Anthem by Filo and Peri (awesome summer track 1)

Mid-Summer Night's Ghost

Since my arrival in Cairo only 3 weeks ago, and with three weeks left of this trip, a familiar sense of exhaustion and nostalgia settles in. Exhaustion at the routine, the people that have managed to stay almost exactly the same since high school- frequenting the same bars and eating at the same restaurants. Nostalgia at the beautiful summers that I have had here, with carefree days where the realm of possibility and spontaneity extended even beyond the breadth of the persistently blue sky. Every year I try and recreate the atmosphere, to 'let loose' and get a taste of anything that I had missed to the 'n'th degree. And usually I succeed.

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.

Love conquers all

An eclectic group of individuals sit at a table at the Greek Club in Cairo. As the light alcohol loosens their tongues, they throw around frivolity and profundity with equal ease and in a manner typical of francophones – with a dry twist of sarcasm. Jean-Eric, face tanned but tired, with cigarette in one hand and a glass of beer in the other, darts his eyes across the table and is unafraid to express his surprising and surprisingly well thought-out opinions. Staring directly at me he asks – Why is it, do you think, that love is always painful?

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.

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?

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