Random Play

My dearest friend Isobel tagged me in a most attractive way. Her blog sits on the very top of my favorites list. Problem is, she doesn't write often enough, kind of like me. Children have their own ways of distracting their parents and I guess this is the major reason why she's sparse with her posts. Recently though, she's been on a roll. Ever since she discovered that she is the direct descendant of a beautiful Sioux Princess she has become a rather prolific blogger producing one great post after another on an almost daily basis. Among the thousands of her adoring fans I doubt that there is anyone more loyal than me. To read Isobel's Suffonsifisms every day is a perennial dream of mine. I only hope she continues with this pace least I and her groupies suffer from the consequences of a severe withdrawal syndrome.

Her tag could not have come at a more opportune time for another reason. Lately, I've been uninspired, plain and simple. I have returned home early Friday morning after four days of work in Rotterdam and one of play in Amsterdam yet couldn't sum up my thoughts to put together a coherent post on my blog. Thing is, I'm moving again in a couple of days, on another business trip. However, unlike what many creative people advocate (I'm not implying that I'm creative) that they perform best under pressure I'm not like that. Work is unavoidable labor rather than an enjoyable vocation as far as I'm concerned. I'd rather be doing any of a hundred things instead of toiling my ass off, including crochet and knitting. Oh that reminds me of this miniature crocheted coat I saw in a storefront in Amsterdam. You know, it's a woolen cloak to keep the little one (Willy) warm on cold Dutch nights. "Little" being a figure of speech and totally relative to a coat worn by the human owner of the penis. Since it's on display it could only mean that there are buyers for this stuff. Now, and just for the sake of argument, if a girlfriend or a kinky wife buys a crocheted coat for one of her man's most important attachments I can see the humor in it, weird but haha funny in a way. But what if some jerk actually buys himself or more precisely his little one a crocheted coat? I see him in my mind standing naked in front of a mirror, shivering in the cold while his member is warm and happy. I should've got it in beige might be running through his mind, hands on hips, swinging his torso left then right. Next time I'm in a meeting with a bunch of boring stiffs I will try to guess who among them might be wearing a crocheted coat underneath his suit. It will certainly make my time flies much faster. They will wonder about that smirk on my face and it'll only prove enigmatic to them. He must know something about the stock market that we're not aware of, they might reckon, or he's on good terms with the CEO. Oh how unsettling a smile could be if timed correctly!

You guessed right, Amsterdam was loads of fun. I spent my last two hours in the hotel lobby engaged in an absorbing conversation with a charmingly classy woman. Unreachably gorgeous, she was. Her words very much like her looks were simply beautiful.

That brings us back to Isobel and her tag. What are the first 16 songs you get when you hit the shuffle button on your MP3 player? And here's my answer, this is what I listened to this morning on my iPhone, while I was working :-)

1.    Bridge Over Troubled Waters – Simon & Garfunkel
2.    Subhan Allah - Fanaa Chand Sifarish
3.    She – Charles Aznavour
4.    Awakher el Shita' – Elissa
5.    L'eté Indien – Joe Dassin
6.    Tell Your Mama – Norah Jones
7.    Open Arms – Journey
8.    With or Without You – U2
9.    Something in the Way She Moves – James Taylor
10.    Betiggy Sirtak – Nancy Ajram
11.    Avant De Nous Dire Adieu – Jeane Manson
12.    Suleima – Malek Jandali
13.    Runnin' with the Devil – Van Helen
14.    Fallin' – Alicia Keys
15.    Jai Ho! (You're My Destiny) – A. R. Rahman & The Pussycat Dolls
16.    Biestehi Habibi – Elissa

Thank you Isobel for thinking of me and for the beautiful inspiration behind this mediocre post of mine. Thank you dear readers for reading so far and, if you have the time, tell the rest of us about your random list of songs. You can of course write about it on your blog or in the comment section of mine.

Echos from Ugarit

"This song is for you"

In 1929 a peasant plowing his field 10 km north of Lattakia (Syria) unearthed a strange looking stone in an area called Ras Shamra. He immediately informed the authorities but little did he or the rest of the world know then about the magnitude of his discovery. French archeologist Claude Frédéric-Armand Schaeffer(1898–1982) spent the rest of his life excavating the site. Ugarit was found.

Ugarit was an independent Canaanite kingdom that reigned over the eastern Mediterranean in the 18th century BC (3800 years ago). The Phoenicians, descendants of the Canaanites, built great palaces, temples and shrines in Ugarit between 1450 – 1200 BC. But most importantly they built libraries. They ruled the sea with their strong ships made from the cedars of Lebanon and became the greatest naval power in the Mediterranean and Aegean seas. They traded silver, gold, textiles and ivory with coastal cities, Egypt and Mesopotamia. Ugarit had a population of 10,000 before she was destroyed and burnt down in 1200 BC by the Sea Peoples whose origins remain a mystery for today's scholars.

