fifty-seven

22:43:48

I’m sleepless in Paris.

Today I came across the term “touch and go woman”. If you search the term online, you will come across a wide range of interpretations, but I’ve come to adopt my own: someone who likes to get a taste of, but never stick around, her departure being vague and non-finite.

If I retrospect, it’s something I’ve been guilty of, but without the burden of guilt. Most of my relationships dwindled; that is to say, their endings never as abrupt as the snipping off of an umbilical cord. And I like that. I like that because I have come to amass an address book of worn down, yet unbroken ties.

There is a place of memory that I like to call The Morgue. It is a basement of past relationships and depending on your own story, it goes down a couple of levels.

A level for your broken or lost family ties.

A level for your handicapped friendships.

A level for your shattered hearts.

The Morgue is not the same as The Cemetery. The Cemetery holds those we will never forgive or those who will never come back to life. The Cemetery is not void of life. You revisit now and again, when something triggers the memory of that person, you pause at their tombstone and then walk away. Some things just cannot be undone.

The Morgue is that in between zone, where we house those we cannot let go of. Cadavers are at our disposal to be revisited, dissected and scrutinized, to be pardoned, to be chilled for a Cryonic Era.

My mnemonic landscape is comprised of a tiny cemetery and a very large morgue. I have troubled letting go.

The skewed confession of a monophobe.

Perhaps confessing to monophobia is taking it a little far, but then again, what are all those blue bodies doing in my closet?

Lulu, Botticelli, Freud, Capitalyst, Leon, The Pope, Imaginary-Extraordinary-Him not even Balding, have been buried. I even see them from time to time, outside The Morgue, where it smells of fresh beginnings. To paint them better, to turn their skin pink.

I saw The Pope the other week. We had drinks in Le Marais. He is the only one that stands out amongst the list. We called it quits back in Beirut, an official break-up.

I was a little shaky about meeting him, but all that got buried beneath the layer of getting lost and walking up and down wrong streets until I finally found number 78.

We sipped on white wine and caught up with each other’s lives, all the while seated, the cold slowly gnawing through the layers of coats and sweaters and T-shirts, until we could sit it through no more. He dropped me home and we promised each other a homely dinner in the weeks to come.

But as one corpse rots, other beings come to life. Out of the blue, or perhaps from underneath a pretext I have yet to trip on, Sobriquet, a friend of The Pope’s who I knew only vaguely, decided to put an end to my social emergency. He has opened the doors to a Paris that I would normally need a couple of months to arrive at.

I consider myself lucky, for Sobriquet has not been the sole hero. Roquette and Bonbonheur have allowed me to play my anonymous little game until the moment we found ourselves face to face. There is nothing more thrilling than meeting a walking definition of stranger, although I must say I did envy their position. I knew enough to know they were not psychopaths, too much information for thrills and chills, while I kept them guessing till the very last minute. 


I'd like to not know for a change.

It takes a certain amount of fascination, a certain humbleness in the face of the unknown and a certain amount of trust in goodness and sincerity. If there should ever be a pandemic, it should be of this unbruised mindset.

forty-five

23:08:58

I'm sleepless in Beirut.

We found ourselves on the way to Faraya. The road was empty and the villages we passed were close to deader than dead. It was hours past bedtime and our eyes too blinked like the flickering lights that lit our way higher and further into some memory of snow blanketed landscapes. 

It was the same desolate road and the same yellow light that punctuated my second date with Capitalyst. My salty sweat was still fresh from The Basement and the excitement freshly glazed with anxiety. 

"Btw, that invitation to the Cedars, or rather Faraya, is not half-hearted.  You do ski, right? Perhaps you'd join me for a day on the slopes this Sunday?  It would be downhill skiing, so no special equipment necessary.  We can even have dinner at Le Montagnou - Fondue and Pierrade, or for something more traditional Shaker's Bayd bi 2awerma would be plenty good.", he wrote.

The plan to spend the night in Faraya at his friend's chalet wasn't half-hearted either. At first I was hesitant. I was sure I wasn't going to be able to handle the where-to-sleep issue with grace. I was afraid of coming off as a prude, but I was also unwilling to put myself in a position where I would have to ward off any unexpected advances. 

But the awkwardness of the situation was too tempting to pass up. I was sure to walk away with a story. More importantly, I wanted to see him again.

