Beirut, I love you (Part One)

As I was sitting on a balcony on the 11th floor of a Beiruti house overlooking occasional cars passing through Gamayzeh I could not have been happier. Here I was at a party in eternal Beirut, music blaring behind me. And this was real.

The same morning I spent at someone’s parking lot in Gaitawi, eating my morning Knafeh seated on stairs beneath a building in the middle of construction. An elderly lady descended the stairs carefully, wished me sahteeen and told me how I reminded her of Europe. There was longing for the past in her voice as if Europe was a lost dream, a blurred vision she was afraid to forget for ever. I thanked her in my feeble French and went on eating my Knafeh like a real pig. For me nothing could be more beautiful than Beirut at that moment: the absurd city, as messy as my eating.

Hamed Sinno would sing in my ears as I walked through narrow streets and I couldn’t resist singing along. Amid quizzical looks from passers-by I would get occasional ones of approval: people felt my genuine happiness at singing in my broken Lebanese in the middle of the traffic which is even worse than in Tbilisi. As I was shamelessly sunbathing in front of Beit Beirut while singing the catchy Tayf of Mashrou Leila a teenager stared me and laughed. We looked at each other until he passed: me singing and him rejoicing at my silly happiness. Two women approached me and told me I looked happy. Or so I figured because my Lebanese is still pretty weak. I laughed and said Merci Ktir! That much I knew.

“I still can’t believe this is real’-I told my friend as we were sitting on the pavement at 3 am at Mar Mkhail. The streets were deserted and we had full freedom to roam about. “This is so beautiful” -I rambled. I think he understood.

But to many people my fascination with Beirut is a puzzle. The city is not beautiful in a classic way. At times it seems unnecessarily overcrowded and rather spontaneous. The fanesciest of places go dark at 6 pm when the usual power cuts happen. It is pitch dark everywhere for a couple of minutes till the city’s generators begin to work. The sidewalks are too narrow for my taste and are often quite muddy. Big glassy buildings are not my thing either.

But there is something dazzling about Beirut. Something I try to describe but fail every time. It is in its spirit. The vibe of the city, the chaotic beauty and the unmistakable character. Beirut has its own pace and way of doing things. If you accept it, Beirut will love you. And you will love Beirut.
The taste of Lebanese Arabic, so fresh, breezy and effortless. The absurdity of mixing three languages in a single sentence. Yes, the cliche of Hi, kifak, ca va? is as real as it can be. “But this is Beirut”-the locals grin and you embrace it.

And the rain. I have despised rain but my trip to Beirut changed it for ever. As me and Victoria would walk through the deserted streets occasional taxis would honk offering us a ride. Laa merci, we said and walked along the muddy pavements. We had a single umbrella, a big and red one, coming all the way from Austria. I was the one to carry it, that was my job. We would walk miles and miles night and day, traversing districts and amazing locals who tend to be too lazy.

“I love walking!”-our local friend told us.

‘Yes, that’s why your last walk was in October!’-Victoria laughed. We had walked all the way to Raoche and back. All in a single day.

People say that Lebanon is the country where you swim in the morning and ski in the afternoon. I honestly don’t think the traffic would ever permit that but well, it is a city where I attended a soulful mass and a vibrant party all in a single night. And I lit my candle. Said thank you to God and went dancing. I think God understood. Because Beirut permits this extremity. Beirut thrives on that.

On my last evening in Beirut I went out to the balcony in the pouring rain and watched houses in front of me. Not that they were particularity beautiful but I just watched how rain covered them, descending as a thick veil all over us. As if it were an integral part of the city, that one neighbor who comes unannounced to your house and you are obliged to keep up with him. Thinking now I have never once felt the usual scent of rain, I wonder why.

The scents I remember now are those of flowery Sahlab and fresh Manousheh, the two things I already miss eating.

Before leaving, I gave this trip a name: “Me and Victoria in Beirut”. We joked we’d be telling stories when we are old grannies in rocking chairs. And I think we will. Because this puzzling city can not leave you untouched. If you have eyes to see and ears to hear you will love Beirut. And if Beirut accepts you, Beirut the ultimate flirt will love you back.

Midnight Blues

As I was returning from a promising meeting, an already familiar scene reappeared in my head: me looking down at my feet as I am walking down the muddy cobbled street towards home, hearing the mushy sounds I make with every step. And suddenly, my legs buckling, me falling down on my knees. My beautiful new tights ripping at knee knobs. Me getting up. The familiar burning sensation from my childhood. Ripped knees were no surprise back then. Looking down I realize the wounds are familiar too: blood and mud in clusters, wounds that need washing or the dirt will settle inside.

