A Bubbly Baby, a Restless Rockstar

Note:
Excuse the recurring incoherence. I wrote this entry over a span of months. I deliberately chose not to edit, in order to stick to the true illustration of my observations as they occurred.

My subject, Nessreen, is not a personal acquaintance of mine. My study of her is derived from her blog and merely based on my literary admiration and sense of penmanship for her, which brings me to my next point:

Some readers may perceive me as obsessive and impressionable. That would be because I am obsessive and impressionable, but I try to keep it healthy.
Others may go as far as to assume that I strive to stalk Nessreen; enshrine her in my cryptic basement, lurk about in her milieu, mask my face with her underwear and sniff like there is no tomorrow, the works. For those quick thinkers, I have but one assurance: I don’t have a basement.

Lastly, the unadvised switches between 2nd and 3rd person in the post are part of keeping with the spontaneous spirit. At times, I felt I needed the individual to be addressed directly. Most of the time, however, Nesreen is more ‘talked about’, than ‘talked to’.




Old habits die hard. But I remember back then, my fingers sprung into action every time I had a real thought. Now, I see and hear things so much more then I used to, and for a while I did write about them, but now life’s blows have eroded my writer’s spirit and somewhere along the way, the flame went out…..actually, that’s bull shit. I just can’t be bothered.


She attributes herself as a rock star and, reading some of her previous entries does make me imagine her on a Harley, riding 140 km/hr. on a an empty highway, chasing the sunset, but a more contemporary perception of her would be somewhat less provocative. Things change, and so have her posts.


Reading her these days, and when I say ‘reading her’ I mean reading what she writes to read her through what she writes, I am reminded of my brief foray into literature.
I found fascination in the works Shakespeare, not for the fatally fancy lingo, but because I discovered that the material demanded thinking; creative and abstract thinking and all this while respecting whatever intelligence I might have had as a teenager, and while allowing me to hold my own opinion of it. Growing up under the circumstances as I did, this was a privilege.


Nessreen is like what fascinated me as a younger reader, full of expression, lessons; learned, unlearned and yet to be learned. Secrets, flamboyance, ice cream humor with toppings of irony, an enigmatic progression, crossed fingers, limitless possibilities, outrage and a charm that can kindle sane and disturbed individuals alike. Multi-dimensional explanations, where things are left to how much an observer can observe, how far he can chase, where he’d stop, what he’d settle with.

Did Hamlet really have an encounter with his father’s spirit, or was he insane, or did the devil take control of his mind? Was Macbeth the good guy or the bad guy? And how did this valiant army general’s balls land in his ambitious wife’s coin purse?
Conflicts between a lot of good and a lot of bad’ve seldom had safe repercussions. Only one of the two things can come out of a situation like that; either one eclipses the other or they cancel each other out, a k a self-destruction, a k a, not a good thing.


I often argue with friends about the importance of --- art and literature in our world, past, present and especially the future. Great thinkers have allowed us access into their worlds with their work to share their knowledge. I, for one believe that what we write and create reflects us or a part of us to others. Debates will always be there, is it just trivial rhetoric or poignant insinuations? Is it mere impedimenta of conceit that hinders real progress or an essential acumen that keeps us vigilant against our faintest weakness and yet, our mightiest strength as the dominant species; the human mind?

The truth is, in my view at least, that it is everything listed above and more. Moreover, we should know that whatever novel we read, song we listen to, painting we observe, is ultimately about the artist himself. (De Ardappeleters is about the painter’s respect for people who work hard and earn an honest living, not about potatoes or people eating them, Eric Clapton’s song ‘The Core’ was inspired by a guitar riff that he came up with while working on the right sound to convey his fears, in Apocalypto, Mel Gibson prompts us to foresee what’s going to happen by reminding us of what already has, and almost every other hip-hop song now is usually about the performer’s ambiguous journey from tacky outfits, petty crimes and street shenanigans to money, fame, tacky outfits and 20 inch rims, and the heavy influx of whoes that follows).


I was once asked by Nessreen as to what I would do if my love interest were a writer. I didn’t respond in due time; not because I chose to be cocky about it, but simply because I didn’t know what I would do. As I’ve said before, especially when it comes to relationships, what I’d do, can be ill advised in so many ways, so I’d rather not ponder.


She said that she’d like to be with someone who’d understand the way her mind works. That’s every girl with hopes n dreams. These are do’s and don’t’s of the average and in her case, that’d hardly be anything more than the tip of this iceberg of criteria we’re looking at. I think he should not only understand the way your mind works, but know why it does what it does.

