abufares said...the world according to a tartoussi
"A man walking alone on a deserted beach, brandishing a lantern in his outstretched hand might be a fool. But, for a ship that went astray on a stormy night, the same man is a savior."
It hurts not to write, to wean my imagination by damming the river within or to trickle updates and comments on a bedlamite Facebook. With premeditated arrogance I pronounce that I’m too good for politics, but even a lofty leopard is distracted by buzzing flies. I should be writing about the beauty in and around me. Whether they are about the woman perched on a throne of clouds or the city I see in my childish eyes, I miss the echo of my own words. The music they make when they meander around in my head then dance to the drumming of my racing heartbeats. Leave the grease and the exposed hairy cracks to the mechanics, I tell myself then zoom past the desperate crowds in a dream powered Ferrari. I have the heart of Gawain and the ardor of Adonis, the Syrian God not the grovelling poet. I am the Tartoussi, Ibn al-Balad, who’s known the before and after, standing by and waiting for the end of this long day and a new beginning.
I'm coming back.
I don't have mixed feelings toward 2011. It was by all means the year, one which we can look at from the shortsighted vantage point of the here and now or from afar to perceive its magnitude from the acquired insight of a future in the making.
No, I have no doubts. I know exactly how I feel about it as it has been the epochal year of my life although certainly the most agonizing for all of us. I wouldn't be claiming prescience if I had previously predicted its inevitability. Although it took me, like it did everybody else, by surprise I have been waiting for it to happen for as long as I can remember.
The inflicted pain of 2011 will linger on for a few more years, of that I'm certain. Yet I'm optimistic that out of calamity my and other children will lead more dignified lives. They will dig within their own bags of memories to compare the before and after. They will bask in precious liberty earned with the limb and blood of their brethren who made, and still are making, the ultimate sacrifice.
Many compatriots are against subversive change. They chose to bury their heads in the sand or worse to vehemently oppose the natural human aspiration for freedom for several reasons, not the least of which is the preservation of their privileged economic position and/or chaperoned social status. They were of the opinion that if it ain't broke don't fix it and thus embarked on a blind mission of psychotic denial and base justification for atrocities and crimes perpetrated and committed. Needless to say that their defeatist outlook is only helping in delaying the fateful outcome but it won't put a dent on its certainty. Over decades of subservience they've learned to tip the scale in their favor exactly like all parasites in the animal and plant kingdoms. They were able to make a good living within a corrupt socioeconomic system, where they evaded fair competition and hard work. They'd rather live in advantaged voluntary servitude instead of being free among equals.
In the spirit of the season, however, let me wrap up my last post of the year by being as good-hearted as I have it in me and by offering my best wishes for 2012. May peace fill the lives of every human, animal and plant. May the new year bring honor to those who earned it. As for freedom, I'll simply quote Abraham Lincoln to express my sincere sentiments: "Those who deny freedom to others deserve it not for themselves". Happy 2012 everyone :-)
What shall I write about when everyone I know has turned into either a desultory opponent or a gullible supporter while those who are neither are the worst of all? I am a conspirator to the supporters and they are cowards to me. Highbrow hypocrites, camouflaged in diarrheal moderation, evade the deluge by hiding in the unreachable branches of tall trees, unprincipled, unashamed. They, along with the merchants of the two cities will surely recover and end up high and dry no matter how long the flooding remains.
The cowards shall never win for their freedom will be handed to them as alms. The conspirators, and despite their fateful victory, have already lost their true identities. Eventually when the water recedes, the bemused survivors, cowards and conspirators, will pick up the pieces of their broken lives. The merchants will sell them their lives back, with interest and at a profit no doubt. And the hypocrite rascals will get down from their trees and fill the world with trash while, most certainly, making a damn good living out of cleaning the aftermath.
Another dry gust blew with profane anger. From behind the windowpane I saw plastic bags and scraps flailing the streets. The godless oppressive wind, flapping from the southeast then from the northeast, and infused with the sickly breaths of teetotaler pawnbroker merchants, and skunky with the sweat of racketeering hajjes, harassed the green trees in the coulee. They writhed, close to despair, then bent down only to protect their naked saplings.
The cold lashed and puffed with arid impotence. The chair upon which I sat, the bookcase and the nightstand by my side moaned with pain, their old walnut bodies crying for moisture. The shutters outside shivered in the grip of the grim reaper, almost giving up their hinges, when the inevitable sea-wind of fall came at last. It started to rain, slowly at first then with an orgasmic rhythm.
A big storm is on its way. I'm longing to walk in the rain, to wash away the grime that soiled the mind and the smut that tainted the soul. I don't wanna cover my head anymore nor pull up my collar around the neck. I just wanna walk and get wet. I wanna come clean.
