A great nobody
Beirut, November 9, 2017
I am writing this at work whereas I should be finishing the tasks I must finish so I could actually set a date of departure from this stagnant apartment with orange tables and greasy keyboards.
Since yesterday, I have been trying something new: silence. I am an introvert. Big news. A trait that is often praised for harbouring creativity and great thinking and lots and lots of magic. In reality, introvertedness (am I making this word up?) is a lot more problematic. As an introvert, the large silence that allows me to hide from people, to remain mysterious and obscure (before I get asked a question and proceed to spilling out my most embarrassing secret) is sustained by a large field of voices. Voices that constantly and relentlessly repeat themselves in an attempt to soothe and comfort my melancholy, my timorous self; voices that focus on the terrible thoughts and fears, that replay old scenes and activate shame, stress, and anxiety; voices that are quick to judge, quick to jump to conclusions, voices that have become so loud they have begun to tear at my actual being.
But this new thought, which proclaims that all thoughts must end in order for me to go on, has been coming up frequently in my brain. As the days wear on, I realise that I've grown so weary of hearing myself think. I am incapable of accepting the self that I live with, the self that I have, the self that I am. My very own thoughts, where I so often hid when the world outside has been a big bad wolf, have now begun to oppress me.
Everything pains me: the plans I keep wanting to do but somehow procrastinate my way out of, the words I wish to write that never get written, the floristry course I never take, the fleeing to foresty forests I never flee to. Stagnation. This wall of hope I've built throughout the years, fed with thoughts and words and plans that I've yet to climb over has begun crumble. As I fall backwards, amid the dust and the dreams, I become oppressed by the guilt I feel towards myself.
I owe myself so much more than this.
So I have decided to fight the voices with silence. And with classical music.
Now, I am going to write about what happened on last friday. (I did not need to introduce this with a silly line, but this is my blog and I am silly and the words will do as I say.)
Last friday, I snuck into the opening of the Salon du Livre de Beyrouth with Dima, where many irrelevant (but obsession-fertile things) happened.
Allow me first to set the mood. Context: I looked like a cowgirl: two braids, white top, flare jeans, chunky blundstones, answering the imaginary memo which specified that the theme of the evening was ridicule.
Dima and I parked the car quite far away and had to walk a long and winding road, where we crossed paths with a French-speaking man wearing the anti-pollution, anti-bacteria mask (don't know what else to call it). He seemed lost and subsequently was overjoyed to run into us. After informing us he was the chairman of the (French? English? Arabic? who knows?) Literature Department at a university (Notre-Dame, I think?) and upon finding out that I had studied Children's Literature, he insisted I should apply to become a teacher. And that though they did not accept people who have not earned a PhD (snobs!), as the chairman, he had the authority to "sign papers" and do what he liked. Comforting. But dear brother, a) do you know exactly what kind of children's literature I studied? That it was more literacy and education and a few books focussing on the incorporation of refugee children in the classroom that actual proper child literature? and b) do you know that I am utterly unequipped to teach children's literature? and c) that I am no longer looking for reasons to stay in Lebanon anymore? No matter, he still gave me his phone number so I could send him my resume. Hopefully, I won't need to do that. He was also very grateful for in running into us, angels sent from above, shedding the light of heaven upon people's paths, he was able to find his way to the event venue. We are divine, secretly.
Second slightly less unfortunate event was chasing after Salah Stétié to say hello. In a sea of irrelevant Lebanese politicians walked this very old family friend (and great poet). I stopped him to tell him I am Jeddo Anis' granddaughter, whereupon he drooped his tiny droopy eyes, kissing me on the cheek enthusiastically, and inviting me to attend his talk on the Résidence des Pins because it would be of particular relevance to me. (I have no link to the Résidence des Pins, where the French ambassador to Lebanon usually resides, but mum grew up right next to Horch Beirut, somewhat of an extension to the Résidence des Pins, which explains Salah Stétié's invitation.) I promised I would try to go. Alas, as it conflicted with something else, I ended up missing it. And much to my dismay, he would forget about me a few seconds later. The second (and the third) time I met him, he would express the same surprise when I introduced myself to him. (With the last two meetings happening within an hour of each other.)
