Every night and every morn
Some to misery are born.
Every morn and every night
Some are born to sweet delight.
Some are born to sweet delight,
Some are born to endless night.

William Blake - Auguries of Innocence

This poem is a new favorite of mine. I remember reading it ages ago, but only went through it thoroughly after watching Jim Jarmusch’s Dead Man. The movie quotes a lot from Blake’s work, and those lines sounded familiar. I dug a little deeper, and realized that they are in Jim Morrison’s End of the Night.

Also, a main character in Dead Man is an indian called nobody. Weirdly enough, an indian practically haunted Morrison throughout his entire career.

I love making these connections.

Only in Europe would you find boxers (and other underwear) in the accessories section.

* The sacred number (along with 5) of Eris, goddess of discord
* the number of the Illuminati.
* sometimes considered lucky or otherwise significant (as in the occult writings of Aleister Crowley and William S. Burroughs)
* a cosmic number with strong connections to arcane magic and synchronicity.
* Numerous people have claimed to see 23’s everywhere (the 23 curse) prior to enormous success and fruitfulness.

(from Wikipedia)

Bullshit. (excuse my french). Sill, it’s a significant age. I’ll finish my education and be expected to start my career in the next twelve months. I’ll be making several crucial decisions, and whatnot.

Exactly two years ago, I celebrated my birthday with my friends and family, got on a plane and flew to Germany. One terrible year and 12 acceptable months later, I’m happy again. Things are going just fine with me.

I spent the day with my parents who are visiting me in B., we walked around, talked, and eventually had dinner together… I left, to get home and my awesome roommates were waiting for me, singing birthday songs, and holding a gift…. Gentleman Jack! I love my roommates. Then my best friend dropped by with his girlfriend and brownies, and my other best friend called from London… A nice day.

I’m going to take it easy this year. I will graduate in a couple of months, but I plan to stay here for a few months after that, experience the country, visit some European cities (London, Barcelona, Prague, Warsaw, Paris, Amsterdam and Rome)… All the time doing small projects/contracts that would sustain me financially. I will enjoy this year.

Happy birthday moi.

A friend just came back from a vacation in Spain, a few months earlier, he was in Krakow… I met up with him, and a friend of his, she had recently returned from Edinburgh where she worked for a couple of months. She’s going to university till June, then working in Dublin for 2-3 months… After that, it’s off to a vineyard in France to work with dozens of other young people during the harvesting season… She’s then taking a year off of university, trekking across asia, doing a couple of months’ internship in Australia, then spending 5 weeks in Venezuela, two weeks backpacking across south and central America, 2 weeks in the US and then back to Berlin. They’re both, naturally, supporting their lifestyles themselves. They work, and do things the cheapest way… they make ends meet. They’ll probably finish university in a couple of years, by the time they’re 28-29.

Three years younger, I worry about careers, financial stability, and my future, and am still looking to take the chance. I have seen fewer places, experienced fewer cultures, and had way less fun along the way.

Something is wrong. I’m beginning to believe that my way was not the right way. Is it the culture? The mentality? The difference in responsibilities that we have?

It’s seeming more and more nonsensical to graduate and start work at 23. To join the rat race, to breath in 5 weeks of free air a year till I retire, and to sweat like a pig for the man.

Speaking of pigs. I went out with some friends yesterday. On the way, one of them decided to grab a bite at a ‘Lebanese’ restaurant. We walk in, and naturally, some persian or khaliji music is playing in the background… Pictures and drawings adorn the place… I point out the pictures that are of Lebanon (cedars, baalbeck, sidon, beriut, etc…) saying “this is Lebanon”, and then the drawings of camels and palm trees and deserts and what not, saying “this is not”… Some guy, sitting in a corner, starts mumbling things to his friend, and he calls me a zionist, and a pig. I ignore it. Again. Again. I was really considering doing something stupid, but thankfully my friends were there. Not that they held me back, or anything, just having them their made me rethink things, I didn’t want to be another one of those trash foreigners that fight other foreigners… I was better than that. So, I ignore him and move on.

Later that night, tens of people adoringly looking up to a great DJ, girls salivating as they gyrated to the music…

The point? Too many points… it’s more like a line. The end effect is…

Women… pffft. Speaking of which… Debo mejorar mi español

Things are working out very well for me these days… I’m on a lucky streak. Academically, work is progressing slowly, but surely, and the authorities are satisfied with my thesis so far, personally, I’ve settled down into a very cool, very enjoyable pace… setbacks are a thing of the (near) past… I was in H. the other day, met up with professors and cleared out a lot of issues, I now have a clear timeplan to follow for the coming few months, then I hooked up with some friends who happened to be in the city, and we caught a political rally for Angela Merkel, live. It’s sad. She doesn’t come through as human, no matter how hard she tries. That said, I’m not THAT much against a stronger regime in Germany, with clear anti-terrorist policies and so on. I fainted from laughter when they played Angie at the end. That is SO NOT A RIGHT SONG FOR HER!

On the homefront, we’re looking for another roommate to move in early october. I’m playing a very active role in the selection process. My criteria: female, 20-23, good looking, stylish, fun, interesting, preferably foreign (doesn’t know many people here). I am taking pictures of the applicants, they think it’s for us to remember them… and it is, sort of… the hotness factor plays a big role, I say.

