abufares said...the world according to a tartoussi

Perched On My Rock

abufares@abufares.net (abufares) — Mon, 02 Nov 2009 19:42:00 +0000

My mother told me that on the night I was born a storm of freakish magnitude hit Tartous putting the fear of god in the hearts of her people. The little town was ravaged by torrential rains and strong gales. The power went down and all hell broke loose. Psychotic lightening raped the sky with lunatic vehemence, quavered then climaxed in deafening rolls of thunder. Tormented shutters flapped on hinges in agony and moaned. The wind howled in between the alleys chasing genies deep into their holes. Rain drummed on tin roofs in a sadistic crescendo. Thunder bellowed threatening to disgorge the earth beneath. The sea pounded the beach a hundred meters from the room with a view to the sea, spitting its froth on the window. It roared above them all with deafening anger: “Be quiet!”, then I cried.

As a toddler I sat all day in my playpen on the balcony facing the sea. That was the only way to keep me content, my mother's bedtime story went on. Browsing old black and white photographs, I see myself swimming by the age of four. I have no recollection of my first steps nor of my earliest plunge. I do know, however, that the passage of years did not change me in the least. I still run away from it all and stare at the sea with an insatiable hunger and a profound thirst. Even in the dead of winter, when only a fool with a lantern roams the beach, I am there perched on my rock.

One thing about Tartous which made it different from all the landlocked cities I lived in is the expanse of her horizon. I remember an early trip to Damascus when my mother and father were traveling abroad and had to leave me at my grandparents'. I searched for the horizon but could not find it and I was afraid. How did they live within walls of mortar and shadows and not suffocate? Where did they escape to when their world closed in? There was no salt in the air to breathe. They did not sweat nor feel the caressing fingers of a westerly breeze cooling their bereaved souls. No sail carried their cravings to foreign lands. No ship horn wailed in the dark of night filling their minds with vocal scenes. Did they ever dream while they slept or did they barely live, fearless of getting lost at sea?

I have counted my days and ways by the ensuing tides, my spirit rising and falling with the imminent swell. I spread my wings and soared with the seagulls above. I let go, drifting, till I turned into a far-flung spec then disappeared. Time, being left without me, panicked. It gathered its hours and minutes and scurried beyond the mountains to the east, waiting for me to reappear.

I fell in a waterspout, morphing with the distant ripples. By dawn, they made it as breakers to shore. I climbed on my rock, naked and strong. I filled my lungs with mist and walked the desolation. The cowardly time, finding courage in my return and eager to please, asked me when I wanted to go.

I slumped in my bed, where I was born in my home by the sea. My nightly voyage left me invigorated and alive. I shut my eyes not to sleep but to see you closer. And I did.

Upside Down

abufares@abufares.net (abufares) — Fri, 23 Oct 2009 10:13:00 +0000

It's been much longer than I wanted to. I haven't been able to read as much as I'd like, to ride my motorcycle on a twisted mountain road, to walk by the sea or to sit down in the privacy of my own thoughts and blog. Working for a living is the most overrated human activity. To take pride in what we do is acceptable but to surrender our identities to our careers is so pitifully vain. I honor what I do but what I do doesn't add or take away anything from what I truly am. Since my last business trip, work has been pressing parasitically on my personal space. I work for a living that's true but I need to eventually take a firm stand and not allow a job, any job, to turn my life upside down.

And this brings us to the recipe I chose to share with you today: Ma'loubeh or Upside Down is a Levantine eggplant dish. I often post about local recipes in their most basic form for a purpose. I want you, the reader, to be able to acquire, prepare and cook the dish without hassle. This is exactly the case with my Upside Down since there are so many more elaborate variations to this basic theme.

I must confess that as a child I was not a fan of eggplants at all. In fact, I'm not really that fond of them even today. However, I have changed my attitude to not eating something because I don't like to eating it and appreciating the fact that I have food on my table while many people are hungry around the world. You might be wondering why am I swaying left and right when all I intend to write about ultimately is a recipe. I guess this is my own way of getting in the mood for blogging again. I'm wetting my toes before I dive in and shiver in the briskly cool waters of November.

If you're into eggplants (as food or in some other twisted and kinky way) Ma'loubeh will turn you upside down. I wonder why they don't call it 69? Come to think of it, it's equally appropriate:-)

Ingredients:
2 cups rice - (long grain)
400 g ground beef or minced lamb
1 kg round eggplants - cut in slices (1” thick)
1 small onion – diced
Salt, pepper and spices as per preference (for the meat and rice)
1 cube chicken broth
1 tablespoon butter
1 tablespoon vegetable oil

Preparation:

Mix the meat and onions in a frying pan over medium heat until golden brown
Separately heat the eggplants in a large pan on both sides (10 minutes each) in the oven (high) then remove and wait for the pan to cool a little so you don't burn your hands. Uuuhhh, if you're the gorgeous woman I have in mind let me kiss that burn for you. If you're a man and happen to burn your hand, stick it somewhere then get back to cooking (don't forget to wash it first)
Arrange the eggplants side by side and in layers if needed with the meat and onions
Add 2 ½ cups water and 1 cube of chicken broth. Wrap in aluminum foil completely and return to oven for 20 minutes
Remove and collect the sauce in a small pot
In the same frying pan we used for the meat and onions, heat the butter then stir in the rice for a few minutes before throwing it in the sauce to cook (normal way of cooking rice)
Bring in a new pot (its shape will determine the final look of the dish) and spread the eggplants, meat and onions at the bottom. Top with 1/3 the quantity of cooked rice then another layer of the remaining eggplants, meat and onions then the rest of the rice
Place the serving glassware on top of the pot and turn Upside Down to get the dish ready for the table
Enjoy with salted plain yogurt on the side (add some garlic for great taste)

Sahha W Hana

Amal Hayati

abufares@abufares.net (abufares) — Mon, 12 Oct 2009 10:21:00 +0000

I was out with the guys last night. We laughed and bellowed. We bickered and fought. We ate and drank then we listened to Om Kalthoum.
Amal Hayati (Hope of My Life) 1965, lyrics by Ahmad Shafik Kamel (1919-2008), music by Mohamad Abdul Wahab (1900-1991).
I can only translate, to the best of my ability, most of this magnificent love poem and hope that somehow you get to enjoy the voice, the music and the timeless words.
For you are, Amal Hayati.

Hope of my life,
My endless love
The most beautiful song
My heart has heard
Take my life, all of it
Just let me be
With you only today
In the lap of your heart
Let me dream
Never to wake up again

My Hope, my life, my eyes
You're more precious than myself
My Habibi of yesterday
And now my Habibi
And then till the end of time, Habibi
Tell me…
What harbor am I missing,
When I'm in your arms
I've never known so much protection
Such as yours
I've never loved my life Habibi
Except for you
I faced my hopes, I faced the world
I faced love
The first time I met you and gave you my heart
You're the life in my heart
More happiness than this I can't take
More than what I have I don't need
After being with you
I wouldn't mind to die

It's enough for me
To wake up hearing your lips whisper
A song
Oh my never-ending love
In the lap of your heart
Let me dream
Never to wake up again
My love for you
has filled the whole world with adoration
When we're together it's just hard
To blink en eye
Even for a second
I can't not see you
I can't not be blessed by you
That's how much I miss you
That's how I long for you
I wish I could find a word
No one had used before
A word as vast as my love
A word as huge as my cravings and my passion
A word like you
If there's such a word
For there's no way on earth
To create anything else like you
In the lap of your heart
Let me dream
Never to wake up again

October Rain

abufares@abufares.net (abufares) — Wed, 07 Oct 2009 16:21:00 +0000

Nightly wind puffs
From the mountains swirled
Carrying sickly leaves
Far to the sea
A moist breeze stirred the chalky branches
Under the dolorous stare of a meeker sun
Old Summer wheezed its last breath
Mercy-killed by an October cloudburst
At long last
Rain washed the dusty roads
Cleansed taint souls
Brought the life back to me
A forlorn survivor
Of dog days melting in potholes
Burdens of happiness gone
Less dispirited but longing still
For a downpour to sweep me away
To carry me to a place
I only knew in dreams
to make me whole, to paint me green

By my window a world goes by
Young mothers with babies stroll
Their potbellied men buying groceries
Teenagers smoking addiction
Lean on cars
Lovers running out of space
Watched by solemn eyes
People stuck in stranded schooners
Tilting to starboard, capsizing
Drunk drivers, intoxicated by chimeras
Of heaven and hell
Growing beards, wearing robes
Beautiful women covering up
mentally raped to submission
Generations turning bitter
Shaming us with heavy guilt
A smile gone from the face of a child
Raised to obey not to question
To live in the shadow of fear
Suffocating his original urges
Bringing them to their knees
Giving up, letting go
Too early of his dream

It is October
My month to draw Arak and
Store the wine in barrels
I walk by the sea in a cool zephyr blown
Through the lips of enchanting mermaids
Their faces, their long hair and pink nipples
Disappearing then appearing
Through the oily surface of my sea
By the outcrop of rocks at the end
of the desert road I sit
my heart leaping away catching
A loose rope trailing a steaming ship
Mind soaring with seagulls high above
I fear for them what they trust
For they cannot see what I see
Beyond this place I have grown
Further than the end of time
Way above what they are
What they will ever be
I am flying I am free

Hymens For Sale

abufares@abufares.net (abufares) — Thu, 01 Oct 2009 05:32:00 +0000

It might come as a surprise to many but hymens are not unique to the human species. Due to similar biological evolution many female mammals, including chimpanzees, elephants and whales retained theirs as well. And no, there is no embedded wisdom or ultimate truth behind the existence of hymens more than their functional role of preventing infections in young females from external sources. There is as much intended purpose behind a hymen as there is in the persistent presence of the appendix in humans in general and nipples in men in particular. That dealt with and out of the way let us address this very interesting and hot topic (might be wet and messy as well).

I first read about artificial virginity on my favorite blog Suffonsifisms written by Isobel . Global Voices' own Hisham also linked to the same subject written in French by the Moroccan Blogger Mounir. In her post titled Artificial Virginity then in Furthermore…as if it wasn’t bad enough, Isobel addressed the subject matter with understandable dismay. She realizes of course that in many paternal societies the dominant males have conspired, due to their own mental impotency, against women and degraded this fold of mucus membrane to the same low level as their fecal honor. She is much nicer than me though and more restrained. The hymen per say is a worthless remnant of less hygienic times. It's a dirty little bugger at best but certainly cleaner than the minds of men who obsessed over the right of women to have an active premarital sexual life. In false pretense they will argue that men too should abstain from having sex outside wedlock. However, since they have impenetrable hymens covering their brains they truly believe that there is a divine message here. Accordingly, a man's sin might go unnoticed and forgivable eventually but not that of a woman. “شرف البنت زي عود الكبريت ما يولعش الا مرة واحدة” A girl's honor is like a matchstick. It can only burn once. When a girl ruptures her hymen she becomes fair game for the chimps in her family or tribe. Executing her to preserve their honor still goes on in many parts of the Middle East (and elsewhere) in what is miserably known as Honor Killing.

