I want to write something

I want to write something profound right now...

But all I can think about is my dad and his dad in the hospital.

I want to write something creative right now...

But all I can see are the insides of my eyes looking back at me, forlorn and uninspired.

I want to write something revealing right now...

But all I can hope is that my freshly massacred left shoulder will not soak my "The Old City" t-shirt in blood.

I want to write something exciting right now...

But all I can hear are the voices of those 3 beautiful ladies telling me of the progress in their lives, and reminding me of the stillness in mine.

I want to write something news-worthy right now...

But the required 5 "W"s and 1 "H" inquiries only report "wizard," "weather," "weeble," "witness," "welcome," and "hate." My logic and objectivity is muffled. 

I want to write something of an epiphany right now...

But I haven't had one and fear that I never will.

I want to write something about my love right now...

But I question whether I have any, referring to the lyrics of "Haunted" as evidence I may not.

I want to write something about my freedom right now...

But I question whether I have any, referring to the lyrics of "Ma Ilee 7uriya" as evidence I do not.

I want to write something about my Palestinians right now...

But I've sung that unsung hero's song and have no energy to sound another strong note.

I want to write something right now I can be proud of tomorrow...

But my pride has left me, and has scrubbed itself clean with a Brillo pad of self-doubt.

I want to write something my dad will applaud...

But all I can think about is my dad failing to sleep because he is thinking of his dad in the hospital.

Words about kalimat

My dad says that we humans are all plagiarists. We steal words (kalimat in Arabic) from each other to describe objects, emotions, actions--and usually do so without any attributions. Language-using, in this sense, is theft. 

That theft is a beautiful audio-visual crime: audio when humans make sounds to draw attention to a particular subject; visual when gesture or writing is used instead.

Disputes about the origins of language abound--some are religious, suggesting that the first language teacher was Allah (God) SUB7ANA WA TA3AL, the first student Adam 3ALAYHEE IL SALAT WAL SALAAM; others are evolutionary, explaining that the first "intelligent" beings discovered the unifying powers of pointing and noise-making, and from them developed communications systems.

I believe both have their roles in the universe of language and expression:

Words are divine. For anyone who has familiarity with the Qur'an, he or she knows that each letter (7arf) has a purpose in every word (kilma), sentence (jumla), verse/sign (aya), or chapter (surah) of which it is a member. There are several surahs that are announced with invidiual letters: "alif," "lam," "meem," for instance.  Scholars have spent countless hours studying the value of these letters, their placement in this holy book, the number of times they are repeated, and what they represent to and for the Ummah (Muslim brother- and sisterhood). 

Allah developed a DNA of sorts for each letter. Words are then, by their divine right and existence, scientific. When we speak or write or point, we participate in Allah's etymology. 

We also participate in words' evolution. Wordsmiths can be found in lecture halls, on stages, behind news desks, in publishing houses, in public restrooms, on street corners, and in apartments in Virginia. Word-making is a game we all play, some of us more famously than others. Read next how many different players were involved, according to the New York Times, in developing the word "rap" to describe the music style:  

"Rap began in the 14th century as an echoic noun, imitating the sound of a sharp blow. Early American English applied rap to a sharp rebuke, perhaps also the source of the 1903 sense of a criminal charge, along with the hope of "beating the rap."

As a verb, rap has long meant "to express orally." The poet Sir Thomas Wyatt wrote in 1541, "I am wont sometime to rap out on oath in an earnest talk." British prison slang used rap for "to say" as early as 1879, and Damon Runyon may have picked up that rap to use in a 1929 story: "I wish Moosh a hello, and he never raps to me but only bows, and takes my hat."

According to one theory, this talking rap came from British English into the American language, perhaps transferred through Caribbean English; another theory suggests that rap is a clipped alteration of repartee , a 1645 noun from French for "retort."

