Reality Check

I secluded myself – almost completely – from the world, for three entire weeks. I can’t remember why I thought this would be beneficial for me when I took the decision. I know that I was desperate for some privacy, but I am also aware that I can’t live without people around me for long.

It is true, for the first while, I enjoyed the peace and relished in the privacy, but after a few days, not even a week, had gone by, I realized I cannot detach myself from the chaos of it all. In spite of my picking up on this fact early on, I still decided to challenge myself and extended my two weeks stay into three.

In fact, after the first three days, I wrote a little tale detailing all the wondrous improvements I had been noticing about myself due to my independence. I went on and on about how I am sticking to my diet, how I miss TV but can live without it, how I am thinking of turning off my phone and many more components that I found myself truly enjoying then.

Now though, three weeks into it instead of three days, I have to admit that I cannot live without TV, that I prefer reading in the noisy coffee shop, that I am not happier, that my fear of disgusting insects cannot be abolished, that I am thrilled when my phone rings, that no matter how much I try or how hard I try to convince myself, I am just not into exercise. I am also now sure that I will not be taking my photographic skills to the next level any time soon, well unless I stumble upon a huge sum of money that I could spare too, in order for me to buy the right equipment for the endeavor.

I have been spending way too much time online during my stay here. Not that I didn’t do that before I came here, but never to this extent. Trying to get away from the people in my life led me to get mixed up with people in my virtual one. Online fun used to be just that, fun. Now it took a serious turn and I realized that drama and stupidity could follow me everywhere, even through a virtual network of nonexistent wires and abstract connections. Thus I needed this reality check to ground myself again and be more appreciative of the tangible relations I am blessed and sometimes honored to have in my real life. I am not denying that I have met some fantastic people online, and in many cases those people have become deeply cherished friends, but I am saying that I am now more aware of the boundaries and hopefully a little less trusting of just anyone.

My stay in here also proved to me how much I love drinking and exactly how much I miss it. I tried to stay away from the Jack Daniels bottle that kept eyeing me every time I opened the fridge, I really did, but when I found myself surrounded by a bunch of delightful friends for my birthday, I had to give in and have a couple of drinks, even though I am still not cleared for drinking due to my liver condition.

My birthday happened to be within the weeks of my seclusion, and hard as try, for the life of me I don’t understand why everyone was so nice to me for my birthday. I am not complaining, that is for sure, but I am stunned, seeing that I had been nothing but rude to everyone the past year. I was really surprised by everyone’s kindness and understanding towards me. I realized I am blessed with friends I barely deserve and a family I definitely don’t.

My feelings about my birthday are slightly annoying to me this year. I am starting to feel age weighing on me, although 26 is relatively still very young according to most people. I don’t like the fact that I am feeling the cold this year and that I am shivering even. I have mixed emotions about being so close to becoming 30 years old. I find myself way underachieved and can’t help but blame myself for it. This isn’t where I had pictured my life to be at this age. I should have established myself somehow by now. But looking at the facts, I am in no way near fulfilling that path. I am still unemployed. I am barely making ends meet. I am not in a serious relationship, if in any at all. I am not the best person I could be. I haven’t learned enough skills as dictated by my potential. I have indeed done the basic stuff; I have graduated, gained experience, tried being in relationships, the works, but it somehow all feels void when nothing is consistent or stable.

But at the end of the day, I am an incorrigible optimist. I could nag for another hour, but deep down, I know I still have hope for the better in every possible way and regarding every possible aspect. I just need to trust that at the age of 26 I will be fortunate again and that I will appreciate it. So here is for hope, motivation, confidence and change.

A Letter To My Dear Friend John

A little background first: John is a wonderful friend whom I have recently met online, and not long ago, he surprised me by posting a YouTube video in which he dedicated a reading extracted from one of Amin Maalouf’s books to me. This is my way of thanking him. Although this is nothing compared to what he had given me, it is the best way I can think of for the moment to thank him. So John, please accept the following as my gratitude towards you.

Link to John's reading to me

Dear John,

I am ashamed to say that I have read only one book by my compatriot Maalouf. I should have read two by now, but alas, one of my many oddities and complexes got in the way of reading one of them. Let me elaborate.

