You see. It’s all in your head…


He pulls the shades down. he darkens the room. he puts his music on, and floats in a reverie. (reverie. what a pretentious word). not really. he just floats away in a cloud of… sadness. yes maybe sadness. with a trace of anger. but diffuse anger. the kind when one doesn’t exactly know toward whom this anger is. emptiness.

He walks toward the kitchen, grabs a dish and smashes it on the floor. he enjoys the sound of breaking glass. the shattering of a million pieces all over the place. he has to clean now. but he WON’T. because he doesn’t give a fuck.

Great. Channel his anger toward something more destructive: writing this post. he is writing this post and not me. No no not me. I am still at work making movies of dead corps. they contract and detach and float away. by the millions I tell you.

- I didn’t like what she said to you.

He is not well, you see. Perhaps now I could say that after all these years, there are too many people living in his head. It’s crowded in there. I mean, there’s no place to think. sometimes I wish things were more organized, like people could take shifts over the played character… or the projected or presented personality, however you want to call it. he can’t even write this properly. pathetic.

- What did you say?
- I wasn’t talking to you. I was talking to you. explain yourself. why did you like what she said.
- After all she was being herself.
- What the fuck are you talking about? and who is she?
- I’m going to stick the penis in the airshaft and see what will happen.
- I thought we stopped doing that.
- Who’re we? we only share this fuck but we are in no way shape or form related.
- Yeah. don’t associate yourself with others. especially you. you piece of shit.
- I’m sticking the penis in the airshaft. she liked it last time.
- Would you fuck off with the penis already. no one is in the house anyway.
- Will someone open the shades. it’s kinda gloomy in here.
- Please be quite I am trying to listen to the music.
- Not Fauré again. what the fuck is wrong with you.
- It helps me calm down.
- Who the fuck asked you.
- It’s helps me… float.
- Great.
- Fuck you.
- I am breaking this fucking dish.
- You broke it! you clean this mess now. I am not fucking cleaning after you anymore.
- Fuck you.
- Yeah. walk away. YOU ALL WALK AWAY. no one does anything around here except me.
- SSSHHH. You’ll wake up the kids.
- That’s it. you know. Where’re the razor blades.
- What are you going to do?
- I know what I am doing.
- Stop right there.
- That hurts…
- I am floating again now.
- Yeah float away…
- I love Fauré.
- We all do.
- Is it cold? Or it’s just me.
- Hello? Anyone there? Helloooo. I…
- I…
- I…
- I…

A CATAPULT FOR ME…


He was violently thrust into midair. All he could do was to pretend to fly. He choreographed his gestures amazingly: arms outstretched like wings slightly bent backwards, legs tight together, eyes closed… he was riding the autumn breeze like any other bird in the sky.
Like any other. Just like any other…
Did he know that soon he would hit the ground? Did he?
No one noticed the catapult behind the bushes… all he was, was a small flying bird, just like any other.. riding the autumn breeze…
What would they do when he drops… would they rush to dampen his crash… would they try? Or once they realized that he was nothing more than what he was, they would let him go… let him slip… away… they would simply clear the way for his crash… they would gracefully fly aside to let him drop unhampered unstopped. He wasn’t a small bird riding the autumn breeze, he wasn’t just like any other, they would say…
Until then… He will just enjoy the wind beneath his wings…
Fly, Damn it!

Alliance of Civilizations: must read...

Charades of the fall…


Central Park. Fall. They meet in the park.
- I am sad.
- I know. Just come sit next to me and let’s… be sad for a while.
- Yes. let’s be sad for while.
- Sounds like a plan.
They dissolve into the scene. Their fingers interlocked. They take in the beauty of the park, they leave out the people. They take in each other’s warmth, smells, heartbeats… and they are sad. together. for while…
(said in a whisper)
- and then what?
- and then nothing.
Then their laughter… once again rips through the park. through the fall… until everything dead is gone. and there’s nothing left but white, very white snow…

I live in the solitary cell. in the Fenway. by the park.
(is this where we're heading...)


Afraid of your own identity. your very own identity… you. afraid of you.
Afraid of getting hurt just by being what you are.
And sometimes you can’t hide. and how would you? why should you? and who would?
Anything points at you. the friend. the neighbor. the stranger on the street.
Everyone has something to say. a knife to plunge in your breast… mercilessly.
I am an arab. I am a Lebanese.
I am a… I am a… I.
This only comes with anger. helplessness. and with fear.
Fear of being who you are: “I am!” “I am!” are nothing but whispers, resonating from the back of a darkened auditorium.
From the back of a throat. The back of a… barricade.
Screams resonating from the back of a darkened interrogation room. a living room. a bed room.
A parent weeping. a brother ruling you dead. and maybe you… almost dead.
From dust to dust to dust to dust to dust… how many times?
I live in a prison of my own making. I live in a prison. I live in a concentration camp. I live in the solitary confinement cell.
But you listened to the cries, seeping through the apprehension and the silence of a night. You heard them. These are not cries of cowards.
These are cries of fear. Learn this as you read:
When the brave are afraid they do it in silence. in dignity. they stay home. make their tea. wear their finery. and wait. and wait. and wait. they wait in silence. for the knock on the door. And when it arrives, solemnly they collect themselves, kiss each other goodbye, only one kiss on each cheek, and then are taken away. are taken apart.
No farewell. no pity. only pride. pride for who they are.
They are… they are… They.

