abufares said...the world according to a tartoussi

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!

A Woman Named Paris

abufares@abufares.net (abufares) — Mon, 18 May 2009 20:10:00 +0000

I didn't meet any women in Paris but dreamed of mine with the outbursts of warm sunshine and the falling drops of rain. She was there on the wide avenues and narrow streets, sipping a glass of wine in a café with a red facade, leaning on me and crying of joy in front of the Nike of the Samotrace and holding my hand with every step I made along the cobblestones.

Paris isn't a city for a lonely man but I was not alone after all. My father and I were on a private vacation for a whole week. We were joined by my sisters and got to spend such precious time together. Yet in moments of elation, in instances of edification I was haplessly solitary and I missed her by my side terribly.

I came back three days ago yet I'm still living out of my suitcase. The last month or two seem to have been a perpetual trip. I called Fares today from my hotel room in Damascus. He was surprised that I'm not home. He didn't even know that I had left very early this morning. I'm sorry Son, I'll make it up to you tomorrow. The problem is that I've been suffering from PVDS for the last couple of days. Ah, PVDS, that's Post Vacation Depression Syndrome. I'll be very surprised if such a psychological condition doesn't exist. Well, I know I have it in chronic form. Every time I return from a vacation I get utterly depressed. In fact, I was feeling so down yesterday I wrote it on my wall in facebook, a site I wholeheartedly despise. Why am I still there, I myself wonder. I honestly don't have a straight answer. It's one way, I guess, to break the isolation imposed by space and time. A few of my dear friends even got worried about me and I thank them for that. Don't mind me please as I have an indestructible spirit. Falling down becomes a sweet memory once we're up and running again even if we were let down by someone close. I feel sorry already for privately blaming a friend who couldn't defend herself. I withdraw everything she never heard. She was probably acting in what she thought was the best interest of all concerned.

Back to Paris... Ahhh, what can I write about her! She's a beautifully sexy woman in her early forties. Elegantly dressed, hair swept up and clipped at the back, alluring blue eyes, a string of pearls for a smile, a seductive cleavage with small bouncy boobs, a firm butt, perfect legs, tiny feet and pedicured toes walking down the Champs-Elysées with a wake of perfumed dreams lingering in her trail. I've been privileged to meet her finally after the other European cities I visited over the years. Apparently, I've saved the best for last as there isn't any other place that can even come close. Paris is indeed center of the world, splendor of civilization, cradle of democracy, defeater of monarchy, fortress of resistance, gallery of arts, salon of literature... and satin-sheeted wrought iron bed for lovers. I can't recall all the intimate places I touched in her. I had a whole week, seven days of uninhibited love making and I'm glad I've somehow covered every little exquisite spot of her naked body.

Disconcerting how my mind seems to be jumping all over. Bringing seemingly unrelated matters together in one single post. Am I really writing about Paris the city? Am I hallucinating after my depression? Am I celebrating my recovery? Am I for real or am I only babbling senselessly. I mixed a woman with my sadness, a kid with my friends, betrayal with my apology, Paris with my love making in the hope of reaching the truth. I needed to do that, I had to pick up the pieces before I can smile again. Once I start smiling my heart pumps happiness in my bloodstream. And I just felt it, after eluding me for thirty six hours, echoing around my ribcage, my heart is bursting with a fit. My lungs, my belly, my ass, every cell of my body taken by surprise, swept away with contagious laughter. I'm me again.

Paris

abufares@abufares.net (abufares) — Sun, 17 May 2009 18:44:00 +0000

Stuffed Zucchini in Yogurt Sauce – Kousa b Laban

abufares@abufares.net (abufares) — Wed, 06 May 2009 17:13:00 +0000

Well it all started innocuously enough, I stated that I'm hungry then I went further, I'm still hungry, I pleaded. I don't quite know what else to do on Facebook except change my status. I access it through a software, a proxy fucker of some sort, and the whole experience isn't that enjoyable to tell you the truth. If it were not for you, some of the people I care most about, I wouldn't even bother go there.

The immediate comments on both statuses were very confusing to me. After all I am a provincial man with a simple mind. I needed something to pacify my hunger that's all. Kousa (Zucchini) I reckoned is the perfect answer to my commentators. This a recipe that is simply delectable. Yet more significantly, it is very sexy to prepare as it involves... well never mind...
It might not be as naughty as asparagus, wink wink, but from a certain perspective, Kousa is very erotic. Even the name, Ah! Even the name... LOL

So here we go, let me feed you right.

Below quantities for 4 to 5 People.

1 kg small sized zucchini (15 cm and less)

2 tablespoon olive oil
1 large onion finely chopped
300 g minced lamb meat (low fat) or ground beef
2 cubes chicken broth (optional)
2 crushed gloves of garlic
1 teaspoon salt (or more)
¾ teaspoon black pepper
1 teaspoon Cinnamon
1 tablespoon pine nuts (optional)
1 cup short grain rice

4 cups low fat yogurt
1 egg
1 ½ tablespoon cornstarch

1 teaspoon dry mint

(photo from the web)

-The zucchini pulp is scooped using a special utensil (found in Middle Eastern Food stores) or the handle of a tablespoon. First cut both ends of zucchini (slightly).
If you've never done this before, place the scooper next to the zucchini and estimate the full length – 2 cm to avoid opening a hole in the closed end of the zucchini. Slowly turn (using your wrist) the scooper in 90 degrees counter rotating moves while removing the scooped pulp gradually (this is the only tough part about the whole thing).
-Wash with water and let dry. You can use the pulp for another side dish so you don't have to throw away, but I really don't feel like writing about it today.

(photo from the web)

-Over medium heat in a large pot heat olive oil, add chopped onion stir for 5 minutes then add minced lamb, garlic, black pepper, Cinnamon and pine nuts. Continue stirring for another 5 minutes then add washed and rinsed rice and chicken broth and stir for 1 final minute then turn off heat, remove and place in a bowl.
-Let cool at room temperature.

-Stuff the zucchini with (above) using your fingers (ummm naughty, naughty) until ¾ full and slightly pressed.

-Add cornstarch and the egg to Yogurt in large pot and stir constantly with a wooden spoon over medium (don't stop at all – if you do the yogurt sauce will break apart and becomes useless) until boiling. Immediately reduce heat to medium/low then stop stirring (now you are safe). Add the stuffed zucchini to the yogurt and cook for 60 minutes (uncovered).
-Remove, sprinkle with dry mint and serve.

Bon Appétit however you decide to assuage your hunger.

The Young and the Senseless

abufares@abufares.net (abufares) — Mon, 04 May 2009 11:29:00 +0000

We reach a point eventually when most people we meet are younger than us. It was only yesterday when football stars were my heroes and idols. I dreamed of being like them when I get older. The time I was about their age flew by ever so quickly. My twenties are a blur of happy carefree days. I guess it was all action and little reflection then. Perhaps I was intuitively too smart to waste my youth being too smart. I had thought for food sporadically but always mixing brainwork with pleasure. Who of my generation didn't spin the bottle and get deliciously laid with the wee hours of the morning? The intensity and pleasure of those discourses in a cozy joint with friends, boys and girls. The surprise and anticipation of a possible amorous night with the bubbly girl wearing the short shorts sitting across on the floor. The music and the dancing, the beer and the drinking, the confabulations and the stargazing… and ultimately the graduation from college and the satisfaction in knowing that all concerned did real well later on and are leading very successful lives today.

