Some dreams I had...

I've been having really strange dreams. I want to write about them some time later. But for now I will write about a dream I had last night. Actually two.

I was driving my car through an empty and winding road in what seemed to be somewhere back in Africa. It was in the night and my grandmother and her sister (both had never been outside Lebanon) were in the car with me. I felt terrified because it was absolutely dark and the road was unlit. For a second, I thought I was going to crash into a tree or something due to lack of visibility. But then we all ended up safe and drinking some tea in a kitchen - a kitchen that felt familiar but I don't really recognize it.

Then in another take, I was being chased by a man in his mid twenties. I think I'd seen him in a previous dream and in that dream, I must have done him some harm. I must have really done something bad because in this dream, he was after some revenge. He chased me into a dead end, maybe a cliff. And he got out of his old jeep, and shot at me. He aimed at my left leg and at my right hand. He obviously did not want to kill me. He just wanted to hurt me and have me live through the pain. Maybe I'd be able to understand the kind of pain I'd inflicted on him...

These images are all metaphors for situations that happen in our lives when we are in a state of wakefulness. Do we always know where we're headed? And do we not sometimes find ourselves in the dark and challenged to search for the light? Do we not hurt some people when we don't mean to? And do we really understand what we've done to them? And is this not part of this human life that we live? - to do wrong and be wronged, to hurt and be hurt, to lose and be lost. We are never always winners, but we are also never always losers. We eventually have to find a way back, there is no other way...

I love black. It's me. But, at the same time, my eyes are tired of the black background and white text. However, this doesn't feel quite right yet. So, this is only tentative for now.

I'm also having my eyes checked. For me to be getting tired of the black background on my blog after five years, then something must be wrong.

Almost twenty years ago, when we were still living in Africa, we would often visit Lebanon in the summer - usually leaving my father behind because he had work. My mother, brother and myself would stay at my grandparents'. I would often sleep with my grandmother in the same room. Every night before I fell asleep, she would tell me a bedtime story. Then she would draw the peach and beige quilt over to my chin. She would turn the lights off and leave the room to finish her chores.

In the morning I would wake up to an empty room. My grandmother was a teacher and she would remain at school until the early afternoon. I would spend the early morning in bed and then leisurely rise and rush into the kitchen. I would find hard-boiled eggs, white cheese, labneh, olives, zaatar, bread and a glass of orange juice that my grandmother had carefully arranged on the rectangular table. My mother would be running around after my toddler brother. Or she would be reclining on the red and white striped sofa watching television with baby boy on her lap.

I spent some of my time playing with my grandmother's cat. He was a German Rex and his name was Minouche. He would usually repose on top of the wooden chiffonier in the dinning room. I would call out for him, "Minouche." And with an air of arrogance, he would emerge. Foolish as a little girl, I would sometimes pull on his tail or wash him with soap and lukewarm water. I am sure he did not take pleasure in my ways. Little did I know. In my defense, I petted him more than I did my baby brother and he always followed me around - me and my white stuffed cat that I often carried under my arm. He passed away not many years later.

I remember one afternoon he was nowhere to be seen and I started crying. I wanted to see Minouche. I loved him too much and he had become my one dear friend. In the late afternoons, I would curl up on my grandmother's bed and watch cartoons with the cat resting in the space between my bent knees and chest. But that very afternoon, he was gone. I asked everyone about him but they all told me the same story: he had traveled. I believed them. And with time, I got used to his absence... And I lost my white stuffed cat. But I never forgot what they both looked like.

How time flies...

"عندمـــــــــا تعجـــــــــز النفـــــــــس عـــــــن رؤيـــــــــة  الأحبـــــــــة

فإنــــــــها تشتـــــــــاق لهـــــــــم بصمـــــــــت مؤلم ..

إيـــــــــــاك أن تظــــــــــن أن الصــــــــمــــــــــت نســــــيــــــــــان ..

فــــــــــاالأرض صامتـــــــــــــة ولــــــــــــــــــــكــــن

فـــــــــــي جوفهــــــــــا ألــــــــــف بركـــــــــــان .."

أبي

وعينا أبي.. ملجأ للنجومِ

Tonight at one of my favorite restaurants in Jbeil (and probably all of Lebanon), I was telling my friend about this sad but beautiful poem...

I love this performance by Taim Hasan.

And it's been four years...

