ninety-seven

19:16:32

I’m sleepless on a balcony.

Three hours before the curtain was due to go up, I was buying us tickets to Lulu’s play. It was a new production, one that didn’t really catch my attention when I had first seen the poster, but as soon as I discovered he’d be in it – I called up my friends.

The sun was out and so were all the people. In the main square, there was a huge colourful procession of this year’s freshmen, groups of tourists and the timeless skateboarders. I had my cup of coffee to go so I could sit down and watch the people going. It wasn’t long before I was approached by one of those men you cross the street to avoid. The skater boys watched him walk towards me; the smiles on their faces were clearly in anticipation of some impending disaster. But I held my ground.

“I hope I won’t bother you.”

“Maybe, maybe you will.”

“You’re a candy girl, aren’t ya…it’s a beautiful day. The elections are coming soon, I wonder what they will…taxes…life is…I’m unemployed,” he blabbered on, my focus elsewhere, I kept checking the foam in my cup.

“Well, I will be leaving now…”

“Ciao, good day!”

His tracksuit-clad figure disappeared somewhere behind me. I wore the strap of my bag just incase he was planning on grabbing it or something. You never know with these types…better a prude than sorry.

I walked through the park, damp golden leaves softening the click-clack of my boots, wearing the wondrous expression of a drifter back from exile. Nobody knew me, yet everyone and everything felt familiar.

I was thinking of what to do about Lulu. Should I see him after the play? Should I call him the next day to tell him I had enjoyed it? Should I just hope he’d see me in the audience?

I decided on flowers. I’d get him a small bouquet – the gesture would be subtle, affectionate and elegant.

“It’s for the theatre, nothing big and clumsy. I like the burgundy ones. And in the middle, place the sprout of tiny white blossoms. They will look like snowflakes.”

“Does the play have anything to do with snow?”

“Maybe…there was a polar bear on the poster.”

He was the first to come on stage, pulling and tying a rope of an imaginary ship. He wore a huge, savage-looking fur coat and big leather boots. When he spoke, his voice was forcefully deep and rusty.

It took me a good hour to disengage from the fact that it was Lulu, the flirtatious, charming man that had once stolen my heart with a single. At one point, he was looking straight at me, but I couldn’t tell if it was an empty stare or whether he was supposed to be flustered in the script. Near the end of the play, he forgot his lines, he struggled and tortured himself in order to remember the ending of the story he was telling and only when the fellow actress yelled out a cue, he wavered back on track. I was hurting inside – poor Lulu, this was not the first time I was witness to his overcrowded mind.

The curtain was lowered. I fetched the bouquet from beneath my seat. Then came the applause.

“Do not chicken out this time!” I said to myself.

The actors came on stage. He was himself again, and not the brutal warrior that he was wrongly cast for. My friend nudged me, “Go! Go! What are you waiting for? Just tell them to stand up and let you through!”

I got up and made my way to the first steps, but the actors had already taken their position centre-stage.

Lulu spotted me. I’ll never forget his expression of dropped mouth warm smile bright eyes. I was surprised he recognized me after all these years, but I was so happy he did and I was so happy I held this pretty little bunch of flowers all wrapped up in silver paper and tied with a ribbon.

They came back for the second round of applause and I took those few long steps to greet him. His face was all like “You shouldn’t have” and his sweaty cheek was all like next to my cheek and I was all like blushing…

I didn’t want to linger around, I didn’t want to bump into him just yet – what had just happened was perfect.

Yet, the following morning all I could think about was him. A part of me wanted to be this ephemeral appearance passing through his life, leaving him to wonder whatever happened to me calling him everytime I was back in town, and the other half was just yearning to meet him, me all grown up and full of stories.

So I called him. He was at practice and he would get back to me later. He sounded out of breath and formal. He’ll never call back…

I wasn’t going to worry about it. I continued towards the other side of the river, over the bridge, unto a rooftop landscape, into the National Art Gallery, through the rooms that held some very surprising and beautiful artworks, down a staircase, across the street, into the shopping centre, in and out of a changing room, through a bookshop. Somewhere past the first room of paintings, I had completely forgotten about the click and dial tone. It was only when I was walking towards the bus station that his name appeared on my phone. Deep breath, sound cool and confident, slide to answer.

“What are you doing, wandering around the city?”

“Actually, I’m about to head home, I’m having some friends over…”

“Awww, too bad, I would’ve invited you to tonight’s play!”