It is in Ugarit, among the thousands of tablets found within the walls of her great palaces and libraries that the first Alphabet in history was discovered by Schaeffer. Evidently the Canaanites and their descendants the Phoenicians realized that human speech consists of a finite number of sounds. They simply enough created a symbol for each of these sounds. Well not really that simple as it took civilization 2000 years to achieve this feat. All subsequent phonetic languages (i.e. Hebrew, Latin, Sanskrit, Aramaic, Arabic, Greek, etc.) utilized most of the original 30 symbols or letters. I find it interesting that the root of the word phonetic as per modern English dictionaries is considered Greek (from phōnētikós from phōneîn to speak). Is it really? Why stop there? Where did phōneîn come from? What was the name of those people living on the Eastern Mediterranean (in today's Syria and Lebanon)? Phoenicians :-) How convenient?

There was one more discovery of unimaginable consequence found in Ugarit. An unearthed clay tablet, one among the multitude, took a while to decipher. Not because it did not stare at archeologists straight in the face but because of inherent biases even in scientific pursuit. Finally in 1974, Anne D. Kilmer, professor of Assyriology at the University of California at Berkeley and after five years of hard work was able to interpret the cuneiform script as the lyrics and musical symbols of an Ugaritan song dating back to 3400 BC. The discovery revolutionized music history completely for it moved backward in time the first notated piece of music by 3,000 years. The origin of Western music is not the 400 BC papyrus which contained the Greek Euripides' play Orestes but a much older religious hymn from Ugarit.

Malek Jandali is a Syrian pianist who lives in the United States. He was born in 1972 in Germany and was raised in Homs, Syria after his parents returned to their hometown. He received his early schooling there and graduated from the Arab Conservatory of music in Damascus. Mr. Jandali is an accomplished and daring musician who has won several international awards. His greatest achievement, however, is the release of his 2008 album, Echos from Ugarit in which he rendered the first notated song in history with his eloquent piano. It took such an exceptionally inspired Syrian to remind the world of a simple fact of life: It all started in our backyard, a mere one-hour drive from where I am sitting right now listening to the oldest song in the world being played by a Homsi with an unlimited talent.

Below are Youtube, and download links to Malek Jandali's Echos from Ugarit.




Download Echoes From Ugarit

References:

http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,911121,00.html
http://www.arabamericannews.com/news/index.php?mod=article&cat=Artamp;Culture&article=1025
http://www.highbeam.com/doc/1P2-3857985.html
http://www.syriagate.com/Syria/about/cities/Latakia/ugarithistory.htm
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Malek_Jandali
http://www.malekjandali.com/

Amal Hayati

I was out with the guys last night. We laughed and bellowed. We bickered and fought. We ate and drank then we listened to Om Kalthoum.
Amal Hayati (Hope of My Life) 1965, lyrics by Ahmad Shafik Kamel (1919-2008), music by Mohamad Abdul Wahab (1900-1991).
I can only translate, to the best of my ability, most of this magnificent love poem and hope that somehow you get to enjoy the voice, the music and the timeless words.
For you are, Amal Hayati.

Hope of my life,
My endless love
The most beautiful song
My heart has heard
Take my life, all of it
Just let me be
With you only today
In the lap of your heart
Let me dream
Never to wake up again 

My Hope, my life, my eyes
You're more precious than myself
My Habibi of yesterday
And now my Habibi
And then till the end of time, Habibi
Tell me…
What harbor am I missing,
When I'm in your arms
I've never known so much protection
Such as yours
I've never loved my life Habibi
Except for you
I faced my hopes, I faced the world
I faced love
The first time I met you and gave you my heart
You're the life in my heart
More happiness than this I can't take
More than what I have I don't need
After being with you
I wouldn't mind to die

It's enough for me
To wake up hearing your lips whisper
A song
Oh my never-ending love
In the lap of your heart
Let me dream
Never to wake up again
My love for you
has filled the whole world with adoration
When we're together it's just hard
To blink en eye
Even for a second
I can't not see you
I can't not be blessed by you
That's how much I miss you
That's how I long for you
I wish I could find a word
No one had used before
A word as vast as my love
A word as huge as my cravings and my passion
A word like you
If there's such a word
For there's no way on earth
To create anything else like you
In the lap of your heart
Let me dream
Never to wake up again

When I Need You

In the summer of 1977 shortly after my National Bacalaureat exam I attended my first dancing party in Tartous. These were extremely rare events in my little town by the sea back then. Boys and girls went to single-sex schools like the rest of Syria with the exception of a handful of private ones in Damascus and Aleppo perhaps. Not many years later that had come to change and by the early 80's of the 20th century Tartous implemented co-ed in all of its public schools and remains today the only Governorate in the country without any single-sex learning institution. We've sure moved way ahead of the pack and we're proud of our mindset here on the coast. In fact, despite the relentless waves of marauding Wahabi Islamists pouring over our shores, we Tartoussis, in our majority, stand in defiance to the dull and lifeless coveys desaturating the kaleidoscopic social fabric of Syria not through confrontation but rather by clinging to our traditional Mediterranean way of life. We still master the art of taking it easy and the rest certainement à la tizi.

