Category Archives: Stories

I preferred anthologies as a child, collections of short stories versus one larger work. The ones listed here are my own, for someone else to maybe experience something different.

Train [Speed Poetry]

Fettered lights passed by from the train

unk cachunk cachunk cachunk cachunk

a man was standing up in the first car

standing up in the first car and walking

down the corridors holding on to the

railing

Tall man black clothes tall man heavy brow tall man fearful smile scared of something that was coming or something that was already there tall man reeling but with not drunk tall man with blood following his hands one hand on his chest

unk cachunk cachunk cachunk cachunk

Each scene from the window a new play

Lasting seconds only one car to the next

unk cachunk cachunk cachunk cachunk

Last car a woman was holding a gun pointed

outwards point outwards towards the man

Two am and the lights fettered on and off

as the train hit the railings blood smeared

on the walls a hooded black figure hugging

the man unk cachunk cachunk cachunk

His lips moved Tall man falling to the ground

unk cachunk cachunk cachunk cachunk

Woman bleeding now gun to the ground

Romeo and Juliet play Except by the choice

of one

 

I have to pity the person who is going clean up that mess

 

White wisps falling out of the body mists revealing no bodies but blood and the souls wavered for a second before they split ways It’s time for the tax collector to pass by and grab his due

 

unk cachunk cachunk cachunk cachunk.

The Search to Become and Stay a Native

The Search to Become and Stay a Native

Note: This is one of the essays I have written for AUB, and may very well be the last one written for the University itself.

 

The past four years in the American University of Beirut is an explanation on the differences found between here, and in the states. Prior to coming here, I was studying at the University of Massachusetts Amherst which doesn’t fluctuate much when it comes to the English use. But here is an all together different story, with three main languages weaving in and out of the discourse. While each of the courses remain primarily in English, you will find Arabic used in courses as an additional tool for translating information to students. Or for other courses with a French-heavy accent, the occasional use of French when a person becomes flustered with their speech. For a creative writing course, I remember a few years back seeing people introduce French words, a “Je ne sais pas” to explain their mood. And it would be passed, and nodded, as the student who wrote that came from a French schooling. But taking that in comparison to the states, where each student most likely has the same schooling as the next.

I’m speaking of French and Arabic here, but that doesn’t stop to say that no other languages are being used. Spanish, Portuguese, Russian, or Italian. And that does not mean that English itself is the sole language being used. In some classes, British English is primarily used, and in others American English. And sometimes both at the same time. Again, this is not to say that one is wrong and the other is right, but that the combination of languages here and how they borrow themselves with the English rules is akin to a different branch of English being accepted, a hybrid Lebanese English being born.

I was born and raised in the Bay Area of California. Both my parents spoke Arabic to me at home, but I always replied back in English. Technically, my first language was Arabic, but I have forgotten the rules and learned English instead. There were instances of when I was speaking to friends and I used Arabic words in my speech. An example I remember is talking to my friend about going to the pool to swim, and me telling him to not forget to bring his “mayo”. Mayo is Arabic for swimsuit, and after him saying what as a reply a few times, my mother interjected and said “he means swimsuit”. Later on I asked my father’s friends about the language they speak to each other, and they joking said “jonglish” for Jordanian English.

Growing up with this as the norm for the household, it developed problems for me until I began to distinguish the differences and correct myself before speaking. Yet it still sets me out as a foreigner, in my native California, or with the family located in Amman, Jordan. Things such as a heavy accent being developed, due to the pronunciation of Arabic syllables being combined with English letters, it became a prolonged journey where I sought out to find a culture that would accept my language without question.

A friend of mine suggested to me in Massachusetts that if I were to complete another major, that I would do it in Beirut, Lebanon. The explanation was that it was a mix of cultures, the Orient meeting Western and European influences. And it was here that I was not treated as a foreigner, but rather as a native due to my use of Arabic and English together. So what ended up clicking for me was the location, and communicating with my peers in my bastardized form of English. Though that brings back to the earlier point raised, that the mixture of languages and setting of Lebanon, or in specific Beirut, is important to creating a form of English that expresses the Lebanese identity.

