for someone.. that would be absurd, if you ask me ; not only because I'm a woman, but because I'm a proud woman, and that, batushka, is a very complicated being.
Proud women look constantly not for the person that completes them, but for the person that makes them yield, a person that challenges them.
But then when we find such a person, we don't simply accept them, we need to torture them first, make them fall miserably in love with us, and then reject them, push them away and see if they keep coming back, to keep proving their love to us over and over, which is , of course, far from easy, as we are very selective of the candidates worthy of our love, they have to be the type that are able to make us, proud women, give in so they are naturally the difficult type.
So here is the most common scenario, we start this cold war with the person we are supposed to have feelings for, a battle to determine who is going to give in first and admit their feelings. We, conceited women, will do everything within our powers to win this pointless war in the name of love...and the name of vanity..
But (wait it gets better) , if our love interest happens to yield first, It's the height of irony that their place in our hearts is no longer ; we lose interest in them.
Why ? because now we've proved to ourselves that we are superior. It's game over for you, my friend, because once you yield , you become the Reacher, and one of us becomes the Settler, which is a type of relationships that satisfies this vanity peculiar to our type, true, but never our hearts and consequently never last.

My problem is that I'm never the Reacher. I have to be the Settler, which doesn't work out for the other party of course, unless they are very understanding (and smart enough to get the clauses of this arrangement without stating its terms verbally)..But if the other person is too smart, I'll feel very self-conscious while dealing with them, and I'll start wondering whether I'm actually the Reacher while being tricked to believe the opposite, and then my pride gets annoyed and whispers to me that I absolutely need to prove that things are still in control. That is, by making a statement that I'm actually not under the spell of this person, and that I can walk away anytime.. Which is of course the beginning of the ruin of any relationship.

See ? our confounded pride intervenes to prevent us from enjoying even the small fragments of romance. We are tortured women : we lose either ways, unless we bury within the deepest depths of our hearts this detestable conceit.

Well, don't think you can grasp anything from this chaotic confession unless you have a similar mentality.. So anyway, my dear future partner,
if you want me to yield and admit that I actually have feelings for you, you will have to prove to me that you are smart enough to receive the great privilege of my feelings..
But you will have to be on a level so advanced it makes me too lazy to interpret your actions and gestures, you will have to have the emotional IQ of Eistein to be able to trick me into believing that I'm the one in control, because otherwise I'll always be competing with you to overthrow you from the throne of romance.

I already feel bad for the person that will make me fall head over heels for him, he will have to work really hard, the poor thing...lol

L'esperanto

This is a letter to whoever takes more time dwelling in dreams than coming up with a to-do list.

You know, the reason I disliked The Alchemist so much -something i didn't have the chance to discuss it with anyone,as I was frowned upon immediately after mentioning how badly I struggled to finish the book and swallow up the silly ending- is because I really believe people shouldn't dream of what they can't achieve.
I'm a realist. I don't day-dream ; I contemplate.

I think it is okay to have a wide imagination and think, only think, of all the possibilities ahead, if we only keep that within the limits of our heads.
Dreamers are weaklings, most of the time (and that's my personal opinion, dear reader, you are entitled to argue) because they don't have it in them to face the real world, nor to be someone in their lives.
So instead, they turn to their  imagination and make themselves significant, you know, like an artist that puffs up his model and makes him handsomer and more muscular. That's just pathetic.

I get that Mr. Paulo was trying to  inspire us to follow our dreams yada yada yada...But if realizing dreams with mere incessant efforts was possible, why would these people wait for encouragement through this book of yours, Sir ?
What is life, real life? it's not really about dreaming. That, everyone can do. It's about being practical and smart enough to know your own limits, and dream correspondingly. If it's too big, it's better to invest your energy in something more down to earth. At least that's what I learnt after pursuing the path of engineering and science.
Sincerely,
-An Ex-dreamer, now a pragmatist

Illuminatus

"In the sunset of dissolution, everything is illuminated by the aura of nostalgia, even the

guillotine" - Milan Kundera

If it's possible to review your own life, to watch it in a dark a theater, alone, on a wide screen, pop-corn in hand, on a cozy armchair, would you- I'm not going to ask whether or not you'll watch it until the end, rest assured, as that is impossible- but would you have the same feeling about certain moments in your life, now you are witnessing them again ?