No! The point of this brief post is not to reminisce over my past per say. It's rather concerned with a general personal observation about the new generation. I find that some of today's youth are taking themselves too seriously. I had the displeasure of meeting young snobs who hide behind their arrogant intellectual and moral ethos. They are still in their twenties and believe themselves not only capable of but compelled to prove their cerebral superiority. Petulant, grave, staid, drear, abject, tenebrific and rude they are with their own contemporaries and with those who are older. Well in all fairness, there were a few of them back then too but I think they either self-destroyed when they reached their thirties or were butchered by their spouses and kids if they got to the point of actually finding someone to share their miserable lives with.

Well of course most of my new young friends can teach us all a thing or two about the notion of having fun and enjoying what is arguably the best period in one's adult life. I have met terrific boys and girls in the last three years, through blogging mostly, who are humble, kind, engaging, attractive, charismatic but most importantly brilliant. They too are seeking higher goals for their present and future without ever forgetting that we don't bulldoze our way through life like colorblind bulls. They have mastered or at least learned that tolerance, respect, deference and benevolence in general are in no way an indication of weakness but rather of greatness.

Instead of substantiating the fact that I'm indeed getting older and start throwing advice left and right, I rest my case with the simple claim that I've said everything on my mind today.

Hands

abufares@abufares.net (abufares) — Sat, 25 Apr 2009 20:56:00 +0000

I woke up at 4:42AM, three minutes before the alarm went off. I showered quickly, drank my espresso, ate a cookie and went downstairs to the waiting taxi. Normally, the trip to Damascus drags forever but the two hours and thirty minutes drive to the airport flew by so fast I couldn’t believe it when I found myself in front of the terminal. I checked in, a good time ahead of my flight and waited indifferently in the boarding area. I had The Great Gatsby with me, a gift from a dear friend, but saved it for the flight just in case I needed a distraction. Sure enough, the plane was full of babies, nervous mothers, weary looking men and a wild bunch. It always amazes me how aviation, the most regulated industry of all, permits the airlines to provide travelers with such ridiculously uncomfortable seats. All airlines CEO’s and airplane designers should be forced to sit for the rest of their lives in these miniature stools. I endured the ordeal like a sardine in a tin box while the two passengers I was stuck in between snored all the way to London. F. Scott Fitzgerald provided me with a much welcomed escape.

Heathrow is not an airport to be enjoyed. The mammoth structure of terminals is too spartan to exude any sense of creature comfort. I was relieved when I was finally able to walk out in the cloudy English sky. The series of meetings I was to attend was held in a business hotel not far from the airport. I stood patiently waiting for the shuttle bus to take me to my final destination with a group of worn-out travelers, one of which stood right next to me, totally oblivious to my presence. From behind my foggy eyes I took notice of her deep blue ones, of her elegant stance, of her small body, of her proud breasts, of her curved butt, of her shapely legs, of her manicured toes but most appreciably of her sculptured hands.

Normally, any man in my position would notice and appreciate these minute details. But when a single woman is endowed with them all the perception turns into a sort of passion of such a nature that it feeds upon itself. I just had to keep looking. Oh My God, she is gorgeous. There is no way on earth that such a tranquil beauty is not matched by a splendid and formidable mind, I thought. I went even further in my private musing; this woman must be a poet, an actress, a novelist, an artist of a sort, a … doctor?

A hematologist she turned out to be. We checked in together, a different clerk handling each. "Welcome Dr. McDonald", I heard hers say. For the first time since my twenty minutes journey with the most gorgeous doctor in the world started, she glanced in my direction. "And you’re here for the Shipping Meeting Mr.…. Abufares", my clerk smartly yet unnecessarily announced. Oh, damn it, I cursed under my breath. There she was, a specialist in the disorders of the blood no less, attending a conference with internationally distinguished specialists from all four corners of the globe while I was to spend the next two days with a bunch of ex-seamen turned penguins in business suits. I didn’t mind the washed out sailors. As a matter of fact, they were the jolly lot in the group. What I dreaded most were the business suits who had never wetted their feet.

We walked together to the elevator, the good doctor and I. Like the true gentleman I wanted her to believe me to be I gave her way first. "Thanks", she said. Her voice sounding more like little birds giggling and making love than an ordinary human voice. I couldn’t keep my eyes off of her hands all the way up. I mean, there I was, in a six by four confined space with a woman that defied description and all I could stare at were her hands. She must’ve thought that I was the timid and shy type. She wouldn’t believe that despite her astonishing beauty I chose to be infatuated with her hands. We emerged from the elevator and headed in the same direction. The corridor stretched on and on forever. I was walking a step behind and her butt swayed left and right with perfect rhythm. No, she was not joggling nor jiggling. Her butt was merely quivering under the comfortable khaki cotton pants. She then came to a stop in front of her room door and I did the same in front of mine. They were across from each other, our doors, our rooms. I fumbled with my plastic key as she did with hers. She dropped hers on the floor as I dropped mine. We bent to pick them up and we couldn’t keep the insouciant façade any longer as we both burst out laughing. She was one second faster than me in opening her door and as she disappeared with her bag behind it our eyes met then... The last I saw of her was the crimson polish on her nails… on her pulchritudinous hand.

I showered under a stream of deliciously hot water. The fluent spray fingered my neck and shoulders, the small of my back, my thighs and legs like a pair of expert hands, Doctor McDonald’s own hands. I closed my eyes and surrendered to the tantalizingly arousing reverie. Only if we humans were truly transparent, I reflected. How different the world would have been if our emotions and feelings were extraneously projected for all to see. I tossed and turned in bed as I always do on my first night in a new one. The mattress engulfed my body like a warm womb while the pillows swallowed my head with comfort and delight, yet I could not sleep. The two hour time difference didn’t help either and no sooner than I had a shut eye than the clock brought me to tomorrow.

She came in as I was having breakfast. She was dressed in a stunning suit that made her unreachably good-looking. From the distance, I was fascinated with her calves. They were white and slender and led to her unbelievably attractive feet. I could glimpse her pedicured toes while my scrambled eggs waited then got cold in my plate. She sat not far but she obviously hadn’t seen me. I watched her nibble her fruits of the morning and drink her milk. Oh, how she drank her milk. Then as graciously as she walked in she stood up and left the room. I fumbled with my napkin, fork and knife but was already too late.

The morning session dragged on and on. I struggled to keep my eyes open, I resisted with all my force a complete brain shut down until with the mercy of God we were granted a 15 minute break. I didn’t want to leave the meeting room at first but then decided to step out and have a change of scenery. Coffee and cakes were served near the entrance and next to the shipping throng there stood a group of well dressed hematologists, mostly men, peppered with the presence of a few stylish women. My doctor stood on the side speaking to a colleague, smiling ever so mystifyingly and holding a cup of something in her hand. I walked toward her as if drawn by a magnet. I only wanted her to see me walking toward her and she did. I can smile mysteriously as well I wanted her to read in my eyes and I was egotistic enough to believe that she did.

The rest of the day ate me alive. I was burning to get out of the room. There was an enclosed swimming pool I noticed earlier with an open bar. I went craving a glass of Scotch on the Rocks but there at a corner table she sat alone. She had already changed into something more comfortable yet no less tasteful. She saw me all the way from afar this time and didn’t even attempt to hide her smile. I was a few feet away when she said at last: “You know I have seen more of you since WE got here than I saw any of my colleagues in the conference.” “Did you see the guys I’m spending my time with?” I asked. “I‘d better keep running into you or I will lose my mind.” She extended her hand smiling: “I’m Fenella McDonald,” she said, “and you are Captain …?” “Hands”, I replied, “Abufares I mean.” I held her hand in mine and thought of distances stretched across thousands and thousands of miles, erased, nullified, annihilated by a mere touch.

