So in the struggle for a little more perspective and perhaps a little less seriousness, I found myself somewhat coincidentally (although as I had come to learn, no such thing as coincidence really exists) with a yarmulke and a Jewish book of songs. The paradigm shift was necessary, and in reality my immersion into Kabbalah has been of significant educational and spiritual value.
Here it was finally, a non-elitist mystic tradition whose esoteric interpretations of holy scriptures was streamlined and attainable. Reality and every-day life seem to be the focus of all the classes, not axioms or metaphysical bubbles. That is not to say that the metaphysical aspects of this philosophy are undeveloped - the focus is all that is really different from any Muslim/Sufi/Christian tradition that I've experienced and studied. The idea is to fulfill one's life here on earth, full-stop.
Unlike Islam and Christianity (and perhaps even Judaism but I'm no authority on that yet) sin is an alien concept. Unlike Sufism, time is not devoted into sober/intoxicated gnosis, and into what sometimes felt like intellectual pomp (and an inevitable pity of the 'religious' masses).
The Zohar, the book interpreting the multi-layered codes that are verses of the Bible, provides more insight and fascinating interpretation than I can fill this page with, even after only two months of study. Instead I will give a brief snapshot of a lesson that illustrates the kind of things that are presented for me to analyze-
The title of this post is obviously a hint. The Tree of Life is a complicated concept, one that i haven't digested completely. The logical inconsistency of God (referred to as the Light) spending 6 days in creating the world is addressed here - Kabbalah takes us back to the Big Bang and states (now with scientific referencing!?) that the World exists in 10 dimensions. In the beginning, the Vessel that is our collective souls received Light in an uninterrupted infinity. The Vessel, receiving something which it has not earned, was unable to truly reflect this Light and appreciate it I suppose. When the Vessel (our collective souls into one) shattered (in Sufism, the day of primordial covenant alastu berabbikum - bala shahidna), a contraction in the universe took place and 6 of the 10 dimensions formed the Upper World of which the physical universe (Malchut, Kingdom) was begotten. A vacuum was created in the centre of an an infinite force of light (panentheism takes a literal meaning here), and within this vacuum the illusions of time, space, and motion existed. Malchut (in Quranic Arabic, the ملكوت) is the expression of Creation, of the world that surrounds us. It is 1% of our reality - the world of the 5 senses. It is the curtain that hides the Light.
In its practicality Kabbalah focuses its effort on removing every layer of cloth that shades our vessels from the Light, for that is the our vessels' only source of fulfillment. The paradox is that Light will only be received as you give it away or share it. Reactivity, blame, self-doubt, substance abuse, etc all remove perspective and keep you in the dark. Proactivity, identifying the opponents within you (again in Sufi terms the Soul and the Self), turning challenges into opportunities, etc. are all features of the Light and expressions thereof will in turn lead to happiness and fulfill the Vessel's primordial purpose - to earn the Light.
I guess in conclusion the most interesting aspect for me has been this 'illusion' of time, space, and motion. There is a general rejection of the concept of a future, particularly an unpredictable one (or a distant past for that matter). Each one of us possesses the ability to master the physical realm in almost godly ways. Since time, space, and motion are all illusions of the 5 senses, its your connection to the light and attitudes that you cultivate right here, right now that will determine your future without failure. "Miracles" are only more solid connections to the Light in the face of which physical limitations are inconsequential.
To demonstrate: When Pharoah and the Egyptian army were closing in on Moses and his army by the banks of the Red Sea, Moses cried out to God for salvation. God responded "Why are you calling out to me?"
In its commentary, the Zohar explains that there was no need for the Creator's help — because at that moment Moses revealed the 72 Names of God, and the collective consciousness of his people was elevated. But not a single molecule of water moved until the people had physically moved forward into the sea with unwavering certainty. Only when they were neck-deep in the waves — and still maintained complete certainty that the water would part — did the sea part to give them a passage to freedom.
Thursday 6 December 2007
Sunday 4 November 2007
Remember remember the 5th of Novemeber
There were people everywhere. People laughing; frivolty being passed around in the form of colourful outfits and glowing accessories.
A silhouette of trees lines the horizon as he stares out into an unusually warm November night. In the background he hears a track playing, slowing down, all instruments disappearing and a steady tap makes its away across the left then right channels repeatedly. The tap reminded him of the thick, misty, and uncannily beautiful forests in Braunfels.
The dark sky exploded into a hundred differnet colours. The thunder was more felt than heard.
In the park, the firworks lit the sky. At the end of what was a miserable week he was reminded that much greater things exist and matter. He stood and contemplated in awe the strength of the sound that shook his insides. His problems all shrank to inconsequential weight.
It was a good night. An we have a centuries-old evil plot to thank.
A silhouette of trees lines the horizon as he stares out into an unusually warm November night. In the background he hears a track playing, slowing down, all instruments disappearing and a steady tap makes its away across the left then right channels repeatedly. The tap reminded him of the thick, misty, and uncannily beautiful forests in Braunfels.
The dark sky exploded into a hundred differnet colours. The thunder was more felt than heard.
In the park, the firworks lit the sky. At the end of what was a miserable week he was reminded that much greater things exist and matter. He stood and contemplated in awe the strength of the sound that shook his insides. His problems all shrank to inconsequential weight.
It was a good night. An we have a centuries-old evil plot to thank.
Sunday 14 October 2007
A Spiritual Rut
I use that word 'rut' knowing very well that it has two different meanings. A rut is primarily "A sunken track or groove made by the passage of vehicles". It could also be a "fixed, usually boring routine". If I were to consider the primary definition metaphorically, both definitions would undoubtedly express my point accurately - I am in a spiritual rut.
If you found my slightly clinical introduction off-putting then you perhaps are already beginning to grasp the issue. I've always been one to take pride in my spirituality, private pride, a pride that is not worn on one's sleeve (and to which this very sentence could propose a contradiction). In an earlier post I had taken the Latin meaning to the word "religion", i.e. "re-connection", to be most inspiring. That is what my "faith" is in - the ability to re-connect. I continue with my denotative obsession to highlight that if one is to "re-connect" to some Thing or some One, then most certainly an earlier connection had at some point been forged. This point, I believe, was when my soul was Created - the day God breathed his own being into me and into all of humanity so that we (the Si Morgh) become a reflection of Him (the Simorgh). Our ability to re-connect to God therefore is inherent to our being - "religion" cannot be learned.
Of course the modern connotations of the word "religion" refer really to "traditions": institutions and practices, orders, ecclesiastic systems, and other forms of social organization. Although fundamentally incorrect, this understanding is not to be discounted. Your inherent ability to reconnect to your Creator, throughout your upbringing (assuming that a particular tradition formed any part of that), has been expressed through these institutions and traditions. Therefore, one finds it most natural to reconnect to his or her Creator by methods learned in youth.
So, I heard myself say one day, which is it? Where should one’s focus be? On the holy books or the what lies between the their lines of wisdom? Emphasis must be put on the importance of “religion” in the face of "tradition". A tradition (christian, islamic, jewish, buddhist etc) must be used and considered only as a tool - your vehicle, your compass, your ISP even. If you concede to the fact that your religion is your tool, way or path then you will agree that it is improbable that only one tool or path exists – just like it is improbable that only one road leads to Rome. Therefore, other traditions that are equally valid undoubtedly exist. The knee-jerk reaction to that statement for me was- what about polytheists? Idol worshipers? If they are just as valid why is it that God has sent messengers to this Earth to preach of different traditions? Well, it would be immensely self-indulgent if I were to answer that on behalf of God- but my honest deduction is that such messengers were sent to teach us values and provide us with even more tools to reach the one Truth, God. I do not recall any prophet that has attacked another tradition and claimed superiority in his own teachings and ways.
When Prophet Mohamed sought to dissuade the "idol worshippers" by breaking their stone-carved gods his point was not to attack their traditions and values but rather (and admittedly my Sufi esotericism is in play here) to make the same point that I have earlier, in that tradition is a tool and not an end to be sought. The idols had become God to his fellow tribesmen and any attempt at spirituality had been set aside, the finite nature of the worshipped blocking spiritual creativity and going against human nature. The tribespeople brought only requests for worldly and material needs and lost the essence of their reconnection. In my interpretation of the Prophet's intentions, perhaps by destroying the idols he invited those around him to look deeper into the source of their traditions and values, not to attack them. Belonging to a tradition where objects are assigned holy status does not contradict a genuine attempt at reconnection so long as such objects are of symbollic importance and are consequently used as tools to inspire you. Christianity reveres crosses, Muslims circle what is otherwise a nondescript rock.
I’m not writing a thesis, I’m simply trying to set the scene within which my spiritual rut has developed. In reference to the definitions of “rut” I set out earlier – at this point in my life, after having matured considerably through embracing Sufism and therefore both my intellect and intuition, I very much feel like I am standing in the sunken tracks of my soul’s triumph, now somewhat lost and intangible. The zest has unfortunately waned, and though its convenient for me to blame life’s many distractions, the reality is that I’ve lost steam. I need a muse, or something to bring back inspiration. My praying has become less and less frequent. I attend mass and though I feel my soul healing as I sit and soak up the energy around me, I don’t stay long enough to re-enforce the connection between my soul and its Source.