The Lebanese identity based around language is affected primarily by the proficiency in languages spoken. The written literacy of language though is based around how the sounds of words are placed. Taking a walk around Hamra would support this argument, as you can see shops with signs such as “Suber” instead of “Super”. This is due to the lack of the “p” in Arabic, but in trying to set the word out in English, the second letter of the Arabic alphabet “ba” is used. In Jordan, an amendment was made to the language with a “p” introduced by creating a line with three dots underneath. This was done to translate English words to Arabic more fluidly.

So this is the end of four years in Lebanon, where I have been studying English Literature at AUB. When I speak to people about what I study, most people are shocked and reply with, “But you were in the States. Why didn’t you study that there?” The decision to study English Literature here is due to my experience with language. It has become more to study the other people taking the courses over the years, as a secondary focus. Each student would come in from a mix of French, Arabic, British or American English backgrounds, and how they each take part to interact with the texts. When it comes to the classroom utilization of English, there is a more-or-less unification of terminologies used. Jargon based on the family background is still used though. I remember being questioned on the validity of some words back in Freshman year here, and I was asked to explain the jargon terminology.

Outside of the classrooms though, especially with vocal literacy, the English usage breaks down as the grammatical rules are not followed per say. For instance, I have met several students who, coming from the French baccalaureate system, would use French grammatical rules with their English by accident. Or for the Jordanians, the English would be interjected into the Arabic as catch-phrases. These catch-phrases are commonly understood though. Some words would continue to be heard, for instance “bas” being used instead of “but”. Then there would be students like myself, who would use Arabic but based with English grammatical rules, and it would be understood as something native to Beirut. By being treated as a native in a foreign country, that is the single most beautiful thing I have ever experienced, and is the reason I have decided to stay in this country for a few more years.

Studying English Literature allowed me to see how the understanding of language changes between students, as it is not just the texts but also how the context changes here versus Massachusetts. The research hypothesis that I began with before coming to this country is coming close to fruition in this four year experiment and experience.

If the same English texts were to be read by a separate culture, then the perception of the context of the text would change because of the language, social-political, and grammatical background.

An example would be Edward S. Said’s “Orientalism”. I studied the text in Amherst 2008, with a classroom filled with American English speaking students. The war in Afghanistan was still present, the war in Iraq still in the process. That influenced the perception of the text, about the exotic land and became one of the books that my Marine friends would recommend to each other before being deployed.

Now reading that book a year ago again, but this time in Lebanon, the language base was mixed. The grammatical rules of how texts were understood are more varied. The political background of the French mandate is still present, with French remaining as one of the three languages commonly used here. The social background stems from that, and from the Westernization from Europe and the States. The text was taken differently by the two cultures. In America, it was popularized among my peers as one of the books you should read to get a better understanding of the Middle East. In Lebanon, it was taken as an example of how Western ideologies shaped the Middle East and how it could be reversed to make it their own.

That itself leads on to how the hybridization of the Lebanese English was most likely born. On the scale of language development though, this form of English can be said to still be towards the infancy. This is due to no rigid structure of grammar being placed that is shared with the vocal structure of the language. This ties in to the feeling of being a native due to how the mixture of Arabic, English and French is present without a clear cut rule. So in my case, my use of English pronounced Arabic, as well as the vocalization of some English terms with Arabic is seen as one of the many perceptions of the language use here. If the language rules were more defined though, then certainly that feeling of being a native would disappear. Thankfully at this stage they are not.

The languages used are not static, but ever changing to suit the social culture of a location. Earlier I mentioned about British and American English being used interchangeably in poems and essays. The word “colour” in one instance, and “motorcycle” in another. In Massachusetts, “take away” is called a “doggy bag”. From what I noticed, small colloquialisms are added up together to rules for the dialect. The dialect then is popularized and selected to become a language. So where does that leave me with the English Literature degree, when all is said and done?

Stories. Where the William Caxton solved the problem of the lack of a fixed form of English, I plan to be able to influence the hybridization of English in Lebanon by creating stories for games. Through hand-held applications the benefits outweigh the maluses. First off, it targets a larger audience than publishing a book, secondly it is more cost effective than printing hundreds of books, and thirdly if the game itself is popularized, then the language used can become a standard for the future in Lebanon. As to why though, the reason is entirely more selfish. It is to remain treated like a native, by creating the language rules based on my view of how Arabic, French, and English should be combined. In doing so, especially in a place where the rules are changing for the language use each day, I can influence the language itself to my liking. Audio cues, visual cues, the accent of the characters in the game, the method of speech, if Caxton was able to use this technology himself, would “The History of Troy” have influenced the accent we use today, and not just the rules for words? There is a lack of games targeted towards the Lebanese market itself, which raises the allure of being one of the first to create a distinctly Lebanese game based on English, Arabic, and French. And all this can be achieved for the desire to find and maintain a place where I am not called a foreigner. A place far from where I was born, and further from the place my roots are from. To find and maintain a place I can call home.