I am neither advocating nor opposing premarital sex. It is simply nobody's goddamn business. What a man or woman chooses to do with his or her own body is entirely up to them. Screw traditions, morals and customs on a collective basis. They matter to you, very well instill them in your own children. When they become adults they have the right to choose whether they want to remain chaste and pure till they get married or not. Your moral role as parent, father be it or mother, ends when your children reach adulthood. More importantly, you and I have no right to condemn the sexual behavior of others. We see something we do not like, we can shut up and mind our own boxers or undies.

A man's honor deserves better than to hide inside the underwear of women. As to this clever new $15 Chinese device and which is primarily used to emulate virginity so that an idiot of a man never finds out whether "his" woman had her “cherry popped” or not before him I only have this to say: such archaic cultural apes deserve nothing more, nothing less, than an artificial hymen to make them feel like real men. I am glad to add that it is already on sale in Syria.

Xie Xie Zhong Guo, “Thank You China”. I cannot wait for your next invention, an artificial brain in the shape of a dildo. Perhaps this leading Egyptian scholar can stick it up where the sun never shines and dies of an orgasmic fit.

Nights in Copenhagen

abufares@abufares.net (abufares) — Tue, 29 Sep 2009 08:35:00 +0000

Once I was young and green I had a one night stand with the city of Copenhagen and this is where my plane landed last week. Twelve hours after I closed my front door in Tartous I found myself sliding the plastic key in the door slot of a hotel room in the center of Copenhagen. She and I acted like total strangers and did not recognize each other at all. I was exhausted as I dragged myself to the shower. I stood there in the corner, my hands touching the dark tiles, my forehead pressed firmly to the wall. Hot water cascaded down my body washing away the dirt and grime but not the craving and longing. I made it to bed, to the welcoming embrace of the white sheets wrapping my body. I gave up in total surrender, I truly needed to sleep.

At exactly midnight the sky over Copenhagen was ripped apart by a succession of explosions. From behind foggy eyes and a blind mind I cussed under my breath. What a fuckin' time and place to start WWIII. I'm gonna die in the arms of a foreign city even before we had a chance to make love. The celebration faded out and the fireworks ended. Locals and strangers left the streets and jumped in beds in pairs or alone. There might've been a few who found solace in an orgy judging from the hyaenic laughter echoing in the night. Why not, enjoy it lads while it lasts.

I couldn't sleep! I witnessed the dark of night being slaughtered by daylight and found myself walking at eight o'clock in the morning with the herds of the corporate world. Like cardinals convening to elect a new pope, doors were closed shut behind us for a twelve-hour meeting. Sandwiches were brought in as if they were contraband narcotics. We ate in silence and haste. In between the bottles of soft drinks and water, fresh juices and milk I spotted a solitary bottle of wine. Was it brought in by mistake or did my guardian angel have pity on me. The last five hours went by almost painlessly. I truly needed to drink.

I wasn't the only one in that bad a shape. A few of my comrades felt the same. We joined forces and raided the hotel bar for a nightcap. Little did we know that we would stay there deep in time. So deep in fact I didn't quite see the feasibility of shutting my eyes for an hour or two before the next start of a business day. So I went on, walking the same street as the day before at eight o'clock in the morning, crossing the Tivoli Gardens and climbing the stairs of the historic building, turned convention center. We convened again behind closed doors; Copenhagen on the other side of the window remained a mysterious woman, untouched, unloved by me and by thousands of walking zombies in the world of business.

The day ended just like the previous one. I was giddy from the bottle of white wine I found again and hungry for the food I couldn't touch. The same bunch of desperate men walked the cobble stoned streets seeking a bite and a drink. We found ourselves in MASH, Copenhagen's finest steakhouse where the night was young and a river of Australian wine freely flowed. We satiated our carnivore genes with giant pieces of scrumptious meat and gulped the red intoxicating elixir. The talk was engaging. Who would've thought that a bunch of suits and ties would consume the night with banter about the meaning of life instead of spreadsheets and presentations? Alas, we work like beasts of burden for five days a week to squeeze our lives into an infinitesimal ball of joy and watch it go up in flame on a Saturday. Then like God, we rest on the Seventh, dreading the coming week, and the one behind, then the one after.

Less than two hours into slumber the alarm went off. It's time to down another cup of coffee in the lobby downstairs then to take a taxi to the airport. Twelve hours later I was turning the key in my door lock in Tartous. I let the water washes away the dirt and grime, the craving and longing remained untouchable. I threw myself in bed and lost consciousness. It was raining when I woke up.

“How was Copenhagen,” my kids asked?

“I really don't know. I never saw her.”

During my insomniac time in Copenhagen, I listened to Nights in White Satin. From the distant past (1967), here are the Moody Blues.

Nights in white satin, never reaching the end,
Letters I've written, never meaning to send.
Beauty I'd always missed with these eyes before.
Just what the truth is, I can't say anymore.

'Cos I love you, yes I love you, oh how I love you.

Gazing at people, some hand in hand,
Just what I'm going through they can't understand.
Some try to tell me, thoughts they cannot defend,
Just what you want to be, you will be in the end.

And I love you, yes I love you,
Oh how I love you, oh how I love you.

Nights in white satin, never reaching the end,
Letters I've written, never meaning to send.
Beauty I've always missed, with these eyes before.
Just what the truth is, I can't say anymore.

'Cos I love you, yes I love you,
Oh how I love you, oh how I love you.
'Cos I love you, yes I love you,
Oh how I love you, oh how I love you.

Breath deep
The gathering gloom
Watch lights fade
From every room
Bedsitter people
Look back and lament
Another day's useless
Energy spent

Impassioned lovers
Wrestle as one
Lonely man cries for love
And has none
New mother picks up
And suckles her son
Senior citizens
Wish they were young

Cold hearted orb
That rules the night
Removes the colours
From our sight
Red is gray and
Yellow white
But we decide
Which is right
And
Which is an Illusion

Different Minds, Different Soups

abufares@abufares.net (abufares) — Fri, 18 Sep 2009 13:14:00 +0000

We should wash our hands, but most importantly our hearts, before we sit around the table together. The holy month is nearing its end and a post about my two favorite Ramadan soups is in order. As varied as we are in Syria, as different as we are as bloggers, there are so many soups to enjoy none of which is right or wrong. We're a passionate crowd, us Levantines, and we are known to pick fights with our own shadows when we can't find someone to disagree with.

Yet the disparity of opinions should never degrade to a personal conflict. In the free future most of us aspire to no one should set rules for the others to follow. We might as well stay as we are if we don't have it in us to embrace all the colors of the rainbow. Neither I nor whoever disagrees with me have the correct answer. My proven science and their divine text mean so much to each of us respectively but might signify nothing to a third person. It's not a matter of numbers or of a majority and minorities. If we truly aspire to be free we have to defend the freedom of those at odds with us first.

I leave you with the double-recipe for Lentil and Red Soups. Over the last month I've rarely strayed from either one or the other on the Iftar table. They are prepared differently, they look different, they taste different, but both are authentic Syrian cuisine and come with plenty of meat:-)

Ah and on a final note... I wish you all a Happy Eid Fitr. I wish I could've enjoyed it here at home but it so happens that I'm traveling over the holidays to a new land. Hopefully, I'll come back with a story.

Lentil Soup

Lentils 2 cups (cleaned and rinsed in cold water)
Short grain rice ½ cup (cleaned and rinsed in cold water)
Ground beef or minced lamb 200g rolled into small balls ½ “ in diameter
1 small onion (diced)
Chicken broth 1 small cube
Butter 1 tablespoon
Salt 1 tablespoon (or per taste)
Cumin ½ teaspoon
Black pepper ½ teaspoon

-Bring salted lentils and rice to boil in 4 cups of water – Keep uncovered over medium-high for 30 minutes.
-Pour into manual food masher (with the water) and mash them so they come out the bottom, well... well-mashed.
-Separately fry the diced onion in some butter until light brown.
-Separately fry the meat balls in the rest of the butter until brown.
Add the well-mashed lentils and rice mix to the fried onion and meat balls, top them with 2 cups of hot water.
Sprinkle with cumin and black pepper and a (cut into small pieces) cube of chicken broth. Bring to a boil, reduce heat to medium-low and keep for 30 minutes.

Serve and enjoy Ummmm

Red Soup

Ground beef or minced lamb 200g rolled into small balls ½ “ in diameter
Vermicelli 1 cup
Tomato paste 2 tablespoons
Chicken broth 1 cube
Salt 1 tablespoon (or per taste)
Black pepper ½ teaspoon

-Fry the balls of meat in butter until golden brown. Remove replace with vermicelli and heat until red.
-Separately bring 5 cups of water to boil then add meat balls, vermicelli, chicken broth, tomato paste. Stir for a while then leave over medium-low heat for 30 minutes.
*Be very careful not to add cold water to the vermicelli because it will go crazy and turn Afro.

Sahha wa Hana

Blogging Week Against Anal Orifices أسبوع التدوين ضد البخاويش

abufares@abufares.net (abufares) — Fri, 11 Sep 2009 21:38:00 +0000

A few of us Anglophone Syrian bloggers decided at long last to catch up with our Arabophone brethren and start a week of blogging against something. Except that we couldn't agree on what we collectively hate. You see we are neither organized nor do we have an agenda for days to come. We're just a bunch of casual and unceremonious guys and gals (almost all of us but not quite, looool) who couldn't jointly come up with one idea for our week. The best we could muster is for each to declare his or her own war against their own demons.

I chose to attack Chauvinistic Vainglorious Hypocrite Puritan Prudes (AKA Assholes)

1.There are men who think they are inherently better than women by virtue of their sex. I don't like them.

2.There are men who walk a step ahead of women believing it's only normal due to their twisted sense of morality or their sick understanding of modesty. I don't like them.

3.There are men who discuss the attire of women. How they should or shouldn't dress. What they ought to cover and what they are allowed to reveal. I don't like them.

4.There are men who boss women around and who strongly believe its their god given right to do so. I don't like them.

5.There are men who hide the names of their mothers, sisters and wives as if it's shameful and dishonorable for the names of “their” women to be revealed. I don't like them.

6.There are men ashamed of their own bodies and who consider the body of “their” women as their own property. I don't like them.

7.There are men who want to change us all to fit their own idea of right and wrong. I don't like them.

8.There are men who see in black and white, in shades of gray at best. I don't like them.

9.There are men who are convinced they are always right, no matter what. I don't like them.

10.There are women who agree with these assholes. I really hate them.