Third: mortification. Dima and I mingled with the throng (of wolfish people awaiting the unveiling of the table with canapés,) when out of nowhere, appeared a familiar face. Alas, completely forgetting that the familiarity is one-sided, I rushed to meet and say hello to French actor Stanley Weber. Now. I am usually very discreet; and, truly, I despise the celebrity culture for turning ordinary people who learn to pretend to be other people for a living into idols. I have "spotted" celebrities before and had had the wisdom and presence of mind to let them be because meeting them would not mean anything to me or them, and would not change my life in any way, shape, or form. Somehow that very wisdom I've so patiently nurtured throughout the years decided to walk out on me in rather a brutal and very betraying manner. Without thinking at all (I mean this very literally), I walked up to Stanley Weber, having no recollection whatsoever of his name or the movies he's been in. I uttered a few giddy words (now would be a good time to give you a kind reminder that I am dressed as a cow girl AND have two VERY ridiculous plaits) that conjure excessive amounts of cringe as I recall them. I frightened the french braids out of him. And then, after a proper fan-girly "well anyway, I just wanted to say hi to you!" I walked away, the truest of all walks of shame, realising I had just made a gigantic idiot out of myself. Complete mortification.
For the next few hours, I kept replaying the episode again and again, and then began to realise it was a pure work of art. Of course, I felt like such a silly human being; why did I even do this? But I did it, and there was nothing I could undo. I convinced myself I was already forgotten about, just so I can be able to sleep at night. The next morning, I would burst into hysterical laughter thinking about it. But again, I reminded myself he could never possibly remember me and that thought gave me great relief.
In the evening of that very same Saturday, Nayla phoned to tell me she was going to the Salon du Livre and would I like to join? I said I would as I had not had a proper chance to look around the day before. We met up. She spent a half hour chatting up to Alexandre Jardin about his mum and her polyamory antics. I walked on my own for a bit. Then... was this a dream? There he was, again, sitting by his lonesome at a table with a beer. Stan. Courage overcame my shame and I walked up to him again, determined to prove (more to myself than to him) that I was a normal human being. He was nice this time. He introduced himself to me, and I told him my name. We shook hands. He said he was here for a book-reading he was doing on Tuesday, and that I should come. I asked if it was his first time in Lebanon. He said no, he has friends; in fact, they were taking him out for dinner soon. He was going to Byblos tomorrow and would go back home on Wednesday. I told him I was glad I had run into him again, and wished him a happy stay. (I should have offered to show him around. But idiot is what I yam, alas.)
I found Nayla sitting at a table right next to his, so I ended up hanging out by his side far longer than I had predicted. He never once turned to join into the loud conversation we were having. Then he got up and left. We left soon after.
Sunday morning: walking on the corniche with mum at 11 o'clock, telling her how extraordinary it was that I would run into this otherwise mysterious actor not once, but twice! And then, as though summoned by my words, there he appeared again! I thought he would be in Byblos. This time, however, I did not rush to greet him, lest he should think I was following him around (I wasn't.)
On Monday, sadly, I did not run into him though I fervently hoped I would.
Tuesday came, and I was not sure if I would make to the book-reading, as it was happening in the evening, at a hotel a 40-minute drive from my house. A tentative message was sent to Nayla at 18:30. Are you still keen on going? She replied ten minutes later in the excited affirmative. I picked her up and we drove, chatting about Stan, fans of Stan, Stan the man. It was a pleasant and funny ride. We arrived at the hotel, where bourgeois older women with high hairstyles and designer bags convened. This event seemed extremely fancy. Nayla and I got our photos taken. "Oh the horror," she said, "We are going to be in Mondanité.*" Giggles. Lots of giggles. The show would start soon, so we walked in, sat down. A very dainty French pianist came out and began the recital. Then, out came our Stan, dressed in a beige vest (which, upon being informed of this fourth meeting, Kim would dream about said vests and "vests in general"). And so, the evening wore on; Stan read out the story of a (privileged) Lebanese lawyer which culminated in a very tender text, a homage to his newly-deceased mother, interspersed with moments where Nico! -as Nayla would call the pianist- played the piano. The evening was lovely (despite the text being slightly weak). Even if the words betrayed the author's lack of artistry, their essence conveyed the moving tribute of a son to his deceased mother.
How incapable and useless one feels when they lose their mother. Hearing this account of a mother's passing; how the author portrays life beyond her death through the roses she so dearly loved and grew in her life struck a cord with me. I've often tried to find ways to communicate to my grandfather after his passing. I told myself, very similarly, that his life went on in the garden he looked out on as he prayed everyday, in the plants he grew. I told myself I would always see him in the trees, the gardenia flowers and, before its destruction, in the old house. I was never really able to do that with my father as he left us when I was too young. I did not know him alive, so I find it impossible to associate him to an aspect of life I might have seen him in. But the text made me think of my own mother, of how my life would cease to make sense were she not to be in it anymore. I cannot stand the idea.