That night, I asked the prettiest girl in the party to dance with me to what is perhaps one of the greatest love songs ever, When I Need You by Leo Sayer. The song went on that year to top the charts on both sides of the Atlantic (the UK Singles Chart and the US Billboard Hot 100).

Last night, thirty two years after that dance, a breeze blew from the west cooling down the lingering heat of the day. There were folks walking by, young lovers holding hands and this tartoussi  riding his bicycle on the corniche late in the evening. I was enjoying the silence and engrossed in my private thoughts when I decided to listen to some music. I picked a List I call “Soft” on my iPhone and drifted with the tantalizing flow of easy listening songs. The mood was ripe for a daydream (eveningdream is more like it) and right in the middle of it, When I Need You came along.

To lovers all over, this one for you. To the woman who's more me than myself... May I have this dance my Princess?



When I need you
I just close my eyes and I'm with you
And all that I so want to give you
It's only a heartbeat away

When I need love
I hold out my hands and I touch love
I never knew there was so much love
Keeping me warm night and day

Miles and miles of empty space in between us
The telephone can't take the place of your smile
But you know I wont be traveling forever
It's cold out, but hold out, and do I like I do
When I need you
I just close my eyes and I'm with you
And all that I so wanna give you babe
Its only a heartbeat away

Its not easy when the road is your driver
Honey that's a heavy load that we bear
But you know I won't be traveling a lifetime
It's cold out but hold out and do like I do
Oh, I need you

When I need love
I hold out my hands and I touch love
I never knew there was so much love
Keeping me warm night and day

When I need you
I just close my eyes
And you're right here by my side
Keeping me warm night and day

I just hold out my hands
I just hold out my hand
And I'm with you darling
Yes, I'm with you darling
All I wanna give you
It's only a heartbeat away
Oh I need you darling

Writers: Albert Hammond & Carol Bayer Sager

Paradise

This post is dedicated to my friend JGM, Kassak Habibi


A little before midnight my buddy called and asked me if I could join him on a short hop to Zgharta, Lebanon in the morning. He wanted to visit a friend recovering in the hospital. We might grab a bite to eat if you want to, he said, Ehden is not that far away.

I haven't been to Lebanon since October of last year. I feel terrible how a fucking barrier blocks my freedom to cross the “border” between here and there. What a bunch of idiots on both sides. What filth, hypocrisy, shortsightedness and bigotry make me wait in line to be in one of my favorite locations on the planet, a mere hour and a half drive away.



Ehden's Paradise is the number one restaurant in the world serving Mezza and Middle Eastern Cuisine. I'm not an idiot to accept the words Lebanese or Syrian Mezza. I have evolved far too much to be such a Levantine Chimp. There's no place on earth where every bite you swallow, every sip you gulp, every breath you take is as good as it is in this northern Lebanese village. Paradise has been my favorite hideaway since the first time I set foot in Ehden, well over twenty years ago.



We made it in the late afternoon to Paradise. The wide terrace seats a comfortable thousand hungry patrons but it was almost deserted. There were far more waiters milling around like busy bees than there were people sitting behind tables and eating. We were greeted near the entrance by the maître d' who assured us that we would still get the best food and service despite our late arrival. What was it all about, I asked. This is one of the biggest nights in Ehden, he said, Sabah Fakhri is here for his annual one-night appearance.



For those readers who don't know who Sabah Fakhri is and in order to make it easier for them to comprehend and grasp the importance of the event, this is a man who is considered by over 200 millions of Arabs as Our Pavarotti. Well, wait, I need to elaborate further. Pavarotti, rest his soul, was one of the greatest of all times no doubt, but he could have found a cozy place to sit in his heydays in the shadow of our 76 year old veteran singer. Sabah Fakhri is the greatest performer alive. In 1968 he sang for 10 hours without a pause in Caracas, Venezuela to the adulation of thousands of expatriate fans. This world record remains unbroken.



The evening was sold out, of course, weeks ahead. We consumed the heavenly Mezza slowly and deliberately. No Kass of Arak could taste remotely close to the way it tastes in Ehden. In the late heat of this July afternoon all around the Mediterranean, the cool air at 1,500 m altitude took us to another reality. This is indeed how Paradise would be like one day when we bite the dust and are sent by default there. There is no man on the face of this earth as good as me, I mused, content in the knowledge that someday, this could all be mine forever. A renewed and spirited hubbub behind caught my ear then my eye. The owner and the staff were greeting someone very special who, just like us, had come fashionably late for lunch. It was none other than Mr. and Mrs. Fakhri who had just checked in in their hotel and came for a quick bite to eat. They were accompanied by a Tartoussi guy we knew. As they walked close by, our friend waved hello and said to the old man: “These guys came from Tartous to see you tonight”. We had to stand and shake hands with the legend. He expressed his happiness and gratitude for our taking the trouble to attend his performance. When our friend knew that we didn't even have a reservation he fixed it in an instant. You will join me on Sabah's table, he assured us, as he hurried and joined the superstar.



