l e i t m o t i f ( s )

bodo, with an o my keyboard doesn't have

noreply@blogger.com (رأفت) — Mon, 16 Jan 2012 11:41:00 +0000

eternalism is depressing. your face is depressing. i can't wait - daily - for you to touch your piano. i can't wait until you obliviously play my biography in segments - unpaused diarrhea.
time is depressing. your chase is depressing. warm, but depressing. as i rethink, all manifests as love letters - love letters i hate, elaborations of an indefinite fate to an imaginary you, a lover in my head. the natural inclinations of my fingers that either type or write. exclusive sways, intrusive clicks don't take me elsewhere, take me here. exclusive trajectories from illusive inhales to elusive exhales and you.

-who said that big bad wolves must not come close to my balls?
-shakespeare
-oh

Rotring Syndrome (RS)

noreply@blogger.com (رأفت) — Thu, 05 Jan 2012 12:30:00 +0000

{ text, in a bit }

{ bit, indefinite }

noreply@blogger.com (رأفت) — Tue, 03 Jan 2012 21:18:00 +0000

FETISH SYSTEMS REVIEW / KALIMAT MAGAZINE

noreply@blogger.com (رأفت) — Sat, 31 Dec 2011 02:53:00 +0000

FETISH SYSTEMS
reviewed by Karim Sultan for Kalimat Magazine
http://www.kalimatmagazine.com/

It was the writer Italo Calvino that suggested a writing that—rather than pointing at or recreating an object or character—envelops, surrounds like a fine mist. This
suggests their existence rather than attempts to simply recre- ate them, allowing the reader a measure of engagement and creation with the text. The writing in Fetish Systems, a new written work by multi-talented Lebanese author Raafat Majzoub, warrants this comparison. His bio alone which adorns this slim volume is merely suggestive: “he is trained as an architect, yet refuses the title – he is currently working on several construction projects, a few books, something that might be a painting, a table and would like this bio to end with an et cetera.”

“To live in Beirut, is to know that one must accept circumstance. We have become numb—all of us—numb—in a state of trance, where ‘elastic’ would describe our functional execution of our everyday...”

The work begins with curious jump-starts into a loosely shaped narrative that can be described as extremely subjective. There is no clear and formal introduction of characters or plot, but rather the text quickly makes it clear to the reader that this is more akin to the highly personal literary experiments of the past century than anything else. The language resembles somewhat the erotic poetic sketches of Georges Bataille, although more cohesive, more drawn out, but similar enough in near- destructive exploratory eroticism to draw the comparison. The fragmented flow of the narrative often times resembles poetry, with alliterative flurries of words provide rough outlines of occurrences that bring to mind a defective photography which only hints at shapes, colours and movement, with the Majzoub’s Beirut always vaguely in the background.

“It has become instinct to absorb, shock, absorb, trau- ma, react, trauma, shock, absorb shock. It is something, a trait that we contain—for so—we all are nothing...We claim that we have lost our identity, we claim the right to construct a holistic monotone remedy to unite us—to homogenize us.”

This work is certainly not for the casual reader; there is no quick drawing-up and resolution of characters and plot. Rather, this work has something intensely therapeutic, describ- ing personal relationships with mysterious “others” and places in intimate detail in a way that is, once again, acutely subjec- tive. One gets the impression that even the most innocent of exchanges between the narrator and a lover will show up on the page as darkly dissatisfied, anxious graspings for understanding and rejection of understanding, spiralling outward and inward simultaneously. Majzoub’s language, word choice, and cadence is curiously playful, vacillating within single sentences between the vulgar and the academic, sometimes with seeming deliberate focus on the rhythm and the sound of the passage rather than the written meaning, making it somehow visceral and physical and something that attempts to refuses rational deliberation.

“We are only afraid of our naked bodies in the mirror. We define our curves from our audience’s point of view, from their eyes, from between their eyelashes—so we struggle to title us, to make it easier for them to comprehend, easier for us to make them believe—for our actions and words—not the same.”

The success of Majzoub’s experiment is difficult to gauge. Yet as a text, the sustained formal and subjective effort makes this author one to keep an eye on in the coming years.

BUY THE BOOK HERE
http://tinyurl.com/7rqtbh3

2012

noreply@blogger.com (رأفت) — Fri, 30 Dec 2011 09:30:00 +0000

tomorrow, the phone lines will be out when i would have liked to use them. i probably won't call. ..i won't wish you things, but i'd like us to co-hope, that if 2012 is the last year we're having here - may the end be as dramatic, as cinematic, the sounds so furious and smells more glorious than they can ever possibly be. and if it's not the apocalypse..i would like us to co-hope for the same.