Participating Blogs:

Ana Sourie Blogging Week Against the Consumption of all Beans

اسبوع التدوين ضد استهلاك الحمص والفول

Levantine Dreamhouse Blogging Against Fossilized Thinking

التدوين ضد التفكير المتحجر

Dubai Jazz A Week of Blogging Against Tribalism

اسبوع التدوين السوري ضد القبلية

Tajreed Blogging Week Against Hypocrisy

Ral Blogging Against Narcissistic Personality Disorder

التدوين ضد اضطراب الشخصية النرجسية

On Olive and Sake Blogging Week for Moral decay

اسبوع التدوين للإنحلال الأخلاقي

Syrian to the Bone Blogging Week Against Assholes

Suffonsifisms Blogging Against the Production, Release and Circulation of Hot Air

My Chaos Blogging Week Against the Inferior Looks to Stray Cats

اسبوع التدوين ضد النظرات الدونية للقطط الشاردة

Spanking the monkey and Beating the Beaver

abufares@abufares.net (abufares) — Sat, 05 Sep 2009 14:27:00 +0000

Earlier this Ramadan I promised myself and my Habibati Readers to stick to recipes till the end of the lunar month. Until yesterday I was well on my track to keeping my word. Oh OK, I sneaked in “When I Need You” last week but it was a spur of the moment thing. I just felt like dancing that's all. If you find it in yourselves to forgive me keep reading. Otherwise, you might as well stop and doodle your noodle or air your orchid instead. This post, for all practical purposes, was supposed to be a soup double header. I intended to describe and explain the recipes for two of my favorite bowls, Lentil and Red Soups. However, extraordinary circumstances call for extraordinary measures. After conferring with Abu Kareem we decided that I'd better address the pressing matter of masturbation in Syria first.

Apparently our Syrian youth is obsessed with playing with itself. If we are to believe what an authority on the matter wrote a few days ago on his Arabic blog (boy are we lucky that the new enlightened herd is sticking to Arabic) jerking off has reached unprecedented levels in the country. Boys are unable to concentrate on their studies and are looking very pale before prematurely ejaculating and losing consciousness in schools. Their balls are blue and sore as hell and when they sneeze or cough they are allegedly pissing in their pants. They are falling on their backs after bleeding to death from their weenies. Those who don't die on the spot and once they get married are preferring to take matters in their own hands instead of in between their partners' legs. And, yes brothers and sisters, girls, Lord Have Mercy on us all, are doing this despicable, blinding and atrocious act secretly without the written consent of their male pimp, sorry chimp. They, someone hold me please before I pass out, are losing their virginity to their fingers out of wedlock.

Local doctors are at a total loss. They have classified the masturbation frenzy as epidemic, endemic and pandemic (all at once). According to one informed source who has confided in me after recently returning from a trip to Syria (the new enlightened herd very much likes using this phrase or something similar) the bathroom is the most likely crime scene for these psychotically sick and abnormal boys and girls. While unsuspecting parents are watching Bab El Hara, the boys are spanking their monkeys and the girls are beating their beavers.

Now that you have a better idea about some of the content of the enlightened herd's agenda why don't you join me in promoting a Week of Blogging Against...

Let's all use the comment section to reach a consensus. We, the bad guys and gals (the Ze3ran) of the Syrian Blogsphere and our regular guests need to initiate our own Week Against Something. All ideas are welcome and the stupider the better. This is activism at its best. How about a few days of lobbying before we start our valiant attempt at draining this septic pool of stink and shit. Let's move ahead, forge our destiny and join forces together in beating our meats or around the bushes to reach an unprecedented Syrian Orgasm against absurdity, hypocrisy and sanctimony. I leave it literally in your hands ya Mala3een.

When I Need You

abufares@abufares.net (abufares) — Sun, 30 Aug 2009 14:28:00 +0000

In the summer of 1977 shortly after my National Bacalaureat exam I attended my first dancing party in Tartous. These were extremely rare events in my little town by the sea back then. Boys and girls went to single-sex schools like the rest of Syria with the exception of a handful of private ones in Damascus and Aleppo perhaps. Not many years later that had come to change and by the early 80's of the 20th century Tartous implemented co-ed in all of its public schools and remains today the only Governorate in the country without any single-sex learning institution. We've sure moved way ahead of the pack and we're proud of our mindset here on the coast. In fact, despite the relentless waves of marauding Wahabi Islamists pouring over our shores, we Tartoussis, in our majority, stand in defiance to the dull and lifeless coveys desaturating the kaleidoscopic social fabric of Syria not through confrontation but rather by clinging to our traditional Mediterranean way of life. We still master the art of taking it easy and the rest certainement à la tizi.

That night, I asked the prettiest girl in the party to dance with me to what is perhaps one of the greatest love songs ever, When I Need You by Leo Sayer. The song went on that year to top the charts on both sides of the Atlantic (the UK Singles Chart and the US Billboard Hot 100).

Last night, thirty two years after that dance, a breeze blew from the west cooling down the lingering heat of the day. There were folks walking by, young lovers holding hands and this tartoussi riding his bicycle on the corniche late in the evening. I was enjoying the silence and engrossed in my private thoughts when I decided to listen to some music. I picked a List I call “Soft” on my iPhone and drifted with the tantalizing flow of easy listening songs. The mood was ripe for a daydream (eveningdream is more like it) and right in the middle of it, When I Need You came along.

To lovers all over, this one for you. To the woman who's more me than myself... May I have this dance my Princess?

When I need you
I just close my eyes and I'm with you
And all that I so want to give you
It's only a heartbeat away

When I need love
I hold out my hands and I touch love
I never knew there was so much love
Keeping me warm night and day

Miles and miles of empty space in between us
The telephone can't take the place of your smile
But you know I wont be traveling forever
It's cold out, but hold out, and do I like I do
When I need you
I just close my eyes and I'm with you
And all that I so wanna give you babe
Its only a heartbeat away

Its not easy when the road is your driver
Honey that's a heavy load that we bear
But you know I won't be traveling a lifetime
It's cold out but hold out and do like I do
Oh, I need you

When I need love
I hold out my hands and I touch love
I never knew there was so much love
Keeping me warm night and day

When I need you
I just close my eyes
And you're right here by my side
Keeping me warm night and day

I just hold out my hands
I just hold out my hand
And I'm with you darling
Yes, I'm with you darling
All I wanna give you
It's only a heartbeat away
Oh I need you darling

Writers: Albert Hammond & Carol Bayer Sager

Jijeh Mehshieh (Stuffed Chicken a la Tortosa)

abufares@abufares.net (abufares) — Wed, 26 Aug 2009 13:41:00 +0000

This post is dedicated to Katia (I promise you a more romantic one, loool)

I have settled adequately into my Ramadan routine. It's really simple come to think of it, minimum talk and/or contact with the rest of the human race, that's all I ask for. At work, I hate talking on the phone or having to hear office chitchat. You know I'd rather be left alone. I don't like smiling or being agreeable. Well I pretty much hate everything in the morning. Later on in the day, I can close the door, be by myself and relieve the rest of the world of my grumpiness. You got the idea didn't you? I'm not much fun in Ramadan so just …. The phone rang for the hundredth time. Ohhh, I'm really mad now...

"HELLO."
It was my son, “Hi dad, I have a good recipe for your blog.”
“What is it Fares?” I asked, restraining myself from being too opprobrious.
He loitered with his words, “Mum is stuffing a chicken and I'm helping out. Do you want me to take pictures?”
"Sure why not,” I wanted to hang up, “is that all?” My mouth gaped in a rictus of annoyance and dudgeon.
“No there's Fatteh too”, he said unnecessarily.
I was on the brink of desperation, “no I meant do you want something else before we hang up.”
“Ahhh not really, although it would be nice seeing that big smirk on your face now. Bye dad!!!” He hung up.

Oh damn it, I really didn't want to smile. It's so out of my character at this hour of the day in Ramadan. But here it is anyway, Jijeh Mehshieh (Stuffed Chicken a la Tortosa), all photos taken by Fares.

Ingredients:
1 whole naked chicken
200g ground beef
1 cup long grain rice
1 onion
2 garlic cloves
1 tablespoon vegetable oil
1 teaspoon salt (or per taste)
2 cinnamon sticks
½ teaspoon black pepper
½ mixed spices (whatever)
½ cinnamon powder
½ oregano
2 laurel leaves

Preparation:
-Heat oil in pot and stir the ground beef until golden brown then add the rice. Continue stirring for a minute or two before adding 1 cup of water. Cook rice covered over low heat. Remove when almost done.
-Rub the chicken inside out with the salt, herbs and spices and stick the cut garlic in there. It's easy to get kinky with chicken so watch what you're doing and respect the dead please.

-Stuff her with meat/rice making sure not to over pack.
-Stitch the ungodly hole with needle and thread then place into a large pot and add water to cover ¾ of the body. It's a good time to throw in the onion, cinnamon sticks and the laurel leaves. Bring to boil and keep on medium heat for 30 minutes.

-Remove then place in a pan with 2 cups of the broth. Wrap completely (chicken and pan) with aluminum foil and shove it in the oven for 45 minutes (175ºC). Remove foil and leave in oven for another 15 minutes to give the chicken a lovely suntan (or oventan, hahaha: wicked laugh).
-What remains of the broth could be used as sauce or converted into chicken soup (it's very good by the way).
-Present with more cooked rice (in this case the additional rice was prepared with some saffron to give it the golden yellowish hue).
-Enjoy the Jijeh (chicken) at its best.

Bon Appétit

Jijeh is Tartoussi for Jahjeh (Damascus), Djedjeh (Aleppo), Dajaja (the rest of the Arab world with the exception of Egypt where it's called Ferkha).

Shakrieh

abufares@abufares.net (abufares) — Sun, 23 Aug 2009 19:53:00 +0000

It is customary in Syria to have a white main dish on the first Iftar table of Ramadan. This might be true of other neighboring countries but I cannot claim what I do not know. White for many cultures is considered as a good and auspicious color and as thus has no religious significance whatsoever. Of course in Levantine Cuisine a white meal could only mean that a dish is prepared and cooked in Yogurt Sauce. As far back as I can remember we always had Shakrieh on Ramadan 1st. It' is one of my all-time favorite dishes especially since I'm biased anyway to anything cooked in yogurt. Shakrieh is a year round Syrian recipe and is not unique to Ramadan.

Here it is, in very simple steps, Shakrieh in its most basic form, the Tartoussi way.

Ingredients:

1 kg lamb chunks (Mozat)
3 large onions cut in rings
6 to 8 cups plain yogurt
1 tablespoon cornstarch
1 egg
1 teaspoon Salt
2 sticks Cinnamon
1 tablespoon Vegetable oil
Water

1 cup of Rice or Burghul (cooked the usual way on the side)

Preparation:

-Heat the salted lamb chunks and onion rings in a large frying pan with the oil. Stir well with a wooden spatula for 5 minutes.