Where do you live?

Collage of a character, or… dissection of a personality?


Making up someone’s character to our taste from bits and pieces we collected from here and there. I give you her hands, his eyes, his lips, her neck, her passion, his sense of humor, my madness, their compassion: construction.

Breaking down someone’s character to pieces to understand what he or she is made up of. I take apart your hands, your eyes, your lips, your neck, your passion, your sense of humor, your madness, your compassion: deconstruction.

When I am done with you, I will keep some parts that I liked. I put them away, and use them later on, along with other parts from other people before you, in a new collage for a new character.

Now. can I use your heart on someone else?

It’s too bitter. too tender. too fiery. too big. it won’t fit.

But this is the part I like the most, the part I like to keep.

I guess I’ll just have to save it for myself, on me it fits perfectly well.

Thank you for your heart my dear.

picture: Pablo Picasso. Guitar. (after March 31, 1913).

ALYA…


Note to reader: This story is a work of fiction and none of the characters portrayed here are real – names and places are the product of the author’s imagination, any resemblance to actual events and persons living or dead (or soon to be dead) is mere coincidental.


Alya is a single Lebanese girl who lives in Bostonia. Alone in the city, Alya usually spends her nights grocery shopping… at Saws.
Zeus, Alya’s neighbor, is a famous painter, a swimsuit model, he wrote his first opera at the age of 5, his hobbies include equitation and sailing. In brief, a living legend is what he is.
One day Alya invited Zeus to come along with her to Saws to buy grocery. At the deli corner he participated in the following conversation:
Alya (to the grocer): “HIIII! HOW ARE YOU?!”
He automatically reached for a container to weigh her some olives (because she always asks for the olives), she shook her head frantically and said: “no. not today, I just want a pound of smoked ham please…”
Then she glanced at Zeus, thought for a second, returned her gaze to the grocer and said rather loudly “THIS IS MY BROTHER! He’s visiting me here… he might stay… in Bostonia I mean.”
She then turned to Zeus and gave him the I’ll-explain-to-you-later-just-say-HI-now look… Zeus said hi, and the grocer greeted him warmly, then turned to Alya and asked her “soooo… how’s the baby?”
… with not a bit of hesitation she replied “fine, thank you so much for asking, he’s growing, you know how babies are, a lot of work, you know.”
“I know, I know… and how is your husband?” asked the grocer.
“He’s great! He sends his regards…” said Alya.

Alya, later on, explained to Zeus that earlier this month, she was with another friend at Saws and introduced him to the grocer as her husband with whom she recently had a baby… and that she didn’t want the grocer to ‘judge’ her since now she’s out with another guy, so she had to say that Zeus was her brother.
“didn’t you see how he relaxed and started talking to me after I said you’re my brother?” she said to Zeus.
“well… yeah [is she insane?] makes sense now. of course you wouldn’t want the grocer to judge you… who would… what if you come with someone else another time though… you’ll be introducing him to your whole family…” Zeus said.
“well… more brothers… not that I care, you see, but what would he say, married with a baby, and going around the market with another man… it’s not right.” she said.
“you realize this is Bostonia, not… Batro-mania, the guy doesn’t know his own name, let alone one customer brandying about her fictional family tree…” Zeus said.

Two aisles later, Zeus asked her “who was the husband? Ferruccio?”
“no, not even… it was Jerruccio… we were here together once, and I felt inclined to explain myself to the grocer” she replied.
“explain yourself? You totally live in your own head, you know that.” Zeus said.
“no. it’s just that I created this whole character at the deli corner and I don’t want to be a liar. So either I’d look like a liar, or he’d think I’m a whore. This way – by introducing you as my brother – he will know that I am a married woman with a child, having her darling brother visiting her to see the newborn baby. Don’t I look amazing for someone who just gave birth – I mean I am not one of those moms who take till the kid goes to college to lose the baby weight… look, it’s fun to make up characters during the day. It takes the edge off. At every place I am someone different… I live several lives.” She said.
“yes. I know. We all do the same… to some extent. but not at a deli… the other day, for instance, I was at a dinner party, and I pretended to be a postdoc in cell biology. I don’t know why… maybe because a while ago, I went out with a bunch of cell biologists, and since then I can’t get over the fact of how fascinating their lives are… to know all what they know… to see all what they see. How meaningful their existence is. And what am I? Just a famous painter, composer and swimsuit model, and my hobbies include equitation and sailing… so depressing.” Zeus said with a tinge of sadness.

A week later, Zeus met Alya in the lobby of their fabulous apartment building at the Cremway. She was discussing with a neighbor, an old man of about 75, how her upbringing in the Soviet Union taught her so much about equal rights and emancipation although she never supported communism at heart… the man looked captivated by their conversation, and told Alya that she should come over for tea to meet his wife, and that he will take her up on her offer to play the harp at his grand daughter’s wedding “it would mean so much for us, a famous Russian harpist playing at my little Dee Dee’s wedding…”
Later, Alya asked Zeus about anyone giving harp lessons, and exclaimed “how difficult could it be after all? in any case I could just say that I’ll be out of town that weekend…
Do you want to go to the Cape? My family owns this marvelous summer house by the beach, it’s…”

(how much rentals are this time of the year at the Cape? she wondered.)