abufares said...the world according to a man from tartous

Broiled Syrian Chicken with Sumac

noreply@blogger.com (abufares tartoussi) — Wed, 12 Jun 2013 15:05:00 +0000

I like to think of myself as daring in love and spunky in the kitchen. That doesn’t imply that I’m terribly astir in the pursuit of either, but it does hint to a certain spasmodic talent. Or so I believe.

I rose to the occasion today, well at least on the culinary front, when I found myself facing the task of preparing lunch for my daughter and myself. Like a listless airline steward, resigned to asking his trite question, I cleared my throat and marveled out loud: “What would it be Nadia, pasta or chicken?” It was perhaps the fact that she didn't actually care and that she left me to my own devices that set me on the path to prepare and cook, the perfect Broiled Syrian Chicken with Sumac.

The very first time I heard that there's such an entree was in 1984 in Lafayette, Louisiana, of all places. I was driving on a side, obscure street, in the downtown area, when I saw a nondescript sign advertising Syrian Chicken. I parallel parked across from the olden structure and went in. A young lady, in her mid-seventies, greeted me with a smile that brought the charm of the Tartous countryside to southwestern Louisiana. Her parents came from Daher Safra, she confided, but she was born in the USA. She'd been home to Syria just once in the 1950's. She did speak a little Arabic though, and she knew how to cook Syrian food. I ordered her specialty, Broiled Syrian Chicken with Sumac, as per her recommendation. I don't think I ever tasted to this day any poultry dish that even comes close to her simple masterpiece. All I remember, however, is that it was served in a paper plate with onions and potatoes and that it tasted brazenly of sumac.

The idea of recreating this dish struck me. I was challenged by my daughter's indifference, and I intended to leave an immutable mark on her palate. I daresay that I exceeded my own expectations and most certainly hers with the outcome.

I cook by the seat of my pants. The list of ingredients below was compiled out of what I found in the fridge and the kitchen cabinets. Don't bother yourself with exact measurement. Follow your nose and eye, trust your delish memories, and have balls (or whatever the proper politically correct female equivalent are).

List of Ingredients:

1 chicken cut in pieces
4 medium sized potatoes (½” slices)
2 medium sized onions (cut in rings)
2 medium sized tomatoes (1/2” slices)
Bell peppers: 1 green, 1 red, and 1 orange (cut in rings)
A few jalapenos (if you're so inclined; cut in rings)
Garlic (as much as you want; peeled and finally chopped.
Every imaginable spice and dry pepper possible, or whatever you happen to have. I used cinnamon, cumin, black pepper, oregano, thyme, and red pepper flakes.
Sumac, plenty of.
1 liter of red wine or balsamic vinegar
Salt
Ketchup, HP sauce, mustard, Tabasco, soy sauce... whatever, eh!

Preparation:

In a bowl, marinate the pieces of chicken, after cutting them diagonally in the wine or vinegar, adding all the spices listed above and salt. Cover and leave in the fridge for 3 hours.
Spread the potatoes, onions, tomatoes, peppers and garlic in a pan. Place the pieces of chicken on top.
Top each piece with ketchup, HP sauce, mustard, Tabasco, soy sauce and sprinkle with plenty of sumac. Wipe them evenly with a knife.
Pour the spicy marinating wine or vinegar in the pan making sure it covers the veggies but not the pieces of chicken.
Cover and seal pan with aluminum foil, place in oven at 185ºC for 1 hour.
Remove aluminum foil and turn top heat in oven on for 15 minutes.
Serve and enjoy.

Tipcat of Tartous

noreply@blogger.com (abufares tartoussi) — Mon, 03 Jun 2013 14:47:00 +0000

The European Football (soccer) season came to a close at the end of May. From then until the first week of September, a 53-year-young boy would go crazy without a day-to-day sport spectacle to watch. Fortunately, there are the occasional whatchamacallit tournaments and various competitive track and field events. Yet, these competitions don’t provide a reclining-seat jockey with enough sustainable action to keep him, or his Martini glass at least, sweating. Not unless it’s women’s tennis, but alas, there’s never enough of that. This is when baseball comes to the rescue, and just in the nick of time. I’m a baseball fan, and I look forward to a long and lazy summer of idle involvement. You see, I don’t really care who wins the World Series. As long as these big overpaid athletes keep chewing and spitting, scratching themselves and hitting the occasional ball, I’m happy. I’m not absolutely certain if I’m the only one in Tartous who follows Major League Baseball on television, but it pretty much could be the case. A few nights ago, I stumbled upon the NCAA Softball Women’s College World Series. Washington was playing Nebraska in a very tight and competitive game. I remembered the one time in my life I actually played baseball. It was 1978, in a park in Champaign-Urbana, Illinois with a bunch of college kids. I batted a few times and got a hit or two, but then I had to pitch. I wish I didn’t, as my very first throw knocked the batter (a very nice girl I knew) unconscious after it smacked her straight in the head. I smiled, despite myself, for the wonderful ride down memory lane this mental keepsake had put me on. But then, I remembered another game, one I played much earlier right here in Tartous, and for a brief moment I was a kid again, grinning from ear to ear.

By the end of May, schools in this part of the world slam their gates shut too, before the brutal summer crawls into the classrooms and indiscriminately claims the souls of both innocent and mischievous kids alike. They take to the streets in droves, shedding their beige uniforms of submission and conformity. Jumping down a flight of stairs in a leap or two, or climbing down the drainpipe from my bedroom window, I sneak my way to one of the shaded alleys that sprung from Al Mina Street, like the skinny legs of a giant centipede. While my folks nap in the blast of a Parkinson’s inflicted pedestal fan, I keep cool by running into the relative wind of my perpetual motion.

AL-Mina Street, 1958

Tartous, where I grew up, and its scrawny backstreets are no longer what they used to be. They are filled with cars battling to park or to pass through. The broad sidewalks were heartlessly cleaved to make room for more asphalt, so that more cars can battle for a parking space or for their right of passage. Children of Tartous, unlike those of most of Syria today, are lucky they haven’t lost their homes yet. They settle down with whatever electronic device they’re hooked on, shut off the bland reality of their presence, and play in a space and time that exist until their devices run out of charge, or the power goes down, inevitably. If they make it through the raging war that is consuming the country, they will grow up without memories. These are the lucky ones, of course. I can’t even write about the others.

Forty years ago, in an alley behind my home by the sea, a bunch of motley boys with scraped knees met every afternoon, when their shadows outgrew their bodies, and played Assa wa Da’as (العصا والدأس). Amazingly, I have not thought about this game since I was a teenager. During all of these years of living in the United States and/or in Tartous, the similarity between Baseball and Assa wa Da’as never struck me until I saw those young girls playing in that Nebraska field.

It was late at night when the softball game was over, but I couldn’t sleep until I got to the bottom of it. What was that game we played, and who invented it? How did it make it to Tartous and become such a fixture in my growing up years, then entirely disappeared as if it never happened? My Arabic search on Google only brought frustration. Assa means stick (or bat), Da’as means absolutely nothing, but that’s what we called the game in Tartous. I have no idea whether it was played in other parts of Syria and/or the Middle East in the 1960’s and early 1970’s, but it could’ve. If you, the reader, have any pertinent information, please share it by email or in a comment on this post.

Assa wa Da'as (Bat and Tipcat)

I needed an English word for Da’as, which simply is a short 4” to 6” wooden stick, chamfered (or tapered) on both sides. If the da’as is struck with the Assa (bat) on its tapered edge it is propelled into the air; and once airborne, it’s hit hard, again with the bat, to cover the longest distance possible. Finally, I struck gold on Google; our backstreet Tartoussi game was invented in the 17th century in Britain and is considered, along with Rounders, as the origin of modern-day baseball. It even has a name: Tipcat!

Tipcat, according to most sources, was very popular in Great Britain starting from the 19th century and in North America and the colonies from the early 20th century. It’s a street game played under different rules, all made up by kids to accommodate for their local topography and street layout. In 2005, Ron Hughes of Birmingham wrote about his memories as a boy in WWII People’s War - An archive of World War Two memories - written by the public, gathered by the BBC: “Other times we’d play Tipcat. Do you know what that is? You needed a small piece of wood, about 4 inches long by 2 inches, chamfered at both ends. You put this on the road and then tap the pointed end with a bat saying: ‘tip, tip, CAT!’ On ‘cat!’ you hit the pointed end really hard and spun the small piece of wood up into the air. As it flew up, you hit it hard with the bat and sent it flying off down the street. Or if it was me, I’d hit it straight into a window. I learnt to run fast playing that game!”

Tipcat

I don’t think I ever broke any windows but I still remember our rules of the game, vaguely. Tartoussi Tipcat was played by 2 teams of an undetermined number of players each. One batter from Team A approaches the home base, which was made up of two rocks the size of cocounts, where the tipcat lay perched in between. He will then place his bat underneath and flip the tipcat up and away. Fielders from Team B will try to catch it before it hits the ground, and if they succeed, the batter is out. If the tipcat does fall on the ground without being caught first, a fielder will “underarm-pitch” it from the spot, in an attempt to strike the home base (either or both rocks). The batter has to defend the home base with his bat. If the tipcat strikes the home base, the batter is out. If the batter intercepts the tipcat with his bat, or better yet, hits it away, the game continues. Now here is where my memory begins to get a little sketchy, but I’m still very close to the essence of the game we played. The batter taps the tipcat with the bat and hits is as hard as possible to cover the longest distance. This action is repeated 3 times, after which he will call the number of leaps it will take him to cover the total distance from the tipcat’s last position to homebase. The captain of the fielders will either allow the batter to go for it or accept to take the challenge (himself or one of his fielders) in a fewer number of leaps. If he allows the batter to go ahead, the latter makes the jumping leaps and if he succeeds to cover the distance in the declared number of leaps or less, his Team A is credited by the called number. If the batter fails, the points are awarded to Team B. On the other hand, if the captain of Team B accepts the challenge, he or one of his fielders attempts to cover the distance by the lesser number of leaps he challenged with. If he fails, the full original number (points) are awarded to Team A. If Team B makes it, they earn the points instead. The two teams then reverse positions. That was one hell of a competitive game and probably explains the scraped nonhealing knees.

We played this game for hours on end. We obviously didn’t think much about its origins or who brought it to town. Based on the online research I conducted, I’m inclined to believe that a returning expatriot teeanager, most likely from North America, brought it back and taught the other kids how to play. I don’t have enough to go on, under the current conditions in Syria, to seek answers from other cities. I can’t put an exact timeframe about the Tipcat’s earliest emergence in Tartous, but I estimate it to be around at least the late 1920’s since my father remembers playing it in the 1930’s. The British didn’t occupy Syria, and I couldn’t find evidence that the game was played in France. Accordingly, I’m omitting the possibility that the French introduced it here. It’s all conjecture on my part, of course, but I think I have presented the most plausible explanation.

Recently, Fares, my boy, joined me in watching baseball. As soon as he grabbed the complex rules, he began to enjoy it. The Yankees are already his favorites, since he likes New York as a city he’d never set foot in, and since their uniforms are “cool”. Until he goes to the USA one day, he won’t get a chance to play baseball, I don’t think. “Next time you’re there, get me the Major League Baseball 2K12 for the PS3.” He said. I told him about the Tipcat his grandfather and I played but he offhandedly dismissed it. “Nah, just get me the real thing”, he said, “ I saw it on Youtube and it’s so real, it’s realer than real.” As long as we have electricity, I thought, and a roof over our heads. ‘Tip, tip, CAT!’

References:
http://boston1775.blogspot.com/2007/07/how-to-play-tip-cat.html
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tip-cat
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gilli-danda
http://www.britannica.com/EBchecked/topic/596709/tip-cat
http://www.bbc.co.uk/history/ww2peopleswar/stories/41/a3909341.shtml
http://www.greaterkashmir.com/news/2011/Nov/6/tip-cat-my-pastime-4.asp
http://www.libdemvoice.org/opinion-free-our-children-to-play-tipcat-25112.html
http://www.britannica.com/EBchecked/topic/596709/tip-cat
http://museums.leics.gov.uk/collections-on-line/GetObjectAction.do?objectKey=273976
http://fairetymetoys.com/pmwiki.php?n=Main.TipCatNative
http://books.google.com/books?id=DBCt7IZfGv8C&pg=PA129&lpg=PA129&dq=origin+of+the+tipcat+game&source=bl&ots=r_dZYP9BZI&sig=4rSM5BIf7p-jFiTKBMzU4dpFyH4&hl=en&sa=X&ei=irWpUY6UNcz40gXPmoGADw&ved=0CGcQ6AEwBw#v=onepage&q=origin%20of%20the%20tipcat%20game&f=false
http://www.inquiry.net/outdoor/games/beard/tipcat.htm

Helmi Habbab - Master of Calligraphers

noreply@blogger.com (abufares tartoussi) — Thu, 09 May 2013 09:06:00 +0000

In the fall of 1977, while waiting for admission at the University of Southwestern Louisiana, I enrolled at the College of Fine Arts in Damascus University. I knew that my tenure was only temporary, and that I would leave as soon as the paperwork was completed and my visa issued. Yet, the four months I spent there, from September till December of that year, make up for one of the most spirited periods in my life.