When the reading ended, we lingered inside, waiting for Stan to show up so I could proclaim my love to him. When there was no sign of him, we walked out. In the lobby, they served wine and canapés, which Nayla and I devoured with no shame.
Then, Stan showed up. Like lightning, he passed by us without noticing me (lol, of course he would not). I did not want him to leave without at least getting the chance to speak to him, pretending if for a few seconds that we were friends. He came back after a cigarette break. He was surrounded by middle-aged, surgically enhanced women. I creeped up behind him like the mouse I am, and when he turned, he made a face to indicate that he recognised me. We exchanged two kisses on the cheeks. We were proper acquaintances now. True friends, friends forever in my teenage heart. I asked him if he had fun in Byblos. He said yes. Then, I told him my very pretentious thoughts about how Lebanese artists/writers often write or make art about the civil war. He agreed and said we have quite a lot of wartime inspiration. But really, who doesn't write about war? Then I told him he chose the "right" moment to visit as our prime minister has just somehow vanished into thin air(abia). And then, I don't remember what I did, but I must have indirectly signaled that the conversation was over, and he was suddenly walking away from me, awkwardly. I smiled and he smiled and that was it.
I have a very fond memory of this serendipitous meeting. I have no way of knowing what might happen later on. But if fate has been so arduous in setting up all of these meetings, I think perhaps we might meet again whilst I'm in Paris, at the beginning of December. Or somewhere else, at a different time. Of course, I have no way of knowing whether that will actually be true. I hope it will. At the very least, I hope he won't forget about me.
For some time after this, these voices in my head deprecated my glory, accusing me of not being interesting enough or worthy of this famous French actor's attention or interest. I am no Audrey Tautou, no Marion Cotillard, no Caitriona Balfe. I am nobody. And I may be, forevermore, a nobody to him. But I am a great nobody. I am full of such unadulterated magic. A great nobody.
Therefore, to the voices in my head, I give silence, classical music, and hope.
I end this post in bed. (No, not at work anymore.) (Not that it matters.) *yawn*. The End.
---
*Mondanité: a Lebanese publication that chronicles the outs and abouts of the Lebanese bourgeoisie/social figures.
I am writing this at work whereas I should be finishing the tasks I must finish so I could actually set a date of departure from this stagnant apartment with orange tables and greasy keyboards.
Since yesterday, I have been trying something new: silence. I am an introvert. Big news. A trait that is often praised for harbouring creativity and great thinking and lots and lots of magic. In reality, introvertedness (am I making this word up?) is a lot more problematic. As an introvert, the large silence that allows me to hide from people, to remain mysterious and obscure (before I get asked a question and proceed to spilling out my most embarrassing secret) is sustained by a large field of voices. Voices that constantly and relentlessly repeat themselves in an attempt to soothe and comfort my melancholy, my timorous self; voices that focus on the terrible thoughts and fears, that replay old scenes and activate shame, stress, and anxiety; voices that are quick to judge, quick to jump to conclusions, voices that have become so loud they have begun to tear at my actual being.
But this new thought, which proclaims that all thoughts must end in order for me to go on, has been coming up frequently in my brain. As the days wear on, I realise that I've grown so weary of hearing myself think. I am incapable of accepting the self that I live with, the self that I have, the self that I am. My very own thoughts, where I so often hid when the world outside has been a big bad wolf, have now begun to oppress me.
Everything pains me: the plans I keep wanting to do but somehow procrastinate my way out of, the words I wish to write that never get written, the floristry course I never take, the fleeing to foresty forests I never flee to. Stagnation. This wall of hope I've built throughout the years, fed with thoughts and words and plans that I've yet to climb over has begun crumble. As I fall backwards, amid the dust and the dreams, I become oppressed by the guilt I feel towards myself.
I owe myself so much more than this.
So I have decided to fight the voices with silence. And with classical music.
Now, I am going to write about what happened on last friday. (I did not need to introduce this with a silly line, but this is my blog and I am silly and the words will do as I say.)
Last friday, I snuck into the opening of the Salon du Livre de Beyrouth with Dima, where many irrelevant (but obsession-fertile things) happened.
Allow me first to set the mood. Context: I looked like a cowgirl: two braids, white top, flare jeans, chunky blundstones, answering the imaginary memo which specified that the theme of the evening was ridicule.