“Yes, we wanted to go but the tickets were all sold out. But listen, tomorrow we’re going to see another one of your plays…”

“Naughty girl! You know it’s easy for me to get you seats, I told you this many times!”

“Yeah, like last time…nevermind, I’ll keep you in mind the next time I come back.”

“How long are you here for?”

“Till next weekend.”

“Would you, um, like to go for tea, coffee, or…?”

“I would be most pleased.”

“So let’s get in touch on Monday. Have fun tonight, bye.”

The idea of going home for a nap was good as gone – I wanted to dance in the streets, I wanted to do cartwheels and flips and pirouettes.

Oh, how my friends will shake their heads and fingers when they hear that we could have gotten us free seats!

While I waited for bus no. 6, I danced a little.

ninety-six

17:14:08

I’m sleepless and shivering in a tiny room of a bookshop.

I’m. So. Happy.

When the airplane emerged from the dense milky sandwich of wispy, feathery and swollen, we were right above the pitched-roof houses and the sight of the long moist blades of emerald grass sent a wave of tears over my lower eyelids. I. Was. So. Happy.

Everything had been retrieved from the attic and replaced back where it had always been. Even the words of my mother tongue that I had forgotten made their way into my ears or through my lips. But there was something different, something I had not seen in over fifteen years – autumn colours in the trees and their burnt embers on the streets. The sky was gray, the buildings were gray, the coats were gray, black and brown, but the trees were inflamed, gloriously dying. Oh...

Throughout the day, even the best of memories were continuously upgraded. The oak floor at home felt warmer beneath my feet, the pine woods outside the window looked less ominous, the people in the streets looked happier, the girls were prettier – one after the other they had me check myself – the boys were more attractive – they were taller, less scrawny, more daring in their fitted clothes.

Through the doorway on my left I could hear a commotion in progress: the dragging of chairs, heavily accented conversations between locals and foreigners, the camera reflex of lighting test shots. I asked the beautiful androgynous girl what this was all about.

“There will be a poetry reading.”

It’s only been a day and I already feel swept up by a cultural deluge. There are so many things to see, to do and to participate in. Tonight I’ll be going to watch a play in the theatre where Lulu works. When I think back to the first time I met him, the effort I put into testing and making come true my conviction that he was someone to pursue, I feel proud of myself. This is how we get what we want out of life. We must ask, demand, insist and not give up until we lose all the necessary lives in order to remain on that game level. But then, when I think about all the times I’ve seen him since, the lunches, the coffee cups, the scooter rides, the gift-exchanges, the productions I sat through, I still feel unsatisfied. By the time I start to feel comfortable around this now-national-star and tabloid magnet, he has to run to practice or to the studio or to pick up his daughter or to go home to his wife. I never had the opportunity or the courage to ask him, “What were you thinking when you accepted the aggressive pursuit of a fourteen year old girl?”

I still remember his phone number. I even have him as a friend on Facebook. But none of these will do, none of these will guarantee any sort of exchange. I do not want to pursue him, because I am much the wiser. Yet, I want to and I’m now ready to ask him that one simple question that has been making rounds in my head since.

I pack my stuff, wait for one of the poems to be read to the last word and run out into the light drizzle. I know Lulu won’t be there, but a faint glimmer of hope sees me bumping into him in the arched entrance of the theatre.

forty-one

22:35:54

I'm sleepless in Beirut.

Whenever there were plans to return to Otherland in the summer, I would sign up on a local social networking site with the intention of making a couple of friends to spend time with once I got there. As if by default, most of the contacts I'd make would be guys. Tower was one of them.

We decided to meet the day after my arrival, at 16:00:00 under the bell tower of the city's cathedral.

I was excited. Prior to travelling, I had spoken to Lulu over the phone and he had agreed to come watch a contemporary dance show with me. Over a year and a half had passed since I had first met and last seen him. During that time he had succeeded to rise to national fame. He was elected as one of the sexiest men in the nation, he was rehearsing for a number of plays that were to open in October and not to mention he was the host of a local TV show. I'd call him once a month to talk a little bit about this and that, but soon enough Google had all his updates at my disposal. Thanks to the tabloids, I discovered that he was dating a woman eight years his senior, who resembled Uma Thurman, a lady with strong facial features and who just happened to have the same name as I. Our conversations were never flirtatious, but I clearly remember one texting session that filled me with enough hope to last a year. 

"Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta. She was Lo, plain Lo, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. She was Lola in slacks. She was Dolly at school. She was Dolores on the dotted line. But in my arms she was always Lolita." - excerpt from "Lolita" by Vladimir Nabokov

I hold these lines responsible for Lulu, for Italian Creep, for Candy Man, for Freud, for Botticelli, for Fuego, for Blue. Oh Vladimir, those encounters might never have happened had you not bewitched me with your words. I wanted to be a muse, to have someone think about me with such tenderness, with such forbidden desire.

I was still underage and elligible for the role.

Lulu admitted that it was one of his favourite movies and that the idea seduced him. Had I been a third person, I might have thought him a pedophile, but I was a melting popsicle.

I arrived to the ticket booth on time. They were about to close, people were shoving to get their tickets. I tried to squeeze in, to ignore my instinct to queue and wait, to be true to my Arab nature. Some old lady in an old-fashioned hat kept on rubbing against me. With some effort, I got hold of two seats. I paid and walked out into the busy street. Tower was supposed to meet me in an hour and I thought it would be polite to confirm. After all, the last time we spoke was a reasonable while back and plans are always open to change.

But, my phone wasn't in my bag. It wasn't in my pocket. I emptied everything out and it still wasn't there! Damn it, mom was right.

"Zip up your bag! You're provoking theft. This is not the Middle East."

It had to be that old hag. She kept on pushing against me. I remembered seeing the glow of my phone at one point. Fuck her! How can anyone take something that doesn't belong to them?

I felt violated and alone. The street was buzzing with people and nobody seemed to notice me. A tear rolled down my cheek. I looked up. The clouds hung like gray washed-out pillow cases. But there, at the end of the avenue, the golden cross atop the cathedral was glowing like a newly bought peg. It called to me. 

I went inside, a little shy, wondering whether it was possible for people to tell. Religion aside, the height, the light and acoustics of the space comforted me. I sat at the back, closed my eyes and waited for my breathing to calm down. Five minutes later, I felt a little better.

I had no way of contacting Tower, no way of getting in touch with my mom, who had the habit, like all mothers, to think the worst after one call unanswered. I walked across the street to the central post office. I'll buy a phone card, call my friend to have her call mom who didn't deserve to have a nervous break down right at the start of the summer holidays.

Having never used a pay phone before, I stared at it oblivious as to what to do next. There was a shop next door and I went in to ask for the shopkeeper's help. I must've looked distraught, because he asked me whether something was wrong. I bathed in the warm pool of pity pee and let the trickle of my measly tragedy reach his ears.

That lovely kind man pulled open a drawer and produced a large brick Motorola.

"There. You can use my old phone, it comes with a line and everything."

"Thank you, but I cannot accept. It's too kind of a gesture."

"Don't worry about it. You can return it when you get a replacement."

I was more touched than Botero's Adam. It felt a little like turning a corner and bumping into a mammoth. Samaritans are an endangered species. One must nurture their kindness.

I thanked him profusely and promised to return the cell phone as soon as possible. Suddenly, the world did not seem as ruthless and unfair, the clouds as oppressive, the people as cold-hearted and cell phones as important. 

I always go back to that day for inspiration. There is something so sincere in the kind gesture of a stranger. No hidden agenda, no benefits to reap. Perhaps after much dissection, one could find an underlying selfish intention, but feeling better about yourself by being an altruist is a malice of PG standards.

Tower proved to be a man of his word. At 16:00, I stood up on my tip-toes to kiss his cheek. His complexion was Twilight-pale, his eyes like werewolf's, his hair charcoal black and to his shoulders and his height neck-breaking. His face, his voice, his words radiated kindness. But kindness is a thing to be handled with care and as soon as I realised it, I recognised the possibility of my being careless and too childish and clumsy to sustain it without testing its elasticity. Perhaps that would explain my early childhood hours spent modelling plasticine; I would always knead it to the extreme to see how far a ball could be stretched.

We spent the afternoon roaming the city, hiding from the rain, drying our long hair over cups of tea and looking into each other's eyes for longer than necessary. It was a summer romance in the making...

thirty-seven

03:24:29

I'm sleepless in Beirut.

Not even two weeks into my resolution and I'm already being challenged. Severely.

I had resolved to give up my habit of "falling in love". A habit, yes, because up until now I seem to have fallen all over the place. After London, it dawned on me that I had to venture out on my own into this world, undistracted, and do a little "soul searching, soul finding". No more guys. I will spend an entire year bettering myself, learning, growing, concentrating on doing what I love and eliminating what I hate. No more guys.

So when Belle proposed we go watch a live band earlier on tonight, I asked myself, "Do I really want to go? Will it add value to my life?". I love live music and I looove good live performances. They feed my soul. As opposed to nightclubs, which deplete it. It was a definite yes.