First time this image appeared to me I was hungry, cold and tired, dying to escape the rain and finally surrender to the comforting warmth of home. It was understandable why I felt like my legs would give in any moment. But today was an ordinary day, a happy and fruitful one even. Yet, coming back, walking down the street which was not not muddy this time, the street I could walk with my eyes blindfolded and which I have walked with my eyes closed, I saw myself collapsing again. And the image was so vivid that I could almost feel the pain I had to yet to experience.

Where this sensation comes from is the feeling of being lost. “You are completely lost” I’ve been told and all I can do is smile and nod: ‘Yes I am and that’s why I am here, asking questions, looking for directions”. But looking at things as they are now I would much rather spend my days doing literally nothing, staring into the void before me, playing the same thoughts over and over again in my head, reading an occasional book. I would let days and months pass like that, as if watching shadows in Plato’s cave while knowing exactly where I am, that this is an illusion and yet making no attempt to free myself and go looking for the sun.

I am lost and I know it. But aren’t we all? Even those who go to places and do things to feel accomplished, aren’t they too, lost, trying to deceive others, trying to deceive themselves? Ism’t every human being, just or unjust, pious or godless, lost? Those believing in God are deceiving themselves even further, as they are trying to keep the hope alive. They acknowledge being lost therefore their initial point is right. But then they prefer to believe in the hand of the Almighty which will lead them to salvation through repentance. So they repent, swapping life for afterlife, silencing their senses and feelings, silencing their reason through abstinence and endless fasting. Fools, poor fools coming from nothing, into nothingness they shall return.

There are moments when thoughts like those above consume me and I tend to listen. What’s the point in it all, I ask myself. None at all, I answer and go on lying in bed, staring into nothingness, hoping for time to advance a little bit faster for my sake. Boredom creeps in, bringing apathy, his eager companion.

But as I am typing all this out I feel there is something returning to me. Rage it may be or desire to bring these pages to life. Apathy can not win. You are lost, a voice in me tells me, yes you are! But no hand of Almighty will guide you, if you want to see the light, go looking for it. Use hands to swim and save yourself when you are drowning, don’t wait around for someone to save you.. If you want the void to eat you up then go and end this game, turn into nothingness. But of course that’s not what you want. You want to live and you want to experience a thousand things and a thing. Then go and do it. Get up and look around.

What do I see? Circumstances. And chances. An endless chain of circumstances, one leading to another. The thing they call fate. Again, the urge to surrender is there, to sit down doing nothing, just let the flow carry me until I cling to one of the circumstances. And yet, I will not do it. I will get up from the muddy cobbled street and go on walking with blood and dirt clustered at my knees. Because the circumstances only create the chessboard where I make moves. Fate has led me to a door but it was me who entered, following my heart’s desire, following my reason’s command. I could have easily walked away, being too lazy, scared, using a pretext. That would only lead me to some other door and the circle of circumstance and decision would start over.

I have had a stall in here, on this blog. This one is a feverish attempt to break the wheel in my own mind. I will not let the image of the muddy street and bloodied knees return, I will not let my legs buckle and give in while there is so much life and desire in them. I will break the vicious chain I prefer to call “winter blues”. Tomorrow morning I will read this one, correct the mistakes and post it as it is: fresh and honest. And tomorrow I will leave the cave to face sunlight.

As for now, I withdraw, for sleep is here and demands my full attention. It is not wise to refuse her when she favors one with a visit.

On Mashrou’ Leila and voices worth hearing

“Half the things I feel, I imagined altogether” Hamed Sinno of Mashrou’ Leila sings accompanied by an electric sound groovy enough to make me dance. And somehow, his words ring a bell in my head.

Sinno often uses this trick of disguising his messages in catchy tunes. Haven’t I listened to this song several times? Yet, I have missed a sentence I would love to learn in Arabic, as it resonates to what I am feeling or imagining to feel at the moment.
Now noted and remembered this single phrase I caught sends me on a marathon of Mashrou’ Leila Songs. This time, with lyrics close at hand. And that is, how this piece takes its shape.

***

But, what are you talking about, you might ask. Well, some history first. Mashrou’ Leila, translated the Night’s Project or Leila’s project (with the pun intended in its name) is a Lebanese alternative rock band of five. Having recorded several albums and experimented with different styles throughout the years of its existence the group has established itself as the frontman of alternative underground music in the Middle East.

