Moral Dilemma

After living life for a while, awkward situations get easier. Or easier to handle at least. For example, you develop skin thick enough to take criticism (of the non-constructive kind), or have the wisdom to say No to seeing someone again because your incompatible as people but have great sex.

When I started work there was inevitably going to be a wide array of awkward situations that I will find new and difficult to deal with. One of them just hit me in the face.

My office is about 3 doors down from the office of one of the main partners in the Corporate Finance department. He's about 65, very pleasant, and I've worked with him on several smallish matters. When he found out I was from the middle east, he told me how he'd spent years in Dubai working for the this law firm.

On the 23rd of December before heading off for Christmas he came into my office and asked if I would like to have "supper" with him on the 30th. The invitation was very kind, and I said yes.

Today, as I am at work, I start getting nervous. Does he think this is a date? I noticed he does not wear a wedding ring. He comes into my office on random occasions to discuss his trips, tennis, the like. On one hand, being probably the most junior person in my department, I'm flattered by the interest but on the other hand I'm terrified by the possibility that he sees this in any way as romantic.

He's a very pleasant person and I have no reason to not give him the benefit of the doubt. As my friend also pointed out, it wouldn't hurt my career to be friendly back. But at the same time, I'm afraid I'm going to be labelled as Whora Flynn Boyle.

The "supper" is tonight in a very nice restaurant in Mayfair. God help me, I have to go home and pack for Brussels tomorrow!

Trentemoller's prose

On sex and fulfillment

In the few true relationships that I have had, with one exception, sex has posed in one way or another a problem. I guess the kind of person I'm interested in on an emotional level often times is very different from the kind of person i'm interested in bed. Or something. At least that's what I'm convincing myself for the time being. That sweet, decent, mature guys who aren't emotionally insecure are rarely good in bed.

But then again, what is good in bed? For some being had with each limb tied to a bedpost; for others a little vanilla? I think in the beginning I had a very rigid approach to what I wanted. Now with more experience I see that every person strikes a different chord and chemistry. I start to wonder if I have begun molding myself to match the guys I 'date' sometimes. No, I guess I don't. There's nothing wrong with responding to chemistry, but I certainly find room for self-expression.

After the collapse of my short but intense relationship with JD, and having not seen him for a month prior, my desire for physical intimacy was peaking. In almost no time I found myself on several dates a weekend, most of which have ended with sex. It wasn't just sex, it was good sex. My carnal pleasures were fully tended to for the first time for a long time and for a while, I was feeling the high.

Then last sunday night, I was getting ready for bed alone for the first time that weekend, and suddenly felt overwhelming pain. I missed JD. I missed that sex with him, though not the most varied or expressive sometimes, meant a lot more to both of us.

On Monday night my Friday night date called when I was at work, letting me know that he was at an office event near my place, and that he'd like to see me. This is CM, a sweet and genuine Canadian guy. Though I wasn't sure we were a physical match at first, he made up for that in bed impressively. I replied back asking him to wait for me while I wrapped things up at work and stopped by my Dad's (who is visiting London) to give him his birthday present.

He waited. I took him to my place, and as I was tired I jumped right into bed, not thinking twice that last thing I wanted tonight was sex. We slept next to each other, and it felt good. I have no intention of seeing him romantically, just not at all prepared for that right now, but it is amazing how special the moments are that you can share with complete strangers.

Pure ecstacy

How Stella Got Her Party Groove Back

When S said he was visiting me in London for a week, I instantly felt anticipation. S, one of the most fabulous Cairenes I know who I've incessantly and extravagantly partied with every time we found each other in the same country, is in his own way a legend. His visit lived up to its mighty expectations.

Friday night I came home from work to beautiful flowers, a birthday card, and organic Eastern inspired accessories. With no delay the iPod was thrown into full blast as we prepared for our first night in London together.

First, dinner at I's gorgeous North London flat. After champagne, delicious food, and exotic indian furniture the cab picked us up and made its way to the Shadow Lounge. "Only 2 hours" we kept saying to ourselves, but that really turned into 3. The music was good, and the alcohol kept flowing, I was trying to make sure it wasn't too crazy a night so that tomorrow we still have energy for more. At 3am we walked over to Low-Profile for more clubbing, and from there we ended up at Ghetto, which true to its name had us screaming all the way back to my flat (in a rickshaw!).

Saturday, after getting restless sleep, we got up to have some brunch and hit the liquor stores - we had planned a birthday celebration at the flat and we were to make sure it was well supplied. The first guests started arriving at 7pm, but an explosion of 25 or so guests took place at around 9.30-10. Blondi & Kaki, beautiful girls that went to high school with me, were there. So were a bunch of Palestinian bankers living in London, who made frequent visits into my bathroom en mass. "I'm dreaming of a 'white' christmas" said one of them sarcastically as he put his nostril to a rolled up £20 note. Meanwhile, the bubbles were flowing in the living room as people got up to dance. The hour was, however, approaching midnight and there was no way we were spending the whole evening at home.

A fleet of cabs took a chunk of us to the Shadow Lounge (again!). The music was 3 times better, the crowd beautiful. Blondi and Kaki dominated the pole, whereas S himself was getting a lot of interest from tall Irish farmers and nicotine addicts. I went out for a smoke, the first in years. Later, I had some 'snow' myself. The beat was hotter, the colours brighter.

At 3.30, we went to have dinner at Balans with SM, and Blondie. After munching on chicken salad, S decided it was time to hit the gay sauna near my flat. Having never realised one existed so close, and since it was his only weekend here, I obliged. An hour after hanging out with perverts, I decided I'd go home and clean up. It was dawn, and I could not get any sleep anyway. I lay in bed sleepless, probably because of what I'd snorted. I went to have lunch with my father and quickly returned home because it was Sunday - Rapido night.