So there we were, slithering up the mountain road, traces of snow making their first appearance within the first half an hour of the trip. On our way up, we made room in the trunk for a bunch of drunk teenagers looking for an easy way to get back home. 

He drove up to the deserted Warde station. We sat in the car, the sunroof open to reveal all the full-stops left by shriveled nebulas. I would tense up every time he would come within an inch's distance to my face. Looking back, one could say that I had a phobia of appearing as an easy girl. 

I know better now, I am anything but. Yes, if easy means that I have laid to rest all my complexes regarding sex in this society, then yes, I am easy, still, and forever will be. But I'm complex and complicated and I am capable of writing wonderful equations to justify A+B=C, because it's never C, it's always A+B. I don't have sex, I make love. It comes easy to me. White flag. I'm an easy girl. 

And it was this particular phobia that handicapped me for quite a while. I've let go of it, just as I've let go of potentially beautiful moments that I walked past like one passes a sex shop. Is7a...

My handicap wasn't invisible either. I wasn't sitting in the passenger seat of his car: I was in a wheelchair. I don't recall his reaction word-for-word, they were big big words one after the other and amidst anxiety, the inner battlefield and feeling intimidated by his to-the-point attitude I completely blanked out. When it was my turn to say something, I could barely muster a stammer. 

"Let's go to the chalet. They must be there by now. Maybe you will relax a little."

Relax I did. It was an authentically furnished cozy little nook with a friendly host and amiable guests. Up until then, I had had very little chance to meet the kind of people a mother would like you to meet: young, nice, educated, cultured. I wouldn't say I was in my own element, but it's an element I always wished to be a part of.

My cheeks returned to a rosy red until everyone began to turn in.

"Where are we going to sleep?"

"In the guest room."

That must mean same bed? I peered inside. It was a big bed, we could fit my invisible friend between us two. If only he could see him!

But Capitalyst was sweet. Bittersweet. He didn't want another friend. I had to make a choice. That night I chose to interject my invisible friend so as to better sleep on it.

Funny how things change. How big beds take the backstage, how society fades into the background, how we claim to want change when the way we think is backwards, how we preserve virginity by taking it in the back, how we stab each other's backs. Take the back door exit and leave this circus, the real carnival is yours to make.

thirty-nine

03:13:55

I'm sleepless in Dubai.

I left everything for the last minute. I packed my bags three hours before my flight, called a cab, picked up a package, picked up an envelope and stumbled into the airport, through the metal detectors, through the cloud of perfume in the duty free area, through the echo-friendly corridors and unto the plane. The urgency of those couple of hours distracted me from the obvious: I was reluctant to leave.

I had no reason to leave Beirut. The trip came to me like a sudden jerk pulling me out of bed two hours before the alarm was due. I wanted to sleep in, to snooze, to let the dream of being back-in-Beirut develop and suck me into a deceptive reality. Instead, an intermission was imposed upon me. 

To help me better remember the dream, I left Beirut as one would leave their room in the morning. Undone, unzipped, unmade. The strings of the last few days I left, untied. I did not sleep much either. An hour, maybe two.

"Ah, I would've joined you"

"Hmm am still here, my 3rd drink, a bit dizzy..I told you I'm here the minute I arrived"

"1. I wouldn't want to intrude 2. I am uninvited 3. You should shout louder."

"u won't intrude my solitude anyway. Told you "indirectly", I never shout loud :)"

I had to. I rummaged through my drawers. There was nothing relevant, nothing sleepless, nothing Beiruti, so I went for the bright and conspicuous: my favourite red die. I threw on some clothes, jumped into the car and went off into the night.

This is where Serendipity started to get creative. My phone buzzed. Unknown Dubai number. 

"So...yea...you know Mr.Keller?"

Worrying at first glance, transparent at second. I was sure this was Capitalyst exploiting his new foreign number. 

"I'm wondering how you made the connection. Till when are you in Dubai?"

"Well, he recognized me as someone you'd once spoken about...and I'm here wondering WTF did you tell him? Until Saturday morning."

"Plans tomorrow night? Pick you up from where?"

I hadn't seen him in a long while now and the fact that we would both happen to be in Dubai at the same time was a fun enough coincidence to call for a reunion. We had a very nice evening together, extricating the Mr. Keller factor, filling up the gap between now and when we last bumped into each other in front of the traffic light in Downtown and discussing possible adventure ventures.