“Would you care to join me,” she asked. I did and the gloomy weather of London turned out to be much more bearable after all.

Syria is...

abufares@abufares.net (abufares) — Sun, 19 Apr 2009 08:48:00 +0000

"In 800 words or less, please finish the statement "Syria is…" You may choose to focus on a personal story or a singular historical event that you feel embodies the essence of Syria for you. Or, you may choose to think more about Syrian history at large or what it stands for."

I received an invitation from Creative Syria, one of the more interesting Syrian sites on the internet, to participate in writing a personal assay about the land of my birth. I am honored of course that my article was published along with 7 excellent mind and heart inspiring pieces of the highest caliber written by acclaimed and accomplished Syrians from around the globe.

The illustrious list of fellow countrymen included:

Hassan Raymond Tahhan, M.D. - United States
Elie Elhadj, Ph. D., Author - London
Nour Chammas, Attorney - Cleveland, Ohio
Mazen Salhi, Engineer - Canada
Jamal Mansour, Author - Canada
Offended, Architect - U.A.E.
Ayman Hakki, MD/Prof Georgetown University - United States
Bisher Imam, Ph.D., Prof UC Irvine – California
And yours truly, Abufares the architect from Tartous

Please take your time to read all of these entertaining and enlightening compositions by topnotch Syrian professionals and me then leave your comments there where they truly belong.

My special thanks go to Camille Alexander for being kind enough to invite me to partake in this most enjoyable endeavor in the first place.

Sandstorm

abufares@abufares.net (abufares) — Fri, 17 Apr 2009 17:40:00 +0000

The road from Amman to Damascus was straight, as the crow flies, stretched and tedious like a lackluster argument. A sandstorm blew from the east kidnapping the asphalt ahead, swallowing up the car in a fugue of uncertainty. A herd of camels materialized to the right for an ephemeral instant then disappeared before I had time to be sure. I was sitting in the back seat of a taxi, head resting rearward in a stupefied daze. The tiny earphones isolated me further from the rest of the world, pounding my head with a tidal wave of drumbeats. Layer upon layer of primal composition building up then followed by a disembodied voice:

oh
I needed to believe in something
I need you to believe in something
I needed to believe something
I need you to believe in something
I needed to believe
I needed to believe

I was a lonely man rediscovering a new age of music, grasping the refrains of an English duo by the name of The Chemical Brothers, feeling anesthetized yet alive at last.

I reached with my hand, the tips of my fingers wiggling their way to the wetness of a lake beckoning at me, calling me to plunge inward apex first, dipping toward the warmth of a womb, sufficiently spacious to hold me, tight enough to etch the passage of time and space on my whole being with indescribable pleasure. Then I woke up.

I was tired, drained and as weary as I could be after days and years of traveling the desert roads with strangers. My lengthy journey into certainty had barely begun. Every turn of the wheel gets me closer to my destiny, still way ahead in the distance, barely discernible but for the power of the mind and the will of the heart. I have been quiet for so long, waiting for my time to come. The yellow nothingness surrendered me and I almost vanished before Pink Floyd brought me back to existence.

Hey you, out there in the cold
Getting lonely, getting old
Can you feel me?
Hey you, standing in the aisles
With itchy feet and fading smiles
Can you feel me?
Hey you, don’t help them to bury the light
Don't give in without a fight.

It came to me that I was most unlonely when I was truly alone. Uuuuuummmmm, I breathed the scent that only I can ever smell. I looked at my own eyes, Eyouni, gazing at me with love and want. I leaned on my shoulder and felt the comfort of togetherness. Delicate fingers ran through what little hair I had left, caressing my scalp, dissipating my worries, revivifying my dreams.

I only had to wait but I no longer had to fear. Led Zeppelin trespassed my thoughts. I welcomed the intrusion and I sang along, Stairway to Heaven.

There’s a feeling I get
When I look to the west,
And my spirit is crying for leaving.
In my thoughts I have seen
Rings of smoke through the trees,
And the voices of those who standing looking.
Ooh, it makes me wonder,
Ooh, it really makes me wonder.

The Fellowship of the Scotch

abufares@abufares.net (abufares) — Sun, 12 Apr 2009 13:54:00 +0000

We met in a bar in old Damascus. He introduced himself as Nabil, an expat visiting home for the first time in five years. “Would you like a cigarette with that Scotch”, he asked, sitting on the next stool. We were almost touching shoulders in the noisy and crowded joint. “Well I’ve quit, but thank you anyway. Actually, I never smoked more than one or two cigs a day and only when I drank” I replied. “My name is Abufares”, I extended my hand. He had a strong and confident grip. A very handsome sexagenarian with wavy hair brushed back like the mane of a white stallion. He had deep blue eyes, beaming with intelligence and vitality. A man equally at ease in a board meeting in a western capital or in an undersized jam-packed bar in the oldest city in the world. “Have we met before? You’re not a Shami (a Damascene), where are you from?” he stared intensely at my face. “I would’ve remembered you if we had. I’m a Tartoussi”, I said. He smiled big time: “Then let me buy you a drink and let’s meet now.” I accepted but insisted that we alternately buy rounds. He graciously agreed and… and there was something in his demeanor that told me that we’re in for a long and out of the ordinary evening.

He drank straight Chivas 18 while I stuck to my Black Label on the Rocks. Despite the loud music, the hot chicks wedging their bodies in between us to order their drinks and even an unusual grab of my butt by a nymphomaniac Métis with exotically scented firm breasts shoved up my face, we talked and maintained our compelling dialogue for hours. “Are you sure you want to listen to my blabbering instead of getting laid with that woman there?” he bemusedly asked. I raised my glass to his, “I’ve given up on that as well”, I laughed as he roared in a fit of hilarity. Then he cleared his throat, looked solemn for an instant and said: “I am here for a woman Abufares.” He seemed to be probing the depth of my eyes for an internal reaction. “Ah, cherchez la femme”, I exclaimed.

Nabil’s plane landed in Damascus airport at 7:00PM. He has reserved a room in one of the finest restored hotels in the old city which he had discovered through the Internet. He owns a large apartment at Al-Malki but didn’t want to stay there. He checked in, showered, got dressed (rather elegantly yet very casually) then walked the alleyways in search of a drinking hole. “Aren’t you tired?” I asked. He disregarded my question and brushed it aside. “I’ve slept well from Toronto to Paris. And I miss Damascus so much. And I need to drink. And I was lucky to run into you. You seem like a good listener. Do you want to hear my story Abufares?” I grinned: “You’re here for a woman Nabil. There’s nothing I’d like to hear more.”

I’ve been living in Toronto for the last twenty three years. I left Damascus in 1986 when everybody was immigrating to Canada. I had a very small shop in Salhieh selling men’s clothes with a partner. I sold my share, packed and left in a fortnight when my petition was accepted. My pregnant wife wasn’t thrilled but she and my baby girl came along anyway. I have two daughters now; Nagham is twenty five and Sahar twenty two. We didn’t own a house back then. We were renting in Barzeh. I left Damascus for a woman I lost and I return now to try to win her back.

Oh, I love Canada. It’s my home now. It’s a beautiful country, amazing scenery, wide expanses, plenty of opportunities if you know where to look. Nice people from all over the world, hardworking, fair, nonviolent in general, merging up agreeably and forming a colorful society. Nagham got married last month to a Palestinian doctor. He’s a good guy. Sahar is engaded to a young man from Damascus. I knew his father back when we were still here. I knew of him that is, a jerk from one of the fine old Damascene families. I was a nobody here you understand. May be that’s why I left. I mean my father was a high school teacher, very respectable, very honest, but you know how it was in Damascus. Well from what you’ve been telling me it’s even worse now. People tend to value your money more than your integrity.