-Bring 4 cups of water in a pot to a boil. Add the lamb chunks, onion rings and cinnamon sticks. Cook over medium-high for one hour. Save the broth.

-Separately bring 6 to 8 cups of plain yogurt, cornstarch and raw egg to boil over medium-high making sure to stir slowly but constantly (non-stop otherwise the sauce is ruined) until it starts boiling. Reduce heat to low and add the lamb chunks and the tender onions plus one cup of the broth to the yogurt. Cook uncovered for 10 minutes.

-Cook the rice (or burghul) with 1 cup of broth (or more) as usual.

-The Shakrieh and the rice (or burghul) are served side by side in individual plates but presented separately on the table.

Simply delicious!

Ramadan Karim

abufares@abufares.net (abufares) — Tue, 18 Aug 2009 08:59:00 +0000

It will be extremely difficult for those who judge a book by its cover to understand my relationship with Ramadan. For interested readers they can always find more about "Ramadan according to a tartoussi" here and specifically here. I have already posted 14 times about it so obviously it must carry certain significance to me. Perhaps most interesting in our unique relationship is that first, I feel the passage of time with the advent of this synodic (lunar) month and second, I have in a way succeeded, on the personal level, to humanize the mystic aura of the experience.

My intention is to write recipes and food related posts on my blog for the next 30 days or so. I might, of course, change my mind at any time but it would be a good idea to sit back, enjoy and talk about food. While getting in the mood allow me please to wish each and everyone of you a Ramadan Karim. You know how Christmas is Merry and Easter is Happy! Well Ramadan is Generous (Karim).

I hope we work on eradicating the disparity between the rich and poor so that the wealthy don't feel that they are doing the needy a favor with their alms.

I hope we become free to live the way we choose to and liberate our minds from the vice of judging others.

I hope we believe in ourselves enough not to wait for miracles to happen but instead work out butts off to make viable wonders come true.

I hope we come to terms with reality, cherish the physical world and see the inherent beauty of the universe with wonderment and joy not in awe and fear. ex nihilo nihil fit.

I hope we never lose the impulse to learn, the will to travel and the urge to discover the unknown.

I hope we reach the point when no one believes that it's worth dying or killing for a cause.

I hope that no man has to toil for bread, no child sleeps unfed and no woman is coerced in bed.

Ramadan Karim

Changes

abufares@abufares.net (abufares) — Sun, 09 Aug 2009 15:31:00 +0000

We grow and change. Only the dead-inside and morons don't modify their paths on a journey we had never chosen to take. I am amazed by how much I've altered my perception of my environment and myself since I started sharing my trivial and significant thoughts through writing on an open blog. The last three years have been more pivotal, from an intellectual point of view, than the concerted outcome of almost three decades of adulthood. I have come to terms with the sentient being within and finally accepted matters and issues I struggled to resolve for the greatest part of my past. I was shy, timid and scared to release myself from the claws of indoctrinated teachings, imprinted mores and unchallenged truths. My liberation at last has been my most memorable and satisfying achievement.

In February of this year I came to the realization that I've been consuming my life for the wrong reasons. Consuming, not living, since that's what I think I've been doing for the most part. You know how it is when people decide to stop or start doing something on the occasion of their birthday or the new year. Well, I'm not that kind of man. I never made any resolution and accordingly the positive changes that have permeated my existence since were not planned at all. I looked at myself in the mirror and thought I could do better with my body. I'm eating healthier and putting my muscles to use in a manner that is enjoyable to me. For four months I would start my morning by a forty minute bicycle ride by the sea. My meaningful immersion in music died in the 1980's and I changed that too. I plugged my iPhone and reintroduced myself to old and new tunes. My morning ride became my favorite part of the day. With the advent of July, however, riding a bicycle in Tartous becomes more of an ordeal and less of a pleasure. I'm very uncomfortable in the heat but the positive effects of daily exercise were too apparent to ignore. I put the treadmill that has been laying there like a piece of furniture to good use too. I have to admit that I don't enjoy exercising indoors per say but I've found a way to cheat my brain into accepting this temporary inconvenience. Every day I follow an episode of my all-time favorite TV Series M*A*S*H* on DVD while sweating my butt off. I'm sleeping much better. I'm drinking my beer when I feel like it and enjoying it a whole lot more. I'm looking good (well that's a debatable point) and I've lost 11 kg in the process. I was a chubby 88 kg on my birthday at the end of February and I'm an attractive 77 kg now (again that point is open to contention). In a way I'm a late bloomer. I've just come of age, thirty years too late perhaps, but at least I've shed my inherited shell. I am free.

There's always a downfall though, a catch of a sort. Taking off the ragged robes of social conformity and mental subservience will eventually bring a confrontation with others. By and large I've always been the type who avoids direct hostilities with those I disagree with. But at the same time I can't go along anymore with certain “established” practices. It hurts to keep quiet when bigots and fanatics preach and gesticulate. Whether I want to or not, I'm being drawn into retaliation at least in the form of the written word. Almudawen (Syrian Blogs Community) has just announced the First Annual Competition of Almudawen for the Best Syrian Blogs. This is a commendable effort on their part if it's indeed intended to honor outstanding Syrian blogs, encourage and support a blogging culture and expose the role of blogs in the making and shaping of a civil society in Syria. However, if you read the 5th and last condition for blogs to be accepted in the competition, this is what you'll find (translated word by word): the contents of which [the submitted blog] must not dissent from the accepted mores and morals (i.e. sex through videos or photos, hostility to religions, cussing, swearing and bad taste). Do I take it that it is acceptable for a blog to attack trans-dressers but not Sheikhs and priests? Or, for the sake of argument, is a photo of a random cloud in the sky in the shape of an eye and a comment underneath that this is the eye of God acceptable but not another photo of a woman's perfect behind with the apt remark that this butt is an elegant example of the splendor of creation (if we're so inclined to believe)? I know and very much like two out of the five honorable judges and I'm surprised that they have accepted this sanctimonious condition. In fact I'm certain that they did not. Who in the hell then decided that bloggers/people who are interested in sex, hostile to religion and use the word FUCK casually cannot contribute to the making and shaping of a civil society in Syria? What kind of change are we to expect from an infant blogging movement already enslaved by bigotry and intolerance?

I hope it doesn't take this younger generation as long as it took mine to realize that religious tyranny is as bad, if not worse than political dictatorship. Civil society, my ass.

Immediately after I published this post yesterday, Yazan commented then deleted his own comment. He had no prior knowledge about the 5th and final condition of the competition, he wrote to me privately. However, he wanted to resolve the matter with the guys at Almudawen. He wrote earlier today and informed met that Almudawen has removed this shameful clause and came to their senses (under pressure from Yazan no doubt). I'm glad to hear that he will post about the whole matter on his blog later today as well.

Thank you abu fares for bringing up the issue in such a gracious way, as always!
I've posted, something of a clarification, and a response, here:
http://yazanbadran.com/blog/2009/08/in-good-faith/

August

abufares@abufares.net (abufares) — Sun, 02 Aug 2009 14:40:00 +0000

August wears me down. It always had. It always will. This year I have been dreading the month long before it knocked on my door.

It's not often that I'm home alone. But in a time when everybody needs a little vacation I had no option but to stay behind. Kids, more so than the rest of us, must grow up loving August. There would come the day eventually when the burdens of life will make them change their minds. The telephone cried in the quiet room.

-Heard you're alone!
-I am.
-What do you say we share a drink and be alone together...

I picked a shirt in the dark, slipped into a pair of jeans then drove toward the sea. I rolled the windows down and opened the sunroof. No air was coming in. Tartous closed on me as the whole world was too tight around the neck. There was a long line of parked cars on the boulevard as I brought mine into an empty spot. What were they thinking about, these ungodly machines? I stepped down, pushing a button on the key chain and crossed the street pweep, pweep into heavy silence.

Underneath the 900 years old vaulted ceiling men and women sat behind tables. Oblivious to being, they stared at walls, imaginary and real. What makes us believe we're that different from the cars parked outside? Waiting, isn't that what we're all doing?

In desperation we draw the last card, the company of others. We hugged, tapped shoulders then slumped into padded chairs, men tired of the long summer.

Ah my Beloved, fill the Cup that clears
Today of past Regrets and future Fears:
Tomorrow! Why, tomorrow I may be
Myself with Yesterday's Sev'n thousand Years.*

The bleak day turned brighter with the flow of the amber Scotch. My heart sighed while the welcomed numbness took over. My thirsty soul gasped with glee. Talk followed echoing through the valleys of the minds. I fancied a Scottish fairy tiptoeing toward me. She came to a stop and knelt by my side, took my hand in hers, kissed the tip of my fingers then brought the back of my hand to her cheek and whispered in my ear, you'll be alright my...

The chagrined notes of a solitary Oud drifted in the air then a sweet voice rose from the dungeons of a tormented soul. My fairy smiled down at me, repressing a solitary tear at the corner of each eye. She ruffled my short hair then vanished in thin air.

Gayyeen li'ddunia ma na'raf leh
wla rayheen fen wala Ayzeen eh
Mashaweer marsouma l'khatawina
Nimshiha b'ghorbet layalina
Yom Tifarrahna wi yom tigrahna
W'ehna wala ehna arfeen leh
W'zayeh ma guina.. guina
W'mesh b'edena guina**

We came... we don't know why
Where we're going to or what for
Paths drawn for our feet to tread
We follow them estranged in the dark of night
Paths of joy one day then of deep hurt tomorrow
We still don't know why
But we came
We never chose to but anyway we came

-Come on man … don't lose me.
-Cheers!
-Cheers YOU.

*From Rubaiyat Omar Khayyam (1048-1123), translation by Edward FitzGerald (1809-1883)

** Min Gher Leh Mohamad Abdul Wahab (1907-1991), performed by Taher Mustafa

Dowload Min Gheir Leh

Paradise

abufares@abufares.net (abufares) — Fri, 24 Jul 2009 18:29:00 +0000

This post is dedicated to my friend JGM, Kassak Habibi

A little before midnight my buddy called and asked me if I could join him on a short hop to Zgharta, Lebanon in the morning. He wanted to visit a friend recovering in the hospital. We might grab a bite to eat if you want to, he said, Ehden is not that far away.

I haven't been to Lebanon since October of last year. I feel terrible how a fucking barrier blocks my freedom to cross the “border” between here and there. What a bunch of idiots on both sides. What filth, hypocrisy, shortsightedness and bigotry make me wait in line to be in one of my favorite locations on the planet, a mere hour and a half drive away.

Ehden's Paradise is the number one restaurant in the world serving Mezza and Middle Eastern Cuisine. I'm not an idiot to accept the words Lebanese or Syrian Mezza. I have evolved far too much to be such a Levantine Chimp. There's no place on earth where every bite you swallow, every sip you gulp, every breath you take is as good as it is in this northern Lebanese village. Paradise has been my favorite hideaway since the first time I set foot in Ehden, well over twenty years ago.

