Tribute to My Uncle Eissa, the epitome of life and living.
He was that kind of boy; with dog-eared schoolbooks and neatly folded clothes. His curly hair was combed precisely at each end, and his wide eyes were always wandering. They say he was the most sophisticated of them all in appearance; buttons buttoned and shirts always tucked in.
But he was also that kind of boy; with stolen marbles in his pockets and cons up his sleeves. He knew every fallen stone in the neighborhood, every hiding corner, every wounded animal. He knew which gum wrappers held the ‘winning’ photos they’ve all collected at the time, and which ones were merely candy delights. He knew of traps, of knotted ropes around handles, and of buried coin jars. He was that kind of boy; with a raging fire within him that’s never out.
He was that kind of man who stacked pale stamps and faded photographs; who loved to record every distinctive sound, moment, joke, anecdote, or conversation, in that leather journal he kept so close. He was that kind of man; who would start a fire, just to watch the red flames engulf the blue within them, and to hear that hypnotizing crackling sound of the woods crumbling.
He was that kind of man; with condensed dreams tucked under his arms and a million tomorrows beneath them all. He knew how to weave aviation strategies without looking at a plane; and the beauty of unraveling worlds within worlds undersea. He knew the worth of self-fulfillment that shadows a risk of following an intense passion. He knew it all, and died knowing it.
He was that kind of father; who scrapped off words from every surface, and redistributed them as stories to his five children. He knew how to heal a wounded knee with mockery and laughter; and how to turn mundane trips and gatherings into endless theatrical plays. He was that kind of father; who wrapped values within parodies and instilled morals with an easing sense of humor. That kind of father, who gave everything; just to preserve every ounce of childhood, innocence, and life at every corner of the house.
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And so he goes,
another beautiful soul;
And so does that still world I’ve once believed I gripped; falling deep into an abyss I no longer see;
my loved ones, and their crooked smiles,
my loved ones, and their ridiculous sense of being
my loved ones, and their snippets of comfort,
From here on, in the clinging stench of death, and as the last breaths of those I’ve held so dear had ascended to the circus of the skies, I knew that these things I know for sure, would no longer be, and everything that we’ve built, breathed, and loved, would crumble. This ceaseless suffering year after year, would eventually fold everyone it touches like a choking weed. And, how after this, would one dare to love again?
Saturday, December 25, 2010
Thursday, December 02, 2010
Dedicated to those who know the sound of “ Clocks” by “ The Black Pipers” with their eyes closed.
Some days never die .
they glaze our existence like a scented-phantom, trailing behind us wherever we step.
Those July days:
They’re here and there, at the core of every facet that make up my Todays.
At the bottom of my Navy converse.
We took a walk in that eerie forest,. Twigs, crisped leaves, misplaced belongings, branches tied with torn fabrics and one horrific garden. “A lost soul”, one of us said, “A psychotic lunatic, said the other, “ or perhaps, a creative artist.” Half-buried gnomes outlined it’s entrance, broken-winged butterflies and hanging garments, toys and statues marked every wooden pillar of the fence and marbles found their way around our feet. Something, somewhere, at the threshold, rendered us immobile. “ Don’t you realize, that we try to create meaning, when there isn’t any? Why is it, we believe, there is a story for everything?”
On that white luggage tag: " 123”.
They warned us, “ never leave the fire exit door open” ; for intruders could be lurking around in every corner, and history had proved that dead bodies could be hidden in trees for days. But Room “123” is right above “ 219”, and efficiency downsizes fear of theoretic stories we’ve heard. We grabbed our blankets and pillows, tiptoed our way to that red door we became accustomed to, and held our breath as we went downstairs to that sleepover we promised. And if I could break it down, those snippets would be the loudest, “ How have I never noticed, how large your toes are?”,
“ I had a dream, about a Tree”, and
“ That Alarm ringtone, is deathly”
And they’re there, in that gold-rimmed Ray Ban shades
“ Ocean Terminal”, she said, “ That’s where we’re headed tomorrow, I have a feeling, it’s a magical place”. And on we went on that sunny day, from one bus stop, to another, to another, from moderately normal-sized buses, to two-leveled ones until we finally reached, that salt-scented town; they called “ The Ocean Terminal”. “ Well, im slightly disappointed,” she said, as we stood in a bland mall, that held no promises. But we found our ways, in between the stops, to a Pizza Hut, right in the middle of a bar-infested area. And those conversations we exchanged over a Blue-cheese pizza, were the beating heart of that infinite day.
“ Don’t leave a tip, keep it for the needy”,
“Don’t tell me you expect me to drink your coke after this lunch we had?” and
“ I can’t believe we entered without waiting to be seated.”
But I know, it wasn’t the words; it was them.
And they’re there, tracing my purple Ipod.
At the back of the bus, we sat. “ Let’s play 20 questions,”, ,. From start to an end, and an end to a start, we found ourselves, unraveling political views and weaving worldly arguments, “ Jamal Abdul Naser you say? I would agree if he didn’t use the rich to fulfill the needs of the poor!” , “ And what about those Turkish Policies? Where do you stand on that? Public imagery versus true intent? “
“ I don’t think so!”
And the world slept, while we dissected it.
Some days, never die.