“Our hips translated Sappho and Abu Nuwas in the tongue of ohhs and ahhs” sings Sinno, openly gay, confronting the conservative society he has been raised in. By simply acknowledging his sexuality he has defied the whole system of denial and persecution the LGBT community faces in many traditionalist countries. With his powerful vocal cords he has given voice to those who have been silenced for too long: “My history erased from our books like they were yours to claim… but the mushrooms have started to grow, tomorrow we inherit the world”.

“In bed sheets embroidered with the same oohs and aahs we chanted at the picket line” Sinno goes on, further provoking, further shocking those preferring to turn a blind eye to a whole community living closeted among them. Having been banned from their own country on several occasions, as well as from Egypt for daring to feature a rainbow flag, Mashrou’ Leila are indeed no strangers to breaking rules and chanting at picket lines.

But apart from becoming icons for the counterculture, there is something else, no less important that Mashrou’ Leila are doing with their work. Let’s return to the line about translating Sappho and Abu Nuwas into a tongue of feelings and senses: Abu Nuwas can easily be considered as one of the greatest masters of Arab poetry. He is one of the patriarchs of a finely crafted but rigid system of spoken word. Every step, from counting syllables and verses to choosing a theme for a poem is by now carefully outlined and perfected. The Greatest of the Great lay the path for us, who are we to challenge their mastery ? So the system is hostile to change and evolvement. What Sinno does is a bold novelty of transcending these harsh conditions so suitable for nomads traversing the desert. Not strictly a poet but rather just a man of art, he creates new forms of expression, merging violin sounds with his own powerful and often anguished screams in songs. Those sounds merged with tasteful metaphors and brutal honesty of lyrics do the trick: Sinno sets new rules for the new generation which has swapped sandy plains for some comfort of crowded night clubs. But what is admirable is that Mashrou’ Leila don’t burn bridges. Abu Nuwas is not disrespected or forgotten. No, the rich heritage he and his fellow poets have left serves as a source of inspiration. For what is the new, if not the same old re-imagined?

“So why all the shame? Feel what you feel” Hamed Sinno almost speaks into the microphone. Is he addressing us or himself? We can contemplate it as we sway to Haig Papazyan’s haunting violin. And suddenly an idea surfaces: it’s okay to break barriers, cross borders and reinvent ourselves. It is even okay to reshape the world around us Because the times are (a-)changing and the “mushrooms have started growing”. And once they are grown, it is us who inherits the world. Or so Mashrou’ Leila say. And I am inclined to trust them.

.

A dance for two: Netherfield Ball re-imagined

Mr. Darcy: Then what do you suggest, to encourage affection?
Elizabeth Bennet: Dancing, even if one’s partner is barely tolerable.

Pride and Prejudice (2005 Film)

The air was too hot in the poorly-lit room. She felt like disappearing. Too much muzak and too many people for a single night. She looked around distractedly, letting her mind wander. And for a second, she closed her eyes.

…When she opened them, the room was glittering, drowning in light. Music was blaring. She stumbled and almost fell down the high staircase she was standing on. Startled, she looked around. Her eyes adjusted and she could see how rays of light descended from marvelous chandeliers hanging high up on the ceiling. The hall was large, surrounded from each side with high arched windows. She took a cautious step down the staircase. Thank Heavens she was not wearing heels. She looked down at her dress, pale blue and quite transparent, like flowing water.  “Cinderella”-she chuckled  to herself, scanning the walls for a clock. “Maybe I should track time until midnight, just in case”.

As the stairs ended, she reached the hall, which was full of people. She moved around the main circle of dancers, looking at them, wondering if she knew anyone at all.  She found herself in the heart of a lively regency dance, too much like Netherfield Ball, she thought. She chuckled again, suddenly knowing what familiar faces to look for. And sure enough she saw them. First was Mr. Collins, small he may be but distinct, running after Lady De Bourgh.  She sensed there were too many Mr. Collins-es around, too proper and mediocre to be of any interest. This one here could have been Mrs. Bennet, chatting gaily about the beauty of her daughter, hoping to marry her off as richly as possible. Mary and Kitty and Lydia, lost and indistinguishable in the pool of faces. And this one, pretty, glowing with kindness, this one could have been Jane….

She walked around, lost in her thought, naming each and every person she laid her eyes on, coming up with stories to go with them. She walked and walked until, in her distraction, she almost bumped into him. She looked up, stopping herself just in time to avoid an embarrassing collision. 

-“Pardon me, Sir”-she said, suppressing the instinct of  courtsy in front of him. 

He looked at her with a faint smile. Looking back at him, she had a sense that she had seen this face before. 

“May I have the next dance?”-he asked, without minding her previous remark. 

