I know,
that I wont ever come across such a place in this world- in here, where things exist with reason, where things are bricks upon bricks of science and logic, where things materialize merely based on the dependence of being real. It’s no place for us to meet, it’s no place for you to be – not here, no.
But if there was such a place, where miracles swift by like morning birds; where time is a thread we weave into sweaters and quilts; where dreams become people, and people are a palette of colors- If there was such a place, somewhere on the fringes of this life we stand on, I’d meet you there.
But then again, what words would I give you after all this time?
Maybe, I’d tell you about that page I memorized from “The perks of being a wallflower”; and how lines slipped off the paper and became phantoms; ones that still hover somewhere inside of me. Yes, I’d tell you about it. Maybe, I’d tell you about that Eid day, where for a single,magical,infinite moment, we were all intertwined; as if that bukhoor-scented living room, that laughter resonating from Grandma’s sorrowful soul, and that clinking sound of bicycle bells coming from outdoors, had made everything around us; absolutely weightless. Yes, I’d tell you about it. Maybe, I’d tell you about your brother, about the moment he became somebody’s someone; somebody’s everything; and how his weary eyes, sparked with unshed tears, when he heard the words “ You’ve got a son”. Yes, I’d tell you about it. Maybe, I’d tell you about that song I accidently heard on the radio that day, and how it’s unusual lyrics drifted around me for days; leaving me breathless, only to discover in the end, that I had simply misheard it. Yes, I’d tell you about that. Maybe, I’d tell you about that day, when I boarded a plane alone, with a head filled with somewhere and a heart swollen with tiny specks of achievement. Yes, I’d tell you about it. Maybe I’d tell you about my other family, and how they’re made of ever lasting star-matter; glistening eternally over me, holding my seams together. Yes, I’d tell you about them.
And Maybe, I’d tell you about tears, about vanilla-scented fabrics, beauty salons, frilly-handwritings, furniture stores, newborns tucked in strollers, heels, money jars, branded handbags, life-sized paintings, nachos left on cinema seats, musicals, desserts, songs, key chains, belgian chocolate, morning buffets, animated screensavers, pink hallways, and an endless string of days. I’d tell you about it all. Yes.
And maybe, I’d tell you nothing at all.
I’d just touch your face. Trace it with my fingertips.
Put my ears against your chest; listen to that heart of yours; beat again.
Just that.
Only that.
Once more.
Yes, just that.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
I’m lying at the bottom. Skin to tiles, tiles to skin. My palms pushing against the ground underneath, unsure of what’s holding what. Somewhere out there, there’s a life. If only I could be wave of sound;
a trail of smoke ;
anything dissipating,
anything that could take me through.
Take me back, to it.
To that cloudy morning; walking to the bakery in town; the sky shedding it’s rain upon us. No invisible strings pulling us back, no hands tightening our wrists. Just us, our umbrellas, and a beautiful day waiting ahead.
To that mystical afternoon; Standing on the upper deck of that boat, mist brushing our cheeks, like fallen wishes. Entangled, we were; amongst myths and legends, starring deep into the abyss of Loch Ness.
To that sunny day; sitting on those steel benches, looking down on the endless series of stairs and the outline of a faraway city. Tracing clouds, and wondering how they could look like wandering turtles and floating dragons at the same time.
To that evening in the highlands; tiptoeing on sidewalks, kicking pinecones along the way; laughter engulfing us like a magical halo. Taking away the weight of the world that was once lazed on our shoulders.
To the million lives we lived, in a span of a month ; I could call a lifetime.
Tuesday, September 07, 2010
The girl with the lopsided smirk- I remember her. Always dressed in a traditional Jalabya; her dark black hair tied in a high ponytail. She was my closest mate at that intensive-long, excruciating summer school we attended in the British Council. She’d pull her chair right beside me in class and sit on the edge; as close as possible, her workbook almost overlapping mine. She’d watch me scribble letters on my workbook, and try to distract me with the glittery stickers encircling her page. Odd, the things that find their place around my memory now. Her name, I cannot recall, but I can almost sketch that smirk of hers, and the prominent mole above her lips. I don’t remember what school she came from, but I know with foreign intensity how much she idolized her older brother. And, most of all, I remember how she taught me the art of stealing books from the ‘walking library’.
“ It’s Okay,” ,she’d say “ They want us to read them anyway,”.
And I bulged, and I believed, and I stole.
The concerned High school English teacher- I remember her. Walking into class, starting her lesson by asking for our daily journals. Her voice stern; laced with expectations and genuine concern. Always, trying to keep everything intact, always trying to peel off that cavernous immaturity which plagued us at the time, Always trying to extract that single quality that outlined each one of our characters, making them distinguishable, in hopes of envisioning a change in the future. Her grammar lessons had evaporated, but her “ How is everyone doing this morning?” still rings in my head. I cannot remember her ways of teaching, but I recall her reply to every work I submitted, always repeating “ One day, I’ll hear your name somewhere, and it’ll be somewhere big”.
The boy next door – I remember him. With his light brown hair, round face, raspy voice and stuttered speech. How he loved to play ‘pretend’. He’d be the fish, I’d be the fisher, he’d be the eagle, I’d be the snake, he’d be the judge, I’d be the criminal. I don’t remember when he moved or where he moved; yet I recall his absurd obsession with Ketchup. I don’t remember how many siblings he had, but I remember vividly how he hid a knife in his pocket one afternoon and taunted me with it.