My phone was ringing. Imaginary Extraordinary Him. Wow. The familiar ringtone, his photo, his name, two weeks of dead and bitter silence and the need to sweeten it. I answered.

"I thought you wouldn't pick up."

"What's on your mind?"

"I've been so busy. I've only just had the opportunity to digest what happened in London."

Soon enough, the connection started to break up. Call ended. 

"Don't do this. Don't fuck with me. No, no, no. This is not happening", I said out loud into the shell of my car. Sometimes, strength needs to be punctuated and weaknesses punctured.

I parked. It was a two minute walk from the pub. As I swam through the humid air, a rumble and a shine caught my eye. Non! Clooney's delicious coupe. I recognized the number plate and he sure as hell did not recognize me walking in my jeans and flats in the shadows of Gemmayze. Glad to see he is still roaming the night! 

I climbed up the stairs and walked into the pub. I immediately spotted Lumière to my right, even though he was half hidden by the potted plants. I sat down at the bar and ordered a glass of white.

It so happened that there was no WiFi and I could not come up with a good enough opening line to interrupt his conversation. I called up Belle and she took it from there.

"I left you a red die on the bar", she sent to him.

I waited impatiently. Those five minutes felt like hours. I could not hold it much longer and I was running late as it was. I motioned to the waiter, "Could you do me a favour?"

At that point Lumière got up and went to the bar. I watched the waiter approach him and turned for the exit. As I walked out of the building, Tinkerbell from Peter Pan flashed before my eyes and at the thought of having sprinkled some magic dust on another stranger's evening, I skipped out of the alley and unto the street. I never stopped to look back, but my ears were fine-tuned for the most distant footsteps. His shadow never appeared.

"U could've stayed..."

"I told you I was slippery. I'll want it back soon."

"y did u run?"

"I didn't run, I walked. Are you still there?"

"Nope, am home stranger. U back home I suppose?"

"I'm at a friend's. That's why I left, I was already late! Goodnight?"

"Shower then goodnight. y?"

"I'm getting ideas. Ignore them."

"Such as? Now that u ve told me, how can i ignore them?"

"I want you to be sleepless with me."

"I can arrange that I suppose..."

"So unsure. So hesitant."

"Come on..."

"?"

"not unsure. not hesitant."

"Are you sure? So far, I've been moving the world all along. Your turn."

"yes"

"Move the world."

"i am at this moment."

"I don't see it moving. Roll the die. If it's 6...   If not, it's not time yet."

"it s 2"

"7ayete! I love the honesty."

":)"

"Truth hurts."

"y? I disagree."

"I have a big flaw. When I want something I want it NOW. Hence the comment. But ultimately, truth is the healthiest thing one can pass on to someone else."

"it's so much easier than that"

"How easy?"

"as much as you can think of...believe me"

"I think you just beat me in "slippery". Why didn't you follow the strange rabbit down the rabbit hole?"

"u were a few floors down..and i wasnt sure it was u..( now i am)"

"Anyway, I was hoping to add a little magic to your evening, nothing more. I was hoping you would react quicker, but my wine finished, my friends were waiting, and the clock was about to strike midnight...so I left my "glass slipper" and slipped away :D"

"maybe u were just making a new post who knows..or maybe...ur sleepless...u should come"

"Wrong. I'm hungry."

"I have labneh :p"

"Do you have tea?"

"Yes"

"Put the kettle on, quick, I'm sleepy. How do I find you?"

It's 03:00. What the fuck am I doing? But I'm doing. I get in the elevator with Diagonal. There's a wad of $1000 and a Mercedes car key resting on the hand-rail. 

"Non! Let's just count the money for the sake of it."

The lift stops at the 4th floor and a certain Miss Lebanon X opens the door looking distraught.

"That's a whole lot of money. You should be more careful.", I said.

She takes the money and the keys and closes the door.

"What the fuck was that? A transaction?"

Diagonal and I come up with a number of alternatives to explain the story, but seeing that the subject is already under public scrutiny, we settle for the crack cocaine one.

I'm doing. I'm actually doing. 

"I'm in front of... Now what?"

I sit in my car. Something moves in the alleyway, a figure. I'm doing? Doing. I get out and walk towards him. There's something cosy in the way we move towards each other. His cheek is warm.