At this point my theory is that if I branch out further beyond mosques and churches to experience how people of other traditions find true religion I may find what I’m looking for. Is that likely? Maybe. I certainly have the interest. My doubt is in whether I will keep momentum.
Perhaps my private life is a consideration. Perhaps I am in no spiritual rut at all- that my love for my partner has occupied me emotionally and brought about the reconnection in an altogether different manner.
I realize this might not make much sense. If I had an answer this would probably be much easier to express. See the tribesmen were lucky to have someone come and shatter their routine, force their minds to think and consult their hearts. Most of us are not quite so lucky.
If you found my slightly clinical introduction off-putting then you perhaps are already beginning to grasp the issue. I've always been one to take pride in my spirituality, private pride, a pride that is not worn on one's sleeve (and to which this very sentence could propose a contradiction). In an earlier post I had taken the Latin meaning to the word "religion", i.e. "re-connection", to be most inspiring. That is what my "faith" is in - the ability to re-connect. I continue with my denotative obsession to highlight that if one is to "re-connect" to some Thing or some One, then most certainly an earlier connection had at some point been forged. This point, I believe, was when my soul was Created - the day God breathed his own being into me and into all of humanity so that we (the Si Morgh) become a reflection of Him (the Simorgh). Our ability to re-connect to God therefore is inherent to our being - "religion" cannot be learned.
Of course the modern connotations of the word "religion" refer really to "traditions": institutions and practices, orders, ecclesiastic systems, and other forms of social organization. Although fundamentally incorrect, this understanding is not to be discounted. Your inherent ability to reconnect to your Creator, throughout your upbringing (assuming that a particular tradition formed any part of that), has been expressed through these institutions and traditions. Therefore, one finds it most natural to reconnect to his or her Creator by methods learned in youth.
So, I heard myself say one day, which is it? Where should one’s focus be? On the holy books or the what lies between the their lines of wisdom? Emphasis must be put on the importance of “religion” in the face of "tradition". A tradition (christian, islamic, jewish, buddhist etc) must be used and considered only as a tool - your vehicle, your compass, your ISP even. If you concede to the fact that your religion is your tool, way or path then you will agree that it is improbable that only one tool or path exists – just like it is improbable that only one road leads to Rome. Therefore, other traditions that are equally valid undoubtedly exist. The knee-jerk reaction to that statement for me was- what about polytheists? Idol worshipers? If they are just as valid why is it that God has sent messengers to this Earth to preach of different traditions? Well, it would be immensely self-indulgent if I were to answer that on behalf of God- but my honest deduction is that such messengers were sent to teach us values and provide us with even more tools to reach the one Truth, God. I do not recall any prophet that has attacked another tradition and claimed superiority in his own teachings and ways.
When Prophet Mohamed sought to dissuade the "idol worshippers" by breaking their stone-carved gods his point was not to attack their traditions and values but rather (and admittedly my Sufi esotericism is in play here) to make the same point that I have earlier, in that tradition is a tool and not an end to be sought. The idols had become God to his fellow tribesmen and any attempt at spirituality had been set aside, the finite nature of the worshipped blocking spiritual creativity and going against human nature. The tribespeople brought only requests for worldly and material needs and lost the essence of their reconnection. In my interpretation of the Prophet's intentions, perhaps by destroying the idols he invited those around him to look deeper into the source of their traditions and values, not to attack them. Belonging to a tradition where objects are assigned holy status does not contradict a genuine attempt at reconnection so long as such objects are of symbollic importance and are consequently used as tools to inspire you. Christianity reveres crosses, Muslims circle what is otherwise a nondescript rock.
I’m not writing a thesis, I’m simply trying to set the scene within which my spiritual rut has developed. In reference to the definitions of “rut” I set out earlier – at this point in my life, after having matured considerably through embracing Sufism and therefore both my intellect and intuition, I very much feel like I am standing in the sunken tracks of my soul’s triumph, now somewhat lost and intangible. The zest has unfortunately waned, and though its convenient for me to blame life’s many distractions, the reality is that I’ve lost steam. I need a muse, or something to bring back inspiration. My praying has become less and less frequent. I attend mass and though I feel my soul healing as I sit and soak up the energy around me, I don’t stay long enough to re-enforce the connection between my soul and its Source.
At this point my theory is that if I branch out further beyond mosques and churches to experience how people of other traditions find true religion I may find what I’m looking for. Is that likely? Maybe. I certainly have the interest. My doubt is in whether I will keep momentum.
Perhaps my private life is a consideration. Perhaps I am in no spiritual rut at all- that my love for my partner has occupied me emotionally and brought about the reconnection in an altogether different manner.
I realize this might not make much sense. If I had an answer this would probably be much easier to express. See the tribesmen were lucky to have someone come and shatter their routine, force their minds to think and consult their hearts. Most of us are not quite so lucky.
Tuesday 9 October 2007
Oscar Wilde = The Picture of Dorian Gray
"People say sometimes that beauty is only superficial. That may be so, but at least it is not so superficial as thought is. To me, beauty is the wonder of wonders. It is only shallow people who do not judge by appearances. The true mystery of the world is the visible, not the invisible."
Tuesday 18 September 2007
September 18, 2007
London 13deg Celsius
The walk from the Central Bank to Moorgate was usually short but on this chilly day it seemed longer and almost pointless. The sun was out, which was more than he could ask for, and it bleached the buildings with its waning might. Autumn.
He checked his phone. No messages. He turned it off, it was almost out of batteries anyway. At university he sat himself down at a computer. After checking most of his mail and network accounts he decided to get up and find another computer, maybe in quieter surroundings. Corporation tax, that's what he had to work on.
Skimming through seemingly countless pages at varying speed, his eyes would occasionally blur, his pen would stop tapping. His brain wasn't slowing down, it was speeding up. Images flashed. Composites, mosaics. Images that came in different colour masks. Taking a deep breath, things began to slow again and the words on the page came into focus.
He changed his computer another 3 times at least. The air conditioning was too strong by the 1st. The Internet too slow on the 3rd.
At some point he realized it was time for class. Company law. Perhaps too simple to attend but how else would he kill time on this endless day. At his desk he stared right through his tutor and classmates. Nobody noticed of course - it was not like him to wear any sort of emotion on his sleeve. But as the day progressed his eyes would blur more and more frequently. Under the stress his memory divulged things it had kept private for 6 years. Their rediscovery did not aid his demeanor.
Later in bed that night, he turned on his phone. No messages. In a way, he was sort of glad the pact of silence was still honored. He couldn't help but wonder if things would have been any better today if things were discussed more openly, if (heaven forbid) feelings were shared. No, he thought, I'd rather not.
As he set his phone next to him in the dark room the light from its screen shone on the ceiling. As it went dark, his eyes saw the images clearer than ever. Sitting at his bed that afternoon, checking email. The sound of irregular breathing the next room. The way the sun pierced the afternoon air and the window screen, making its way into a room full of sadness and the anticipation of death. Tears, recital of scriptures. Yellow, yellow skin. Breathing as if an invisible hand had a firm grasp on her heart, pulling it out of her chest with all its might. The door-bell ringing incessantly as the news spread. White, red, green, blue masks covered the images.
Then the next day. Two, maybe three ladies softly touching him, nudging him towards the closed door to go say his goodbyes. Tears welling up in his eyes he enters the cold, clean smelling room. The room was flooded. He felt the water seep into his shoes as he walked towards the smiling corpse. The tears blurred his eyes, so that as he kissed her forehead, all he could see was a jumbled array of colours and light.
His insides were raw, his whispering in her ear quiet.
The walk from the Central Bank to Moorgate was usually short but on this chilly day it seemed longer and almost pointless. The sun was out, which was more than he could ask for, and it bleached the buildings with its waning might. Autumn.
He checked his phone. No messages. He turned it off, it was almost out of batteries anyway. At university he sat himself down at a computer. After checking most of his mail and network accounts he decided to get up and find another computer, maybe in quieter surroundings. Corporation tax, that's what he had to work on.
Skimming through seemingly countless pages at varying speed, his eyes would occasionally blur, his pen would stop tapping. His brain wasn't slowing down, it was speeding up. Images flashed. Composites, mosaics. Images that came in different colour masks. Taking a deep breath, things began to slow again and the words on the page came into focus.
He changed his computer another 3 times at least. The air conditioning was too strong by the 1st. The Internet too slow on the 3rd.
At some point he realized it was time for class. Company law. Perhaps too simple to attend but how else would he kill time on this endless day. At his desk he stared right through his tutor and classmates. Nobody noticed of course - it was not like him to wear any sort of emotion on his sleeve. But as the day progressed his eyes would blur more and more frequently. Under the stress his memory divulged things it had kept private for 6 years. Their rediscovery did not aid his demeanor.
Later in bed that night, he turned on his phone. No messages. In a way, he was sort of glad the pact of silence was still honored. He couldn't help but wonder if things would have been any better today if things were discussed more openly, if (heaven forbid) feelings were shared. No, he thought, I'd rather not.