I lived with my wife and daughters in a beautiful home in one of Toronto’s finest suburbs until we divorced three years ago. My wife and I had our separate worlds. We shared the same large space of course but we had nothing in common. She changed over there. She became more independent, which is good for her, and lost all interest in us. Well, I did too and had more affairs than I care to remember. We never really loved each other but cared and were respectful of our relationship in the beginning. She is twelve years younger than me and she eventually continued her college education. Then with all the money I (We)’ve had she was most comfortable when I was not around. She got half of everything I owned. That made her happy. It made me happier. In the beginning we were wary of what other Syrians thought of us over there. But once we’ve become rich enough we didn’t give a shit about them anymore. We moved to a different level. My wife, she has her own circle of affluent women. My younger daughter too, she’s so much like her mom. Nagham, no, she’s something else, so independent yet humble. Believe it or not, I’m like that. I’m a very simple man who happened to have worked his ass off and became very rich.

On a hot summer day in 1980 a young regular customer entered my small boutique in Salhieh with his even younger sister. Hala was twenty two. I was thirty one. She was wearing a light summer dress with short sleeves and a floral pattern with purple shades. Her brown soft hair was gathered into a bun. She was so white, almost pale. She had wide brown eyes. Eeehhh (sigh) after all these years I can still picture her as if she’s walking in right this minute. She was the most beautiful girl I've ever seen and the summer heat made her cheeks blush and her arms glisten with a thin film of perspiration. I showed her brother what he had asked for but I was absolutely mesmerized. I kept stealing glances at her and she finally caught me. Let me tell you this, I was a very handsome young man and I could sense that her blushing had nothing to do with the heat anymore. The shop was cool with the air conditioning running full blast. My store was so small it didn’t have a fitting room and her brother was in between us as I was thinking of a way to reach her. I took one of the plastic bags with the printed name of the store and with a pen drew a circle around my phone number for her eyes only. I wasn’t sure whether she saw me do that or not. She didn’t show any reaction and minutes later walked out the door with her brother. Then she glanced over her shoulder and ever so slightly I saw her smile. She didn’t call until the next evening and when she did it took us five minutes to fall in love.

For the next two years we stole our precious moments alone. We loved each other with total abandon away from her parents’ watching eyes. We knew that I didn’t have a chance being accepted by her father if I asked for her hand. She came from a very wealthy family and as far as her father was concerned the highest I could aspire for was to be a driver for them. Despite our extremely slim chances, I went to him and after waiting for over an hour was admitted to his office room. It took me less than ten minutes to get kicked out. I was humiliated and threatened. I was told that if I ever contemplated, if I ever dreamed of approaching Hala again I would simply disappear.

I was devastated. I couldn’t see or talk to her again until I learned, a couple of months later, that she had been sent to France or Switzerland. In less than a year she got married to someone worthy of her damn father. Her wedding was a legendary show of extravagance and wealth, so I’ve been told. The son of a bitch who married her was even richer than her old man. Kess Ekht Hal Balad! Can you believe that? We were ripped apart because I was not worthy.

I lived my remaining few years in Damascus and eventually got married too to someone from my class and mediocrity. I’m the youngest in the family and the only one who did not go to college. We never had anything in common, my wife and I, except class and mediocrity. Well she did go to Damascus University for a couple of years before quitting and that made her more educated than I am. Something she kept reminding me of for years, especially after she received her degree in Canada.

I followed Hala’s news from afar. After I became rich, and believe me I’m so goddamn rich now that half of the filthy moneyed in Syria would love to work for me, it became much easier to gather all the information I needed on her. She too has two daughters and lives in Al-Malki. Her husband, although very wealthy to start with had been working as a pimp for some Saudi Sheikh and became even wealthier. That should tell you something about the good old families in this time and age. Some of them don’t mind carrying the towel if you know what I mean.

I was here exactly five years ago when I ran into Hala at the Sheraton. She was attending some social affair with a bunch of siliconed and botoxed women trying to appear half their real age. She stood out like a princess among the bitchy hags. When she finally got on her way out to leave, I followed her to her car. As she was getting in behind the wheel she saw me standing there. She hasn’t seen me in over twenty five years. I have seen a few of her photos during that time. She stepped out, almost hypnotized without ever blinking. Her eyes were still wide and enchanting, her face the most beautiful in the entire world, her body compact and perfectly proportioned. She placed her hand on the top of the open door and I covered her fingers with mine. She hesitated as if she wanted to withdraw her hand but did not. We just stood there looking at each other then I told her that I still loved her the same way I loved her when she walked in my Salhieh store. I could feel her emotions rushing to the surface while she struggled with the lid. “I’ve never loved anyone but you Nabil but I can’t…” She withdrew her hand to get back in the car again but I grabbed it this time and brought it to my lips. “I’ll be back Hala, even if I had one day left in my life. I’ll be back for you.” Tears swelling in her brown eyes were the last I saw of her.

Well Abufares, Kasak, the son of a bitch, her husband died four months ago. I knew about it since and I have been patiently waiting. Tomorrow morning I will go to her and ask her to marry me. Do you understand now why I miss Damascus so much? Why I need to drink? Why I was lucky to run into you? I have never told this story to anyone until now, now that I finally hope to be with Hala again. Twenty five years of our lives were robbed from us, just like that, because a selfish man thought that I was not good enough for his daughter, because our entire culture permits such inhuman atrocity. I’ve been waiting for tomorrow for twenty five years Abufares. I will give it all up for her. I will live in this hypocrite shithole if she wants me to. We will go together to Canada if she accepts. I will move to Afghanistan just to be with her. Tell me Abufares, how do I look? I know she still love me. I’m sure that she must be thinking about me right this moment, but how do I look?

“She will find you irresistible Nabil, I know she will”, I convincingly said. He beamed at me with that overwhelming smile of his. “Bartender, get us another round”, he called. We were virtually alone with the man behind the bar. Almost everybody else had left. There was a couple making up in a corner. Our fresh drinks were brought and placed in front of us unobtrusively and in a fraction of an instant so that our drinking wasn’t interrupted at all. He seemed to be assessing me before he asked: “Tell me about you my friend. What’s your story?” “Ahhh, mine is too complicated to tell”, I managed to say before we burst out laughing like a pair of youngsters with their life, full of promise, ahead of them.

The Cave

abufares@abufares.net (abufares) — Fri, 03 Apr 2009 16:19:00 +0000

Toward the end of October 1096, the Count of Toulouse, Raymond de Saint Gilles (1041– 1105) left his native land never to return. Driven by religious zealotry and material aspirations, Saint Gilles, by far the oldest and richest Crusader, dreamed of dying in the Holy Land. On his way to fulfilling his failed destiny in 1101, he took control of Tortosa, a little burg by the sea. Known today as Tartous, Tortosa offered safe harbor as an entrepôt for military provisions and was ideally close to Cyprus and Antioch. Before the old Count died he managed to transform it into a magnificent military bastion which eventually became one of the most interesting old Mediterranean cities for researchers and historians.

Nine hundred years later, the remains of the Crusader era still form the core of the historic center of Tartous. They have survived centuries of earthquakes, hostilities, neglect and negligence. The splendid cathedral of Our Lady of Tortosa (1123) endured the ravages and the elements of time almost intact. A banqueting hall, originally known as La Salle Des Chevaliers, has lost most of its arched ceiling and houses within its walls scrounging and contiguous abodes. A nearly roofless chapel with a stone lock carrying the sign of the Rose, a testimony to the Knights Templar who dwelled and worshiped within the high walls of Tortosa, has all but succumbed to vandalism and defacement. And to the West, facing and defying the incalculable number of waves thumping incessantly against their sloped outer walls, lay the dungeons, where offending natives were imprisoned, tortured and eventually executed.