April 5, 2008.

I had my last cigarette. Then I threw away an expensive Marlboro Lights cigarette pack.

April 5, 2012.

It has been FOUR YEARS or half a decade minus a year since I had that last drag. I cannot believe it. It has become part of who I am to not be a smoker that I almost forgot this date. But, I had made a mental note and it only took the Posh inside my head to give me a little nudge to look at my watch.

Yes, it has been this long. I am a very passionate woman and I go by my whims and desires, by what my heart wants, so to speak. Not to say that that's good or bad... But quitting cigarettes is probably the only thing that I have done wholeheartedly from a place of forethought and logic and prudence and will and strength of character. I say this because I am still tempted to smoke. To light up a little one whenever the going gets tough. And the going has been tough, I feel depleted. I want to be saved, but I know that a cigarette cannot do that...

There's this little secret. I actually tried quitting in January 2006 following a very serious ENT illness that had me in a hospital for a week. I managed to quit for a few weeks after that and then I went and bought a pack in secret and I hid it in the drawer. I was living in London and on my own so I think I was hiding it from myself, mostly. I would steal a cigarette or two every day and it felt great. But then I felt silly for lying to myself, and so I gave it all up. I went on to smoke for another two years until I left it in 2008.

I can never say for certain that this is final. We, and life, are unpredictable. But I know that this is a decision that I choose to honor this time around. I guess I'll eat a cake or have a chocolate bar whenever the going gets tough. That'll do for now...

This evening I stood in front of the mirror - a mirror that I have looked into for over a decade. I looked into eyes that seemed empty. I could not see myself in them... And I listened to a voice that seemed hollow... I could not hear myself in it. I feel like someone who had a life and then left it. And it is this feeling of imminent loss that humbles me, to a point where everything becomes blurred in my mind.

But I have also just been on a plane and I am short on sleep. And you know what they say: "there is nothing that a bit of sleep can't fix". I am going to do just that. I should be fine.

Warda is with me tonight... Habibti ya Warda, how I love this song Fi Yom We Leila.

فيروز - سنرجع يوما

A spider lives inside my head
Who weaves a strange and wondrous web
Of silken threads and silver strings
To catch all sorts of flying things,
Like crumbs of thought and bits of smiles
And specks of dried-up tears,
And dust of dreams that catch and cling
For years and years and years . . .

Every Thing On It by Shel Silverstein.

Alice asked the Chesire Cat, who was sitting in a tree, "What road do I take?"
The cat asked, "Where do you want to go?"
"I don't know", Alice answered.
"Then," said the cat, "it really doesn't matter, does it?"

Alice in Wonderland by Lewis Caroll

الاطلال

I am going to sleep as I listen to this beautiful song by Umm Kulthum.

I just had a conversation with my good friend, with whom I used to share a flat along with 4 other girls back in 2006. It was at a time when I had started my second Masters degree and this degree was very important to me because I mainly did it in order to qualify for a PhD degree. I was not sure I'd get accepted into the PhD program but I sure as hell was passionate about my Masters degree and I made sure I worked hard for it.

Tonight I was telling my friend how I have been feeling recently. I have not been very happy and I have been feeling sad over a few things. There's always this lump in my throat... And tonight I've just realized that I lost my gloves that I adore and paid so much for. I've been losing many material (and expensive) things. I don't know how the hell I am doing that... I am angry at myself. And I'm angry at everyone. And I'm angry at the world.

It is much easier to give up. And I don't believe in giving up. But sometimes I feel tempted. What she said to me in response touched me deeply. She told me that I should remain strong and hold on as I submit in less than 6 months.

"Do you remember how you used to write your essays? Do you remember how you used to get excited about being the best? You used to have the drive. You were such an inspiration to all of us girls. I came to study with you in your room just for that. Do you remember how much it meant to you to do a PhD? You worked hard for it. Don't forget that."

I didn't know she thought that way about me... I was moved by her words.

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
- William Wordsworth

Last night, I acquiesced to this desire, to dream yet again. I closed my eyes and it was some day in June. I began on the balcony of our chalet, on an early morning, looking over to the sea, as the sun had just come over my face, and the breeze fluttered through my hair. The light outside was bright and golden and the beach was made of sand, rocks and pebbles - they were small and big, in all shades from gray to brown, stretching in all directions. There were people walking, some swimming and some sat smoking and talking in the sun, and children played around the sprinkler. I stood there waiting for my little friend. We got on our bicycles and rode down on the concrete. That day, I saw beauty.