As he set his phone next to him in the dark room the light from its screen shone on the ceiling. As it went dark, his eyes saw the images clearer than ever. Sitting at his bed that afternoon, checking email. The sound of irregular breathing the next room. The way the sun pierced the afternoon air and the window screen, making its way into a room full of sadness and the anticipation of death. Tears, recital of scriptures. Yellow, yellow skin. Breathing as if an invisible hand had a firm grasp on her heart, pulling it out of her chest with all its might. The door-bell ringing incessantly as the news spread. White, red, green, blue masks covered the images.
Then the next day. Two, maybe three ladies softly touching him, nudging him towards the closed door to go say his goodbyes. Tears welling up in his eyes he enters the cold, clean smelling room. The room was flooded. He felt the water seep into his shoes as he walked towards the smiling corpse. The tears blurred his eyes, so that as he kissed her forehead, all he could see was a jumbled array of colours and light.
His insides were raw, his whispering in her ear quiet.
Thursday 30 August 2007
Wednesday 29 August 2007
(the comeback post)
...at the dinner table...
JS: They were not concentration camps. Jeez, you're making us sound like Nazis...
RM: They most certainly were. Every Japanese American was interned during that period. It's not far fetched to say that Hitler was inspired by the US government.
JS: That's ridiculous, there was no torture...
Me: Not on the Nazi scale obviously but it was undoubtedly a crime against humanity...
RM: I wrote my dissertation on it. Did you know that non-US citizens are not protected under the US constitution? So (unlike, for example, Britain) there is no universal human rights code being followed and for the sake of national security the government is able to do a lot more than it should.
JS: As they should be able to.
Me: JS, don't forget that your family were Italian farmers who emigrated to American not too long ago. Do you think you would be happy if your race was suddenly suspect because of a few idiots? Just as the Arabs now are because of those 9/11 morons? I mean come on...
JS: You be quiet after 9/11 I wanted to pick up a gun and SHOOT EVERY FUCKING ARAB IN SIGHT.
Me: And this is where I excuse myself from the table
JS: And you should...
Me: The racism ingrained in you is disgusting and I'm frankly sick of it. To belittle the suffering of the Japanese Americans then to insult my own heritage - you have some nerve...
-----2 hours later------
SI, AT, TT and I arrive at DTPM. I'm still angry but in my party mood I feel defiant. The four of us had already consumed a significant amount of alcohol and it was now only 12.30 am. The vodka started flowing, the music getting harder and the crowd getting more and more merry. Six hours later I finally decided to get into the cab and go home.
I knew I was supposed to go to JS's place and spend the night (or the morning rather) with him. Since we both lived on the Chelsea Embankment I had time to make up my mind. As the cab wizzed through the quiet streets of London on an August bank holiday, I did not feel the usual yearning I had after nights like this to be next to him. I felt more independant.
"Which part of Chelsea Embankment sir?"
I looked out the window. To the distance I could see Jim's building sitting beautifuly on the river by the Chelsea Bridge. At this time of day and in my state of being it looked immaculate, flawless. It was very much like the way he imagined and pressured our relationship to be. Clean, lofty, right. My mind whirled back to the events of the evening. The inebriation, the random horniness, both fun and excessive.
"We'll just continue to Edith Grove please, past the Battersea Bridge." JS imagined us one way, but the truth was altogether different. Snapping out of this relationship is hard and over time I've lost a bit of self-respect for myself in my inability to take assertive action. I realized though that in a way, by distancing myself from him, I was doing what other people wanted me to do rather than what I wanted to do. Surely a part of me sees this relationship as wrong - but not enough of me. And until I am entirely convinced on an emotional level that this is wrong, very little is likely to take place.
I got home and rolled into bed after a quick shower. I lay there for a moment trying to think. There is no reason why I shouldn't be selfish. I want JS in my life, though he can be a rude, asexual bigot. I also want to live my youth, experience what I want to experience and meet who I want to meet. In the past guilt held me back more than anything but now I'm seeing this as a ridiculous excuse. JS started dating me when I was 19 an he should expect the commitment of a teenager not of a 46 year old.
I rolled over and turned off my cell phone.
JS: They were not concentration camps. Jeez, you're making us sound like Nazis...
RM: They most certainly were. Every Japanese American was interned during that period. It's not far fetched to say that Hitler was inspired by the US government.
JS: That's ridiculous, there was no torture...
Me: Not on the Nazi scale obviously but it was undoubtedly a crime against humanity...
RM: I wrote my dissertation on it. Did you know that non-US citizens are not protected under the US constitution? So (unlike, for example, Britain) there is no universal human rights code being followed and for the sake of national security the government is able to do a lot more than it should.
JS: As they should be able to.
Me: JS, don't forget that your family were Italian farmers who emigrated to American not too long ago. Do you think you would be happy if your race was suddenly suspect because of a few idiots? Just as the Arabs now are because of those 9/11 morons? I mean come on...
JS: You be quiet after 9/11 I wanted to pick up a gun and SHOOT EVERY FUCKING ARAB IN SIGHT.
Me: And this is where I excuse myself from the table
JS: And you should...
Me: The racism ingrained in you is disgusting and I'm frankly sick of it. To belittle the suffering of the Japanese Americans then to insult my own heritage - you have some nerve...
-----2 hours later------
SI, AT, TT and I arrive at DTPM. I'm still angry but in my party mood I feel defiant. The four of us had already consumed a significant amount of alcohol and it was now only 12.30 am. The vodka started flowing, the music getting harder and the crowd getting more and more merry. Six hours later I finally decided to get into the cab and go home.
I knew I was supposed to go to JS's place and spend the night (or the morning rather) with him. Since we both lived on the Chelsea Embankment I had time to make up my mind. As the cab wizzed through the quiet streets of London on an August bank holiday, I did not feel the usual yearning I had after nights like this to be next to him. I felt more independant.
"Which part of Chelsea Embankment sir?"
I looked out the window. To the distance I could see Jim's building sitting beautifuly on the river by the Chelsea Bridge. At this time of day and in my state of being it looked immaculate, flawless. It was very much like the way he imagined and pressured our relationship to be. Clean, lofty, right. My mind whirled back to the events of the evening. The inebriation, the random horniness, both fun and excessive.
"We'll just continue to Edith Grove please, past the Battersea Bridge." JS imagined us one way, but the truth was altogether different. Snapping out of this relationship is hard and over time I've lost a bit of self-respect for myself in my inability to take assertive action. I realized though that in a way, by distancing myself from him, I was doing what other people wanted me to do rather than what I wanted to do. Surely a part of me sees this relationship as wrong - but not enough of me. And until I am entirely convinced on an emotional level that this is wrong, very little is likely to take place.
I got home and rolled into bed after a quick shower. I lay there for a moment trying to think. There is no reason why I shouldn't be selfish. I want JS in my life, though he can be a rude, asexual bigot. I also want to live my youth, experience what I want to experience and meet who I want to meet. In the past guilt held me back more than anything but now I'm seeing this as a ridiculous excuse. JS started dating me when I was 19 an he should expect the commitment of a teenager not of a 46 year old.
I rolled over and turned off my cell phone.
Sunday 24 June 2007
Thursday 21 June 2007
Mid-Summer Night's Ghost
Since my arrival in
The same song goes through my head:
"I can see you,
your brown skin shining in the sun...
You've got your head thrown back and your
sunglasses on..."
I spend hours on the beach, sometimes dancing in the water. I lose all sense of time and its relevance. I turn on my iPod and drive into sunsets almost on a daily basis- be it a cityscape or otherwise that lines the horizon.
But I'm also overwhelmed by a feeling that my intellect refuses to acknowledge. I miss you. I still remember every detail of that summer we had together. I remember you, my first love, my summer love. I remember the torment that lasted a year before luck struck and you returned to me. I remember the passion and lust that engulfed us and made both 'time' and 'place' intangible, alien concepts. Most of all I remember your hands, how they felt and how they fit in mine.
It's natural to deny this, after all I had rejected it all after one stressful weekend. Youth can be a terrible, improvident agent. Still I remain unsure if a mistake had been made. There is no doubt that I yearn for that physical intimacy, but on an emotional inter-personal level was there a match? There may have been. There must have been, but my ineptitude in self-expression has placed resentment amidst the whole scenario. I easily become a victim of my own failures, but I shudder at the memory of how much pain I caused you.
Monday 28 May 2007
Love conquers all
An eclectic group of individuals sit at a table at the Greek Club in
In my slight disorientation at the depth of the question I managed a logical though basic answer – love is painful because, even if it were requited, the lover constantly desires to express it and constantly needs the beloved to reciprocate. The mere impossibility or impracticability of such a constant display entails a constant internal struggle.
‘No,’ Jean-Eric bluntly disagrees as he lights up another cigarette. ‘Love,’ he says, ‘is painful because of the gap between who you are and who you have learned to be. Our experiences in life have formed our opinions, our behaviour and motivation. We have learned to be a certain kind person because of our experiences, and we always strive towards ideals such as intelligence, worldliness, success. True love cuts right through all this, leaving the raw human inside of us exposed – it is a manifestation of who you really are and can even ignore (or contradict) the logic or rationale that the person you have learned to be dictates.