I arrived to Bar Louie as the band were getting up on stage. And oh how the blues sent chills down my spine! They won me over with the first few notes and enraptured me the entire evening. Belle and I kept exchanging knowing glances, "Great act!", "The guitarist is hot.", "What a voice!", "Ooooh, harmonica!" and the like.

That would have been a perfectly magical evening. Me. Good company. The band. The music. 

But no, they call up a guest performer to the stage, some stiff figure who doesn't look like he really wants to be there. 

He turns around, and I could've sworn it was Lulu (post twenty-one, post twenty-two). Stiff Figure looked so much like the man who had once stolen my heart. How could this Lebanese Stiff Figure resemble Lulu, who was of Ukrainian origin? One thing we, the Lebanese, are endowed with is our ability to pass off for a number of many different nationalities. I guess those virile Phoenicians traded more than just spice...

And just like I couldn't look away from Lulu, I couldn't look away from Stiff Figure. He had the same contrast of dark hair against light coloured eyes, he had the same chest, waist and bicep girth, he had the same metallic flash of pendant against hair-free chest, he did have less confidence on stage (but Lulu was an actor)...but boy did he have the same intensity when he looked over my way!

Deja-fucking-vu.

Throughout his performance, I kept on eyeing him, he kept on throwing me glances and the sway of the blues crept its way deeper and deeper into my body.

After about five songs, he was done. We all clapped for Stiff Figure and he descended to rejoin the audience. He lingered for a moment around our table, but I was isolated by a moat of friends. I then saw him leave Bar Louie. "Damn it", I thought "this is what you get for letting yourself slip, now the remainder of the night you'll be thinking - what if?". I was spared that particular torture. I looked through the window, he was still standing outside. Did he expect me to follow him? Riiight. I don't think so. This entire episode shouldn't be happening in the first place and I'm not about to fuel the fire. He lingered outside for a little longer and then went back in, looked at me and disappeared into the crowd.

"I'll allow myself one little stick of firewood". The bold me went to the washroom. He was standing there, talking to a friend, looking less stiff and looking over.

I said, "Hi" and went into the ladies'. And on the way back, because Bar Louie is a tight space, I brushed past him. Slightly, mind you.

Within minutes, he was back at my table and somehow the moat of friends had reconfigured itself and he slipped through the bridge of empty space and sat down beside me.

"Hey."

We talked about this and that. The usual. Name? What do you do? Do you like this kind of music? Do you come around here often? And then the ultimate: do you have a number I could contact you on? You gotta hate that line, it's a killer. It's a killer of romance. So I killed it instead,

"How about you give me yours."

I memorised it. If there's anything worse than that line, it's the bright glow of a phone in a dimly lit venue that screams, everyone look! They met in a bar!

So now it's the next day and I can't get him off my mind and I'm angry with myself for having dropped down my guard, for not sticking with my resolution, but I will probably make the phone call after I publish this post.

Dial.

It's ringing.

twenty-two

02:50:15

I’m sleepless in Beirut.

I had three days left to act. The following day, I messaged Lulu thanking him for having taken out some time to meet us for the interview. He replied telling me that the next time I’m in town, I should pass by his theatre. “It was a pleasure meeting you girls.”

That’s it? No, I wouldn’t have it. I really wanted to just call him and tell him what had happened the first night I laid eyes on him, and ask him whether he had felt something too. But he was 24 and I was 15, he wouldn’t take me seriously, and even if he did, what then?

Up to this day, I do not understand the intense need to let the other person know how you feel about them. If the feeling is mutual, wouldn’t you feel it too? If the magnetism is that strong, then you can tell one another everything by saying nothing. It is a signal that we can pick up, unless we have been irreversibly desensitized. The look that lingers, the knees that barely touch, the hand that doesn’t move away, the body that calls to you, the smell of death by lust curled up in the curve of the neck, the silences that sit on your laps like fat cats purring, the lips that need constant licking and biting – delicate vibrations that build up to a resonance that we can unwittingly shatter with a single word. I say, do not ask, but listen with every cell in your body. It is a soft, sensual hum that cannot be missed.

But time was sand diminishing, so I asked him instead. I asked him whether he had recognized me from that night, and whether he too had felt the hum of intrigue pass between us. I swallowed my pride, and sent it.

My gulp got stuck in my throat, my heart played to psychedelic trance, my sweaty palms were skis. Minutes felt like days.