At 7pm we were making our way into the fabulous Koko Theatre for Amsterdam's most famous party.




Dancers on stilts in outrageous costumes made their way through the thumping atrium as a sea of muscle-bound men danced their palpitating hearts out. The drug of choice tonight was mdma, but I wasn't going to go very far tonight with this little sleep. True to my vow, I went home at 1, but S continued with my friends and later hit Fabric at 2am, and Orange at 5am. He came home just as I started to wake up at 8am.

Over the next 2 days, though I had work to do, S made it Heaven, to G-A-Y and G-A-Y late, and we had dinner at Beach Blanket Babylon. I haven't partied like that in, literally, years and though it was excessive I was grateful for the random and not-to-be-repeated-for-a-long-time experience. S, be sure to get your ass back here!

We apologise...

Why is the entire service sector in England under the illusion that these words hold some magical effect? "Your phone won't be available until Monday sir, we apologise for the inconvenice of leaving you stranded and out of reach for the next 4 days"; "Sorry sir, you're flight's been delayed for 4 hours, but I hear there's a Slug and Lettuce around the corner"; "Please accept our apologies sir, the DLR and the Jubilee line are both closed for a reason we are not ready to disclose, and you have no way of getting home from work."

Everywhere you look, there's an apology. Your mail, the nearest dysfunctional ATM machine, and sometimes when you're lucky, when someone pushes you aside on the tube.

Yes, being in Britain is all about non-confrontation. But I'm just tired of getting the lame apology every time I'm disappointed. Maybe I'm too Americanised (though I beg to differ, as now I spell apologise with an "s" not a "z") but at this point I actually get angry when someone tries to say they're sorry. The poor call-centre folk have undoubtedly black-listed me at this point. I don't want an apology, I want my issue resolved or to be compensated in some way that does not involve empty meaning.

JD, true to form, posts as his facebook status yesterday "JD is waiting for you to call". Though I am well aware that the world does not revolve around me, I couldn't help but wonder if the status was directed at me. Me call you? On my birthday, and after all you've done?

Still, I found a certain charm in the fact that he did not attempt an apology. Just then I remember I haven't checked voicemail in days. As I had guessed, he did call. Not to say happy birthday, not to say I'm sorry, but to return my earlier call and say that he missed talking to me.

I've decided I'm not three, and I don't need a happy birthday- and definitely not an apology. Maybe later tonight I'll give him a call. He has a lot of self-proving to do in a very short time.

Ghosts

I had a very surreal and, at the time, terrifying experience this morning. It was about 7.15 AM. I wasn't quite awake yet, but I also wasn't really sleeping. I knew my alarm would go off as it usually does at around 7.45. I would then snooze it till about 8 before I make a real move. Bottom line is, I had about 45 minutes that I intended to spend in bed drifting in and out of consciousness.

I turned to my side, and could feel myself drifting back to sleep. The room, as it always is, was dead silent, and the only light was the omniscent, soft mood lighting that came from under my bed. My eyes became heavy, and I felt myself dosing... In an instant I felt someone get in bed behind me. My heart sank as I regained consciousness. Was that a dream? No. I was paralyzed. My muscles stopped responding. I was being pinned down, and one of my captor's arms held me still from the neck. I needed to yell, scream, say something. I couldn't even turn around to face him. I knew it was a man, because he was singing, in colloquial egyptian, something strange and non-sensical.

Though I couldn't utter the words, my mind started reciting prayer. I was in terror. I gave one big push backward and suddenly I was free, my muscles back to normal.

I sat up in bed, wondering how much of that was actually real. The comfortable answer was: none of it.

I got into my suit, walked all the way to the tube station only to realise I'd forgotten my wallet and work pass. Cursing myself, I walked back to my flat and took a cab. At noon, I had a date with an Australian guy (Mr R) I had met that rampant Friday at the Adams Street priv club (see "Great expectations").

Mr R was pleasant, and very handsome. Perhaps a little too pleasant, but I guess you exepect a certain amount of pomp when you're dealing with bankers. We had a civilised lunch at Carluccio's in the Wharf, where the conversation drifted from personal backgrounds and work, to plans for the future.

As he spoke the heavily accented words came slowly from his mouth. A bustling Carluccio's sometimes made it difficult to catch every single word of every sentence, to the point where I was picking up every Xth word...Like LED banners, the words flashed in front of me in a disjointed and jumbled manner. I lost track of the sentences, and his point.

"Beach"; my brain jolted into the past. D, the beaches of Ras Shitan, of the Egyptian North Coast. Man it was warm there. Man it's freezing in London today.

"Bank of New York"; walking for what seemed like miles from SoHo in New York downtown to the financial district with J. Why does NY just get better weather than we do?

"Music teacher"; a high school crush, one of those deeply psychotic ones where you never tell anyone about it and just obsess for hours. Listening to my CD player (remember those!), a pubescent teenager going home after badminton practice on the after school bus.

"Lamb stew"; I don't like stew. Tried it once where it was actually decent. That was with JD. That asshole.

This went on for a while. At some point I think Mr R realised my gaze had become strange, as if I was looking through him, not at him. He realised he was talking too much.

We walked back through the Canada Square mall to the underground entrances of our respective buildings. Where the path forked I thanked him for an enjoyable time and sincerely expressed my wish to see him again. We decided we'd keep in touch as to the next opportunity.