When I was young - or should I say when I was young-er, considering that the fact that I am a woman makes me ageless, or at least not prone to admit the fact that I am getting old-er – I didn’t care much for books. I only occasionally read the books assigned by school, and rarely enjoyed any of those at the time. I tell you, they give beautiful books to people who aren’t capable of appreciating them yet. Les Miserables felt like a punishment at the time, and Madame Bovary reeked of boredom. Let alone the fact that sitting still for more than five minutes back then used to be a major obstacle between me and a book.

So, back to Maalouf. Before they had all moved away or gotten married, my uncles and aunts did a cleanup, which meant they sent me all the books they had already read and didn’t have the place to store anymore. Among those books was a French copy of Leo the African.

The cover was not attractive. The font was so small and the pages were so long that it scared me. But the oddity I had mentioned earlier didn’t lie in any of those facts, although those weren’t exactly helpful either. My major book complex has to do with the fact that I simply cannot read a used book. And although this one was in great shape, it was still a book that had been read by half of the family, who didn’t only touch the pages and rummage through the book, they also had the nerve to make notes and translate words all over the place. I think that is when I had started to be more appreciative of books. I felt that the book’s temple had been messed with, violated. I realized then that books are sacred and should be treated as such.

Now I have been ranting for so long about this you would think I treat my books like shiny silverware, I don’t though. My yellow marker covers every single sentence that I have ever liked. The thing is, I just don’t like reading a used book, and I am awfully strict about lending my books to anyone too. Once I have marked all those stuff, and occasionally written some notes, the book becomes mine rather than the author’s. All these little scrapings make it so personal.  

Dear John,

By now I have been writing this piece of nothing for weeks! And another Dear John entry in the middle of it might turn this into a diary! We wouldn’t want that, no one would want to read my shameless rambling if it goes on for over a page, so this is to commit to write faster!

And now that we have established that, where was I? Oh yes, I was rambling about myself, now it is time to ramble about you!  

You used to be a lawyer, so I gather that is where the wit comes from! And you are an avid reader, which accounts for the wild imagination.

John, this is mostly to tell you how much I truly enjoy our conversations, how much I look forward to them, and exactly how surprised I am each and every time we get to catch up; you always manage to cheer me up, even if it was with the most simple ways. I will also never forget the extremely nice gesture of having sent me the beautiful Hockney book along with the postcards; it was an utter delight receiving mail from you.

In the past few months, I have come to be online for a great deal of my time, due to personal reasons, and during these months, I have had the honor and the blessing of meeting several unique and talented individuals from across the globe, and you, by all means, and considering every aspect, climbed to the top of that chart very quickly. I can’t think of a nicest person. I can’t think of a more respectful person. And I can’t think of a more imaginative and inspiring one.

John, I believe you are one of the few, rare people on this planet who would indulge me on my mad virtual escapades, who will go with me to the end of the line when I am muttering absolute nonsense concerning a new world war that would be ignited by the Europeans bickering over the origins of the almost word yoo-hoo!

My dear, it has come to my attention yesterday that you are currently facing a rough familial situation, and I already know you aren’t doing exactly well yourself at the moment. So I will wrap it up by sending you my best wishes for recovery and happiness once again. If there is someone I know who deserves all the blessings that can be bestowed upon them, it is you. Now I will not pretend I will go to church and light candles, but I do promise to keep you in my thoughts and to mention you to the Almighty while I bombard him with my endless list of demands every night before I go to sleep. May He one day forgive my negligence and selfishness.

Christmas Battlefield - A Little Late I Know!

I know I am a bit late telling this tale, but it ought to be told nonetheless!

It was supposed to be a regular family Christmas gathering at my grandmother's house in the village, just like every year. And so it had seemed at first. We ate and drank ourselves silly, and then one after the other, the family members started dozing off. Some of us stayed up playing poker and trying our luck for the New Year. Eventually, everyone went to bed except for my cousin, my brother and I. 

Apart from the sound of our glasses clinking against the table, it was almost totally silent. The silence didn't last long though. All of a sudden, we heard a voice coming out from one of the bedrooms. It was our relative, talking in his sleep once again. He had done so a bit earlier when he had dozed off on the couch, so we moved him to the bedroom thinking that it wouldn't occur again if he slept on a comfortable bed.

