Beyond Your Grave

BEYOND

Believe
Everything
You
Once
Needed
Delivered

YOUR

Yet
On
Universal
Rollercoaster

GRAVE

Grant
Reasoning
Above
Valued
Essentials

The Dare

Beneath the low-lit summer sky
A tree stood on a hill
You kept on wishing you could fly
But remained quite still

You did believe that you would die
Sometime not far from now
So you just stood there, you did not lie
Wishing it was not now

Beneath you life was passing by
Nobody seemed to care
About the boy that would soon die
Simply…due to a dare

Socially Chosen Paths

What exactly does it mean for us to label or fill the shoes of something or should I better say someone that has already existed? If we take into consideration Barthe’s idea on toys and the myth that hides within them, we will with no doubt find the fact that since our early childhood we are raised to simply fill in the shoes of a certain user of this world, one that uses the life-less machines around him to re-create what has already existed! We are raped from our ability to create, we can not be creators, since something new might be produced, and something new means something not tested with time which in turns means that it might be dangerous. So in order to escape this fate we are given miniature objects of the real adult world “toys” and from our very early stages in life are raised to become and believe as well as accept our fate of filling the place of factory workers, construction workers, doctors and even stylists.

The most shocking of these is most probably the miniature dishes, spoons, irons, and life-like baby dolls that keep the young girls focused on their socially chosen path of life, and that is of motherhood and the upbringing of a family.

Heavenly bastard in the sky forbid if a young girl chooses to play with a toy airplane or a gun! That should not be heard of! A girl should be raised with meek and coy characteristics, and as an introvert! She is raised with the ideas that she is both physically and mentally inferior to the sex with some extra di-use piece of meat! Our patriarchal society places so much effort and advertising on a masculine image, that anyone who can’t grind cheese on their abs is simply not good enough for the role of man-kind representation if creatures from outer space ever decide to drop by for a visit. SAD isn’t it?

S - arcastically

A - bhorrently

D – isgusting

This only goes to show us that the illusion of decentering the patriarchy in our society is as vain as attempting to maintain the youthful complexion on the faces of the elderly. This need to maintain the order of things will constantly prevent the social changes that our society is in grave need of. Just like the ongoing revolution of removing the center of things and throwing the signified away from the signifiers, thoughts of balancing the manly dominated and womanly struggling shadows is still far away from becoming a reality. The image of this reality has slowly worked itself into the media, and although the screen has attempted to transcend the illusionary reality of the powerful woman, the behind the screen truly in power male executives are the running horses that are pulling this on-screen wagon of shameful trickery.

On top of the social pressure to clone every individual into another robot-like machine programmed by the illusions that are transmitted via the pixels from the all knowing and promising box of the lies, Barthe brings to our attention the idea that the struggle between the poor and the proletariat is also brought forth with utmost artistic realism through the work of Charlie Chaplin. The poor Charlie-Man approaches the idealism of proletariat with his portrayal of the poor man who does not politically deal with the issue at hand. It is also interesting that the idea of “poor” is portrayed with the oversized sandwiches and rivers of milk that flow, but there is still no woman in the picture. This idea of the poor man not being in the position of being able to get a woman sheds light on the struggle of the insignificance of the poor man in the wealth dominated world of romance.

Fleur, The Beauty, Fear and Fascination.

The very first encounter that introduces Fleur to the reader, leaves an impression of fascination, fear and remarkable beauty. Who exactly is this delicate yet strong and mystical character? According to Nanapush, one of the two narrators of the tale, the sole survivor in a burnt down Pillager cabin. A seventeen year old girl, charmingly beautiful with a fate that surpasses and captures the reader all through the narration. Her wildly intriguing affinity for Lake Matchimanito where it is rumored that she has an ongoing affair with Misshepeshu, the creature at the bottom of the lake and the common belief of the natives that she is in possession of magical abilities further draws the reader to discover who is Fleur, yet her true identity remains quiet a mystery since all the reader is presented with is the tales of her that are narrated by Nanapush and Pauline.