We made it in the late afternoon to Paradise. The wide terrace seats a comfortable thousand hungry patrons but it was almost deserted. There were far more waiters milling around like busy bees than there were people sitting behind tables and eating. We were greeted near the entrance by the maître d' who assured us that we would still get the best food and service despite our late arrival. What was it all about, I asked. This is one of the biggest nights in Ehden, he said, Sabah Fakhri is here for his annual one-night appearance.

For those readers who don't know who Sabah Fakhri is and in order to make it easier for them to comprehend and grasp the importance of the event, this is a man who is considered by over 200 millions of Arabs as Our Pavarotti. Well, wait, I need to elaborate further. Pavarotti, rest his soul, was one of the greatest of all times no doubt, but he could have found a cozy place to sit in his heydays in the shadow of our 76 year old veteran singer. Sabah Fakhri is the greatest performer alive. In 1968 he sang for 10 hours without a pause in Caracas, Venezuela to the adulation of thousands of expatriate fans. This world record remains unbroken.

The evening was sold out, of course, weeks ahead. We consumed the heavenly Mezza slowly and deliberately. No Kass of Arak could taste remotely close to the way it tastes in Ehden. In the late heat of this July afternoon all around the Mediterranean, the cool air at 1,500 m altitude took us to another reality. This is indeed how Paradise would be like one day when we bite the dust and are sent by default there. There is no man on the face of this earth as good as me, I mused, content in the knowledge that someday, this could all be mine forever. A renewed and spirited hubbub behind caught my ear then my eye. The owner and the staff were greeting someone very special who, just like us, had come fashionably late for lunch. It was none other than Mr. and Mrs. Fakhri who had just checked in in their hotel and came for a quick bite to eat. They were accompanied by a Tartoussi guy we knew. As they walked close by, our friend waved hello and said to the old man: “These guys came from Tartous to see you tonight”. We had to stand and shake hands with the legend. He expressed his happiness and gratitude for our taking the trouble to attend his performance. When our friend knew that we didn't even have a reservation he fixed it in an instant. You will join me on Sabah's table, he assured us, as he hurried and joined the superstar.

I only had what clothes I was wearing. Not a toothbrush! Not even another pair of boxers to change into. Yet we managed to buy the essentials, find a great room in a hotel nearby and took a long nap before the endless night ahead. I was only missing one thing. I needed to call someone, as my day and night, my whole life past or ahead of me wouldn't be what it was meant to be if I hadn't done that. When I reluctantly hung up, my smile was larger than my face. I knew that it'll be a night to remember.

How can I explain what Tarab is to non-Levantines and North Africans? It's almost a futile attempt since Arabic is the only language with the right vocabulary to convey this state of mind. Sabah Fakhri is the master of Tarab without any shadow of a doubt. As thus let me try to make a fool of myself and fumble with an attempt to explain.

كل البنات نجوم وانت قمرهم
All the girls are stars and you...
Their moon you are

Tarab is a state of musical rapture. The lyrics, the music and the voice conspire together to put the listener in a unique mood of oriental sensuality and worship, lust and spirituality, seduction and chastity. Tarab is when you reach a mental point where everything around you is beautiful. The plate of fresh fruits on the table with drops of dew forming on the grapes and melons, the dark of night and the velvety flow of wine down your body, the numbness of complete sensory satisfaction, the touch of the wind on your cheek, the swaying ass of the girl dancing nearby, her erect nipples, the perfume on her belly in your nose, memories of love making, a mental orgasm, a voice from within,... floating in a womb of pleasure, your long scream at last with an uncontrollable Ahhhhhhhhhh, this is Tarab.

In the Paradise of Ehden, Sabah Fakhri brought us, all one thousand and one of us, into a land of one thousand and one Arabian nights for five consecutive hours (1:30AM till 6:30AM).

خمرة الحب اسقنيها، هم قلبي انسنيه
عيشة لا حب فيها جدول لا ماء فيه

The wine of love let me drink
Burdens of hearts let's forget
A life we live void of love
Devoid of water, a barren creek

I woke up at nine o'clock and headed back, across the fucking barrier to Tartous. On my way around the park in the late evening I was suddenly assaulted by the taste of fruits on my tongue, the long shadows of the night and the stream of wine gushing in my soul, the stupefaction, the caress of a breeze on my skin, a beautiful woman's butt, her breasts, the smell of her tummy, my going in, my inescapable climax, my own voice inside the tunnel, my last scream..... Ahhhhhhhhhh, Paradise.

Sea Side

abufares@abufares.net (abufares) — Wed, 22 Jul 2009 10:28:00 +0000

Ah, Abu Fares, truth be told, I have not been your way in a very long time. With this piece I was pulling on memories of the distant past as well as some accounts from friends. I would be so happy to travel there one of these days and I would definitely let you know if I was going to be there. I needed a little vacation…so I took one in my mind to one of the prettiest areas of Syria.
Is it going to be another G&A? Well, Abu Fares, I have a proposal for you. How would you like to collaborate on a fictional tale that reflects life in the area – continuing from where I left off? I don’t know of anyone better to write about this beautiful part of the country. It might be kind of exciting to see what we can come up with. What do you say? I would hate to be presumptuous, but I think our readers might enjoy it.

Mariyah (responding to my comment on her post Sea Side)

Over a period of eight months, from October 2008 till June 2009, Mariyah mixed fiction with fact and romance with resilience to create faultless white, bronze, gold and black pearls and wore them in a string around her supple neck. She then sprayed the exquisite beads with the perfume of her boundless imagination and conjured the most endearing fairy-tale on the Syrian Blogsphere, The Story of Ghassan & Alexandra.

Anyone who knows me well enough surely realizes that I'm not the romantic type, or so I would like to believe. But as my hair becomes whiter and thinner, my mind and soul get younger and greener. When I read Mariyah's first chapter of her new work Sea Side and after she invited me to co-write it with her I can't but express my absolute delight and elation. I am honored dearest Mariyah and I look forward an entertaining and sweeping flow of a spontaneous plot. As we follow our uncharted storyline we will be startling each other even before we surprise our readers.

Sea Side will appear in alternating episodes written by Mariyah and Abufares on Mariyah's Blog. She has already started the journey with a breathtaking introduction which had captivated me at least and made my heart leap with joy at her offer. I invite you all to join us there for an undetermined stretch of time. Ahhhh, the never ending stories by the sea… by Mariyah's side.

The Dinghy

abufares@abufares.net (abufares) — Sun, 12 Jul 2009 16:20:00 +0000

By sunset, I approached the rocky outcrop that defined the northern end of the long stretch of sandy beach. To cross to the other side one had no choice but to wade through the water. I always sat there on a large rock, never venturing further, before I retraced my steps. I was wearing a faded pair of jeans, rolled. My white T-Shirt, I tied around my head and my shoes, I hung over my shoulder. The sea came in shyly and kissed my toes. It filled in my footsteps behind as soon as they were formed, obliterating them from existence, erasing them forever from the memory of the sand. I was restless in the summer heat and I had no place I wanted to be at. Driven by the inanity of being I moved forward in the water. The only scent I crave as much as that of a woman is the scent of the salt on my skin. My arms and shoulders were glistening with my perspiration and the sweat of the sea. I breathed in the intoxicating redolence and dreamed of a hammock underneath a palm tree. The sun reached for the horizon, touched it then took a dip.

(http://www.artanglia.com/index.php)

I came out on the other side to a strange landscape. I've been coming, almost, here for years but had never taken the final wet steps. How poor we live and die when we abide by the rules, when we accept random limits thrown our way by total strangers or by fate itself. It was a more desolate shoreline, forebodingly marred with reefs and shoals yet tranquil beyond the power of words. Not far from where I stood an olden dinghy was lying on its side, almost dead of neglect, cracked but not broken. Nothing makes me sadder than a stranded boat on dry land and as I approached the motionless craft a shiver ran through my spine. I caressed the ailing wood and sat down by its side. A tear ran down my cheek burning its path as it fell on a pebble and fizzled. I climbed in, the dry timber threatening to collapse underneath my foot with every step I made. I found my way to the only space to admit my full length, slumped down, closed my eyes and stretched, as fragile and vulnerable as the shell I chose to shelter me for the night.

The feeble sough grew closer and louder. Then it stopped. I felt the tender lust of a long and hungry kiss rather than heard it. I opened my eyes but didn't move. I didn't dare even breathe. They were mere inches away. They sat with their back to the decrepit boat and talked in hushed voices. Despite all, no one had ever loved a woman like he did. She cried and leaned her head on his shoulder. Except for the faint murmurs from of the sea, their low whispers and the soft susurrus of their love making absolute silence wrapped me completely with its blanket. There was only sky above them and me. The moonless night left no shadows. He cried too. She held his face in her little hands, reached for his lips with hers and inhaled his pain for him. He ran his fingers through her hair and promised her the moon and the stars, one day. He nibbled at her ear, ran down her neck, reached for her shoulder, made a turn upfront, traced her collarbone, went up her throat, climbed to her chin then bit on her lower lip. I heard her chest heaving and felt her nipples harden as he took them one after the other in his mouth. I love you till the last day of my life, someone moaned as she took his body weight on top of hers, as she took him deep inside. I love you more, someone screamed, their voice carried in the wind reaching as far as my ear but not further. They wept and laughed, then a more raucous silence than I've ever heard. Will you be here tomorrow? I don't know, I really don't, will you? I hope so my darling. I'm floating on the passage of time taking me where I never imagined. Let's go my love, it's getting late.

I was alone when I woke up. I don't remember when I slept or when did they leave. I raised my body slowly and sensed the approach of dawn. I stood up and took a long look at the dinghy I chose to make my own. Tomorrow I'll be back with sanding paper and paint. I reluctantly headed toward the outcrop of rocks and retraced my steps backward in time, awkward in space.

Realm of the Damned

abufares@abufares.net (abufares) — Sun, 05 Jul 2009 16:57:00 +0000

On a late summer afternoon in a hotel lobby in Athens, I sat waiting for the heat of the day to abate before I stroll alongside the marina. I've been going there late in the day to hear the harmonious sounds of a sail catching wind and the gush of bleeding froth from the scarred face of the sea. Relaxing in a corner, I was watching people go by. Eager fresh bodies coming to Greece to bask in the sun and laze on her sandy beaches. Tired long faces burdened with the insipidity of personal lives or the stink of business deals gone rotten. The banal display of emotions and the happiness and misery of total strangers filled me with a foreboding loneliness. I have learned a long time ago that I am most lonely when I am in the middle of a crowd. However, I have come not only to accept but to embrace my solitude as a trusty friend and entertaining companion. My eyes were deciphering the flickering images and sending them to my brain, saturating it like a sponge with forming notions. I was ripe to write. A seemingly innocuous apparition can trigger an avalanche of words. A sexy and rotund butt for instance would toss me in bed after midnight. I would strew the words into an improbable script, wrap it around my nakedness and scribble it in between the folds of the white sheets. Yet wickedness has its own iniquitous way of stirring me as well, of shaking me up considerably and forcing me to venture into the realm of the damned. And, this is the turn my mind took in Athens.

