powered by ODEO
pic: Sayed El Badawi Mosque (Tanta)
Music: Mesr Yamma (sheikh Imam)
19.3.07
16.3.07
Forte-piano…
“Dearest. for all the notes that flow by… with every note, I still have more time to think about you than I would have ever imagined. the pianist at the ceremony plays incessantly, with mounting heat in every phrase. and I still think about you… with a precipitating rhythm… on changing keys. I try to match his piano to the life we had together. an accelerando for a soundtrack for a picture… about us. one that would make you cry. how charming we were. charming together. people would watch the picture and they would say that. how charming they are! we wish we were they… and then… and then, my dear, life would be utterly blissful. wouldn’t it? I wish you could see the smile in my heart when I think about you. when I write this to you. I love you, you know I do. I always loved you more than I loved us, for that my dear is what’s important… you loved me more than yourself, and that was not right. my wrong, not yours if I daresay, for I needed everything you gave me, and sometimes more. but that was then. now, I just celebrate you with mounting heat just like the music that surrounds me… but forgive me love for I will not be able to accept your invitation. I would have told you that I am too busy to be with you on your day, but you’d have known that it is not true; for nothing could stop me or you (I still believe) from being there for each other (and I still hope that this will always be true - and it will). having said that, I could only wish you all the happiness and love, from this distance I take. and I am sure you understand now how I don’t belong to their society, but never to yours, for you are mine…
yours as always.”
She looked into the mirror of this dingy restroom in this rather mediocre pub somewhere by the piers (she can’t remember where) in the very innards of this ugly city… She pulled a compact bag of cosmetics from her purse and started working on her face. ‘retouch’, she thought. She softened and darkened and reshaped and then dabbed any excess to look as if she was born with impeccable shadows and skin intonations. she took her drink from the edge of the sink, opened the door, gave the queuing crowd an icy look and walked by to her table. to him. to his table. to his conversation. to his gesticulating hands. to his agitated mood. to his domineering presence. to him. to where he has her grotesquely exposed to a crowd. to where he exhibits her to the room, a woman, his woman, someone to smile and nod, someone never to leave lipstick marks on his cheek or her champagne flute. someone who darkens and softens discreetly in a dingy restroom to always stay immaculately made up after he’s smeared and smudged with wet kisses and fervent hands… someone with grace and taste, a taste that’s tasteful to his taste… a trophy wife.
She sits and smiles and nods and plays her role. but under the table her hand wanders around in her purse, touching ‘his’ letter. her hands slowly, dreamily roles over the indentations of his words just like some faded Braille’s alphabet… for she is blind for not reading… not seeing what it is.
for a moment, she lost herself in the realms of this letter… of an award ceremony she never saw, of a piano recital she never heard, hoards of people she never knew, and someone constantly inhabiting her mind like the memory of a smell that stirs up so much in so little…
she felt the weight of a question lingering in the air, like she always does when conversation ceases and eyes expect. with an orchestrated smile she said “excuse me darling, I simply loose my focus in crowded places. what were you saying?”
“Did you finish the arrangements for the honeymoon? I faxed you my schedule for next week…” he said.
“yes.. yes.. would you excuse me.” she said, and then, bag in hand, she simply... walked out.
“Dearest. for all the notes that flow by… with every note, I still have more time to think about you than I would have ever imagined. the pianist at the ceremony plays incessantly, with mounting heat in every phrase. and I still think about you… with a precipitating rhythm… on changing keys. I try to match his piano to the life we had together. an accelerando for a soundtrack for a picture… about us. one that would make you cry. how charming we were. charming together. people would watch the picture and they would say that. how charming they are! we wish we were they… and then… and then, my dear, life would be utterly blissful. wouldn’t it? I wish you could see the smile in my heart when I think about you. when I write this to you. I love you, you know I do. I always loved you more than I loved us, for that my dear is what’s important… you loved me more than yourself, and that was not right. my wrong, not yours if I daresay, for I needed everything you gave me, and sometimes more. but that was then. now, I just celebrate you with mounting heat just like the music that surrounds me… but forgive me love for I will not be able to accept your invitation. I would have told you that I am too busy to be with you on your day, but you’d have known that it is not true; for nothing could stop me or you (I still believe) from being there for each other (and I still hope that this will always be true - and it will). having said that, I could only wish you all the happiness and love, from this distance I take. and I am sure you understand now how I don’t belong to their society, but never to yours, for you are mine…
yours as always.”
She looked into the mirror of this dingy restroom in this rather mediocre pub somewhere by the piers (she can’t remember where) in the very innards of this ugly city… She pulled a compact bag of cosmetics from her purse and started working on her face. ‘retouch’, she thought. She softened and darkened and reshaped and then dabbed any excess to look as if she was born with impeccable shadows and skin intonations. she took her drink from the edge of the sink, opened the door, gave the queuing crowd an icy look and walked by to her table. to him. to his table. to his conversation. to his gesticulating hands. to his agitated mood. to his domineering presence. to him. to where he has her grotesquely exposed to a crowd. to where he exhibits her to the room, a woman, his woman, someone to smile and nod, someone never to leave lipstick marks on his cheek or her champagne flute. someone who darkens and softens discreetly in a dingy restroom to always stay immaculately made up after he’s smeared and smudged with wet kisses and fervent hands… someone with grace and taste, a taste that’s tasteful to his taste… a trophy wife.
She sits and smiles and nods and plays her role. but under the table her hand wanders around in her purse, touching ‘his’ letter. her hands slowly, dreamily roles over the indentations of his words just like some faded Braille’s alphabet… for she is blind for not reading… not seeing what it is.
for a moment, she lost herself in the realms of this letter… of an award ceremony she never saw, of a piano recital she never heard, hoards of people she never knew, and someone constantly inhabiting her mind like the memory of a smell that stirs up so much in so little…
she felt the weight of a question lingering in the air, like she always does when conversation ceases and eyes expect. with an orchestrated smile she said “excuse me darling, I simply loose my focus in crowded places. what were you saying?”
“Did you finish the arrangements for the honeymoon? I faxed you my schedule for next week…” he said.
“yes.. yes.. would you excuse me.” she said, and then, bag in hand, she simply... walked out.
1.3.07
Since my first post…
It has been a year.
the canvas is still empty.
the door left ajar.
and I still have nothing to say.
my colors are still packed for better days.
my words are reserved and I haven’t shared with you the color of my insides…
the red well tucked in a tube. the blue waiting to sprinkle the white. and the white waiting to lose itself in someone else’s existence.
my brushes are dry. their hair virgin and smooth.
all I read is you.
I learned your expressions, your moods…
I did spill some of my red on this page.
but my canvas is still empty and I still have nothing to say.
It has been a year.
the canvas is still empty.
the door left ajar.
and I still have nothing to say.
my colors are still packed for better days.
my words are reserved and I haven’t shared with you the color of my insides…
the red well tucked in a tube. the blue waiting to sprinkle the white. and the white waiting to lose itself in someone else’s existence.
my brushes are dry. their hair virgin and smooth.
all I read is you.
I learned your expressions, your moods…
I did spill some of my red on this page.
but my canvas is still empty and I still have nothing to say.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)