lipton of my eye
Beirut, November 16, 2017
Today is Pippa's birthday. We both turn 28 this year.
My days are long, very elastic, seemingly endless. I alternate between my computer screen, where I work on a very unpleasant project, and my smartphone, where I spend an equally (if not more) unpleasant time on social media, scrolling, scrolling, scrolling, following, scrolling.
My decision to leave has never made more sense to me. I long to break free from those shackles. But also, I'm scared. Mostly of myself, of finding that my own desires have betrayed me, when I cross onto a different grass, and I realise that I'm incapable of making it look as brilliant as I wish it to be.
I content myself to settle in with an ephemeral peace, I am leaving, I am leaving. Do you have a place to go to? People ask. No, I want to write, I reply. I want to write, I remind myself. But what if I'm not good enough? What if the repetition that manifests itself in my current writing now continues to manifest itself in my future and future writing? What if I write and I despise what I write and I come to the frightening realisation that all that have always dreamt I would be was illusion, fiction?
I stop my thoughts dead in their tracks and send them back to the néant. To nothingness. These uncertainties shall not control me.
I saw a short film about the life of Um Kulthoum today. About a woman who managed to pierce through the patriarchy that so powerfully reigned (and still does) in Egypt. A woman, who was almost the unspoken president of her country. A woman who, through her music, and when asked why she was so talented, why she was "so good," replied, "it's my love for it, my love for the music," had the entire Arab world at her feet. It seems that now, more than ever, this small and tumultuous chunk of land where we live needs someone like her, the African mammy, almost-- maternal, graceful, brilliant. A leader. True and proper. Someone to transcend the divide that so easily chucks us into sections, religions, classes, under pretend leaders who nibble on our bread, chop down our trees, toss poison into our seas, build vacant towers of concrete. More leaders than people, it seems. And silence of the people, silence of the oppressed. Because silence, not unlike loud cries, yields one and the same indifference. Indifference in them, indifference to us. Indifference in us. We don't belong in this country anymore. In these countries. We live in an fleeting dimension, one that threatens to crack but we pretend not to see it anymore. We pretend that life here is good because family, because home. We blindfold our eyes and pretend. And life goes on.
But who am I to poeticise politics? I can't do it. I don't have the talent of the rebel.
What I loved the most in the film, was how musician Ibrahim Maalouf ties back the blues genre to the tarab: both of which originate in Africa, mother of emotions, Mother. I am not myself very familiar with Um Kulthoum's music; I know four of her most popular songs, but that's just about it. But I was moved by the documentary. I must discover her work more thoroughly.
In tarab, I will now seek to restore my soul. The voices are still around, haunting, poking, gnawing.
We are now November 17, and I fell asleep yesterday thinking about letting go. How difficult it is. I am in a constant state of letting go. Infinite longing and infinite letting go. I write that I am well, but falter and weaken and become angry again. I am afraid. Afraid of this pattern being the defining pattern in my life and I am afraid of never being able to break it. I am afraid that I will never be enough for someone. I am afraid that if I wear my loose men's shirt because it's comfortable, if I don't put on make-up all the time, if I don't take off my glasses, I am not enough. That if I don't let a man chase me, I am not, nor can ever be, interesting enough. That if I decide a man's--an entire society's-- idea of femininity doesn't coincide with my choices as a woman, I won't be enough. That it won't make me attractive enough, or worthy of love. And I despise these warped ideas; ideas that my mum and many of my close friends believe to be true.
I contradict myself with former posts, where I write about how proud I am of my writer and my dreamer and my self.
But I am proud. I am enough. I know these facts to be true. And I understand now that thoughts come and go; they always will. I just must not let them dominate or crush me. My own self-esteem must not fluctuate depending on what people tell me I should do. Or at least, it must return back to its anchor: the belief that everything that I am, have been, have built, have learnt is enough. And that it's luminous. Glorious. Indomitable.
Once again, I teach myself to become literate in the art of letting go. Gently. The people who lose you fade away into oblivion soon after they decide that you are not enough. But it is they who are not enough. Not enough to warrant your tears, and to exhaust your limitless source of sadness. Not enough to take the unconditional love that thrives within you and turn it into ridicule, into shame. Shame on you for being so naive, for liking someone too soon. Shame on you. They turn your hope into utter humiliation. I write this again and again. I can't stop repeating myself.
Perhaps I must repeat myself into forgetfulness. There will come a day when all of those who committed hurt, intentionally or not, will turn into dead leaves on a tree. And you will see them plead with the branches, let us stay. And the branches will shake; no. Flicked off, the leaves will lose their balance and fall down, imaginary dances with the wind, quivers before the awaited end; earth, where death lingers. You will look down at them. Some will still look pretty. Tempting. You might pick one up, a memory, pressed in between the pages of a book. But as you keep walking, autumn basking everything in its colours, in its magic of death and rebirth, the fallen leaves will crunch beneath your feet, and with that, gone will be every last bit of shame they made you feel in the past, when they once were green and indifferent to your love.
Okay. I am very delusional. Also, I have spent the past few hours dabbing a black tea bag against my eyelid which seems itchy, hazy, and in dire need of an astringent, it seems.