However rap entered American usage, it was widely adopted in black English by the 1960's. Eldridge Cleaver wrote in a 1965 letter, "In point of fact he is funny and very glib, and I dig rapping with him." Clarence Major, in his 1970 Dictionary of Afro-American Slang, defined rap as both verb and noun: "to hold conversation; a long, impressive monologue." Within a decade, the noun was used attributively in rap music , labeling the rhythmic rhyming lines set to an insistent beat."

This model also exemplifies how language is Darwinian: the use of certain words or certain nuances of words ebbs and flows with necessity: Words die in modern language after they've been deemed archaic and dispensable; their tombstones the lexicons and tapings that note their previous existences. As they are absorbed into the history of language, dead words become ancestral. Example: Whenever my dad wants to explain the meaning of an Arabic word to me [usually a word we heard in a song by AbdelHalim or Saba7 Fakhri  or Wadi3 El Safi],   

1. He first asks me what other words it sounds like.

2. Then he relates it to another word that I do know to establish a common root.

3. Then he explains the root.

4. Then he explains the iteration of the root that has been given to this word. 

These relationships are essential to fully understanding the word, and realizing its evolution... 

...And realizing how new words come to be born. Many start out as slang: "in" street-speak, developed by the young, and shunned by the old. By the time the slang-term reaches pubescence and is adopted by the middle-aged, and when it becomes middle-aged and can be found in books or conversations with those middle-aged humans, the word has atrophied, and has begun its demise. Words and their participation in language, therefore, is zeitgeist--a marker of the current land-and-sound-scapes of life. Words have life cycles, and reflect ours.

Words also have art. Arabic calligraphy is allowed to exist and claim a "khata," (calligrapher), such as Hassan Massoudy and Farah Behbehani and my grandfather Mohammad Yousef El-Khatib because it is so. Poetry and its boombox-carrying sibling, rap, are allowed to flow and name poets, such as Khalil Gibran and Mahmoud Darwish and Tamim Al-Barghouti, and rappers, such as Immortal Technique and Boikutt and Mahmoud Jrere for the same reason. ["Letters" by Mahmoud (DAM) shows how.]

Words--divine, scientific, and artistic--have life. And, as my dad says and writes*, we are all thieves who thrive by stealing from that life when we express anything--to each other or to ourselves. 

Here's to spiritual and intelligent and decorative thieving.

~~Word to your moms; kilma la umayatkom~~

[NOTE: The above slang "word" phrases died ages ago, but it has been my mission to bring them back to life. Call it vintage word-smithing. And, yes, I am wearing my "word" t-shirt as I type this, and thinking of the four words that I would get tattooed if not for the word "7aram." ]

*I've stolen many words from my dad. He's allowed me to share a theft with you. Below is a poem he wrote in 1994 about words--and it's copyrighted, so no stealing ;-)

(Untitled)

Hatim S. Khatib

"This silhouette, this famished sight, this 

emptiness that fills the world, this 

manufacture of man: this word.

Some carry weight along with might.

Some fill the ear with utter delight

While others are laden with human plight.

Some injure and kill and cause flight.

But that's how we eavesdropped, while 

millennium apart, on the whispering of 

history's lovers.

This unfueled vehicle which travels faster than 

all others.

It bounces off the farthest stars and, sweetened 

by babies' breaths, caresses the lips of 

mothers.

It's everything we know, everything we see

Everything we touch, everything we are.

It's more precious than gold,

This possession of rich and poor, of young and 

old.

It traverses the universe a zillion times as 

effortlessly as back and fro, from hold to 

hold.

It is the word. She is everything.

It abides God's mouth just as readily as that of 

a fool.

It's as gentle as a breath and just as readily it's 

so cruel.

It's an epithet; it's an epitaph;

It's so cheap; it's a jewel.

It's ugliness; it's chaos; and yet again it's a 

rule.

Tell me, sir, if the world can go another day, 

another minute, without a word.

Can we talk,

Can we whisper,

Can we walk,

Can we prosper

Without a word?

Can we sense,

Can we see,

Can we live,

Can we be

Without a word?

Which is nothing but an illusion--and so is 

life."

