Wednesday, November 29, 2006

Thy will be done

On earth as it is in heaven. In heaven as it is on earth.

Tuesday, November 28, 2006

Let there be War

I've entirely had it with the ever so inspiring 'Say No To War' and similar adages, those which magically start popping out every single time sectarian reality strikes, completely out of the blue it seems, pushed forth by tragic mystery assassinations, unresolvable constitutional crises, or a little bit of both with a berry on top. Having so far taken a tad more than I can hold, let me try and put it in plain english to the six or seven lost souls who are unfortunate enough to read this blog.

One. If the people, the lebanese people, want war, then by golly let there be war. If they cannot peacefully resolve whatever differences they have in order to live in peace on the land that brought them together, then a big juicy double-decker war is what they deserve.

Two. If the so-called leaders of this country want war, and their followers and sympathizers don't have the guts, the common sense, or the imagination to dissent and stop them in their tracks, then war is not only what they deserve, but by far the best they can hope for.

Three. If the forces that be, the meddling hands that deal the cards and call the shots, want war, for the fulfillment of a master plan beyond the modest limits of our comprehension, if the so-called leaders of this country play gleefully along to fill their pockets and keep safe their necks, and we, the people, the proud and free people of Lebanon, don't churn the very soil that carries them and bury them alive, whoever they are, then ours is the fate of rats and cockroaches in the sweet and blossoming sewers of Baabda's presidential palace. And even the most abject of wars would not want to have anything to do with us, and we would understand why. We, salt of the earth, would just bathe in our brown glory and watch the wonderfully free world from underneath, through the butt holes of Lahoud, Aoun, Nasrallah, Geagea, Jumblatt, Bush, Assad, and Ahmadinejad.

Civil wars are not born out of boredom, nor are they the work of two duds with guns acting on a whim. If after as many years of suffering and death, we still need to cry foul, and beg for there not to be a war, then we are fooling none but ourselves. Let there be war if there has to be one, let there be war, and let the country again be as crushed and tainted red as it needs to be for all the dust of hatred to settle, and maybe for a new people to be born.

Monday, November 27, 2006


Sunday, November 26, 2006



You wake up one morning, you barely open your eyes, and you see it all drawn in front of you like a Monet, you see where every red poppy stands and stretches its flamboyant petals to the sun, you see every swaying twig of fresh grass and every shadow appeasing with its cool fingers the red-brown brazing summer soil, you see the sky looking over you and all its other children with gentle infinitely blue eyes, you see the road that leads to the proud, solemn oaks, sternly guarding the gates to the infinite unknown, you see the small brick house where you will spend the first few nights before you carry on with your journey, you see the people who will be your friends and those who will be your enemies, you see your love, you see your children, you almost see the traces of your own footsteps before you even take that road, kick the gravel, and lift the dust off your path.

But when the actual journey starts, you find yourself slowly immersed in an entirely unfamiliar landscape, glazed with the uncomfortable feeling of not being, and not belonging to where you ought to belong. But you don't turn back, and you don't stop, because what lies ahead is still what you had envisioned, and you keep moving towards it, realizing with every step, of every day, of every year, that this was going to be it for you. It. No more Monet's on the horizon, but an angry, uncaring sky that mostly looks away, a difficult road with many dark turns and strange footsteps none of them your own, many dead twigs, thorns, and hungry red poppies that feed on flies, a lonely empty house with a broken door and a stone pillow, strange people who are neither friends nor enemies who don't even know you exist, loves lost or never found, loves mistaken, children unborn.


None of this is bad though. None of it is as sad as it sounds. But that's life for you. Expect little and your sorrows will be few. Dream it ahead of time, and you will leave it with nothing but a wrinkled heart, and a big, thirsty tear in your eye.