‘Love is painful not only because it is difficult to deal with this exposure, but because it becomes more difficult to reconcile your true fundamental nature with your learned behaviour. Your relationship with your beloved becomes almost a parallel existence, but as you begin to experience the world together your relationship must be integrated with ‘reality’ so to speak.’ This challenge, I thought, is both internal and external. First, you must ensure that your fundamental self has made a choice that your experienced self supports by way of conviction. Then, if such internal reconciliation takes place, the second step is to ensure that physical, social reality is also reconcilable. Long-distances, significant age differences, different cultural backgrounds or social convictions – these are all external factors that may affect the difficulty of the challenge.
As one stands at a fork in the road of a relationship that has spanned years, the tendency is to look back and try to see why this diverging path ahead was inevitable from the start- or was it ever? The rhetoric is: love conquers all. Jean-Eric’s lesson, I think, does not deny this. It does, however, suggest that if love were to develop into a fulfilling relationship, other factors (both internal and external) must be considered and that in seeking to bring a loving relationship into the swing of every-day life the emotional toll is inevitable.
Tuesday 17 April 2007
Moby - Go (Trentemoller Mix)
The Master has done it again!
But this time he paid homage to an entire culture in the process.
Trentemoller put his moves on Moby's classic hit from the early 90's "Go" transforming it into an exciting avant garde electro house track. The track strikes you as outlandish, at least for the few seconds, but the familiar violins slowly swarm the sound image and your left panting with excitement, your mind projecting a slideshow outlining the history of the "Acid House" movement that the original "Go" embodied.
You can almost see the DJs at the Hacienda in Manchester, and in the ghettos of Chicago, pulling together for the first time sentences of music and loop-di-looping em; Paul Oakenfold pop his first pill and scratch an LP, turning Ibiza into a clubbing hotspot in 1987; the illegal raves all over England, especially around the M25, and the legislative panic that followed; and of course, the taming of house with the birth of the Ministry of Sound in London.
All this goes through your head just the violins build up and the chorus yell "Go!"
Suddenly the track is thrown into thick groove. The chunky sound from Chicago is mixed with the electro beat from Manchester and they're both taken to a new level with Trentemoller's ingenius syncopation and beat maping.
How many tracks make you go on and on like this?
But this time he paid homage to an entire culture in the process.
Trentemoller put his moves on Moby's classic hit from the early 90's "Go" transforming it into an exciting avant garde electro house track. The track strikes you as outlandish, at least for the few seconds, but the familiar violins slowly swarm the sound image and your left panting with excitement, your mind projecting a slideshow outlining the history of the "Acid House" movement that the original "Go" embodied.
You can almost see the DJs at the Hacienda in Manchester, and in the ghettos of Chicago, pulling together for the first time sentences of music and loop-di-looping em; Paul Oakenfold pop his first pill and scratch an LP, turning Ibiza into a clubbing hotspot in 1987; the illegal raves all over England, especially around the M25, and the legislative panic that followed; and of course, the taming of house with the birth of the Ministry of Sound in London.
All this goes through your head just the violins build up and the chorus yell "Go!"
Suddenly the track is thrown into thick groove. The chunky sound from Chicago is mixed with the electro beat from Manchester and they're both taken to a new level with Trentemoller's ingenius syncopation and beat maping.
How many tracks make you go on and on like this?
Friday 30 March 2007
A Blank Page
A blank page. A microcosm of infinity. An opaque façade, once flipped, springs a world unknown to life. The unknown world of a life. The secrets- who cares?- very few do. The confessions! One reads them avidly— holding on to threads of thought as one’s eyes scan the letters on the page; the letters of every word lit by the page, their shadows cast in one’s cerebellum, dancing like the shadows of silent spelunkers on a cave wall huddled around a flame— hoping to find in the jumbled brilliance and poetic nature the Consonant, or at the very least an Answer to ease the exquisite pain of living.
Many a confession I’ve read, sometimes my own. Answer and Consonant I’ve found and lost. The only thing that remains is the patience. Patience like a blank page. A microcosm of infinity. Blankness, unending tolerance for ink and bruises. A page as white as snow, made such by the obliviousness of childhood and youth, but a page made intractable by the unrelenting recurrence of trial and tribulation.
A page that often longs to be weightless, to flutter with a gush of wind and dance forgetting the surface from which it came. A page that in illuminating its very words feels guilt at the self-indulgence.
“I’m not ready, I’m not ready…”
His mind flips and turns, shaking the ground in the process. A tyre swing, hanging from a single tree in a meadow, slowing swaying to the western winds. He longs to leave civilization, leave cities and people.
“What if the fraction probability becomes reality, and I get HIV from one of those guys I fucked? Isn’t that worth crumbling in the face of? What if what I have right now is as good as it gets, and leaving this emotional prison means stumbling onto a damp, dark street – however wide and free…I mean…Do I have to believe that better things are in store?
“Oh those sleepless nights when I toss and turn till my back muscles cramp. Senseless imagery and haphazard thought patterns are all that I am capable of. Glimpses of heaven and sharp pangs from hell – thrown into a blender guaranteed to make the worst out of both. No clarity, dwindling faith.”
Monday 26 March 2007
Ilaf Quraish
I could feel myself drifting to sleep. The glass of wine had put a steady surreal hum in my head. Slowly now…slowly. My eyes shut. The darkness began to fade from existence as my consciousness trailed behind. Slowly…
Dreams are hard to remember, there was nothing particularly interesting about this one…A close friend of a friend was sitting with me in the back seat of a car. It was late, and the yellowish-orange streetlamps kept whizzing by. I was trying to convince him not to go somewhere – probably the upper floor of the tower we were approaching. He was confused as to what I was trying to say.
I woke up, regained consciousness. For a few oblivious seconds I lay there. I was lying down flat on my back, with everything beyond my neck concealed under the comforter. I made a feeble attempt at thinking about the dream, but naturally decided I’d rather go to sleep. I wanted to shift my legs and turn sideways. I couldn’t. My legs were pinned down, they started feeling numb. Just then I felt strong pressure upon my chest. Something was now holding me down – all four limbs and chest. My heart sank in an instant as my eyes struggled to see in the absolute darkness. As my pupils adjusted I realized my neck muscles were still working. In a desperate attempt to free myself I looked to my right where most of the bed lay. Two eyes- no body, no shape, no pupils- two blank but slit gleaming eyes stared it me. Was it anger?
Suddenly I felt as though two nails had dug deep into my right arm. The pain processed and I yelped. Suddenly all the power that held me down was relieved. I jumped out of bed and ran to light switch.
The dimmer flooded the room with light.
I was alone. Of course I was alone. Was it all a dream? As reached for the switch I noticed: two red marks indented the skin on my forearm…
Thursday 22 March 2007
Equus
In retrospect, I was horny. Is that so bad?
Friday, March 16th 11:30 AM
I lay around. The morning sun overwhelmed the floor-to-ceiling windows and kissed my soft skin with its beautiful rays. I stared at the white ceiling, randomly tapping my foot against an imaginary floor. I had just come back from my morning run. Those 20 minutes, running alongside the Thames - first west down the battersea park riverside, across the Albert bridge, back up the chelsea riverside and, across the chelsea bridge- with my iPod blasting through my brains, obliterating any negative thoughts and giving me the the pep talk I desperately needed. Now at the flat, and after a long shower, I stared at the ceiling. My phone had vibrated only seconds ago. It was Brad, the hot Australian I'd met online not too long ago. After a few webcam sessions we decided it was time to give it a real try. I was half excited and half mortified. This was a deliberate, premeditated attempt at satisfying the sexual void my partner perpetuates. And I was calm, really calm.
The phone rang once more. It was Brad.
"Hey Brad, how do you feel?"
"Good good, I just needed a good nap, those Singapore flights-"
"Yeah it must be tough. Listen, well, if you want to get some coffee at starbucks first we can do that" Mistake, I shouldn't have said that.
"Yeah sure there's a Starbucks in Earl's Court just around the corner from my house" Oh shit, it can't be...
"Really? Which one? The one on Earl's Court Road or Old Brompton?" Please say Earl's Court Road, please...
"Old Brompton, that's right." Shit. Act cool.
"Sure, Ok. let's mee there in 45 what do you think?"
"Alright mate, see you there." Click.
Starbucks on Old Brompton. That's where James and I had our first date. Almost two years ago, we sat one chilly August morning and spoke randomly of all that came to mind. Now I was meeting my first bootie call since then at the same spot. I thought- this is an exercise. I need to start withdrawing myself emotionally from my relationship, and if that means pushing the limits then so be it. I wore the cologne that Jim always likes. I wore the belt he gave me last christmas. I put on the coat and shirt I bought in Madrid while he was on the phone with me. In no time I was out, making my way to Sloane Square. I hopped onto the west-bound District Line, and stared vacantly at the walls of the tube. Transport For London had started this scheme - Love Poems on the Underground. And now, a free verse passage stared me in the face.
"This book, this page, this hareball laid to rest between these sheets, these leaves, if pressed still bleeds a watercolour of the way we were.
Those years: the fuss of such and such a day, that disagreement and its final word, your inventory of names and dates and times, my infantry of tall, dark, and handsome lies.
A decade on, now we astound ourselves; still two, still twinned but doubled now with love and for a single night apart, alone, how sure we are, each of the other half.
This hareball holds its own. Let's give it now in air, with light, the chance to fade, to fold.
Here, take it from my hand. Now, let it go."
