How it started

When I first started writing, it was on any piece of paper I come across, tissues sometimes. I would just write anything that comes to my mind. Just filling the whiteness of the paper. I do not wish to make it look very poetic because it wasn't. It was more like enjoying the exercise of emptying a pen on a piece of paper. Was it an urge to write? an impulse? maybe not. If I were talented at drawing, I would have preferred to draw. But I wasn't and I knew how to read and write, so I wrote. Mostly nonsense and nobody read it. I hated my writings, they were like my alter ego, everything I hate to be, but I knew that it was everything I was. When I later wrote stuff that I would not be ashamed of showing to others, they all turned out to have a very sarcastic voice. In between these two phases, I kept a teenage diary and wrote hundreds of love letters (to a real person). Years later, all my letters were sent back to me. I never sent his.

I still enjoy the same exercise but instead of emptying a pen on the whiteness of a paper, I play on the laptop keyboard  to make letters appear on the screen. What you read is the mere result of that. 

Angels or demons

When I was a kid, I was at war with my older sister most of the time, okay, all the time. That was my mother's worst nightmare. Now I understand that war better. I wasn't a child who liked to play, not with my sister anyway, I always preferred to be left alone, not to be bothered. For my sister, she must have been told, even before she got to understand the words: you will soon have a sister you can play with, maybe to prevent and counter the sisterly jealousy that is surely to come. Then I came, and to her surprise none of what they told her was true. Her sister doesn't want to play with her. She tried all sorts of tricks to entice me into playing. The more she tried, the more I resisted. I think that I felt the advantage I had over her early on. I wanted nothing from her in fact, I was fine being left alone and she needed me. But deep down, I wanted her to try hard so I can refuse. See? who is that stupid who said kids are angels? They are not. We weren't for sure. It wasn't always a carrot she used, sometimes, she'd use the stick. That was harder to resist and soon she discovered that using force and intimidation to force me to play with her was more successful than begging and making irresistible offers. So I started to play under duress. My sister also hated to lose. So did I: I hated her to lose because there was nothing I wanted more than avoid her fury when she lost. I would give up the thrill of winning for that. Such a competitive and rebellious child I was! But for some reason, luck was always on my side when I needed it the least. In these games, my purpose was to lose playing against both myself and my luck. My sister was not stupid though. She would discover that I am losing on purpose and would ask me to play fair, she wasn't satisfied with winning against a loser but she still wanted to win anyway. So I had another challenge, I had to force myself to lose without her noticing. So I'd make sure to win a few rounds only to lose more later and make it look very challenging to her. I also had to fake sadness and anger when I lost. I win if I lose, that was my secret game. Naturally, sometimes, I would lose without any effort but I became an expert in losing no matter what. I was also the master of deception. These were the peace times though. My mother would see us playing and would be very proud. But at times, war would be declared. This can happen for any reason or for no reason. As I said, that was my mother's nightmare. See? my mother lived in the denial that her kids are in fact angels. When war broke up between her angels, she knew one way to restore peace. My mother believed that love was the cure for everything. She would stop the war by asking us to kiss each other. I played my mother's game the same way I played my sister's. Whatever you say, but after that, just leave me alone. I would kiss my sister with the same indifference I played with her. That wasn't harder anyway. She would sometimes refuse, get harassed by my mom until she kisses me and in her heart vows revenge. The next war wouldn't take long to start.
My sister and I grew up to become very close but looking back I only regret one thing: She hated the chicken I was and her rebellious side was something to admire not to despise.

had to tell you...

I don't miss many things about living with my parents but this feeling has been haunting me here in Amman, of all people there I miss, I have an overwhelming longing for being around my mom and dad and I realized that living with them was not as bad as I had always thought because I always took for granted the energy of love they had filled every room of the house with, every wall and everything their hands touched. But of all people I miss there, and maybe with a slight feeling of guilt I can say even a bit more than my dear 3 year old nephew, I miss them. I miss those Sunday mornings when I walk half asleep to the balcony where my dad, already dressed up and shaved although going nowhere, is helping my mother prepare lunch while having their first sips of coffee, I could see them stuffing zucchini, cabbages, vine leaves, chicken, or anything that can be pierced, with lots of rice and love. I would walk past them without any goodmornings, I would barely lift my hand in Salam and they would smile at my nonchalance before they would mess up their calm morning to serve me like a queen who must be attended to, and I would take advantage, sometimes ignoring and belittling their over care with that arrogant 'leave me alone' look. They would but I could feel their eyes roaming around me for the slightest sign of 'she might need something' and before I reached for my lighter they would bring me the ashtray. I don't tell them how much I love them as often as I want to and I probably won't so here: I love you maybe slightly more than you know.

Diaries

When I was young, or let's say younger, my sister somehow found the secret place of my diaries. She spent hours reading through, stacks of papers, letters, and notebooks, randomly squeezed inside other piles of papers, some were dated others weren't. She had to rush through them to get the best parts before she gets busted, sometimes she just searched for her name. For days after, she had this weird smile on her face when she looked at me. Then she confessed. She said she couldn't hide it anymore. She told me. I got mad and I shouted and went all crazy at her. Not only did she invade my privacy, going behind my back like a thief, but she now knows my darkest secrets, my deepest feelings, things I never dared say out loud even to myself. My anger was beyond description. But, something inside me rejoiced. She found my diary interesting! Looking at those diaries now seems like an older (though younger would be a more accurate word here) version of me is talking to the 'me' I have become. In some parts that younger version makes me promise to always believe in what I believed in then. I am glad I no longer make such promises. I'm sorry old me, that's a promise I can't keep.