The Old City is located at the very beginning of the Corniche, a 2.5 km wide boulevard by the sea ending at the Ghamka River to the south. Most of Tartous’ restaurants and cafes are sprawled along the way and they vary from the mediocre to the admissible. Yet there is one so unique that it transcends all other restaurants in Syria and is possibly among the most distinctive anywhere in the world. It’s called The Cave and it occupies the northernmost dungeon.

The Cave is an unobtrusively restored 900 year old dungeon turned restaurant by none other than my best friend. He did not start the business. In fact, The Cave is one of the oldest restaurants/bars in town but last year he took over and embarked on his ambitious restoration dream. No expenses were spared and the painstaking work was brought down to a halt time and again by City officials and the pen pushers of the Antiquity Department. The Antiquity Law in Syria is even more archaic than the ruins it protects. In the wrong hands of bureaucrats any legislation can bring an entire country to a standstill. My friend persisted stubbornly and was finally awarded with the realization of his vision: a high-end joint in Tartous serving the best sea food and a la carte entrées this side of the Mediterranean. The ambiance is inimitable, the attention to details impeccable, the food delectable, the drinks ambrosial.

Next time in town and looking for a delightful gastronomical experience give The Cave a try. You can of course tell them Abufares sent you. Knowing my friend, don’t expect any discount but you will sure be treated like a Count.

Flirting with the Devil

abufares@abufares.net (abufares) — Fri, 27 Mar 2009 07:54:00 +0000

Your children are not your children,
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but are not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
Which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children
As living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and
He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far
Let your bending in the archer’s hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
So he loves also the bow that is stable.

On Children from "The Prophet" by Kahlil Gibran, 1923

Before we attempt our valiant counter-offensive against political oppression and authoritarianism in the Middle East we should start with some vital in-house cleaning. I have taken it upon myself since I started writing here to expose the evils of this time and place while concurrently shedding a feeble beam of light on our obscure delights and felicities. Today, I am in a fiendish mood and as thus am inclined to frivolously flirt with the devil rather than majestically dance with the angels.

So far and to a certain extent Syria might have been fortunate enough to have escaped scores of the prevailing social ills inflicting most countries in the world, like high violent crime rates for instance. However, like everybody else, we are moving in the wrong direction. Local Crime is on the rise mainly due to the obscene economic disparity bisecting our society and polarizing what was once a continuous spectrum into Haves and Have-nots. We are environmentally illiterate and our natural resources are being slaughtered in the stupid name of "modernization", industrialization and development. Our streets, cities and countryside are dirty and unkempt because we are not conditioned to give but rather to take. We might be hygienically conscious when it comes to our bodies (especially on Friday mornings) and immediate surroundings but could care less about the rest of the world. We are generous and kind but have little respect for individualism and personal freedom and as thus are loud and boisterous and have no perception of personal space at all. We cannot adequately differentiate between love and smothering and this is most apparent in the parent/children relationship. Parents more often than not stifle their children's ambitions and dreams and force them down the road of conformity and banality. We have created a monster out of religion and accepted its interference with our basic identity to the point where many of us see themselves as Muslims or Christians before being humans. These faults and so much more were not caused by the absence of democracy per say but rather because we have tyrannical traditions imposed on our collective psyche through centuries of religious submissiveness. We have given consent to our leaders (masters) to mount us like beasts of burden, use and abuse us because, among other bizarre facts, not a single monotheist religion advocated banishing slavery! Just think of this notion for a minute. God spoke to us three times (at least) in this part of the world. Three times… and he never told us that slavery is ungodly. Before we call for political reform we’d better get indoors, within the dank walls of our own homes and rummage around for rot, pests and rodents in our basements, in the core of our foundations.

While traditional societies had evaded the onslaught of globalization for a longer period than their modern counterparts their eventual fall was far more spectacular and disastrous. A traditional culture like ours, which had over time relied heavily on religious mores to regulate its acceptable behavioral patterns while neglecting proper social evolution, communal conscience and the development of a comprehensive set of civil laws and regulations, is finding itself all of a sudden disgustingly naked. It's like a pot-bellied middle-aged man stripping and exhibiting his albinal folds of hairy fat in a skimpy black Speedo on a beach full of tanned and athletically appealing young men and women. His other option would be to keep his clothes on and stroll the beach like a pervert. And this is exactly what most of my parenting generation is doing, watching the world goes by while avoiding embarrassment through hiding our defects, hereditary and self-inflicted. If we were only opting for this defeatist attitude toward the challenges of history without further dragging the younger generations with us our sins could have been somehow forgiven. But in an act of absolute selfishness and cowardice we are holding our children hostages and eventually prefer to bring them down with us on this doomed ship.

We will never rise as a people until we shed our bauble robes of jejuneness, piety and self-righteousness and incinerate them in the hell we so wholeheartedly believe in and fear. Let our children discover a world free of ecclesiastical neurosis and taboos. They should realize, with us not despite of us, that they are at liberty to break the walls of isolation and bigotry without feeling the slightest regret or remorse. They should push forward universal suffrage for women. I know for a fact that many women are on equal grounds with men in Syria but not all. In rural areas and in excessively traditional families women have to either fight for their rights and pay for them with their own blood or they have given up entirely and accepted their inferior status. Honor killings, despite their rarity in Syria, still take place. Even a single murder for the alleged honor of mentally impotent men is too many. Accordingly and to all the men out there who condone the killing of women, be they their sisters and daughters or total strangers, to wash away their shame and to preserve their honor: shove your honor, your virtue and your rectitude up your rectums you imbecilic morons.

I beg the new generations to let go of their parents’ delusions of grandeur and probity. We were never better than any other culture or civilization. We were never worse. We have to open our doors and minds east and west. If we cannot emerge winners or at least reach a draw then we never had anything worth keeping in the first place.

My Treasure: http://kinziblogs.wordpress.com/2009/03/23/call-to-act/
Suffonsifisms: http://suffonsifisms.wordpress.com/2009/03/24/urgent-echo-call-to-act/

Happy Mother's Day

abufares@abufares.net (abufares) — Fri, 20 Mar 2009 09:55:00 +0000

A few days after March 21st, when Mother’s Day is celebrated in this part of the world, I lost her. That was ten years ago. I remember the last thing she told me very clearly, as if it happened only last night. She had spent the last few days of her life mostly unconscious. She would wake up, open her eyes briefly and repeat the same phrase over and over then pass out again. “Don’t let them take my ring away from me.” She was of course referring to her wedding band as she was worried that after she dies the golden ring will be removed from her finger as per religious tradition. She was an avid believer in the afterlife and keenly practiced her spiritual duties. Yet she was even more devoted to the love of her life, my father. Her last thought, her final worry, her ultimate wish on the face of this earth were to keep his ring with her forever. And we made sure she did. My farewell memory of her was of her feet. As soon as she passed away I knelt by them, I held them in my hands then I kissed them and cried for a long time.

Happy Mother’s Day to all of the breathtaking women out there and please cheer up. I’m not going to embark with you on an emotional story. I was merely introducing you to the first love of my life, my mom.