I only had what clothes I was wearing. Not a toothbrush! Not even another pair of boxers to change into. Yet we managed to buy the essentials, find a great room in a hotel nearby and took a long nap before the endless night ahead. I was only missing one thing. I needed to call someone, as my day and night, my whole life past or ahead of me wouldn't be what it was meant to be if I hadn't done that. When I reluctantly hung up, my smile was larger than my face. I knew that it'll be a night to remember.

How can I explain what Tarab is to non-Levantines and North Africans? It's almost a futile attempt since Arabic is the only language with the right vocabulary to convey this state of mind. Sabah Fakhri is the master of Tarab without any shadow of a doubt. As thus let me try to make a fool of myself and fumble with an attempt to explain.

كل البنات نجوم وانت قمرهم
All the girls are stars and you...
Their moon you are

Tarab is a state of musical rapture. The lyrics, the music and the voice conspire together to put the listener in a unique mood of oriental sensuality and worship, lust and spirituality, seduction and chastity. Tarab is when you reach a mental point where everything around you is beautiful. The plate of fresh fruits on the table with drops of dew forming on the grapes and melons, the dark of night and the velvety flow of wine down your body, the numbness of complete sensory satisfaction, the touch of the wind on your cheek, the swaying ass of the girl dancing nearby, her erect nipples, the perfume on her belly in your nose, memories of love making, a mental orgasm, a voice from within,... floating in a womb of pleasure, your long scream at last with an uncontrollable Ahhhhhhhhhh, this is Tarab.



In the Paradise of Ehden, Sabah Fakhri brought us, all one thousand and one of us, into a land of one thousand and one Arabian nights for five consecutive hours (1:30AM till 6:30AM).

خمرة الحب اسقنيها، هم قلبي انسنيه
عيشة لا حب فيها جدول لا ماء فيه

The wine of love let me drink
Burdens of hearts let's forget
A life we live void of love
Devoid of water, a barren creek

I woke up at nine o'clock and headed back, across the fucking barrier to Tartous. On my way around the park in the late evening I was suddenly assaulted by the taste of fruits on my tongue, the long shadows of the night and the stream of wine gushing in my soul, the stupefaction, the caress of a breeze on my skin, a beautiful woman's butt, her breasts, the smell of her tummy, my going in, my inescapable climax, my own voice inside the tunnel, my last scream..... Ahhhhhhhhhh, Paradise.

Lost Somewhere

At the right moment in time, a scribble with a trickle of words can excite the mind like an intricate novel read over a fortnight in the cone of a bedside lamp. I've been waking up real early lately; say 5:30 in the morning. No, it's not insomnia as I often get back to sleep afterward without much of a hassle. It's just as if I'm craving to squeeze every drop of time to unearth the real essence of my life from underneath the hubbub and brouhaha. I reached for my Nokia and checked my email. The usual endless stream of Ship Position Reports scrolled on the small bright screen reducing the days and nights of lonely seamen to coordinates and numbers. I was dozy yet my seasoned eyes detected a different message forthwith. I haven't heard from her for quite sometime and as I read her words consciousness pervaded my senses instantaneously and I became fully alert.

It's been a while... And "Lost Somewhere" has been reading silently, enjoying every single post...
We all look for something at every stage of life and today I think Abu Fares is in search for a tormenting passion in his life...something that will stir up his mind, heart and soul...
NB: And when I mention passion it is in its broad meaning that embraces many aspects

That's it, she left as swiftly as she came. Despite the impact of her words, I faded back into delicious sleep. When I eventually walked out of bed, I knew that Lost Somewhere's words have touched me deep inside and needed to be mulled over within the solitary confinement of a double Scotch.

Two words of tremendous power in the span of a short string bored trough my head. Was Lost Somewhere anguishing in ardor when she posed her question? How did she know what to ask when all I am to her is a man behind a blog? As the amber fluid attenuated my thirst it fed a white fire. The warmth within heated my imagination and it soared, a hot air balloon drifting in the wind above my own ken. I looked down, a man living a tormenting passion that defied attempts to explain was lost in thought. Was it a smile I detected at the corner of his lips? I needed to see his eyes, I could only know if I stared straight in my eyes. I glided lower and stood face to face against him. The eyes, Ah the green eyes peppered with a dash of hazel, looked back at me with enigmatic tranquility as they slowly changed colors. It startled me to see her eyes on his face and I grinned with realization.

The agony, the hurt, the anguish, the pain, the wretchedness and the torment were there to stay. The fervor, the fancy, the desire, the longing, the love and the passion have filled the heart completely, have drenched the soul. The improbability, the rarity, the exquisiteness, the wonder, the preciousness and the inevitability of the merging of eyes and minds cannot come about without a torrent of torment. Life is a tasteless weenie on a bun if not for the discrepant, adverse, cruel, bittersweet, adorable and endearing relish, garnishing the dead of night into a bright encounter, softening the heat of day into a waterfall of rose water, bringing meaning to being, restoring the original innocence of birth.

"It's strange that words are so inadequate. Yet, like the asthmatic struggling for breath, so the lover must struggle for words." - T.S. Eliot

The lives of men and women are senselessly empty if it were not for the tormenting cruelty of time. Their hearts and souls needlessly void if not for the passion of love. I'm struggling to survive, Lost Somewhere, for I will die if I give up my struggle.