“You may.’-she heard herself replying. 

And within minutes she was standing in line with other lovely maidens, holding her breath slightly, facing him, as dreamy as Mr, Darcy would be. She still had the vague feeling of having met him before. And she had a lingering notion of not being a good dancer at all. 

And yet, with the first bead of music she found herself following the steps lightly, knowing exactly what to do. Surprised, she approached the Darcy-like figure of her partner, stopping just a tiny bit too close to him and turning as gracefully as never before. Had she always possessed such lightness of foot? 

The dance was a beautiful one, slow enough but not too sustained, pulling partners apart and then back together, allowing stolen touches and borrowed intimacy. They danced and danced, without talking, allowing movements to say the words on their behalf. Bodies circling and circling each other, gazes catching slight glimpses of each other in the momentum. 

And as the music quickened its pace, so did their breath and their bodies. Turning and turning, she could not make out where she was. Light glimmered like tears in her eyes, breaking into a thousand pieces almost blinding her. Amid the chaos of dresses and faces she heard her own laughter, saw his eyes and locked her own with them. His hands led and supported her now as each turn grew quicker and quicker.  It felt like flying.

And then the music stopped. She sensed that he’d lifted her up for the last turn, probably breaking some rules of the regency dance. As other couples broke apart,he lowered her to the ground.

“What do you suggest to encourage affection?-he asked, still holding her as the hall grew full of giggles and small talk now.

“Dancing”-she replied, panting slightly-“Even if one’s partner is barely tolerable.”

“Trust me, I have had the fortune of dancing with the loveliest partner here in Netherfiled.”

Laughing at the compliment, she finally allowed herself to catch a breath. Still letting him hold her, she closed her eyes for a second. Her head was spinning. 

She opened her eyes. The air was too hot in the poorly-lit room. Her head was still spinning.  A bit startled, she looked up at the flickering lamp. Then, her eyes adjusted and her mind stopped wandering, 

“It must be midnight, miss Elizabeth’-she said a bit too loudly and got up to join the party. 

She approached the bar in the corner of the room.Someone was sipping wine beside her. She had the sudden impression of having seen him before. He looked at her with curiosity, a faint smile on his mouth and a little too familiar gleam in his eyes. 

“Well, tell me, what do you suggest to encourage affection?”-he asked without an introduction, as if they’d been old acquaintances. 

“Dancing”-she replied with a grin.

“Even if one’s partner is barely tolerable?”-he put the glass down, turning to face her, the faint smile still intact. 

She laughed a hearty laugh and sure enough,  performed the most ridiculous curtsy imaginable. 

“You may have the next dance.”-she heard herself saying as she tuned back to the heart of the room, holding her breath slightly, anticipating the first notes of music that would follow.  

On trees and the passage of time

When I was about four or five years old, I saw myself as a talented actress and would perform the part of Snow While impeccably. Especially that dramatic bite from the apple followed by fainting. 

When I was six, I was convinced I had the voice of an angel and would insist on high-pitched singing in class. Until my best friend, who really knew how to sing, politely asked me to shut up once and for all. 

Later, I wanted to be a neurosurgeon. Fascinated by drawings of the brain, I was sure that a doctor was what I would become. 

Sometime in my pre-teens I imagined myself to be a pious Christian, praying before going to sleep and considering going to the monastery to live with the nuns. 

I used to hate drama and writing stuff like this here seemed like the most pretentious thing a person could do. Oh, and I despised the word “romantic”. 

I wore a footballer’s shirt to school, loved writing assignments for Georgian and wanted to go to Germany to study. And yes, once I even wrote a poem. 

Today, I am no singer, I could not act if my life depended on it and graphs of human brain are forgotten. I am sitting here, writing a blog and confessing I am a hopeless romantic. I don’t watch football anymore and I never went to Germany to study. Today I am an amateur linguist, a wannabe scholar of the Middle East and a confused lover of Soren Kierkegaard. (which makes me a shadowy existentialist, I guess) God has abandoned me, or I have abandoned Him. But I still maintain some respect and let’s say, scientific interest towards Him. No prayers though, not anymore. 

What I am trying to say is that the time passes and we change. What was clear yesterday is blurred today. What was sinful yesterday, is shamelessly done today. Who was loved yesterday is forgotten today. Old acquaintances become new friends and old friends become old acquaintances. That is the rule of life. That is the River of Change and we can not step into the same river twice. The river rushes forward and with the flow rush we, swirling, twisting and changing. Emerged from the River we find ourselves reborn, resharpen, with new beliefs, habits and ideas. That is the force that keeps the world going.