Courtesy of Old Sham

The building where the College of Fine Arts was housed was far removed from the main campus of the Damascus University. In fact, it was located at one of the peripheral roundabouts, in a more or less residential area. The photo above was taken from the Fine Arts building itself, and this is exactly how I like to remember Damascus, not the subsequent mutation and eventual aberration. Although I was neither talented as an artist, nor serious as a student, I did get up to my elbows in work. I took Drawing, Sculpture, Advertisement and Calligraphy in my first and only semester there, and somehow managed passing grades in all of my projects and even excelled in one or two.

It was a time when Fine Arts students were reputed to be the Bohemians of the Damascene academic realm. For all I know, it may still be the case today, assuming there remains any semblance of academia amid the mayhem and destruction. University students had not yet succumbed to the systematic eradication of individuality, which ultimately defaced younger generations into mere bricks in the wall. The cafeteria on the roof of the building was city-renowned for its avant-garde atmosphere. We were the envy of Medical, Engineering, Law and every school out there. Green with jealousy, the brainy nerds consoled themselves with the conviction that nothing good would come out of us, libidinous art students. We were indeed good for nothing bums, but who needed purpose, when we had all the fun.

I lived at my aunt's in Azbakieh, at the end of Baghdad Street, (about a mile off to the right, in the photo above). I remember waking up early in the morning and walking to college, clumsily carrying my supplies and tools with a lit cigarette dangling between my lips. I also remember being among the last to leave in the evening when Saber, the doorman, had to lock the place down. The Fine Arts building was the center of my universe, and I spent every waking moment there, either in class or on that unforgettable roof.

Although those were endearing times, I haven't thought about them in years. I lost contact with everyone, and I have no idea what had become of my friends. I remember Majed, Mona, Haifa and Maha as my closest buddies. I remember Salma, the gorgeous petite, and the way she played with her ponytail, as I sweet-talked her in vain. I remember the doorman whom we called Ammo Saber; some of the teachers, pretentious and sincere; but I mostly remember Master Helmi Habbab.

Damascus University Sign by Helmi Habbab - Courtesy of Ayman Haykal

Helmi Habbab (1909- 2000) was honored with the title of “Master of Syrian Calligraphers, شيخ الخطاطين السوريين” in 1997, upon reaching his 88th birthday. I believe that Mr. Habbab is the best modern Arabic Calligrapher, a claim a few critics would be able or willing to challenge. I was disheartened when I found so little information about him online, which was mostly in Arabic. This, of course, is not a shortcoming of his, but rather of an unavailing Ministry of Culture, a knavish government, and a corrupt media machine that’s only good at fomenting, feeding and fostering a cult of personality.

For scholars and historians, interested in the Art of Calligraphy, Helmi Habbab is a household name. An astute observer can find the artist’s great work in many parts of Damascus, among which is the sublime calligraphy at the Othman Mosque and the uncounted official placards and signs on public buildings and institutes. I was first introduced to his work years before I had the honor of meeting him in person. In the early 1960’s, Syrian Television started its daily programming at 5:30 PM with the National Anthem, followed by fifteen minutes of Quran reciting. The heavenly voice belonged to Sheikh Abdul Baset Abdul Samad of Egypt. The calligraphy on every cascading tile was always signed in Arabic, at the bottom left corner with a dot-less Helmi.

http://www.albayan.ae/sports/1190114538720-2007-09-28-1.794064

The sexagenarian man with the white hair and goatee entered the small auditorium and it instantly rippled with a Mexican wave of silence. He was known for his sternness and zero tolerance for the follies of smart-ass students. But, he was also known for having a soft spot. He loved them, young and pretty coeds, and took advantage of the fact that he was hard of hearing. He would lean very close to listen to them when they talked (he taught me that trick). Thirty seconds after walking in, and having secured our absolute and undivided attention, he started with a story.

I was an apprentice in 1933 when I was commissioned to calligraph the giant sign on the main facade of the Khoumassieh Company building. I used a special wooden pen with a long thin handle and a 40 cm (16”) round tip. While propped on a scaffold, I looked down and saw a group of French dignitaries standing in silence and observing. Although I didn’t appreciate people looking over my shoulder as I worked, I wasn’t exactly sitting at a desk in the privacy of my study. Eventually, I climbed down and was immediately surrounded by the Frenchmen and their Syrian interpreter. “Mais monsieur, vous êtes un artiste!” exclaimed the fat one, as he vigorously shook my hand. The interpreter faithfully translated the short statement, uttering the word “artiste” in French for lack of a synonym in Arabic.
“You and your mother are the artists, you dirty French Pig.” I yelled back and almost clubbed him with my giant pen. The interpreter and a whole bunch of people, who appeared out of nowhere, had to restrain me until the gendarme arrived. I did attack a French citizen, and this came with at least a jail sentence. It took awhile, and a lot of persuasion, from good-willers to convince the visitors how and why I was so offended and infuriated by being called an “artiste”. After all, for us Arabs in the 1930’s, and up until today, the only artists we know of are the showgirls working in nightclubs and cabarets. This is how most people would look at you, young boys and girls if you don’t make a name for yourselves. So if you’re not absolutely sure you love the Arts and are ready to make sacrifices, you don’t belong in the College of Fine Arts.

Some time between Christmas and New Year, I saw my professor Helmi Habbab for the last time. He was sixty eight. I was two months short of my 18th birthday. But in the span of a few months, we have become good friends. I had told him about my intention to travel to the United States to study to become a City Planner, something he personally considered as a heroic undertaking on my part. He grew up and lived all of his life in Damascus. Traveling across the ocean tickled an unrealized dream that he buried deep in his heart. He encouraged me and gave me valuable advice. In return, I treated him with utmost respect and reverence. My buddies couldn’t understand how I, known as one of the most jocular kids in college, and Master Habbab, known as the strictest and most serious of professors, could have stricken such a formidable friendship. He thought the world of me and took me for a son. He was a father figure, who taught me that no matter how fatuous I was, I would always honor my teachers and mentors.

In April of 1978, and in response to a letter I sent him from America, Helmi Habbab calligraphed his reply on a sized paper. He used a bamboo pen and Chinese ink to scribe his words of encouragement and wisdom on what became my personal treasure. I don’t think I deserve most of the praise, but I’m honored nevertheless. I owe him a tome of gratitude that would take a lifetime to put down on paper or on a screen. My handwriting, like my calligraphy, are still mediocre, but despite the many ups and downs, I would’ve still made him proud of me. I fared well in America but always kept Syria, the one he taught me, in my heart. Rest in Peace Good Master. When our true history is written, your name will be calligraphed in letters of gold.

Sgian Dubh

noreply@blogger.com (abufares tartoussi) — Sat, 27 Apr 2013 10:41:00 +0000

I woke up with a jolt, gasping for air. Where am I? I couldn't tell. Sparks flew, as the burning wood crackled in the fireplace, then hissed and sizzled. I was hot, my skin was burning. I kicked at the covers and took my pajamas off and threw them away.

Never in my life had I set foot in Scotland. Oh, how I longed for the Highlands in an inexplicable, almost salmonlike obsession. There it was, undeniably imbued in my bone marrow, an arduous crossing that would land me there one day. I would hike uphill, across formidable terrain, with rocky peaks and broad precipices, until my lungs would scream for mercy in the confinement of a finite ribcage. I would sit down as close as I dared near the edge of a cliff and breathe the unsullied air.

I heard the tings from afar. The bellwether led the climb, followed by a flock of a hundred sheep. A black and white border collie ran the flanks, keeping a tidy queue along the narrow path. A fair shepherdess of seventeen or so, wearing a dress of white wool, pranced with a gamesome gait until she saw me. She hesitated for a moment, her red hair whirling in the wind like a fire on a lighthouse from centuries past, before she bravely resumed her walk. The collie’s ears perked up. It assumed an undaunted stance and wedged its way between its mistress and me. I slowly rose, took my tam off and in a friendly tone addressed the lass. Latha math, I said in Gaelic. Good day. I had no idea whence the words came from or what they meant until they were uttered.

Latha math, she replied, Co às a tha thu, coigreach? Where are you from, stranger?
I come from a distant land. I think I’m lost.
Dè an t-ainm a th'ort?
Abufares of Tartous
Tha mi toilichte do choinneachadh. She was pleased to meet me. Is mise Fionnaghal. A bheil an t-acras ort?
Hello Fionnaghal. What a beautiful name you have! Yes, I’m hungry indeed.

She signaled for me to follow. Not more than a mile ahead, beyond a bend, we started to descend. By dusk, we reached a village where the smoke rose from the chimneys of houses built of stone. A younger boy, carrying Fionnaghal’s genes, greeted us and took charge of the flock after exchanging a quick word with her. She led the way to a row of single story homes and came to a stop near a quaint blue door. She pushed it open and ushered me in. A big man sat behind a table near the fire. Fionnaghal introduced me to her father. He stood up and met us halfway across the room. He welcomed me with a huge grin on his face and asked me to join him at the table. Once little Dàn corralled the sheep and came in, dinner was served.

We ate Cullen Skink and Haggis, and the old man and myself drank a single malt made in heaven. I entered this house famished and cold, but now I was full and warm. We talked the night away, Fionnaghal’s father instructing me in the history of the Highlands, while I told him of my wounded country. Around midnight, he apologized for having to go to bed. He had to leave early in the morning on an errand. He carried Dàn, who had long fallen asleep, and wished me good night.

Fionnaghal transformed the sofa into a bed and fed more wood to the fire. "This will keep you warm for the night", she said. It was her brother’s turn to take the flock out tomorrow. She’ll prepare coffee and breakfast and pack enough food to carry me through the day. She left the room long enough for me to change into the flannel pajamas her father had brought. The trousers were ridiculously large and I had to hold them around the waist to keep them from falling. She folded my kilt and waistcoat and neatly placed them on a chair. My washed shirt and hoses she hung by the fireplace to dry.

"Where’s your Sgian Dubh?" she asked, alarmed. I admitted that I didn't have one. A Sgian dubh (prounced Skeen Dhu) is a Scottish flat edge knife or dagger worn in the top of the right stocking (hose). It literally translates to black knife (Dubh: black) and (Sgian: knife). In darker, more treacherous times, it was worn concealed under the armpit as a backup and secret weapon, thus the double-meaning of Dubh (black or concealed). I couldn’t but marvel about the fact that Skeen meant Knife in Arabic too. Fionnaghal brought me out of my reverie. "You can’t wander around alone and unarmed", she said, sounding like a worried mother. She went into her room at the back of the house and returned a minute later with a folded silk hankie. From within, she produced a beautiful Sgian Dubh. Standing close, I could smell the earth scent of her hair and skin. I was transfixed by the blue of her eyes and the red of her lips as she tucked me in. "You need to rest for the long walk tomorrow", she whispered. Gently, she lifted the pillow underneath my head and hid the knife there.

Promise you always keep it near you.
Mesmerized by the moment, I did.
She kissed my forehead and lulled me to sleep.

I woke up with a jolt, shivering in a pool of sweat. When am I? I couldn't tell. A feeble glow remained as the last log crumbled and fell dead in the fireplace. I was naked and cold. I desperately fumbled in the darkness underneath my pillow until my fingers came in touch with the familiar shape of the Sgian Dubh. I sighed, then closed my eyes and fell back into a dreamless sleep.

Lured by Vampires

noreply@blogger.com (abufares tartoussi) — Mon, 11 Feb 2013 10:49:00 +0000

On a late Tennessee afternoon, after riding an ophidian road that slithered for a hundred miles and reeked with the smothery heat of August, I leaned my motorcycle on its kickstand and walked toward a fountain. I was in a pleasant little town, whose name had long been erased off the blackboard of my memory, and whose main square was flanked on four sides by an array of retail and souvenir shops. The gurgling of the water, mixed with the chirping of house sparrows lazing in the shade, reverberated against the spire and the walls of an olden church. I soaked my bandanna then wrung it above my head twice or thrice, drenching myself, and abating my body heat below torment. Finally, when the leaves above quivered with a light breeze, I wrapped the bandanna around my neck and went for a walk.

