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".