‘The Pool of factors’ comes to my mind when I think of da man of her dreams. It’s a place where hungry great whites lurk and hunt, playful dolphins perform for affection and salmon, where mermaids pluck their harps and amateurs aren’t allowed to dive.

He needs to be aware that she grew up in a house full of boys with an older sister as her symbol of womanhood, he needs to know that she is a smart and intelligent person, and to that an extrovert, without shriveling with intimidation. He needs to have the wisdom to percept that this energy, and the coextensive lack of it, is to be channeled towards building a healthy relationship. She probably spends enough time practicing intellectual modesty with the people she socialize and works with and her sanctuary is hardly the place for such charitable upkeep, not with her spouse anyway.

Where’s Waldo?

While reading one of her entries, I noticed she has, or at least had till that point, an inclination towards Saudi squires. While this might just be a matter of mere personal preference, it draws a little attention to the natural affinity she seems to have for this place; which is rather natural and reasonable. The word –home- redefines its meaning in the lives of so many people, who’ve lived here all their lives, without the entitlement to a sustainable amount of homogeneity. Instead, as in my dad’s case, he was reminded of how temporary his stay was in his own home, and how what was to be appreciated of him was actually resented, and what is to be scorned was actually desired: the former being his corporate contribution and natural sense of belonging etc. and the latter, being his imminent departure.

From third to second person…..

Now, if you think you’ve found your needle in the hay sack, then its jingles all the way and “This Guy” you high horsed some entries ago, seems like quite a prospect. Is he really smarter then you though? Or is he just really good at acting smarter for the time being? You are a desirable girl and we guys can be shockingly complicated sometimes. I would hardly condemn this gentleman for wanting to be desired by you. In some cases, it soothes our ego to tame a wild dame and have her purr. I’m not saying that Mr. Right has to be smarter then you. Ultimately, it all comes down to having a working relationship with him. Does he read what you write? Or go beyond to wonder why you don’t write what you don’t?

Please, take no offense.
I’ve only commented on what you’ve made public.

The Envy

Something she has that I don’t. Her articulation, that’s light and clear. As I was being sucked into the vortex of her entries, I took a moment to ask myself, “What is it about this person that I can’t find elsewhere on blog sites?” As someone who likes to kindle with eloquence from time to time himself, I put my own literary abilities on the scale and that’s when it dawned upon me; While she swifts through the language, I make a meal out of it. Her style flirts, mine tries to regulate, hers is engaging, mine, seems presumptuous. She welcomes anyone and everyone who know how to read, I on a good day would impress a post menopause widow, who’d like the idea of knowing a relatively young man with enough anachronism to validate her disapproval of Barbra Streisand as a genuine artist.
Masha'Allah Nessreen, you're so blessed....I hope you know that.

Flaws of Attraction

Last weekend, I received a call from an old friend who I hadn’t heard from in a good couple of years. Hearing his voice brought back memories of some insane times; vicious nights, dehydrated mornings, politically incorrect attires, the feeling of the world owing us something when all we had for it was the finger, and a set of adorable parents that thought I was on drugs, which was very disturbing since I could’ve sworn that they didn’t have a clue.

Qasim and the rest had lost touch after he’d gotten married. He’d still come out, but it was nothing like it used to be. He had deadlines like he was 10 all over again, and even while he’d be out, his phone would ring every 15 minutes, upon which he’d get up and go to a secluded corner to talk in privacy. Eventually for his own sake, we stopped calling him, after which he stopped calling us.

With the phone decorum out of the way, we decided to meet at Coffee Bean and catch up on old times like a couple of losers. Around 8:40 pm, I got in my car to drive to the coffee shop hoping I’d make it there by 9, and that this time they wouldn’t fuck up my order. Along the way, I wondered where this reunion might be headed and that’s when I realized that I was actually more nervous than excited. The brief phone conversation I had with Qasim was so coated with formality that something had to be wrong. He might have been married with a child, tamed, but it was still not him.

I got a parking spot right in front of the coffee shop and I saw Qasim sitting at one of the tables in the outdoors section of the café. He tried looking inside my car, but probably couldn’t see through the reflection of the coffee shop’s lighted signboard on my windshield. As I pulled the hand break and turned the engine off, I noticed how different Qasim now looked. Oblivious to my arrival, he shook his left foot vigorously and there was a decaying stiffness in the rest of his body language. There was something wrong.

It didn’t take Qasim too long to tell me that he and his wife had separated just the week before. His marriage had started to head south in its first year, the kid was born in the second, a year after which they’d decided to end the marriage that they were once ready to battle the world for. At this point, the parents had become too involved and chances for reconciliation looked bleaker each passing day.