Small bookstores and petite women allure me, offering me no means to escape. I could spend a lifetime in or with them, so it was ineluctable that I got drawn toward a senescent storefront, where behind a pane of glass, inscribed with the name Lilith, a tiny silhouette arranging books upon the shelves briefly appeared like a fleeting chimera. The door creaked before a chime betrayed my ingression. “I would be with you in a minute,” her drawl came in sweet and soothing, making me long for nightfall so that the whole world would fall silent and only the echo of her voice remained.

She was short and sweet, in the way dreams are. “Can I help you find something?” She smiled, and my knees went weak. I couldn't tell if it were mere fatigue or the blue of her eyes that made me walk toward a wooden chair and sit down without meaning to. She didn't seem to mind and her smile didn't waver. I told her what a beautiful place she got, looking around me and admiring the crowded rows of used paperbacks and leatherbound books. She busied herself with a huge pile on a cart while I kept my gaze fixed on her every move. My lower vantage point offered an even more dazzling look of her subtle curves. I didn't want to be anywhere else.

I had coffee with Lilith and an engaging conversation that day, and left at sunset with a gargantuan book from her bookstore. It was the one she had read last. When you're haunted by words and you keep turning pages long past bedtime, think of Lilith. That's what I have of her, a dedication on a blank page that I follow with my fingertips whenever I bring a new addition to my collection and place it not too far from Lilith's book, The Historian. Every time I read a horror novel or watch a scary movie, and whenever I hear of vampires or get myself entangled in a television series about a covenant of the nocturnal blood sucking creatures, I think of her. I remember Lilith with sweet affection, although her true legacy was to entrap me in the genre of the macabre forever.

Then a week ago, another enchanting petite, according to her own description of herself, surprised me with an out of the ordinary request. My dear friend and one of the most elegant bloggers ever, Isobel of Suffonsifisms, sought my opinion. “I'm writing a post on my blog about vampires and was wondering if the legend had any Levantine roots.” She too had read The Historian, by American author Elizabeth Kostova, and is a self-confessed vampirical buff. We agreed that we shall both post concurrently on the subject while leaving each other to his or her own devices. Since I believe that everything after humanity started in or near the Levant, I had no doubt in my mind that I would find evidence in the distant past of our land being infested with thirsty blood sucking fiends and monsters, or at least one. I was right.

Lilitu, the grandmother of all vampires, was a Sumerian demon who made her first appearance around 2,000BC. Her name was found on a clay tablet in Ur of Mesopotamia (modern day Iraq). It came from the Akkadian words lil and itu. Lil (Leil) still has the same meaning in Arabic: night, while itu translates into female entity in the Akkadian language. Lilitu, the female being of the night, lived in the trunk of the Goddess Inanna's sacred tree of life in the city of Uruk on the Tigris river. A dragon dwelled in the roots, while a horrific Zu bird nested in its upper branches. Inanna was saddened because her hope of making a throne and a bed for herself from the tree couldn’t be fulfilled. King Gilgamesh came to her rescue and uprooted the willow tree, killing the dragon with his sword. The bird flew off to the mountains while Lilitu, the spirit of the tree, as she was also known, barely escaped after destroying her own home. She made it to the wilderness where she fed on the blood of newborn babies and pregnant women.

The old testament, the first plagiarized work of fiction, picked Lilitu's story and changed her name to Lilith. I was dumbfounded when I read the name. Lilith came from the Babylonian Talmud, where according to Jewish mythology, she was a demon who fed on the blood of children. She made her maiden biblical appearance in Isaiah 34:14 among a list of animals. Later on, between the 8th and 10th century BC, Jewish folklore spiced up the story with the usual religious misogyny. Lilith was Adam's first wife, created with him, at the same time and of the same earth, by God. The legend sank deeper into infamy in the 13th century in the tradition of Judaic mysticism. Lilith left Adam after she refused to become his subservient. Instead of returning to the Garden of Eden as ordered by God, she mated with archangel Samael. Fed up with her defiance, God, and upon the incessant pleading of Adam, made a second wife for him. This time, however, he created Eve from Adam's ribs so she would forever be his subordinate. The animosity toward women in monotheist religions is as bewildering as it is disgusting, but Lilith, daughter of Lilitu and the free spirited woman who refused to play second fiddle to a psychotically insecure Adam, is the mother of vampires. More incredible still is the fact that some biblical scholars dispute the Sumerian origin of Lilith. They have fallen victims to their own perjury. They would, if they could, erase any mention of Lilitu and try to rewrite history into one that is void of the splendor that preceded monotheist hegemony.

Bram Stoker's Dracula, a Gothic horror novel written in 1897, maimed the original beautiful legend of a night creature, who was branded as a demon by the Sumerians and as a slut by the Jews simply because she defended her right to an alternative lifestyle. This is how I actually feel about many historical and almost all theological villains. The mediocre work of the Irishman didn't even manage to stir the imagination of Victorian England. It was discovered, however, some years later by Hollywood, and we all know what happens when American producers get their hands on a potentially sensational blockbuster. Fact and fiction were thrown together into an otiose oven and Vlad III (1431-1476), of the House Draculesti, Prince of Wallachia and a national hero of his native Romania, was posthumously transmuted into a vampire. Lilith, my Lilith, suggested that I might be tempted to investigate the Turkish/Muslim connection in The Historian, a more refined and elaborate piece of writing on the prince who was the inspiration behind the character Count Dracula. She was fascinated by Vlad the Impaler, as he was known to foe and friend, and by the region of Transylvania, where the alleged story unfolded. Isobel asked me if there were any trace of the legend in Turkey and the Middle East. She thought that the book must have stirred my curiosity. They were both right of course. The Historian intrigued me and haunted my nights, although I have deeply conflicting feelings about it.

As a thriller, the book is brilliantly written. As a historical novel, it is drivel. As much as I enjoyed the plot itself, the fact that it hijacked the pasts of real people and circumstances and turned them into lies offended me. I am an avid fan of Historical Fantasy, where the author chooses an undisclosed location in Europe in the Middle Ages for instance, and creates his own parallel universe. But to select actual historical figures, such as Romanian Prince Vlad III and Ottoman Sultan Mehmed II and twist authentic events and battles, and counterfeit the course of history in the hope of making a box office hit movie is too unctuous to digest. It is as slimy as the historical plagiarism committed by religion twenty centuries earlier. In the words of Paul Barber, a research associate at the Fowler Museum of Cultural History in California, “Vlad Drakul was a figure in Romanian history whose only association with the vampire lore is that Bram Stoker named the character Dracula after him..., and by being associated with vampires — even if only via fiction — Vlad Drakul has become the only figure in Romanian history that Americans have ever heard about. If the Romanians began to make movies portraying George Washington as a ghoul, we would know what they feel like."

The legend of the Ghoul, well established in the Arab World, was documented in One thousand and One Nights, a collection of Arabic, Persian, Indian, Egyptian and Mesopotamian folk tales, and traces back to the Abbasid's golden period of Islam between the 8th and 13th century. The Ghoul is mentioned in several compilations of oral folklore in the Arabian Peninsula and the Levant during the Jahiliyyah, which immediately preceded the birth of Islam. The monster was credited with drinking blood and cannibalism, it belonged to the Jinn and was commanded by Iblis (Satan). The Ghoul is a significant historical vampire, although it came with different attributes according to local variations. There are male and female versions of the Ghoul that manifested itself as a hyena, a giant, a humanoid, an ogre, and even a dragon. However, the legends I am aware of, and despite of their diversity in details, lack a clear sexual context, perhaps as a result of Islamic prohibition. I didn't find any account of Turkish vampire lore originating in the 15th century to lend any credibility to the pop-cultural Dracula simply because it doesn't exist. Vlad III was a formidable enemy. He had slaughtered tens of thousands of Ottoman troops over the course of several campaigns. To them, he was a ruthless killer, thus when he was finally captured, Mehmed II had his head cut off and brought to Constantinople both as proof and a trophy. No garlic to ward him off, no splashing with holy water to make him cringe in disgust, no wooden stake through the heart to kill the undead. A fine edged scimitar severed his head and killed him instantly. The Ottomans were relieved. The Romanians had their national hero. Centuries later, Hollywood had a ball.

The tremendous popularity of the recent Twilight Saga, originally a novel written by Stephenie Meyer in 2005, both as a television series and as a movie trilogy, attests to the genre's attractiveness, especially to younger people. It also signifies a divergence from the shallowness of Dracula lore. Vampirism possesses a primitive erotic quality and these newer depictions addressed this aspect in a more lucid form than the false modesty of Victorian literature. In a moment of passionate abandonment, biting a sexual partner's neck and drawing blood may be a manifestation of the natural. I am aware of the mating rituals of various mammals, cousins of ours, and in particular of felines. The biting of the neck is an integral part of courting, foreplay and consummation. I can faintly see a taut hair separating love from possessiveness, desire from craving, longing from thirst, and I embrace the carnal appeal of a lustful bite and the lascivious hint behind a twin drops of red blood. Vampires spoke to our sexual repressions from the very beginning. Lilitu was the holy whore of the Sumerians. She brought erotic dreams to men while they slept and appropriated their semen. Gilgamesh chased her into a nocturnal life of exile in honor of a more "righteous" woman, Inanna. Lilith was a tramp, who disobeyed her husband and didn’t let him take her in the missionary position, which apparently was the only one that suited his ego. God punished her by sending three of his angels, hitmen really, to kill one hundred of her offspring a day. The fall of these women was instigated by sick male chauvinism, the hallmark of Religion, which demonized sex and continues to until this day. But they were beautiful and independent women, grandmother and mother, and no man, dead or alive, could ever change that or take it away from them. Vampires, like witches, were daring women who said no to repressed men with uncouth beards.

I turned the first page of The Historian over and listened to the beguiling handwritten scrawl as it morphed into Lilith's sweet soothing drawl from years and miles yonder. There was something about Lilith's smile back then that I couldn't quite fathom, attractive but daunting. I closed my eyes shut and suddenly remembered how tight my bandanna felt around my neck and the tingling throbbing in my jugular vein when I had a glimpse of her sharp canines. I shook my head to clear the vision and tried to return to the here and now, but a chilling flashback bore through my bones and my skin tingled as if a legion of aunts crawled over every square inch of my flesh. Elena Gilbert's biological mother in the hit television series The Vampire Diaries was Isobel Flemming. She was turned into a vampire at her request by the evil Damon Salvatore. But there was something else, even more disturbing, lying just beneath the surface of my consciousness. This blogger Isobel has Scottish ancestry in her blood. I choked, almost swallowing my throat, at the thought of blood streaming over white skin. There was this... this witch, Isobel Gowdie was her name, who was tried in Scotland for witchcraft in 1662. Her confession, allegedly without torture, shed a grim light about the deeds of her coven and made her one of the most famous witches in Scottish history. Visibly shaken, I nervously clicked the About Me photo on Isobel's Suffonsifisms blog. A charming woman with short hair smiled back at me, seemingly innocent yet foxing. I stared hard at the woman's face, then at her teeth... Nah, it couldn't be! It's just a coincidence, I told myself, it’s only my imagination gone wild in the dead of night.

Note:
Lilitu, Lilith and the vampire lore have been extensively researched and studied over the centuries. Online, thousands of articles are available for the interested reader's perusal, and they vary from the mediocre to the excellent. The bibliography listed below is in no way all inclusive. These are some of the sources I used in writing this post but I must admit that I may have omitted years of sporadic reading on the subject. While I barely skimmed the surface of three thousands years of vampirology, my intention was to stir your imagination.

Something to Sink my Teeth into
The Historian by Elizabeth Kostova, 2005
Lilith in the Epic of Gilgamesh
Alphabet of Sirach
Wikipidia Lilith
Bram Stoker Dracula
Wikipidia Vlad the Impaler
Dracula: The Vampire & the Voivode, a historical documentary (movie)
Wikipidia Mehmed the Conqueror
Wikipidia Ghoul
Wikipidia One Thousand and One Nights
Wikipidia Jahiliyyah
The Vampire Diaries
Isobel Gowdie

Staking Claims: The Vampires of Folklore and Fiction
Twilight Series
Paranormal Arabia: Lilith, a legend of the defiant female
Wikipidia Vampire Folklore by Regions
Dracula the Vampire and the Voivode, movie documentary

Year End Riders

noreply@blogger.com (abufares tartoussi) — Mon, 31 Dec 2012 14:23:00 +0000

This is a short story I wrote in the last week of December, 2012 as a Christmas present for a dear friend. Originally, I posted it in 13 daily installments on this blog, then once done, I edited it one last time and posted it in whole on a separate page.