Beep beep, beep beep.

“Of course I recognized you. The air of intrigue was mutual. Call you after my rehearsal.”

The rush of adrenaline was so strong that I had to go use the bathroom.

He called me after a couple of hours asking me where I was. I was at the mall with my sister. He was there in 10min.

We sat down for a cup of coffee. The first thing I told him was that the interview was bullshit and that I was sorry for having concocted such a lie. He revealed that he had felt something fishy…

He had to go meet up with a friend, so we decided to meet up the following day, to spend more time together.

I was over every celestial object you could name and when I got home, the grin on my face brought forth a lot of questions from my mother. I told her.

And she forbade me to go see him. “He’s too old for you, you never know, he could slip something into your drink and then God knows what will happen! You know these actor types, they use all kinds of substances. Why are you putting yourself at risk?”

I tried to explain, but she wouldn’t have any of it.

The next day I spent my entire morning and afternoon sitting next to the window and looking out unto the street. I felt too heavy to do anything. It was raining outside, everything was wet and gray and I related, on a very deep, level with the clouds that had fallen from the sky in shatters of dirty muddy puddles. Stepped on and stepped in.

My mother approached me, “You meet him in a public place and don’t go anywhere private, you understand? You watch your drink and give me his name and phone number. Keep your phone where you can hear it and don’t let me wonder why you’re not picking up.”

Conditions? Fuck conditions, they were damn reasonable and it was then, at 15 that I learnt that my mother was human and that she too had a past beyond the day I was born.

I called up Lulu, and we were to meet at midday at the town square’s gellateria. Speaking of ice…

The following day was as sunny as sunny could get, but the temperature had dropped to -17 overnight and yesterday’s rain had turned into snow which the wind was now brushing against the cobbled stones in brief wisps.

I remember every single detail of that day. He walked in wearing a heavy black coat. He ordered vanilla ice-cream with cherry syrup. He let me taste it. He helped me put on my tan brown coat. We walked along the busy pedestrian street lined with stalls selling souvenirs. My hands were freezing. He bought me gloves. I wanted knitted wool, he wanted leather. We spoke about theatre and the middle east, his old brick and medicinal bottle collection, about love and how I reminded him of his ex, both in form and in thought. We walked past churches, up the stairs, into an art gallery, into a book shop, only to end up in a tea house just across from the gellateria. We sat next to each other, his knee against mine, his elbow against my arm, as we looked through the photos I had taken that day.

It was 16h, and he had a rehearsal to go to. Having nothing else to offer, I gave him a black rubber bracelet I was wearing, and he ran to his car to fetch his backpack. He pulled out a bead bracelet he had bought on his trip to Turkey.

We said goodbye, and walked in the opposite directions. The sun was setting now and the white walls and columns of the cathedral were painted an orangey yellow and I didn’t dare look back. The sky and the city looked like I felt and I just kept on walking deeper into the dream, etching the memory of that day into the path I walked.

The next day, when the plane was flying over the city, my tears were hot with grief and loss, and I collected them on my lower lip, so as not to lose any more.

twenty-one

01:48:33

I’m sleepless in Beirut.

The more I write, the more I remember. As soon as I formulate a memory into words, another one resurfaces. It’s as though they are stored in stacks, one underneath the other. Yet there is one memory which has a shrine of its own and that is the story of the very beginning, a story that predates Beirut.

I knew it was him, because my body started shivering; I couldn’t hold my cup, my feet were involuntarily tapping to silence and my lips were quivering so much, that I had to resort to writing to explain to my friend what was happening.

We were sitting in a theatre café, observing from beyond the immediate circle, a discussion amongst the cast and students of theatre production. He sat outside the circle too, though his head was turned towards them. He was two tables across from me. I would have probably shivered myself into a prune had he sat a little closer.

I recognized him as one of the actors that we had just seen perform on stage. Bizarrely, I hadn’t noticed anything special about him during the performance.

Our eyes locked thrice during the entire evening. They locked. It was the first time I didn’t shy away and I looked back with intensity so intimidating, that I myself was taken aback by my audacity. At that moment, I remember thinking to myself, “This is something beyond everything. This is something.”

Even now I wonder what it was exactly that I had felt. It wasn’t as simple as lust or infatuation because they are so primal in their definition that I would have recognized them immediately. The emotion was so strong that I was transfixed, so taken by it that I could feel it concentrate in my bones. I could feel my bones. It didn’t hurt, it didn’t feel good, my skeleton was just there like a thought. And with its presence, there came the knowledge that this man was very important to me. It was a fact. It was so clear and so true that I never questioned it, not for one second.

