dark staircases, restlessness
Beirut, October 25, 2017
Ho ho hokay.
These days: chipping nailpolish, eating really hot mughrabieh in the darkness of the staircase at work; a mouse, changing, changing, changing online avatars, lots of crying in between reading emails. A restlessness that never fails to greet me, like summer, long, hot, suffocating, seemingly endless.
But also: (re)discovering modern American Jazz, old songs, re-recorded, asking for re-contextualisation because they, too, wish to belong in this century. Ohio was written in the 1970s by Neil Young about the Kent State Massacre, where Kent State students were shot by members of the Ohio National Guard for protesting the Vietnam War. Four of them died that day (May 4 1970). Given the amount of exposure American culture and politics get around the world, and seeing how most of the news outlets we consume are generated by (and for?) the West, it is no surprise that such songs, resung, revived in the context of the mass shootings that are happening in America today reach my doorstep here in Beirut. Sorry, a very long-winded sentence to essentially rant about the fact that I see Donald Trump far more than I would like to. And a way to admit I am guilty about being more culturally attentive to English than Arabic (or local/Middle Eastern). But anyway. America or not, Vietnam War or not, Ohio, covered by Jon Batiste, Leon Bridges and Gary Clark Jr. seems to soothe the turmoil in my soul, a balm.
And now, Jazz, mostly by Jon Batiste. It is good. It is peace and calm, and no, Sarah, do not despair just yet, it says. Then, there's Seamus Heaney, Ireland and the dreams onto which my heart is strung. (Things are so bad I had to google the past tense of "string.") Joe Hisaishi, and the soundtrack to Princess Mononoke and Kiki's Delivery Service, and Castle in the Sky. The balm. And then, there's that morning when I finally wake up without being consumed by thoughts about that one person who forgot about me ten years ago (even if it's an alarming dream where I walk in a restaurant-filled street, then run away after spotting a dodgy man at my heels).
These days are funky. Liminal, as Kim would say. (Kim would also say funky. Essentially, I want to become Kim when I grow up.) Beirut, I am realising (realising now? novelty! lol, I mean: I have been realising -- since 1993) is a place of in-between for me. Interstitial. In it, I am floating, wondering where to go next, what to do next. Good. It will always be some sort of home, but I am not attached to it anymore.
At present, I am at work, dodging work by means of writing nonsense on here, obviously. I have not felt properly productive in such a very long time. I have felt nothing but the crippling realisation that I find no value in the tasks I have to do, in the things I am good at. What am I good at? Besides ranting on my blog? I long to be hard-working and passionate. Here, today, those two things cannot be brought to life. They are buried deep beneath the piles of asses you must kiss, the uncomfortable chair that slowly sinks lower the longer you sit on it, the swiveling wheels at the bottom of said chair, whose sole purpose in life is to devour the hem of your dress, the dumb projects that generate and use up and then generate again so much of your anxiety, the meager salary at the end of the month that fails to compensate for it all.
It feels like the momentum is here. It is now or never for me to leave. And I will. I must.
Yesterday was tragic. My last shout into the void came unanswered. Not even my echo returned. The last hope I had kept and fed with belief and optimism in my heart let out its last breath. And the sadness, I couldn't bear it. I became disgusted with myself. With my quirks, with the nonsensical thoughts I write under heavily-edited photos on Instagram, with the melancholy music I play in my ears, with how eager I am to have faith in people. I wished I could enter a large room, a device that could change me into something else. Another person, another creature. A device that could alter who I am, just so I can stand to live with myself. Changing my face and my thoughts, my memories and the people I've known who hurt me so I don't remember them anymore.
Because my heart, my heart never helps. It invests itself far too soon, far too quickly, in people, selfish and despicable and pigly people. People whose interest in me is short-lived, always (always!). People who cannot bring themselves to tell me, clearly, that they are just not interested. People who find excuses to justify the fact that they have no desire to be exclusive, and sorry, they are pigs, and there's nothing they can or want to do about it. People who tell me I am great and nice, and they like me, and they envy the person who is going to end up with me, but it's just not them. People who have nothing to offer but their precious, generous indifference. People who steal my books and vanish! I've met far too many people like that and I've just about had it with them. No more seeking love in the mesh of the Internet. I wish no more to be modern, relevant to the age of the online, trying to find love in profiles, images with words written by confused people who find their way online to forget about past heartbreaks and then end up finding you and pouring whatever bitterness, whatever burning oil they've collected in their lifetime onto your path, soiling it up, spoiling it.
And stealing the best book you read that year.
Love lies elsewhere for me. And I will find it.
My fleeting, fretting heart will find its way, I know. And this voice inside my head that doubts and doubts and doubts will one day rest in the earth, in its grave, in silence. Until then, I must write, and hope. Always.