Mishaps, being punished for something you didn't do as a child, your first shock in humanity ; when you realized how brutal this world can be, your first big lie, Teenage crises , the conflict between right and wrong with you stuck in between, your first F in a test , the first real dispute with your parents, your first fight with a friend/lover, the departure of a close person from this life, being strangers with a once close friend..etc

There are so many events that can be condensed into one life-time, so many you won't remember all of them; but you will always remember how they made you feel . Because feelings are dormant sensations that awaken once in a while, with a scent, a touch, a picture, a color...feelings could be entrapped and left for keepsake inside any object of our choice, they sense the proximity of the object and resolutely bounce into our minds...remember...remember...REMEMBER..

When I watch the movie of my life, a frequent occurrence during which I enter a state of deep reverie I don't easily get out of, I get a warm, fuzzy feeling all the way. I would laugh at my stupid adventures and the silly fights I had, all the foolish decisions I've made so far, the things I lost and I thought I'd never find, the tests I didn't study for and consequently failed, how being around a certain individual who's around no more made me feel, instead of how their absence crushed me. And all the mistakes I've made...the things that I considered as calamities at the time...they would all look so logical to me, so educating, and so luminous.

It's very interesting that memories, whether sad or happy, have a peculiar charm; they look very luminous from afar, and misty, untouchable when you walk through them during moments of reminiscing.

When we remember, dwell in the past, it's always nostalgia that possess us. Ardent nostalgia ; instead of grieving  and morning over the lost youth, and the people who are no longer here. Instead, we talk about the deceased with evident festivity, and the days of our childhood with joy.

But what is it that transfigures memories so much as to change the impressions they leave at the back of our minds ? what makes them so...brilliant ? We often lose memories, or make up memories, consciously or unconsciously, we develop them, add to them parts that were never there, trim some of the painful parts, make them more radiant,
But never gloomier.

Of course, if one had so much control over their memories - and believe me, we ,you and I,do- why would they distort them ? No one, absolutely no one, seeks unhappiness so much as to mutate their past into horrid nightmares. We never exaggerate our mistakes, they all look smaller and sillier the older we get, because we already lived with the consequences, and because we already know how bad it can get, and that it can't get any worse . So instead, we get our pallets and brushes, and set to color the past with the most delightful and refreshing colors. After all, our past is a precious part of our own, to beautify the past is to beautify ourselves in our own eyes.

We Were There

The best part of my childhood was spent waiting for Sara to come at precisely 3:00 pm ,waving to me from afar just when she turns around the corner. And how we used to skate in our yard and  roam around on our bikes exploring the abandoned houses and getting chased out by the concierge.

We built a tree house, except that it was on the ground. There was an enormous, enormous space -now occupied by a creepy-looking school, that was covered with little bushes here and there and which made the perfect place to play hide and seek, and getting lost.

Abdullah was what you would call a natural jerk ; a mischievous brat beyond measures. I wasn't any better so we got along just fine. He was our neighbor's kiddo...I didn't consider him as a "friend", he was a different entity, more like a family member, but a family member that I wasn't allowed to fight with in front of my mom, so I did it behind her back. I just opened my eyes and he was there, the insufferable creature..We just spent too much time together to realize we aren't really family.
I liked his older sister much better though. Not only we had the same name,but she used to carry and toss me really high in the air. It was awesome.

We met with Sara when I was 6 years old. It was the first day of school and we were standing in line, well, as close to a line as a group of first-graders would be able to form.
I was standing behind Abdulla , because our mothers told us to stick together. He was spouting some philosophical nonsense while I was examining the faces of these boring kids, looking all nervous and timid, when I heard a sharp, girlish voice : pssshheeeeeeww~

She was standing behind me, flying an invisible plane. I smiled because I thought it's impressive to not give a damn about the world..you know, first day of school, a big deal for every kid, you have to behave yourself and try to make friends.....I think I was always like that, taking interest in eccentric people, and getting easily bored with the usual...But she was different ; she wasn't boring. Apparently she thought of my smile as an invitation to make conversation...In the afternoon when we came back by the same bus, we realized we live 3 houses apart, and almost immediately became friends, without noticing and without asking for it, with that innocent fluency with which kids become friends.