“Even though she was good-looking, nobody dared to court her because it was clear that Misshepeshu, the water man, the monster, wanted her for himself. He’s a devil, that one, hungry with desire and maddened for the touch of young girls, the strong and daring especially, the ones like Fleur”(p.11), with such strong accusations and beliefs of the Native Indian Americans it is easy for me as a reader to see the magical fascination which frightens as much as attracts the men of the novel and the readers alike to Fleur. Like almost every society with some sort of organized belief system, the devil always has and will be an identity that is both feared and respected. And the idea that it is the devil himself who wishes to have Fleur in his possession only further fuels the intrigue and need to understand not only her character but the element which draws all the gossip and common fascination of the natives towards her. But despite all this a brave soul is introduced to the readers, Eli. Despite all the rumors that circulate around Fleur, Eli is willing to pursue her and is not afraid to love her despite the fates of the other men who have been associated with Fleur. This does not only show the magnetic force that she posses but the power she holds over men. The novel progresses with constant reminders of the supernatural state of Fleur, which remains a mystery. Was Fleur really a being with elements from another world, a world beyond the reach of the commons, or is it simply the Native way to dwell in these thoughts? With references to Fleur’s daughter Lulu, such questions remain unanswered as is portrayed with phrases such as the following: “To our minds, Lulu’s eyes blazed bright as his. Yet she had the Kashpaws’ unmistakable nose, too wide and squashed on the tip. She was good-looking. She had Fleur’s coarse, quick-growing hair. Sheer black” (p.70). This characterization of Lulu not only gives her physical features but also suggests that perhaps Misshepeshu is the girl’s father when Pauline says that her eyes were like his. But then she goes on to say that her nose was obviously the nose of a Kashpaw.
But the supernatural and the unexplained does not only circulate around Fleur, Pauline, whose narrative is not very reliable since her character is portrayed with many insecurities and flaws also embodies the strange happenings common to the lives and beliefs of the Natives. “They say, or Bernadette does, that when they found me in the tree later that morning, everyone was shot with fear at the way I hung, precarious, above the ground. They were amazed I could climb there, as the trunk was smooth for seven feet and there were no hand- or footholds of any sort. But I remembered everything, and wasn’t in the least surprised. I knew that after I circled, studied, saw all, I touched down on my favorite branch and tucked my head beneath the shelter of my wing” (p. 68-69). It seems perfectly natural to Pauline that she turned into an owl and flew to the top of this tree. She felt at peace doing this because she had just found her calling, watching people dying and harvesting souls. This is a dark characterization of Pauline; she finds comfort and pleasure in watching people die and dealing with their dead bodies.

In conclusion I would like to say that Louis Erdrich successfully captured the essence and the magic which she presented in a unique way, not only to fascinate the readers but to open their eyes to the struggle and pain that any minority faces in our modern world of taming the unknown, claiming the rights to things which are not of possession and the political struggle for power, a never-ending game of the power holders of the world.

A Role-reversing tale of the conspicuous sari in the Occident

Mukherjee’s tale of the role-reversing life style led by an Indian woman in the large city, not only is an eye opener to the male dominating society, but a fresh grasp of air filled with hope and equality to the ever existing marginalized minority also known as women. “In my red silk sari I’m conspicuous.”(p. 25), such bold statements from the author allows the reader from the start to enter the world as seen through the eyes of a woman, that knows her status in the world, yet is not complaining, instead holds her head up high and faces the difficulties with pride. This rarely described behavior was to me a candle light amid the thousand of street lights of the male domineering city. Mukherjee did a splendid job in welcoming her readers to the reality, in which she doesn’t nag and beg for pity, her character makes the differences she wishes to see, and that is what I believed made this short story a phenomenal accomplishment and a greatly influential mind feeding experience.