OFF TO THE RACES - LDR

noreply@blogger.com (رأفت) — Wed, 21 Dec 2011 08:18:00 +0000

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YwhiP1_mEyI

My old man is a bad man but I can't deny the way he holds my hand
And he grabs me he has me by my heart
He doesn't mind I have a Las Vegas past. He doesn't mind I have a LA crass way about me
He loves me with every beat of his cocaine heart

Swimming pool glimmering darling white bikini off with my red nail polish
Watch me in the swimming pool bright blue ripples. You sipping, sipping on your black Cristal, yeah

Light of my life, fire of my loins
Be a good baby do what I want
Light of my life, fire of my loins.
Gimme them gold coins. Gimme them coins.

And I'm off to the races. Cases of Bacardi chasers. Chasing me all over town.
Cuz he knows I'm wasted, facing time again in Rikers Island and I won't get out.
Because I'm crazy baby.
I need you to come here and save me.
I'm your little scarlet starlet singing in the garden. Kiss me on my open mouth.
Ready for you.

My old man is a tough man, but he got a soul as sweet as blood red jam.
And he shows me he knows me, every inch of my tar black soul.
He doesn't mind I have a flat, brokedown life.
In fact, he says he thinks it's why he might like about me, admires me,
The way I roll like a rolling stone.

Likes to watch me in the glass-room, bathroom, trapdoor mama, slippin' on my red dress, putting on my makeup.
Glass-room perfume, cognac lilac fumes. Says it feel like heaven to him.

Light of his life, fire of his loins.
Keep me forever, tell me you want me
Light of your life, fire of your loins.
Tell me you want me, gimme them coins.

And I'm off to the races, cases of Bacardi chasers.
Chasing me all over town.
Cuz he knows I'm wasted, facing time again in Rikers Island and I won't get out.
Because I'm crazy baby.
I need you to come here and save me.
I'm your little scarlet starlet singing in the garden
Kiss me on my open mouth.

Now I'm off to the races, laces, leather on my waist is tight and I am falling down
I can see your faces, shameless, Chiffioni's basement.
Love you but I'm going down.
God I'm so crazy, baby, I'm sorry that I'm misbehaving.
I'm your little harlot, starlet, Queen of Coney Island. Raising hell all over town.
Sorry 'bout it.

My old man is a thief and I'm going to stay and pray with him til' the end,
But I trust him, the decision of the Lord to watch over us.
Take him when he may if he may. I'm not afraid to say that I'd die without him.
Who else is going to put up with me this way? I need you I breathe you I'd never leave you.
They would rue the day I was alone without you
You're lying with your gold chain on, cigar hanging from your lips.
I said, Hun, you never looked so beautiful as you do now my man.

And we're off to the races, places. Ready, set, the gate is down and then we're going in
To Las Vegas, chaos, casino oasis. Honey it is time to spit.
Boy you're so crazy, baby
I love you forever, Not maybe
You are my one true love (x3)

TRIPOLI WINTER CULTURAL SEASON 2011/12

noreply@blogger.com (رأفت) — Sun, 20 Nov 2011 14:32:00 +0000

TRIPOLI FOUNDATION + FRIENDS OF NAWFAL PALACE

present

TRIPOLI WINTER CULTURAL SEASON 2011/12
at Nawfal Palace - Trablus ElTall

All events start at 5 PM onwards.

This year's season is dedicated to the late artist Mario Saba

two thousand eleven

NOV.25 A book signing of Fetish Systems by Raafat Majzoub and the release of issue one of ThePurple Haut-Parleur by +236m3

NOV.26 A book signing of Khabaya El Rouh by Roula Azzi

DEC. 02 An art exhibition by Friends of Tripoli Railway Station of artwork done by children at the event of the commemoration of the centenary of the station.

DEC.03 'Idle Remains', a musical gig by Liliane Chlela

DEC.09 A calligraphic illustration exhibition by Syed Tajammol Hussein titled 'Words of Gold'

DEC.16 'Folk Without a Cause' a musical gig by Kristen Hope and The Incompetents

DEC.17 Christmas carols and christmas things (hmm..)

two thousand twelve

JAN.07 A photography exhibition by Noor Fattal, Nour Kabbara and Jihad Samra

JAN.13 A book signing of C'etait il y a 20 ans: Beyrouth le centre... Aujourd'hui by Elias Khlat

JAN.14 A painting exhibition by Laurette El Halal

JAN.21 A painting exhibition by Raoul Mallat

JAN.27 A book signing by Hoda Bayassi

JAN.28 Recitals by Maan Zakaria

FEB.03 A book signing by Jeannot Haddad

FEB.04 A Painting exhibition by Ali Rifaii

FEB.10 Collective poetry reading by young poets.