“O my brethern, break up, break up for me the old tables!” Nietzsche’s Zarathustra begs us. Break and shatter them, forget them, write new ones, better ones. Do whatever you want but break the old tablets binding you, old order controlling you, old shame consuming you. 

Look at the nature, what do you see? Constant renewal,  constant motion. Trees don’t cling to dead leaves, why do we cling to old feelings? Because we are ashamed of neglecting obligations, promises, whatever. Social construct, that’s what we live in. Whereas trees grow freely and are free to shed the old, waiting for the new to dress them.

If I were a tree. A tree with my roots deep in the ground, sucking energy from Mother Earth. The wind would come and kindly free me from the burden of old leaves and twigs. And instead of burning with shame, I would be nodding my magnificent head of green in gratitude, waving goodbye until the next tide of change would come upon me.

Two strangers in a single bed: an improvisation

The dogs were still barking outside. 

-“For fuck’s sake , they’ve never been this noisy!”-he grunted and tried to go back to sleep. 

“Uh-huh”-she nodded, burying her head deeper into the pillow. 

Now the donkey joined in, to make it worse. They tried to drift off again, with  backs to each other, bodies barely touching under layers of thick blankets. The weary intimacy of two strangers in a single bed. 

The night was unusually bright. She could see where the blue paint had cracked on the wall, right above the old rusty oven that had kept them warm all day. Pieces of eaten fruit still rested on top of the oven. And a bowl of disgustingly sweet rice, all cold and sticky now.

He had trouble breathing. As if each inhalation caused him pain. He turned, facing the ceiling and took long, deep gulps of air.  The pain eased over time, he felt better but the involuntary twitching of his body remained. It would remain for the rest of the night. 

She twitched too. For a while now, she’d been suffering from hypnic jerks which would toss her awake right when the precious moment of unconsciousness was so close. She longed for that unconsciousness  in vain. This one would be a sleepless night. 

Some other time, some other place they could have been friends. As for here and now, they had nothing to offer each other.  Well, maybe some shared warmth to survive the cold. 

Their encounter was a deceiving one.  Just a physical representation of a soul’s rush  towards fulfillment. Another  futile attempt to satisfy inner thirst by drinking from someone else’s spring. They knew it now. Lying together with no words for each other they knew they would not see each other again. 

He turned around and pressed his face to her shoulder. She touched his hand, acknowledging his presence, feeling the familiar scent she could never name. There was nothing left to feel but this silent second of unison. Then came a twitch and they separated, each turning to their side of the bed, each facing their own sleepless night. 

The wind was howling mercilessly, banging on the windows, trying to break in, threatening to sweep the small room away, threatening to hurt, to wreck,  to destroy. 

But there was nothing left to destroy. The dogs were silent now and they tried to drift off at last, with  backs to each other, bodies barely touching under layers of thick blankets. The weary intimacy of two strangers in a single bed. 

 

On my love for bars and the irony of life

 It has been raining nonstop in my beautiful city. Tbilisi is soaked and covered in mist, looking mysterious and lonely. Weekend drags itself upon us, as soaked as the streets outside. And a bit embarrassed, as if coming at a wrong time.

Lying under a warm blanket, with a compilation of sad acoustic ballads to go with the mood, I try to clarify the reason of my sudden sadness.  A while ago I was drowning in senses, crossing country borders, crossing personal borders, swirling in emotions and forgetting the mundane. Now I find myself dried-up and sober, dreading the alarm tomorrow. I am definitely not swirling anymore.

Had it been some other time, I’d know for sure where to go. There are certain places in my beautiful city for people like me: melancholy drama queens at heart, all smiles and flowers on the outside. Those places are scattered across the cobbled streets of Tbilisi. To reach them, you have to follow stray cats, suspicious-looking and rather hungry ones. They are the best guides, as they know every inch of badly-lit, homey alleyways of the old town. On a cool evening in the early autumn you’ll smell grapes and hear rhythmic sounds of rolled dice from balconies overlooking those alleyways. 

The cats will lead  you  under the ground, to places, which all, in a way resemble each other: they have bare bricked walls  oozing cold and damp and they are dimly lit. Not very inviting, barely attractive and blended with the tone of the street outside, their properties go unnoticed. Or would go so, had it not been for people like me: melancholy drama queens at heart, all flowers and smiles outside.

Well,  in fact, those places are simple basement bars, my favorite hideouts in this beautiful city of mine. Those nameless, faceless spots, one closing, another one popping up in its place. Those shelters offering plenty of wine and some anonymity.