The black-haired girl of the driving school- I remember her. With headphones in her ears, and grey eyes wandering about. She had a detached aura about her, which seemed odd in a driving-test waiting room. I don’t remember if she had an accent, but I recall our conversation about “ Sophie’s Choice” with haunting accuracy. I don’t remember if she passed the test or not , but I know of her fascination with Orchestras and how music could move her to tears. I don’t remember what she was wearing, but I remember the peace sign charm dangling off her bracelet.
Somewhere, along the line, they subtly come into your life ; molding some parts of it, reshaping some future outcomes, giving away shards and pieces of themselves here and there ; a word,, half a lifetime, a tug at a heart, a moment, a memory. And as swiftly as they came, they leave. And Somehow, you become; because of them.
Friday, July 23, 2010
Strangers. That’s what we were. Outlines, figures, passer bys maybe, with no thread in between. We arrived in a foreign land, with our luggage only, and a head filled with scraps- expectations, fear, excitement, and intimidation. No thread in between.
Then came the ceildah, the dance night; clacks of shoes on wooden floors, music melodies dragging us right into the core of that foreign land we just embarked on.
We met that night; we conversed, sugar-coated words were passed between us; few; yet, they marked the beginning;
somewhere along that night, a thread, was tied.
I was drawn.
They were those kind of people who were overwhelmed by existence, by beauty, by idea by thought and memory; those whose life sometimes became too much because they couldn’t bear to accept reality as it was. They’d doubt, they’d question, and they’d weep for it all.
In castles and palaces, they’d slow their pace, and listen intently- to every wall, every statue, every canvas- to the curves in the doorknob, the engravings on the fireplace, and the words embedded in between. In their wake, everything, everything, became impeccable.
They’d talk literature – of words they’ve swallowed once upon a time, of plays they’d marveled on, of characters, of places, of scents and textures lost in time. They’d disagree, they’d reach out and hand ideas, they’d flip them, mold them, and dwell upon them for a while.
They’d talk politics – of nations they’ve mapped, of presidents, of policies, of civilizations, and empires. They’d tuck the globe under their arms and wander with it.
They’d talk society- of flaws they’d wish to scrape off, of molds, of broken hopes, of ideologies they’d wish to demolish. They’d create a momentary utopia amongst themselves, and watch it disperse in seconds.
There was :
The phenomena- eccentric to a world, that knows nothing of the chaos she could bring to it. Truth perhaps, one, the universe itself wont be able to bear.
The spirit- She’d see that line, that’s placed so far beyond our existence. She’d know of it, touch it, and simply believe. Leaves would speak to her, branches arch their way for her to lean on, and trunks would yearn for an embrace. The heart, of everything, and everyone, lies right there ; inside of her.
The sunshine – Surreal, twirling around life, with that enviable tranquility; it drags you in and makes you wonder “ what is it, I was worried about?”.
The melody- she’d leave a trace of colors behind , everything would simply
float around her; lyrical, whimsical, and light as a drizzle.
The reality - She’d know of those footsteps left behind, of wars and battles, and she’d tell it all. Intact she’d keep everything, past, present, and future.
The mystery - Behind her eyelids, the world lies, with all its miraculous wonders, for she sees it all. She’d crawl into poetry lines, into realms only pages know of; she’d tiptoe on pavements, and whisper to buildings. She’d dance in the rye, and find God there.
The life of them all – She was the equilibrium that held them all together; the norm, falters in front of her, for she was the change it always feared. She’d reach far, she’d reach very far.
Nothing, could be quite as beautiful.
Friday, June 11, 2010
As kids, we extended our hands to that plastic box of crayons located at the middle of the round table we shared. And we drew that house. Everyone knew of it, for in our small minds, that was it. Triangular rooftop in red. Brown squared front. A rectangular door in the middle, and two squared windows with a cross inside. In Kindergarten, that was home. That was our home, every single one of us.
Now, as I stand here with my graduation gown and university degree, I realize, I can no longer hold a crayon, and home doesn’t fit on paper. Home was embedded and woven so precisely, in those four years I’ve spent in this place. Home is that girl sitting amongst the crowds clapping vigorously for me; pride hanging like an aura around her. Home is that classroom over there, overflowing with ideas, opinions, theories, clashes, and answers that are strung together in my head, offering me an exceptional glimpse into a world only I know of. Home is that professor over there, who with his unyielding passion, showed me that creativity was a necessity not a choice. Amongst everything, Home are those hearts that subtly became one; those friendships that made me believe in the possibility of a ‘beautiful world’; those beings who never flinched, never doubted, never strayed; whether I was intact or in pieces.
For here, I’ve loved too much, and I dreamed, too much. I’ve seen the beauty and the tragedy of human nature with all its shades. Here was the place, where my words became a proof of a once-upon-a-time solid existence; where my ideas were built upon, talked about, and handed over. Here was the place where I felt it all. The gap between 17 and 21, right and wrong, extreme hate to ultimate attachment.
Maybe that’s why I ache now, maybe that’s why it’s hard to step out of the water.
But there’s more out there, so much more. And my greed has no limits nor outlines.
And this home?
It’s permanent as long as I am.