FEB.11 Collective poetry reading by young poets.

FEB.17 A book signing by Mazen Zahreddine

FEB.18 A book signing by Sharif Majdalani

notes on being

NawfalPalace is closed on Sundays and on official holidays. It is open daily from 9 am to 5 pm.

For more information, contact:

NawfalPalace: 06 627848

Khaled Merheb: 03 317130

Elias Khlat: 03 227462

ThePurple Haut-Parleur || issue one Nov.25

noreply@blogger.com (رأفت) — Sat, 19 Nov 2011 09:52:00 +0000

debauchery. what i feel like? .. i feel like a group of people producing an immense amount of thinking, enough for them to sustain themselves with no need of external social reference. a group of people, capable enough to resolve, pseudo-intellectually, its mode of life, its being. a group of people that never say 'i agree' a group of people that make things, that like to listen to things, that like to think, that get high to stories by other people, the present tense, and wait eagerly -at cliffs- for the sunset.

(In The World)

noreply@blogger.com (رأفت) — Thu, 03 Nov 2011 17:04:00 +0000

you hold things. things you probably are not supposed to hold. carry, things you're better off without. but you do. you think. you think. you're not sure. but you do. you carry. you hold. and you write, as exorcism, as catharsis, as disposal, as bullshit - you do. you think. you think. you're not sure, you rethink as you repeat things you've already typed to sound more whimsical, more musical - and here you go, you do it again - easier to handle, to grasp, to understand, when broken into pieces. so you stop. so you halt. you think, rethink - both thinking and rethinking leading nowhere new, no new things to hold, no lighter things to carry. you write. you rewrite. and this girl in red hair wants you to make her feel like she's the only girl in the world, as if your shit isn't enough. aspirin. you jump and jump until your legs die. they die, you oblivious. it's probably a remix, but it's fine. eventually, later that night, you'll sleep.

LANA DEL WOW

noreply@blogger.com (رأفت) — Fri, 28 Oct 2011 11:11:00 +0000

question everything. close your ears when answered. read lips. make up music in head. smile.

noreply@blogger.com (رأفت) — Fri, 28 Oct 2011 11:05:00 +0000

how does one make place?

noreply@blogger.com (رأفت) — Mon, 24 Oct 2011 17:42:00 +0000

does one rely on context? does one hypothetically rip off fragments of space, re-cast re-mold re-create it as place, a more sensual rendition of its father-self?
or does one cater to space - space as context - space as clientelle

regardless, when the said place is made - if made - how do people come to that place? why do people come to it? how can that-place become this-place?

when does place overpower culture to an extent that it becomes a producer of it?
when does place leave physical constraints of context -

is place responsible to context?
how real is place that would precede context?
will context try to reclaim it's position over the fictive place?

how does one make place to start out with?

ossom

noreply@blogger.com (رأفت) — Mon, 24 Oct 2011 06:24:00 +0000

Belly Dance Act from Ahmad Sabbagh on Vimeo.

i love telling stories

noreply@blogger.com (رأفت) — Sun, 23 Oct 2011 22:09:00 +0000

and making stories up, and reshuffling stories, and lying. i love lying. but i'm always sincere. it is crucial to maintain sincerity when lying. the point is never deception. deception is for the weak at heart. the fictive is for those closer to the love of their mere existence. as you show them facts, they refract spokens into things not falsifiable by rhetoric. fuck it if my preference hinders your performance. fuck it if you think my preference tampers with your wealth of resource. i love telling stories and making stories up, and reshuffling stories mostly about myself. i hate it when you call them reflections. my stories are not reflections.

noreply@blogger.com (رأفت) — Thu, 20 Oct 2011 11:03:00 +0000

a little threat for tomorrow

noreply@blogger.com (رأفت) — Wed, 12 Oct 2011 11:40:00 +0000

ibrahim wrote this on my window, almost seven years ago. for seven years, i would look at this. i would sometimes smile, sometimes hate it - sometimes think he's nuts, it's nuts, we're nuts for believing it - sometimes. it would come and go, looking at the window - ideas, more ideas, most undone, most forgotten, but some done, some under construction and going-to-be-done, via the obsessive person that i am - tomorrow, very clearly, needs to be mine. for it's own's sake.
i'm nice.

Mr.Sehanoui | PhD. bilTaknolojya | Lebanese Internet

noreply@blogger.com (رأفت) — Tue, 04 Oct 2011 21:23:00 +0000

"fi ma7allet serveur baddo tekbeer..fi ma7allet router baddo router 7ad menno" -Mr.Sehnaoui's convincing argument to why the internet is still slow. ok. thanks.