We became good friends during grade school, Sara, Abdullah and I. Except for the fact that Abdullah hated Sara's guts, calling her spoiled and stupid and telling her off. I pretended I didn't notice though. For they were both equally stupid-yet-important to me .. ..Life is much simpler when you are a kid, you just content yourself with the false belief that you will stay friends forever, making secret strategies to save the world in case aliens decided it's time to attack the earth, or planning pranks to pull on the kids from the next neighborhood...Nothing could ever separate us.
Little did we know that this is just a child's dream.

I remember when Abdulla decided it's uncool to hang out with the two of us and slowly drifted away to join the guys. I don't remember how I felt when that happened though. Probably relief..Good riddance, egg-head. Sara and I drifted apart when we stopped attending the same school.

How many years have passed ? I don't know,15 years ?

I met Sara recently at this wedding, I recognized her immediately although she got taller and dyed her hair and apparently got married and is currently pregnant with her second child.. But she had the same aura around her.
Time leaves it's mark on our appearances, but the interior, the soul remains intact. We chatted for a short while..there wasn't really anything to talk about of course. ..It's very painful when the only thing you have in common with a once precious friend is memories...hazy memories of our childhood that almost feel like a sweet dream..
Dreams and reality shouldn't mix , people from the past shouldn't spring to the present.
I moved on , remember ? you left me alone, by the tree house for years, I waited and waited for eternity...but you never came back..you grew up, leaving the child in me morning the memories.

It's not really that we stopped being friends ; for people don't consciously make such decisions..well, in most cases anyway. It was Time that separated us. Time ; age, life, growing up, adolescence..Call it what you want..The undeniable fact is that people change, they grow old and they grow apart.

We were inseparable once upon a time;I didn't even attend her wedding.
He and I were like siblings, I don't know which college he attended.

I would say with certainty that we wouldn't even exchange greetings if we met anywhere...Perhaps a quick, imperceptible nod before turning the other way, signifying a mutual agreement to keep trapped this stage of our lives, although dear and precious, between photo albums and ancient Ninja Turtles stickers in the old attic.

For Whom The Bell Tolls

"No man is an Iland, intire of itselfe; 
Every man is a peece of the Continent, 
A part of the maine; if a Clod bee washed away by the Sea, 
Europe is the lesse, as well as if a Promontorie were, 
As well as if a Manor of thy friends or of thine owne were; 
Any mans death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankinde; 
And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; 
It tolls for thee."

-John Donne ,Meditation XVIIl. Devotions upon Emergent Occasions

It was a day like every other . The sun rose like it always does, people woke up,went to work,students went to school ,kids played football in the parking lot..
And robins chirped merrily while jumping between the branches..
It was the perfect day to glitter and be gay.
Except for the fact that 47 people died in a bombing in some obscure city in some obscure country.

I stopped at the channel to scan the newsflash, which, by the way, was not a newsflash at all. Death became a common occurrence nowadays; so much that death bills became the usual introduction on the News.
"47 casualties have been reported in a bombing in the city of X. More details to follow. In other news, actress XX's newborn attracts the attention of the press being the most fashionable child in Hollywood."

There was a moment of reflection. ..i don't usually think about such things ; but just realizing that these two pieces of news were not at least separated by a moment of silence in memory of the deceased ,instigated a very curious happening. I felt like i slipped from the top of a high building, one too high it takes several days to fall..and then I hit the bottom. I sure took my time falling, and I severely crashed to the ground to my awakening :

I didn't even flinch.
I was not affected.

I didn't even stop to examine the magnitude of that figure, the number of souls that left this world at the same time, and left their houses without putting the probability of getting killed for no reason in their minds, the number of souls that left and to which was dedicated no respectful amount of time to mourn, as the reporter didn't even change her tone while shifting to the next report, and as the earth kept rotating, and the rest of the human population breathing, walking, talking gaily and LIVING in total oblivion.

It dawned upon me, the truth. The ugly truth.
I'm, we are, monsters of the most horrid type: humans.

You know, what's horrid about humans is that they are civilized. We are dexterous in our brutality, and audaciously philosophical in our atrocity.
We can utilize our utmost faculties to devise a killing machine..while hideously contrasting that by proclaiming vain banners of human rights and equality ; including equality in the right to LIVE , ironically.