The sliding doors split open admitting a whiff of suffocating and sticky air into the cool lobby. In walked a man of the cloth, a thirty something years old Greek Orthodox priest, dressed in mourning black from head to toe, beard uncouth, eyebrows hawkish and ugly features wreaking of oppression and hoariness. He eyed the patrons haughtily half expecting them perhaps to kneel in reverence and servitude. I was, I suspected, the only one who took notice of his presence and in no uncertain way he was aware of that too. He stood in the middle of the vast hall waiting for something to happen.

Does he have an appointment with God, I wondered. Well, there was a bunch of cute North American chicks with supple white legs and full swaying breasts gathered in one corner. Take a look Hideous Father, may be something would stir under that sooty robe of yours. Or what about the middle aged couple there, huddled so close and holding hands, afraid of wasting a single moment away from each other. Perhaps they can teach you a thing or two about the love you never knew. Nah, my day was destined to be ruined completely when an older bowed priest followed in. The wear and tear of years have turned his hair and beard into one giant white broom. The miserable sexagenarian hurried without vacillation toward the repulsive younger cleric then.... then for God's Sake bent down and kissed his hand.

God's obsession with robes and uniforms and his distaste for nudity and permissiveness are fascinating and intriguing divine aspects to my humble mind. What went wrong after he created us nude and sexy and made him change his conviction? Why does he want women to dress like sacks of potatoes and men like idiots? What about his fetish with hair? Why does he insist that women should cover their heads?

What if a woman shave her hair? Does she still have to hide her scalp? Is the top of her head too erotic for innocuous men not to get wild and ejaculate in the middle of the street? But most importantly is the question about the differences and the common ground between all the major religions. Why do they vary so much in the definition of the divine being to the point of being fully contradictory to each other while they, by and large, agree about oppressing women, limiting sex, rationing pleasure and forbidding certain practices? Was it an inherent design fault that slipped the mind of God? Didn't he consider that a woman's butt might prove too attractive to a horny man? Was woman in her present glory and allure an unfortunate accident? Did he intend her to be a utilitarian reproduction machine, a closed Dodge Van of a sort, but instead ended up with a Red Hot Ferrari?

These questions and many more were never in fact directed to God by me. They are, however, intended for the dimwits who have been meddling with our ethos over at least the last two millennia. As I disgustingly observed an older man bowing and kissing the hand of a younger one I couldn't help but reminisce that the Greek Orthodox are not the only ones promoting hierarchy and advocating the inherent favoritism of God. The Catholic Church is notoriously imbecilic in its public and secret practices. Jewish Rabbis and Muslim Sheikhs (and now as if we didn't have enough tomfools the new wave of Muslim Sheikhas: Priestesses even if they vehemently deny being so) are as guilty as their Christian colleagues in their thirst and quest for earthly power on account of their special ties with “upstairs”.

A gentle westerly wind stirred the leaves in the trees of Athens as I walked by the marina. It was still quite hot and muggy but the young men and women knew how to undress properly for the weather. They gingerly exposed their suntanned bodies for the seagulls, the boats and for me to see. Some of which were pretty hot babes but amazingly I didn't jump anyone. I stood at the edge of the breakwater watching the sun disappears behind the masts. It took the Greeks a little longer than their European neighbors to give their religious establishment the finger. How many years before the raucous wave crashes on our shores, I wondered. Not too long I know, for the winds of change are steadfastly blowing.

This skim-the-surface post is intended to be a prelude of things to come. I find myself increasingly irritated by the counter movement of Neo-Islam. Although I don't plan to waste my time or ruin my day by butting my head against the religious establishment, I will not fail to sneak an attack from time to time. Why remain silent when they are so obnoxiously vocal? Why not look at the Sheikhs and Sheikhas straight in the eye and tell'em to fuck off? It's about time.

Suffonsified

abufares@abufares.net (abufares) — Sat, 27 Jun 2009 14:38:00 +0000

My mobile's alarm blasted at two o'clock piercing the still of night and robbing precious sleep from my weary eyes. Bewildered, I slowly lifted my upper body on an elbow. I had gone to bed well past midnight but suddenly I remembered that I had a car to ride, two airplanes to board and a taxi to drop me at a hotel in Martigues. Eighteen hours later, I leaned on the reception counter of a small hotel in the south of France.
Oui demoiselle, je veux rester pour quatre nuits chez vous.

The summer sun lingers in the sky of France well past its usual day-shift of lower latitudes. My biological clock completely out of sync, my laptop rendered useless after a fatal system crash on the flight from Damascus to Paris and loneliness creeping up on me I descended the hill on foot and headed toward the docks of the small town by the sea.

I scrounged frantically for a discarded cigarette butt on the pavement and sidewalks. No city could be so clean, no place more serene. Seagulls flew overhead sending shrieks echoing against the brilliantly colored walls of quaint houses. A loose sail fluttered in the wind while a couple of hands worked feverishly to quite it down. I could taste the salt on my lips, I could taste hers in my reverie. Moored boats wobbled on the troubled surface of the canal, straining against the ropes. The creaking of wood longing to sail was too painful to hear, too realistically disturbing.
-Where would you go old sport, I asked the heaving and battered launch, if you had the choice?
-Anywhere, it pleaded silently in my head, just set me free and let me drift.

Restless, sleepless and mindless I brought back Prufrock, my PC and travel companion to life. The night died in my arms. Its last memory was of my ecstatic eyes beaming out of my tired face. Connected at last, I was craving to read.

Fares, my pride and joy, the reason I am called Abufares after all had started posting in Arabic on his blog “Superkid Chronicles”. How can I ever convey my feeling of elation about the fact that he's writing. My nine years old son, Abumaher, is perhaps the youngest on the Syrian Blogsphere today. He had only posted twice so far and I've already commented with words that betrayed my fatherly bias. Still, I needed to take a look at his virtual space again and feast my mind on adulation and hope. I am in love with people who write. I always was. And Fares, my flesh and blood, is writing.

The neat office where I was to work for the next three days was thrown on the shoulder of a mountain. It stood sentry to the estuary which led to a lake somewhere further east. I met people who became my friends, for life. We shared bread, butter and plenty of wine. The sound of our laughter drifted in the breeze toward the piers. We exchanged toasts and stories of our cities by the sea, always by the sea. For it had brought us together, seamen who would rot and die in the dry blandness of the inland. What is a woman if her hair is not weaved with seaweed, if her armpits do not taste of the salt that keeps us old mariners afloat? What of her thighs if they don't froth with zest to the tiding of my call? Her piquant breasts a safe harbor for my head where I close my eyes and still can see.

Mariyah's 26-episode story of Ghassan & Alexandra burned my second night and handed me safely to the morning sun. I would really like to find a way to tell you and myself how much I like Mariyah. Since she dropped anchor on Syplanet she had become my fantasy ship. When I sit on the outstretched rocky wharf of the corniche in Tartous her writing washes over my head and shoulders, cleansing my heart and soul. I gaze at the curved horizon and wonder about the straights she's crossing. Be tender on her Oh Goddess of the Sea and bring her smooth passage until she takes shelter while the storm withers away. Dawn crawled from beyond the hills, invading the dim corners of my room. Finally, I dosed for minutes dreaming of the intoxicating scent of Mariyah's prose.

On a concealed terrace not far from the marina half a dozen tables were laid in the shade of a giant Eucalyptus tree. I had my lunch there day after day. My hosts, perfect gentlemen, treated me like the indubitable ambassador I was to their tranquil shores. I never sampled a more toothsome cuts of entrecôte or a more divine côtelettes d'agneau in my whole life. Ah, les Français, I forgive their snobbish repute though I have only basked in their unrivaled hospitality and generosity. The twin bottles of Rosé kept us company and lulled our senses, reinforcing the simple verity that we were one family across the Mediterranean. The clinking of flushed goblets reverberated among the patrons. Salut mes amis, à votre santé.

Gabriela writes from Lima, 8000 miles away. Ever since she graced my blog with her first comment I took an immediate liking to her. I know that I will meet this intelligent, spirited and beautiful lady one day. I have no doubt. She will either come to see me in Tartous and I will walk with her through the narrow alleys of the old city or she will guide me in the Barranco district of her enchanting city. Gabriela writes inimitably in Spanish, a language I have always loved and vaguely understood. I translate her post on Google first and swallow the shabby English just for the sake of getting the general meaning behind her words. Then, I slowly sip her Latin spirit and get dizzy on her dainty melody and rhythm. Seis de enero is the blog of my lovely Peruvian Lawyer. I can't wait to be in Lima, to get in trouble then have Gabriela bail me out. She stayed with me on my third night and didn't leave until she got her message across. You can't spend your whole life traveling without going where you always wanted to. South America is a dream on hold, Gabriela reminded me.

Whenever I walked the streets of Beirut a personal unsolved mystery followed in my footsteps. Who was she and where did she come from? Evidence of her oriental paternal pedigree was abundant as traces of Islamic arcs, Arabian nights and Byzantine bells could be discerned on her slender body. Yet her mother remained behind a veil until I landed in Marseille. Ahhh, the full realization, the overwhelming sense of Déjà Vu . No wonder so many Lebanese call France their mom. Just take my word for it dear neighbors, it was never France, it was Marseille only and all along. We sat in that most famous of restaurants on the beach of the city. We were late for the topless volleyball chicks, my hosts apologized. This is where the fabled bouillabaisse de Marseille is prepared. My friends and I surrendered to the maitre who promised to take good care of us. He brought forward a glass of Pastis for me when he learned about my fondness of Arak. Then in the spirit of White we drank some of the best wine the south of France had to offer. Growing up by the sea and being raised on its scrumptious fruits all of my life I finally had to take my hat off, Chapeau bas a Marseille. A fish, if given the choice, will ask to be eaten in a bouillabaisse in Marseille after it dies and goes to heaven.

I gingerly climbed the stairs to my room on my last night in Martigues, satisfied beyond explanation, absolutely, perfectly, completely suffonsified. Only Isobel can do justice to the fleeting hours of bliss before I pack again and move. Suffonsifism has been my best kept little secret for quite some time. The apparent simplicity and effortlessness this gorgeous woman puts into her writing is mind boggling. Her posts are often short and to the point. How can she, I wonder, say it the way she does. How can she be so suffonsified and make me, a man behind a small screen halfway across the world, come to grasp the full meaning of her blog's name? I have never read anyone like Isobel. I very much doubt that I will ever read anything remotely parallel. I tiptoed through her lines, paused at her comas and came to full stop at her periods. Her divine music rushed through my mind, her priceless humanity escorted me through the blind twists and turns of a long tunnel where there was light at the end. I stood there in awe, not daring to blink for fear of missing a minute detail of her beauty within me, not believing that I went on for four nights sleepless in Martigues, forever suffonsified, and ever!