I read it, it gave me mixed feelings. Part of it said - times will be rough, but we (James and I) will make it through somehow. The other part said - we now live on two different islands and our worlds are growing further apart, its time to let go. To be honest the first time I read it I couldn't really gather the meaning coherently. I was too nervous
Yes I was too nervous. When I got to starbucks, I had a coffee with Brad- a sweet, sexy guy with a genuine attitude, but with whom I felt no spark whatsoever. He invited me over to his place, and I didn't hesitate to say yes.
In his flat, we locked lips and arms. He was hard, throbbing, I was trying to get there. We undressed each other until we were both naked in the sun-lit living room. He got on his knees and tried to blow me. My body was not responding. I pushed him towards the bedroom and forced him onto the bed. He threw his legs up and I devoured his dick, balls, ass. I was feeling my self get hard the further my tongue penetrated his sphincter. I was nervous, shaking. He brought out lube and a condom. The same lub e James uses, the condoms I always prefer. I couldn't fuck him. But eventually I did, and I wasn't that good. We both came, and in no time we were getting dressed.
Thank you it was good, we both lied. I got on the elevator and in no time I was back on that unusually sunny street. On the east-bound District Line I couldn't believe what I had just done. No concern for my safety, no honor or respect for my convictions, my decisions. No integrity. I wasn't always like this. I think. What happened? That afternoon my brain began to let go. All the discipline, the reserved and patient attitude I maintained throughout every aspect of my life, I felt it all unfurl and descend into chaos. I walked, I walked for a good hour trying to clear my brain. It didn't work.
That night, Sean and I decided to hit the town hard. From G-A-Y bar to G-A-Y club we got trashed. I almost managed to forget everything. But then, somewhere around 3 am, I remembered, and I got sick in the mensroom.
The following day James returned from his trip. Hi honey, I missed you. It's as if all that was wrong and evil in the world, including myself, disappeared when we were together. We spent a quiet but fun weekend together. He let me blow him a few times. On Monday, I decided to head into the City early in the morning with him. I spent some time in his office, then went to the bookstore and browsed books for the rest of the morning. On our way back, we both got onto the west-bound District Line, I vacantly looked up and there it was again. The same Love Poem on the Underground from my friday sexcapade. I couldn't believe it. There must be a good 40 trains that run through the District Line every day, each train with at least 7 cars. What are the chances that I would end up in the exact same spot in the same car on the same train as friday morning?
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That night I stared at the naked body of Daniel Radcliffe in the surreal darkness of the Gielgud Theatre in the West End. Playing the role of Alan, the disturbed young man who stabbed 6 horses in the eye one night as his sexual repression exploded, he screamed:
"All the way, I shoved it.
I put it in her all the way...
Fuck off! I couldn't see her...
I could only see him. Every time I kissed her, he was in the way...You know who! When I touched her, I felt him...
When I shut my eyes, I saw him at once..."
Have I turned James into my Equus? A mortal god of every aspect of my life? My moral saviour, my moral compass, the alpha and omega of all that is worthwhile and decent? I think I must have. Slowly I lose my convictions, and slowly depression, anxiety, and unbearable stress creep into my head.
And now they are here to stay.
Unless I can shed my skin of habits I'd cultivated for years now. I need to start a clean slate. Kill my gods, mortal and immortal, and start from scratch. Build my conviction based on experiential and nurtural knowledge, not preconceived and ill-begotten notions.
Friday, March 16th 11:30 AM
I lay around. The morning sun overwhelmed the floor-to-ceiling windows and kissed my soft skin with its beautiful rays. I stared at the white ceiling, randomly tapping my foot against an imaginary floor. I had just come back from my morning run. Those 20 minutes, running alongside the Thames - first west down the battersea park riverside, across the Albert bridge, back up the chelsea riverside and, across the chelsea bridge- with my iPod blasting through my brains, obliterating any negative thoughts and giving me the the pep talk I desperately needed. Now at the flat, and after a long shower, I stared at the ceiling. My phone had vibrated only seconds ago. It was Brad, the hot Australian I'd met online not too long ago. After a few webcam sessions we decided it was time to give it a real try. I was half excited and half mortified. This was a deliberate, premeditated attempt at satisfying the sexual void my partner perpetuates. And I was calm, really calm.
The phone rang once more. It was Brad.
"Hey Brad, how do you feel?"
"Good good, I just needed a good nap, those Singapore flights-"
"Yeah it must be tough. Listen, well, if you want to get some coffee at starbucks first we can do that" Mistake, I shouldn't have said that.
"Yeah sure there's a Starbucks in Earl's Court just around the corner from my house" Oh shit, it can't be...
"Really? Which one? The one on Earl's Court Road or Old Brompton?" Please say Earl's Court Road, please...
"Old Brompton, that's right." Shit. Act cool.
"Sure, Ok. let's mee there in 45 what do you think?"
"Alright mate, see you there." Click.
Starbucks on Old Brompton. That's where James and I had our first date. Almost two years ago, we sat one chilly August morning and spoke randomly of all that came to mind. Now I was meeting my first bootie call since then at the same spot. I thought- this is an exercise. I need to start withdrawing myself emotionally from my relationship, and if that means pushing the limits then so be it. I wore the cologne that Jim always likes. I wore the belt he gave me last christmas. I put on the coat and shirt I bought in Madrid while he was on the phone with me. In no time I was out, making my way to Sloane Square. I hopped onto the west-bound District Line, and stared vacantly at the walls of the tube. Transport For London had started this scheme - Love Poems on the Underground. And now, a free verse passage stared me in the face.
"This book, this page, this hareball laid to rest between these sheets, these leaves, if pressed still bleeds a watercolour of the way we were.
Those years: the fuss of such and such a day, that disagreement and its final word, your inventory of names and dates and times, my infantry of tall, dark, and handsome lies.
A decade on, now we astound ourselves; still two, still twinned but doubled now with love and for a single night apart, alone, how sure we are, each of the other half.
This hareball holds its own. Let's give it now in air, with light, the chance to fade, to fold.
Here, take it from my hand. Now, let it go."
I read it, it gave me mixed feelings. Part of it said - times will be rough, but we (James and I) will make it through somehow. The other part said - we now live on two different islands and our worlds are growing further apart, its time to let go. To be honest the first time I read it I couldn't really gather the meaning coherently. I was too nervous
Yes I was too nervous. When I got to starbucks, I had a coffee with Brad- a sweet, sexy guy with a genuine attitude, but with whom I felt no spark whatsoever. He invited me over to his place, and I didn't hesitate to say yes.
In his flat, we locked lips and arms. He was hard, throbbing, I was trying to get there. We undressed each other until we were both naked in the sun-lit living room. He got on his knees and tried to blow me. My body was not responding. I pushed him towards the bedroom and forced him onto the bed. He threw his legs up and I devoured his dick, balls, ass. I was feeling my self get hard the further my tongue penetrated his sphincter. I was nervous, shaking. He brought out lube and a condom. The same lub e James uses, the condoms I always prefer. I couldn't fuck him. But eventually I did, and I wasn't that good. We both came, and in no time we were getting dressed.
Thank you it was good, we both lied. I got on the elevator and in no time I was back on that unusually sunny street. On the east-bound District Line I couldn't believe what I had just done. No concern for my safety, no honor or respect for my convictions, my decisions. No integrity. I wasn't always like this. I think. What happened? That afternoon my brain began to let go. All the discipline, the reserved and patient attitude I maintained throughout every aspect of my life, I felt it all unfurl and descend into chaos. I walked, I walked for a good hour trying to clear my brain. It didn't work.
That night, Sean and I decided to hit the town hard. From G-A-Y bar to G-A-Y club we got trashed. I almost managed to forget everything. But then, somewhere around 3 am, I remembered, and I got sick in the mensroom.
The following day James returned from his trip. Hi honey, I missed you. It's as if all that was wrong and evil in the world, including myself, disappeared when we were together. We spent a quiet but fun weekend together. He let me blow him a few times. On Monday, I decided to head into the City early in the morning with him. I spent some time in his office, then went to the bookstore and browsed books for the rest of the morning. On our way back, we both got onto the west-bound District Line, I vacantly looked up and there it was again. The same Love Poem on the Underground from my friday sexcapade. I couldn't believe it. There must be a good 40 trains that run through the District Line every day, each train with at least 7 cars. What are the chances that I would end up in the exact same spot in the same car on the same train as friday morning?
.jpg)
That night I stared at the naked body of Daniel Radcliffe in the surreal darkness of the Gielgud Theatre in the West End. Playing the role of Alan, the disturbed young man who stabbed 6 horses in the eye one night as his sexual repression exploded, he screamed:
"All the way, I shoved it.
I put it in her all the way...
Fuck off! I couldn't see her...
I could only see him. Every time I kissed her, he was in the way...You know who! When I touched her, I felt him...
When I shut my eyes, I saw him at once..."
Have I turned James into my Equus? A mortal god of every aspect of my life? My moral saviour, my moral compass, the alpha and omega of all that is worthwhile and decent? I think I must have. Slowly I lose my convictions, and slowly depression, anxiety, and unbearable stress creep into my head.
And now they are here to stay.
