On Olives and Sake

My early childhood was quite shattered between my Grandpa’s house in Latakia, and Grandpa’s house in Homs, and Dad’s Bierut tiny flat.
The one thing that they all had in common was a vast library of books, Arabic books in particular.

Even, when we moved to our own place in Latakia, the only thing that dad carried with him along that walk through the Lebanese-Syrian borders, was a book [And it was worth it, it is still one of my favorite books, Sadeq Jalal al-Azm's The Mental Taboo].

I read most of Jubran’s works when I was 12, and although I know I did not grasp most of it, but it made such an impact on my life ahead…

I only started to learn English in school, in 4th grade, in the Private school of Karmelite, for one year, and then I went back to a public school…

Even though my English is far from perfect, but it’s the one language that I am most comfortable writing myself. And I definitely owe that in the bigger part to Duck Tales, Gummie Bears, and the rest of the world of Disney that Future TV used to broadcast everyday at 5pm…

Having said that, When I hold a book to read, having it in Arabic still sends a warm feeling inside of me, being able to read the amazing feats of people like Abdulrahman Muneef, or Najeeb Mahfouz in their original words, that no translation will ever be able to explain, sends a beautiful feeling through me…

What translation is that, that can capture the word Mahfouz’s Ziqaq in Ziqaq al-Medaq, and transform it into Alley… It’s a gift that when I read the word Ziqaq, I can get the real feeling of a Zeqaq…

But, Lately, I’ve had some kind of a cultural shock, if u can call it that, to see so many people who prefer to read Najib Mahfouz in English rather their mother tongue.

most of them are people who are way more smarter than I am, and can by far appreciate the delicacy of the Arabic language more than me…

Makes you wonder…

Love, my self-adorned Humanity, and me, were in every book that I had to read lately. In every scene of a movie I saw. In every conversation with people that I like, even with those i dont.

And when I reflect back on them, on Orwell’s 1984 or Dogsville, or just the simple feeling of unease around people who I denounced as Hypocrites. Even more, in the feeling of betrayal I somehow felt from within myself.

It only results in a session of self loathing, maybe some good lashing, and self spanking. Things that when I look infront of a mirror or sit on bed and raise my legs on the wall, look at me from above, seem such a pathetic cry for attention, or for my teacher to tell me that I’m good at math. Ironically, very typical.

Who’s to say that I wouldnt do what Dogsville people did. Who’s to say that it’d make any difference if I didnt. or If I’d respond differently to someone trying to inflict that on me.
Who’s to say why I write this on this blog. Who’s to say why u come here and read it.

Even now when I am trying to spill out my disgust at my own inability to understand myself, to reassure myself, disgust at the irony, that I could spend a whole night talking to someone about humanity, and then come back to my bed and feel this utter loneliness.

Who’s to say which is worse, the hangman or the victim that forgives him. And who’s to say which one you are, at any given moment in time.

What if evil disappears? What if suffering seizes to exist? isnt that in a way just shrinking the colors of life… how is it enriching to Humanity in anyway? to lose one of our feelings? isnt it just like the destruction of language in Orwell’s 1984?

And, finally, How cruel is it to ask such a question?

It probably is nothing more than the hallucinations of someone trying to make his own trivial sufferings “noble” or maybe “intellectual”…

…when melancholy enclaves me so deeply that I can feel my insides shrinking, when I feel it going down from my brain, I feel it in my eyes, I feel it in the 3′assa in my throat…

The only thing I can do, is to put a stream of photos, songs, memories or dreams and just watch me breakdown, exhaust my pain, exhaust my melancholy, blow it up inside of me, then rest down in pieces, in ashes… and sleep.

I’m leaving again, I’m leaving this room, cell, hell… and I’m leaving such a huge part of me in it, one that I thought so beautiful. I’m leaving memories, again.
I’m leaving people, half-way, people who in any other circumstance might’ve been best friends for a long time… unfortunately, I dont have that luxury.

Farewell Tokyo, I know it wasnt ur fault, its never easy to belong for a complexed me.

Scan from Tharwa Community: Whereto, Syria?

The heart of the oldest city in the world is being destroyed little by little, without anyone raising a finger…

What the hell is wrong with these people?

I just recieved,

A Phone Bill for 5万　(=$500), cuz apparently when they say Internet 使いほだい　in ur contract, they really only mean, WAP!

A repair bill for my VAIO for 35万 (=$350), cuz apparently the concept of Full Warranty is different with Sony.

Now, if you`ll excuse me, I need to go find myself a corner in Roppongi and try my luck as a Male Whore… unless I wanna spend the next couple of months sleeping on the Nagoya streets.

Fuck!