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.”

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…

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?

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.

Modern Art - Video/Light Installation

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.

In Memory of Shadia Nassar
March 3, 1955- Sept. 18, 2001