Unless I can shed my skin of habits I'd cultivated for years now. I need to start a clean slate. Kill my gods, mortal and immortal, and start from scratch. Build my conviction based on experiential and nurtural knowledge, not preconceived and ill-begotten notions.
Monday 5 March 2007
Saturday 3 March 2007
March 3
His memory only allows him so much. And as every year goes by less and less of it remains. Certain recesses in the Attic hold on to sharp vivid moments. The rest is a mixture of sensory decay, nostalgic distortion, and truth.
He remembers her being protective. Taking him to his first day at kindergarten. Standing up against that arts and crafts teacher the same year for smacking him. Being on his side when he really wanted something, like that new dirt-bike every summer. Gently feeding him jello after he had his tonsils removed. Taking him to his X-ray appointment after his accident in PE class. Hugging him during her afternoon naps.
He remembers how she dreamt of his future. She’d always wanted him to be a doctor, wanted to see him in a white robe tending to people’s illnesses. She thought it was glamorous – he laughed occasionally. She always wished him the best for his future, that people love him, and that he be happy.
What he remembers the most are random lucid moments when he knew she was happy. Today these memories are triggered with whiff of Givenchy perfume, or the hum of a chorus line from an old Egyptian soundtrack. Chimes of traditional Greek music, or the smell of fudge brownies and sugar pastries. The light from the stars illuminating her lap as she sat in the passenger seat of the car next to his father – both children in the back – she hummed and tapped her finger to Abdel Halim Hafez. He had his head resting on the backseat, eyes half open, with the obliviousness of childhood engraving the silhouette in his mind and labelling it with a blue crayon – home.
His memory allows him his fair share of painful memories, too. Her moods and tantrums over the years as her disease made her more and more disabled. Her moans of agony in the middle of the night, those long days when he worked so hard to keep her temperature low. That day at the bank when she could not even sit up. Those last few days of her life when she returned from London, yellow and incapable of breathing. The trickle of blood from her mouth after she let out her last breath.
He knows it made him tough, he knows her soul is somehow putting his own in the right direction. He’s grateful for the memories, grateful to his Creator for how things turned out. He’s grateful, even though his worst fear as a child, lying down in the backseat of a car, came true…far too soon.
He remembers her being protective. Taking him to his first day at kindergarten. Standing up against that arts and crafts teacher the same year for smacking him. Being on his side when he really wanted something, like that new dirt-bike every summer. Gently feeding him jello after he had his tonsils removed. Taking him to his X-ray appointment after his accident in PE class. Hugging him during her afternoon naps.
He remembers how she dreamt of his future. She’d always wanted him to be a doctor, wanted to see him in a white robe tending to people’s illnesses. She thought it was glamorous – he laughed occasionally. She always wished him the best for his future, that people love him, and that he be happy.
What he remembers the most are random lucid moments when he knew she was happy. Today these memories are triggered with whiff of Givenchy perfume, or the hum of a chorus line from an old Egyptian soundtrack. Chimes of traditional Greek music, or the smell of fudge brownies and sugar pastries. The light from the stars illuminating her lap as she sat in the passenger seat of the car next to his father – both children in the back – she hummed and tapped her finger to Abdel Halim Hafez. He had his head resting on the backseat, eyes half open, with the obliviousness of childhood engraving the silhouette in his mind and labelling it with a blue crayon – home.
His memory allows him his fair share of painful memories, too. Her moods and tantrums over the years as her disease made her more and more disabled. Her moans of agony in the middle of the night, those long days when he worked so hard to keep her temperature low. That day at the bank when she could not even sit up. Those last few days of her life when she returned from London, yellow and incapable of breathing. The trickle of blood from her mouth after she let out her last breath.
He knows it made him tough, he knows her soul is somehow putting his own in the right direction. He’s grateful for the memories, grateful to his Creator for how things turned out. He’s grateful, even though his worst fear as a child, lying down in the backseat of a car, came true…far too soon.
In Memory of Shadia Nassar
March 3, 1955- Sept. 18, 2001
March 3, 1955- Sept. 18, 2001
Sunday 18 February 2007
Reader Beware
Reader Beware - I'm high.
It's been a long night, from bar to club to bar to club. I'm exhausted, but as soon as I walk into the flat I feel like the silence deafens me to the point where I can't sleep.
People have experimented with writing on drugs before - I'm sure I'm no pioneer. I guess the reason I started typing was to spill out my brain, thats probably the reason why I'm up even though its now quiet and dark, peaceful, but there lies something making me anxious, or nevous.
Disgust is one of the feelings going through me now. You don't really think when you're high, you think and feel. There's no separation between what you're mind spews and what your heart receives. Thats probably why, as soon as I lose my mdma or e high, I feel extremely hollow- because my mind is thinking: what sort of rat-ass, depressing, dirty place is this? With a million ugly men dancing in hot sweaty club? They may have perfect bodies but I don't know - after James I don't think I can respect anyone who's over 30 and remains hooked by the balls into this 'gay scene'. It's all too wrong.
Should I be getting tired of this so quickly? Shouldn't I go through some sort of maturation before I decide to leave this night scene? Shouldn't I milk it for all its worth - sex, attention, what have you?
I found out that Jalaludin Al-Rumi was gay today, after reading one of the posts on Mithly.com. That makes me feel so good. No matter how good you feel about yourself and about your connection with God, its always good to have a role model- in this case a Sufi poet who taught my mind everything about gnosis. Gnosis. Just as I think that, my heart yearns for it. I know I'm too weak, not formidable in my convictions, to properly seek it. I'm not sure its one of those things where only trying counts either.
What to do what to do.
Stop swallowing pills thats what.
But then I like that feeling. That feeling when the butteflies surface, when you feel like your core is only being held down by a body, and that in return your body becomes lighter. That feeling I get when a good minimal track is thrown on, or when I hear a church choir. Euphoria - love - yearning. Followed by a come down that brings your thoughts into dusty, dusty corners of your mind. I promise this is it for a while, and then a while passes, and I feel like it again.
I'm sorry I just can't get over how rediculous this scene is. I mean London is particularly bad - I remember neither Madrid, Frankfurt, New York, or any of those clubbing hot spots have this feel of absolute decadence with no purity, nothing to hold on to when you're coming down. In Madrid it was the Sun and the Fantastic People. In Frankfurt it was the sheer elegance of Cocoon. I can just go on but you should know what I mean...
I warned you.
It's been a long night, from bar to club to bar to club. I'm exhausted, but as soon as I walk into the flat I feel like the silence deafens me to the point where I can't sleep.
People have experimented with writing on drugs before - I'm sure I'm no pioneer. I guess the reason I started typing was to spill out my brain, thats probably the reason why I'm up even though its now quiet and dark, peaceful, but there lies something making me anxious, or nevous.
Disgust is one of the feelings going through me now. You don't really think when you're high, you think and feel. There's no separation between what you're mind spews and what your heart receives. Thats probably why, as soon as I lose my mdma or e high, I feel extremely hollow- because my mind is thinking: what sort of rat-ass, depressing, dirty place is this? With a million ugly men dancing in hot sweaty club? They may have perfect bodies but I don't know - after James I don't think I can respect anyone who's over 30 and remains hooked by the balls into this 'gay scene'. It's all too wrong.
Should I be getting tired of this so quickly? Shouldn't I go through some sort of maturation before I decide to leave this night scene? Shouldn't I milk it for all its worth - sex, attention, what have you?
I found out that Jalaludin Al-Rumi was gay today, after reading one of the posts on Mithly.com. That makes me feel so good. No matter how good you feel about yourself and about your connection with God, its always good to have a role model- in this case a Sufi poet who taught my mind everything about gnosis. Gnosis. Just as I think that, my heart yearns for it. I know I'm too weak, not formidable in my convictions, to properly seek it. I'm not sure its one of those things where only trying counts either.
What to do what to do.
Stop swallowing pills thats what.
But then I like that feeling. That feeling when the butteflies surface, when you feel like your core is only being held down by a body, and that in return your body becomes lighter. That feeling I get when a good minimal track is thrown on, or when I hear a church choir. Euphoria - love - yearning. Followed by a come down that brings your thoughts into dusty, dusty corners of your mind. I promise this is it for a while, and then a while passes, and I feel like it again.
I'm sorry I just can't get over how rediculous this scene is. I mean London is particularly bad - I remember neither Madrid, Frankfurt, New York, or any of those clubbing hot spots have this feel of absolute decadence with no purity, nothing to hold on to when you're coming down. In Madrid it was the Sun and the Fantastic People. In Frankfurt it was the sheer elegance of Cocoon. I can just go on but you should know what I mean...
I warned you.
Tuesday 6 February 2007
Sunday 4 February 2007
Thursday 1 February 2007
Love that makes you weaker?
Monday 3.04 PM. At some point during the quiet afternoon hours he stands staring at the tube floor. His face is vacant, iPod volume to a bare minimum (just enough to drown the metal roars in the tunnel). He sways to the abrupt movements, holding on with both hands to the metal bar above, but his gaze doesn’t shift.
Was revenge ever part of the plan?