And I still know it now, even though I have let go of the pursuit of trying to make him see it and understand it. Even if he did, what could he do with me? What was he supposed to do with a 15-year-old girl whose eyes looked at him with a sense of direction for his life? How was he to place me in his world?

Why was he important to me? What was it about him that made my whole body and soul resonate? I tossed about the possibility of love in my hands and it didn’t feel heavy enough, it didn’t feel right enough. Love is not a truth, it is a choice, and I didn’t choose him.

Was I a victim of a panic attack and he the victim of my unoriginal explanation? Were we somehow connected in our previous lives, if such a thing exists? Will we be connected in an afterlife, if such a possibility exists? Will we cross paths again in this life? I didn’t know what to think, none of these explanations stood high enough to peer over the wall that kept me from understanding this state of being. All I knew is that I was his. If anyone owns me on this Earth, it is Lulu. I could feel my pride and ego gnaw at my bones as I surrendered to his spell.

It was getting late, the streets would start freezing over soon and getting home would become increasingly risky. I dragged my friend into the ladies’ room to discuss a possible course of action. I had to speak to him, I had to do something.

On our way out, we noticed that he wasn’t there anymore. I was beyond disappointed, on the verge of devastation really.

He was talking on his cell phone in the dark of the foyer. All I could think of was,

“Goodbye”

“See you”, he said.

When you’re young and naïve and quivering, that is sufficient to make you go mad with hope.

As we stepped outside into the snow, I was already imagining a happy ever after.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. My head kept on playing and rewinding the episode at the theatre. He had worn a Prussian blue sweater, which intensified the blue of his eyes. His hair was black, a tad disheveled and the lower half of his face was dotted with speckles of a beard-to-come.

I decided to write him a short letter which I left with the doorman of the theatre the next morning. I didn’t even know if I had gotten his name correct; the poster of the play was my only source and there were three males in the cast…it was a game of darts in the dark.

I was travelling in a week, and the doorman had told me that he was originally with another theatre, which was on the other side of town, so the chances of him receiving it in time to reply were slim. My hopes were fat. My next step had to be overweight.

With my fingers crossed, I flipped through the obese phone book and found his name, but it wasn’t his entirely, it was a lady’s. I called anyway.

“Allo.”

“Hello, is this Lulu’s number?”

“I’m his mother. May I know who’s speaking?”

Never before have my neurons fired back a lie this fast.

“I’m a student writing an article for our school about young and upcoming actors, and I was wondering whether I could get Lulu for an interview.”

“Well, he’s not here right now, but if you want I could give you his cell phone number.”

“That would be perfect.”

“0000000000000”

“Thank you very much! Have a good evening.”

Was I fast enough to shut the phone before I screamed victory into the alleyway? I guess not.

I waited until I calmed down, and called the number.

“Hello, Mr.Lulu?”

“Yes?”

I told the same lie once more, and it was bought without any struggle. We had a date the next afternoon at another theatre.

That evening, my friends and I sat down in a café to come up with a decent list of questions. We tried to be original, but because we were only fifteen years old, “Briefs or boxers?” seemed to be original enough for us. Of course, we had more serious questions to compensate for our childishness.

The three of us arrived in advance so as to appear professional. We eagerly watched out the window. He drove up in a little black Golf, covered in multi-coloured stickers. I couldn’t imagine anything cooler.

He was cute and funny and modest and we took pictures with him. During the entire time, I watched him closely to see whether or not he had recognized me from the other night. I was so nervous, anxious that he was in on the whole thing.

In a couple of hours, the three of us sat down to watch him in Chekov’s “Cherry Orchard” and I discretely filmed snippets of him playing the idiot. I still have those clips.

Once the day was over, I was still feeling empty. I needed something more. Answers and videos weren’t enough. I had to put on my fat-suit again, and I had to get better results. I had to play it shameless.

But what do you do when you stare the only purpose, you’ve ever recognized, straight into the eye?

How do you put it forth into the world? How do you make it alive?

How the fuck do you deal with simultaneous realities that exist in parallel? How do you reconcile a reality, that allows for petty details - of blue eyes, Golf cars and questions about underwear - to spin a web that becomes our idea of the world, with a reality that assigns ideas [of purpose, connection and truth] to particular details and particular people who, in the worldly sense, are petty?

Or simply put, how do you deal with worrying about unmanicured nails and the search of meaning and purpose and value all at the same time?