It's also available for free download as a PDF file for your private and offline reading pleasure (or pain).

Happy Free Year. May it be a better one for all.

God's Land (Part II)

noreply@blogger.com (abufares tartoussi) — Sun, 11 Nov 2012 13:47:00 +0000

2nd and final part of an account of a road trip across the USA

Day 4 September 14th, 2012 Powell, WY to Keystone, SD 400 miles / 640 km
I woke up the day after Yellowstone shivering under a blanket of melancholy. I got behind the wheel and wondered what else on the long trip ahead could rapture me like this primordial world. Powell, Wyoming was a small town in the middle of nowhere. The hardships of a failed economy had left their markings on the decrepit buildings and the empty main street. I wanted to stay there a bit longer, for what I didn't know, but my father, a doctor who knew the secrets of the body and mind, had more sense left in him. "Come on! Let's get going", he patted me on the back, shaded his eyes with a pair of sunglasses and took an early nap.
The morning was young when we started an incredible twisting climb up the Rockies, passing 8,000 ft / 2483 meter to unmarked heights. We were crossing the continent's backbone from the American Northwest into the Midwest. Once we reached the crest of our ascent, I pulled to the side. We both stood in awe watching the wild country we were leaving behind, perhaps never to see again. Our descent into what remained of Wyoming was no less spectacular with repeated short stops to cool the scorched brake pads. By midday we traversed the state line as the landscape changed into the rolling Black Hills of South Dakota.
I started drooling over the wild Buffalo Burger I'm going to eat in the little picturesque town of Cody. We reached it in the afternoon but unfortunately the BB Cody's Bar and Steakhouse, highly recommended by my friend, the old biker, didn't open for business till 5:00PM. Too hungry to wait, we decided that we'd better hunt for food somewhere else. We punched in Mt. Rushmore details on the GPS screen. "Take us there Connie. Give me your shortest route."
The next hour was the part my father would never forget on this trip. Connie, faithful to my wish and trying to please, led us on a dirt road across dense woods. Dad swore that we would be lost forever and that nobody would find us. The trail was narrow and bumpy, and as we left a whirlpool of red dust behind, we were getting further and further from the scarce civilization in that part of North America. While the good doctor lost all hope, I was impressed by Connie. Erotic fancies of being stranded in a forest with a bored Scottish housewife distracted me, when all of a sudden the car emerged on an uncharted intersection with a busy highway. I braked hard and sheepishly smiled at my dad. "We made it", I gulped, but he wasn't in the least impressed.
It was written in the stars that we should have buffalo meat for dinner. Five hundred yards down the road, we pulled into the parking lot of the Powder House Lodge where we ate our fill and enjoyed the hospitality of the friendly owners, almost at the foot of Mt. Rushmore. Under the gaze of George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Theodore Roosevelt and Abraham Lincoln I contemplated the irony of America. Universal suffrage was gained by stripping children of lesser gods of their freedom and desecrating their land. Despite my admiration for these four men, whose actions had shaped the future of the United States and the rest of the world, I couldn't help but stand on the side of the Lakota Sioux tribe and other Native Americans who view it as a grotesque and most offensive monument. Mount Rushmore was once called “Six Grandfathers” by its original inhabitants. Ah, the inequity of a history written by the winners.

Day 5 September 15th, 2012 Keystone, SD to Albert Lea, MI 504 miles / 806 km
We had to finally get on the interstate after days of meandering two-laners and picturesque country roads. I saw cows, hundreds, thousands of them, on both sides of Intestate 90 as the Toyota shot straight like an arrow along a one dimensional course. Occasionally, I chanced upon a pair of deer or a small herd, a sight that eluded my napping old man until our final destination. I reckoned that there's enough corn in South Dakota to feed all the cattle in the world and the people who ate them. Hypnotized by the vastness of the country, I jumped the airways from one country music station to the next to stay alert. Goddamn it, I should've worn a cowboy hat, I drawled under my breath in my southern accent. I pressed hard for 250 miles / 400 km before my first piss-stop and second cup of coffee of the day and a Premium Bacon Ranch Salad with Grilled Chicken at McDonald's.
No sooner than we finished our light meal and joined the highway again, we crossed into Minnesota. I wouldn't be exaggerating if I say that there were as many wind turbines in Minnesota as there were cattle in South Dakota. It was a crisp day with a steady quartering tailwind blowing from the southwest. The giant propellers ceaselessly spun as they must've been doing since they had been erected there in the vastness of an endless sea of green. Minnesota resembled a pubescent maiden to my licentious eyes, capricious yet shy, a compromise between the titillating savageness of the Wild West and the vestal celibacy of the heartland. Somewhere in Minnesota, between Fairmont and Albert lea, I felt that my voyage of discovery was nearing its end. I was getting closer to the familiar territory of the Great Lakes. This 5th day had been a test of endurance as we covered more distance than any other, and for the first time since we left California, I started glancing at my watch.

Day 6 September 16th, 2012 Albert Lea, MI to Merillville, IN 430 miles / 688 km
There is a high point and a low one on every journey we undertake. Skirting the Chicago Metropolitan area and driving on the Illinois tollway system was by every mean the zero level on an otherwise perpetual high. It was a slap on the face that brought us back to a fallible reality. We endured heavy traffic and road construction for 8 steady hours. We couldn't even stop for a bite to eat until we reached Indiana. I couldn't believe how far removed I felt from the Chicago I lived near in the past and loved with all of my heart. It was like meeting a mistress after many years and discovering that she was a man after all, a transvestite who tricked us into believing that she was the most beautiful woman in the world.
However, a remarkably sexy woman, gift-wrapped in a white towel and wet out of the swimming pool, did greet us in the hotel lobby in Merrilville, Indiana. Both my dad and I were impressed by the cordial reception and thought that it may be a good idea to stay there for a few days. I had a splitting headache after the difficult drive and our hostess suggested that a dip in the indoor pool might be just the right thing to unwind the tensed muscles and ease the pain. Instead, I opted for the well-equipped gym, overlooking the pool area. Getting back to civilization does come with a mixed bag of curses and blessings. Pumping iron after a long spell of inactivity proved to be exactly what the doctor ordered. As for the other doctor, my dad, he enjoyed a friendly chat with the deeply tanned innkeeper, after she got a chance to put something on that is. Quite an adequate consolation prize after a long and tough day.

Day 7 September 17th, 2012 Merillville, IN to Hermitage, PA 396 miles / 633 km
Staying clear of large cities in Ohio, I adjusted to the rhythm of using the highway with other vehicles. After endless miles of trickle traffic, we joined the rushing flow of a steady stream of cars and trucks of all shapes and sizes. Driving there was a full time job that required concentration and undivided attention. My vision of the outside world was reduced to a narrow band ahead and to the sides. We talked less, dad and I, and when we did it was mostly cold facts about the here and now. It was only noon but I was already dreaming of my bed for the night. We reached Hermitage, Pennsylvania at 5:15PM in a light drizzle under frowning skies. After a whole week of incredibly gorgeous weather, a cold front caught up with us at last. The forecast called for a downpour in the morrow and I knew that it was going to be quite a finale.
Our room came with a small window to the back and it opened on a beautiful clearing in the woods. With the last rays of sun seeping through the drenched treetops, I could discern a shed with a tin roof and an outhouse, relics from a past that is still the present in many parts of the world and certainly in Amish country, USA. I've ran across the Amish before on several occasions and they never impressed me as being in any way strange. To me, they were like the millions of deeply religious people of all faiths who chose to follow their own paths and to the beat of drums they alone could hear. What sets them apart, perhaps, is how they distance themselves from the hubbub of secular life. I have mixed feelings, however, about their children and those of others like them. I don't think it's fair to grow up confined in a bubble floating on an ocean of tempting possibilities.

Day 8 September 18th, 2012 Hermitage, PA to Princeton, NJ 381 miles / 610 km
It didn't stop raining for a single minute all day long as we crossed Pennsylvania from one end to the other. When the visibility dropped down to zero I tailgated a truck for hours on end. Parts of the Pennsylvania turnpike were flooded and the driving conditions became appallingly dangerous. I did, however, think it fitting to end our journey under such circumstances. Except for one or two disappointments, this had been a journey of a lifetime for me. The fact that my father was my travel companion, roommate and buddy for a whole week, extended this exceptional experience through an endearing dimension that is beyond my wildest dreams. We never got a chance until this trip, dad and I, to be alone and to share every moment of our daily lives. At 4:45PM I switched the ignition off and handed the car key to a lady at the Hyatt Regency in Princeton, New Jersey. "Of all my travels", my father said, "this has been the most memorable trip ever. Thank you son."

Epilogue April 13th, 1971 Wyoming to Tartous 41 years & 5 months / 15,130 days
I finally understood how people I've never met before recognized, the moment they lay eye on me, that I'm his son. For years, I've been called the “Doctor's Son” in Tartous and the surrounding villages, and although it never discomfited my ego to live in his shadow I finally realized what a huge compliment it was to be called so. I would do anything to age as gracefully as he has, to stay as sharp and focused when I'm in my eighties like he is. He passed his looks to me in his genes, his joy of living and love for women. I always thought of myself as a low maintenance man, but the time I shared with him made me realize that he's practically maintenance free. Ever since mother died, he demanded very little attention and dedicated his life to the wellbeing of his grownup children and theirs. I hope I can be the father he was and still is.
I held his hand and helped him walk over that shaky wooden bridge across one gully in the continental divide. As the ancestral spirits of disenchanted, disadvantaged and deprived Native Americans silently patrolled their lost land, they must've wondered about this odd couple of a father and son, treading gently down the worn paths like shadows from their own distant past. I leaned on the railing and stared at our reflection on the surface of a small pool of the bluest and clearest water on the face of the planet. There we were in a lentil field hunting for quails. He led with his manly gait while I tagged behind, walking as fast as I could to keep up with him. He signaled for me to stop then pointed at Wardo, a black pointer, standing motionless with one front leg hanging in midair like a statue made of ebony. Take your time. Follow the bird with the barrel of your gun until you can't hear its wings flapping anymore then gently squeeze the...” The quail broke cover and flew like a fireball with Wardo hot on its trail. It banked to the left and cleared the edge of the field, accelerating to maximum velocity. I could only hear my heartbeats drumming in my ears then my own gunshot.
“That-a-boy!” My father beamed with pride. “Thank you Baba.” I replied, 41 years later.

God's Land (Part I)

noreply@blogger.com (abufares tartoussi) — Tue, 06 Nov 2012 17:24:00 +0000

An account of a road trip across the USA

Day 0 March 11th, 1985
Behind a cloud of blue smoke and the amber glow of whiskey, the man cleared his throat then spoke in a jaded voice, made hoarse with the passage of time. “There's no place like it in the world," he said. "Things you would've not imagined exist. Spectacles beyond your grasp or mine. It's God's Land there and only He understands how beautiful it is.” The old biker didn't even look at me. In fact, he wasn't talking to anyone, but I was within earshot. He introverted deeper toward the recesses of his memory, taking another hit and one more swig before he drew a faint smile on one corner of his mouth and closed his eyes. In the mirror across, I saw myself standing on top of a mountain peak, scanning the white-capped Rockies all the way to the Rio Grande. Over my shoulder, a bald eagle rose slowly from the abyss below. It came close, very close, then hovered barely beyond arm's reach. The black feathers on the trailing edge of its wings fluttered like fingers playing an invisible flute. The winds whistled and sang, wrapping me with a white shawl made of zephyr and picked me up on the crest of an updraft. My waist-long platinum hair lead the climb as I darted in the air. The eagle, shrieking in ecstasy, followed in my wake. I saw what God sees and I understood. Someday I wanna go to Montana.