 

Music maturation; Age fresh

One day, several hundred years ago, I was a young girl exploring the shops of Montreal's rue Sainte-Catherine with my quartet: Umee, Khaltee, joz Khaltee, and Reem (me). I strode into a bookstore/music store/cafe. My eyes almost immediately locked on a CD cover featuring a boy wearing a 7atta and prepping a slingshot to shoot. The instant connection was just as instantly followed by internal questions: was this a Palestinian-Canadian group? Was this a bootlegged copy of a George Wassuf CD with a Photoshop-ed cover? Why was it named "Zebda" ("butter" in Arabic)? Was this a mockery of the Middle East?

Two-minutes of examination produced no satisfactory answers. I decided to bite the bullet and purchase the CD. It became a souvenir, and it became my first experience with [what in my world at that time could only be described as] nontraditional Middle Eastern music.

I made the purchase with my Canadian coins, opened the plastic wrapping, and thumbed through the CD pamphlet to try to learn about the group--it was all in French; with the exception of a few key words, I didn't understand French. So, I stared at the pictures and names instead, and tried to figure out which man represented which name: Magyd Cherfi, Hakim Amokrane, Mustapha Amokrane. Those were the only Arab names; those were the names I studied.

Then, I turned my attention to the Arab name: Zebda.

I would later learn that "Zebda" was not a dedication to a silky and fattening dairy product favored by many biscuit and pancake eaters around the world; it was an ownership of a French-colloquial (and derogatory) name given to Arabs.

Zebda was a musical Franco-Arab septuplet hailing from Toulouse in southern France, according to RFI Musique. The group formed in 1985...my connection to Zebda would come some 14 years later.

And it would come at the tail-end of double-digit hours of streaming George Wassuf, Kadem Saher, AbdelHalim Hafez, Om Khalthoum, Fairouz: Kings and Queens of Middle Eastern singing and rhythm.

FLASHBACK...

I heard their music during the entire drive from VA to Montreal. At first, I just accepted it; after all, I was the minority in the car: 19 to 20 year-old, and born in America. I always appreciated that I was Arab, but did not think that should sentence me to hours of drawn-out mawaweel [moaning to my ears], and "whoa-is-me-and-my-broken-qalb" tunes for the centuries-long trip-on-wheels. It was just so...so.......OLD. I didn't understand the lyrics, the music, and "the beauty," according to the others in the car, but I, even then a tolerant and ZEN-like kid, decided to deal and not fuss about it.

Hour five: I stopped hearing, and started listening. My ears adjusted, like eyes do in a dark room. I stopped wincing. My auditory sense began to translate the words from "bla bla bla..wa wa wa" to "sayad al toyoor" and "gan il hawa, ga-a-a-a-naa"--the muffled became crisp and clear, and turned my 95.5 WPGC/Z104 world on to my parents' music. As my mind started to move to the music, so too did my head. As my eyes looked through the window at the passing pavement and rocks, I started to sing...internally.

Hour 10+: I was in love with Middle Eastern instruments and the Arabic language spoken by the singers recorded on the tapes and CDs. I fell in love with aged Arabic music.

Little did I know that the next CD I'd connect with would be Zebda's.

FLASHFORWARD...

I was excited about finding a young group that would echo the sounds of the Middle East, and perhaps bring a fresh flow to the qanun and 3od and nay sounds and the esswat I had heard during the drive. I was excited about making a discovery that I could claim, and then share with whomever I chose (first would likely be the other 3/4 of my quartet).

But after a full listen, the excitement abated, and turned to disappointment. Zebda was too different; it was too...NEW, and I didn't like it. Zebda did not sound anything like precious AbdelHalim and rugged "sultan al 6arab," George Wassuf. To my ears, Zebda was like a live SKA band that was too French and that attempted to note Arab heritage through slight "oriental" allusions. There was an "Asalama 3alykom" and a hard "h" or two thrown in for good measure, but that was all I recognized of Arabic language. Of course, I assumed there were Middle Eastern themes in the lyrics--maybe in "Taslima" or "Arabadub" or "Minot des Minorites"--but even if so, they were dressed in French, and did not conjure an Arab aura. In my opinion, this was not music a 7atta-wearing slingshooter would be listening to.