Truth is, unless it's of a close relation, death of another human does not affect us at all. No matter how courteous or pretentious we are, it does not produce in us the genuine feelings of grief that translate into an honest "I'm sorry for your loss".

'tell you what, sir Donne, every man's death doesn't affect me, because i'm not involved in mankind.

Batushka, I'm afraid that you would be very disappointed to see that your romantic words have been basely abused as slogans of empty ideas of peace and brotherhood. There was never a bell that tolled in people's hearts at the demise of a fellow human being. 

The Beginning

It was a little before noon, I remember it clearly, that lovely summer day. Not a trace of a cloud in the blue sky. A choir of cicada were trying to sync their noisy aria. And some construction workers were busy building a two-story masjed, carefully handling the scarlet-colored bricks.

I was 8 years old. Barefoot, resting my head on my palms, I sat on a desolate block outside my grandmother's house, looking into the distance.

What was I thinking at that time ?

I couldn't tell.

A child's imagination, fertile and immaculate as it is, so young and naive, so daring and sublime, is a supernova. There is an infinite of possibilities, and there are no limits.

One moment I was thinking of nothing, the next I was thinking of everything all together, slowly drifting towards the end of the flat cosmos on the raft of reverie, whistling to my self songs of innocence all along.

"Why are you sad ?"

A deep-sounding voice interrupted my meditations. I raised my head to see a tall youth, wearing a warm smile. It was a strange smile. I didn't really register what he said because i sat there contemplating his strange smile for a good while...A strange smile indeed..The best way to describe it is (allow me to borrow the wisdom of Mr. Fitzgerald at this point, dear reader ) :

"He smiled understandingly—much more than understandingly. It was one of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that you may come across four or five times in life. It faced—or seemed to face—the whole external world for an instant, and then concentrated on you with an irresistible prejudice in your favor. It understood you just so far as you wanted to be understood, believed in you as you would like to believe in yourself, and assured you that it had precisely the impression of you that, at your best, you hoped to convey".

And it was exactly that kind of smile. The kind of smile that could relate stories without a single word spoken.
Of course I could only seize upon its meaning looking back on it now, after the accumulation of enough years. I wonder why I still remember his face.

Who was this person ? He lived in our neighborhood for sure, as I saw him a couple of times before..But who was he ,really ....the entity inside this physical shell of a body..The transparent soul that could penetrate into the deepest depths of a child's heart and speculate her obscure state of mind, what she ,herself, couldn't realize ?

Such an insightful soul could only be as pure and light as a cloud... He was a cloud taking a stroll on earth..and decided to make a stop to reveal an astounding observation of his own.

For all the world, myself included, I was just a child looking into the distance on a beautiful summer day.

I didn't know I looked sad. I didn't even realize I was sad..

On that warm day in June, I realized that , at the very end of the world, the farthest point that can be reached by an artless boat made of a young imagination , the ultimate conclusion of reverie, there is nothing but unhappiness.

On that warm day in June, I realized I was a Toskliviy.

I don't think I ever made it back home.

Kawthar

We were at the mall the other day , strolled for a while then decided to take a break so we headed to the food court and sat to dine.

It was a beautiful day outside , the place was crowded ..Nothing was out of the ordinary..

Until a faint voice interrupted this fanciful harmony. It was going on for a while, but grew clear enough for people around to take notice..It looked like someone was calling another, repeatedly and mechanically. A lady calling out to her stray child, apparently ..

"Oh , a lost child...she will find her in a moment."

She didn't.

The mother continued calling and patrolling around the place..Gradually her calls became louder and louder, sounding more anxious with time. Finally the calls became neurotic screams. She just stood in her place and started screaming at the top of her voice...and collapsed when her knees failed her.

A child wandering off is nothing out of the ordinary. My younger brother used to get lost most of the time and found in the weirdest places, but I never remember my mother losing control and screaming like that ; it's a given that what's lost will be found after all.

You wouldn't jump to the worst-case scenario ,i.e a kidnapping case, immediately ; not in this country at least.

But this thin and fragile mother couldn't help assuming the worst, I think......her smothered shrieks were heart-piercing....believe me; heart-piercing.