I have been contemplating for a while, why I prefer those  not too respectable basement bars to any other places for a night out.  ( As throughout years, I have had various favorites, all alike in a way) And I can declare that the offers of wine a plenty  and anonymity do the trick for me. Because, apart from being a rather melancholy type, I am a very private one too, shy and in self-denial all the time. Opening up to even close friends is very, very difficult.  They have to fish  the truth out of me. I will never say how I really feel. I will never say what I really feel. As Haruki Murakami put it for me: “I can never say what I want to say, it’s been like this for a while now. I try to say something but all I get are wrong words – the wrong words or the exact opposite words from what I mean. I try to correct myself, and that only makes it worse. I lose track of what I was trying to say to begin with.” So, at times it is frustratingly demanding to convey something of real importance to those who know me too well.

But at basement bars, which appear and disappear with the speed of light, the situation is different. A sense of belonging spreads through you  once you enter, as if joining a brotherhood or a group of anonymous somethings.  No one knows who you are, but the night is for all of you to share, so you drink and listen to stories and tell stories and drink some more. Surrounded by strangers who are in the same mood  as you, you free yourself from the burdens you’ve been unable to tell even those close to your heart:

-“I have a crush on him although I have been denying it for weeks now! I can’t help it.”-you tell a guy sitting next to you at the bar and he smiles sympathetically.

-“I hate my co-worker, who always eats at his freakin’ desk and leaves the room smelling of chicken drumsticks’- he complains, as you laugh and share a drink. Neither of you will probably care about this conversation later, but it feels really good just to say it  at last and get over with it.

If a bar is fortunate and popular enough, it will stick around for a while and faces you find in there will become familiar. For sure, you’ll start greeting the bartender  at some point, exchanging jokes while ordering your favorite colorful cocktail. Oddly enough, you might even find yourself caring for  whatshisname, as if you have a secret bond, as if you  are in the same boat.

Because the true  beauty of the basement bars is that you all are really in the same boat. The boat is not a yacht, it’s by no means fancy so you needn’t show off and impress anyone aboard. What you need is to listen to anonymous stories and share yours, without saying who you are and where you are standing.

As a lover of stories, I really do admire such havens where stories are kept, ready to be opened up and read. I thrive on that: on insights, emotions and adventures people have in their own heads. Half of my own story is assembled from peculiar tales: tales of strangers, accidental meetings. impulsive texting, taken or not-taken chances, regrets. what-if’s… All this gathered under the centuries-old houses of Tbilisi, in places where mobile phones refuse to function and walls are covered in inaccurate splashes of faded paint.  Places where alcohol flows and there are friendly queues  to bathrooms.

I have met people of meaning at such bars, I have found abandoned books and danced to my favorite trashy songs. I have celebrated holidays, mourned wasted chances and just killed time on bleak days. Basement bars have served as shelters against the blues.

But as said, those havens disappear as quickly as they appear. And once the door to a favorite is closed, you go searching for a new one. The irony of life: constant hiding, constant search for a temporary refuge where you can sit, feel warm and kid yourself that everything is alright. This illusion of invisibility and freedom fueled by red dry wine or a mug of boiling, boiling black  tea.

The irony of life seen hiding behind my fondness of bars.  Well, I must be turning into some kind of a shadowy existentialist. Which, if you think of it, holds the irony of its own.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Colorful Cocktails at favorite places

Painted blurry havens full of stories to tell

On Cinderella and miracles

For the past month or so, my mind has been racing and my body has had trouble to catch up. Or vice versa. Anyways, it has been really difficult to gather all the thoughts and turn them into a single flowing story. This one for example is the third draft of what I have been trying to say. On a rainy day at the office, I feel this one will work, so let’s see where words take us, shall we?

***

Edit: Looking at this now, it  has turned out to be something totally different from what’s been preoccupying me, but as this heroine popped up in my  mind, let her be.  A single, flowing story on my racing mind still remains to be written.

 

***

Surprisingly enough, I want to talk about Cinderella. Yes, that Cinderella,the one who gets all the bashing for being timid and waiting for a man to save her. I think the world of keyboard warriors is being extremely unfair to her. Cinderella for me is the one we need to celebrate. Because, she is the silent hero. Not the one with a sword or a banner with inspiring words but the one who was never broken by hatred.

There is one episode in Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s stone that often goes unnoticed. When the 11 year-old Harry is taken to the zoo, he gets the smallest, cheapest lemon candy and is genuinely happy to have it. Harry, who wears over-sized clothes, gets toothbrushes and broken hangers as birthday presents, who is neglected and lives under the stairs is still innocent  and kind enough to be happy about the lemon candy. Because with his green eyes which are so much like Lily’s he sees the light, he sees the good in his life.  All the bitterness and fear that the Dursleys pour into him him can not break Harry’s innocence.