And oh how mistaken we were!!! I am sure most of you, dear readers, are aware of the fact that Lebanon has had its share of wars and conflicts over the years, and my relative used to work as a security agent for the headquarters of a Lebanese political party. He didn't serve during the war years, but still, the job seemed to leave its marks on him, in his dreams at least. He started calling out for his colleagues. Rachid, Mounir, Bachir, Toufic!!! (And the list of names went on and on and on...)

From what we could gather from the fragments he said aloud, he feared an attack from enemies, and he was trying to warn his friends. That went on for about 15 minutes, but then the situation started escalating in his unconscious. Soon enough he had been captured by the enemy forces, and he was screaming for his allies to come rescue him. Toufic, help! Mounir, don't let them kill me!

Although this may sound sad to you, it wasn't. Not in the least. That may be because we were drunk of course, but still, we managed to turn this scene into a hilarious one! We turned the house into a war zone, and we started adding our own bits to the script and lived the dream with our relative. My brother started making gunfire sounds every time our relative spoke. Pouboupoubov! Pouboupoubov! Pouboupoubov! 

Gradually, the rest of the family members started waking up to the ringing sounds of our laughter. And the script just kept on expanding with vivid details. The memory of the war took an alternative turn, and when we asked another older relative to remind us of the signature Van Halen theme that was used by a popular radio station during the war years with the ever present words "Maktabou el tahrir fi khabarin jadid" - which translates to: the editorial office with a new piece of news - his interpretation literally came as follows: Bichtik Bichtik  Bichtik  Bichtik, Tararararaaaaaaaaa!

Our sleeping relative kept on living the battle, and our minds kept soaring with more and more imagination. My grandmother awoke and proposed to wake our relative from his dream. We advised her to hold a white flag before entering his room. And of course we didn't let her wake him up! This wasn't something we could live every day after all.

We started laying our heads low while moving from room to room to protect ourselves from the bombs. We built illusionary barracks of sand around us to shelter ourselves. We rationed ourselves with all sorts of food before going to hide undergrounds. We lived an imaginary war for one night. We made fun of war and we let our minds and our imagination create a better version of it, a less sour one.

This is by no means a tale to underestimate the gravity of war or to undervalue the bitterness and the sadness our people had to live through. It was just that the opportunity presented itself under relatively better circumstances for us to laugh at war and make at least one nice memory out of it.

It was a Christmas to be remembered. Sadly not all the family members were present due to traveling and work circumstances, so this one is for them, we wish you had been there with us to share these beautiful moments and have a laugh with us over a drink and a losing poker game (at least for me!). Wishing you all a happy 2012.

I miss it

Living that is. I miss living. I could end the blog right here, but I will elaborate since I have nothing else to do. 

I am alive, true. And although I never thought I would miss drinking or partying and the like, I actually do.

I can't stand sitting in this grim coffee shop anymore.

I miss having a job, having money, shopping, among other things of course.

It seems to me as if I am the only 25 year old who spends her Friday nights online, only virtually living. 

What I would give for a live game of scrabble instead of the thousands I play online. 

What joy I would feel if I liked something and were able to just go in and buy it.

I know most people think I am a spoiled girl who allows herself all kinds of privileges and who never manages to save a dime. And what if I am? It is just who I am.

It is true that being that kind of girl leaves me clueless when I find myself without money, but I am impressing myself by coping with it.

I am not exactly happy with my current situation, but not breaking down is an achievement in itself for someone like me.

I forgot why I wanted to elaborate on this. I just want to say that I miss having plans for the weekend or something. Maybe soon. Who knows.

Insomnia

Hello, my name is Mireille and I am an insomniac. Such a cliché you may say, but wait till I tell you who greeted me one night while I was fighting my way to sleep. 

I was tired and had to wake up early the next morning. It was already too late to hope for a decent rest, but I thought I should get as much sleep as I could get, even if it was only for a couple of hours. 

As I struggled, I remembered what a friend of mine had told me once about relaxing one's eyelids in order to go to sleep and so I did, I relaxed them and waited endlessly to fall asleep, but it just wouldn't work. 

I tried to think about what people do to go to sleep, and after some pondering, I remembered the oldest trick in the book, and that is how I decided to count the sheep!

I closed my eyes one more time (eyelids relaxed), and lavishly planted the prairie in my imagination with the greenest and freshest of lawns. I put a door frame in the middle of the prairie and stood by it. The sheep started coming, and I started counting.

