City lights swiftly glide by. What are tiny dots of light form slim lines as the eye moistens. The laptop screen remains steady. An index finger idle in mid-air, poised. The smell of coffee makes its way to a pulsating head.
"L..."
Two types of good authors. Those whose generousity with words recreats a world of the senses and feelings; and those whose reticence with words does precisely the same.
(لما نتكلم بأكثر من لغة واحده و نكتب بواحده؟ )
"London Fashion Week, February. HH and I sat a few rows left of the catwalk. Yves Saint-Laurent's new صائحة is the color yellow. Frail figures paraded with charisma up and down the brilliantly lit stage. The music fit into every savage kick, every throw of the hips, every sexy rebellious look into space each of the slender figures gave. Lights screamed. Magazine editors and journalists glanced with concentration over the rim of their reading glasses, making casual notes. A relentless minefield of cameras flash."
--fast forward--
"Laurent Perrier was the evening motif as HH, AL and I exchanged repartees and sarcasm, all in good spirit. Under the dimmed halogen of the minimalist living room, shadows swirled and an occasional spark of light reflecting off our flutes would bring the world back into focus. Cairo, New York, Reykjavik. NK struts in and seemlessly joins us. Belmopan.
"This city's an addiction, it is agreed. It is so because of the sharp withdrawal symptoms one has and because of one's physical dependency on its many induglences, themselves an addiction."
" 'Zum Beispiel, Ich hab letzte woche im Chelsea Friedhof jemand gefickt. I can't think of any other place where anything similar is tolerated'...'Na ja'...'Nothing's sacred, one doesn't find better sex in this borough than in that cemetery. Large men in leather propping up their belts against tombstones and having it their way with whoever happens by. Where do they come from? This is such a pristine borough its hard to imagine-'...'The availability of narcotics, such as those crumbs escaping HH's nostrils as we speak-- sniff up poppet, will you? --allows for this culture of decadence'...'Yes its much simpler than it sounds, n'est ce pas?' "
--forward--
I had listened to this with a slight distraction. بلنسبة لي the hedonism is the pretext, not the context. As I wrapped my body around ZN (Moscow) that night in a steam room, tasting every drop of sweat on his neck as I rhythmically penetrated him, I thought to myself-
Within these very veins runs blood that is ancient. Long lines of people are the essence of this genetic legacy, this DNA that I hold, the way my thick eyebrows cover my inset eyes, the way my skin both glows and darkens under the sun. I am a sum total of that legacy. The sum total of my nomadic ancestors deep in the middle-eastern deserts; my ancestors from the nile valley, who have thrived for seven millenia; and my ancestors from Asia Minor, who crossed the Mediterranean a little over a century ago.
---fast rewind--
" 'This legacy I carry not alone. Every person carries a legacy equally profound. When we come together, we weave the fabric of humanity. When we have share dinner, a drink, or have sex, we are bringing together the cultures from which we belong - from the tinyiest particle in our body to the languages our tongues speak. From this union of diversity we find stimulation - we realize the spiritual commonality between us and we rejoice over racial differences, uniqueness. The truth is, gentlemen, no place facilitates this union more than London.' "
The Flying Scotsman flees into a tunnel.
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