Friday, November 24, 2006

To you- my last pictures of fall

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Thursday, November 23, 2006

Today was thanksgiving, I had a delicious dinner with friends, the weather was beautiful, the drive was safe, and now, in my comfortable chair at home, it feels like a good time for me to count my blessings. And yet, everytime I need most to count my blessings, when I'm five times sad, and four times lonely, I forget how to count.

the new colors of my flag

Chanson pour Aujourd'hui

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Tuesday, November 21, 2006

i just saw this.. i just did... i can't believe it... i really feel sick to my stomach. why did i have to look outside my fucking bubble and see what is really going on in sectarian paradise. every time, every single time i feel the same wave of shock and hopelessness, when none of this is surprising and none of it is new. this time feels so much worse though. this time it was an ambush. a fucking ambush in broad daylight. brings back an awfully uncomfortable feeling of deja vu. i don't know what's gonna happen next, what kind of composure will ex-warlord leaders and their hords of supporters have to maintain in order for this not to degenerate into the all too familiar territory of civil war. i don't know. all i know is i have a pressing need to get back inside my bubble and hide from life and this beautiful world for as long as i can.

Sunday, November 19, 2006

you'll be with me, the traces of you are everywhere here, on my pillow and by my bed, on the shelves and on my desktop, in my bag, in the kitchen, everywhere, the images of you are most of what i remember, most of what i care to remember, so take care of me, i am not all that far away if you think about it, just take care of my memory for a short while, until this song is over, until the wound is closed, until we meet again on a cold, lovely winter day.

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Pictures of Fall (14)

Collage of mostly unintentional abstraction

Saturday, November 18, 2006


- What do you think love is?
- It's staying on the phone for half an hour without any of you saying a word and still not wanting to hang up.

- Have you ever loved?
- Yes.

- What do you think hate is?
- Hate is when you are willing to ruin your life in order to destroy somebody else's.

- Have you ever hated?
- Yes, but not for long.

- What do you think freedom is?
- Freedom is when you can walk away from the thing you cherish most and not look back.

- Are you free?
- No.

- What do you think hope is?
- Hope is when you have absolutely nothing left and you still want to wake up to see another morning.

- Do you have hope?


- Our time is up. Will I see you tomorrow?
- Yes. See you tomorrow. For sure.

Thursday, November 16, 2006

Pictures of Fall (13)

The winding road that always leads me back to you

Tuesday, November 14, 2006

I just wish you would take me with you, and never bring me back

Monday, November 13, 2006

My name is Addae

Hi. My name is Addae, but you can call me Christopher. I am six and a half. Do you remember me? I died on the day you were born. I was outside, the sky was beautiful, a million little drops of water glistened on the brittle morning grass, but my lips were dry and burning, and one hundred flies were dancing around my eyelids and on my eyes. I did not know what it meant to be hungry, I had not eaten for a hundred days. Behind me the sun was still beautiful, cradled by the eastern hills, casting long, slender shadows on the huts and across the ochre village planes. I looked and held on to my mother's gentle, emaciated arms. She brought me close to her chest. She knew that soon I would be flying. And I was ready to fly.

Hi. My name is Addae, but you can call me Christopher. I am six and a half years old. You don't remember me. You were too young. But I remember you. The room was bright white and yellow. There were people, they were dressed in blue suits and their faces were covered with masks. I saw your mother. She was in pain but her eyes were peaceful. I did not hear her screaming. All I could hear was a soothing melody I thought I'd heard a million times before. Then you came out, and I saw you. You were very small, but you opened your mouth and were ready to breathe. I came close and we breathed together. You cried. She took you to her chest. I left because my friends were waiting.

Hi. My name is Addae. I am still six and a half. You don't remember me but on the day I died, we breathed the same air together, and I became more than a part of you. I became you. I visited you every year ever since, and I still visit you with all the children who died with me that day, who still die every day, sleeping with flies, cradled by their mother's gentle emaciated arms. So please, don't forget me, my name is Addae, my name is Kisha, my name is Femi, my name is Idoko, but you can still call me Christopher, I am six and a half, I am you, I died on the day you were born.