As I walked into my building, I realised that perhaps the concept that ghosts live among us dull humans isn't entirely inconceivable. Here I was attempting a civilised early lunch, and in many ways all I did was bring my ghosts to the table. I'm fairly certain that, to some extent, a ghost or ghosts followed him to that table too. What happened this morning in bed, if on any level 'real', was a mere extension of this presence, probably induced by dream-like mode.

Great expectations

Humans never cease to amaze me in their capacity for ridiculousness and disrespect. If you've read my posts since August, particularly "Meet him at the Love Parade", you may have figured out that I had met 'someone special' (JD). And for 3 or 4 months, I thought I really did.

Something that started out so intense and strong somehow ended up going to hell in a handbasket faster than I could utter the words. Hmm where to start? Between August and mid October, it was like a dream. Between London, Washington DC, Amsterdam and Prague we existed on a parallel frequency. It was love at first sight, and attachment that seemed to promise a lot very soon. Sure, in the end it was a long distance relationship, and I was wary of the inherent dangers in that; but still I was convinced that with enough hard work it would at least bloom into something sustainable and rewarding...

I think the alarm bells began to sound in Prague, late October. We'd spent a fantastic weekend in that charming place, but, him having been away from the states for a couple of weeks, I noticed he was a lot more impatient and on edge than usual. Now I recognise it as a combination of homesickness and discomfort, but then all i felt was an odd sense of disconnection. We didn't have sex. We went clubbing a couple of times, and the fables of Prague's wild nightlife proved to be wild fiction. The city was beautiful but something was off.

I haven't seen him since. Two weeks after Prague, I get an abrupt phonecall from him on a tuesday morning asking me if I wanted to join him and his friends in Roma that weekend. That pissed me off. A) two weeks was the longest time we'd spent apart since august, B) clearly he'd planned this with his loser, white trash American hill-billies before speaking to me, and C) he wasn't even out to them, so what exactly would have been my designation in that scenario? I hung up, decided to ignore him. It worked, for a while.

Sunday, I knew he was leaving Italy, but wasn't sure what his next destination was. I had made it clear before our last phonecall that I would be in Paris for lunch on the 22nd of November, and sent him a message asking whether he would meet me there as promised.

No response.

Monday he calls from Barajas in Madrid, clearly already on the way back to the states. My patience ran out, and I sent him an email expressing concern. It wasn't nasty, it was very clear and in it I asked what exactly was wrong - he was acting strange and distant. I had fallen ill, my father had been diagnosed with an illness and was flying to london on Tuesday and he didn't so much as ask or care.

No response.

I was insulted. I decided that was it, this was clearly a failed endeavour. A disappointment of unusual proportions. In my mind, I lost all respect for him. And I have too much pride and self-esteem to even cosider someone so self-absorbed.

Friday, a few days after I'd sent the email out, I took to the London night. FS and I hit the Box, and a debut vernissage in the Adams Street priv club. I found myself in flirt mode. I was moving past this asshole, at any price. I must have arranged 6 dates in the space of the 3 hours I spent between those two places. Clearly, I was overcompensating (though at least 3 of the guys were really gorgeous).

Naturally, and as things like that often go, JD called right in the middle of all that. I wasn't expecting an apology, but I was expecting some acknowledgement of what transpired between us over the past week. I got none. He spoke as if nothing had happened. He spoke about the auto business in the US and the government bailouts planned *yawn* and had very little else to say. In the end, he asked me to call him back later.

Likely scenario.

I went home, took a nap for a few hours, and got on the train to Paris. There, I had a fantastic day sitting on corner cafes, roaming st germain de pres, le marais, and ending the afternoon with coffee at le fumoir with a few friends.

The next morning, in London, I turn on my facebook to find that he's still awake and 'sad'. In silly optimism that he may have actually grown a pair of balls for introspection, I called to check up on him. Of course, he was really 'sad' about the state of the economy, and what it meant for his business.

I managed to ignore him the following week altogether and until this day, Sunday. I do feel much more liberated now than I did the past weekened. I went on a couple of dates on Saturday, had sex (at last), and feel like I can finally refocus my energy, time and money on something more valuable and worthy - me!

I read somewhere the past couple days that part of loving yourself is accepting your limitations. Does that sound silly to anyone but me? Personally, I never thought there were any real limitations on what I could do. Only the limitation of time perhaps. But isnt' loving yourself refusing that any limitaitons bind your actions? I see a value in seeing yourself as human, and forgiving yourself for mistakes made, but does that necessarily entail reducing yourself to a mere frame? I hope not

Must-watch

http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=jEfVs6qaLSA

Hyperborea

(source: Wikipedia)

In Greek mythology, according to tradition, the Hyperboreans were a mythical people who lived far to the north of Thrace. The Greeks thought that Boreas, the North Wind, lived in Thrace, and that therefore Hyperborea was an unspecified region in the northern lands that lay beyond Scythia. Their land, called Hyperborea or Hyperboria — "beyond the Boreas" — was perfect, with the sun shining twenty-four hours a day.

Never the Muse is absent

from their ways: lyres clash and flutes cry

and everywhere maiden choruses whirling.

Neither disease nor bitter old age is mixed

in their sacred blood; far from labor and battle they live.

(Pindar, Tenth Pythian Ode, Richmond Lattimore, translator).

Reaching such exotic lands is never easy; Pindar cautioned:

Never on land or by sea will you find

the marvelous road to the feast of the Hyperborea.

Copper, Beech

The edge of language and its ability to communicate. The point at which words are no longer sufficient; when that line is crossed where seemingly infinite combinations of letters and sounds produce a word so unfortunately limited. Only then Human can interact with its environment.

The objects, smells, and sounds all stand in a vacuum, as in a museum. Knowledge of them becomes a purely experiential exercise.