After all of the metamorphisizing and maturing Om Kalthoum and Fairouz inspired, Zebda was trying to revert me to "western" style--unteaching me the lessons I learned from my car-ride Arabic-music teachers. The confusion was a lot for a vacationing teenager to handle. And it was not welcome.

I made an effort nonetheless, but after a couple rounds of practice-listening to Zebda while in Canada and back in VA, I retired the CD to my "it's aight" collection. I then turned on some Kadem Saher, and forgot about the buttery boys who were Arab but didn't wax Arabic musical poetry...

...Until about 10+ years later. Allahu 3alam what made me think of Zebda this week; that same invisible force had me thumbing through my CD collection to find the boy with the 7atta prepping a slingshot to shoot. I found it.

And I listened to the CD...once, twice, and, on listen seven, my mind started to move to the music, as did my head, and as I was driving, I started to sing...out loud.

I realize now that the hasty criticism I gave Zebda 10+ years ago was not fair; my assumptions about the group were not true. I did not understand Zebda back then. It turns out, Zebda, which disbanded in 2003, was quite a popular, important, and effective band in its hayday. Its foundation was in political activism and social commentary. The group had even started an independent political party in France. [Zebda was probably just the type of band a 7atta-wearing slingshooter who speaks French would be listening to.]

Zebda is not AbdelHalim. No one but AbdelHalim is AbdelHalim. Yet, Zebda is a slice of Middle Eastern music, which is realized in many different ways and with many different sounds and voices. The songs on that CD still sounds liveband-ish, and lean to ska or rock. And I still don't understand French, but I do recognize "intifada" and "Palestine" in "Baïonnettes." And I hear the RAI in the reggae, and note the tabla in the drums.

I get it. I like it.

Musical tastes, like many other things, mature over time. The notes stay the same but age makes them sound differently. Those differences document the life changes in the listener, who, later in life carries more sights and more sounds; more history; and more experiences in his or her backpack. What was once soothing, is now noise. What was once unintelligible, is now perfectly understandable.

Age fresh: Revisit one of those forgotten CDs. You'll hear it as a repackaged person, and may be surprised to find what those sounds will tell you about where you are in your life journey.

--spéciale dédicace 3ala 3eed il milad: May every day you age numerically be a day you are reborn into good energy, khair, and harmony, and refreshed by another celebration of you.

Kol yom wa inta salim.--

The victim; the oppressor

If I had any piece of advice to offer, it would be to never use that famous excuse. Never become a "victim" to push an agenda or gain sympathy or get an extra buck. Listen to Suhell: "Kilmit 'miskeen,' tali3ha min rasak."

Once we allow a situation to describe us--once we own being oppressed and become an "oppressed people"--we really become pressed down. Realize, my Palestinian, my Lubnanee, my Iraqi, who you really are: a survivor, not a victim. You have overcome everything that has been shot at you. You planted your thick roots deep in the soil and you stood firm--unyielding, even defying the wind so as not to sway--and you flourished, and you flourish. 

And you remain. You repelled countless bullets with your steel chest and you bit the heads off missiles with your ivory teeth and spit them back--with the force of your heart and your determination and your faith. You NEVER won because you were a victim; you ALWAYS win because you are a soldier of "iman"  and "waton."

Pretenses of victimization are weak and transparent. That's what I read in Ahmedinejan's comment: the excuse of an epoch of evil and murder and racism and egocentrism is being used to excuse passing evil and murder and racism and egocentrism forward.  "World leaders" showing their disagreement by walking out was petty and immature, and did nothing to quiet the message. Perhaps they couldn't bear to hear the 7-minute-turned-half-hour speech because they are uncomfortable with truths about Palestine; it doesn't fit into their preferred fairy-tales. Or maybe the remnants of conscience that still hibernate in the hollows of their heads were rudely awakened by alarms of guilt--and it was all just too alarming. So they hit snooze.