The music and lyrics of (Losing My Religion, 2003 by REM) filled my head as I wrote this post and I had to listen to it again and again. Here is a video link in case Youtube doesn't work for you. What a great song!

Sandstorm

The road from Amman to Damascus was straight, as the crow flies, stretched and tedious like a lackluster argument. A sandstorm blew from the east kidnapping the asphalt ahead, swallowing up the car in a fugue of uncertainty. A herd of camels materialized to the right for an ephemeral instant then disappeared before I had time to be sure. I was sitting in the back seat of a taxi, head resting rearward in a stupefied daze. The tiny earphones isolated me further from the rest of the world, pounding my head with a tidal wave of drumbeats. Layer upon layer of primal composition building up then followed by a disembodied voice:

oh
I needed to believe in something
I need you to believe in something
I needed to believe something
I need you to believe in something
I needed to believe
I needed to believe

I was a lonely man rediscovering a new age of music, grasping the refrains of an English duo by the name of The Chemical Brothers, feeling anesthetized yet alive at last.



I reached with my hand, the tips of my fingers wiggling their way to the wetness of a lake beckoning at me, calling me to plunge inward apex first, dipping toward the warmth of a womb, sufficiently spacious to hold me, tight enough to etch the passage of time and space on my whole being with indescribable pleasure. Then I woke up.

I was tired, drained and as weary as I could be after days and years of traveling the desert roads with strangers. My lengthy journey into certainty had barely begun. Every turn of the wheel gets me closer to my destiny, still way ahead in the distance, barely discernible but for the power of the mind and the will of the heart. I have been quiet for so long, waiting for my time to come. The yellow nothingness surrendered me and I almost vanished before Pink Floyd brought me back to existence.

Hey you, out there in the cold
Getting lonely, getting old
Can you feel me?
Hey you, standing in the aisles
With itchy feet and fading smiles
Can you feel me?
Hey you, don’t help them to bury the light
Don't give in without a fight.

It came to me that I was most unlonely when I was truly alone. Uuuuuummmmm, I breathed the scent that only I can ever smell. I looked at my own eyes, Eyouni, gazing at me with love and want. I leaned on my shoulder and felt the comfort of togetherness. Delicate fingers ran through what little hair I had left, caressing my scalp, dissipating my worries, revivifying my dreams.

I only had to wait but I no longer had to fear. Led Zeppelin trespassed my thoughts. I welcomed the intrusion and I sang along, Stairway to Heaven.

There’s a feeling I get
When I look to the west,
And my spirit is crying for leaving.
In my thoughts I have seen
Rings of smoke through the trees,
And the voices of those who standing looking.
Ooh, it makes me wonder,
Ooh, it really makes me wonder.

Home by the Sea

I wanted to show you how beautiful my sea is. That's all I had in mind. I skimmed through the countless photos I took over the last week during my jaunts offshore. I reckoned that I'd add a few lines depicting how relaxed my afternoons had been in the company of my son. The days of Ramadan spilling like the cascading coral beads of a rosary in the hand of a waiting old man.

Then as I chatted my morning away with a young friend of mine I remembered my Home by the Sea, both the song by Genesis and the place where I was born. Whether the song goes well with the selected photos or not I'm not sure. But it goes well with me, as this is how I often feel…

Creeping up the blind side, shinning up the wall
Stealing through the dark of night
Climbing through a window, stepping to the floor
Checking to the left and the right
Picking up the pieces, putting them away
Something doesn't feel quite right

Help me someone, let me out of here
Then out of the dark was suddenly heard
Welcome to the home by the sea

Coming out the woodwork, through the open door
Pushing from above and below
Shadows but no substance, in the shape of men
Round and down and sideways they go
Adrift without direction, eyes that hold despair
Then as one they sign and they moan

Help us someone, let us out of here
Living here so long undisturbed
Dreaming of the time we were free
So many years ago
Before the time when we first heard
Welcome to the home by the sea

Sit down sit down
Sit down sit down sit down
As we relive our lives in what we tell you

Images of sorrow, pictures of delight
Things that go to make up a life
Endless days of summer longer nights of gloom
Waiting for the morning light
Scenes of unimportance, photos in a frame
Things that go to make up a life

Help us someone, let us out of here
Cos living here so long undisturbed
Dreaming of the time we were free
So many years ago
Before the time when we first heard
Welcome to the home by the sea

Sit down sit down sit down sit down
As we relive out lives in what we tell you
Let us relive out lives in what we tell you

Sit down sit down sit down
Cos you wont get away
No with us you will stay
For the rest of your days - sit down
As we relive our lives in what we tell you
Let us relive our lives in what we tell you

Melancholy Man

And the laughter of little children on the other side of the street above wafted through the small window, faded then died. Silence, nothing but silence.