Dima and I parked the car quite far away and had to walk a long and winding road, where we crossed paths with a French-speaking man wearing the anti-pollution, anti-bacteria mask (don't know what else to call it). He seemed lost and subsequently was overjoyed to run into us. After informing us he was the chairman of the (French? English? Arabic? who knows?) Literature Department at a university (Notre-Dame, I think?) and upon finding out that I had studied Children's Literature, he insisted I should apply to become a teacher. And that though they did not accept people who have not earned a PhD (snobs!), as the chairman, he had the authority to "sign papers" and do what he liked. Comforting. But dear brother, a) do you know exactly what kind of children's literature I studied? That it was more literacy and education and a few books focussing on the incorporation of refugee children in the classroom that actual proper child literature? and b) do you know that I am utterly unequipped to teach children's literature? and c) that I am no longer looking for reasons to stay in Lebanon anymore? No matter, he still gave me his phone number so I could send him my resume. Hopefully, I won't need to do that. He was also very grateful for in running into us, angels sent from above, shedding the light of heaven upon people's paths, he was able to find his way to the event venue. We are divine, secretly.
Second slightly less unfortunate event was chasing after Salah Stétié to say hello. In a sea of irrelevant Lebanese politicians walked this very old family friend (and great poet). I stopped him to tell him I am Jeddo Anis' granddaughter, whereupon he drooped his tiny droopy eyes, kissing me on the cheek enthusiastically, and inviting me to attend his talk on the Résidence des Pins because it would be of particular relevance to me. (I have no link to the Résidence des Pins, where the French ambassador to Lebanon usually resides, but mum grew up right next to Horch Beirut, somewhat of an extension to the Résidence des Pins, which explains Salah Stétié's invitation.) I promised I would try to go. Alas, as it conflicted with something else, I ended up missing it. And much to my dismay, he would forget about me a few seconds later. The second (and the third) time I met him, he would express the same surprise when I introduced myself to him. (With the last two meetings happening within an hour of each other.)
Third: mortification. Dima and I mingled with the throng (of wolfish people awaiting the unveiling of the table with canapés,) when out of nowhere, appeared a familiar face. Alas, completely forgetting that the familiarity is one-sided, I rushed to meet and say hello to French actor Stanley Weber. Now. I am usually very discreet; and, truly, I despise the celebrity culture for turning ordinary people who learn to pretend to be other people for a living into idols. I have "spotted" celebrities before and had had the wisdom and presence of mind to let them be because meeting them would not mean anything to me or them, and would not change my life in any way, shape, or form. Somehow that very wisdom I've so patiently nurtured throughout the years decided to walk out on me in rather a brutal and very betraying manner. Without thinking at all (I mean this very literally), I walked up to Stanley Weber, having no recollection whatsoever of his name or the movies he's been in. I uttered a few giddy words (now would be a good time to give you a kind reminder that I am dressed as a cow girl AND have two VERY ridiculous plaits) that conjure excessive amounts of cringe as I recall them. I frightened the french braids out of him. And then, after a proper fan-girly "well anyway, I just wanted to say hi to you!" I walked away, the truest of all walks of shame, realising I had just made a gigantic idiot out of myself. Complete mortification.
For the next few hours, I kept replaying the episode again and again, and then began to realise it was a pure work of art. Of course, I felt like such a silly human being; why did I even do this? But I did it, and there was nothing I could undo. I convinced myself I was already forgotten about, just so I can be able to sleep at night. The next morning, I would burst into hysterical laughter thinking about it. But again, I reminded myself he could never possibly remember me and that thought gave me great relief.
In the evening of that very same Saturday, Nayla phoned to tell me she was going to the Salon du Livre and would I like to join? I said I would as I had not had a proper chance to look around the day before. We met up. She spent a half hour chatting up to Alexandre Jardin about his mum and her polyamory antics. I walked on my own for a bit. Then... was this a dream? There he was, again, sitting by his lonesome at a table with a beer. Stan. Courage overcame my shame and I walked up to him again, determined to prove (more to myself than to him) that I was a normal human being. He was nice this time. He introduced himself to me, and I told him my name. We shook hands. He said he was here for a book-reading he was doing on Tuesday, and that I should come. I asked if it was his first time in Lebanon. He said no, he has friends; in fact, they were taking him out for dinner soon. He was going to Byblos tomorrow and would go back home on Wednesday. I told him I was glad I had run into him again, and wished him a happy stay. (I should have offered to show him around. But idiot is what I yam, alas.)
I found Nayla sitting at a table right next to his, so I ended up hanging out by his side far longer than I had predicted. He never once turned to join into the loud conversation we were having. Then he got up and left. We left soon after.