It's so easy to use the route of victimization for a greedy agenda; it's easy to claim that being abused by a racist regime in one lifetime allows the abused to become the abuser in the next. It's easy, and it's high school--that's how bullies "explain" their bullying. Larger, it's evil, and it's not right. It's also disgraceful and disrespectful to the people whose lives were destroyed by the Nazis. How dare their suffering be used for political gain? That's where the cries of "shame, shame" at the UN conference should have been directed--to those who are soliciting sympathy, like salesmen, for the travesties that were suffered; to those whose "Hello, my name is..." sticker reads: I know someone who's great grandmother's sister's half brother was a victim of the Holocaust, so I'm allowed to displace* and kill Palestinians, and if you disagree with me, you're an anti-Semite and therefore, a terrorist. And you should be jailed or hanged. My name is "victim," so these are my rights. 

My fellow humans--people everywhere of all religions and spiritual subscriptions: Do not become a victimization-worshiper. Do not allow yourselves to fall that low. Do not disgrace your fallen heroes who gave of themselves and gave up themselves to pave the road to Palestine; to South Africa; to Lubnan; to Bosnia; to Tibet; to Afghanistan; to Iraq; to your reservation. Do not bastardize your history and your present in that way.

Being a victim is a mindset--never wear that helmet. It is just as heavy and oppressive (if not more oppressive) than third-party occupation because it is a take-over of one's own mind and will. Once your will is strapped into and trapped under that shell, my brother Egyptian; once your mind has been tagged "victim," sister Sureeya, then you have lost. And that loss is hard to recover. That loss is engraved in the tombstone of your spirit because you would have given up the only thing that distinguishes you from a cadaver--your soul. 

"Hello, my name is Palestine; my name is survivor."

[*Note to the reader: know that a Palestinian can never truly be displaced because Palestine lives inside the Palestinian, and flows through her veins and sustains her. And when she dies, the roots of her "waton" sprout from her heart and cradle her for eternity. She is never without Palestine, and Palestine is never without her. So the bully's plan will never work, and the Palestinian will never be the bully's victim.]

Lessons Learned in the Layla Lounge Lecture Hall

Last night (April 19, 2009), I got to experience Hip Hop live. And it was--alive that is. The billing included DJ Cam Jus, Omar Offendum, Cristopolis, Flex Matthews, and DAM. The actual lineup--expanded by some surprise guests--offered ethnic and stylistic diversity. Hip Hop is everywhere, and everywhere it is has talented performers. And they were there last night.

As it was a Hip Hop show, it was also about culture. The political culture of the event was grounded in struggle, oppression, survival, and overcomeance. It circulated around Palestine. As it was a Hip Hop event, there were messages and there were calls to action.

I learned last night about an area charity dedicated to fighting U.S. ignorances about the Palestinian struggle. The representative told the audience that each person could inspire change and spread truth and bring down injustice--and it could all be done in five steps. And if each person in that room follows those five steps, I have no doubt that good things will happen. This was a lesson in simplicity. It does not take much to improve the world. The work can be counted on one hand--and when working together, those five individual fingers generate the power of a mighty fist. Lesson No. 1: keep it simple.

That was the first of many lessons taught that night by wordly professors.

Lesson No. 2: Learn through experience. Several individuals, just getting their footings in the world of verse and rhyme, took the stage and addressed the crowd. Female and male, young and ready, nervous and excited. My mantra has always been that the best way to learn anything is to jump right in and do it. One's best counselors, editors, instructors are his or her experiences and mistakes. The most efficient way to learn how to handle a microphone is to hold it, turn it on, and speak into the head. This is how one adjusts pitch and volume properly; learns about distance-relations between the mouth and the mic; figures out if anyone is hearing the sounds. Turn it on, and start. And they did, and I'm sure they learned a lot being up there in front of us. And we learned a lot too: we learned who they are, we learned what they love, and we learned what they believe. And we witnessed their experience. They went from students to teachers in a matter of seconds, and they became veterans of the Layla Lounge stage within minutes.