Qasim told me that he felt lonely and missing his daughter was driving him nuts. I sat there and mostly just listened because that’s what Qasim wanted from me. No advice, no sympathy, no petty stay positive bs, he just wanted me to listen.




Without pushing the envelope further on my friend’s privacy, I feel reminded of how much misapprehension the concept of marriage suffers and that too many people are marrying not so much as the wrong person, but just doing it for the wrong reasons. Men for example:
“She’s so hot, yo!”
“This lady here will most likely be the best incubator for my offspring.” (The Anals)
“My mom picked her.” (Also The ultimate excuse)
“She cooks.” (hmmmm)
“I’m 34, I need a wife..what is zisss!!??” (an arab guy I must un-know soon)
“Her dad is loaded, bro.” (The undignified influence of Ambition)
“I just love her, man.” (This type just breaks my heart, in a very wanting-to-kill-him kind of way.)
“She’s half Latino half Chinese.” “Dats wutam tawkin about Cuz!”(situation in the west)
“She’s half Saudi half Lebanese.” “Ya Sheikh! Minjidd!? Gul Wallah”(here)
“She’s so fair and laowely.” “No vays! Oh my gods!” (further east)

This petty crap du jour is what a lot of men base their family lives upon resulting in a pathetic compromise of a marriage played out for the sake of children that are psychological wrecks. The stunning stallion’s glistening six-pack that envied the bride’s girlfriends over coffee gossip eventually turns into just a big and sweaty, hairy and round one-pack as the man goes from relating to Bart to identifying with Homer. The coke-bottle figured seductress gradually expands to resemble the cylindrical gas bottle to be parked somewhere near the stove till the next monthly refill, feeling like just another chore around the house.


So why get married? What is it about us that makes us nest, foster, commit? And why some of us tend to dodge it or wiggle it off upon coming in the slightest contact with it?

One sleepless night with work in the morning would hardly be enough to cover the crap I’m getting my self into, but what I know of marriage is that it should be a process of mutual nourishment and development; emotional, financial and spiritual.

Emotional

Doesn’t necessarily mean that our spouses are to carry our psychological luggage. Our demons are for us to fight and defeat on our own. Spouses can lend a helping hand if they choose to, but out of their own sense of compassion, not as a marital obligation.

Married life, however, incites us to trust, share, help, protect, sacrifice, compromise, contribute, celebrate, mourn, feel. It is needless to say that these natural tendencies practiced with the right person in adequate amounts can work wonders for a person’s emotional health, while denying, misusing, or dislocating them can leave it in a condition most likely unfavorable, possibly catastrophic. Our emotions after all are what make us human. These covert insinuators are behind the grand fact that there are no limits, to how high we can ascend and how low we can stoop.


Financial

First of all, it is my utmost belief that the man is responsible for food, shelter and clothing. Whatever money is made by the woman is her money and her money only. Whether she shares her earnings is a matter of her own choice and any man who argues otherwise should hide back in his mother’s womb and reform until he’s developed a genuine set of balls. Albeit, anyone can marry a person for money as long as the transaction is honored with honesty and respect. Though marrying entirely for money is just…sad.

Moreover, with planning and moving towards a common objective, any double income household that’s not blessed with the proverbial silver spoon, can progress dramatically towards pecuniary advancements. Single income families are becoming an endangered species, even in relatively rich GCC countries. For the conventional types, women have always been the invisible agent of development anyway. With maids n drivers, even that has become a thing of the past. Careers are becoming more and more demanding and working hours have stretched. Long gone are the 20’s, when parents would proudly brag about their son being a clerk in the town’s post office. Cut throat competition lurks the corporate world and with any luck a man gets enough time to recuperate so he can perform his laps in the next day’s rat race. He wants to start some kind of business to break the vicious 9 to 7. He even does research and types up a business plan or two but his focus is disrupted by his day to day obligations like grocery shopping, getting the kids from school, taking them out and paying bills, all this while his wife is consoled by Dr. Phill in the living room. He’s got kids and an unemployed wife, so God forbid he’ll take the risk of quitting his job to dedicate himself entirely to the business he wants to start. So, he succumbs, to his hand to mouth/pay check to pay check routine, to one day be an old man with his old wife at the mercy of their grown children. The man pays for his elevated sense masculinity. The woman, well she tried, by trying to do the budgeting and cooking from time to time. The man did provide the basics while trying his best, so she can’t exactly blame him. Of course, there was always the chance of leaving him but that just depends from person to person.