Lipton of my eye, lovers forever.
Today is Pippa's birthday. We both turn 28 this year.
My days are long, very elastic, seemingly endless. I alternate between my computer screen, where I work on a very unpleasant project, and my smartphone, where I spend an equally (if not more) unpleasant time on social media, scrolling, scrolling, scrolling, following, scrolling.
My decision to leave has never made more sense to me. I long to break free from those shackles. But also, I'm scared. Mostly of myself, of finding that my own desires have betrayed me, when I cross onto a different grass, and I realise that I'm incapable of making it look as brilliant as I wish it to be.
I content myself to settle in with an ephemeral peace, I am leaving, I am leaving. Do you have a place to go to? People ask. No, I want to write, I reply. I want to write, I remind myself. But what if I'm not good enough? What if the repetition that manifests itself in my current writing now continues to manifest itself in my future and future writing? What if I write and I despise what I write and I come to the frightening realisation that all that have always dreamt I would be was illusion, fiction?
I stop my thoughts dead in their tracks and send them back to the néant. To nothingness. These uncertainties shall not control me.
I saw a short film about the life of Um Kulthoum today. About a woman who managed to pierce through the patriarchy that so powerfully reigned (and still does) in Egypt. A woman, who was almost the unspoken president of her country. A woman who, through her music, and when asked why she was so talented, why she was "so good," replied, "it's my love for it, my love for the music," had the entire Arab world at her feet. It seems that now, more than ever, this small and tumultuous chunk of land where we live needs someone like her, the African mammy, almost-- maternal, graceful, brilliant. A leader. True and proper. Someone to transcend the divide that so easily chucks us into sections, religions, classes, under pretend leaders who nibble on our bread, chop down our trees, toss poison into our seas, build vacant towers of concrete. More leaders than people, it seems. And silence of the people, silence of the oppressed. Because silence, not unlike loud cries, yields one and the same indifference. Indifference in them, indifference to us. Indifference in us. We don't belong in this country anymore. In these countries. We live in an fleeting dimension, one that threatens to crack but we pretend not to see it anymore. We pretend that life here is good because family, because home. We blindfold our eyes and pretend. And life goes on.
But who am I to poeticise politics? I can't do it. I don't have the talent of the rebel.
What I loved the most in the film, was how musician Ibrahim Maalouf ties back the blues genre to the tarab: both of which originate in Africa, mother of emotions, Mother. I am not myself very familiar with Um Kulthoum's music; I know four of her most popular songs, but that's just about it. But I was moved by the documentary. I must discover her work more thoroughly.
In tarab, I will now seek to restore my soul. The voices are still around, haunting, poking, gnawing.
We are now November 17, and I fell asleep yesterday thinking about letting go. How difficult it is. I am in a constant state of letting go. Infinite longing and infinite letting go. I write that I am well, but falter and weaken and become angry again. I am afraid. Afraid of this pattern being the defining pattern in my life and I am afraid of never being able to break it. I am afraid that I will never be enough for someone. I am afraid that if I wear my loose men's shirt because it's comfortable, if I don't put on make-up all the time, if I don't take off my glasses, I am not enough. That if I don't let a man chase me, I am not, nor can ever be, interesting enough. That if I decide a man's--an entire society's-- idea of femininity doesn't coincide with my choices as a woman, I won't be enough. That it won't make me attractive enough, or worthy of love. And I despise these warped ideas; ideas that my mum and many of my close friends believe to be true.
I contradict myself with former posts, where I write about how proud I am of my writer and my dreamer and my self.
But I am proud. I am enough. I know these facts to be true. And I understand now that thoughts come and go; they always will. I just must not let them dominate or crush me. My own self-esteem must not fluctuate depending on what people tell me I should do. Or at least, it must return back to its anchor: the belief that everything that I am, have been, have built, have learnt is enough. And that it's luminous. Glorious. Indomitable.
Once again, I teach myself to become literate in the art of letting go. Gently. The people who lose you fade away into oblivion soon after they decide that you are not enough. But it is they who are not enough. Not enough to warrant your tears, and to exhaust your limitless source of sadness. Not enough to take the unconditional love that thrives within you and turn it into ridicule, into shame. Shame on you for being so naive, for liking someone too soon. Shame on you. They turn your hope into utter humiliation. I write this again and again. I can't stop repeating myself.
Perhaps I must repeat myself into forgetfulness. There will come a day when all of those who committed hurt, intentionally or not, will turn into dead leaves on a tree. And you will see them plead with the branches, let us stay. And the branches will shake; no. Flicked off, the leaves will lose their balance and fall down, imaginary dances with the wind, quivers before the awaited end; earth, where death lingers. You will look down at them. Some will still look pretty. Tempting. You might pick one up, a memory, pressed in between the pages of a book. But as you keep walking, autumn basking everything in its colours, in its magic of death and rebirth, the fallen leaves will crunch beneath your feet, and with that, gone will be every last bit of shame they made you feel in the past, when they once were green and indifferent to your love.
Okay. I am very delusional. Also, I have spent the past few hours dabbing a black tea bag against my eyelid which seems itchy, hazy, and in dire need of an astringent, it seems.
Lipton of my eye, lovers forever.
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