William Wordsworth and cables at the bottom of the sea
Beirut, October 26, 2017
I'm on my second cuppa just now. I ate my bitter and dry chocolate cake with salted caramel and drank a nice earl grey with it. Now, I'm halfway through a bucket of minty lemongrass green tea.
Worthy of note: today, lots of crying also. I am learning not to be apologetic about my fragility. My sensitivity. I have heard "You are too sensitive" being said to me more times than I would like to admit. My friends rationalise situations, they tell me, indirectly, that I have no right to do this to myself, that I have no right to cry over short-lived, temporary heartbreaks. But I don't cry over short-lived temporary heartbreaks. Or, at least, I don't cry about each individual one (and certainly not on purpose, or willingly.) I cry over the perpetual failure, over years of unrequited love, over the shadow of my father, over his absence, which looms over my present, swift to claim all responsibility for the failure of all of my romantic attempts. If only he had been there. If he had been there, I am certain I would not have been as fearful of boys as I was in my youth, and subsequently, I would not have become such a fragile adult, a poppy, weak and only a leap away from withering, always. But perhaps I'm wrong about this. I will never know.
Anyway, beyond all of that drama, I learnt today that Felix Mendelssohn lived in Scotland and hated Scottish music and Whisky. I also watched an animation of a speech by David Sedaris (not familiar with his work) -- in it, he talks about the importance of writing journalistic entries, of keeping a diary. A diary for all the (metaphorical) shit you must release from your being before you become good at writing. I find that I agree with him very much. This is what I do here. They are very personal entries that I write for the sake of writing. For the sake of getting the words out. An exercise. Precisely like Cassandra does. (But I've talked about this before here, I think.) This little animation validated my self-indulgence and I am back for more.
Otherwise, yesterday, the most magical thing happened. I sat and chatted with Malek (who is habitually very easy to distract). He ate shawarma for dinner and I ate a zaatar man'oucheh with labneh. I though it was the perfect opportunity to question him about his future, as one does with a child. I thought that kids at this age would have extravagant ideas about what they wanted to be when they entered the realm of adulthood and making-moneyhood. Not Malek, though. Not Omar or Nidal either, surprisingly. So I began listing to Malek all the potential jobs he could have; executive manager at a multinational company with very competitive salary, sales assistant at H&M, you know. The usual.
I jest. I told him he could be a paediatrician, a dentist, a designer of video games, an app coder, an illustrator, a graphic designer. He was very engaged in the conversation and remained curious until he finished eating his shawarma and went to put on his pyjamas. After, he came back so we can finish our wee chat (he usually drifts off into the vortex of childhood distractions which come in various forms: the television, the iPad, the smartphone, more interesting children to hang out with, his mum). We sat in the living room and his dad (my mum's brother) told us how his job as a telecom engineer involved the laying of fiber optic cables at the actual bottom of the sea. In short, it's how we get wifi. Blessed be the submarine cables. Malek, mum, and I watched the video explaining the process with extreme fascination. But then, Khalo had to get back to work and mum decided to teach my other Khalo English using a phone app. Malek and I found ourselves on the neglected side of the couch. I picked up my William Wordsworth book of poetry (with poems chosen by my beloved Irish Seamus Heaney) and I asked Malek tentatively, "would you like me to read this to you?" He nodded and got comfortable on the couch. I began. With poetry, especially older poetry, it is no use trying to understand anything at first read. You've got to read again and again, in order to peel off the superficiality of words, and to find your way to the bottom of the sea, where meaning (and the fiber optic cables) lie. And even then, there's no guarantee you can fully grasp what trotted around in the poet's imagination as he lay down his words on the page. So we read, enjoying the magic of the words spoken out loud, the musicality of poetry. A short while after, I asked Malek if I should go on, and he said no. His lids were falling and he wanted to concentrate on that. A few moments later, he was asleep.
But I don't think a single little moment has ever made me this happy, or this proud. That my 8 year old cousin would agree to sit attentively by me as I read to him the words of a 19th century English poet. I felt like my job in life was done, and there was nothing left for me to do.
So I came here to write about it.
I've got puffy eyes but my conscience is calm. It is content and at peace. I remind myself that I must never again be apologetic about my fragility, or ashamed at the speed with which my feelings travel, and once more repeat to myself that I am going to get exactly what I want. And I sign off.