Day 1 September 11th, 2012 Porter Ranch, CA to Reno, NV 445 miles / 712 km
It was 10 o'clock when I picked up the car from the rental agency. A white, almost brand-new, Toyota RAV-4 was to be our ride across the continent. Dad was waiting for me out in the street by the mail box. He was as excited as I about the adventure awaiting us. He looked younger than his years. An open mind and a heart of gold makes him as much a son as he is a father to me. I was going to show him the America I haven't seen yet. We fussed over the road atlas and the GPS, the bottles of water and the candy bars, the peanuts, the crackers, and the potato chips, then we waved goodbye to the familiar house at the end of a cul-de-sac and got on our way. At precisely 10:30AM we left Porter Ranch, California behind. Our final destination on this cross country trip was Princeton, New Jersey. Never one to follow a straight line from A to B, however, I headed toward the American Northwest. Who knew when the next opportunity might present itself, if ever? Montana was two days away and I could hardly contain myself. Instead of following the clearly visible road sign ahead, the thick line on the map and the frantic British female voice of the Garmin, I passed the early exit to Interstate 5 and drove in a northerly direction over a high bridge. Dad objected at first, but I assured him that I won't let Connie (that's the name I gave to the owner of the sexy GPS voice) control me. “I'm running away from it all dad. When we get lost she'll help us. As long as we're temporarily disoriented, but heading in the right direction, I am in charge”. We took Hwy 14 through Palmdale and Lancaster toward the Edwards Air Force Base. We climbed through a path splitting the Eastern Sierra Nevada Mountains in two and zoomed by the Sequoia and the Yosemite National Parks among several others. We only made a couple of stops on that first day, one around midday at a rest area to stretch our legs and another for a late lunch at Carl Jr's in Bishop, California. We opened the door to our hotel room in Reno, Nevada at exactly 7:00PM.

Day 2 September 12th, 2012 Reno, NV to Twin Fall, ID 599 miles / 958 km
Although a whole week went into the planning of our road trip prior to departure, we decided that we should pick our next day's destination every night and make the corresponding hotel reservation. We also agreed that I should drive for an average of 8 hours if we were to make it in 8 days. We both wanted our last day to be the shortest one as far as driving time was concerned, kind of a safety net to have if we were to encounter any forced inconvenience. We got in the car and started our day a little later than we would've liked, at 8:45AM. "It's OK though", I assured dad. "We have no appointment later tonight, nor for the whole of next week". The Sierras we crossed the day before brought us to higher elevations. Although we had beautiful weather throughout our trip, except for the last day, the temperature did drop significantly from the suffocating heat of Southern California. We mostly drove across the northern Nevada desert until we reached Idaho. There, our world changed and my heart told me that we were getting closer to where my eagle soared. I turned off the AC, rolled the windows down and drove through the wide welcoming streets of Twin Falls, Idaho at 5:50PM. We both still had too much energy to drain in single beds. I quickly looked online for nearby attractions and found that Shoshone Falls were 6 miles away. We rushed back in the car and headed there for a short walk to the falls and a gorgeous sunset. I was successful in navigating away from larger cities throughout this trip but if I had to pick a city I felt I could spend the rest of my life at then Twin Falls, Idaho would be it. I didn't meet a lot of folks to pass judgment, but with a nature like that and with beauty abound all around them they'd be fools if they weren't the nicest people on earth.

Day 3 September 13th, 2012 Twin Falls, ID to Powell, WY 430 miles / 688 km
I only saw 19 miles of Montana but I finally did. When I walked out of the car at the western entrance of the Yellowstone National Park in a little town called, appropriately enough, West Yellowstone, Montana, I went through a profound revelation. There I was, a man with an 8,000 years load of guilt, standing on a land that, until less than 3 centuries ago, had only been seen by its native inhabitants. In this incredibly short span of time, they were decimated by a rising civilization that hasn't developed a conscience yet to feel guilty. My mind drifted to Damascus, Syria, the oldest continuously inhabited city in the world (although the bastards are trying to kill everybody there and put an end to the record). How many generations, races and creeds trod along her narrow alleys, breathed her jasmine infused air and quenched their thirst from the Barada River? How many conquerors had been conquered by her charm? How many rulers had been ridiculed by the Damascenes and brought down to their contemptible worth? How much longer would it take history to belch the memory of these thugs and spit them out in the gutter where they belong? The passage through Yellowstone calmed me down and purged me from the sin of peaceful resistance. If I lived to be a thousand years old, I wouldn't experience a more enchanting place. Alas though, instead of days of wandering in these forests and nights of stargazing, we had to abridge our visit into hours. I was dwarfed by sacred mountains, bullied by a fearless bison, swept by the flowing river and drowned in the blue of a majestic lake. Millions of trees stood tall before the white man set foot there and showed me the puniness of man, any man, of any color or faith. Yellowstone permeated my bereaved soul with the cries of warriors slain in sacrifice for a holy land, God's Land.

(to be continued)

The Quest for the Perfect Americano

noreply@blogger.com (abufares tartoussi) — Sun, 14 Oct 2012 09:32:00 +0000

I needed a whole week to recuperate from the lingering jet lag. I couldn't sleep at night and I was groggy all day. I gulped sleeping pills at bedtime like popcorn at the movies but they didn't help much. Evidently, Desynchronosis (a wimpy nomenclature used by physicians) is more pronounced when traveling West to East. It is suggested that it may take the human body one day per each time zone to fully recover. I proved it.

Among the researched and proven remedies to expedite the restoration of the body's circadian rhythms are Melatonin, light therapy, fasting and Viagra. I just couldn't see myself lying back on a chaise longue, sipping a drug-infused beach drink in direct sunlight, while going hungry and boasting a fantastic …you know what. Instead I busied myself reinventing the perfect cup of coffee. I'd wake up full of zest at 2:00 AM with a buzz in my head or sleepwalk in the late afternoon like a zombie and trudge toward the kitchen where I'd lock myself. I must've concocted a few dozens cups of muddy crap before I finally made my Nobel Prize worthy consummate Caffè Americano.

I am a creature of habit. During my extensive traveling years in Europe I always ordered an espresso and nothing but. I had my first one in Venice in the year 2000 and since then I have all but abandoned Turkish coffee and other freakish manifestations of an otherwise godly beverage. For 12 years I lived with the conviction that I'm drinking the best cup of coffee in the world, a Lavazza Espresso, made with my own hands using a low-end machine. I was right of course. Nobody makes a better espresso than I do. But until then, I hadn't tried an Americano yet.

This past summer, however, and every time I am in the United States, a decent cup of espresso is simply unattainable. Dr. Frazier Crane might've known precisely which trendy Seattle café served the ultimate espresso but I'm a southern boy who's never been to Seattle. Even if I were to live in Point Barrow, Alaska for the rest of my life, I would always be a naturalized Cajun from the bayous of southwestern Louisiana. Speaking of which, Louisiana boasts the best damn American coffee in the continent. Community Coffee of New Orleans is second to none, and yes that includes Canada, so Canucks stop shaking your incredulous heads. You could only imagine my surprise when I found out in 2010 that Community Coffee is not sold nationwide in grocery stores. For the 8 years I lived in Lafayette, Louisiana (1978-1985) and drank Community Coffee every morning I had no idea that it was a regional brand. Fortunately, you can order it online anywhere in the world today and if you're into American coffee I strongly recommend it.

But wait! I totally went off-track and forgot to tell you about my first encounter with a Caffè Americano. It was almost as good as sex, perhaps better. You may learn about my epic driving adventure, crossing America coast to coast, in my next installment on this blog, assuming of course you don't kill yourself or go insane after reading this one.

I picked a McDonald whenever possible for my scheduled and emergency piss stops along the way. Although I never ate there, they offered free Wi-Fi and surprisingly excellent American coffee. But on my final day, driving in torrential rains through Pennsylvania, it eventually became unsafe to go on. Visibility was close to zero as I took an exit into the unknown and got off the highway. I drove into a little town with a main street, a few decrepit buildings and nothing else. There might've been a church there too since I thought I saw a spire behind the foggy glass of the general store/coffee house I was forced to use for shelter. The petite (short really), blue eyed, extremely sexy waitress came over to my table and asked me if I like a cup of coffee. She had a brilliant, beautiful smile. Her lips were... Oh forget it! I took my eyes briefly off of her face, regretting the wasted moment and pretended to read the laminated menu left on the table. Under coffee, the word Americano stuck out and in order not to lose another second not looking at my waitress' gorgeous face, I mumbled: An Americano please.
”Cream and sugar?”
“What? Honey!” I almost replied, before realizing that she was asking me a question.
“Yes please. A little bit of both.”
She was gone but I was content, knowing that she'll be back. I also got a chance to stare unnoticed at her ass. Oh my! I never imagined a small package packing so much punch. A spankee if I've ever seen one. You know, as in..., what in the hell am I talking about? I told you how torturous this jet lag has been, didn't I? I'm still suffering and under the influence.

She brought my coffee and went back behind the counter where I could see her. I think it was the slowest cup of coffee I ever drank in my life. And the best! I felt terrible when the meteorological conditions were safe enough to drive again. Dad, my travel companion, wanted to get back on the road and he literally had to pry me off of my seat. I can only relive the experience, I thought, if and when I make my own perfect Americano.
Which I finally did!

Ingredients and Glassware:

Cream or milk, and sugar as per your preference (optional)
The best beans or ground coffee you can get your hands on
Your favorite cookie
An espresso machine
A teaspoon
A porcelain creamer (to warm the cream or milk in the microwave)
A porcelain cruet (To bring the water to a boil in the microwave)
A fancy China cup (capacity 2 ½ cups of espresso) or your favorite one of comparable size.

Preparation:

Turn on the espresso machine ahead of time to warm the basket, the holder and the heating plate sufficiently. Make sure the China cup is warm enough before pouring the coffee into it. I found out that most home espresso machines lack the ability to produce very hot water so using a microwave becomes a necessity.

Warm the cream or milk (1 or 2 teaspoons) in the creamer (microwave for 10 seconds). Take out.

Boil exactly one full small espresso cup of water in the cruet (microwave for 1 minute)

Fill the single basket generously as if to make one strong cup of espresso but instead of stopping halfway as in a normal espresso, make it long (lungo) approximately 20 seconds. Pour directly in the warm fancy China cup. You begin this process when the time left on the microwave screen shows 25 seconds before you take the boiling water out. Perfect timing is everything.

Pour in the boiling water slowly over the edge of the fancy China cup that already contains the espresso (equal amounts espresso and boiled water). Make sure to pour the water as near to the edge as possible in order not to disturb the crema. Pour in the warm cream or milk the same way, then add sugar and stir gently.

This is exactly how to make the perfect cup of Americano. Any deviation from my instructions will produce a mucky coffee soup. No pain, no gain, and this is most certainly true in any beverage or food preparation. Trust me on this one and thank me later.

I woke up this morning and went through the ritual. She came out of the fog and asked me what I'd like to order. I didn't waste no time looking at no menu. As long as she's standing there in front of me and before she disappeared I looked straight into her blue eyes.
“A Caffè Americano please. Cream and sugar.”
“Would that be all?”
“Not really, but I'll decide on my next move when you come back.”
She walked away then, with a smile on her face and a sway of that exquisite little butt of hers.
Good morning everyone!

Twilight Zone

noreply@blogger.com (abufares tartoussi) — Thu, 11 Oct 2012 11:07:00 +0000

It's been over two months since I last strewed words onto this blog; seventy one days to be precise. I had quite an engrossing summer, spending most of which in the United States. While there, I was too busy to get a chance to write. Or, again to be precise, my heart and mind were too distracted to fill the abundant free time I had with an endearing pursuit.

I will write, and soon enough, about my travels across that great land, which has become my adoptive home. You will bear with me, however, the prolonged jet lag I'm suffering from. Since I set foot in Tartous, a week ago, I'm still under the influence, more or less.

I need to ease my way back into life in the slow lane, for despite the raging fire that is consuming Syria, Tartous remains an oasis of calm. We are either too cowardly or too peaceful in nature, but most likely we are both. My hometown, for the time being, is a stage set in a twilight zone. Yet on the positive side, Tartous has become a harbor, a safe haven for the masses of homeless refugees from all over the country. For those who didn't have the means to get on a plane and escape beyond the sea to start a new life, and for those who couldn't take the insulting inhospitality of our Arab neighbors in Lebanon, Iraq and Jordan, Tartous was and still is the last resort.

It is quite phenomenal for a city's population to quadruple from roughly a hundred thousands to four hundred thousands in a year. Some of us are taking advantage of the situation and charging premium rates for rent and services rendered to our guests. Others have acted humanely, but more significantly honorably, and have been most gracious hosts to those in need, regardless of the schism that had already split the country apart.

To all of my friends who wanted me to stay away from harm's way I can only say that I have unfinished business in Tartous. Most importantly, I have a family that refuses to call anywhere else home. I might be a man torn between two worlds, but for now I'm needed at the helm of a ship that is stranded in a shallow pond in the middle of a scorched wasteland.

A Prodigal Summer

noreply@blogger.com (abufares tartoussi) — Tue, 31 Jul 2012 21:55:00 +0000

Some of my best friends are books.