The heroine of the story depicts clearly and harshly the experience an immigrant faces in the new and alien place. “First, you don’t exist. Then you’re invisible. Then you’re funny. Then you’re disgusting.”(p. 26), quotations such as this one attacks with clarity the feelings that most keep locked inside and which even more people feel but are unable to turn into words. Her direct and honest, humane and merciless narration pinpoints the difficulties. But she is not the victim, quiet the opposite, the protagonist is an identity, that fights, that faces the reality and strikes back. We notice that Mukherjee’s story revolves and is fully narrated by a woman, who is not dependant on a man, in fact, the protagonist’s husband is the one who depends fully and in a sarcastically child-like manner needs and begs for her. This idea is clearly shown in the line on page 33 : “Tell me you need me. Panna, please tell me again.”

We notice that it is not only Panna’s husband who is placed beneath the critical microscope of a woman in the modern city, but other men are depicted as the women have been for so many years in literature. “Like many men in this country, he seems to me a displaced child, or even a woman, looking for something that passed him by, or for something that he can never have.”(p. 30). Quotations such as this one further prove the point that the male-dominating and constantly restated idea is one that should be looked at more closely, and after doing just that, Mukherjee proves to the readers that in fact it is the men who seem helpless and lost, unaware due to their egos of the state in which they are, parading their masculinity in an attempt to hide their insecurities and pain.

Despite all the qualities and strengths that Mukherjee gives her protagonist, we notice that Panna still is not completely comfortable in her shoes. The many echoes of the memory and nostalgia for the past plays a significant role in the story. To me personally, this is not a weakness, but a strength. At the end of the day, Panna is a woman, and her sentimental and feminine qualities must be present to complete her identity. By allowing the readers to see this side of Panna, Mukherjee places her on a pedestal of a complete woman in the big city, not fully conforming to the needs of the city, but battling all the opposing forces without having to let go of her true self. This was one the things that I found to be especially rewarding and worth of praise.

In conclusion, I would like to state that after completing this piece, not only have I found an incredibly interesting author whose works I will definitely make sure to look forward to reading in the near future, but also allowed me as a student of literature and a firm believer in the equality of the sexes to notice that there are some very strong and capable, witty and assertive literary activist, proving to the world that change happens only when we stay true to ourselves and take all the action we want to see into our own two hands and make it happen.

The finely-made for one of them & the white geologist!

Solitude, loneliness and the indifferent feelings of a white workaholic in an exotic land are apathetically yet emotionally charged, are presented by Gordimer in this short story. Dr. Fransz-Josef von Leinsdorf is a geologist with a void that he feels with his stones. His face is divided in half. The upper part, which I took to represent his knowledge and intellectuality is still vibrant, young and alive, unlike the lower part which in turn is metaphorical of his carnal needs is a dim and aging result of his knowledge taking up more of his life than one should allow it. His constant travelling and the unsettling life-style further show his inability to settle at one place with a certain someone.
The fact that the colored heroine of the story is not even given a name was not a surprise. A name gives one an identity, a privilege which can not be bestowed on a lower class working local cashier girl. Through out the entire story, we notice the author dealing with the female heroine as an object: “Her eyes went over everything in the flat although her body tried to conceal its senses of being out of place by remaining as still as possible, holding its contours in the chair offered her as a stranger’s coat is set aside and remains exactly as left until the owner takes it up to go.”(p. 1935). I don’t think that this is degrading or offensive, this is the Gordimer’s way of showing the uneasiness and the reluctance of allowing the development of feelings towards the lower class worker in a country where you, yourself is a stranger, constantly under the close inspection of the local authorities.
Even though the story takes place over a certain period of time, precisely how long the reader tends to figure out but with no certainty, events are thrown in with absolutely no warning sign. In one paragraph our heroine visits the apartment carrying the groceries and leaving with a box of chocolate, and in the next we find her making the bed after she has slept in it. This to me personally was a remarkable technique. It felt alive. This is how life is in my opinion, one day you meet a person and it seems that this encounter took place just yesterday, but you are finding yourself in the same bed with this person on the next. I would like to draw attention to the futility of language and conversation that I believe Gordimer wanted to point out. The heroine speaks English in its most simple and often grammatically incorrect way. But this does not stop the feelings and the mutual interest growth. Even the love-making act which is an act usually portrayed filled with passion and fore-warned by endless talk of, happens in muteness: “He made his way into her body without speaking; she made him welcome without a word.”(p.1937).
The melancholic and cold feeling that never leaves the reader I believe to have the purpose to foreshadow the end. This relationship is doomed from the start. The lies, the hiding and the guilt-trips as well as the inability to understand the traditions and customs of the locals by the foreign further hints at an ending that won’t place a smile on our face. There is no “bad” character; there is no scapegoat or anyone to take the blame. The characters are real, and in each of them a mixture of wrong and right equates to them being themselves. Their attempt to make things work although proven futile at the end, leave them not in a position to place blame but in the reality of acknowledging that the trial and the attempt is much more rewarding than the outcome. They tried, and they tried the best they could, it just didn’t happen, it ended. The humility that the heroine faces in the conclusion and the little aid that the Dr. provides with the hiring of the attorney is mere human interaction, nothing more and nothing less.
In conclusion, although racial, economic and class issues are brought with solid force to the reader, I find the style to be of extremely emotionally filled higher ranking since the reader finds him/herself not judging or taking sides but living with the characters throughout the entire story in notion that reality is never judgmental, it simply is the way it is, and we each cope with it the best way we can.