Human stares at an empty jar through museum glass. Traces of the jar's contents still line its rim. The curved glass smudged, translucent in the neon light that glares above. The curved glass, smooth and cool. The emotions of haste, hunger, and the consumer's absent-mindedness all flow to Human as it observes and senses. Sensory perception feeds not into logic, but a much wider and deeper pool of emotional intellect. One that is constantly muted by its shallow, automated, 'logical' counter-part.

Removing words from objects sets them free. The most mundane and ordinary of objects become vessels of passion, seeking their place in the uni-verse, emitting energy and communicating with a receptive Human and with every other object.

Watch the train station as it is stripped of all literal description. The vast, hollow space devoid of the purpose for which it was originally built, becomes a Godly, awe-some place. The tracks become mere terrain, or an idiosyncracy. The train car comes to life, its linear caverns no longer slaves to functionality. It too joins the spirit of the uni-verse.

Francis Bacon

Pope Innocent X (Study of Head)

Strong, wide, dark strokes of paint distort, overpower a grainy and meekly painted figure. Alarm is injected as the pale face is sucked into an abyss, the lavender providing an almost mocking contrast. Had the face been invisible, the figure would be nothing but composed, regal. The intricately painted mouth and its silent scream evoke a sense of decay, of terror.

Viva La Vida, or Death and all his Friends

Today I woke up and walked outside to crisp, frigid weather. The sun was out, but it was official- London’s perpetual season, autumn, had finally come. I walked through Foldgate Street, spilled into a busy Bishopsgate. As I marched towards Bank, my iPod filled my ears with Coldplay’s most recent album – Viva La Vida or Death and All his Friends. I always thought that was an anticlimactic title. Not very catch, is it (granted, Coldplay never really looked for that anyway)? Viva La Vida, long live life... Or Death and All His Friends…?

The moods in the songs swayed from sentimental melancholic, to feisty, to stoically exuberant. The album had become a very big part of my life recently. I have been listening to it practically every day since the beginning of September. I will admit, it’s a masterpiece. “Strawberry Swing” and “Lovers in Japan” go through my head even when my iPod is tucked away as I work.

Work. The stress and the hours. Inconceivable to me just 2 months ago, now it all holds a firm grip on my life. I know as the banks of Canary Wharf take a tumble and as the finance world goes to hell in a hand basket, I’m lucky to even have a job this good – but my carefree days of floating around London in the afternoons and the Continent in the weekends are gone.

The first few 2 or 3 weeks it really got to me. Seeing JS’s life – so advanced in his career he really has little to worry about, be it time off or ‘climbing the ladder’ – made things a little harder as I judged myself in his frame. It was and in many ways still is a harsh perspective.

Now as I sink into things more comfortably, and see all the blessings that are around me – a beautiful boyfriend, a great job, and a bright future – I am ready to go back to being my chirpy self. In control, sane, and always looking ahead.

After all, isn’t that what they meant when they thought of that name for the album? Choose life, or wither on the vine.

Mauve Skies

Why

“Why?”

After the long silence, one word is what I get. I didn’t see it coming. I’d gone to brush my teeth, and walked back in my room to find my mobile screen light had come on. I opened the message from my estranged former partner and stared at it.

“Why?”

What am I supposed to respond and say, if anything? What is he talking about? Why we broke up? There’s blame in that word, accusation. In a sense, “why did you destroy something that worked so well?” or “why me?”. He was a master of blame, looked for it everywhere around him but himself. I hated that. Is he really trying to blame me for everything?

Beneath the layer of accusation I can also read despair. I can see him now, on his sofa flicking through the channels on television as he usually would, not watching much, though now I suspect the volume would be turned up a little louder as he tries to scare away my ghost lying there next to him, hugging him from behind and falling asleep with my head against his. I know this is probably what he’s doing, I know because this is what I have done.

I’m not as sad about losing that relationship as I am heartbroken over what I’ve done to him. I love him still, I never will stop caring for him because I know him so well I can see past anything he says or does.

Yet this one word, staring me in the face, I can’t even reply to. Why.

A few possible responses run through my head. The one I began to text back was “You deserve a lot more than I can give you right now.” Corny, but true. I wasn’t ready to move in with him, throw in the towel so to speak and focus what little time I now have every day on just furthering a romantic relationship. This is obviously an item on my agenda, but it is one of many. Or maybe it was because I’ve betrayed him several times during the 3 years we’d spent together, and, finding that I could no longer maintain my own self-respect, I decided to run in the other direction. Or maybe it was because I felt so weak around him, used him as my moral compass, felt bad when he felt bad, and only happy if he felt happy; I’d lost control of myself and my own conviction, and I resented him for it. Maybe that’s “why”.

In the end, James, I really don’t know “why”. People’s paths cross, and some souls are closer together than others. Life without you is in many ways a living hell, but I’ve just begun to get back on my own feet, feel like my own self again. Maybe that’s overrated, but right now, even with all this doubt, it feels right.

Sticky and Sweet

“I want to thank God, and all my friends, that it DIDN’T FUCKING RAIN TODAY!” screamed Madonna mid-set. Sean, standing behind me, was 30 minutes into screaming and now his voice sounded more like an owl after a swig of diet coke. JS had got us tickets so close to the stage, I could practically smell the dancer’s resilient anti-presperant. Now that’s what I call Sticky and Sweet.

Sticky and Sweet, though not nearly the emotional tour de force that was the Confessions tour, was sexy, and total innovation – from the stage design to the remastered versions of all her great songs. Aside from some punk-ass bitch that tried to cut in front of us, the show was a visual treat, and the sounds that came from the mega speakers were divine. All hail the Queen.