That part has always made me cry. And thinking about Cinderella, I see the same picture. A young girl, innocent and kind is suddenly hated and abused without an apparent reason. Yet, she never hates her abusers, she pities them. In her small, limited world she chooses light over darkness.  Cinderella  is pushed away by people so she befriends animals. Because she sees the good in them. Have you ever considered how beautiful a mouse is? Probably not. We tend to see them as small, dirty and insignificant. Cinderella, on the other hand sees a whole world in mice, she sees that these creatures have  characters and  charm of their own, lives of their own and that maybe they are not as terrible as we want them to be. (No, they are certainly not as terrible as the spiteful family she lives with, if you ask me)

Cinderella is passive, you will say. She is patient and has endurance, I will say. Defiance is not only physical, it can be mental.   By having the mental capacity of pitying her who hate her, Cinderella defies them all. While the step- family dehumanizes her by stripping her of her name and identity, she still sees them as humans, humans severely  lacking what she has got in abundance: compassion.

Cinderella marvels at small wonders in her life, she has the ability to see beauty and hope where there is none and that makes her an ultimate survivor. She outlives the hatred by creating a bubble of colors and dreams around her. She remains immune to the infectious nastiness in the house because she chooses so. By retreating for a while, by remaining silent she remains pure in the foul environment.

And when the time comes, this protective bubble bursts. But she was helped, you will tell me. Why didn’t she sew her dress herself? She waited for the miracle! How could she? I say that she deserved the miracle. As much as Harry Potter deserved hearing  the words: ” Harry, yer a wizard.”Because I want to believe that unconditional kindness and compassion can not go unrewarded. Not too strong of an argument you might say and you will be right. But I want to follow my inner voice on that one and maintain that miracles happen to those who deserve it. Miracles happen to silent heroes, to the patient and humble ones. Drizella and Anastasia want to marry the prince Dudley Dursley wants to have 37 or 38 birthday presents. Cinderella, in her humbleness is grateful for a single night at the ball, for a single memory she can cherish. Harry Potter is happy to have a lemon pop, a small one but still something for him to enjoy.  In the end it’s Harry who is a wizard and Cinderella who is a princess. As for their abusers, they remain in their small spiteful worlds. I want to believe that this is how the world works. This is what the ultimate order looks like.

In this manner, I want to celebrate Cinderella, the abused, the accused and the forgotten. The girl who could hold her head up high and sing a song while everyone was dragging her down. The girl with the glass slippers and the coolest choker in 1950 who conjured the miracle of endurance, kindness and compassion.

 

 

 

 

 

On parties and Kierkegaard

A weary Monday seems appropriate for the unedited rant which is about to follow.

So it goes: the 19th century Danish Philosopher Soren Kierkegaard presents us with three types of life you could lead: the aesthetic life, the ethical life, and the religious life.

In the view of ethics the aesthetic life is the lowest of the low, as it is only self-serving and escapist. The aesthetic Hero, in Kierkegaard’s words is Don Giovanni, living for the moment, for a fleeting illusion of pleasure, with no commitments, no responsibilities and, hopefully, no consequences.

Lowest of the low you may call it but is not it the life we lead? Or rather, the life I lead?

Me, sitting in the office I secretly hate, counting hours until freedom and wasting my time away.

Also me, buying wine bottles as birthday presents, knowing that I myself will drink from that bottles, anticipating the warm cozy feeling of tipsiness which will follow.

Me, going out to have fun to laugh and dance, to steal an occasional flirt, a kiss, a touch here and there.

Drinking more, taking chances and drags at joints, hoping to experience something. Hoping to feel something I had not felt before.

All in all,  just me trying to pass the time and amuse myself, nothing more, nothing less.

Is not that the trick that keeps the world going? To kill time and not get bored. As much as I try to deny it, it rings more and more true as each weekend passes and leaves a taste of unsatisfied emptiness in my mouth on a Monday morning.

Here are the lyrics of my absolute favorite song by the brilliant Lebanese Alternative Rock band Mashrou Leila:

“All week we’re dying from 9 to 5

Make me forget myself, let me be like Beirut

How beautiful tonight is, everything we wish for is here

And I hurt myself to justify my existence!”

Aren’t we all like Beirut? The city that parties like there’s no tomorrow; The city that has been torn by war and still finds escape on dance floors. The bleeding city willing to dance in its own blood.