A glimpse back

Sometimes I read some of my older posts again and I feel that I am reading them for the first time, as if someone else wrote them, and there are times when I truly get interested and start nodding in a sign of approval, but there are other posts which I totally don't agree with. Is that weird? Is it a matter of forgetfulness or am I just changing (let's not say growing)?

Another small confession

Speaking of memory, having a selective memory is annoying but can be fun too. I can watch a movie and then forget all about it and then I can watch it one more time and enjoy it all over again. The fun part is that my husband who has a very strong memory watches me in amazement cry over the same scenes and wonder what will happen next and laugh my ass off at a joke that I heard not long ago. Okay, I am exaggerating a little bit here, or not.

My selective memory

I have a selective memory; no matter how I force myself to remember something I am sure I know, I know I will fail; I had never saved it in the first place. I don't remember the names of many of the people who work with me, who have been working with me for some time, I just don't care to remember their names. I can make an effort but why bother, if it mattered it would have stuck. Again, why would I? Unlike them, I live in the margin. I will never be part of their world and they will never enjoy the life on the margin.

Duality

When you start remembering, you start forgetting, and vice versa.

The boat trip syndrome

Once when I was about 10 or eleven, some organizers planned a boat trip to a group of kids my age. I begged my parents a week in advance to give me permission to go. "We will see," was their answer. I asked every single day, twice, three times, more sometimes. I suddenly became the most obedient and tidiest kid. I asked the same question in different ways and I talked about different topics from the wonders of the sea, waves, whales, marine flora, swimming, and swimsuits, boats.. ah speaking of boats. These were the first days. The strategy changed later on, to pouting, untidiness, crying, and threatening. Of course they talked about all sorts of sea dangers, including getting lost on an island and turning into a mermaid. But at the end they succumbed to my relentlessness and persistence (they maybe didn't care much after all if I drown and get eaten by a shark) and I am not sure which of the strategies worked, maybe the combination. I celebrated. I packed. I readied whatever necessary and unnecessary. I went mentally on the boat a million times. I tried the deck and the front seat. I jumped from the boat and I wandered on the island. I crossed calendar days. I counted the hours. I named the few things that need to pass before the day comes. Finally, on the eve of the big day, as I went to bed very early, it started raining. It was summer time! but I didn't lose hope. I was certain that it will stop soon and it will shine again, next morning. It wasn't wishful thinking. I was certain of that because that is what ought to happen, because I prayed, because I wished it, no because I willed it. My parents started preparing the ground to avoid a major deception, to bring me back to reality. But they didn't believe me when I told them "you will see. It will stop. the trip is still on". That night, I didn't sleep, I heard the whistling wind and listened to the rain, the heavy rain. I imagined it stop at one time, but it didn't. I woke up very early next morning. I put on my boat trip costume. I stood on the balcony and I watched the heavy rain. The boat trip was canceled. I wasn't upset because of that. I was upset because it was canceled because of me. It was canceled because I wished it so much, and because when you want something very dearly, you never get it. I grew up of this traumatic story now and I came to like the rain but I believe that I need to adjust the innocent wisdom that unveiled itself on the balcony that day: You always get what you will heartily just make sure the weather or God can't have a say in it.

Memory mysteries

Who says that living a mental or imagined situation is not actually living it? Visions, dreams, whether during sleep or wakefulness, fantasies, and all sorts of other imaginations, often involve a physical and/or emotional feeling and thus could only mean that one is truly experiencing something. Normally, one needs a witness to their life, like the one whose role is to pinch you to make you believe, only here that role is to make you constantly believe that you exist. Yet imagined experiences are still experiences lived, and can be, if not often are, one of the best lived. One can often have memories of these imagined experiences and they could with time become indistinguishable from witnessed experiences in your memory. And we do not have two archiving memory drawers! Of course, it would be better if you could draw the line and if such experiences are in a way believable and not stemming from a previously lived life. I do have one of those memories which I cannot tell now whether truly happened or was imagined or even dreamed (I could have more of those that have been mixed in my memory in one drawer but since I am certain that they did happen in the "witnessed life" although they could equally be imagined, you will never be able to tell, neither will I). The image involves lots of balloons, the rest is for me. I know someone (not that same one) who would read this and would comment: I told you to invite me when you are having a weed circle!

Echos and shadows

Two images from the past in both of which I am standing, absorbed in thoughts, and aiming my sight at the far distance remain lively in my memory: In the first one, I felt sadness and hopelessness and in the second, I felt happiness and hope. I was 10 years old in the first and 18 in the second. At both times, I decided to keep that moment alive in my memory and pledged to remember it for the rest of my life. I still do.

When I am old

When I am old
Too old to remember
I will tell you a secret

You will not believe me
But it will be true
I will doubt myself
And you will tuck me in

When I am old
Too old to remember
My darkest self will speak to you
And you will lie and say I believe you

Then you try to wake me up
From a secret you believe not
Fed up you think you are
No more taking it, enough

You have never been to Cannes
You have never written a book
You have never met Shakespeare
You were not even born, you will say

You will not believe it
But it will be true
And you will soon be there too
Too old to remember

Too old not to believe
And you will have a secret too

Brain chaos

I tend to forget most of my dreams the moment I wake up but I never forget how it felt in each dream. I always wake up knowing very well if my dream was a happy or a sad one even when I have no clue what it was about. Not just that, I wake up with the same feeling I had while dreaming, as if dreams leave residues of emotions or maybe dreams for me are not brain visuals but chapters of emotional happenings. My memory works in mysterious ways. I usually tend to forget a lot, a lot of incidents but I always know how I felt in each of them. I might not remember a person for instance but I would know for sure if I liked him or not.