Less than 48 hours later, I was strapped in a tight flight suit, bracing myself to jump out of a plane at 10,000 feet. I wasn’t even nervous, but at the fear of looking like the Dalai Lama I tried to joke around a bit. My instructor was more playful than I was. Since it was my first ‘Jump’, he was strapped to my back to guide the skydive, and, when it finally opened at 3,000 feet, the parachute.

“Mate, what’s the difference between a Ferrari and an erection?” He yelled at me as I sat on his lap in the cramped, noisy wooden plane (yeah, I was ready to jump out of that thing if it ever got us to 10,000 feet). “What?!” I managed to yell back. He moved in a little closer and said “I don’t have a Ferrari”. All of a sudden, the air got colder, the sound of the engine faded. I was dropping, so fast. The clouds were far…below me. I was coming at them full speed. The air was so clean and crisp. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing, yet it was going by so fast.

I was coming up on the clouds, and as the mist hit my face, the parachute shot up.

A tale of two cities

He makes him feel alive.

In London, the dark streets smothered with impatience and the silent shuffle of black suits blur his vision as he paces towards his office. The grey clouds above swirl, and in his eyes they merge with the square pavement, the asphalt, and the stone, steel and glass towers. The Royal Exchange and its Corinthian columns bear the Greco-Roman qualities of autumn like no others. A cold breeze runs through the streets unchallenged, floating around black taxis, down escalator shafts and through his own jacket.

The monochrome bleakness of his surroundings drives and animates his thoughts. His brain, surrounded by robotic movements and disengagement, jolts inwards, implodes with thought and colour. His thoughts take over his senses, simulating powerful sensations and memories of times long lost; like an ex drug addict hit by a flashback each feeling tingles through his veins and sends a sharp pang through his hollow chest.

At his desk, the computer’s processor hums silently, almost imperceptibly. Hundreds of documents lie in neat folders and piles around him. He picks up a piece of paper. The font is uniform and small. The language looked familiar. His eyes search for the beginning of the first sentence, but just as he starts reading a dab of blue jumps at him, strikes him from between the lines. Like a watermark hidden behind the black ink. He bites his cud, pauses. His eyes struggle to readjust on the page. A few more words and the sharp pang hits him deep in his chest, again.

A page and a half later, he gives up. He closes his eyes, leans back in his chair. The dab of blue swirls in his head, like cotton candy. It creates a pattern, then a circle. An eye, an eyelid, an eyebrow- a face, a smile.

Poems on the Underground

She tells her love while half asleep,
In the dark hours,
With half-words whispered low:
As Earth stirs in her winter sleep
And puts out grass and flowers
Despite the snow,
Despite the falling snow.

-Robert Graves

Meet him at the Love Parade

I go for long periods without writing anything at all. I like to say to myself that I’m too busy living life, which may very well be the truth. I say that, and then something happens, inspires me, makes my surroundings so inadequate that I have to work with the joy, pain, or often a mixture of both by writing something down. A record.

My last true summer vacation is coming to a hasty end. That’s not to say I didn’t enjoy it. The wind blew me a lot of places I had so looked forward to seeing. What is even better is that on every trip I was surrounded by people that I loved and enjoyed. Rio was a dream. So was Rome. Cairo, Siwa, Sinai, and the Egyptian sun that once inspired the first monotheism brought me back to earth and in utter beauty I found myself emotionally regenerating. The last leg of my trips was not necessarily the most overwhelming, but certainly the most intense. Attending Pride weekend in Amsterdam was an experience I don’t think I will ever forget.

I flew in early in the morning on Saturday. Jim’s friends happened to be staying the hotel next door, so I met them briefly for breakfast on the beautiful PC Hoofstraat. DK, SL, and SF had all flew in from Cairo and were sleeping still in the hotel. Soon we were all making our way to the parade which went down the Prinsengracht. The atmosphere was euphoric. Scantily clad men and families (children included) danced and waved in the streets, confetti and celebration floating in the air. DK, SL, SF and I were all in bright clothes, our surroundings clearly elevating us. We watched and played and met yet another two friends from London, who had gone slightly ‘out there’ with the outfits. One of them spent the good part of an hour posing for pictures with tourists. It was a lot of fun.

Soon the party moved further north to the gay neighbourhood. Music was loud and everywhere, people hopping, jumping and laughing. What struck me the most was how friendly everyone was (but I guess living in London always makes that a truly remarkable feature). I had met this German/Canadian guy earlier at the parade, and I contemplated having a little fun with him. My two friends from London offered me some dancing chemical inducement, and, figuring it was legal and probably not so bad an idea once in a long while, I happily obliged.

Somewhere between the rolling bass and dancing bodies, a beautiful man caught my attention. He was about my height, or a little shorter. Trimmed beard, short blonde hair, ocean blue eyes, and athletic/slim stature. He saw me and smiled, and as soon as he did I felt this odd sense of familiarity. Not like a déjà vu, but more like a sense of relation, though I was sure we’d never met. JS he said his name was, Iranian but from the States. We spoke for a bit amidst the madness. His mannerisms were Middle Eastern. I figured that may be what was striking the sense of familiarity in me. He was very sweet, and his kisses were simple, not glaringly sexual. In the circumstances, he was a little drunk and I was still recovering from the amphetamines, so at the end of the evening after he’d gone to the White party and I to the Bear Necessity party with DK, I promised him we’d have lunch together the next day.

Sunday was a dream. I stopped by his hotel and took him to my neck of the woods for food. The city was quiet, beautiful, and a little cold. I put my arm around him to try and insulate us both, and we strolled through the narrow roads and over the canals. As we were both a little tired, we opted for a nap together, and it was one of the most amazing few hours I’d spent with anyone. Though not sexual, it was an intense experience, like prayer. We held each other, gently touching, tasting, feeling all there was to feel. The gravity of his skin kept my arms in motion, engulfing his body. Soon we both fell asleep, practically glued together.