The Blooming Flower of Decay

The beauty needed

Filth invaded

Face looks tired

Bitter sweetened

Blooming fast

Invading Hearts

It will not last

Spoiling your holy tarts

Needles and powder

Corrupt invasion

Youth bleeding faster

Losing all hope in action

Picked at its prime

Thrown away

All things have their own time

Turn off your mind and simply sway

Worship an icon

Block envy with a pandamonium eye

You're just another expired test tube

What you believe in never counts

Modern Life !

Insanely intense conversations
Mind-blowing stares and glimpses
Soul-ripping confessions of betrayal
Self-loathing nights of solitude

Our decaying senses
Lost to Tube Villain
Sparkling scabs
Glittered lies

Twisting truths of past
Written in bold signs
Comforting self-help guides
Queues to webcam melodramas

Modern Life?

Do I Write to Live or Live to Write?

Should I write to live or live to write? If I write to live I’ve failed in achieving the true goal of an ideal writer, yet I have achieved a place in our material world. If I live to write it’s vice versa! So where do I stand?

I have been alive for twenty two years now. I have learned things, and I have succeeded in some tings, and failed in others. I have been loved, and loved in return. I have learnt of loyalty, and I have seen deceit. I was naïve, and I have matured. I was lost, but then found things that made me feel complete. I have cried and I have laughed. I had doubted, and I have blindly trusted. I know hunger, and I know satisfaction as well as poverty and wealth. I am healthy, and I am able to walk to the seashore and see the water hitting hard against the rocks, or carefully and smoothly stay as still as oil in a plate. I have clear eye sight, and I can see. I have good hearing, and I can hear things. I have a body that can feel physical pain, and I have a mouth which can taste things sweet and bitter. But what about those that do not have what I do. Paralyzed at birth, losing eyesight, the ability to hear or the sense of touch! Can they experience what I can? Can the blind see the sea? Or the distant views of mountains? Can they live in far away places of our galaxies, or in the magical worlds of faeries and elves? Words! And the power they hold! If one was to read a simple sentence such as: He knelt on one knee, at the early hours at the airport, and opened his arms, allowing his only son, whom he hasn’t seen in 4 years, run into them. What is it that happens to one after such a simple and seemingly marginalized and of little importance sentence? Can the person see in his mind the picture of joy? Feel the tender feeling of parental love, and taste the tears of joy that slowly make their way down the father’s cheeks as he embraces his son? This is the power of writing! It can take you anywhere! It has the power to show you, make you feel and taste things that are not in your possession. There are as many different writers and books as there are people on our planet. Some write to live and others live to write. What about me? Which path will I walk down? There are temptations on both sides? So how does one choose?