 

In the narrative, a few arguments were brought up regarding the orient and the hybridization of the English Language. Historically, California itself was named the great melting pot due to the amount of different cultures that are brought together post the Gold rush. Social occurrences such as the work camps with the Japanese during World War II intermixed the culture, with such things as Silicon Valley inviting entrepreneurs to live and work in the Bay Area.

For Lebanon, the country was under the French mandate until 1946, when France officially left Lebanon. After this, with the mixture of cultures and the civil war, a struggle to develop a Lebanese identity has been seen due to different religious groups. The reason this is brought up is in relationship to what has changed the protagonist over his years, and what is supporting the viability of helping to define the changes in language.

California can be argued to be at a latter stage of the hybridization of English in comparison to Lebanon. The stage is due to the massive influx of Mexicans to the south, which introduces the hybridization called “Spanglish”, in addition to the forms of English. This is due to the use of the two languages, English and Spanish primarily. Now in comparison to Lebanon, which has three main languages used, with a large variety of other languages due to the social-religious background, a main identity in terms of language is not concretely found. This is seen evident by the difference in spelling between Arabic, French, and English – through pronunciations and grammar. The protagonist pronounces on the diphtong that can be seen in Lebanon, which is then a necessary step on the formalization of the new version of English. By taking note of the grammatical rules for instance, it is important to come to the realization of the paradigms used in one language and set precedence to it in comparison to the other languages. This raises the issue of what language would be chosen to set the grammatical rules, but due to the argument against the orient it is best to select all three main languages instead of relying primarily on one.

In selecting the three languages, the grammatical rules would be placed on English, but for the ease of formalization between the languages the setting must insist on replacing words that are held more popular. For instance take the following phrase:

How are you baby?

And instead replace it with the Arabic phrase “habibti”, which is the endearing equivalent of baby to a the female:

How are you habibti?

With this, we can place the changes in the language form to fit the Arabic rules with the English ones. The sociolinguist Carver (1992) would argue on the similarities of this in comparison to the loanwords seen in the English language from the Native Americans. But this raises the importance that given the social-political climate of Lebanon, this has to become a true sharing of the cultures in question. So that would mean for the same amount of words that are placed into the context of the English language from Arabic and French, the same must be done to each of those with similar rules.

And there-in lies the problem. But to tie back to William Caxton’s solution with the printing press, he chose the best economic solution to his problem to release the best amount of sales, which overlapped in giving a cheaper solution to reading in comparison to other texts. With this, the protagonist’s point of creating games that can target a larger audience of impressionable children to adults would be a stronger bartering tool in the creation of a set language rule in comparison to others. Which as the end result would create change.

 

Works Referenced:

 

Carver, E.M. (1992) ‘The Mayflower to the Model-T: the development of American English’ in Machan, T.W. And Scott, C.T. (eds) English in its Social Contexts: Essays in historical Sociolinguistics, Oxford, Oxford University Press

Said, Edward W. Orientalism. New York: Pantheon, 1978. Print.

 

What if people told European history like they told Native American history?

What if people told European history like they told Native American history?.

Speed poetry part two

Kisses hide under unfettered words
Hugs aside, a yearn.

A wish fulfillment that will come
Come as it may and come and come

And as each smile rises to your face
A trinkle of a laughter breaks

To make another person smile is an amazing gift
To raise and give emotion for a small thing of bliss

Poetry exercise

Foreword: This is perhaps one of my favorite things to create poetry. The exercise itself is simple enough, you take a paragraph, and break it up. I will be using an interview of Jean Francois Lepage by Anita Zechender called, “Shaking the Soul” page 83, Image in Progress N. 3.