From word of mouth, I know that I was a naughty kid. My fascination with women came very early on in my life. When I was still in kindergarten and my mom had her morning guests for a Sebhieh (a morning get-together for women where they drink coffee and eat chocolates and sweets) I would sit in the middle of the room underneath the larger coffee table. I would scan the legs around me and locate the best looking pair and train my sight to get a glimpse of laced panties. How exciting it was, especially if one of the guests was skinnier than the norm for those days and pretty. I continued with this hobby of mine until I was too big a boy to be allowed to stay and listen to the women talking. But I didn’t have to worry much about it as by that time Lillian became my school teacher. We’re talking about the late sixties; the miniskirt was the revolutionary vogue of the time. Lillian had long and supple legs and she often wore very short skirts. She had great boobs as well and one of my favorite blouses was a tight one she wore and which seemed to be begging for mercy. Her hair brownish and permed, her eyes shaded with immaculate mascara and her large loop earrings contrasted beautifully against her sinuous neck, she was the reason behind my choice of sitting in the front row in class for the only time in my scholastic life. We sat in pairs on the wooden desks but sometimes, when my stars were perfectly aligned, the boy next to me would stay at home sick. Lillian would sit on my desk facing backward and I would be mere inches away from her sensuous body. She would occasionally catch me staring in awe at one particular schwerpunkt of her anatomy. She would flick my ear, look at me straight in the eye and order me to “stop what you’re doing right now.” She would then resume her teaching, the remains of a faint smile at the corners of her lustful lips. That’s how it all started and that’s how it still is. Well, of course, I don’t sneak looks beneath women skirts anymore… unless they were climbing a flight of stairs ahead of me and their legs happen to be remarkably graceful.

I will forever be in love with women. In fact it’s this love in me which makes me tense when I come face to face with the mindless men who believe that they have the right to hold the slightest control over them. But that is an entirely different subject, one which I plan to go into sometime in the near future. For now my only intention is to celebrate Mother’s Day in my own guileless way as an eternal picaro. Happy Mother’s Day to all! I will always love you.

Pillow Talk

abufares@abufares.net (abufares) — Fri, 13 Mar 2009 14:44:00 +0000

A few years back an Italian colleague was visiting Syria and we traveled together on business to Aleppo, Homs, Lattakia then eventually Damascus. We had nothing to do on our last day before he was to fly back to Venice and I offered to take him around and show him the ageless beauty of the oldest capital in the world. Francesco asked me if we could go shopping and although it was, and still is, one of my least favorite activities I was delighted to help. He was a great travel companion and I pleasantly inquired about what he had in mind. “An oriental dancer (belly dancing) costume,” he told me, his eyes steady and unblinking. I swallowed hard yet kept smiling reassuringly. How in the hell was I going to overcome my acquired modesty and actually ask someone where to buy one of the most sensual pieces of feminine attire, I pondered covertly. I called a friend of mine, a very pretty Damascene girl I once knew and posed the question. “Now that you’re in your 40’s you’re getting kinky aren’t you Abufares?” she laughed teasingly. Despite my long-time familiarity with her I still felt awfully embarrassed. “It’s not for me. I mean I’m not buying it. It’s for my friend Francesco. I mean he must be buying it for someone…”. “Relax, my old friend. You probably don’t know that it’s customary for young Damascene brides to have at least one oriental dancer outfit among the most intimate apparel of their dowry? And, Abufares… I have several myself”, she divulged in the daintiest of tones before we finally hung up.

We walked along the long covered Souk of Hamidieh, Francesco and I. My friend had assured me that they were sold everywhere. All I had to do was ask. I finally summed up the courage and entered a small boutique where nightgowns and other womanish stuff were on display. The store was attended by a twenty-something year old guy. I whispered my request self-consciously. I needed to repeat my question three times before the asshole yelled at the top of his voice in the general direction of a narrow staircase that led somewhere up: “Majed, please show this gentleman our fine collection of dancing outfits.” “It’s not for me…”, I started… but he was already busy serving two veiled clients. Francesco and I climbed upstairs. My face was red with the blood of shame; I could almost feel the tips of my ears burning. I was so desperately embarrassed. “Ahlen wa Sahlen Eyouni (welcome)”, Majed beamed at us. “What do you have in mind? Classy or trashy? A high quality masterpiece or a cheap costume? We have everything from SYP500 to 100,000 a piece ($10 to $2,000)”. “It’s not for me…”, he wouldn’t even let me continue. “So what if it is for yours, man? Alhamdu Lillah (Thank God) we’re not doing anything wrong”. Francesco ended up buying a sexy purple translucent outfit. Majed had to get him from a high shelf behind a smaller size bra since apparently Graziella’s boobs were a little on the diminutive side.

For the last three years of my life I’ve been blogging and reading blogs. My browsing preferences have continuously shifted further and further from the mainstream of the Syrian Blogsphere. There are a dozen Syrian blogs out there which I will continue to read no matter what. Their authors have become enduring friends of mine. I’ve met a few of them and I would love to meet the others. I sporadically read additional blogs depending on the topic of their recent posts as they appear on Syplanet. But unfortunately, instead of finding more interesting reading material with the proliferation of Syrian bloggers the number of what I find captivating had remained constant. The most recent trend is annoying to say the least. People who are deeply committed to a cause, just or not, tend to be boring and really get on my nerves. In that light it’s understandable why I can’t get along with sternly religious folks. They are too serious to take seriously. Granted, they are free to express themselves as they please but they can eventually become a pain in the butt with their righteous persistence.

Not only was I seeking more intellectually stimulating content than the current vexatious craze of religiosity but I also am in dire need to be entertained in this day and age. Life is difficult enough as is. Many of us work and toil to make ends meet and at the end of the day are too exhausted to actually go anywhere. And, when you live, like me, in a small city where very little ever goes on, the internet is our widest window to the rest of the world. Naturally enough, I started my hunt on Syplanet. Are there any new and interesting blogs out there which I have somehow missed or not taken notice of? Don’t Syrian bloggers write anything interesting other than politics, religion or, like me, about nothing at all? I narrowed my search and concentrated on blogs written in English and started randomly clicking on the Syndicated Blogs list. Orchard Blossoms & Moonshine! What in the hell is that? I read the About Us section and became intrigued with the brief yet fascinating depiction the writers chose to present to the rest of the world. Upon further investigation I learned about the myth(s) of Nikkal and Yarikh, two Syrian gods of old. No sooner than I started reading through the blog than I realized that it had to be read from bottom to top. Nikkal and Yarikh are, according to the grapevine, two lovers who are writing to each other and do not mind if the rest of us read their story. I blame them for one thing though, they are not writing enough. I hope they are doing well together.

One thing naturally leads to another, which brings me back to the beginning of this post, not oriental dancing per say but the realm of the erotic. Why do we work so hard on hiding our emotions, feelings, yearnings and longings? These two lovebirds, Nikkal & Yarikh, have one link on their blog roll: Pillow Talk. I clicked expecting to find another romantic or poetry oriented blog but I was in for a huge surprise. Fantasia, as she chose to call herself, is without a doubt one of the most sensual women I have ever read (and seen judging from her personal photo). I have no idea where she’s from. She doesn’t write Erotica, she breathes it in and out and makes it morph into something so wholesomely decent while concurrently being so lewdly amatorial. Obviously she started this blog only recently but she intrigues and excites me beyond reason. She just feels everlasting. She is a woman, the real woman in every woman out there if given the chance. How much more pleasant this world of ours would be if everyone could innocently enough convey Fantasia’s message. No shame, no remorse, no regret, no guilt, no fucking nonsense. We are highly evolved beings that strive on love yet in the course of our infant civilization we have managed to muddy our purity with culpability. We invented religion initially to provide solace and comfort to our restless souls but soon enough our own creation spun out of control and took command of our consciousness. For no reason whatsoever, for no fault of our own we accepted that we are guilty until proven innocent. We had to work so damn hard all of our lives to appease the God who had created us without even giving us the option of not choosing to be born at all. We had an exam to take and that is the only course our lives were meant to follow. Love/Sex became the primary target and the absolute taboo of the religious institution.