Sunday 2.35 AM. The crowd at the Shadow Lounge was heaving. M looked across at Anders and whispered in his ears “Do you wanna fuck?” Anders, half drunk, stared in amazement, before nodding his head vigorously and stuttering something incomprehensible. M wasn’t sure why he asked Anders of all people but conceded with his cock that sex was a rare incident now. It occurred once every month or three- with a complete stranger, not his boyfriend. Now he was desperate, even if it meant going back to previous lovers. Previous assholes. M nudged Andres and pointed to the bathroom with his eyes. Anders followed like a stunned puppy. Inside the stall with dim lighting, he fumbled with Anders’s pants, pulled them down to reveal his huge pale dick. Anders tried to kiss him, but M pre-empted by pulling Anders’s neck towards this chest, only to push it down towards his crotch. Anders got on his knees and started tending to the rising demon. Clearly drunk, Anders abruptly got up and started mumbling. The mumbling became more coherent as he gained confidence. M, slightly drunk himself, decided to give him a chance to speak.
“…and…umm...if…I’ve been waiting for this for …. But… so long… you know you mean everything to me…when I think about what I did…I’ve been waiting for this…I love you…you’re so…please…”
M was starting to realize an unfamiliar urge. An urge to just listen and watch Anders, once the source of so much pain and heartache, descend into an apologetic remorseful rant. M said nothing. He stared Anders in the eye an enjoyed the pain he was going through. Every bit of it. Revenge. Anders disgusted him as a person, but he was a good fuck, and M needed that now.
M dragged Anders out of the stall as the latter struggled to replace is cock. It was the ladies room and some flirty remarks were thrown. The cab sped off to Vauxhall, to the Chariots Roman Spa where men indulged in habitual debauchery on every night of the week. Bring your own poppers. In no time the two of them were in a cabin, and Anders for the first time pleaded “Fuck me, please, fuck me I need you to really fuck me”. M didn’t hesitate. He fucked him, knowing it was the first time he’d ever done so, and knowing that Anders was emotionally disturbed. He didn’t care. He fucked him and came. Then he explained that he needed to be home. Anders, still very much a zombie, followed him out.
The next day M turned off his phone, and deleted any messages he received – and they were many. Still M wondered, he knew his own behaviour was abnormal, so was revenge ever part of the plan?
No- revenge never was. The best revenge has always been living well. But in desperation you loose a part of your self esteem- whatever that was founded on- and your mistakes become graver, your behaviour more animal and less human. Where is the point of saturation though? When do you say – that’s it, this relationship has brought much love and stability in my life, but it has cost me my excitement and sexual adventure, my ability to be honest and my freedom from guilt- and it needs to end.
M sees no point of saturation in sight – meanwhile the mistakes keep happening.
Was revenge ever part of the plan?
Sunday 2.35 AM. The crowd at the Shadow Lounge was heaving. M looked across at Anders and whispered in his ears “Do you wanna fuck?” Anders, half drunk, stared in amazement, before nodding his head vigorously and stuttering something incomprehensible. M wasn’t sure why he asked Anders of all people but conceded with his cock that sex was a rare incident now. It occurred once every month or three- with a complete stranger, not his boyfriend. Now he was desperate, even if it meant going back to previous lovers. Previous assholes. M nudged Andres and pointed to the bathroom with his eyes. Anders followed like a stunned puppy. Inside the stall with dim lighting, he fumbled with Anders’s pants, pulled them down to reveal his huge pale dick. Anders tried to kiss him, but M pre-empted by pulling Anders’s neck towards this chest, only to push it down towards his crotch. Anders got on his knees and started tending to the rising demon. Clearly drunk, Anders abruptly got up and started mumbling. The mumbling became more coherent as he gained confidence. M, slightly drunk himself, decided to give him a chance to speak.
“…and…umm...if…I’ve been waiting for this for …. But… so long… you know you mean everything to me…when I think about what I did…I’ve been waiting for this…I love you…you’re so…please…”
M was starting to realize an unfamiliar urge. An urge to just listen and watch Anders, once the source of so much pain and heartache, descend into an apologetic remorseful rant. M said nothing. He stared Anders in the eye an enjoyed the pain he was going through. Every bit of it. Revenge. Anders disgusted him as a person, but he was a good fuck, and M needed that now.
M dragged Anders out of the stall as the latter struggled to replace is cock. It was the ladies room and some flirty remarks were thrown. The cab sped off to Vauxhall, to the Chariots Roman Spa where men indulged in habitual debauchery on every night of the week. Bring your own poppers. In no time the two of them were in a cabin, and Anders for the first time pleaded “Fuck me, please, fuck me I need you to really fuck me”. M didn’t hesitate. He fucked him, knowing it was the first time he’d ever done so, and knowing that Anders was emotionally disturbed. He didn’t care. He fucked him and came. Then he explained that he needed to be home. Anders, still very much a zombie, followed him out.
The next day M turned off his phone, and deleted any messages he received – and they were many. Still M wondered, he knew his own behaviour was abnormal, so was revenge ever part of the plan?
No- revenge never was. The best revenge has always been living well. But in desperation you loose a part of your self esteem- whatever that was founded on- and your mistakes become graver, your behaviour more animal and less human. Where is the point of saturation though? When do you say – that’s it, this relationship has brought much love and stability in my life, but it has cost me my excitement and sexual adventure, my ability to be honest and my freedom from guilt- and it needs to end.
M sees no point of saturation in sight – meanwhile the mistakes keep happening.
Wednesday 24 January 2007
Introducing...
Mithly.com is going to be a website dedicated to the gay communities of the arab world. We're three Egyptian guys living in three different cities, and we want to be able to benefit other men and women with whom we share a language. Mithly.com will have articles in both Arabic and English, and will discuss an array of topics from romance to health.
The website is currently in its final phases and we're working on article submissions. If you have anything you may like to submit, or if you would like to join our mailing list, please email management@mithly.com.
معا الحلم حقيقة
Monday 22 January 2007
22 Jan 10.49 pm
Moses says:
hola
Moses says:
long time
michael says:
ahlan bik, ya akh
michael says:
keyfak?
Moses says:
akh? hehe
Moses says:
kowayes
Moses says:
wenta
michael says:
ana mnih
Moses says:
tamam
michael says:
ok, that's tough writing arabic w/latin letters
Moses says:
yeah
Moses says:
but here's the trick
Moses says:
we use numbers that look similar to sounds absent from the english alphabet
Moses says:
so
Moses says:
ain = 3
Moses says:
ha (as in mnih) = 7
Moses says:
kha = 7'
Moses says:
hamza = 2
michael says:
oh that's pretty cool
michael says:
wait, you could even do it with letters...check it out:
michael says:
plJw
michael says:
(read right to left)
Moses says:
what does that say?
michael says:
hehe
Moses says:
slif?
michael says:
salaam
Moses says:
ooo
Moses says:
strke
michael says:
ok, so maybe you can't do that
Moses says:
strike
michael says:
Moses says:
hehe
Moses says:
und wie geht's mit abn amro?
michael says:
haha...du errinnerst wo ich arbeite?
michael says:
sehr gut
michael says:
ich habe aber keine anung was du machst
Moses says:
ich vergesse nix
michael says:
studierst du?
Moses says:
ja studiere
michael says:
was denn?
Moses says:
law
michael says:
Recht
Moses says:
Das Recht
michael says:
genau
Moses says:
Gott und mein recht
michael says:
als antwort zu deiner Frage, es geht ok bei ABN, aber ich hasse mein Arbeit
michael says:
ich meine dass, ich soll es in April oder Mai verlassen
Moses says:
Moses says:
langweilig oder?
michael says:
sehr
michael says:
und...
michael says:
es macht mich selbst dum fuhlen
Moses says:
aber geht's so nicht vor allem in finance?
michael says:
weil ich nichts verstehe
Moses says:
ah das wird nie gut sein
michael says:
nein, meiner besten Kollege beim Arbeit gefaellt es
michael says:
sie liebt es!
michael says:
aber fuer sie ist es leicht
Moses says:
hmm
Moses says:
und
michael says:
und ich findees schwer
Moses says:
was wuerdest du machen
michael says:
biddi asb7 mumthel
Moses says:
ya salam.
Moses says:
aflam 3arabi?
michael says:
haha
michael says:
hada 7kun momtaz!
michael says:
lakin, ma bzun 7eyk
Moses says:
alors? vraiment?
Moses says:
in london or back home?
michael says:
chez moi
michael says:
parce que comme je deviendrai un pauvre acteur, il me faudra habiter chez les parents
Moses says:
ah ok
michael says:
et NY est plein d'opportunites pour les jeuns acteurs
Moses says:
c'est vrai
Moses says:
pas mal
michael says:
3ndi su2l laka...
Moses says:
tab3an
hola
Moses says:
long time
michael says:
ahlan bik, ya akh
michael says:
keyfak?