I step into his apartment, out of the darkness and into the light. Lumière. I look at him. In the light, away from his FCBK discretion. I look at him, from up close, without leaves in the way. He has a smile that transforms his face into a second face that speaks of different things. I remember that, but the memory of his face is lost. And with that, everything that took place is fading into a select catalogue of details and exchanges. There was a labneh sandwich and lukewarm green tea and relief when he pulled out his Lucky Strikes and his height and his quiescence and the yellow light in the room and the familiar feeling of being in Beirut but a thousand miles away. His lovely apartment quickly took on the quality of a sealed, safe bubble, a quality that I first came to know at Botticelli's. But unlike my visits to Botticelli's or Hugg's or Pope's or insert-name-here, there was no music playing in the background. Lumière was a minimalist in speech as he was in his messages, but his comfort with silence blew me away. We spent more than two hours in that room and there was no music, no television, no computer screen, no telephones ringing and no uncomfortable silence, no dead air.

On the contrary, the air in the room stirred like a dialogue between the sea and the shore. My uttered sentences crashed into the space between us with exaggerated confidence, the sprays of animated intonation and residual gestures trying to gnaw at the smooth surface of Lumière's glistening sands. Impenetrable. With every burst of conversation, the precariousness of the situation and his manner of speech, would send my mind thrashing as my words splashed the room, dissipated, curled up in apparent failure and were then beckoned back into the deep blue sea by a stealthy pull that was discrete, but definitely his.

I loved listening to him speak. His words were nothing poetic, nothing exceptional, but meant for me. They felt precious. Whether timid or skeptical, or intentionally minimalist, his quiet presence came off as soft and sincere. I could've stayed there till dawn and past sunrise, but I considered the possibility of being unable to read him well, that even though he wasn't fidgety or yawning, he might have had enough of this particular dégustation. I didn't want to impose, even though I was close to certain that I wasn't.

I snapped my fingers. I needed to hear a cue. He accompanied me to my car. His cheek was still warm.

These moments are delicate. They are beautiful and refreshing and unexpected. They are light. So light in fact that they have no place on the ground. Like clouds. Ephemeral, unearthly, ethereal. Perfectly intangible. Easily inflatable. DIY castle in the sky.

I've been revisiting that moment. I can remember the room. I can see the outline of Lumière. But I cannot see his face. He cannot see mine. He cannot say my name. I try hard to remember and everything sinks in deeper, but still no face.

I've been back too many times. And it's a long trip from there to Dubai. I wish I stayed.

twenty-six

11:57:49

I'm sleepless in Beirut.

I just woke up in the gutter. I want to go back to sleep and forget that I have a body, that I live in a house, that I live amongst other people. My state of being is perpendicular to my state of existing.

I am at peace within, nestling softly in the pillows of Imaginary Extraordinary Him's midnight songs and cellular poetry and tender sweet-talk before bedtime. Yet, I wake up to a bird-nest hairdo, crusty mascara, crackling bones, glued-up skin and Babylon towers of cat shit and swamps of cat sick and the humid breath of the summer beast and the spews of rage from an overflowing washing machine; physical evidence of a hangover clash with memories of a sober night.

The harmony of a divine ritual of bathing in the pure springs of intellect is suddenly broken by the clumsy gallop of a dumb body running around aimlessly, like a headless chicken, and tipping over buckets of hormones that taint pure-white fields with ammonia-yellow. I wish to lose my senses. I wish for smoke without the vulgarity of a cigarette stick.

Whisk me away into a pure night where we are naked and bodiless.

I remember the night I met Capitalyst...

But let me start at the beginning.

*

I decided to break things off with my boyfriend at the time. He was a man, a smart-talking boy rather, in a perpetual state of PMS. I had my own share to deal with.

We hadn't seen each other for over a week. He was busy, I was busy, but it was necessary to establish the end of the affair immediately. That night he was filling for his friend at a bar in Gemmayze, and I unwilling to appear little and cowardly, went down to see him.

He was happy to see me. The place was packed. I sat at the bar to wait for the orders to slow down.

The breaks in the sizzle of Latin beats were filled with "economy", "stocks" and "Middle Eastern market" exhaled by the two men sitting next to me.

One of them turned to me, "What do you think of Dubai?", as though knowing that I had lived there.

I regurgitated an answer that I had composed for such occasions: something about the wearing thin of the glamour-effect, lack of soul, the sidewalk deficit...