Even for me, a man who has broken free out of this vicious guilt trip a long time ago, I was still somehow trapped within the layers upon layers of shame and ignominy. I couldn’t buy an oriental dancer outfit without being senselessly embarrassed. Blogging has helped me a great deal into coming to terms with myself. I now fully accept that I am what I am and it’s the most gratifying feeling any sentient being could ever achieve. It doesn’t matter how old you are, whether you are married, whether you have children, whether you are a professional, whether you are content, whether you are lonely or not. All that matters is to feel the freedom of being alive and conscious without preconditions or limitations.

Thank you Fantasia for showing me that Erotica could be more virtuous than hypocrisy and certainly much more fun. Keep on writing please and make this world a better place to live and love for all of us.

Link to Pillow Talk

Live and Let Live

abufares@abufares.net (abufares) — Sat, 07 Mar 2009 08:56:00 +0000

In response to the latest bigoted outcry on the Syrian Blogsphere against Homosexuality.

I never ever imagined that there will come the day when I would have to stand up and fight for the right of homosexuals to be what they have chosen to be. I don’t condone their outlook on life, I don’t concur with their preferences, I don’t truly understand their choice but this is how far I go. My personal judgment and bias should not blind me from seeing that they exist and that I have to shut the fuck up and abide by their freedom of choice.

How can we stop ourselves from repudiating all forms of nonconformity? Should we start cleaning our society (as if our society is clean to start with) from homosexuals and then relentlessly go down the list. Let us clearly identify the next targets (victims) of this moral crusade.

Atheists, adulterers, drinkers, un-hijabed women, un-bearded men, lovers, nightclub patrons, beach bums, hot chicks, artists, poets, communists, irreverent writers, people who look funny… free bloggers. Alas, it is a desperately long and all-encompassing list.

Where do the dimwits intend to stop?

What are they to do with all these non-conformists? Leave it to these religious tartuffes and they are likely to replace us with a bunch of brainwashed zealots, ardent celibates, devout cretins, faithful crusaders, pious robots and godly agitators who will teach those who are left of us how to live. What to do and what not to say. How to look down and how not to laugh. Why we die and why we should lead austere lives all the way to the grave.

Thanks but no thanks. The fanatics, the fomenters, the hypocrites, the bigots, the knaves gave me no choice but to defend a Syria of multiplicity and to protect my own freedom of choice.

Live and let live.

in November of 2008 I wrote Secular Shivers and Religious Fever and I was partially blamed for seeing the Syrian Blogsphere in Black and White. How do you like them colors now?

The Meaning of Life

abufares@abufares.net (abufares) — Fri, 27 Feb 2009 11:55:00 +0000

I dreamed of ships in rough seas making it safely to harbor.

It’s my birthday. I can’t claim to be at the halfway point anymore. Considering how I lived my life so far, how I’m living it right now and how I plan to live the rest of it, I have serious doubts that I’ll make it to 98. If you’re searching for regrets between the lines you won’t find any. You won’t descry any deep sense of contentment either. I’ve missed numerous chances and grabbed a few improbable ones out of the blue. I’ve stumbled and stood up, many times. I’ve loved and failed, yet I’m in love again, forever. This post, however, will follow a twist early on. It is about me, about my relationship with the rest of the universe and my true meaning.

A dear friend of mine, very close to my age, often repeats when under the influence: “Only if I knew then what I know now.” I always answer jokingly, more under the influence than he is: “Don’t get drippy on me. If I really knew then half of what I know now I would’ve changed the world in the blink of an eye.” But it was never meant to be that way.

In my quest to understand the meaning of life, and hey I’m claiming to have found the real answer here, I went through the gamut of faith, belief, doubt, skepticism, agnosticism and atheism. As a member of various social groups at subsequent stages in my development I interacted with and absorbed the prevalent social psychology. I befriended the deeply religious and hypnotically canting. I escorted them for a while then abandoned their convoy. I shared much more than bread and salt with their heathen nemeses and accompanied them to unattainable summits and unfathomable abysses. It was when I walked alone that I felt most comfortable, however. Somehow, somewhere the elusive answer existed in between doctrine and anarchy. I think the fatal fallacy of religion, every single one of them, is its claim to hold the absolute truth, to be the quintessence of the word of God. I differed with the nihilists also because of their arrogance, their cocksure mirrored rationale or lack of any to be more precise.

I owe it myself and to no one else to write down my syllogism since it’s my guiding light on the way to the inevitable end. I can’t maintain a gray opinion on certain subjects that are truly contradictory to my own sense of truth in a futile effort to not offend someone. The answer, as far as I’m concerned, is so elegantly simple. It might be difficult to put into words but that doesn’t detract from its inherent simplicity. For instance I need to affirm that Darwin’s On the Origin of Species (1859) not only makes more sense than the monotheist (Judaism, Christianity and Islam) story but actually negates any grain of truth in this agnate account. I can’t reduce my raison d’être to accept that I am a server, a worshiper or a propagator of the species at best.

I am because I am inevitable. There would be no notion of creation if it were not for me. There would be no perception. There would be no religion, there would be no science, there would be no arts, no philosophy, no poetry, not even a word. I have always existed and will forever prevail. In different forms of matter and energy, I am immortal. So is the universe, the timeless and ageless Cosmos, of which I am but an infinitesimal part. The rise of consciousness is ineluctable due to the grace of infinity. Anything can happen in an infinite timeframe, anything, even the emergence of sentient matter. It is very unlikely that the human race is a unique or solitary manifestation of cognizant beings. The cosmos must be teaming with consciousness everywhere and it is. Even the words Live, Alive and Life are too chauvinistic and provincial since biology is one known form to host consciousness but is not necessarily the only one.

When my energy is exhausted, when I physically die it will be difficult for the inert body left behind to regain awareness anytime soon. But as it breaks apart and joins the colossal pool of substance on this planet and the endless affluence of matter in the universe, parts of what was me will regain realization in some form out of the interminable variety on this same planet and eventually beyond. I might never love again as much as I do now but given a few years or a couple of millions I might very well do. With the luxury of infinity on my side, we will meet my sweetheart and me and fall in love all over again.

The three monotheist religions have already exhausted their purpose in the service of the human race. At their respective times they were revolutionary in their far reaching results and evolutionary in their old tried and tested approach to reason. But they have also caused agony and mayhem. They have raped liberties and further deepened the schism between the sexes. Humans, fauna and flora have been sacrificed in the name of an unforgiving god who only created us to worship him. Religion can’t replace science anymore as the notion is plainly absurd. It cannot befriend the accumulated and evolving knowledge of the human race either unless it admits that alongside its good nature it had always fostered the seeds of hypocrisy as well. Its only chance at credibility is to admit its human pedigree. For over forty years, ever since I received my early indoctrination of Islam, through the period I learned everything I needed to learn about Judaism and Christianity followed by my curiosity about all the better known human religions, their bodies of knowledge did not change. They have remained stagnant. I have been hearing the same sermons every week. I have been reading the same arguments over and over again; religion has completely lost its capacity to enchant me, to stir me, to scare me or to make me feel safe. I wake up in the morning and switch the TV on and discover a much more interesting feat of science. Everyday! Every single day… religion tries to fit in, to find a place, to make its absurd claim that it had told us so before. It had told us many stories most of which had been proven wrong. It certainly contains some truth hidden within the folds of its wide robes but not the absolute truth.