Where do we go now?

noreply@blogger.com (رأفت) — Wed, 21 Sep 2011 09:37:00 +0000

i was taken to watch this film 2 days ago. the film is very very nice to say the least. i'm not in the mood to write a pompous review fluffing it up. i will just say this. do not buy it from armenia or syria for 1,000 LL or less. go to the movies and watch it. it is good. a very good film. and i liked it. i will stop typing because i can't help but do so like a 5 year old. it's a really nice film. go watch it. it's opening tomorrow (i think) in cinemas. go watch it. an interview and a trailer are at your disposal. click play and things. ok - i'll rewrite this later. in the meantime, watch it.
the film.

the interview

and the trailer

lebanon produces first 3D sharmouta in the arab world, rejoice

noreply@blogger.com (رأفت) — Wed, 21 Sep 2011 09:26:00 +0000

pomegranates

noreply@blogger.com (رأفت) — Fri, 16 Sep 2011 21:30:00 +0000

every now and then they raise you
between bedwaters and rain

but when you talk they shoot you

and like god you fade
from flesh to pains
fables in brains

[ رأ فت ] no more

noreply@blogger.com (رأفت) — Thu, 08 Sep 2011 20:54:00 +0000

Dear 'Friends'

Facebook is finally fed up with me. My [ رأ فت ] account has been disabled. This is not bad news. This is just news. I am still reachable on ThePurple Haut-Parleur

The crappy thing is that it was fun. My albums [most of them] are lost forever. We'll see.I doubt I'll sign up for another personal account.

Above is the picture that got me disabled. It's gorgeous. Facebook doesn't even know how to suck. Much love..

ThePurple

REMIX MASHROU3 LEILA

noreply@blogger.com (رأفت) — Mon, 05 Sep 2011 11:37:00 +0000

remix here was a verb, look:

Habibi,

I hope this message finds you inspired as always,

I will be visiting Amman in few days.

I have so many new stories to share with you and my friends; stories about Beirut, about a wife-to-be seeking marriage for economic stability, a melancholic revolutionary giving in to his society, and the lover of an irresponsible member of the city’s bourgeoisie.

I’ve been craving to see you for some time now. It’s been a while. I miss seeing you.

Hana malhas will be joining me at the Citadel [jabal al Qala’a] on Saturday September 10th and Zeid and the Wings on September 11th.

I cannot describe how excited I am to have you with me on these two nights. You can find out more details on:

http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=160362944036499

On another note, Wajih decided he wants an extreme makeover. You can download the master tracks for the song from our website’s download section [www.mashrou3leila.com]. Remix it, play with it, cut it, edit it, slow it down, make it faster – do whatever you want with it - be creative – and after you’re done, I want to hear it and share it with my frinds...

My sister asked about you today. I knew she was on to us. I told her everything. She misses you too.

El hal romancy, bas mish ghalat.

Leila

This is good news. Finally. Anyways..see you in Amman.

Raa

excerpt

noreply@blogger.com (رأفت) — Wed, 31 Aug 2011 22:35:00 +0000

"[...] I’ll be smoking a cigarette pretending I don’t care, so you make you more interesting, slowly more plastic as I regain interest – aesthetically.

I don’t know how things start.
It was a windy day by the sea in Beirut. I was playing with your hair before you bald. I was poking the foam off my cappuccino with your finger. You were pouring me some coffee before sunrise so I can write more about you. [...]"

Maria Shéhérazade Giudici *

noreply@blogger.com (رأفت) — Fri, 26 Aug 2011 09:40:00 +0000

a 'bright' new bleug*

noreply@blogger.com (رأفت) — Mon, 15 Aug 2011 12:54:00 +0000

"because the pictures were horrifying, we forgot our history"
- http://beirutnomad.tumblr.com/

بيروت

"from a warm-hearted beautiful land_a piece of magical heaven_so schezophrenic, so complex_ no one could ever understand_her sweet aroma and everlasting charm_ her perfume of cedar, wine, sea salt, trash, and forest pine_so tempting, so intimidating_her face, eaten up by bulldozers and monster steel cranes_ F16 birds singing over her endless skies_scanning, hunting, flashing__those trendy barbie dolls in high heels, tapping all night on her narrow street lanes_sipping her poison in red wine diamonds_ alien UFOs paying her a visit every now and then_ injecting her mass and soil_with fake flags, earth mines, and seeds of turmoil_Yet she keeps on shining with warmth, and eternal lust_ In Beirut, Everyday is a new day." - Beirut Nomad