Ho ho hokay.
These days: chipping nailpolish, eating really hot mughrabieh in the darkness of the staircase at work; a mouse, changing, changing, changing online avatars, lots of crying in between reading emails. A restlessness that never fails to greet me, like summer, long, hot, suffocating, seemingly endless.
But also: (re)discovering modern American Jazz, old songs, re-recorded, asking for re-contextualisation because they, too, wish to belong in this century. Ohio was written in the 1970s by Neil Young about the Kent State Massacre, where Kent State students were shot by members of the Ohio National Guard for protesting the Vietnam War. Four of them died that day (May 4 1970). Given the amount of exposure American culture and politics get around the world, and seeing how most of the news outlets we consume are generated by (and for?) the West, it is no surprise that such songs, resung, revived in the context of the mass shootings that are happening in America today reach my doorstep here in Beirut. Sorry, a very long-winded sentence to essentially rant about the fact that I see Donald Trump far more than I would like to. And a way to admit I am guilty about being more culturally attentive to English than Arabic (or local/Middle Eastern). But anyway. America or not, Vietnam War or not, Ohio, covered by Jon Batiste, Leon Bridges and Gary Clark Jr. seems to soothe the turmoil in my soul, a balm.
And now, Jazz, mostly by Jon Batiste. It is good. It is peace and calm, and no, Sarah, do not despair just yet, it says. Then, there's Seamus Heaney, Ireland and the dreams onto which my heart is strung. (Things are so bad I had to google the past tense of "string.") Joe Hisaishi, and the soundtrack to Princess Mononoke and Kiki's Delivery Service, and Castle in the Sky. The balm. And then, there's that morning when I finally wake up without being consumed by thoughts about that one person who forgot about me ten years ago (even if it's an alarming dream where I walk in a restaurant-filled street, then run away after spotting a dodgy man at my heels).
These days are funky. Liminal, as Kim would say. (Kim would also say funky. Essentially, I want to become Kim when I grow up.) Beirut, I am realising (realising now? novelty! lol, I mean: I have been realising -- since 1993) is a place of in-between for me. Interstitial. In it, I am floating, wondering where to go next, what to do next. Good. It will always be some sort of home, but I am not attached to it anymore.
At present, I am at work, dodging work by means of writing nonsense on here, obviously. I have not felt properly productive in such a very long time. I have felt nothing but the crippling realisation that I find no value in the tasks I have to do, in the things I am good at. What am I good at? Besides ranting on my blog? I long to be hard-working and passionate. Here, today, those two things cannot be brought to life. They are buried deep beneath the piles of asses you must kiss, the uncomfortable chair that slowly sinks lower the longer you sit on it, the swiveling wheels at the bottom of said chair, whose sole purpose in life is to devour the hem of your dress, the dumb projects that generate and use up and then generate again so much of your anxiety, the meager salary at the end of the month that fails to compensate for it all.
It feels like the momentum is here. It is now or never for me to leave. And I will. I must.
Yesterday was tragic. My last shout into the void came unanswered. Not even my echo returned. The last hope I had kept and fed with belief and optimism in my heart let out its last breath. And the sadness, I couldn't bear it. I became disgusted with myself. With my quirks, with the nonsensical thoughts I write under heavily-edited photos on Instagram, with the melancholy music I play in my ears, with how eager I am to have faith in people. I wished I could enter a large room, a device that could change me into something else. Another person, another creature. A device that could alter who I am, just so I can stand to live with myself. Changing my face and my thoughts, my memories and the people I've known who hurt me so I don't remember them anymore.
Because my heart, my heart never helps. It invests itself far too soon, far too quickly, in people, selfish and despicable and pigly people. People whose interest in me is short-lived, always (always!). People who cannot bring themselves to tell me, clearly, that they are just not interested. People who find excuses to justify the fact that they have no desire to be exclusive, and sorry, they are pigs, and there's nothing they can or want to do about it. People who tell me I am great and nice, and they like me, and they envy the person who is going to end up with me, but it's just not them. People who have nothing to offer but their precious, generous indifference. People who steal my books and vanish! I've met far too many people like that and I've just about had it with them. No more seeking love in the mesh of the Internet. I wish no more to be modern, relevant to the age of the online, trying to find love in profiles, images with words written by confused people who find their way online to forget about past heartbreaks and then end up finding you and pouring whatever bitterness, whatever burning oil they've collected in their lifetime onto your path, soiling it up, spoiling it.
And stealing the best book you read that year.
Love lies elsewhere for me. And I will find it.
My fleeting, fretting heart will find its way, I know. And this voice inside my head that doubts and doubts and doubts will one day rest in the earth, in its grave, in silence. Until then, I must write, and hope. Always.
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