My love affair with reading started early on in life. It waxed and waned with the peaks and pits on the twisted road to adolescence. I literally came of age with a book rather than a dirty magazine in hand. I trudged along, burdened with unsightly zits, excess testosterone and awkward moments until one day, I came upon a steep, almost vertical cliff. Realizing I had to leave my backpack behind, I stuffed a sweet memory of a summer kiss in my shirt pocket and the magical whisper of a phrase I’ve read in One Thousand and One Nights in my trousers’ before I spat on the palms of my hands, rubbed them together then hauled my ass and climbed. Halfway to the top, I had a brief glimpse of my insecurities sprawled all over the past. I laughed and howled in English like a coyote in heat and never looked back.

I am a man with a cheerful disposition and hundreds of human and book friends. I love them all to varying degrees, but less than a handful of each can be truly called intimate friends. Two or three special people, four or five extraordinary books have brought meaning to my life and filled it with more joy than I could’ve ever imagined possible. Prodigal Summer by Barbara Kingsolver is such a friend.

While young girls in brightly colored Flamenco dresses danced to the blaring music, Dr. Carl Wooton, his wonderful wife Dolores, and I sat around a table in an outdoor café and conversed about everything under the sun. It was kind of surreal in a way, that hot summer afternoon almost a year ago today. There I was in Santa Barbara, squinting my eyes against the bright glare and discussing personal writing, American literature and world politics with my English professor, while I munched on a crisp tuna sandwich and sipped a fruity California wine. I hadn't seen him in 30 years and he certainly didn’t remember me at all, but it was only understandable given the large number of students a college professor must have taught during his long career. We talked about the pain a writer’s block inflicts on the psyche of a veteran author and the pleasure a well written passage brings to the soul of an aspiring one. We paid homage to the South, to the bayous of Louisiana and to the Cajun heritage we had shared. We shook hands and hugged, and as we bid each other farewell, we promised to keep in touch and to exchange titles of favorite novels. Prodigal Summer was on top of his short list.

Barbara Kingsolver’s fifth novel is nature’s celebration of flora and fona, life’s consecration of love and sex, summer’s ushering of beginnings and ends. She wiggles her way swiftly down the crotch of her story, not wasting precious time on preliminaries or foreplay. ''Here and now,'' she writes, ''spring heaved in its randy moment. Everywhere you looked, something was fighting for time, for light, the kiss of pollen, a connection of sperm and egg and another chance.'' What makes Prodigal Summer one of the best erotic novels I ever came across is the simple fact that it was not meant to be one at all. Eroticism, in the words of the author, is a manifestation of harmonious evolution and the battling forces of nature. Only by mating, by exchanging bodily fluids, by blowing gametes and ovules could the diverse species survive. Love is as intense for the moth male and female as it is for Eddie Bondo, the 28 year old vagrant hunter from Wyoming, and Deanna, the tall and lonely middle aged park ranger. When their paths crossed on an Appalachian trail in the heat of a prodigal summer day, primal sex was a matter of survival.

Down where the woods gave way to the farmland of Zebulon County in an unnamed southern state, two seemingly separate stories unfold, undulating between grief and lust, despair and hope, ends and beginnings. Fate was rather harsh on entomologist Lusa Maluf Landowski Widener, a half-Palestinian, half-Jewish farmer's wife, turned widow. Her survival in an alien home rested on every single decision she made, on her inner strength and the choices she had to irrevocably accept. On the other side of the valley, Garnett Walker, an elderly retired school teacher struggled to come to terms with his neighbor, the godless Nannie Rawley, and his lifelong dream of resurrecting the extinct American chestnut tree. How Kingsolver knitted each plot asunder then weaved them into one magnificent tapestry is beyond magic. Her attention to details is breathtaking, the way she handles sights, smells, sounds, tastes and touches then turns them into mental images of vivid sensory stimuli is incredibly difficult to describe. Instead of revealing the secrets of this fascinating work of literature I invite you to read it and make the best of a cruel summer.

Barbara Kingsolver is an American novelist born in Kentucky and raised (briefly) in the former republic of Congo. She holds two degrees in biology, which is evident in her broad and extensive knowledge of the natural world. Prodigal Summer has received mixed reviews, although they were mostly positive and full of praise. Some critics have accused this novel of being selfishly feminist. I failed to see their point. When and if I could write like she, I don’t think I need to justify flaunting my manhood to my readers or to snobby critics. She is a content woman and writing from her own vantage point is not something to be taken against her. That the three main male characters in this story play second fiddle to the three central females doesn’t bother me at all, nor strike me as unfair. Ms. Kingsolver is endowed with a rare talent. Very few modern writers or even classic masters can match her writing. I flatter myself when I say I wish I could write like she does for I consider our styles similar, although our aptitudes may not be so.

When I finish reading a novel of this import I often find myself listless. What next? And where should I go to in this frugal summer? I’m brought back to a world of abject cruelty and insensate loss. I’m not running away from reality by hiding in fictitious worlds, but when the lives of millions depend on the outcome of a plot written by the vile leaders of the "free" world or left to the whims of a psychotic tyrant I spit on this reality and seek the haven of another book. I heard great things about The Poisonwood Bible, an earlier work of Barbara Kingsolver set against the backdrop of the village of Kilanga in the Belgian Congo. That’s where I am heading to next, to wait for the ebbing of a long and painful summer and the advent of an inevitable fall.

Other books by Barbara Kingsolver:
Animal, Vegetable, Miracle By Kingsolver, Barbara/ Kingsolver, Camille/ Hopp, Steven L./ Houser, Richard A. (ILT)
Pigs in Heaven By Kingsolver, Barbara
Holding the Line By Kingsolver, Barbara
Homeland and Other Stories By Kingsolver, Barbara
The Bean Trees By Kingsolver, Barbara

Nostalgia: A Drive Around the Block

noreply@blogger.com (abufares tartoussi) — Fri, 20 Jul 2012 16:17:00 +0000

Time

noreply@blogger.com (abufares tartoussi) — Mon, 25 Jun 2012 10:16:00 +0000

"I see time as a constant, whereas humans perceive time as flexible. Hence the expression "Time flies" when you're having fun. Which until now has always confused me."
Data in Star Trek: The Next Generation

But Data was wrong, time is indeed relative. The faster you go, the slower time moves into the future, physicists tell us, or is it into the past. Recent subatomic experiments have confirmed another tenet of the theory of relativity; gravity alters the flow of time by slowing it down as well. On crossing the event horizon of a black hole, it's postulated, time stands still for the unfortunate, long-dead observer. Only when out in open space, and once freed from the constraints of celestial black holes and terrestrial ass holes does time pick up the tempo and move to a faster beat. As for us, ground-bound earthlings, you may ask any lover if thirty minutes of waiting for a sweetheart at a terminal feels shorter than being with her for a whole week and he'll tell you that it's not so. Time does fly when we're happy and trudges along laboriously when we're not. Certainly, how we focus on time affects our perception of it. If we bring it to the front we'd be agonized by every tick of a clock on the wall. That's what we tend to do when we're bored, distressed or miserable. On the other hand if we relegate it to the background, where it belongs, it all but fades away.

We've been in a state of bedlam for 468 days over here. For millions, this is by far the most excruciatingly painful ordeal they've been through. The passage of a single day for those who lost a limb, or loved ones; those who became jobless, or homeless; those who were jailed, or tortured must have felt infinitely longer than the ennui of Facebookers who are complaining about being deprived of their sheepish good ol' days and the disruption of their nocturnal feeding and frolicking. Only an adept student of civilizations realizes that a tiring and perhaps treacherous road lies ahead; one that is probably longer than the duration of our lifetime, yet shorter than the blink of an eye in the course of history.

A summer storm came from nowhere and drenched the streets, making them desolate of pedestrians and other forms of life. We are holding each other's hand and running for cover under a store awning. For a minute or two we're standing there waiting for the rain to pass. Her mascara is running slightly as I'm holding her in my arms. I'm combing her hair back with my fingers, staring at my reflection in her eyes. She's looking at her own beautiful face in mine. We kiss. Years later, I taste the sweet honey on my lips every time it rains. A minute or two no more, an eternity.

Time, as plenteous as grains of sand on all the beaches out there, is more precious than a gulp of water in the palm of a thirsty man. Our brains have adapted to its scarcity by weaving a cocoon made intricately of the flares of happiness we treasure most. We neatly hide them in the back of our minds, then in a moment of utter need, a moment of craving for a place, a past or a person, we bring them out and feed on seconds as if they were hours and days. “I have measured out my life with coffee spoons”, T. S. Eliot wrote in The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock. Most critics claim that Prufrock was expressing his disillusionment with society in that statement but I disagree. While he may have been disillusioned indeed, this poem is mostly about the passage of time in a man's life. How a moment of greatness “flicker” while the butt-ends of days and ways linger on with a foul taste and need to be spit out.

I long for a day, yet to come, when I throw away my watch and any reminder of the past, present or future. I want to live one singular moment when nothing else matters anymore. Life is neither short nor long as many believe it to be one way or the other. We just need to unlock its little secret like William Faulkner did. "Only when the clock stops does time come to life."

Kahramana

noreply@blogger.com (abufares tartoussi) — Wed, 30 May 2012 12:32:00 +0000

Farid Al Atrash was born a prince in the southern Syrian town of Suweyda in 1910 to a Syrian father and a Lebanese mother. At a young age, he immigrated with his family to Egypt, where he became one of the most influential Arab musicians and singers of all times. Upon his request, he was buried in 1974 in Cairo near his sister Asmahan (1912-1944). She, too, was one of the rarest Arab voices, having a far reaching contralto with a blend of "dramatic mezzo-soprano". In case you're interested in the complete biographies of Farid Al Atrash and Asmahan, the net is brimming with information on both. Instead, however, I intend this post as a more intimate companion and a backdrop to the attached Youtube video.

After perusing through my profile, a reader once asked what kind of a person lists Farid Al Atrash and Pink Floyd as favorites. They are, he implied, worlds apart and only a music ignoramus would be able to equally appreciate both. His comment, inane as it may sound, touched the truth in a way he could have never imagined. If music defines a person then I am a bipolar Farid Al Atrash – Pink Floyd aberration indeed. In the deep core of my being I sing the heart wrenching Banadi Alayk and listen to the mind boggling Hey You echoing back. In case you're not familiar with Arabic, both titles mean exactly the same thing. You should give them a try when you're in the mood for some soul searching. But more on that some other time.

The Michigan Arab Orchestra was founded in 2009 by Michael Ibrahim, a young Syrian American of impressive talent and extensive musical education. The orchestra is manned (and womenned) by 35 full-time and visiting musicians, most of whom, and if I'm not mistaken, are Syrian and Lebanese Americans. As per its mission objective, “the MAO is non-profit organization that is dedicated to the performance, and education of Arab music to the greater Detroit community.”

Kahramana is a musical piece written by Farid Al Atrash to the love of his life, the Egyptian dancer/actress, Samia Gamal in 1949. To my trained eye and my zoetic soul, Samia is the most beautiful woman to ever dance Oriental. Her Delphian smile tosses an innocent man (like me) between fits of ardor and bouts of passion. More significantly though, she restored the dance to its original divine manifestation and took the belly shaking out of it. Today, Arabic dancing falls under one of two main schools, the ambrosial style of Samia Gamal, which is appropriately called Oriental Dancing and the carnal trembling of Taheyya Kariokka, which is nothing more than Belly Dancing. While Samia pranced around the stage like a genie, Taheyya heaved like a volcano over a one square foot piece of tile.

This 2012 rendition of Kahramana, performed by the Michigan Arab Orchestra, left me breathless. One by one, some of the players soloed the same short arrangement. They improvised, very much like Jazz musicians do, on the complex simplicity of the melodic masterpiece of Farid Al Atrash. The result! Well, I leave that to you, but I do have one request though. It's a seventeen minute piece that requires first and foremost the proper ambiance to appreciate it. So if the hubby or the kids are being either obnoxious or raucous, you have to make sure to silence them first. Or it might be your new blond girlfriend talking on the phone nearby with an automated telemarketing voice and giggling. Shut her up please, then sit down with a glass of wine or your favorite drink, as long as it's not milk, turn the volume up on your teeny weeny PC speakers and float on a heavenly cloud of music for what will seem like an eternity.

In the comment section, and if you don't mind leaving a trail of your visit, would you tell us which soloist in the attached video of the MEO was your favorite and why? I do have my own of course but least I influence your own interpretation, I would keep my peace till the end.

Also Enjoy Watching:
The original Kahramana from the movie Afrita Hanem, 1949. Samia Gamal dancing. Farid Al Atrash bewitched.