Then SA arrived by surprise from Austria. I promised JS we would meet later in the evening after I’d spent some time with her and share a drink as a group as his cousins were also in town. I hopped in a cab and picked up SA, and by then the streets had filled up again with music. We danced as we walked to Rose’s Cantina for a bite and some alcohol. JS met us there with his group and we had a substantial amount of Petron. I watched him as he laughed and joked around. The sense of familiarity was so strong at this point, but coupled with even stronger infatuation. I was lucky and honoured to find out that he felt just as strongly about me. We had a great night, took all of the bar staff at Rose’s Cantina out partying with us to a couple of clubs. SM was having a blast, making friends left and right. I had missed her so much, and was so happy that I was able to offer her great company and a fun night in Amsterdam albeit my last one.

I kept dreading the morning, when I knew I would have to leave. JS and I fell asleep on the couch in his hotel room, with him resting his head against my chest. At some point in the middle of the night (or morning as it was) we moved to the bed. Again we fell asleep together and woke up far too early to catch our respective flights. As his flight was an hour later than mine, we spent our last few moments together by the gate D14 in Schipol. It was a beautiful day and the sun lit his eyes up like the sky. I kept him very close until it was time for me to go. On the short flight to London and until this moment, hours later, the pain of leaving him behind has been multiplying, though equally has the feeling of joy at meeting someone that managed to shake up my reality. Before boarding I had given him my Bedouin scarf, just to make sure he didn’t wait too long before visiting me in London. But any time at all is too long at this point. As I write this I stare blankly at the trees in Battersea park, feeling like someone’s ripped a piece of my gut out.

Failure rates

A new Chief Executive at Proctor and Gamble recently decided to take the issue of corporate busines strategy to the next level. To him the biggest threat to P&G was the strategic inertia that kept it from adapting and taking the innovative lead in the market. He re-structured the company, and created subsidiaries aimed at innovation and only innovation. But instead of setting a success rate for these subsidiaries, our fellow CEO decided to set a common rate of...failure.

When you think about it, it is ingenius. His argument was that if the new subsidiaries weren't failing enough, they weren't taking enough risks with their innovations. By setting a rate of failure, he ensures that his thinkers were thinking far enough outside the box to make mistakes or, when they get lucky, come up with something brilliant.

I wondered, learning all this, if we as individual should set a standard rate of failure for ourselves - just so we can make sure that we're taking enough risks in our lives, and truly maximizing our benefit from it. I personally shudder at the very idea of a standard rate of failure. Failure to me has never been an option, and when it has happened on very random and few occasions, I struggled with it immensely. Not on a self-esteem level necessarily, but simply mourned through the de facto situation.

I realized that perhaps the reason I fail so infrequently is because I take very little risks with my life. Maybe I am not really living, just going through calculated motions which are in the grand scheme of things at best circular, anchored down to a center, like the limb of a protractor. Not that I've never taken risks - falling in love was a risk, moving away from home at 17 was a risk. Still now more than ever I feel inertia, and perhaps taking a risk (albeit an intelligent one) is the answer?

Sex and Emasculation

e·mas·cu·late

1.	to castrate.

2.	to deprive of strength or vigor; weaken.

–adjective

3.	deprived of or lacking strength or vigor; effeminate.

With the gradual revival of my sex life, and with the ebbing of the tide of monogamy, I've gained a perspective on sex and particularly my sexuality that had been lost on me in the past. It is in those moments of ascending suspense, of nearing sexual climax, and the resulting 30 or so seconds of pure ecstasy by which (if you're of the freudian persuasion) the human psyche is eternally mesmerized; yes it is in those few but parallel moments that inhibitions are truly lost, as if with every physical thrust our conscious inertia loses ground and our deepest fantasies and secrets merge for the glorious tour de force.

The feeling I get during sex, uncomparable to any else, now is matched with intrigue at my own thought trajectory. As I near my own climax, thoughts rush through my head at an alarming rate. Suddenly, and though i see a beautiful male form before me, I stare him in the eye and my brain begins to emasculate him. Little by little, he turns into my beautiful, hungry...no... sex-starved...girl. I go even faster. My thoughts spiral into four letter words demeaning him, reducing him, objectifying him, all to get what I want out of him - a solid orgasm.

I lay in bed next him thinking about what just happened. Am I actually straight and in the closet about it? No. I'm fairly positive the reason I emasculate my random sexual partners to get a good kick is because, on a very fundamental level, if they retained their masculinity during sex I wouldn't feel as confident or as dominant. Society has taught me that, at least in bed, women are on the receiving end, seeking the domination of their male partners. That scenario either is natural or convenient for me. I seek to dominate because not only is it sexually pleasurable, but it also takes away any nervousness I might be going through in light of how gorgeous or 'masculine' this guy is.

The good news is, once the sex is over, any trace of such sexist animalism is gone. The human being that he is resurfaces and my sexual rants are drowned out...

The Names of God

Just a few thoughts that ran through my head today-

The Quran, the 'Word of God' (I'll explain the quotation marks later on), refers to Him using 99 different names, usually in what we call in arabic 'exaggerative tenses'. An example of this is "Ghafoor" (most forgiving) and "Raheem" (most merciful). Arabic has always been the essence of Book and the platform from which the Quran could realistically thrive and be subject to esoteric interpretation. Arabic has also always been the essence of pre-Islamic culture (yes, the Peninsula did indeed have culture at some point in history), a culture that placed great value and emphasis on articulation and mastery of the written and spoken word. As we all know the Book wasn't actually written till the Second Khalipha, it had remained in the memory of the inhabitants of the Peninsula for the interim period after Prophet Muhammad's 'wa7y' (from 'i7a2' - inspiration). The connection P. Muhammad formed with Angel Gabriel (a powerful 'package' or energy or Light) revealed the Quran at different stages and in several chunks. The connection was manifested in the spoken Arabic word.