He pressed on further, "What about its economy?", and that's where he lost me. I couldn't avoid appearing ignorant, but I hoped to do it nobly, "I'm sorry, but I find nothing more boring than talking about economics"

He answered, "Me either, we were bored until you came along".

"What do you do?", I inquired - it seemed that PMSboy would be mixing drinks for a while.

"My friend here works at the stock exchange in New York, but I work with Sukleen. In fact, my shift starts after midnight."

"Did you just say that to see whether I will still talk to you if you're a garbageman?"

"Yes, I'm looking for a wife."

"I'm here to lose a potential husband."

We talked for a little longer. They must have established that I was too young for them; there wasn't much flirting going on, only niceness. PMSboy motioned for me to meet him outside.

"I have to go. It was nice meeting you both."

"I think you would like my nephew. He writes here and there, you should check him out on one of his websites." He gave me the link.

"I will do that", I smiled.

"I don't really work for Sukleen."

"I gathered this much."

He showed me his card, "General Manager of Bank X". Funny man.

Outside, I told PMSboy that it was obviously over. We wished each other the best, hugged and I walked away. Khaiii, nice and clean.

Once home, I typed in the link. I loved it. I sent him this [gotta love Gmail archives!]:

Hello,

I quite enjoyed browsing through your website, there's material in there for everyone. I'll be sure to keep tuning in.

I most likely wouldn't have found your page, were it not for your uncle. He made sure to insist I visit your website, and that's something seeing that we were perfect strangers. Thank him on my behalf.

Looking forward to reading more from you,

Here was his reply:

Snowstorms make even grown men smile giddily.... I'll write more when the
storm subsides.

Peace.

"Finally," I thought.

The next day I was pleased to find an second message from him.

Perhaps you'd like to see a piano concerto with a perfect stranger?

I must have squealed with joy. I had only been living here for a couple of months and I had, not without defeat, given up on the idea of meeting people who attended concertos. Never was I more overjoyed with being proved wrong!

I had to refuse his invitation, but we continued writing to one another for a week or so. By then, the stranger was perfect, and it was time to burst the bubble.

I'll be at Cloud 9 with a couple of friends. Look out for a yellow trench coat.

I'll be wearing yellow shoes.

My cousin picked me up and we went to Cloud 9 as planned. It was one of those nights of forced conversation and forced laughter. Back then, I felt it my duty to try and fit in. Fortunately, those friendships have been put to rest. Amen to that!

I bounced a little as a guy plonked down beside me on the low velvet sofa. It was Capitalyst in his black frame non-rapist glasses and yellow shoes. I introduced him as a friend, which was more loose definition than lie.

Was it awkward meeting someone I only knew through letters?

Not as awkward as an arranged marriage, a blind date or having drinks with people you'd easily pass up for a good book. I immediately felt myself switch courts, Empty Banter & co. vs. Perfect Strangers.

I had promised my ex, who was with us that night, to come with him to Batroun for his friend's birthday. The nature of the promise is enough to indicate how desperate for company I was in those days. Don't get me wrong, I love Batroun, but for its narrow streets, accessible rooftops and rock pools, NOT its nightlife.

I asked whether Capitalyst wanted to come along, and was I grateful that he did. He followed us all the way to Batroun, not without comments from my ex about Capitalyst's sinusoidal driving skillz.

Naturally, the club was bearable for a limited amount of time. As soon as the cake arrived, we excused ourselves. Capitalyst offered to drive me home...

...and as horror movies go, he turned the car in the opposite direction.

"Where are we going?"

"You have to trust me. Do you trust me?"

He'll kill me if I do, he'll kill me if I don't, there was only one way out of this and it was to listen to the voice within and not to fall victim to Hollywood fiction. I guess I've been lucky; I still believe in the good of the people.

We drove off into the night, into the Hamet tunnel, past Chekka, and into the surrounding mountains. There was a bit of Coldplay and a lot of laughter. We were two minds copulating, writhing with joy at having come together. It felt pure. It felt sincere. It felt like fitting in. It felt like an iTunes visualizer.

This lightness, this incorporality, this transcending of what is tangible, this flow of spirit, this is the highest degree of human interaction and if you don't know what I am talking about, then that is what is missing and I wish for you to find it.

I found it with Lulu, I found it with Capitalyst, I found it with Imaginary Extraordinary Him. It's out there.

Bodiless.