Anima Sana in Corpore Sano

noreply@blogger.com (abufares tartoussi) — Thu, 24 May 2012 09:56:00 +0000

One year ago I submitted what turned out to be my last job at the office. I was contracted to design a residential building in Tartous around mid March 2011. By April the 20th, all the drawings were completed and in order. The client came in and took delivery of the dossier. We shook hands and hoped for the best. He was my last paying client. Like most Syrians today I'm out of a job.

What we're going through, whatever we call it since we can't agree on that, isn't going to be resolved overnight. No one in his right mind can imagine going back to the way we were. As for those who wish we could.., oh well screw them. The thousands who lost their lives, the hundreds of thousands who became homeless and the millions who can't find work are not mere numbers. There's no turning back. No matter how long it'll take, the fat lady is going to sing and there's going to be a huge crowd, the largest this country had ever seen, cheering and partying. What comes afterward is another long and perhaps painful healing process but that's the way it goes down in history books. There seldom is a shortcut to liberty and freedom.

With plenty of time on my hands and even when I'm traveling or staying at my new home in the States, I've divided my attention equally between body and soul. I went back to being fit and resumed my writing. Six months ago I started going to the gym then not too long ago I picked up that unfinished novel and never looked back.

I've been training between two to three times a week since, but in the back of my mind I always wanted my own little gym. Luckily, I was able to reclaim a very small room in the basement (not more than 8 by 10 feet) and convert it into my own Sile Fitness Room. It's not fancy by any means but it contains the basic equipment for cardiovascular and physical fitness exercises. All of a sudden I'm working out at least five times a week and I'm wearing Medium T-shirts again and 34” waist pants.

I feel great physically. It's ironic that at over fifty I'm in a much better shape than during my forties. Actually I haven't felt so good since I stopped hunting regularly back in the late 90's of the last century. As for the writing, and although I'm progressing slower than I'd like, I'm focused enough to realize the importance of this book amid the turmoil around me. It's a story about a man lost between two worlds and about the woman who made it worthwhile for him to go on through life. I've set a deadline for myself, February 2013, but hell I'm not working for anybody and I'll finish it when I damn please. In truth though, I will try my utmost to respect this target date because I need it to maintain my own discipline.

I've been hesitant to take a break from “real” work and to devote my energy and time to writing for a few years. Now, however, I have no excuse. Despite of the darkness pervading my conscience, or perhaps because of it, I'm trying to make sure that no moment goes in vain. This article turned out to be too deliberate to go with the attached video, which inspired it in the first place, but at this junction in our modern history the comic is mixed with tragedy. If it were not for the sense of humor of my fellow countrymen and women who are suffering the most every single fucking day we would've all lost hope and purpose.

One last word, if you think my video is silly you should check out the original one made by LMFAO for the music I used as background “Sexy and I know it”. (Parental Discretion is Advised)

A Letter to My Daughter

noreply@blogger.com (abufares tartoussi) — Tue, 15 May 2012 10:24:00 +0000

Light of My Eye
Although you're not here yet, I wish you a life of enchantment... filled with dreams to chase and destinations to reach.
I love you before you're born for you're a part of me. I want to protect, to teach and to learn from you what life and love are all about. You, who are more precious to me than myself.
Your Dad, 11:15 am - Saturday, October 1st, 1989
~Written 10 minutes before Diana was born.

Habibati Diana

A more traditional man would've waited for his daughter's wedding to write and post his letter to her. But you've just graduated from college, and you know damn well that there's nothing more important to me than this. After five grueling years, of which fifteen months were wrought in anguish every time you traveled back and forth, you're finally a pharmacist. I know more jokes about pharmacists than you care to hear but I should tell you this at least, becoming the father of one gave me wings and lifted me to the top of the world.

We were both, you and I, born in a culture which abridges the life of a woman, her successes or failures, her happiness or distress, even her being or non-being down to her luck with a husband. I couldn't even substitute the word luck with choice because unfortunately the mass majority of us don't have a say in that regard. People get married because it's the "right” time and the “right” thing to do. Even when a couple are deeply in love, marriage is not a matter of choice for most but rather a preordained destiny. Oh, don't get me wrong! I'm not against the institution of marriage. I am, however, against considering your matrimony as your biggest achievement, if it's an achievement at all. I want to be there with you to celebrate whatever makes you happy, but you've already made me the happiest I can be.

You are blessed with a loving family, a mother whom altruistic love never faltered, a sister and a brother who look up at you as their hero and role model, and a grandfather who went out of his way to support you when I couldn't. And of course you have me, a father who's supposedly good with words but who doesn't express himself often enough. If I ever wanted to have a lasting impression on you, it would simply be that I gave you what is already yours, choice.

Life is all about making choices. I didn't say the right choices because I've learned from experience that there is no right or wrong momentary decision. Whichever course we chart and navigate we'll have to make an infinite number of small corrections or we'd end up stranded high and dry in a sandbank or, even worse, wrecked on a treacherous reef. With your college education, you don't have to worry much about your future career. Your degree is in demand wherever you may end up, which brings me to my next piece of advice. When you do make your choices err on the selfish side. Don't let either your attachment to a place, even if it's the only home you've ever known, or your affection to a man, even if he's the only person you've ever loved, supersede your autonomy. Home and love are the most basic of human needs but don't allow them to rob you of your inbred freedom.

I had a great teacher who barely taught me anything, or so I thought, when I was young and green. I hope I was that kind of a father to you. I have no delusions of being perfect but I know that I raised you up to be a proud woman. Look at everyone as equal until they prove you wrong with their folly. Those who remain, are your friends. All I ever dreamed of is to be one of them. Way to go Diana, I love you.

Writing

noreply@blogger.com (abufares tartoussi) — Sat, 21 Apr 2012 09:55:00 +0000

The difference between an amateur and a professional is a matter of detachment. I have worked under stressful conditions for a good part of my life. I had to report to jerks, crooks, and penny-pinchers who literally lived off the cheap labor of others. I maintained my reserved demeanor until one day, and before solidly securing an ironclad alternative, I resigned. Even in quitting I did everything in my power to be graceful and courteous. My insistence on being a professional stemmed from my interest in preserving the way I perceive myself rather than how others judge me. I respect my untarnished legacy. I know that the biggest of them all, the smartest, the richest, and the most accomplished stands as tall as my shoulders in stature but no more.

I started rebuilding my freelance career. I talked to old contacts and sought short-term contracts. I got the wheels turning again, albeit slowly. At long last I had more time to pursue my own path. I pulled the shades open, sat by my window and began to write. Shortly afterward, my country caught fire.

I always, in my heart of hearts, knew that this is going to happen. In all honesty though, I very much doubted that I would be fortunate enough to experience it in my lifetime. It’s a milestone wrought with tragedy, savagery, mayhem and stupendous loss but such is the path of revolution and its inevitability. I don’t expect to reap the benefits any time soon but I’m confident that my children and theirs will be free. I have no doubt whatsoever and this is precisely why I consider myself lucky.

Courtesy of http://www.guardian.co.uk/money/2010/jan/06/burning-books-wales

Evidently though I’m an amateur writer, or it could be that I’m simply scared. Perhaps in all reality, I’m both. I flipped open a blank page and embarked on a novel. I molded the characters, breathed life into their names, and escorted them along the first steps of an intriguing plot. I turned the sunlight on and summoned voices and sounds from the past. I channeled the morning breeze to stir the leaves of the eucalyptus trees then blew on the ripples of the sea to prod them into breaking softly on the sandy beach. My novel is a fictitious journey into the souls of people I intimately knew but never personally met. If it were to even brush with the world of politics it would do it noncommittally and only as an unavoidable background noise. Yet when we started dying in the dozens, day after day after day I lost all ability to imagine. Imagine a novel without imagination. The last written page stared at me for a month, then two before I closed the notebook. A professional writer would have overcome the dire circumstances and continued to write unaffected, unperturbed. Even a novice could have put his work on a shelf and started on something else in an attempt to dress the wound so to speak.

I don’t dare write the truth, for although I can pack up, leave and not return until the nightmare is over, I’m scared for those staying behind. All I can do to loosen the grip of the mind-cuffs is to sputter laconically cryptic posts on my blog every now and then. I scribe sporadic words to deaden the dull ache in my conscience, and to maintain my untarnished legacy at the minimum sustainable level. To declare that I'm a coward takes a lot of courage, so I console myself. Perhaps this explains my bitterness toward those intellectuals on the inside who soiled their reputations by equating the criminals with the victims and my contempt for the expats who chose to stand on the bestial side of humanity.

How others perceive us is ephemeral but we all have to live with ourselves for the rest of our lives. I won't write a word I don't believe in even if I have to stop writing.

I Shot the Sheriff

noreply@blogger.com (abufares tartoussi) — Sat, 07 Apr 2012 18:56:00 +0000

My stand on guns is simple enough and straightforward. I wish they were never invented. But since they have, wishful thinking is nothing more than arcadian gibberish. I strongly support gun control when a just rule of law is imposed on each and everyone in a society. Guns should not be carried around concealed or revealed by civilians out on the streets. Yet, once within the confines of their own homes I believe that the right to keep and bear arms and to use them in self defense is an inalienable one.

I am an advocate of handgun and weapon training for every member of a household. It could come in handy one day and save lives. When an intruder breaks in and threatens me, my family or my loved ones he becomes fair game. Despite my peaceful disposition I wouldn’t hesitate nor feel guilty ripping him apart with my bare hands or blowing him to pieces with a hollow-point 45.

I am not much of a political activist. In fact I am politically timid. A line has been drawn, plain and obvious, however. I can’t stand aggressors. Whether it’s a lowly thief, a thug or the badass Sheriff himself, if he violates my human rights I won’t go down alone.

I Shot the Sheriff, from the album Burnin’ by Bob Marley - Harry J. Studios, Kingston, Jamaica, 1973.

They Taught Us to Fly

noreply@blogger.com (abufares tartoussi) — Thu, 08 Mar 2012 21:47:00 +0000

The closest I got to a religious experience, or at least a spiritual one, was when I set foot in Kitty Hawk, North Carolina and shared the same space with the Wright Brothers among the dunes of Kill Devil Hills, albeit a 109 years too late. This has always been a dream of mine, a dream shared by every pilot and aviation buff the world over, the pilgrimage to Kitty Hawk. Orville (1871-1948) and Wilbur (1867-1912) Wright invented and built the first successful airplane. Then they piloted it themselves to become the first humans to fly in a controlled, sustained, powered and heavier-than-air aircraft on December 17th, 1903.

My son asked me once: "Who taught the first pilot how to fly?" and I found it difficult to give him a straight answer. Many men died in pursuit of that heroic endeavor but once you fully learn about the Wright Brothers’ achievement and how they realized it the mystery of this daunting task and of flight itself becomes less enigmatic. Orville and Wilbur were two bachelor bicycle mechanics from Dayton, Ohio. The absence of women in their lives had forced them perhaps to seek an alternative way to fly and be giddy. Their pain, or lack of it, was our gain of course. Just consider the tremendous advances in aviation over the last century and you would matter-of-factly appreciate why the airplane is indeed the greatest human invention in history.

The Wright Brothers were not of the daredevil type portrayed in the mostly romantic movies about the dawn of flying or even modern day aviators. In fact they were more of the bland type of men. Sedate, methodical and systematic, they attacked the problems of controlled, sustained and powered flight with empirical data and analysis reserved to physicists and experimental scientists. The self-taught aviators persisted for years in the unraveling of the secrets of flying by direct observation of the flight of birds then by making over 1000 un-powered flights in gliders of their own design and built. They chose this particular spot near Kill Devil Hills in the Outer Banks of North Carolina for its dependable winds, soft sands and unobstructed expanse years before they made their historic flight. They failed and returned to their drawing board and workshop over and over again without truly risking their lives like the many fallen heroes before them. They corresponded with renown aviation scholars and glider pilots from Europe and exchanged ideas and discoveries. They invented the wind tunnel, they manufactured their own gasoline engine from scratch, they carved the propellers, they sewed the muslin, they glued the struts and reinforced the wings of their Wright Flyer with bicycle spokes and all with their own hands. Then on December 17th, 3 days after a failed attempt by Wilbur, who won the coin toss to fly the airplane first, Orville soared into the air and flew for a distance of 120 feet (37 m) in 12 seconds and at a ground speed of only 6.8 miles per hour (10.9 km/h) due to the strong headwinds. The brothers alternated as pilots and made 3 more successful flights on that same day. The next two flights covered 175 feet (53 m) and 200 feet (61 m) and were piloted by Wilbur and Orville respectively at an altitude of about 10 feet (3.0 m) above the ground. The fourth and last attempt of the day (the Wright Flyer was severely damaged afterward and never flew again) saw Wilbur fly for 852 feet (260m) and lasted for 59 seconds. Modern aviation was born and our world changed forever.