Cmmon! Whatever happened to dream vacations, spoiling yourselves at a spa, candle light dinners where you know that no fish’s eggs, no muck in seashells, and no duck’s liver even with a French name is worth the money you’d pay, and that damned flame would be nothing but a fire hazard to your silky surroundings, but you’d cherish being there anyway, just because you know you’ve earned your spot in the circles of the prosperous and pretentious?

An early retirement can be enjoyed by both as they’d collect rent from the three houses they bought in their working years or the income coming from the schools, restaurants or clothes stores they started up with the consolidated savings and investments. In a nutshell, if you’re talking about something more than just survival for the less fortunate, two incomes are always better then one.

Spiritual

Being a student of Muslim science, I believe that the spirit is the part of us that bridges us to The Source. It is what’s behind it all and will ultimately be the only part of us that’ll truly matter. It belongs to The Creator and can be nourished by purifying our actions and beliefs. Without getting into too many details, I believe that the Muslim worship that’s performed at least five times a day (Salat) is a kind of meditation that spreads out its positivism through the entire day. You utter things that contain great power, and above all, you don’t chase your spirit around. Instead, you go straight to The Source. Instead of trying to know who/what you are, you approach The Creator and tell him who you’d want to be. Faith then starts to revive the ‘oneness of your body, mind and soul’ and arms your warrior angels to fight your demons of all sizes and shapes.

Though not as a must have kind of requirement, marriage plays a role in this area by facilitating our chronic need for sex and companionship. With the basics out of the way, a not so horny one can focus on his spiritual endeavors, or even others for that matter. We could take the short cut by simply dating, but that doesn’t quite cut it all the time, does it? Maybe that’s just a little too uncertain for the purpose, or rather counterproductive? Men, I must admit would give up their inner peace for their outer piece without thinking once. With women, only if I knew, but we all know that for them it goes way beyond just sex.
Massive environmental pollution, blood sucking banking gimmicks, the pharmaceutical industry, the nuclear bomb, all hide in a protective shade under the dubious umbrella of ‘our needs’, which may be significant, but are fulfilled by actions hardly dignified. These actions are rather lousy, irresponsible and callous to say the least.

Writers marrying writers

Being the novice that I am on relationships, period, there is only so much light I can shed on this notion. But just like while visiting my village years back, I didn’t know what I was doing the day I challenged myself into drinking milk straight out of the buffalo’s teat, I will take this under calculated risk, hoping that this one doesn’t cause any kind of convulsions, severe food poisoning or any other kind demeaning health condition.

As for the notion of writers coexisting as couples, my position on that would be somewhere in the middle. Writers write, but seldom read (most actors don’t watch movies, most drug lords don’t do drugs and Dr. Dre doesn’t know the first thing about ‘ life oun da streets’ or ‘bustin da cap’ for that matter). Unless of course it is a review of their work following its release, or if they have to skim through other literature to look for ‘inspiration’, or maybe have to read their own work with the intention of editing or mere self admiration. . In some inane yet pragmatic way I mean to say that some writers tend to be talkers more than listeners, which can be poisonous for a relationship. Naturally, when two people of that category decide to have a relationship, the eventual result may be a resentful void in their marrieage, as one flips channels on TV with both of them self-restrictedly sitting together in the living room in the name of quality time. I don’t imply that every writer is narcissistically self-absorbed, but in order to write, full-time atleast, one has to dwell deep into various abstract elements that are overlooked by the, mostly non-writing, and rarely happily married crowd.Other petty yet possible show stoppers may include, the man being a better writer than the woman, or the woman being more successful than the man.

Though, the above, at least in my opinion, is more likely to occur, there can be a positive outcome of the union as everything has its equals and opposites.

On the bright side, if the couple decides to work on a joint project, this, in contrast, may even fortify the relationship. Marriages are usually anchored by having a child or by jointly investing, putting forward a down payment for a house or something. In case of two writers that are married to each other, if they narrow their literary interests down to something common, it might very well be fun and exciting, and with enough wit, a major turn-on on a recurring basis. Consequently, the produce would be rich in quality since it’ll be backed by a certain amount of positive energy, as opposed to following the cliché of being fueled by past melodramatic tragedies, as in the case of Hemingway etc.( great writer, but thinking about what I know of his miserable life reminds me of a mule I saw at a 45`C hot construction site a little outside Lahore.)The two can exchange facts and ideas, edit each other’s work and every now and then, remind each other to take a break and pay a bill or two.In brief, who cares who’s on top? As long as we don’t blow our own horns and are open to new ideas…….……no, seriously guys, understanding, trust and respect are the ingredients to lifelong agony and eternal bliss.