—————

“The photography of Jean-Francois Lepage, a genial artist and a Parisian, reproduced finite and decadent traits. Female souls are models in a world whose contours are drawn by the human pen. Paradoxical stage sets eho an elegant and sophisticated fashion, which shows its infinitesimal plasticity, capable of invading the eyes with matter and fabrics but of preparing the mind to the surreal. Lepage’s art is complex, as it transcends the world of fashion, touches upon graphics and painting, calls to mind cinema to finally reach the philosophy of existence.”

&

“The concept of woman as an inspirational muse, custodian of the mystery of seduction is abandoned in favor of transformist bodies, without sexuality, headless. “Avatars” that allow access to a mysterious Surreality, sinister and magic at time which is suggested as a possible safe haven. This are post-modern, unobvious images; they are subversive, nearly troublesome, never natural yet so fitting in all historical periods.”

—————

In order to create a collage out of it, I am also going to be introducing another paragraph as well to mix and match. One will be in bold, the underlying lines italicized, and the other plain.

————

1: reproduced finite and decadent traits. Female souls are models in a world contours are drawn by the human pen. Paradoxical echo sophisticated and elegant fashion infinitesimal plasticity invading the eyes with matter and fabrics preparing the mind to the surreal. Transcends upon graphics and painting reach philosophy of existence.

2: An inspiration muse, custodian of seduction in favor of the concept of woman without sexuality, headless. Access to a mysterious Surreality, which is suggested as sinister and magic, a possible safe haven. Post-modern, images, subversive never natural yet fitting in all historical periods.

————

Now that the key words that I want were selected, I will continue with mixing them together. As if it were a 10 by 10 poem, it should read together, yet become an understandable separate poem if split apart. It becomes a decadent assembly of words set together as a collage to form a new art – yet at the same time retains the original sensibilities.

————-

Finite and decadent        concept      reproduced

[by]female souls        ina           world[of]contours

are sinister         models      yet in a world drawn

by  inspiration  muse ofseduction thehuman

pen     SophisticatedSubversive      and elegant 

fashion    invadingtheeyes     with       a possible  

post-modern   safe/haven and      parado-

xical infinitesimal plasticity           preparing the

fitting          mind           all              tothegraphic

                 philosophy of existence.

—————–

And there we go.

I’m the one with the cigarettes

Lighting the third cigarette in a row

Lit it, smoke it, wash it away with small puffs of smoke.

In Arabic they say ishrab il cigara.

To drink it away.

A community of rebellion or being a man.

That’s the thing about smoking though, always found it to be something in particular for traveling. Travel here, travel there, always have a pack of friends but you know that friendship will last five ten minutes until you have another one. And then you become that obnoxious asshole that people stare at in disgust. But that’s fine. It is much better than to stand around doing nothing and waiting for life to take you away. Give a cigarette away to those who would like it. There was a girl at a bus stop who asked me for one. I looked at her and asked how old she was. A curt 16, and a “are you gonna gimme one or not”

Too young to smoke, too young to smoke, I told her she’s too young to smoke, and to get insulted then and there for judging and it’s not my place and stuff.

And to look at her with a grin, bringing up the third cigarette to my lips and say,

– I’m the one with the cigarettes.

Everyone has a story

Foreword: Something I found from a while ago. There was an assignment that I expanded on, and it became a free write from two, three years back? I should probably see about doing a reply to this myself, but that will come at the end of my four year stay in Lebanon. But reading over this, I can safely say that I have changed. The drinking for instance was cut down. My brother matured into a better adult. I matured more myself I would say. Well, maturity, being an adult for me is being able to turn that button called maturity on and off. So that it isn’t permanently on, and isn’t permanently off. Anyways, here we go.

 

Everyone has a story. That story can begin with a word, an action, something random, crazy, unbelievable yet true. Things that can happen when you open the door to Pandora’s box and let the craziness that you call life to overflow you and enter and welcome you and look and work and feel and everything. This is the life we hold, the life we have and everyone doesn’t pay attention to it, nobody looks and feels and acts accordingly. You have life that is the subject and people work day in and day out and act like nothing is off place, nothing is different, nothing is the way to move against or for life, that the world, and it’s entirety is a demon that cannot be given, you have to live in a closed box and seal the world away from you and live alone and tired and waiting for what? This isn’t the life that people should ask for, this isn’t the world that we dream and live for. The closed mindset that plagues and kills the lives of others. The ones that look down on the women, that makes them into sex objects, that plague and strive for us, we aren’t doing the right thing, we aren’t working for the right thing. We are not using this information and changing things. Instead we allow this world to continue to move on because most people are not willing to let things change. For a chance.