At one time or another, we all suffer from Earworms. The term was invented by Professor James J. Kellaris, PhD, of the University of Cincinnati. It refers to songs, jingles and tunes which somehow assault the unsuspecting mind and get stuck there. A mild attack might last for an hour or two, a whole day perhaps. When a certain song becomes a hit and is incessantly being played on different media its metamorphosis into an earworm is often a collective yet short-lived experience. We are constantly coerced to sing it along. However, as soon as the hit is replaced by another ephemeral piece of senseless art we just forget all about it.
A more subtle and personal form of infliction is set off by association. Any sensory stimulus, such as a sight, a sound or a smell might trigger a dormant memory and by doing so instigates a complicated chain reaction. All of a sudden, an earworm with hazy lyrics takes over the brain entirely. If the worm survives overnight it often implies that someway, somehow, a Pandora's Box has been inadvertently opened.
I've been a keen fan of the Moody Blues since the early 80's. Back then, I bought all of their released LP's and ritually engrossed myself in their inimitable music. For the unfortunate kids who read me and are unlettered about the Moody Blues, I can reverently introduce them as an English Rock band from Birmingham founded by Michael Pinder and Ray Thomas in 1964. They were later joined by Graeme Edge, John Lodge and Justin Hayward and together were credited with the early development of Progressive Rock (a fusion of Rock and more Classical forms of music). They are still active as of the writing of this post. Less than two years ago I discovered LimeWire a free source of music download on the Internet and compiled my own collection. I've burned an MP3 CD of my favorites for the car and downloaded them to my phone's memory card. My album contains three or four Moody Blues' hits but somehow Melancholy Man had evaded my flimsy memory.
I was sitting alone in my little private space underground, staring at the washed-out and discolored instants of frozen time captured in some old photos and hung on the wall. I stared at the faces of friends and loved ones I've lost along the way. Then my gaze was fixed at a print of my friend Nabil and me, standing side by side, laughing so confidently as if we were forever young, beyond reach and out of harm's way. My vision blurred and the words assaulted me breaking the silence after the dying laughter from far away. I've been churning them in my head, words, intoxicating words...

I'm a melancholy man, that's what I am,
All the world surrounds me, and my feet are on the ground.
I'm a very lonely man, doing what I can,
All the world astounds me and I think I understand
That we're going to keep growing, wait and see.

When all the stars are falling down
Into the sea and on the ground,
And angry voices carry on the wind,
A beam of light will fill your head
And you'll remember what's been said
By all the good men this world's ever known.
Another man is what you'll see,
Who looks like you and looks like me,
And yet somehow he will not feel the same,
His life caught up in misery,
he doesn't think like you and me,
cause he can't see what you and I can see.


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A Letter to My Son

My youngest, Fares, has just turned Seven. He was delivered by the same doctor who had brought me to the world so far back in time. He was born at the hand of his grandfather. This is a letter I wrote (in Arabic) on a piece of paper in the hospital on that day, minutes after his arrival. I’ve kept it in the hope of giving it to him when he’s old enough to understand.

Monday, March 20, 2000

Dear Fares

Welcome to the world. All of my life, I’ve been waiting for you. I never knew how you’re going to look like or what you’ll turn out to be. You were just there in the bottom of my soul, Fares.
Life has treated your mom and me right. We were blessed with your two beautiful sisters before you came along. Now that you are here, I have earned my long-deserved title “Abu Fares”. Ever since I was in high school, my buddies called me so. I vaguely remember where the nickname came from but it doesn’t really matter, now that you’re here.
You’re going to meet all sorts of people as you cruise through life. Many are wonderful folks, and you’re going to feel that it’s a pleasure simply knowing them. A few are assholes to say the least. With any luck, I’ll be around for a while to show you the way. Eventually, you’re going to be on your own though. I have many big dreams for you son, but they are mine and I wouldn’t try to impose them on you. I might give you a hint or two at times, or a traveler’s account of some faraway place I’ve been to. But it’s your game, and sooner or later I would be just a spectator. I secretly pray for you and I would continue to do so for as long as I should be.
Go get it Fares, make me proud.

With all my love,
Baba

Being a father and a son, I can readily identify with both. For Fares’ birthday, I would like to offer him and all the wonderful young(er) people who read this blog this beautiful song Father & Son (1970) by Cat Stevens (Yusuf Islam). It’s a heartrending lesson to both fathers and sons as it valiantly tries to answer the enigmatic “WHY”. While reading the lyrics, click the player at the end and enjoy it online. Dig deep within. You’ll get a glimpse of what you all mean to your fathers.

FATHER:
It's not time to make a change,
Just relax, take it easy.
You're still young, that's your fault,
There's so much you have to know.
Find a girl, settle down, If you want you can marry.
Look at me, I am old, but I'm happy.
I was once like you are now, and I know that it's not easy,
To be calm when you've found something going on.
But take your time, think a lot,
Why, think of everything you've got.
For you will still be here tomorrow, but your dreams may not.


SON:
How can I try to explain, when I do he turns away again.
It's always been the same, same old story.
From the moment I could talk I was ordered to listen.
Now there's a way and I know that I have to go away.
I know I have to go.