There is therefore an unmistakable emphasis in Islamic practice on recitation- be it prayers, words, or the actual Quran. If you follow my train of though on this, uttering the 99 Names is therefore there to inspire you into a connection with God, the Light (An-Nur).


On the other hand, a fundamental tenant of Kabbalah is the revelation of the 72 Names of God. These aren't actually names, they are non-sensical sequences of Hebrew letters (3 letters to each sequence), methodologically derived from the passage in the Zohar describing Moses fleeing Egypt and parting the Red Sea. It is believed that this passage provides a mystic code to miracles, and that the 72 Names are the ultimate decryption.

Emphasis here as it has been in kabbalah is not on the spoken word, but rather on the power of Hebrew letters. The eyes are considered the true mirrors of the soul, and therefore scanning the letters imprints not only images but a certain type of energy.


As a native Arabic speaker, and as Muslim, I find this approach slightly difficult. The culture I come from is overly articulate and the language tends to be ornate and almost rhythmic. To discard all this and try to focus on meditation through sight has been a challenge. Still, I do feel the force of the Hebrew language when I actually attend Shabbat. Or maybe I'm just picking up on the energy that surrounds me there, or the actual singing (in Hebrew).

il fait si froid dehors, ici c'est comfortable

The two or three weeks of relative pain I spent following my break up eventually turned into something altogether different. After relentlessly trying to fill the space Jim occupied in my daily life with school work, socializing, and travelling, I realized I’d perhaps distracted myself too much, to the point where I feel a bit of motion-sickness.

Exams were in mid February, and I spent the entire first half of the month trying to focus on studying and occasionally seeing my father who was staying in a hotel not far from where I live. With the former I felt frustrated, or blocked. It’s not only that the material was unbearably dull and unrewarding, but it’s also that I felt very insecure about my abilities after spending so much time with such an over-achieving set of classmates. Pre-dominantly Oxbridge, arrogant, and just as fiercely competitive as I am, I felt like I was surrounded be people that were so much more engaged in their careers than I was. Law for me was a random choice stemming out of indecision, and with a little hard work and a lot of luck I ended up on the team of trainees for the world’s biggest law firm. For my classmates I feel like they’re on a deliberate and endlessly thought-out path. Three years ago I didn’t even know what a solicitor was. And now as this un-engaging work is being thrown at me, I feel like they’re much better equipped to handle donkey work than I am.

Emotionally things have been equally difficult, and it’s not just my break up I’m talking about. My schedule has filled up to the point where I have little time to relax at home and read a book, I feel like I’m constantly running and rushing (from school to lunch to shrink to coffee to dry cleaner) and perhaps I subconsciously made my life so just so I could not think about the fact that I’m worried about my career and performance at school, or the fact that there’s this huge gap were Jim used to be. I started dating people and trying get back into having a little fun, but after my date leaves or after going out with a few friends I feel more alone than I did before. I feel like I’m on a steep learning curve, with a promise of some sort of maturity and complacency at the end of the line; the line being curved, I just can’t see it yet.

On the plus side I feel an amazing rush of independence and my aggressive schedule has allowed me to meet interesting people in different settings. Building strong friendships in London is a difficult task, but one that I know I will succeed in. It once amazed me how I had 200+ contacts on my phone but not one I could call when I felt down or wanted to talk. Yes, there’s a lot of crap to sort through but good people are everywhere, and you need to be able to spot them and put the right amount of effort into building a relationship.

I’m typing this from a rainy and cold Vienna, and I just got off the phone with a dear and close person. As he prepares for his grandmother’s funeral, I feel that perhaps we are all more emotionally connected as a species than we think. It’s not a matter of synchronicity or coincidence, but perhaps a channel of energy, ‘Light’, what have you, that puts our souls in their primordial state – united.

Dance

This is truly amazing.
The music is from Buddha Bar (III i imagine) but the burlesque vintage dancers turn the track into something haunting...

Pan's Labyrinth

"Because the paths of the Lord are inscrutable, because the essence of his forgiveness lies in his world and his mystery, because although God sends us the message, it is our task to decipher it, . . . when we open our arms, the Earth takes in only a hollow and senseless shell. Far away now is the world in its eternal glory. Because it is in pain that we find the meaning of life and the state of grace that we lose when we are born. Because God, in his infinite wisdom, puts the solution in our hands. And because it is only in his physical absence that the place he occupies in our souls is reaffirmed."

H-I-Larious

Certainty

I sat up straight in bed, looking down at my Business Law and Practice text-book. I wasn’t very comfortable, and I needed a highlighter. I wanted things to be easier to skim through when it came time for the exams. I looked at room door, closed as it was, and my backpack, equidistant from the bed and the door. I didn’t want to get up. I had wrapped myself in the blanket already.

“Taher!” I called out to my flatmate. Maybe he’d help me. Silence, and the noise of some music chart countdown on TV fading in and out. “Taher!” My voice rang in the walls of my room. The grey morning light in London meekly flowed into the room. My lamp was on, I didn’t care.

“Taher!” This time the echo hit a chord in my chest. My vision blurred as tears began to form around the corners of my eyes. Why can’t he hear me? I called out again and again. A stream had developed, and the tears flowed. Why can’t he fucking here me? Am I not fucking loud enough? Every time my voice rang I felt like the walls were closing in. I prayed that he make it in time before I could no longer breathe. Cold air swirled around me and had me digging my arms deeper under the blanket.