There are thousands upon thousands of detailed accounts about the Wright Brothers’ achievements and contributions to humanity and it would be idiotic of me to attempt to add more. I can, however, express my own feelings of awe as I stood, walked then ran around the Wright Brothers National Memorial in Kitty Hawk. Once I climbed that hill and stood by the monument erected in their honor and memory the sky opened up and rain started to fall, cleansing my body in harmony with my mind... and I soared. It is simply impossible to capture the essence of the place in this short video but that was the best I could do. As I scanned the infinitely visible horizon, clearly defined against the overcast sky of the late afternoon I imagined hearing, carried with the winds and over the years, the unassuming words of the brothers sent in a telegram to their father in Ohio: Success four flights thursday morning # all against twenty one mile wind started from Level with engine power alone # average speed through air thirty one miles longest 57 [sic] seconds inform Press home ####Christmas.

*Video background music Learning to Fly by Pink Floyd, 1987 from the album A Momentary Lapse of Reason

Cloud

noreply@blogger.com (abufares tartoussi) — Mon, 13 Feb 2012 08:28:00 +0000

The budding year has brought us rain to wash the grime off of the facades of monstrous buildings and to cleanse our burdened hearts soiled from decades of cruelty. It’s not easy to shed a debauched past with the magic wand of a peaceful protester or the whim of a benevolent mogul and expect a miracle to save us all. For I had walked among the dead, the silent ones and the zombies, and saw them for what they are, vampires feeding on hope and spoiling the landscape with their excremental nostalgia. They are an admonition of what we could turn into if we give up our dreams. Outside my window, puffs of clouds, white, gray and dark scuttle across the sky. They gather from all directions, ominous with the threat of a devastating storm or a magnanimous deluge that will bring life to this barren land.

While apathy is plentiful work has become scarce. With nothing to kill but time I lose myself to a recurring daydream*. I’m flying among the clouds in unconditional freedom. I type “cloud” in the search box and come up with a game. I was never big on computer games but this one intrigued me by its utter benignity. Cloud was developed by a group of students at USC School of Cinematic Arts in 2006. It is the closest rendering of the ubiquitous dream of flying experienced by almost every child and a few lucky grownups. The purpose of the game, as if it needs a purpose, is to fly among clouds, to shepherd them in a flock and to bring rain to thirsty cities and souls. The music is serene, the graphics and wallpaper inspiring and the demands on your system and dexterity minimal. It is as close as you could get to practicing Yoga on your PC. Make sure to explore the various dreams and extras after your install the game.

Cloud can be downloaded for free at the game’s project website and on CNET.

*Read more about the Cloud People.

A Song from Afar

noreply@blogger.com (abufares tartoussi) — Wed, 08 Feb 2012 19:38:00 +0000

I took a lung-full of air and plunged at an angle, my body gleaming in the sunlight before it disappeared. The song came from the north, faint at first then growing louder like the knell of a fog-bell on a distant buoy. It was the first time that I hear such a song, yet it was one I've been longing for as it reverberated through my spine into the depth of my loins.

A primitive feeling of urgency took hold of me. For days and nights I felt as if I had lost all control of my faculties while being goaded by an intangible need. A blurred mirage of mother hung snugly in a dark recess of my brain, emitting a feeble light that turned the blackness into a fugue of gray. An anamnesis from the past, as shapeless as the surface of the sea on a windless night rode the back of the song from far away and guided me ahead.

It grew loud as the water got colder, crisp as the air turned brisker. I felt the currents, diverging near the top, converging the deeper I dived. A vast solace engulfed me in the frigid darkness and when I resurfaced I irresistibly stared with misty eyes at the stars above. Getting my bearings by sound and light pervaded me without any conscious attempt. Where did I learn to do that? Who taught me? The questions, the myriad of them, remained unanswered.

On a spry morning, 49 rising and setting suns after I left the bay, I saw them in a pod dotting the horizon. I called and they answered back, wordless voices of certitude but of little or no choice. They are like me, I reckoned. Memories trickled back then flooded my field of vision. I saw the school I grew up with. I felt the warmth of mother. I remembered ephemeral associations. That’s what brought me here and what will take me further west till I reach that solitary humpback! That’s what brought the others here too. The song, the eternal song, I hear for the first time.

Jets of froth filled the air and cascaded down like broken chrystal. Tall obelisks of fury erupted and ruffled the shoulders of the undulating waves. I was cornered in the endless ocean among my peers, fighting with each of them for my right of passage. Only if I could best this brawny one off to the left. Oh, and that one with the ugly cut in the fin, and the slimy looking one there and that fat one and the other.

With the break of dawn the melee came to an end. The ocean had turned red with the blood of the losers and mine. My body fat consumed, my strength depleted, only the burning in my loins remained. I swam by her side then circled around. Her own quest had come to an end, she acquiesced. She stood still realizing without looking back that I was the sole one for her. I made one last shallow dive and took her from below, holding her with invisible hands. As our eyes locked and my sperm flowed irreversibly into her she sang her eternal song one more time but only for me.

She will call again and I will swim across the earth's oceans. She is mine, we both know it, till the end of time.

Espresso

noreply@blogger.com (abufares tartoussi) — Tue, 31 Jan 2012 14:46:00 +0000

In January of 2000 I went on my first trip to Italy. Three days after a job interview in Tartous with a visiting delegation I received a call asking me to attend a meeting in Treviso. The company had applied for an expedited visa on my behalf and one week later I was there, at headquarters.

We sat in a very large and Italian meeting room with glass all around instead of walls. The ceiling and the floor were mostly made of transparent panels too. It was fantastic architecture by all means and although I'm no great fan of cutting edge modern design I was impressed nevertheless. The same 3 men who interviewed me in Tartous walked into the room with an amicable disposition. They inquired about the flight, if my room in the hotel was comfortable enough and whether breakfast was to my liking. Then we sat down to business. I neglected to tell them that I didn't have time for a proper breakfast but instead only had a cupcake. Most importantly there was no coffee in the breakfast area and before I had a chance to order it from the bar the dispatched car and driver had arrived.

15 minutes into the meeting I was dying for a cup of coffee. I was also reflecting on how differently business in Syria is conducted. The first half an hour or so is mostly spent on pleasantries such as talk about the kids, the weather and world economy, in Tartous at least. Coffee and/or tea are brought in by an attendant. Sugar is premixed as per each individual person's preference. Then ever so slowly the talk tangos into the business at hand. One of my hosts, more attentive than the others and who eventually became a personal friend, noticed my discomfort and asked if he could get me something. Yes please, can I have some coffee?

I was surprised that in a company with over 800 employees worldwide and with an office staff of 150 there wasn't a single person with the designated job of making and/or serving beverages. Of course that was my first venture into the world of big business abroad. It's true that I worked in the US before and that there was no one to serve coffee either, but I only worked in a university and a small general aviation company. Carlo, logistics and international crew and recruiting manager, got up himself and fixed me an espresso.

I was 40 and I just had my first real Italian espresso but I got hooked since. There's nothing in the world, not a single dish or beverage that comes close to an Italian espresso. But more than their cuisine or their wines, the football or the super cars, architecture, painting or sculpture, Italians reached their true height in art and science with their espresso machines and coffee.

I bought my first and only espresso machine in February of that year as a birthday present for myself. It was simple and actually the only one I could find, a French Moulinex Gusto. Unlike fancier machines, which contain a stainless steel or a brass boiler, an exchanger, complex plumbing and a powerful pump to flash-heat the water to precise temperature on its way to the basket containing the ground coffee, minee had a plastic water tank, a small heater in the head and an electric pump. Once the water temperature gets to a certain degree in the head itself the thermostat light comes off. I push a rocker switch activating a pump which in turn forces a jet of water over the coffee. I had it for 12 years and it served me at least one cup of coffee every morning I've spent at home since. I never filled it with anything but Lavazza coffee, the brand that I chose as my favorite after my maiden 5 days visit to Italy.

Last week the Moulinex started leaking on the sides around the filter holder. I fiddled with it as best as I could but I realized that it had reached the end of its useful life. This morning, my cup of espresso tasted almost as bland as a cup of American coffee with the consistency and suspended particles I so much despise in Turkish coffee. I cleaned the machine reverently for it had served me well. I even spoke to it and promised that I'll try to fix it but with the relegated role of a backup.

I just bought a new machine, a steam powered espresso coffee maker and an Italian at that. My DeLonghi is set up and ready. I can almost smell the fresh brew and the temptation is killing me. But that will have to wait till morning. For now, a shot of Grappa to celebrate the change of guard is in order. Salute!

Return

noreply@blogger.com (abufares tartoussi) — Tue, 24 Jan 2012 09:59:00 +0000

It hurts not to write, to wean my imagination by damming the river within or to trickle updates and comments on a bedlamite Facebook. With premeditated arrogance I pronounce that I’m too good for politics, but even a lofty leopard is distracted by buzzing flies. I should be writing about the beauty in and around me. Whether they are about the woman perched on a throne of clouds or the city I see in my childish eyes, I miss the echo of my own words. The music they make when they meander around in my head then dance to the drumming of my racing heartbeats. Leave the grease and the exposed hairy cracks to the mechanics, I tell myself then zoom past the desperate crowds in a dream powered Ferrari. I have the heart of Gawain and the ardor of Adonis, the Syrian God not the grovelling poet. I am the Tartoussi, Ibn al-Balad, who’s known the before and after, standing by and waiting for the end of this long day and a new beginning.
I'm coming back.

2011

noreply@blogger.com (abufares tartoussi) — Wed, 28 Dec 2011 11:06:00 +0000

I don't have mixed feelings toward 2011. It was by all means the year, one which we can look at from the shortsighted vantage point of the here and now or from afar to perceive its magnitude from the acquired insight of a future in the making.

No, I have no doubts. I know exactly how I feel about it as it has been the epochal year of my life although certainly the most agonizing for all of us. I wouldn't be claiming prescience if I had previously predicted its inevitability. Although it took me, like it did everybody else, by surprise I have been waiting for it to happen for as long as I can remember.

The inflicted pain of 2011 will linger on for a few more years, of that I'm certain. Yet I'm optimistic that out of calamity my and other children will lead more dignified lives. They will dig within their own bags of memories to compare the before and after. They will bask in precious liberty earned with the limb and blood of their brethren who made, and still are making, the ultimate sacrifice.

Many compatriots are against subversive change. They chose to bury their heads in the sand or worse to vehemently oppose the natural human aspiration for freedom for several reasons, not the least of which is the preservation of their privileged economic position and/or chaperoned social status. They were of the opinion that if it ain't broke don't fix it and thus embarked on a blind mission of psychotic denial and base justification for atrocities and crimes perpetrated and committed. Needless to say that their defeatist outlook is only helping in delaying the fateful outcome but it won't put a dent on its certainty. Over decades of subservience they've learned to tip the scale in their favor exactly like all parasites in the animal and plant kingdoms. They were able to make a good living within a corrupt socioeconomic system, where they evaded fair competition and hard work. They'd rather live in advantaged voluntary servitude instead of being free among equals.

In the spirit of the season, however, let me wrap up my last post of the year by being as good-hearted as I have it in me and by offering my best wishes for 2012. May peace fill the lives of every human, animal and plant. May the new year bring honor to those who earned it. As for freedom, I'll simply quote Abraham Lincoln to express my sincere sentiments: "Those who deny freedom to others deserve it not for themselves". Happy 2012 everyone :-)

The Aftermath

noreply@blogger.com (abufares tartoussi) — Wed, 07 Dec 2011 10:31:00 +0000

What shall I write about when everyone I know has turned into either a desultory opponent or a gullible supporter while those who are neither are the worst of all? I am a conspirator to the supporters and they are cowards to me. Highbrow hypocrites, camouflaged in diarrheal moderation, evade the deluge by hiding in the unreachable branches of tall trees, unprincipled, unashamed. They, along with the merchants of the two cities will surely recover and end up high and dry no matter how long the flooding remains.

courtesy thedailygreen

The cowards shall never win for their freedom will be handed to them as alms. The conspirators, and despite their fateful victory, have already lost their true identities. Eventually when the water recedes, the bemused survivors, cowards and conspirators, will pick up the pieces of their broken lives. The merchants will sell them their lives back, with interest and at a profit no doubt. And the hypocrite rascals will get down from their trees and fill the world with trash while, most certainly, making a damn good living out of cleaning the aftermath.