Everyone has a story. My story last night was I took my brother out for a few drinks. I haven’t seen him in a few years, and wanted to show him off to the world. We went and ate food at this restaurant, Lord of the Wings. Made fun of how the place lacked Gollum, that the employee of the month got a chicken ring, and how the waiter looked like he was going jump off the building in a few more months. We started drinking at five pm and finished drinking at four am. Fucking a that was… enough. Enough so that we couldn’t think of drinking another thing today. And the stories we can tell. The things that have happened. J—– picking my nose while I was talking to R—-, and the waitress, cute chick, looking outside through the window and going what the fuck, and me responding I don’t know. For a man that wanted to get laid so much, he cock-blocked himself like a charm. It was just us four, did I say there was four? Me, my brother and his friend, and my friend. We went to the same bar three times that night, moving back and forth, starting there, leaving to Mono, then Hamra, then back to mono, then to Gemmazy, then to the end of Gemmazy, then back to the main street of Gemmazy, then Mono. One long crazy fucking night that was beer filled and fun. Leaving the first time, there were a couple of chicks ahead of us, and I told my brother, he’s younger than me, mind: That chick has a very cute ass. They turned and laughed and got into the car – and he looked at me and said, I think they heard us. That was 5 pm. The nose picking incident was at 2:30? am. We wanted to go to Name this Bar, around 2-2:30 am, and decided against it, Standing outside and suddenly a finger goes into my nostril and digs about. I looked at J—–, and continued to talk in a straight face to my brother as if nothing has happened in the world. The waitress just stared at me and raised her hands up in question, as if going – what the bloody fuck – and I just shrugged. Straight face mind. There were a couple of really hot chicks, ahead of us, and they walked on the street to pass by, and J—– turned and started to follow them, and they turned, saw him and walked faster. Just had us cracking up to that, pointing our fingers to him and laughing. Or going to mono, and to Hole in the Wall, and talking about the “fight” I saw a long time ago, grown men ripping off their shirts to slap each other. Yes. To slap. Forget everything, but all that came was slap slap slap, slap slap, rip off shirt to reveal puny body, slap. We heard a fight, were excited and walked out, and all there was is just slaps.

Then came the other stories, and we went to Hamra, and I toured my little brother around, showing him off to the different people I know and such. Passed out fliers, still have a few with me, and just looked about, passing them around. It was a fun-fledged night, it had to be, 11 hours of almost non-stop drinking. Waking up though, that was a bitch. Go see if my brother is awake, he was sleeping, call our dad, tell him that everything is ok, that my brother is fine, go see my brother to get called a Bastard of a Brother, and that my brother didn’t get this drunk in a very long time. He cursed the Tabasco shots I gave him. A flat liner with white sambuka, tequila, and Tabasco. Extra, mind. Stories, stories, stories. Everyone has a story. Slowly as I tell you mine, you can understand me better. You can understand my laughs, my tears, my moments of insanity. This is my life, and this is how you can understand me.

And eventually, you can tell me yours so I can understand you too.

Everyone has a story. My story, your story, holds different connotations, different things, we can both talk about the same thing and the different things, my life, your life, the connotations hed in between, my life I do’t know. If you are going to talk to someone, the correct first thing to ask is, what is your story? That story, and afterwards. Everyone has a story, and some stories may be more interesting than others. Then you have that common persona, where they would create a story that they think is interesting, because they are afraid that their own life is not as interesting. This basic lie, the lie that isn’t needed. Why do that in reality? My life is not so simple. I moved from here to there, I had my share of loves, had my share of dreams, goals, ambitions, everything. What was taken away and what was moved past and what was held without and forever. So everyone has a story. Remember that, that story can come through a prose, a poem, a song, a tear. It is when you start remembering those tears, those moments of sadness. I loved you first. The moments, the tears, the ages of mystery, everything was explained in the first few moments. And all that remains are tears. The tears that lead to nothing, to sadness, to whispers, to dreams. I don’t know why, or how, or when, or what , or dreams. I really wish everything would stop, would move away, would leave me alone, and separate myself and the goals, and the world, and the tears, and the regret. Every looked at something and regretted something you’ve done? I’ve had how many had of the moments I’ve had, the moments and everything and I regretted my actions and I wished that I could have changed and dreamed and moved, and did something different and did something new and different and when I tried to save the world but failed, and in my head I would recreate this situation until I could defeat it and no longer regret it. I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know what happens next. I wish, well, I really do wish that a lot of things things I remembered, I looked at and remembered, and though of the regret I’ve done and wished I could have done better, or less, and did differently, and moved and done and wished, and moved, and prayed, but failed in praying for. My life was without religion, but it lacks completeness, just tears and more tears because I don’t know what is going to happen in the future. Just lies upon lies to myself, and so on. I wish I could know more, could understand more, could dream less and inhibit more, inhibit my.. everyone has a story