I'm on my second cuppa just now. I ate my bitter and dry chocolate cake with salted caramel and drank a nice earl grey with it. Now, I'm halfway through a bucket of minty lemongrass green tea.
Worthy of note: today, lots of crying also. I am learning not to be apologetic about my fragility. My sensitivity. I have heard "You are too sensitive" being said to me more times than I would like to admit. My friends rationalise situations, they tell me, indirectly, that I have no right to do this to myself, that I have no right to cry over short-lived, temporary heartbreaks. But I don't cry over short-lived temporary heartbreaks. Or, at least, I don't cry about each individual one (and certainly not on purpose, or willingly.) I cry over the perpetual failure, over years of unrequited love, over the shadow of my father, over his absence, which looms over my present, swift to claim all responsibility for the failure of all of my romantic attempts. If only he had been there. If he had been there, I am certain I would not have been as fearful of boys as I was in my youth, and subsequently, I would not have become such a fragile adult, a poppy, weak and only a leap away from withering, always. But perhaps I'm wrong about this. I will never know.
Anyway, beyond all of that drama, I learnt today that Felix Mendelssohn lived in Scotland and hated Scottish music and Whisky. I also watched an animation of a speech by David Sedaris (not familiar with his work) -- in it, he talks about the importance of writing journalistic entries, of keeping a diary. A diary for all the (metaphorical) shit you must release from your being before you become good at writing. I find that I agree with him very much. This is what I do here. They are very personal entries that I write for the sake of writing. For the sake of getting the words out. An exercise. Precisely like Cassandra does. (But I've talked about this before here, I think.) This little animation validated my self-indulgence and I am back for more.
Otherwise, yesterday, the most magical thing happened. I sat and chatted with Malek (who is habitually very easy to distract). He ate shawarma for dinner and I ate a zaatar man'oucheh with labneh. I though it was the perfect opportunity to question him about his future, as one does with a child. I thought that kids at this age would have extravagant ideas about what they wanted to be when they entered the realm of adulthood and making-moneyhood. Not Malek, though. Not Omar or Nidal either, surprisingly. So I began listing to Malek all the potential jobs he could have; executive manager at a multinational company with very competitive salary, sales assistant at H&M, you know. The usual.
I jest. I told him he could be a paediatrician, a dentist, a designer of video games, an app coder, an illustrator, a graphic designer. He was very engaged in the conversation and remained curious until he finished eating his shawarma and went to put on his pyjamas. After, he came back so we can finish our wee chat (he usually drifts off into the vortex of childhood distractions which come in various forms: the television, the iPad, the smartphone, more interesting children to hang out with, his mum). We sat in the living room and his dad (my mum's brother) told us how his job as a telecom engineer involved the laying of fiber optic cables at the actual bottom of the sea. In short, it's how we get wifi. Blessed be the submarine cables. Malek, mum, and I watched the video explaining the process with extreme fascination. But then, Khalo had to get back to work and mum decided to teach my other Khalo English using a phone app. Malek and I found ourselves on the neglected side of the couch. I picked up my William Wordsworth book of poetry (with poems chosen by my beloved Irish Seamus Heaney) and I asked Malek tentatively, "would you like me to read this to you?" He nodded and got comfortable on the couch. I began. With poetry, especially older poetry, it is no use trying to understand anything at first read. You've got to read again and again, in order to peel off the superficiality of words, and to find your way to the bottom of the sea, where meaning (and the fiber optic cables) lie. And even then, there's no guarantee you can fully grasp what trotted around in the poet's imagination as he lay down his words on the page. So we read, enjoying the magic of the words spoken out loud, the musicality of poetry. A short while after, I asked Malek if I should go on, and he said no. His lids were falling and he wanted to concentrate on that. A few moments later, he was asleep.
But I don't think a single little moment has ever made me this happy, or this proud. That my 8 year old cousin would agree to sit attentively by me as I read to him the words of a 19th century English poet. I felt like my job in life was done, and there was nothing left for me to do.
So I came here to write about it.
I've got puffy eyes but my conscience is calm. It is content and at peace. I remind myself that I must never again be apologetic about my fragility, or ashamed at the speed with which my feelings travel, and once more repeat to myself that I am going to get exactly what I want. And I sign off.
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