Sunday morning: walking on the corniche with mum at 11 o'clock, telling her how extraordinary it was that I would run into this otherwise mysterious actor not once, but twice! And then, as though summoned by my words, there he appeared again! I thought he would be in Byblos. This time, however, I did not rush to greet him, lest he should think I was following him around (I wasn't.)
On Monday, sadly, I did not run into him though I fervently hoped I would.
Tuesday came, and I was not sure if I would make to the book-reading, as it was happening in the evening, at a hotel a 40-minute drive from my house. A tentative message was sent to Nayla at 18:30. Are you still keen on going? She replied ten minutes later in the excited affirmative. I picked her up and we drove, chatting about Stan, fans of Stan, Stan the man. It was a pleasant and funny ride. We arrived at the hotel, where bourgeois older women with high hairstyles and designer bags convened. This event seemed extremely fancy. Nayla and I got our photos taken. "Oh the horror," she said, "We are going to be in Mondanité.*" Giggles. Lots of giggles. The show would start soon, so we walked in, sat down. A very dainty French pianist came out and began the recital. Then, out came our Stan, dressed in a beige vest (which, upon being informed of this fourth meeting, Kim would dream about said vests and "vests in general"). And so, the evening wore on; Stan read out the story of a (privileged) Lebanese lawyer which culminated in a very tender text, a homage to his newly-deceased mother, interspersed with moments where Nico! -as Nayla would call the pianist- played the piano. The evening was lovely (despite the text being slightly weak). Even if the words betrayed the author's lack of artistry, their essence conveyed the moving tribute of a son to his deceased mother.
How incapable and useless one feels when they lose their mother. Hearing this account of a mother's passing; how the author portrays life beyond her death through the roses she so dearly loved and grew in her life struck a cord with me. I've often tried to find ways to communicate to my grandfather after his passing. I told myself, very similarly, that his life went on in the garden he looked out on as he prayed everyday, in the plants he grew. I told myself I would always see him in the trees, the gardenia flowers and, before its destruction, in the old house. I was never really able to do that with my father as he left us when I was too young. I did not know him alive, so I find it impossible to associate him to an aspect of life I might have seen him in. But the text made me think of my own mother, of how my life would cease to make sense were she not to be in it anymore. I cannot stand the idea.
When the reading ended, we lingered inside, waiting for Stan to show up so I could proclaim my love to him. When there was no sign of him, we walked out. In the lobby, they served wine and canapés, which Nayla and I devoured with no shame.
Then, Stan showed up. Like lightning, he passed by us without noticing me (lol, of course he would not). I did not want him to leave without at least getting the chance to speak to him, pretending if for a few seconds that we were friends. He came back after a cigarette break. He was surrounded by middle-aged, surgically enhanced women. I creeped up behind him like the mouse I am, and when he turned, he made a face to indicate that he recognised me. We exchanged two kisses on the cheeks. We were proper acquaintances now. True friends, friends forever in my teenage heart. I asked him if he had fun in Byblos. He said yes. Then, I told him my very pretentious thoughts about how Lebanese artists/writers often write or make art about the civil war. He agreed and said we have quite a lot of wartime inspiration. But really, who doesn't write about war? Then I told him he chose the "right" moment to visit as our prime minister has just somehow vanished into thin air(abia). And then, I don't remember what I did, but I must have indirectly signaled that the conversation was over, and he was suddenly walking away from me, awkwardly. I smiled and he smiled and that was it.
I have a very fond memory of this serendipitous meeting. I have no way of knowing what might happen later on. But if fate has been so arduous in setting up all of these meetings, I think perhaps we might meet again whilst I'm in Paris, at the beginning of December. Or somewhere else, at a different time. Of course, I have no way of knowing whether that will actually be true. I hope it will. At the very least, I hope he won't forget about me.
For some time after this, these voices in my head deprecated my glory, accusing me of not being interesting enough or worthy of this famous French actor's attention or interest. I am no Audrey Tautou, no Marion Cotillard, no Caitriona Balfe. I am nobody. And I may be, forevermore, a nobody to him. But I am a great nobody. I am full of such unadulterated magic. A great nobody.
Therefore, to the voices in my head, I give silence, classical music, and hope.
I end this post in bed. (No, not at work anymore.) (Not that it matters.) *yawn*. The End.
---
*Mondanité: a Lebanese publication that chronicles the outs and abouts of the Lebanese bourgeoisie/social figures.
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