Speedwriting poetry

Foreword: Just like how you have people speed paint to generally become better artists, I prefer to speed write to create better prose and poetry in the long run.

Nature Poem:

Glorious rays of morning light burst forth from Father Sun’s crown as it peeks over the world’s edge,

announcing a bright and shining new dawn:

  • Mornings came as to nothing, just a continuity of the next day, movements, moments, times, the worlds of nothing and everything created but for what?

The sharp sound of a twig snapping echoes throughout the forest:

  • Movement, moments, times, the world moves on whether at a standstill and the life steps on the branches of the fallen and moves and moves and breathes and life is corroding for ever in this forest.

Tiny munching sounds drift up from the earth as a small shrubbery is sucked into the ground.

  • This forest, breathing living in a situational moment of a standstill and the life that steps on the branches that moves and moves in the movements, moments, times of the world.

A large shadow flits across the edge of the tree line for a bare instant, vanishing between the trees.

  • Nature is limited. Though everything can be of nature, the world is limited to reserves and branches and tree clumps. Movements, moments, times. The world will continue to move on, and nature and the animals will move their course. But life is unstopped and stopped and movement and life will continue with the continuity of the next day – Mornings came as to nothing. Nothing in a blink of an eye.

Place description Poem:

Almost completely concealed by creeping vines

an open shop in the corner of the garden has been

constructed

of dark wood that is slowly rotting away Precarious

shelves and tables that have been hastily repaired with nails and even rope

stand around the half-room

displaying the various wares that

being of a relatively high quality seem to be out of place in this

shabby

establishment The vines cover almost every surface

creeping up the walls and ceiling and even spreading out over the floor twisting around the table legs and up the sides of a counter at the far back

The rest of the garden is filled with thorny bushes and dark exotic flowers with dirt paths leading to the shop and to the larger portion of

the garden

that continues

to the northeast

Musician Playing:

She swept the viola between her breasts, bringing it up slowly, slowly – creeping so slowly upwards.

Nudging the chin rest above her shoulder, she stopped. Barely clothed, or bad eyesight would say, she would rest on the side and play and play.

Sounds came out of nothing. Beauty would come out of nothing. A gift as the bow swept the strings. Swept and struck and dripped and the sound would drip and sing and fall and the viola would cry and breathe to me.

  • It is an art of the musician, isn’t it? To bring life to instruments that the mudane would perceive as a tangible object, and believe that it would do nothing but remain as an object? That the life and love can be directed through? It is the art of the musician.

Sounds came out of nothing. Beauty would come out of nothing. How her fingers will press against the strings and drip and droop and how the bow will clash against the viola swept with innocent naked fingers and a drop of hair will drop and fall against the body of the viola. How crafted out of wood and the dreams of the listener would come out and play itself all at

the musician’s whim.

3×5 poem:

You left the cigarettes on the ashtray,

As you left home last night.

Is it a bad thing, that reason that you smoke?

It is sad, how when you leave,

All that I do is sit on the kitchen chair,

and breathe in that smoke you left in the air.

It is a way of feeling you there,

Your fingers dripping across my body.

Your scent, your scent falling across.

The cigarettes on the ashtray. How I hate you.

Home:

The mist would lift up after a few minutes of staring.

Clearing out the covering in front.

The military trucks and cars will still move past.

The kings and queens still moving past.

But I was stuck in my own kingdom.

Safe in my bed.