The weird thing is that as the number of applicants piled up, I noticed that I was sweet-talking them, flirting with them, etc… I was looking, as my other roommates happily pointed out, for a wife, and not a roommate. Then I took another picture. I’ve already made my decision, actually… a hot little number from Barcelona. Not bad… not bad at all. she doesn’t know what she’s getting herself into
I’m a pig. Oink oink.

I grew up on the fringe of the Lebanese ‘civil’ war. I didn’t live in a high-risk area, and I missed the bulk of the war. I do have some memories of those days, though, most of the stories here, are from my own memory, the first, I don’t remember.

The early years of my life were spent in Sidon, right during the Israeli invasion. My dad, a surgeon, was away, doing what surgeons do. My parents tell me that around the time I started to speak, he was back at home, but apparently, it took me a while to stop calling him ‘mr.’ and start calling him ‘dad’.

Much later, in the late eighties early nineties, I’d already been living in Byblos for a few years. One day (or one month, the span is jumbled up in my head), the fighting started between the LF and the Lebanese Army (led by that orange megalomaniac), and we decided it would be safer to leave our fifth story flat and stay at my grandma’s place. I remember walking down the stairs (the elevator wasn’t working, surprise surprise), being told to stay away from the windows because of danger from stray bullets. Halfway down, I remember I’d left my He-man action figures at home. War? HE-MAN! Master of the Universe! I (or maybe, I had one of my parents go in my place?) went back up the stairs and got my red bag that contained Heman, his pet lion, skeletor, she-ra, reptile, and the gang. I couldn’t live without them.

The only other thing I remember from that period was that my dad had back trouble, and sleeping on a mattress on the floor wasn’t the best thing for it. I worried about him not being able to stay standing for hours to operate on people… or was I just worried about affording he-man’s latest nemesis?

Again, the timeline is jumbled up, but during the last Lebanese/Syrian battle, we were up in our village house, sandbags covering the entrance and windows. We were all sleeping in a bundle on the ground floor (1.5 meter thick walls)… my favorite aunt’s main worry was the chandelier hanging above the mattress. She would sleep below it and make me and my brothers sleep to the sides. My baby brother’s crib was strategically placed in the middle of the room. We always worried he’d be scarred by the war… he’s not exactly normal, but I wouldn’t blame that on the war
Ceasefire was a nice time. Our village was strategically place halfway between a Syrian base and a Lebanese Army one. The former being the excellent marksmen that they were, we had more than our fair share of shells falling around the house. My grandfather would take me out during ceasefire (what the hell kind of war is it when they announce that they’re taking a break??? Sorta like British tea-time in Asterix and Obelix) and we would gather shrapnel. Small pieces of death-metal. That’s where my passion for metal probably started. Sometimes the pieces would still be warm. Ahh, childhood.

The war was now over, but kids being kids, we had to reinact battles all the time. The village was split into three parts, the lower section, the main part (which we called ‘the village’, naturally), and the higher area. Children joined the ‘army’ of their part of town. It started out as gang roaming the streets, evolved to slings loaded with beans and what not, and ended when I burned an eyebrow when a firework rocket backfired instead of flying at the enemy.

VW Golfs were all the rage in the early nineties. Summers were spent in the village, and, with my older cousin visiting, mischief was rampant. Our neighbor had just bought a Golf (I still associate that family with VW Golfs, regardless)… so me and my cousin naturally filled his gas tank with water. That got us grounded for a few days. Toiletpaper grenades (toilet paper rolled in a bunch, soaked in water, shaped into a ball and left to dry and harden) were cause for more punishment… My girl cousin, having overheard our latest plans at world domination, was locked in the bathroom for a few hours. THEY found her an hour (or was it just a few minutes?) later, and punished us when we got back home. Good times.

I wanted to regale you with tales of my “war memories” but i’m drifting into more general childhood stuff… thing is, I woke up today, and started recollecting these stories, I always fear forgetting this stuff, that once, a couple of years ago, I created a diary software that ended up being more of a memory book than an actual diary. Anyway. Bye.

I’m not retiring.

It was considered for a while. It had been a possibility for a while longer. I don’t want to be judged by my blog (or at least by one or two posts in it). I took myself offline (actually, I just changed the address…) and mulled over it for almost two days… I’m staying.

I took away some posts… I’m going back to being anonymous. It was either that, or watching what I say… the latter is out of the question. My profile page, photo, info, etc are all gone. What remains is a white webpage with black text. You’re welcome to read and comment.

I started this blog almost two years ago, it was a way out. A release. Singing in the shower. Working out. Listening to music. Walking around. Masturbation.

It was also a way of letting a few people stay uptodate with my life.

It has grown with time. I’ve gathered a few readers. People that I like, and that seem to like (or at least, seem to be interested) in what I have to say. I’ve made some friends, real-life and otherwise, and strengethed some friendships.

My posts might have pissed some of you off. They might have had you ‘tsk tsk tsk’ yourself away. They might have made you nod in agreement. All welcome. I write to elicit emotions, outrage, laughter, or what not. I’m rarely as extreme as the way I sound, but where would the fun be otherwise?

The bottom-line is, selfish as it may sound, this is my space, and these are my words that soil this corner of the webosphere.

I decided that I won’t change what I write because of who’s reading, or what they might assume.

I will return to being anonymous over here. This blog won’t change in content, but that content will point to ‘Tempest’. He/she can take all you can dish. Give it your best shot. I, on the other hand, don’t feel like it anymore.