FATHER:
It's not time to make a change, (son: away, away…)
Just sit down, take it slowly.
You're still young, that's your fault,
There's so much you have to go through.
Find a girl, settle down, If you want you can marry.
Look at me, I am old, but I'm happy.

SON:
All the times that I cried, keeping all the things I knew inside, (father: stay, stay…)
It's hard, but it's harder to ignore it.
If they were right, I'd agree, but it's them you know not me.
Now there's a way and I know that I have to go away.
I know I have to go.

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My Best Wishes for the Holidays

I have promised my family, and myself, to take it easy and to spend as much time with them as possible during the coming week. Since I’m not taking any vacation in the real meaning of the word, lazing around at home, watching TV, playing with the kids and frequenting Sile in the evening would be my objects of desire in the next few days.




I might get overwhelmed with the hubbub of the festive season and miss blogging so terribly that I’d sneak away to my PC in the after hours for a quickie.

In any case, whether this would be my last post of 2006 or not, I would like to wish each and everyone of you a Merry Xmas, a Blessed Eid Adha and a Happy New Year.




Through this blog, I can only offer something modest along with my wishes. I gave it some serious thought and the best I could come up with is the gift of music.

I would like you to enjoy this audio stream below of a magnificent guitar duel by Carlos Santana & Ottmar leibert. I hope it gives you as much pleasure as it did to me, with a Cognac in hand and a fine Cuban cigar.






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May your life be as wonderful as this musical gem Samba Pa Ti (1992).
Happy Days To All…

Om Fares, the Wind Beneath My Wings

She wasn't even twenty when we first met, a pretty face with a big gorgeous smile, cat-walking through life as an English Literature student at Damascus University. I was a disillusioned soldier who did not belong, sailing through as the winds willed me. No chart to follow, no likely call for a next harbor.
She saw through me and perfectly understood why I spoke so little. It was much easier to express my feelings by bringing her (to her parents’ house) a bag of quails I’ve hunted than to look her straight in the face and say what’s really on my mind.
And she accepted that. She held my hand and took me as her life-long companion and soul mate.
Twenty years later, she can still stand me, which, by itself, is quiet an achievement and a true indication of her beautiful spirit. We’ve been through it all, the good, the bad and the in-between. Being married is like this, you know.
I can close my eyes and remember the moments of true happiness we’ve shared over the years. The birth of each of our three children. The pride, the joy. Trips we’ve made together, just the two of us in a small airplane or in the saddle of a motorcycle. I can also remember the hardships we’ve endured. The pain, the agony. My leaving home for a time, in search, yet again, for a bigger bite to eat, for more than my share in life. I strained my eyes looking too far when all I had to do was just close them and look inside. Whatever I wanted has always been here, within my reach. I would never let go again.
Om Fares reads my blog, when she has time, she tells me. Whatever I write, she already knows. I am still poor at finding the right words to tell her how I truly feel. I hope I can surprise her this time. I have chosen Bette Midler’s song because that’s what Om Fares is to me, the “Wind Beneath My Wings”.

Ohhhh, oh, oh, oh, ohhh.
It must have been cold there in my shadow,
to never have sunlight on your face.
You were content to let me shine, that's your way.
You always walked a step behind.

So I was the one with all the glory,
while you were the one with all the strength.
A beautiful face without a name for so long.
A beautiful smile to hide the pain.

Did you ever know that you're my hero,
and everything I would like to be?
I can fly higher than an eagle,
for you are the wind beneath my wings.

It might have appeared to go unnoticed,
but I've got it all here in my heart.
I want you to know I know the truth, of course I know it.
I would be nothing without you.

Did you ever know that you're my hero?
You're everything I wish I could be.
I could fly higher than an eagle,
for you are the wind beneath my wings.

Did I ever tell you you're my hero?
You're everything, everything I wish I could be.
Oh, and I, I could fly higher than an eagle,
for you are the wind beneath my wings,
'cause you are the wind beneath my wings.

Oh, the wind beneath my wings.
You, you, you, you are the wind beneath my wings.
Fly, fly, fly away. You let me fly so high.
Oh, you, you, you, the wind beneath my wings.
Oh, you, you, you, the wind beneath my wings.

Fly, fly, fly high against the sky,
so high I almost touch the sky.
Thank you, thank you,
thank God for you, the wind beneath my wings.

Activate the Player below to Enjoy this song (audio stream)


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This Is My Night

As I revere music so highly I can only enjoy it on rare occasions. Often, I consider music as an annoying background noise. I have to be not only in the right mood, but more like in a perfect and spellbinding ambiance. I also prefer to be alone. It is no surprise then that I normally listen to my favorite music while driving solo intercity.
Om Kalthoum

There are, however, a few masterpieces that entail total absorption. I need to be in a state of devout adulation, in a semi religious ecstatic mind frame. It is dangerous to listen to certain songs while driving. Company is also required to reap the full benefit of the experience, but they too, have to be in the proper disposition to accept the flow of lyrics, melody and human voice with their minds and not with their feet.