A third lesson...

The lesson that I had already learned but wanted others to gain was in No. 3: Music is the universal language [the focus to be on DAM here but applicable to all of the artists that performed last night]. DAM's members were professors to a crowd of all backgrounds, intellectual levels, rhythmic abilities, and levels of intoxication (it was at a lounge after all). DAM has a good beat--this is essential. With each bass boom, a head and hand bounce, capturing the music and the flow--each time grabbing more than the decibel before allowed. Music is music--no translation necessary to make it move the listener in one way or another.

And while the lyrics travel with that music, and stream into the ears and the eyes and the brains and the hearts of the participating audience, they are not always afforded that same instantaneous ubiquitous luxury. Evenso, if a listener didn't know what the word meant last night, he or she experienced how it felt, traveling through the ear canal and being analyzed by brain cells. And as DAM delivered those words, he or she also saw the the words vibrating lips, creating furrowed brows, igniting beads of sweat, pushing fists up, and then quieting with a smile and some humor. The sensory experiences were in, out, around, up, and down-and it may have been "in one ear, and out the mouth" at points, but it was not "in one ear, out the other" if the audience feedback and applause was any indication.

With this teaching method, DAM effectively professed about Palestine: about the experience of living in Al Lid, of the camraderie between brothers, about the lengthening legacy of Hip Hop music and its reach to the corners and insides of the Middle East, and about the heinous crimes committed by "Israel." I understood; many, like me and unlike me in my Arab heritage, understood.

There were uber lessons learned by and impressed upon the audience last night in the Layla Lounge lecture hall. And if my gut-feeling is right, I was not the only student who left there motivated to keep studying and overcoming.

My hope is that people were paying attention. My feeling is that they were--had we been tested on the knowledge that was spread from that stage, my feeling is that I would not have been the only one to receive a grading of "Alif Alif."

~~
P.S. Lesson No. 2.01-2.99: Do not heckle Flex Matthews unless you are ready for a tongue-lashing, verbal victimization, and harmonious humiliation. Flex shared a story about how he handled a "boo-er" at a Baltimore show. Flex Matthews reciprocated the effort and heckled-back at the poor kid. He replayed for us the rhymes with which he ripped and ridiculed that unsuspecting person. That was my favorite rhyme in his set--and I told him so, and he laughed =).

Responding to a response

You are quite right, my writer friend--these are not simple "clings" and "clangs" and "beeps" and "bops". These are the sounds and the souls, the vibrations and the vibes, the harmonies and the hearts borne from and giving birth to Hip Hop music.

It's sacrilege to over simplify it or dismiss it as noises that can be produced with a fork and a "tunjara." But Hip Hop is simple; that is why it is widely appreciated. Hip Hop is the spoken word of the poet, recited in rhythm--in time with a heart beat, monitored by the pounding of a fist against a chest; a fist that takes its breath clenching erect in the air, joined by a head nod of respect--touch the chin to the chest and relate the instrument to its power source.

All very simple; that is why it is understood. That is why it has spread. That is why it has fans and loyalists.

Hip Hop music; Hip Hop movement--it is the pulse that monitors the flow of life. That monitor is now watching and timing and mixing the Middle East.

It remains the same there--it goes back to its roots there. When it was fresh in Brooklyn, it was about real life; it was about daily life. An MC told a tale with no fantastic ending--he echoed the tragedy and the poverty and the illiteracy and the illegitimacy and the corruption and the power and the trust and the intelligence that was all around him. And he did it in beat, and he did it in rhyme, with the DJ by his side. And that was it--and it was everything.