The Story of Abeer

abufares@abufares.net (abufares) — Thu, 18 Jun 2009 20:23:00 +0000

The following is a letter I received from a girl I named Abeer. She wrote to me in Arabic and asked for my help. After her permission, we agreed that I should translate her words into English and post her letter on my blog for every single reader to have an open discussion. Whatever you might think, please feel free to join in through your comments. I might at any point butt in but I'd rather keep my peace for as long as I can.
Abeer, thank you for trusting me with your story. I wish you the best.

Dear Abufares

I hesitated before I chose how to address you “Azizi: Dear” or “Ammo: Uncle” but then decided that you are so young at heart, I'd better drop the “Ammo” least I make you upset.

You see you are about my father's age and I'm young enough to be your daughter. I'm a 21 years old girl from Damascus. I can write in English but prefer to express myself in Arabic, especially now. I have been reading your blog for almost a year. My boyfriend, and let's call him Jad, introduced me to your writing. I think I have read everything you wrote but I particularly like your posts about love, women and life in general.

The reason I'm writing this private email to you is because I'm seeking your advice. You might find it ridiculous that a total stranger asks for your help. But you wrote that you are a fool with a lantern and I so hope that the light you are shedding can show me the way.

I come from a good family. I am a very pretty girl and I'm not saying that out of vanity. My beauty, however, doesn't bear directly on my “tragedy”. I grew up with Jad, our neighbors' son. We played and studied together. There was no beginning to our love story. We were in love ever since I can remember. We kissed on the stairs and the balcony. We made promises to each other and kept them. Our lives evolved around each other. He never made me sad. He never said a harsh word to me. In turn, I never gave another boy a second look.

My father is a very wealthy man. He is highly educated and had lived a good part of his life abroad. My mother too (was) a very open minded woman and studied at the university of Damascus. We moved to the suburbs a few years ago and live in a very nice villa. Through the years my parents always knew about Jad and me. They never openly talked about him but his father was a good friend of mine. That is until my father became too important (in his own opinion) and too busy with making more money and their friendship withered with time. My mother was a normal intelligent, attractive, educated and entertaining Damascene woman until she turned into a self-righteous one who attends religious lessons and hosts them in the villa once a week. Her “friends”, I think, brainwashed her and made her such a boring and meaningless woman. Suddenly, the most important part of her life became her Hijab. Shopping and acquiring weird “Islamic” fashion became her obsession. The whole universe, suddenly, became centered around her hair. She has regular hair like everybody else but it has become such a precious asset it needed to be hidden from everyone because that is what Allah wants.

She removed her wedding pictures from the salon and living room. Her photo holding me and my brother on the beach in Lattakia was the centerpiece of the entire wall. It disappeared. Beautiful memories wiped out because her hair showed. My brother, one year younger than me also became what I like to describe as a Muslim Crusader. Life is defined around his going back and forth to the mosque for prayers. My father apparently didn't change that much, or so I thought at first.

Slowly, I became the focal point of my mother's and brother's attention. Who am I talking to over the phone? Where was I? No, I can't spend time with my friends in Damascus. Yes, I should wear the Hijab. Certainly I must pray five times a day. How did my mother change from being a compassionate woman to a ruthless robotic idiot is something I will never understand. I succumbed to their whims for about one year and wore the Hijab. I just kept thinking how stupid I was. How stupid my mom is. Didn't she grow up in a regular family? How I dress, whether I have nail polish, the perfume I wear became the nightly dinner conversation. My father was updated on my situation and he constantly frowned and expressed his disbelief at my unacceptable behavior.

Only Jad kept me sane with these crazy people. He told me to take it easy and that my parents only want the best for me. But deep inside, I knew him better than that. He is a very smart and sensitive guy. He has crossed the line of being a puppet to the ingrained traditional and religious mores of our society. His father is a wonderful man, intelligent and well read. I remember when I was a little girl how much both my parents enjoyed his enlightening company.

I am in my third year in the university (Economics) and 2 months ago over lunch, very casually my mother announced with pride and satisfaction that a certain young man, the son of a certain old man has asked for my hand in marriage. His mother, a friend of one my mother's inner circle of religious women was the matchmaker. I couldn't believe the ensuing discussion between my father, my mother and my brother about me, about my future, about the need to wear the Hijab again because it is not open to discussion with the suitor's family. My father. My own father, the one who taught me how to ride a bicycle and how to swim on his back, the one who bought me all these little dainty miniskirts from his travels, the intellectual who sat by my bed and explained the importance of education and work when I get older and the same man who held my hand and looked straight in my eyes one day and said that I should not live to need to be married has been transformed into a mere shadow. A hypocrite parrot bargaining and debating my future with my mindless mother and my fanatic brother.

I told them that when I decide to get married I will never consider anyone but Jad. Since then, my life has turned into a living hell. I'm no longer allowed out of the house. My family has taken away my liberties and my humanity and turned me into a 21 years old slave. They are going ahead with their planning and scheming and the engagement/Kitab/marriage ceremony is looming inevitably closer. Did I mention that the idiot who wants to marry me already made several remarks about what he likes and doesn't like about me, what I should keep and change in my character and personality. He came over for several visits with his family. Although I would probably spit in his face if he asks to be alone with me he has shown no interest at all in talking to me in private so far.

It's becoming harder and harder to sneak a talk with Jad who would be leaving to Canada by the end of the summer. He has asked me to go with him and there is more than one way I can do that. I already have an open visa and he is a Canadian citizen. I'm certain that I don't want to waste my life with someone I cannot even look at. I'm also convinced that I will never love anyone but Jad. At 21, I'm forced to make the decision of leaving Syria never to return.

What do you think Abufares?

Abeer

The Power of Dreams

abufares@abufares.net (abufares) — Thu, 11 Jun 2009 15:24:00 +0000

I've lost my mother 10 years ago and I don't recall a single day passing by without thinking about her and remembering a charming word or an endearing gesture of hers. Yet, since she passed away she has never visited me in my dreams, not even once. Even when I go to bed upset or blissfully happy… nothing happens, I seldom dream, if at all.

I know that I'm dreaming in the middle of a dream though. Most of my nocturnal visions are senseless. They are, I would like to think, the offspring of a late dinner or an unstoppable urge to use the bathroom. They are neither good nor bad, they are just the type I forget the moment I open my eyes.

In order not to feel deficient about the lack of my night imagery I entertain another possibility. I'm such an avid daydreamer my brain remains thoroughly satiated with imagination. When darkness prevails my mind simply needs to rest and sleep. I do dream when I change beds, however. When I stay in a hotel I have learned not to even bother trying to get some shuteye on the first night before the break of dawn. Instead I turn the muted TV on and bathe my eyesight with the flickering images. It's very bad when I travel overnight to Damascus for instance. I return home tired and irritated with vague memories of bland dreams.

Alcohol has no verifiable outcome on my capacity to dream. Nonetheless, in good company or when enjoyably alone and after the consumption of the precise amount of spirits my mental acumen is greatly enhanced and sharpened. Some of my stupidest ideas and those rare brilliant ones floated on the rocks of an amber glass. I have become such a master of defining and riding my limit I seldom make the mistake of overindulgence. Well, I do from time to time, but luckily instead of getting drunk I just fall asleep. You would think that I should drink one too many when I'm staying at a hotel for an overnighter. Nah, it wouldn't work. It's true that I sleep like a log at first but not for more than a couple of hours. Then I would stare into the darkness like an unwise, unthinking and unblinking owl until nature calls and I fly out of bed.

Medications on the other hand have unpredictable side effects on me. I avoid prescription and over the counter drugs at all cost if possible. But when I succumb to illness and am forced to take something I end up spending my night naked in a valley of macabre nightmares or fully clothed in a tub of ridiculous dreams. They come in short bursts with a vortex of sweating and high fever. When I read the warning labels on some of these drugs I wonder why are pharmaceutical companies allowed to abuse the sick in such an inhuman way. In particular, I am disgusted with the "Do not take with alcohol" warnings. Why is it OK to mix their chemic filth with water and milk but not with alcohol? In defiance, I didn't heed their advice on several occasions when I was sick. I'm fully convinced that double vodkas had helped me recover much faster than their mysterious inorganic chemicals. It's a worldwide conspiracy and a cover-up operation codenamed Nincompoop Asclepios with high ranking officials involved and in the pay. For most illnesses and diseases a stiff drink or two is the best medicine. Well, that and laughter of course.

I had been anesthetized quite a few times over the years. Just remember that I've broken all four of my extremities at one time or another (I said four not five so wipe that wicked grin off your face). I've also been under the knife once or twice and experienced the amazing effect of general anesthesia. I remember someone asking me to count from 10 to 1 as the drug was introduced intravenously. Why are doctors so obsessed about rendering such a "smart" image of themselves? He could've simply told me to count from 1 to 10 with the same immediate effect. Asshole! Anyway, I stopped at 8, that is I counted down 10, 9, 8… then oblivion. Yet, during another visit to the operating room and as another smart surgeon was trying to put my left arm back together in one piece, I clearly remember leaving my body behind and sitting on top of the ceiling mounted surgical light. I heard the chitchat of doctors, boring, very boring. My vantage point also provided me with an optimal angle to stare at the full breasts of the pretty nurse. I didn't die and come back. My experience was less farcical and certainly more meaningful. I left my body, sat on top of the light fixture, heard a stupid conversation, enjoyed the sight of a cleavage then returned in time to be whisked out on a gurney.

Having been a timid young man, sedatives and anesthetics greatly helped me overcome my shyness with women. I was heavily sedated after a procedure when a gorgeous nurse held my wrist to check my pulse (or whatever). My immediate and innocent reaction was to grab her butt and squeeze. The funny thing is that I did the exact same thing the next day when she came during her shift to check my pulse (or whatever). I was fully awake and she knew it but didn't seem to mind. I told her about my dream of the night before and she giggled and asked me to stop it. Ahhh, women in uniform… but that's an entirely different story, one I will gladly recount when I wake up eventually.

Kamikaze

abufares@abufares.net (abufares) — Tue, 02 Jun 2009 16:32:00 +0000

It was the end of June, a hot and humid morning on the southern Dream Beach¹ of Tartous. I slept alone and rather erratically, having watched Argentina beat West Germany 3-2 in the FIFA World Cup Final the night before. A bunch of friends and I had consumed plenty of beer and whatever leftover bottles we could find in the secluded chalet. I had a terrific hangover and couldn't tolerate even the smell of coffee. Instead, I gazed at the endless expanse of blue from the western terrace then walked lazily on the warming sand. Only if someone could stop the goddamn spinning, I wished. I threw myself in the tantalizingly refreshing water and surrendered to the sensual fingers of the undulating waves. The salty breeze and the engulfing wetness brought me back slowly and without coercion to awareness. My muscles relaxed. The pounding in my temple eased off. What a glorious day ahead, I mused.