That’s how we are, leaving our offices behind, getting drunk or high, hoping to become braver, cooler, more free.  Hoping to forget that tomorrow we will be back at the same offices, dressed up and proper, hiding hangovers and counting days until next Friday.

We like seeing the world tilted slightly  to the side, or turned upside down because it seems less like reality. It is the reality that scares us, the loneliness that can dwell amid masses and masses of people. It’s that occasional realization of that  exact loneliness that forces us to socialize and convince ourselves that we are happy, that everything is as it should be.

“See there are people around me, how can I possibly be lonely!”

-screams Hamed Sinno, the lead singer of Mashrou Leila, before a sad beat comes in and makes you dance. Despite the loneliness you keep on dancing. You keep on laughing and the party we call life goes on.

Yes, the party goes on and  this is not a self-pitying post. Or god forbid, a self-righteous one. It is just a doodle to avoid boredom. A mix of words.  I had something else conceived but  I forgot how it went and ended up writing this.

This post is aimed at me more than to anyone else. I could easily refrain from posting it altogether. It is messy and I do not really like it. And it still has a self-righteous undertone, I’m afraid. (Tell me, if it does, I won’t mind)

But this one here will be published anyways, just for the sake of the party.

Bonus for those who take chances:

 Music of today’s party by Mashrou Leila

Fabrika Tbilisi

On shapeshifting and Jinn

I always talk to myself. In my head, there is constant conversation. Oddly enough, it is never in Georgian. It is in English, Russian, German, Arabic even. But not once in  Georgian. It has to be something different from my native tongue.

Why? Because I think it allows me to distance myself from my own self. Does it make sense? Let’s try again: using a language I do not usually speak makes it easier to look at my story from the outside, as if on stage or in a movie. Anywhere basically, but not in my own head. It gives me the security to say that whatever is happening is not real enough. I like this distance. That is why this blog is English, I would never be able to say this much in Georgian.

I used to study Latin. And I still remember the opening lines of the Aeneid. What I had to do is to recite the verses using the dactylic hexameter, a form of meter for classical Greek and Latin literature.  Hexameter recitation gives poetry a rhythmic, consistent flow and allows the reciter to put stress and  pause correctly.

I found the whole process incredibly hard to follow and would mix up the rhythm on every single line. So I counted and re-counted syllables a thousand times and was about to give up on my aspirations with Classics and forget Virgil for ever,  when my dear professor of philosophy whom you have met before, came to my rescue. He gave me a hint on how to escape the trap he himself had laid for me by teaching me these things in the first place.

-“while reciting, use a different voice, a funny one preferably”-he said- “as if it is not you. As if it is some other silly  person clapping and singing these words”

Well I did try and it helped: I recited my piece of poetry without any trouble because I assumed that it was not me doing this insanity in a time and place where everyone tells you to be more practical and efficient. The moment I distanced myself from my own self all the weariness disappeared.

After that incident I started to pay more attention to my own shapeshifting. A proud polyglot, I seem to acquire a new trait every time I speak a different language. I mean, I am me in essence of course, but at the same time I am not entirely, so,  more extravaganza is suddenly allowed, deeper reflection is allowed and sometimes, more drama.

This shapeshifting or rather, selfshifting is the source that feeds this blog. Because, think of it, if a simple act of changing my voice changed my attitude towards my actions and gave me freedom to do something which I had previously regarded as silly, then silencing my voice completely  and hiding it behind a keyboard would transform me even more. Here I am free to ramble because once again, I am not entirely me. My imperfect pronunciation of the letter R  for example, is perfectly hidden here. So,  you would technically be unable to tease me about this part of my self here while in real life, the temptation to do so would be there.

What I find intriguing in all this ramble is how people from the outside view this process. Do the Georgian-self and the English-self clash? Do they give different impressions? Or is it just me exaggerating it all, I wonder.

Anyways, what I want is to reconcile all the voices, all the words and all the shapes in my head. Because shapeshifters often struggle to find a single face.

I am reading a book on the Jinn right now. When they  change from one creature into another they usually have two reasons: they either want to cause mischief or need to flee to safety. Assuming different forms, they are never at peace. I on the other hand want to be at peace. I do not want to change my voice while reciting the Aeneid. “Arma virumque cano…” is how it goes by the way, with the initial stress on the first syllable.

 

Here are Lupin and Tonks, I think this deserves to be included

And here, seated between two muses it Virgil himself. He happens to be one of the most famous Roman poets whose epic poem the Aeneid is a followup of the Iliad and the Odyssey.