The birds’ song outside my window is inevitable, the rain drops, the smile of my beloved, the awaited sunshine, fear and comfort, sickness and health, the rich and poor, right and wrong, life and death. I am inevitable and I am celebrating my birthday in this shape, in this place, in this time. I've had billions and billions of birthdays before and I shall continue my celebration... forever.

Fijleet: Kingdom of Heaven

abufares@abufares.net (abufares) — Mon, 16 Feb 2009 18:04:00 +0000

After a full week of wind and rain, Friday morning broke out clear and warm at last. The thermometer on the balcony by the kitchen showed 19ºC. The sky was pristine, with plumes of rare clouds splashed sparingly around its turquoise canvas. I didn’t want to miss this singular February opportunity and I hurriedly showered but did not shave. I put on a fresh pair of jeans, a comfortable sweatshirt and an old familiar baseball cap. Within minutes I was looking at the cityscape through my rearview mirror.

Ghassan Massoud

Tartous was still asleep on this brilliant day. I was heading due east on the quaint road to Dreikish. I swiftly eyeballed the rudimentary map and estimated the distance to my final destination at 45, 46 km perhaps, significantly less than the 65 km indicated on one of the websites I’ve earlier browsed.

On the road to Dreikish - A mosque in the woods

When I finally got a chance to watch Kingdom of Heaven by Ridley Scott on DVD and in addition to enjoying this historically accurate movie tremendously, I became fascinated with the actor who played Salah El-Din, our own Tartoussi, Ghassan Massoud. I only knew by chance that he was born and that he grew up in a small village by the name of Fijleet. Among my springtime motorcycle jaunts I must’ve ridden through Fijleet at least once in the past but I couldn’t quite remember when. Reading the affectionate words Ghassan used to describe his village made me itch to go there.

The southern horizon - The Lebanese Cedar Mountains

Upon reaching Dreikish (elev. 500 m) and near the first intersection in town I stopped and asked a bystander for instructions. “You should go to the left there”, he pointed, “I’m going to Jnaynet Reslan and it’s on the way to Fijleet. I can ride along with you and show you the way if you don’t mind.” Of course I didn’t. The man was young, in his mid twenties perhaps. He taught at the local elementary school and thought that he would most certainly die if he ever left this country and moved anywhere else. “On Fridays, I trek these hills between the olive trees. I walked to Dreikish early this morning, bought a few things and was waiting for a microbus to get back to the Jnaynet until you showed up”, he confessed. “But tell me. Whom do you want to see in Fijleet?”, he asked.

The road climbed and winded

I told him that I was driving by and taking pictures and didn’t know anyone from around this area. He volunteered to take my picture with some beautiful scenery in the background and I gladly accepted. Once we reached his village he offered his natural hospitality and begged me to have lunch with him and his mother. I apologized reluctantly although I would’ve loved to take him up on his offer. When I left home earlier everyone was still in bed. I wanted to return on time to have a light lunch then go to the football game at the municipal stadium with Fares. Our local team Al-Sahel (The Coast) was playing at home against Ariha. They are doing very well in the 2nd division and might, just might, make it to the top level next season. Samir finally accepted my excuse as I promised to visit him on my next trip to his village.

Road Sign - Fijleet

The road ahead climbed and winded, knifing the endless hills with love and care. Off in the distance to the south the Lebanese Cedar Mountains shaped the jagged horizon. Up in front evergreen summits loomed closer and closer until I finally reached Fijleet (estimated elev 750 m). I parked my car by the side of the road and descended to see, smell, hear, touch, feel and breathe her timeless and regnant beauty.

Fijleet- Looking from the West

I cruised slowly through the narrow roads of the village, shot a few photos and basked in the sunshine. I contemplated the connection between Fijleet and Hollywood. Ghassan Massoud rose to stardom and international fame through his roles in Kingdom of Heaven (2005) and Pirates of the Caribbean: At World’s End (2007). He gained my respect and admiration for the heartfelt words of reverence and affection he bestowed on his native land.

A house in Fijleet

There’s no adobe like home wherever that might be. It is indeed a state of mind to call a place home and some of us might be fortunate enough to have more than one. As long as there’s a locus for us where we can walk in the pitch black of darkness and not stumble, we’re going to be fine. We can do that in our own backyard or somewhere, in the company of someone, whom we can fully trust to take our hand and show us the way.

Fijleet as seen from the East

Driving Instructions: From Tartous take the road to Dreikish, 30 km. Once in Dreikish and at the first roundabout, go left (North) then continue to Jnaynet Reslan 10 km ahead. Maintain the main road for 6 km to Fijleet. There are signs in Arabic along the way and you can always ask.

Love Tag

abufares@abufares.net (abufares) — Fri, 13 Feb 2009 11:11:00 +0000

Mariyah appeared in the middle of the night. "Don't be alarmed", she said, "it's just a tag. Tell me in 3 words, no more, no less. What would you like to receive on Valentine's day".
Before I even mused my answer, she disappeared in the dark.

Cliodna's perpetual emanation

Fabulous sirens chanted within, luring me to forgo any struggle and drown. As I surrendered my senses I realized there was no way on earth I could've said it all in 3 words except the way I did.

From Drop Box

I tag no one... Happy Valentine's

Until You Came Along

abufares@abufares.net (abufares) — Tue, 10 Feb 2009 14:42:00 +0000

I have been running away from myself, eluding a personal confrontation in the midst of crowds or when perfectly alone. Even in the moribund moments between the vitality of cognizance and the languor before sleep I am hesitant to bethink my desperation. Time fleets by unwary eyes whilst dreadful little is changing over the years. Finite grains in a sand clock glide down uninterrupted… interminably. No divine hand shall intervene to flip the contrivance upside down when all the jots of my life are heaped at the bottom. I will go like those before me. No chance for an honorary encore. My legacy trivial once I lose my grip on consciousness for the very last time.

From Monet Woman with a Parasol

Until you came along.
You filled all the desolate places, the forgotten corners, the inaccessible paths, the neglected memories and the forsaken dreams. I am a man who had trekked by the halfway marker before you egressed from the dense fog, who had crossed the point of no return while he waited for someone like you to give him the kiss of life… to rain precious water over his barren desert. I count the seconds for my time with you. I sip it leisurely like a consummate cognac… watch it cleave to the transparent walls of the glass, feel it permeate my skin… cherish it imbue my core then impregnate the marrow of my bones with you… ravishing you.

You are my untold past and my days to come.
The sparrows that abandoned the hills with the advent of fall. The stunning women who had made love to me on white satin sheets or in the back of parked automobiles. You are the children I played with. The friends I have lost along the way. The broken journey. The resolves never taken. You are the embrace I remember. My salad days sweetheart, my hopes, my inspiration, the purpose behind me, the warmth within, the light ahead. I lean on you blindfolded as you show me the way. I follow you to the end of earth, to the end of time.

You are my careworn present.
I long for your perfume. My lips hover over the nook of your neck. My nose snuggles beneath your ear as I explore the whole of you with the hands of my mind. I inhale your avalanche of bouvardia, carnations, freesias and lilacs. I suffocate without you in my arms, I go blind. I have to take you all in me as much as I need to be inside you. I pull back to gape at your enchanting face and lose myself in the turquoise lakes of your eyes. I miss you and scurry the few inches back like a fish gasping for water.

We hold hands and walk the sea, combing the crests of incensed waves, smoothing the wrinkles of time with relish and affection.
I long for you my darling. Come along.

Until You Came Along, a link to a beautiful song by Jeremy Allard