Moses says:
akh? hehe
Moses says:
kowayes
Moses says:
wenta
michael says:
ana mnih
Moses says:
tamam
michael says:
ok, that's tough writing arabic w/latin letters
Moses says:
yeah
Moses says:
but here's the trick
Moses says:
we use numbers that look similar to sounds absent from the english alphabet
Moses says:
so
Moses says:
ain = 3
Moses says:
ha (as in mnih) = 7
Moses says:
kha = 7'
Moses says:
hamza = 2
michael says:
oh that's pretty cool
michael says:
wait, you could even do it with letters...check it out:
michael says:
plJw
michael says:
(read right to left)
Moses says:
what does that say?
michael says:
hehe
Moses says:
slif?
michael says:
salaam
Moses says:
ooo
Moses says:
strke
michael says:
ok, so maybe you can't do that
Moses says:
strike
michael says:
Moses says:
hehe
Moses says:
und wie geht's mit abn amro?
michael says:
haha...du errinnerst wo ich arbeite?
michael says:
sehr gut
michael says:
ich habe aber keine anung was du machst
Moses says:
ich vergesse nix
michael says:
studierst du?
Moses says:
ja studiere
michael says:
was denn?
Moses says:
law
michael says:
Recht
Moses says:
Das Recht
michael says:
genau
Moses says:
Gott und mein recht
michael says:
als antwort zu deiner Frage, es geht ok bei ABN, aber ich hasse mein Arbeit
michael says:
ich meine dass, ich soll es in April oder Mai verlassen
Moses says:
Moses says:
langweilig oder?
michael says:
sehr
michael says:
und...
michael says:
es macht mich selbst dum fuhlen
Moses says:
aber geht's so nicht vor allem in finance?
michael says:
weil ich nichts verstehe
Moses says:
ah das wird nie gut sein
michael says:
nein, meiner besten Kollege beim Arbeit gefaellt es
michael says:
sie liebt es!
michael says:
aber fuer sie ist es leicht
Moses says:
hmm
Moses says:
und
michael says:
und ich findees schwer
Moses says:
was wuerdest du machen
michael says:
biddi asb7 mumthel
Moses says:
ya salam.
Moses says:
aflam 3arabi?
michael says:
haha
michael says:
hada 7kun momtaz!
michael says:
lakin, ma bzun 7eyk
Moses says:
alors? vraiment?
Moses says:
in london or back home?
michael says:
chez moi
michael says:
parce que comme je deviendrai un pauvre acteur, il me faudra habiter chez les parents
Moses says:
ah ok
michael says:
et NY est plein d'opportunites pour les jeuns acteurs
Moses says:
c'est vrai
Moses says:
pas mal
michael says:
3ndi su2l laka...
Moses says:
tab3an
Friday 12 January 2007
In Siwa
In Siwa,
Sunset is a wholly different experience for it develops in absolute silence - as in space. The dab of redness in the sun hints the scorched sand of its ensuing relief. Every grain, its back once turned to shield from the fierce heat, now turns again to face the stars shining clearer and clearer through waning sunlight. Every grain in the Great Sand Sea finds a partner in the sky on which to fix its sight.
The springs and lakes, the life of the oasis, rest seemingly untouched by the sun's departure. The great lake upon which thick sheets of salt float, to which the sandy shore is but a mere extension, sits as calmly as it has ever done throughout the many centuries of time. The springs of sulphur churn their warm reddish core bringing heat from the depths of the earth to the surface. The waters of Cleopatra's bath feel the stone surrounding them cool and the day's silent, gliding birds depart.
The Temple of Oracle Amun, and the tomb of Alexander, cloak their glory with mystery. The exposed mummies of Dakrur sense the twilight with yearning.
A slight breeze stirs the air as the sun begins to dip behind a cliff. The sun's sleepiness is celebrated with the flickering lights of the old village in the distance.
A slight breeze stirs the air as the sun begins to dip behind a cliff. The sun's sleepiness is celebrated with the flickering lights of the old village in the distance.
At the salt lake, to capture the last rays of sun he walks through the solidified sand, crunching and echoing in the absolute silence. His gaze follows a straight line from the tip of his toes to the horizon. Before turning he pauses. I hold my breath in awe of the moment. In awe of the silence that holds us willing slaves, of the aesthetic perfection, of the spiritual eruption.
Then I realized I was holding a camera.
Wednesday 10 January 2007
Saturday 6 January 2007
New Years Special
Yes, my very own..!
For many people, sometimes including myself, the new year means many things - resolutions, retrospection, keeping ambitions and lives in check, a bank account still limping from a torrentous christmas spree, a minimum 1 month detox to work off all that NYE substance abuse, prayer, gym, and the like. Statistically more relationships end in the first month of the year than any other period. Also in the same period is the highest number of bankrupcy declarations in the UK. Train and tube fairs go up, people join and drop out of school, and the tiny boutique owner on King's Road decides that maybe the animal print rug wasn't the best choice after all.
Who could blame them all? The new year is after all a time to evaluate. To look ahead and to look behind and adjust your path in whatever walk of life you may be.
I landed on the 30th of December in Madrid just as a huge bomb gutted a significant portion of terminal 4 of Barajas Airport.
After the painful wait for customs officers to show up and after accepting the fact that my bag my never show up, I used the day and its worries as an excuse to do even more shopping and prepare for the New Years weekend to come. Madrid reminded me a lot of Cairo, or what Cairo would have looked like in the 1920's and 30s - a vibrant city with stunning architecture and friendly, presentable people.
(Add a layer of dirt, 2 cups of congestion, and glitzier night-life and you've got yourself Al-Qahira Al-3ozma.) Definitely lightyears away from the narrow streets and drunken disorderlies of London. The rest of the weekend was uniform but very enjoyable. From dinner, to coffee, to bar, to club and of course the grand finale - the Space festival.
Somewhere in the middle of that I remember going through a severe down for about a couple of hours. I guess I hadn't really processed how I felt about the brand new aiport terminal reduced to smoke and debris, terrorism, another city full of gay clones wearing the same jeans, infecting each other with the same diseases, constantly breaking up, or compromising their relationships, et cetra ad infinitum. I guess its all really hard to escape when you're autopilot takes you to these cities. Add my new year evaluation mood and you could probably understand how bad it got.
One thought managed to pull me out of all that weight. Give life. In a world where all we sometimes see is destruction, I want to give life - give life to my partner, to this world, to everything that I do. Creativity breeds life. Healthy friendship. Fidelity. Honesty. I know it all sounds gooey but it was just the kick I needed to boost me back to enjoying my surroundings be it places or people.
Maybe if every day was new years day, every day we evaluated ourselves and our lives, every day checked the direction of where our careers, relationships, and personalities - maybe then we'd reach our potential as humans. Maybe that was the wisdom of Carpe Diem - to sieze and conquer each day as its own entity, as if it were the first, maybe even the last. To be in constant consideration of every action and to take the wisdom of lessons learned and their future application and place them in the space of 24 hours. Time, after all, is the most dangerous sedative. If its reigns aren't gripped it will take off as you lie sound asleep in a dark, stumbling carriage.
For many people, sometimes including myself, the new year means many things - resolutions, retrospection, keeping ambitions and lives in check, a bank account still limping from a torrentous christmas spree, a minimum 1 month detox to work off all that NYE substance abuse, prayer, gym, and the like. Statistically more relationships end in the first month of the year than any other period. Also in the same period is the highest number of bankrupcy declarations in the UK. Train and tube fairs go up, people join and drop out of school, and the tiny boutique owner on King's Road decides that maybe the animal print rug wasn't the best choice after all.
Who could blame them all? The new year is after all a time to evaluate. To look ahead and to look behind and adjust your path in whatever walk of life you may be.
I landed on the 30th of December in Madrid just as a huge bomb gutted a significant portion of terminal 4 of Barajas Airport.
After the painful wait for customs officers to show up and after accepting the fact that my bag my never show up, I used the day and its worries as an excuse to do even more shopping and prepare for the New Years weekend to come. Madrid reminded me a lot of Cairo, or what Cairo would have looked like in the 1920's and 30s - a vibrant city with stunning architecture and friendly, presentable people.
(Add a layer of dirt, 2 cups of congestion, and glitzier night-life and you've got yourself Al-Qahira Al-3ozma.) Definitely lightyears away from the narrow streets and drunken disorderlies of London. The rest of the weekend was uniform but very enjoyable. From dinner, to coffee, to bar, to club and of course the grand finale - the Space festival.
Somewhere in the middle of that I remember going through a severe down for about a couple of hours. I guess I hadn't really processed how I felt about the brand new aiport terminal reduced to smoke and debris, terrorism, another city full of gay clones wearing the same jeans, infecting each other with the same diseases, constantly breaking up, or compromising their relationships, et cetra ad infinitum. I guess its all really hard to escape when you're autopilot takes you to these cities. Add my new year evaluation mood and you could probably understand how bad it got.
One thought managed to pull me out of all that weight. Give life. In a world where all we sometimes see is destruction, I want to give life - give life to my partner, to this world, to everything that I do. Creativity breeds life. Healthy friendship. Fidelity. Honesty. I know it all sounds gooey but it was just the kick I needed to boost me back to enjoying my surroundings be it places or people.
Maybe if every day was new years day, every day we evaluated ourselves and our lives, every day checked the direction of where our careers, relationships, and personalities - maybe then we'd reach our potential as humans. Maybe that was the wisdom of Carpe Diem - to sieze and conquer each day as its own entity, as if it were the first, maybe even the last. To be in constant consideration of every action and to take the wisdom of lessons learned and their future application and place them in the space of 24 hours. Time, after all, is the most dangerous sedative. If its reigns aren't gripped it will take off as you lie sound asleep in a dark, stumbling carriage.
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