It is everything to young Palestinians and Lebanese and Algerians and Egyptians and Syrians and Moroccans. The Middle Eastern rap poet is the descendant of the orators and story-tellers that carried forth the instructions of the prophets and the teachings of the professors and the investigations of the reporters. This art is ingrained in Middle Eastern culture and history. A good memory and an articulate speaker made a man who became responsible for maintaining tradition. We know our tradition because of him. He is that tradition. Hip Hop artists are Middle Eastern tradition realized in today's environment.

Today's Hip Hop artist is the people's representative--he and she are the honorable politicians. Through their lyrics and their music, the masses are activated into "muzahirat," they are charged to call out injustices and to insist on change. Hip Hop is the battle cry of the rock-ready and the 7atah wearing shabab, resisting occupation and protecting their people. Hip Hop is a commentary that spreads in decibels and over airwaves and reaches beyond the boundaries of the "mukhayamat" and the check points. I7dood Lubnan stand no chance against the giants of the Palestinian flow; nor can they block out the spray of "Lubnan ardee, Lubnan baladee, Lubnan watonee" that shoot at them from inside. The voices are one; the collective power is immense. Rhymes passing through the "ma7soom" between Gaza and Egypt proceed without hesitation or long lines or rejection. The Syrian is expressing in tandem with the girl from 3akka, and the mesmerizing flute carries her message to the narcicist in Iraq. And the song lands in the iPhone of the Palestinian sitting in Virginia, longing for her "baranda" back home.

You are right, Mr. Writer, Hip Hop is not just a "beep" and "clang." Hip Hop is simply everything.

60 to 30

Ok, well, not exactly 60--but about, about 60 days are left until I turn 30 years old. I'm not sure how to feel about it really. My 23rd birthday was my last friend; the years including and after 25 were major foes...until I turned 29.

Twenty-nine was a year of growth, of maturity, of adulthood--emotionally speaking. As a 29-soon-to-be-30 year old, I can say with confidence that I am more confident. I trust my decisions, and make more of them. I don't care about others' opinions--I really don't; that's not just a phrase to write or repeat to myself to convince myself of its truth. I know who I am, I know that Allah knows who I am, and I know that the people who matter to me know they do--nothing else matters.

And I'm tough as fuck. I'm quite polite and appropriate, and appropriately foul-mouthed and confrontational when necessary. I have an inside of steel--it is an unyielding fortress off which pain and anger and hate ricochet. Physical or emotional--I went through so much up until 29 and during 29, and those experiences have each contributed a steel brick in the layers that build my fortress, that tower over and cast shadows on onlookers. Yes, the negatives in my life have pressed pock wounds into the walls-but they are only impressions. I use them to gain my footing and maintain my grip--I use them to climb up and get over. And that takes resilience and "quwa.

Twenty-nine has been the culmination of my journey to true honesty. TRUE HONESTY...unbridled, unfiltered, and raw revelations of myself to myself. I own what I do and how I feel; I take responsibility for it no matter its outcome. And I share myself with the people who matter. "There is a bit of vulnerability that comes with that--and I'm aware. I am honest in my forgiveness too: I forgive completely.

I am also honest in love. I love completely. And when I love a person, I commit to lodging him or her in a pure place in my world--and nurturing that relationship. If I can make a person I love smile, I give myself the greatest gift in my realm. His or her happiness is mine. I protect that love. Not even I can penetrate its walls, so once that person is cradled within, he or she is there for life. And I'm honest about it, and don't care whether others think about whether it's the "smart" or "right" way to be.

The development of these characteristics is my 29th year's legacy. What awaits me at 30? I'm excited to find out. I do think that, for the first time since 23, this birthday will be a new friend. I still have 60 days to complete my 29th life--just enough time to find the appropriate outfit for 30's celebration ;-)

Four C-scents

I have a bad short-term memory. I think that's likely a result of my self-diagnosed ADD (read: lack of focus). But, my long-term memory is good, maybe even better than most. I don't know why, but I suspect that a scent-based sensory relation to these moments helps maintain them. A specific scent wafts during the memory-making moment, and lodges itself in my nasal chambers. 