Mohamad Abdul Wahab

In 1968 three Arab giants, two Egyptians and a Lebanese met in Lebanon on the balcony of the Ambassador Hotel overlooking the Lamartine Valley (named after the French poet 1790-1869). They were, Om Kolthoum (1904-1975) the all-time Diva of Arab Music, Mohamad Abdul-Wahab (1910-1991), arguably the greatest Arab composer of the 20th century and George Gerdak (b.1931), the Lebanese poet, writer, philosopher, critic and cynic. Of these three great artists, George Gerdak is my favorite. He wrote, what in my opinion is, the supreme celebration of Love and Life “Hazihi Laylati = This Is My Night”.
George Gerdak
I never really liked Mohamad Abdul Wahab either as a singer or as an actor. But as a composer, I bow my head and pay respect where it is due. I am a fan of Om Kalthoum and Cuban cigars. I like both tremendously but I don’t actually get to enjoy either more than a few times per year.


A companion had just returned from the north of Syria, where he’d been on a two-day hunting trip, bringing back a dozen pheasants from the distant cotton fields. We set out to our hideout in the mountains for a memorable repast away from it all. The evening was pregnant with anticipation. It was cold and windy outside, but by the fireplace the soul and body were able to take refuge. We were sharing a few rounds of drinks before dinner when, out of the blue, “Hazihi Laylati” invaded my mind. We were expecting two more guys to join us and it only took a phone call to ask them to fetch a CD of the song and to bring it along.


There is no way I can do justice to the evening. Talking about the song itself, in the particular instance and space where we shared it is virtually impossible. I feel humbled by my inability to translate into English the easy flowing poetry of George Gerdak. All I can do is offer you this link to listen and enjoy the song online:
http://www.omkolthoum.com/english/e_hazehe.htm


Hazihi Laylati is familiar to many readers. However, whether you’ve heard it before and whether Arabic is your language or not, I kindly ask you to free yourself for 32 minutes, sit down somewhere you feel very comfortable, get your favorite drink to nurse slowly (you might need a couple of refills) and enjoy my modest offering and contemplate the words if you understand them, or simply let yourself drift with the sound, the voice and the melody.

To read "Hazihi Laylati" in Arabic click on this link:
http://almashriq.hiof.no/egypt/700/780/umKoulthoum/Songs/LYR/hazi.html

Happy To Be On an Island in the Sun

Summer is in full swing. Family and friends are home on holidays. Sunshine prevails every single hour of the day. The few shy clouds are mere props in the theater of the sky. The sea beckons to us all to enjoy the amity of each other and escape the heat of the day. Children and adults play together, splashing in water, enjoying the undulation of the sea after the passage of a lazy wave, magical instants preserved in time, burned forever in memory.

I close the door of the air conditioned office behind me. It’s barely 2:00 PM and I’m the last to leave. I shed my shirt, throw it in the back, steer my car toward the highway leading to the beach. A primal instinct swells within, urging me to return to the sea, whence we came and forever long to return. I search for and find the old cassette tape I’ve played a hundred times. It’s the first song on Side B. I turn off the AC, roll down the windows and let the wind and the music unfetter my hair and spirit.

Sitting in the sun waiting for a seniorita to show
Guitars playing melodies from Spain and Mexico
Soft wind blowing the smell of sweet roses to each and every one
Happy to be on an island in the sun

Mothers with their children waiting in the cool of the shade
And thirsty people coming from the fields to drink tea and lemonade
An old man yawning, his day’s coming, his working day’s done
He’s happy to be on an island in the sun

All the stars come out and shine so bright
It’s so romantic to be in that moon lit paradise
Love is going to shine a welcoming light when I’m
Looking to the eyes of the seniorita tonight

Sitting in the sun waiting for a seniorita to show
Guitars playing melodies from Spain and Mexico
Soft wind blowing the smell of sweet roses to each and every one
Happy to be on an island in the sun…
Happy to be on an island in the sun…


Demis Roussos takes me away to an exotic island, hardly 10 minutes out of Tartous.

I drop my pants even before the engine is brought to a silence (you guessed it, I don’t play hard to get at all). I reach for my shorts and perform the 30 second transformation act (in a car not in a telephone booth though). It’s still almost as easy as last year, or the years before.

A mirage dances on the golden sands enticing me to absorb the beauty of female bodies laid out in the sun to tan, but not just yet. I’m not seeking creatures of the land. My heart is set only for my siren luring me to plunge into the endless blue in search of her. I offer myself and plead the sea to accept me, to take me as I am. I come up from my ritual first dive of the day to breathe. How I envy the wild beasts of the sea for staying longer, much longer, for diving deeper much deeper toward the endless abyss underneath. I float in the womb of all life, cherishing my simple moments of absolute loneliness.

Soon enough I join the pack. Amid laughter and jubilation, they all want to know where did I come from, when did I arrive.

I have always been here… by the sea. There had never been any other place for me.


Demis Roussos was born on June 15, 1946 in the city of Alexandria, Egypt of Greek extraction. I have uploaded this beautiful song “Happy to Be on an Island in the Sun” for you to download and enjoy. Please do!