Didgeridoo, and a Saudade-bound soul. Love
never mind me
twenty five years, and still far from home. One or two more 25s won’t do. I wonder if I should get off before I drift much farther. A 120 days ago I were reset for another lifetime, then again weeks ago, then again in 250 days. The destinations are becoming farther. The energy has worn out. And the girls man, pale. The liquor is dry. The smoke is heavy. No tolerance for tales. No mercy for the doomed. No remorse. No pity. Madness is outrageously disregarded, and our attempts ring mute among their bells. Which song to play next?
Sympathy for the Devil.
Sailing makes sense now, I’ve read about a month-long training programme to join a tall-ship crew for a year sailing along the shores of Scotland and southern seas. I wonder if one could get music on-board. How else can I put up with the anxiety?
There are no set playlists for this trip. No rules. You ride the tide. Fantastic. Blame the tide. All I needed throughout this journey was to be able to blame the tide. But no. I’d be blamed for riding it. And it’s true in a sense, at least in terms of physics. The shore is where the party is. Everyone who knows anything knows that. They know it. The girls know it. They’re chemically attracted to the sea, but they know once they give in - they’ve lost, they come at such arguments early in life — porn triggers these questions. You can’t win over the ocean. But you win over everything you left behind - all that’s pale, dry and heavy.
There are no set co-ordinates. I can’t recall a point of departure. Just today I was reminded of my birth which almost killed my mother, I was finally surgically evicted, my mother went on morphine and I went on probation. We met days later. There are fewer witnesses to that now since many of them have been long dead. At one point, all witnesses would be dead, morphine would still be around. No departure point, indeed.
— Sedki60 Sadeeki
Sometimes when they are all gathered around murmuring their way through the disappointed Evening, the chatter noise peaks at a humdrum frequency, inducing me into a hypnotic trance. Divorcees, gossip mongers, lost souls, bitter aunts, isolated mothers, destitute dwellers, neighborhood spinsters…self-anointed clairvoyants, they all have strong opinions on how fast I approach the islands of lifelong grief - hopeless of repair, abolished of happiness. Sermons continue, and lines demarcating reality swell to an eventual burst, amalgamating with the hallucinatory, and premonitions of their unfulfilled tiny lives appear, replacing the oak table as the centerpiece of their gathering… Chatter waves traverse across the room, groping the now visible hollow dimensions of their archaic judgments. The evening moon looks to the sun for deliverance and I look for a segue, but it’s too late: Hypotheses Philosophies Prophesies coalesce into one filtered mortar monotone, and my body begins to acquire characteristics of ghosts: present but omitted, tangible but lucid; both object and inconsequential to the subject…I am translucent – an irrelevant backdrop to their chamber of chaos. This is how the dead must see the world – incoherent, misty, distant. It was all around me, this sphere of pandemonium – but only just. I am suspended there, on the periphery of the sphere, my presence clutching tightly to the scant thread of Actuality, made from the finest hairs of Relevance.
Like the dead, ghosts gradually dissipate, time slaying their memoriam, healing those that went on living. But the dead must also forget by virtue of time’s symmetry, severing the threads of Attachment from the living until they too forget that they had ever lived amongst them.
كل عام واللب بخير، و كل عام بجيب معو لب مختلف عن إلي أبلو…يجعلها سنة لب ويسكي عسل… لب نبيذ أحمر نكهتو مخفيه بأسرار العطور و التوابل الأرضية و الحمض المتلذذ
يجعلو لب خال من الدسم. لب سخيف سخف أفلام التشيك فليك، لب لا هو شديد ولا مر…ريحتو بعيده عن روايح الكيماوي والعفن
لب، خامه مبهج، خفيف، متل جوز الهند
Friends and family
"The next real literary “rebels” in this country might well emerge as some weird bunch of anti-rebels, born oglers who dare somehow to back away from ironic watching, who have the childish gall actually to endorse and instantiate single-entendre principles. Who treat of plain old untrendy human troubles and emotions in U.S. life with reverence and conviction. Who eschew self-consciousness and hip fatigue. These anti-rebels would be outdated, of course, before they even started. Dead on the page. Too sincere. Clearly repressed. Backward, quaint, naive, anachronistic. Maybe that’ll be the point. Maybe that’s why they’ll be the next real rebels. Real rebels, as far as I can see, risk disapproval. The old postmodern insurgents risked the gasp and squeal: shock, disgust, outrage, censorship, accusations of socialism, anarchism, nihilism. Today’s risks are different. The new rebels might be artists willing to risk the yawn, the rolled eyes, the cool smile, the nudged ribs, the parody of gifted ironists, the “Oh how banal.” To risk accusations of sentimentality, melodrama. Of overcredulity. Of softness. Of willingness to be suckered by a world of lurkers and starers who fear gaze and ridicule above imprisonment without law. Who knows."
David Foster Wallace - Literary Hero