Words

“Words, Words, Words.” – Hamlet, William Shakespeare –

It has passed. Happiness and contentment are leaking through your eyes, slowly abandoning your confused soul. Electricity, shy and reluctant, shoots through your body to awaken your numbed senses, and you suddenly remember that you’ve been left alone in the cold. The moment dies slowly, and your memory tries to deceive you, creating an ephemeral image of it in the back of your mind. You shake that off like an old ghost and hold on stronger to the dying seconds, but your strength can never match the mighty powers of Time. You need to freeze it beyond his penetrating gaze before it fades away forever. And in your desperation you turn to another enemy for help, allying with Words in order to keep the moment alive.

“Words, Words, Words.” Just Words… Mere Words… At first your imagination doesn’t help and you can’t come up with anything of your own, so you need to “borrow” someone else’s. Kundera’s Words perhaps, audacious and somewhat original. Or maybe those of T. S. Elliot, vague like a dream. Auden’s Words prove to be helpful, simple arrows hitting their target. Or you can always sing some of Dickenson’s, pure emotions killed and phrased, balanced by the vibrant fantasies of Marquez. Kafka’s images come up often; horrific shadows passing through your mind, interrupted by the drunken blabbers of Hemingway. You remember a line from a Shakespearean play, humorous and smart, and you add another written by Wilde, refined like a good bottle of wine. Eventually, you’ll end up just where you started; “Words, Words, Words.”

And as the fighting draws to an end, you finally build up courage to use some of your own. You start slowly, still uncertain of your steps along the newly discovered path, but after a while, Words start flooding through you. Your thoughts are transformed perfectly, and your Words start taking a Life of their own, sucking up your strength with every breath they take. And just before it all ends, you realize that at some point during battle allegiances have shifted, and you were betrayed. Time is defeated, just as you wanted, and the moment is captured, just as you wanted. Yet, as you lay down your shield and start looking at the life that came out of you, you see a disfigured shape of happiness, cold and alien. And you’re left with nothing but that horrible and insatiable feeling of Emptiness, like a ghost warrior roaming the earth in search for a battle that has already ended.

Moments....

“Happiness is the longing for repetition” – Milan Kundera

Today is my birthday. I suppose I could write something that sounds really wise and mature about Time, Immortality or anything similar that dwells in that vicinity of concepts, captured so easily by words and outworn by millions of attempts to phrase. Instead, I just remembered a message that I sent to my friends on New Year’s Eve 2007, suggesting that there are certain moments in Life that escape the powerful grip of time and outlast eternity, perhaps phrasing them is much harder but looking back at the year that passed they seem much more relevant, and of course much more important than the Ideas they shaped.

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Sitting in that comfortable chair in Anita’s house, listening to Fairouz’ voice as it approaches from a distance and “saturates” what remains of my over numbed senses. My ever full - thanks Moe- plastic cup of wine in my hand as I stare at the street lamp in the corner through the gigantic window, and wonder helplessly if its light was God’s graceful face or just another full Moon fading slowly into the night. And knowing for certain that I could happily stay in that chair for all the years to come.

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Walking through the old streets of Damascus and watching the incredibly beautiful girls of (Bab Tuma) as I listen to Macy Grey’s “Slowly”. Unable to comprehend how this city continues to defy the passage of time, and wishing I could become part of its eternal walls in order to possess such a power.

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Having lunch in Madaba, with Fairouz’ words pouring in from every corner. Both of us listening carefully as he described how they met, how they fell in Love and how he knew that she was the one. And believing for a moment that everything is possible, even the silly romances the songs were telling.

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My father’s sedated and tired eyes, expressionless as his suffering draws to an end. Then suddenly they are awakened and become responsive to my words. And for just a second, he gives me this reassuring look that tells me it was worth it, and that despite everything, it is still worth it. And me, wanting to carve that look in the back of my skull to give me the strength when I feel like giving up.

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She, with her eyes closed and her long hair thrown back, relaxing on that swing and smiling peacefully. Nothing but silence stirring in the morning air, with me beside her, watching over her tranquility, and thinking I wouldn’t mind sitting there forever, just staring at her amazing, almost lifeless beauty.