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Thursday, November 09, 2006

Pictures of Fall (11)

The summer left the autumn leaves, orange and red, a memory of its sunset skies on summer eves.

Wednesday, November 08, 2006

Pictures of Fall (10)

To wash away the sadness, they jumped in the puddle to their death.

a happy birthday

A box with a knot and a picture inside, two pictures with a story inside, classic boxers to cheer me up, merino wool socks to keep me warm, a light olive green coffee mug to wake me up and calm me down, a bar of dark chocolate, a reason to smile, a card with a hoppy frog, six short letters for six long weeks, and a big warm heart that rarely speaks.

Thank you for turning around what could have been the saddest birthday of my life.

I love you forever.

Sunday, November 05, 2006

Eli Eli lama sabachthani....

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Hijo de la Luna

Hijo de la Luna
(son of the moon, Ana Jose Nacho, Mecano, 1998)

Saturday, November 04, 2006

I-40 to home

... Caution CAUTION if you can't see my mirrors I can't see you please STAY BACK stay back please if you can't see my mirrors I CAN'T SEE YOU please stay back please please STAY BACK caution please stay back caution CAUTION CAUTION I can't see you PLEASE STAY BACK please PLEASE stay back... stay back... CAUTION PLEASE... if you can't see my mirrors please stay back... caution... caution... I can't see you... I can't see you... please... stay back... please... please... PLEASE stay back... ... ... stay back... ... ... stay back... ... ... ...

Pictures of Fall (9)- themes from a fall moon

Lonely, one fall, one evening, I wanted to play ball
Found no ball, but above me, I found Moon of the fall
Moon was making a lantern, a bird's eye, with the trees
Bouncing on branches, resting, dancing with autumn breeze
I said Moon, please play with me, I'm but a lonely boy
We'll have much fun together, you'll be my favorite toy
Moon said kid, come and get me, I'd love to play with you
All life's a toy, and it's early, look, the sky is still blue
I reached up, grabbed it gently, and we started to play
I played with Moon for hours, maybe for the whole day
I said Moon, you have saved me, but it's time you went back
The stars are feeling lonely, and sky is turning black
Moon said, it's been so lovely, I hate to say goodbye
We will do this together, next time, up in the sky
I sent Moon up, and watched him, climbing back to his tree
Hoping that he will turn and quickly come back to me
He did not, I just stood there, and now I'm standing still
We haven't played since then but, I know, just like he told me
Up in the sky, we will

Moon is the eye of a crested bird

Moon is resting on a branch

Moon is making a lantern with the tree

Moon is coming back to me

Thursday, November 02, 2006

Pictures of Fall (8)

The fact that you stand out doesn't make you better. Or worse. It just makes you who you are.

Wednesday, November 01, 2006


I'm sitting in the backseat of my father's metallic grey 1972 Simca Chrysler, we're slowly going uphill and my parents are talking, but I can't understand a single word of what they say. Where are we going? we're going to Sannine habibeh. Are we still in Libnen? yes mama, alllll of this is Libnen.

All of it.

They smile. I squish my nose against the window, and I lick the glass. It tastes like vanilla ice cream. I lick it again, it tastes like ketchup. I take a deep breath, fog the glass, and quickly write my name with the tip of my nose. Look I wrote my name. Yes mama, wonderful. I know she can't read it, but I can. The fog slowly disappears and I watch the letters slowly fade into nothing. The mountain is very far behind the window, on the other side of the valley, and it's covered with snow.


I've never seen snow before. Will the snow still be there when we get there? yes mama it will. I don't believe her. I pray to the virgin mary that we will get there before it's dark, and before the snow is gone. I don't remember how long it took us to get there. I don't remember seeing the snow or touching it. I do remember that on our way back, the mountain was on my left, the window was cold, my parents were talking, and that was the happiest day of my life.

Pictures of Fall (7)


Trying to fit in.