So nostalgia has her way with me. That's life, I tell myself.

 " فمن خلالِ الدمعِ يا حبيبي

أريدُ أن تراني

ومن خلالِ النارِ والدُخانِ

أريدُ أن تراني ..

لنحترق .. لنبكِ يا حبيبي

 فقد نسينا

نعمةَ البكاءِ من زمانِ "

من شعر نزار قباني

يا حبيبي تعالى إلحقني شوف إللي جرالي

This is a beautiful rendition of the original song "Ya Habibi Ta'ala" by Asmahan. I dare say it is better than the original. At least for me.

And now I shall close my eyes and drift into a faraway place of dreams.

It is four in the afternoon. I sit in near-silence at my desk. I open the curtains, and look out, straight ahead, at a soft, gray day. The naked, dried branches of trees blanket the layers of red-brick buildings against a leaden sky. This day reminds me of a day six months ago when I had returned to London, on a September, and it was yet another gloomy afternoon. But there was a bit of sun behind a veil of clouds. I could see it. Today, not so much.

And on the windowsill is a pot of fresh coriander, a dried rose and scented candles. I close my eyes and smell this bouquet of scents. And all that comes to me is the tender promise of something beautiful...

Last night, I stood by the window and observed an empty street. It was still raining lightly, falling against a background of still, white houses... What was I looking for? I don't know. Maybe it was merely trying to find something new in a street I had come to know very well. I thought about how it would feel to be on the other side. There, standing outside in the rain, and looking at this very window, and wondering what stories it hides.

I thought of my own mistakes, weaknesses, fears - and my intermittent feelings of sorrow. I thought of how I could make right the wrongs that I have committed again, towards myself, towards others. But mostly, towards myself. I thought about how much we, humans, expect from each other and how much we fall short. I thought of that afternoon in September, the air so magnificent, the breeze so delicate, and later that night, the sky ablaze with stars. This is too much. I return to the sofa overwhelmed...

I feel that I want to pour my heart out here on my blog but the words fail to come out. I wish I could. All I know is that... Tonight I feel very alone. I just want a friend. I want someone to talk to. And I have many but not tonight. They are all busy; and those who are not, already have a heap of problems to deal with that my own little woes pale in comparison. I am even ashamed to present myself to them as someone with problems. And maybe they are right to consider me and my problems silly. I have everything so what's my problem? That kinda thing...

One insignificant thing I can mention here... This morning (most likely) I lost this little caramel-colored pouch I carried around in my handbag that contained my vitamins, my anti-histamine, some other meds and cotton buds. I don't know where I left it or if it fell from my bag. But I find it very odd. Only because it's something I'd usually notice. Anyways, this is not at all important.

It is one past midnight and I can see through my window that most of the city has gone to bed by now. And I am here cleaning up my studio. The lights are dim and my music list is playing randomly. This song comes up and I don't even think I like it that much but it makes me smile. Tonight, it makes me smile.

Fields of Gold in the voice of Eva Cassidy.

I am tired. And when I say I am tired, it is not the kind you can fix with a few nights of sleep. It is the tired that comes from the horror of knowing that you can not go back and change anything in yesterday. It is the tired that comes from the agony of not knowing what tomorrow has for you. It is the tired that comes from the pain of knowing that I did nothing when I could have done everything. It is the tired that comes from the fear of not knowing the difference between fantasy and reality...

لماذا

Nizar Qabbani is one of my favorite poets. He was the first poet I ever read of my own volition. I would go with my neighbor L to the library at the end of the street. It was quite an old library, built in 1946 and its interior had this rustic feel about it. The floor was wooden and the chairs were quite old, old enough to squeak at the slightest move or adjustment in one's seating. And on most afternoons, a few rays of sunlight would escape through the windows and line the floor. And we would sit there, L with whatever book she'd chosen, and I with my Nizar Qabbani book of poetry. It was the year before he passed away... And I would wonder to myself, where is my Nizar?

This is a song (of the poem) I enjoy listening to. It is not the full song and it features the voice of Taim al-Hasan (and a tacky video mix from some Egyptian film) as he recites Nizar Qabbani's poem لماذا from the Syrian series on the life of the poet himself.