----------------------

It feels like peeling away layer after layer of my own skin. Like methodologically chopping away calculated pieces of my own heart. Like severing an arm, or a leg. It feels pulling in the window shutters on a sunny day in spring, leaving the room in dark nostalgia. Like digging a whole in my stomach, shovel in hand, not looking up or ever considering how I might be able to one day climb back out and forget that an abyss so consuming ever existed.

It feels so overwhelmingly regretful, yet I’m doing it. I’m pushing with all my might the beautiful movie-set out of the rolling camera’s frame. A blank canvass must do for now. In my mind there is no doubt. My intuition bites at me for hurting him, but cheers me on in pursuing what is right. My heart is pulling at the other end of the rope as it always has – it is equally as powerful, and when the day’s exhaustion sets in it gains considerable ground and I lay in bed, phone in hand, my fingers running over the keys that would spell out my heart’s desire.

I hope one day I will forgive myself for this, and truly find myself convinced that it was the right thing to do. For now it’s a risk. They say the greater the risk, the more extreme any potential reward will be. I hope they’re right, because right now, I feel like I’m running through the motions of life in a vacuum.

Certainty is the key. Certainty that Light is in my life at this very point in time, and that tomorrow will be more beautiful than I ever imagined.

James, if you ever read this, do know that I have loved you to unreasonable extremes. Reality hasn’t been kind, and nor have I. This is only one of the beginning chapters of my life, and I plan on learning from it. Thank you for every minute of every day we’ve spent together.

How frodo baggins got his groove back (and started to free associate)

The weekend started in a weird way.
Jim and I had decided that it was finally time that we suspend our relationship. I'd decided that a while back but he was finally convinced when he found out I had been to a Christmas party hosted by Freddy, the 'devil' as he would call him. Point being, by crook more than hook I managed to get what I think I wanted which was a separation. It hasn't sunk in, I don't know if its a delayed reaction or maybe, just maybe, I'll distract myself to the point where I just look at it as a pleasant thing of the past, without the emotional mourning.

I've been very good at distracting myself so far.

Friday night I come home from university and I realize i have no plans. I didn't feel like going to Shabbat and i knew it would be quite empty as most people are still on holiday. I decided it was (finally) time to return to the gym. I also decided that it would be just a treadmill day, as i had had too much food in California over the christmas break.

I put on my hollister gym pants and polo shirt, packed a bag with deodorant, gel and what have you, and walked to Virgin Active Chelsea, which is only about a 5 minutes away. I made a beeline for the treadmill, and despite hoping I'd last for an hour, i only made it to 45 minutes and felt really tired.

I don't like that slight dizziness i get after i walk off a treadmill. I walked rather slowly to the mens locker room, which was attached to this fully equipped spa. Ah what a great idea - i took off all my clothes, took a shower, and wrapped myself in a towel for the steam room. Now this isn't one of those sleazy London 'gay gyms' that I've grown to hate. It's actually respectable and frequented by straight men (as much as it likely that gyms are frequented by straight men in London anyway). The spa was nonetheless a little sexually charged. I'd catch someone looking at me as I took a shower. The dark steam room was eerily quiet. The jacuzzi (which is the best I've seen!) was far too comfortable. None of the facilities were mixed so no trunks or towels were necessary at any point, and many made use of this freedom.

At some point i saw this guy, a stocky, blond, boyish good looking guy, probably mid twenties. He seemed as straight as they come. Just my type. You could probably guess what ended up happening. It was strange though because he never made it clear that he was in any way interested. It was only when i went back to the locker to get dressed and saw that his locker was across from mine did I start a conversation about, something stupid, being back from the holidays. His face lit up and he started talking back enthusiastically. Wayne, he said his name was, from South Africa. I gave him plenty of opportunity to make beeline for the exit but he was attached like a little puppy. I asked if he was doing anything and suggested this bar that was not too far from the gym. "I'd have to go home to change first" i said. I can't be caught in Kosmopol in sports gear. He said sure I'll come along and wait.

When he said wait, i assumed wait in the living room while i got dressed. He was a little bit more forward than that, and followed me to my room. as i took off my gym pants and put on some jeans, his hand tapped my thigh. I moved in a little closer and we made out for a while before i pushed him into bed. It was good vanilla fun, definitely needed it all. After we were finished he asked if i picked up guys from the gym every day. I honestly have never done so, and he seemed to have trouble believing that. We lay idle for a while before finally deciding to actually make it to Kosmopol. Once there we had fantastic cocktails. He looked at me and asked: "have you had sex with a Jew before?" I answered "Yes". A little disappointed, he extended his hand and said "Well you're definitely my first Arab". I hadn't known he was Jewish, but I thought that was kind of cute. He also made a point of the fact that he'd never actually dated guys. He was much more into women for relationships, men for the odd fling. Fair enough, at least I'm not going to have to deal with drama. Come to think of it, he was actually really aggressive in his manner of speech. Short man syndrome we used to call it.

We shared the sofa with two ladies, our conversation with them lasted for hours. My flatmate showed up, and as soon as he saw my new catch he looked at me and asked "who is this guy? samwise gamjee?" (you know, from lord of the rings?)I thought that was pretty funny, and commented that he was a really hot samwise gamjee. At the end of it he'd had too many drinks and was resting his head on my chest. I asked if he wanted to leave and he finally said yes. Somehow we made it back to my flat (he was really drunk). Before falling asleep instantly he looked at me and said, "you know, I hate people like you". He wrapped his arm and leg around me and fell asleep.