The blinds slightly open, safe in my world.

It feels like being a king somehow.

Safe in my democracy.

One for you and two for me.

The trucks still move outside of the walls, moving past

But for me, I am the king of my domain here,

At home.

anti-hero creation

Foreword: An attempt to create a new anti-hero for a series of paintings. Something set in 1900’s Jordan maybe.

 

A blade shined out of the darkness and stabbed him.

It quickly withdrew itself into the pitch black as he fell into

a defensive stance, his arms crossing over his chest, his

legs crouched in a fetal position. He tucked his head in upon

facing the darkness, as it would feel, as it would stop that

pain.

A rising light came to him. Surged from inside a the

corse and pushed away that darkness and surged with

power, surged with light. The darkness receeded, waiting

for the light to lose its’ grandeur. And like a sick joke, when

the flare wavered, it stabbed him again.

and again.

He stood against the tide, trying to summon that light

again. Tried to protect himself, tried to defend. But that

darkness continued. A one-sided fight that would soon

cease to exist.

There came two options. Protect himself with what was

already trapped within him, or push the world away again. He

held his breath, staring at the darkness ahead. It already

affected him, stocked against his body, poisoned his core. A

shake of his head was all that it took before he drew the line

and cut off the worlds’ darkness away from him. Keeping himself

safe, he created a wall that separates his own blood to the world.

But that darkness within him reminded that folly of pushing away

the world, as the moment he releases that gust, it will return tenfold.

It reminded himself of that pain.

An explanation of Icarus

Two years ago, in what would have been between the sophomore and junior year at AUB, I wanted to try to create a set of pieces that reflect on the seedier, darker side of Beirut. That is Icarus.

The pieces each cover a different aspect, but follow a loosely similar protagonist. I’ll be discussing some of the prose poems, the ones that I feel should be explained, but not all.

The first piece, Foreword, it goes over the disease that is seen with Beirut through an introduction. The spillage seen comes from the use of masks, the masks though is seen again in every city, or group of people. In this sense, when administering literary works it becomes poisoned and tainted into a new form of though.

This tainting is followed through with steps, which focus on the observer. The observer himself stands apart from the rest of the world, and can only watch but not act no matter how much he or she or it desires to. This is to follow the fictional protagonist, which was based off a real child. One of the things about studying abroad for a long period of time, is that you tend to notice things that others would ignore as a part of their lives. There was this one child, who I watched grow up over a four period time, into a young man. I watched his older brother, for instance, take up smoking despite us telling him not to. To him then leaving to Syria when the conflict began and coming back jaded. You would become familiar with the children that run about, eventually the “Please” and “Thank you” that you taught them when receiving food leading on to better forms of politeness.

But that leads to the beggar. One thing that you tend to notice is about the hierarchy of beggars. You have some that sit on the side of the road, doing nothing but counting their bills and herding the children to them. You have others that will beg but get picked up by a son in a Mercedes, or drive off in a taxi to pick up drugs from a pharmacy. Same routine each day. The children would build families together, but don’t look kindly on foreigners at the same time. One time a child came up to me and asked if I saw his “brother”. It turned out that an American couple took him to the states, and then brought him back to Beirut a year later only for him to run away. And the children agreed that if they see the “kidnappers” as they put it, they will kill them.

But then there are things such as tourists coming in, and being shocked by the children walking around begging for money. It’s an organized crime, with the women walking around with two year old children that are either drugged up or drunk, begging for money as the child’s head goes limp. And if the child dies, you will see that woman walking around with a different child the next day. But where it is a culture shock for some, for the children walking around it has become a part of their daily life.

Icarus follows the fictional character as an introduction. The children are bought off their parents in different locations. The most common reason is because there are too many mouths to feed, and not enough money. This way the children would be able to help out with the family situation.

Price is based off how I perceive the sexual culture here in Lebanon. You would have married men cheating, as part of the playboy culture, and at first the anger would be directed at the woman – actions and force. Then the anger itself would be directed at the spouse, ignoring the root of the problem. And what is that root? I don’t know, nor do I want to find out.

Corroded Conscious  is a gamble to describe how the faces of the children look when you look at them in a distance, with the world passing by them on the street and how sometimes they are caught between it. No attempt to interact, but just looking lost with the society ignoring them.