Just ask "Chicago," who has often received a text message hello prompted by a random scent-inspired reminder--the air freshner beads in a convertible Audi's ashtray. They smelled fresh; they were part of a fresh experience. The scent was clean and soap-like, something that may be named "linen" or "laundry" on its package. 

Once the beads whittled down to molecules, acting as tiny hour-glasses timing the trip, they attached to my nostrils to stowaway and travel back with me. They lay low, undercover, until they sneeze and release a slight sliver of their scent--reminding me of that first frolic through the CHI, and the drives in the convertible Audi that held them, and the driver who bought them and placed them in that ashtray. 

There is another memory-laden scent that sparks a smile and a throwback visual. But this ode is to an odor that I helped create--I contributed the cologne; the other, the cigarettes. Two common particles created a unique perfume. I love this smell, despite its carcinogen. 

This scent, unlike its Chicago kin, does not self-release. I provoke it; I go to the source and breathe the cologne in again. And then I mesmerize into memories: walking into the kitchen where my favorite Nescafe was made, sitting on a couch in front of the DREAM channel, and watching a ba3bosa rise to greet Abu Mazen's motorcade; there's a heater and a window in that scent too. A Rukab hide-and-seek, a Nadia Ali song, and a Khaled Hosseini book are all included. Never mind that these memories were created before the concocted cologne had been--these are the thoughts I'm most fond of, and so I force the connection.

And that is how I remember long-term: through scent, through sense. 

Maybe this will work for chocolate...a whiff of cocoa to remember my last indulgence, and prevent the next one. No...no...the chocolate intake is too frequent; eating choco becomes a short-term memory. So my ADD allows me to forget, and, therefore, allows me to repeat ;-)

The reason

The point of this thing called "blogging" is to write without inhibition or regulation. To write one's truth; to keep things raw; to share one's expertise.  That is what I plan to do. No thought--expressed or repressed--will be off limits. This blog will be my brain revealed for better or for worse. That is why I named it "RED read."

So comment if you feel so inclined, and we'll start a discussion. Or, just read.

Picked first

I picked this first; I picked picking to be my first blog. I hope it was a good decision.

I continued to sit on that cold seat, staring at my bare legs...one pant leg around my ankle, the other leg, free from anything binding--save my fingers--propped up against the counter. That is the standard position to take before embarking on the exploration and then the harvesting. I say that "free" leg was not free at all--it was a slave to my fingers, and moreso to my fingernails. That leg--my right leg--was the prey waiting for its predator to pounce, and silently hoping that a second thought would change the course. The second thought came and went; the attack proceeded. 

It's all so silly really--it's monkey-like, it's a cleaning ritual taken to the extreme. Why is it so bothersome that a strand, thin as a thread, hibernating under the surface, can not be left to its rest? If I see it, it must be extracted. I've seen many, and the extraction excursions have left their prints on my legs and shoulders and anywhere else I've been able to reach. 

It's quite disgusting really. It's shameful. It triggers enormous feelings of guilt and repulsion. Yet none of these are strong enough to prevent it from happening again. So, I try religion and spirituality. In religion--in my religion--self-inflicted mutilation is "haram"--forbidden and sinful. Sitting on that porcelain seat, propping and prepping a bare leg's skin and follicles, scouting the scene, and choosing the sacrificial pore--its premeditated; it's sin in the first degree. It warrants pleas of forgiveness, and is often followed by some. 

But how many times can one ask for forgiveness for the same sin? Many times I guess...the better question is how many times is that forgiveness granted?

The answer is not one to be relied on. The point is there should be no more scavenger hunts to repent for. 

It's not a phase; it's not something to grow out of or away from. It's obsession; it's sin. And I will pray one more time--I'll whisper the words right onto my finger tips (those same blood-thirsty cannibals that devour their own kind). I'll calm them and show them the ways of gentility and care, and sway them away from prodding and picking and digging. 

That cold seat became my confessional today. Tomorrow, it will be my pew.