It's as if all the panic of this world was gathered and intensified ,and kept bursting in vain despair.
No one seemed to pay attention to her desperate cries that could brand a soul with agonizing sorrow ..No one seemed to care, in fact. Not a single person rose from their seat and tried to help her look for the child, or at least try to calm her down.
They, we, just continued our lives as if this poor thing, this tormented mother was a phenomenon that occurred in another dimension. Probably we thought of it as a curious incident : "hey, some lunatic lady was screaming at the mall today ! "..

Of course we wouldn't stir; after all, we, I dare say, don't understand "what's the big deal" , why would this seemly lady cause such a scene in a public place, instead of looking quietly for her lost offspring or just looking for security for help.

No one in this lounge would understand how this mother felt : losing sight of her precious child, the prospect of not being able to see her ever again ,growing restless while imagining all the possible dangers that she might be exposed to, away from her mother's caring, protective embrace..

No one would ever understand the pureness of that river of tenderness flowing from a mother's heart, the giant, deep-rooted arbor of affection cultivated along with this tiny, defenseless newly-born creature with red clutched hands, and all the condensed feelings of care, protection ,patronage and love, condensed in the word "motherhood".

We are not this child's mother in the end, and we would never fathom the agony of this mother whose child was lost.
But her screams are still ringing in my ears : "Kawthar !..."Kawthar!"..."KAWTHAAAAAR!!!".

I hope she found her.

Tears of the Iron Lady

She didn't reply to my usual sneers and I immediately realized she was out of humor.
Her eyes were swollen. One has to shed a great deal of tears for their eyes to swell this much.
I was at a loss of what to do myself.

It was the first time I've ever seen her cry; to be precise, to have seen her after the fit, not only is she the toughest, most brutal and annoying female figure I've yet to encounter, but she also has this pride, a vanity that prevents her from ever showing her weak side to anyone , no matter what the situation is..

Which is why I recoiled. This is new.

When you don't know what to do, you do nothing. You just observe, and observe I did.
What am I to say to her under such circumstances, after all ? With what words is a person ,who is easily moved to tears my a mere poem like myself , is supposed to comfort this Iron Lady ?

I finally woke up to the fact that ,no matter how strong you are, no matter how strong you pretend to be, there is a time when everything falls crumbling upon you, and you just...lose control and break down.

Your inner weak self that was curled, hidden like an unborn child, gets exposed to the scorching rays of the sun ..and no longer can endure the shame of its own weakness and the curious gazes of all the jesters.

If there is anything i'm sure of , though, it is that a proud heart always succeeds in gathering its scattered pieces and healing in some lonely corner where no one can see, and returns all polished and shiny, as strong as ever.

Speak, Heart !

"These varied chapters in your hand,

With fond indulgence; witty, tragic,

The casual, the idealistic,

The fruit of carefree hours, unplanned,

Insomnia, pale inspiration,

Unripe powers, or fading art,

The intellect’s cold observation,

The bitter record of the heart."

-Pushkin, Eugene Onegin

So this is just a....whachamcallit....a pilot ? yeah, this is my pilot entry *grandly sweeps air with her hands*.

If you are going to read my thoughts, there is a very important fact that you absolutely need to know about myself.

I'm ,ladies and gents, basically and fundamentally, messed-up. I think.

The further you go on, the weirder it gets, even I get shocked sometimes, going through my random scribbles after a while.
But who isn't ? crazy and weird, that is.

There are certain things you would like to (or better, for various civil reasons) keep to yourself. And there are other things..other ideas,emotions,experiences or ,most of the time, nonsensical gibberish, that you feel the need to share with total strangers, for if they don't get out, these thoughts, if they don't escape, be allowed to BREATH , they would lose all their meaning and suffocate somewhere inside of you, consuming you in the process.

This is my asylum. 

This is were i get to breath. 

Here, ladies and gentlemen, I would like to leave some scribbles for time to record. A little something, a reminder of Me being here once upon a time, and being alive with feelings and thoughts.
Here, my most reverend audience of readers (of prolly one or two straners), I would like you to listen to my heart speaking.

I present to you my Noir Memoir, the tiara of my reflections, and the flowers of my thoughts.

Lo.

* for those who don't know, the title of this blog is an allusion to Nabokov's memoir, "Speak, Memory".