I had nothing to do or worry about. My immediate concern was to secure some basic form of breakfast. There were eggs in the fridge, Labneh, olives, tomatoes and cucumbers. After filling my stomach with solid food I could return with a book, a beach umbrella and a towel to my favorite spot where the soft breakers came to rest at my feet. I needed a pair of slippers, I thought, for the round trip to the chalet. The sand would be getting hotter and hotter by the minute as the sun rose unblinkingly higher and higher. I would read for an hour or two then go back to the chalet. In some kitchen cabinet there were at least a dozen cans of various types of junk food and olive oil. I saw a knot of bread² and potatoes over the counter. I will throw in something with the potatoes and have lunch straight from the skillet. The plates were piled high in the sink, unwashed. Sure, the place was an absolute mess and in dire need of cleaning but it wasn't something I was willing to lose my precious time over. I would clean a knife and fork, yeah, that I would need. The telephone line was out, oh thank goodness for that. There will be no interruptions. No calls from anyone to join me or for me to join them. For the afternoon, I schemed, suspended on my back like a dead porpoise heaving up and down on the surface of the sea, I could fill the icebox with cold beer and fasten it to the inflated inner tube of a car tire. I would then tie the tube to the folding chair placed knee-deep in the water. I would aptly sit and the chair would sink down evenly until it settles firmly so that the water is at the perfect nipple level. Ahhh, I'm so smart, so efficient at minimal work, I'm a damn genius, I beamed with pride and delight. Two, three beers down my belly, I would contemplate the meaning of life and probably nap. I would need a baseball cap and my sunglasses to minimize the glare. Ooooh, what a glorious day indeed.

I ran back invigorated. It was time to execute this perfect plan of mine. My eyes caught the reflection of the sun in the mirror of the parked Yamaha. My brand new cherry colored 135RX beckoned at me: Come ride me you hunk of a male, she whispered. With less than a 100Km on the odometer, I couldn't resist the seduction. Should I have breakfast first, I wondered. I didn't think so. I couldn't keep her waiting much longer and I was getting very excited myself. Ok baby, your man is coming, I smiled at her like Clark Gable. I was wearing only my wet shorts, absolutely nothing else. They weren't even swimming trunks, just plain blue, cotton, sexy and very short shorts.

She purred at my first kick-start. She was too hot and bothered to be warmed. Take me for a spin darling, she begged, give it all to me. I smiled again, more idiotically this time, a little like Tom Cruise perhaps. The road down the Dream Beach strand of chalets was as close to a ¼ mile drag race stretch as we could ever have in Tartous. It was much longer and narrower though and offered plenty of opportunity to go wild on two wheels. There were only me, a horny motorcycle and hot asphalt as far as the eye could see.

I fore-played the petite Yamaha and watched her RPMs going up and down the green range of the dial. Her purring changed into whining then screeching moans of ecstasy. Oh damn you take me hard, take me all the way, red-line me now, now, now....... she screamed. I gave it all to her and her needles rose into an insane frenzy of speed, 120, 140, 156, 57, 58, 59, aaaaaaahhhh 160 km/hr, OMG, yeS, yES, YESSSSS. My tears flowed, hair pulled back, lips twitching, my nipples tormented with the rushing onslaught of pinpricks... and, and... up ahead in the distance, 50 meters or so, straight forward, a tiny dot was approaching from the opposite direction at an unbelievable pace. I could see it getting bigger and bigger while at the same time I was realizing fully that I could never take any evasive maneuver anymore. I remember that split of a second as if it was shot with an extremely slow motion camera. How could I forget.

I mentally surrendered to the fateful impact. A nanosecond before we collided, the maniacal Kamikaze took a vicious dive to maximize the damage. My recognition of the identity of my assailant and his death happened at the exact same instance. He was hideous, evil and yellow, an Asian giant hornet who flew all the way from Japan to avenge his honor. Evidently it was too much for him to digest the sight of a Japanese bike and a Tartoussi guy going wild with each other on a beach road. Goggled, bandana-ed and scarfed, he flew his last mission for the glory of Japan. He extended his 6 mm stinger, released his lethal cytolytic peptide venom as he was squashed into oblivion against the soft tissue of my balls.

The blow was so powerful I felt as if I were kicked in the crotch by a heavyset and ugly Russian soldier from one of the Bond's movies. I released the throttle instantaneously. I had to crawl on all four, take the fetal position and die somewhere on the shoulder of the road. The Yamaha finally came to a complete stop. I laid her on her side and AAAAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYYYYYYY I screamed, a demented soul rolling and turning in the dirt like a butchered animal. My first thought was how far the chalet was. A couple of hundred meters, I guessed, in heart wrenching agony. After what seemed to be an eternity, probably five minutes in real time, I summed what was left of my strength and limped back in the saddle of my bike to my hole in the ground. I stepped in the chalet, closed the door behind me, pulled down the shutters and shades, collapsed on the floor and lost consciousness in the darkened room.

The poison flowed in my bloodstream and my temperature rose dangerously high. I swam in a pool of sweat as my whole body was taken by a fit of shivering. Paralysis spread from my loins down through my legs and up toward my chest. I dosed on and off and suspected seeing the grim reaper at the edge of my vision. A long spell of hallucination followed leaving me clueless as to the passage of time. It was pitch black outside when I leaned on my elbow, crawled to the sofa and managed to switch the light on. I was swollen, all of me. An allergic reaction to a massive dose of venom left me like a useless lump. I could hardly breathe as I looked in dismay at my swollen shorts. The lump was the size of a softball and if you're not familiar with softball, suffice it to say that it's at least twice as large as a baseball and not by any means softer. My legs buckled underneath my weight and I lost my mind completely. Nightmares and delusions shone, flickered then dimmed like ignes fatui as the night and half of the following day consumed themselves. A little before sunset on the next day I was still in the exact same spot on the floor but my eyes regained focus and the fog in my mind began to dissipate. I removed the remnants of the martyr and his stinger off my left ball. He had a wicked grin on his face the sonofabitch. I was still pretty swollen and multicolored like an old Bollywood movie when I took off my shorts but I knew that the worst had come to pass.

A little before midnight, after a cold shower and a gallon of water to drink I sat quietly in the night enjoying the quivering image of the moon on the gentle surface of the sea. The air was moist and pregnant with untold secrets and I could hear the echoes of laughter in the distance. My temperature and heartbeats were gyrating closer and closer to normalcy. I was still weak and shaky but feeling much better. Will I ever be the same, I wondered. Twenty three years later and I still don't have an answer.

Dream Beach = Shate'e Al Ahlam
Knot of bread = Rabtet Khebez

Barça, Barça, Barça

abufares@abufares.net (abufares) — Thu, 28 May 2009 11:24:00 +0000

I'm in a state of eternal love. I love good food, good wine, the good life and a good woman.

I'm also in love with FC Barcelona... with Messi, Etoo, Henri and the greatest bunch of football players in history, the best coaching staff and the most amazing fans in the world.

On the other hand, I hate Manchester United with a vengeance and accordingly my happiness today is beyond words.

Barça, La Liga Campions. Barça, Copa del Rey Winners. Barça, European Champions 2008 -2009. We kicked ass last night and nothing is more fun than kicking the Red Devils' big, fat and ugly butt.

Barça, Forever!!!

Lost Somewhere

abufares@abufares.net (abufares) — Sat, 23 May 2009 09:31:00 +0000

At the right moment in time, a scribble with a trickle of words can excite the mind like an intricate novel read over a fortnight in the cone of a bedside lamp. I've been waking up real early lately; say 5:30 in the morning. No, it's not insomnia as I often get back to sleep afterward without much of a hassle. It's just as if I'm craving to squeeze every drop of time to unearth the real essence of my life from underneath the hubbub and brouhaha. I reached for my Nokia and checked my email. The usual endless stream of Ship Position Reports scrolled on the small bright screen reducing the days and nights of lonely seamen to coordinates and numbers. I was dozy yet my seasoned eyes detected a different message forthwith. I haven't heard from her for quite sometime and as I read her words consciousness pervaded my senses instantaneously and I became fully alert.

It's been a while... And "Lost Somewhere" has been reading silently, enjoying every single post...
We all look for something at every stage of life and today I think Abu Fares is in search for a tormenting passion in his life...something that will stir up his mind, heart and soul...
NB: And when I mention passion it is in its broad meaning that embraces many aspects

That's it, she left as swiftly as she came. Despite the impact of her words, I faded back into delicious sleep. When I eventually walked out of bed, I knew that Lost Somewhere's words have touched me deep inside and needed to be mulled over within the solitary confinement of a double Scotch.

Two words of tremendous power in the span of a short string bored trough my head. Was Lost Somewhere anguishing in ardor when she posed her question? How did she know what to ask when all I am to her is a man behind a blog? As the amber fluid attenuated my thirst it fed a white fire. The warmth within heated my imagination and it soared, a hot air balloon drifting in the wind above my own ken. I looked down, a man living a tormenting passion that defied attempts to explain was lost in thought. Was it a smile I detected at the corner of his lips? I needed to see his eyes, I could only know if I stared straight in my eyes. I glided lower and stood face to face against him. The eyes, Ah the green eyes peppered with a dash of hazel, looked back at me with enigmatic tranquility as they slowly changed colors. It startled me to see her eyes on his face and I grinned with realization.

The agony, the hurt, the anguish, the pain, the wretchedness and the torment were there to stay. The fervor, the fancy, the desire, the longing, the love and the passion have filled the heart completely, have drenched the soul. The improbability, the rarity, the exquisiteness, the wonder, the preciousness and the inevitability of the merging of eyes and minds cannot come about without a torrent of torment. Life is a tasteless weenie on a bun if not for the discrepant, adverse, cruel, bittersweet, adorable and endearing relish, garnishing the dead of night into a bright encounter, softening the heat of day into a waterfall of rose water, bringing meaning to being, restoring the original innocence of birth.

"It's strange that words are so inadequate. Yet, like the asthmatic struggling for breath, so the lover must struggle for words." - T.S. Eliot

The lives of men and women are senselessly empty if it were not for the tormenting cruelty of time. Their hearts and souls needlessly void if not for the passion of love. I'm struggling to survive, Lost Somewhere, for I will die if I give up my struggle.

The music and lyrics of (Losing My Religion, 2003 by REM) filled my head as I wrote this post and I had to listen to it again and again. Here is a video link in case Youtube doesn't work for you. What a great song!