I had counted around 300 sheep when I remembered a billboard next to the office where I used to work at the time that encourages Lebanese to use the Arabic language and I realized I had been counting in French. I told the sheep to go back from where they came from and started the count again, this time using Arabic numbers.

Having counted yet another batch or 300 or so sheep, I decided that I need a way that enables me to identify my sheep if I should like to count them again another night, so I told the sheep to back away again and I labeled them each with a sort of marathon costume with a number, and when I was through, I counted yet again 300 or so sheep before I realized the labels were in Latin numbers!!! Horror of horrors!!!

"Back away sheep!"

I relabeled the sheep in Arabic numbers and made sure to count them in Arabic too this time.

Another batch of 300 had been counted one more time before I reckoned that the stable they were going in to only had a door frame, no walls and nothing to keep my sheep from straying or to keep a wolf from snatching one of them. I decided to place a bell around each sheep's neck and started counting again...Do I really need to tell you that I made - yet again - the counting in French mistake? I am sure you would rather be spared!

Before I decided to go to sleep, I had been watching the David Letterman show, and I think it is fairly understandable what had happened next. The bells around the sheep's necks were tolling and tolling, which gave me an awful headache, and hallucination at this point is perfectly justifiable...The sheep with their marathon labels (in Arabic!) and their bells around their necks changed their heads! Yes, their heads were replaced by David Letterman's head laughing at me!!!! Just imagine, or can you??

The other night, I couldn't sleep either, but I was determined not to count the sheep, understandably if you will. Instead, I recalled what another friend had advised me and I thought I should go with her opinion this time. She had told me I should decide what I would like to dream about and that will make me drift effortlessly to sleep in order to see the dream I longed to glimpse.

And since I had a feeling of heaviness over me that night, I decided I would like to dream of something light and floating in a way. The first thought that came to my mind was flying, but then I decided against it because it felt like I needed to be doing some sort of effort to fly, and I was tired. I then thought of being in a room full of feathers, but considered floating on a beautiful lake in a cave before I finally opted for the lake with the feathers spread in it.

Yes I had decided! This is what I want to dream about tonight! I want to float in that lake and be surrounded by feathers on the surface of the water!

Such a beautiful dream I am about to have, I thought as I relaxed my eyelids and chased the last sheep from my mind. Such beautiful dreams... oh wait, the feathers, where will they come from? From birds! Innocent Birds!!! But hunting is prohibited in Lebanon!!! Come here hunter! Police, quick! Arrest this man for he had broken the law and hurt innocent, innocent fragile birds!!! Police.... I called while floating in the lake of guilt and tumultuous sleep...

Your Fuckin Standards

As bloody usual, I have nothing in particular to say. I just feel like swearing a lot tonight.

I rehearsed yet another silent/ in my head monologue last night while I was trying to go to sleep. I have acquired this habit ever since I was a little kid. After another endless horrible day has washed down, I give out long bold speeches in my mind, addressing all the people who dedicated their day to annoying or upsetting me in one way or another. 

If the issue is private, I am usually standing up, facing the person with my harsh words, words I would never muster the courage to say for real.

If the issue is more of a collective one, mainly economical, I would be standing up on a podium with a large crowd in front of me. I would be taking down politicians like it is nobody's business.

Last night, the monologue was addressed to a number of people, some whom know personally, and others whom I don't.The topic was "people's Fuckin standards".

I am sorry but I can't live up to the standards!!! I mean who can??

It is all kinds of standards that I am talking about, starting from how people think you should look and ending with what they think you should do with your life.

Don't get me wrong. It is not that I care about people's standards and their stupid opinions, it is just that I am thoroughly annoyed by their constant nagging and their random splashing of unsought and unnecessary advice.

I will not stop smoking because YOU think it affects my health.

I will not live through yet another diet because YOU think I ought to be thinner.

I will not work as a waitress because YOU think it is better than sitting around unemployed.

I can go on and on with the list, but I won't, because I think you get the point.

This begs the question: What are standards? Who creates them? And most importantly, why do we even worry about them?

Shouldn't everyone have their own standards and live by those and those only?

You can go ahead and shove your standards up your asses - I told you I am in a swearing mood - because that is exactly where they belong. You don't need to share them, you don't need to "spread" them. All you need to do with your fuckin standards is live by them - if you can. And good luck with that.