Photo above courtesy of http://rapid-downloadss.blogspot.com
It all started when the television set exploded into a thousand pieces. I was tired after a day of give and take and was looking forward to having a beer in the comfort of my private hole in the ground. I took the elevator down to the basement where what I call my small barroom is located. I went around the bar to open the fridge and get a cold one when, splattered all over the floor, I saw the carcass of the TV set. After 6 years of hanging on a metal bracket, gravity got the upper hand and ripped the screws and bolt off the wall.
I had my beer anyway but was disgusted with myself. No, it wasn't because I had to buy a new piece of electronics at all. As a matter of fact I was looking forward to hanging a flat screen instead of the bulky box. It was just this feeling that my favorite room, the only one that I can claim as truly mine, because none of the others in the household like it, was in dire need of a face-lift. You see when I bought the flat (apartment) on the bones, as we say in Syria, I spent every penny I had saved on making it a cozy family home for 3 kids to grow up comfortably in. At long last when I wanted to dress up and furnish my 5X3 meter room I was virtually broke. So I made do on as limited a budget as possible and despite its spartan appearance Sile was by far my favorite place and sanctuary. Sile is a river in northern Italy and because of my affection for the city of Treviso where Sile flows I bestowed its name on the one piece of real estate that is truly mine and mine alone.
Over the years I wrongfully allowed Sile to become a dump for discarded pieces of equipment like a treadmill, or tidbits of furniture like a desk the kids no longer wanted. Even the Foosball table I was so excited to have at first became a burden and a piece of junk. I hardly played Foosball, exercised on the treadmill or used the stupid desk that nobody wanted. I only sat on my favorite stool and had my most creative moments in the bliss of my solitude and a drink.
Then my muse, oh I have a muse too, ran her slender hand on my cheek. You deserve better, she said.
Oh, I know, I told her, but what should I do? Where should I start?
What do you like best?
You, when you talk in my head, I replied.
Beside me silly old fool. Beside drinking. Think about it!
Uhhh, I like to read, I guess. With the country being in the palm of an Afreet as it is now and with very limited outdoor activities, I'm left with my reading.
And where do you read habibi? Yup after a couple of drinks she starts calling me habibi.
In bed, where else can I read? You know how it is upstairs.
Then bring your books and come read down here.
But... look at this place... it needs... it's awful and...
Shhhhh, leave that to me, she whispered, get a piece of paper and a pencil and let me show you what to do.
That was last month. Now Sile is done. I'm so happy with it. I mean h.a.p.p.y. as in really happy I want the whole world, well not all of it just those who read this blog and actually reach this point without hurting themselves, to see what a great place Sile turned out to be. This is a private club and only accessible through a personal invitation. Oh well, you are all invited.
PS Tequila Talking by Lonestar is a song that I've been stuck with during most of the remodeling process. So it's only appropriate to use it as background music for the attached video.
I've written under the influence before. Here I am though, in this moment in time and in this particular place, waiting for the inevitable. Throughout my life, the journey itself meant more to me than the final destination. On the many twisting roads I followed, the curves, the climbs and the unforeseen stops had marked my passage rather than a Welcome to Utopia sign posted at the entrance of a dead-end street. Sure I remember the cocktail parties and the insidious talks and the obligatory dance every now and then and the banter and laughter and unfinished drinks. The lonely drive back, however, somehow proved more real, more existential, after all these years.
One night when I was young and green, loaded with blood in my alcohol stream someone popped a question. We were playing Truth or Dare and I chose the Truth. There wasn’t a thing in the world I would’ve not done if they dared me so I figured what’s the point! Let them ask, perhaps I can learn a thing or two about myself. “What is your dream?” This is a moment any 22 year old fool would treasure. It was my free ticket to get laid that evening. All I needed was to draw from a vast repertoire of bullshit a young self-proclaimed intellectual possessed and I would end up in the sack with somebody.
“I want to fuck the universe.” I downed the shot of whatever I was drinking and envisioned myself almost 30 years later, now, at this moment, sitting with my friend Johnny, just the two of us, having one hell of a time. His name is Walker, Johnny Walker by the way, and he’s Black my friend.
Well the universe proved to be too lousy a lover and too formidable an adversary. Neither of us remember much of our flirting affair. One thing, however, just one thing, brought me and continues to bring me unbound satisfaction. I never gave up, I never changed. I have less hair on my head to be certain but she too, the universe that is, has grown older with a fat ass. I found myself a small moon and she's much prettier. Screw you Universe, you lost.
I fancy the inevitable, the moment of ultimate truth, and I snicker. I’m past the halfway mark and I don’t give a fuck. After all I’ve seen and learned it could only get better. Cheers!
My first flight instructor was Ulf, a soft-spoken Swedish guy almost exactly my age. He was a quite young man with a perpetual Scandinavian smile on his face. I never saw him wearing anything but a clean well-pressed white shirt and navy-blue dress pants. The last I heard about him was that he'd been a captain on Scandinavian Air Service SAS for many years. My first solo flight came after 10 hours of dual instruction. Why don't you pull off the runway, Ulf yelped over the engine noise, I need to take a piss. I brought the plane to a complete stop on the taxiway and shut the engine off.
Opelousas, Louisiana had an uncontrolled airport. It had no control tower and accordingly arriving and departing traffic (aircraft) had to communicate by radio and declare their intentions to each other. The system worked pretty well and still does for the vast majority of American airports. Take-offs and landings are on first-come first-serve basis. Airplanes line up in an imaginary predetermined traffic pattern then proceed to land or to take off safely and efficiently. It was late afternoon, however, and on that particular hot summer day the sky was empty and almost as blue as Ulf's eyes. He jumped out of the two-seater Piper Tomahawk, turned his back to me and did actually take a leak in the middle of the airfield. After a manly shake, he obviously zipped up his pants and came to the left side of the plane, my side that is, and spoke in his characteristically diminutive voice. Say Abufares (that was not my name then but I'm using it to keep my identity secret), what do you say if I ask you to fly around the pattern alone, land, taxi back here and shut the engine off. Then you can do it a couple more times if you feel up to it? I couldn't believe my ears. This was not supposed to happen today. The instruction manual recommended the first solo flight after 12 hours of dual training. I knew that if I didn't answer in 10 seconds or less Ulf would climb back in his seat and call it a day. Yes! That was all I said. I shut both doors closed then switched on the ignition. I saw Ulf smiling and waving his hand as I taxied back in position for take-off on the runway. It was sweltering hot and my heart pumping blood and adrenalin at 200 beats a minute didn't make it any cooler.
It's been 30 years since that Saturday on July 11th, 1981 and I still remember it as if it happened 30 minutes ago. I pushed the throttle all the way up like I did many times with my instructor by my side. The plane twitched then accelerated nervously down the runway veering to the left with the torque of the single engine. I compensated with right rudder and at 55 knots an hour broke ground. The tiny cockpit seemed incredibly large and empty without Ulf. The Tomahawk, amazingly light without his weight, climbed steeply, much more steeply than I ever remembered and I subconsciously adjusted the trim wheel to keep her nose down. I raised the flaps and commenced my left turn to join the traffic pattern on the downwind leg. It all went silent as a surge of freedom flooded through my body and mind. I AM FLYING! I AM FLYING ALONE AT LAST!!!
I made a robust first landing, safe and efficient. Although I didn't grease my plane onto the runway I would never forget that moment in time. It was my greatest personal triumph, and save for a thing or two, still is. After I received my Private Pilot License, Ulf left and joined a regional American airline. Krisan arrived on the scene and instructed me almost completely through my Commercial and Instrument training. She was a fine young lady, petite, smart, and very pretty in her leather jacket and tight pants. She too became an airline captain for one of the majors. Before she quit flight instruction, however, she handed me to Rick.
Now if you were God and wanted to create the antithesis of Ulf and Krisan you could only end up with Rick. The man was loud. He came to work on a Harley with a cigarette between his lips. Somehow it stayed lit till the end of the day. And, and... pretending he was grabbing another cup of coffee, he would chase the secretaries from upstairs and the receptionists downstairs with his lewd remarks and stale pickup lines from the 60's. After Ulf and Krisan, I was in for a cultural shock. My best defense against the inevitable I thought was to talk as little as possible. To this day Rick thinks that I didn't speak English then and is still surprised how quickly I picked up the language afterward. I would use lines I memorized from sitcoms on TV for my routine conversation with him. The guy, and I have no doubt about it, must've thought that I was an absolute idiot. Truth of the matter though, I was a graduate teaching assistant in college at the time. But, he didn't need to know that.
Despite his eccentricities, or perhaps because of them, Rick was a top rated instructor and a very proficient pilot. I completed the remaining of my training with him in no time and within a month or so received my commercial certificate and my instrument and multi-engine ratings. Soon thereafter, I was offered my first job as a pilot in the very same General Aviation and Flight School were I earned my wings. Gene, rest his soul, was a boss, a friend and an older brother, who believed in Rick and me. He helped me get my Flight Instructor and Advanced Ground Instructor licenses and I embarked on a trip of adventure and discovery that had changed my life forever.
I had used the I need to take a piss phrase with all of my students when it was time for them to solo. Perhaps the only greater satisfaction than my own first solo flight was when I gazed at the sky and followed with my eyes and heart a student of mine flying on his own while I stood on the side of the runway. I know some of them have joined the airlines, one or two became air force pilots and several are flying doctors and professionals.
The world has changed for me and for everybody else over the years. I have taken on more jobs than I can remember in different fields, places and industries, from construction to industrial installations to shipping. My hands stayed soft despite the wear and tear of time, or so she tells me. I didn't have a chance to fly for 11 years during which not a single day, not one, had gone by without me remembering that first solo flight when I became a pilot. To be with Rick in the cockpit again, on top of the world and above the clouds, is something I fail to describe by miles and knots. He sure talks a lot but he was, still and always will be my best friend.
To anyone with the slightest inkling to get in the air and fly I dedicate this post. Go for it!
To my friend Rick, happy retirement and until next time.