In order to choose, one should at first hand, thoroughly and with a clear mind look at the two options before him. I will talk of my options as the left, and the right path, one may follow. Now, off course the right will be the path of an ideal writer, a writer that lives to write and the left of the writer who writes to live. As with any options we face in our life there are virtues and vices in each one of these options, and I may say here that it all comes back to the essence, and the character of the person standing on this fork road, and his beliefs and ideals are the forces that will take the final decision. It is clear that very few out of many writers who chose the right path, have enjoyed a life of acceptance, material wealth, and worldly admiration. Is it not the case of the left path writers who find themselves and their works to be the bestsellers and the social icons of their age and time? I personally believe it to be true. A writer that lives to write, does he care for fame and wealth? Does he care to appear on the covers of magazines holding his published work with pride, smiling for the commercial ads that will add to his already growing sales? Is not his reason to write, simply in order to enlighten and share his views with those few in the world who still believe that a book, on the essence of truth and the mysteries of life to be of higher value than one depicting the adventures of a made up character? A character, which shoots his way through dark alleys filled with enemies, in order to rescue the love of his life and at the end save the world. I believe it to be so. On the other hand, the left path writers, after gaining a fairly good reputation will publish as many as two or three books per month, when in fact it takes longer then that in order to write them! It is the case with many known left path writers, that it is in fact not them who write their own books, but a whole team of people working for them who develop their idea trying to stick to the same style as the one book that shot their name to the very top!

So let us first discuss the right path, or the path of the writer who lives to write. I believe that in order for a writer to live to writer, it first takes patience, and talent! One cannot afford to dedicate his life to writing, simply to write when one knows that what they write is a worthless composition of words and sentences. In order for a person to write, with no intention of gaining fame and fortune, one must truly and wholly love writing. One must believe in the moral and ideal aspects of writing. A writer who can spend, up to a decade, if not his entire life in order to write one book is in my opinion a writer who truly and honestly writes simply in order to write. And off course it is the case with the majority of such writers, that their fame and glory, is always spawned after the writer has withered in his or her grave, with no knowledge of the glory their work has reached. How many great writers, who lived to write, were published only after they have long ago died? I believe there is something enormously fascinating how great art is only accepted and critically applauded after the death of its creator! Another important belief in my mind of the right path writers is that they do not look for fame or glory, the only sign they see at the end of the mountaintop, is getting their thoughts, beliefs and views on a concrete piece of paper that will outlast them and maybe one day find the proper glory it deserves. There is little wealth in the right hand writers’ world. Since they are not published as easily, or as often as they might want to be, they often have other jobs to pay their rent, provide food on the table, and afford the medicine they need to survive, hopingly long enough to view the rays of glory of their offspring. They spend hours on a sentence, choosing just the right words to get their feelings and emotions onto the paper! They at times feel the evil temptations to end it all and sell out; make a quick buck by writing some novel on any popular theme of their time, and get on the escalator instead of climbing the ladder they are on. But somehow they manage to stick to their beliefs; they stay true to themselves and all they believe in. They suffer! Yes! They hurt and ache! But since when has our world been known to be kind to the weak? Yes, weak! Isn’t that what the left path writers call the right ones? I can picture a twenty-four-year-old-bestseller novelist driving his Ferrari, and talking to his publishing house, mocking his teacher at the university who has been working there all his life, and taught him all he knows, (without taking into consideration how much he actually learnt), for spending the last twenty years, writing a book of a certain philosophical height that has been re-written with minor variations more than ten times, and is still not accepted by any major publishing house, (except the publishing house of the university), thinking that it is a risk, knowing that a thriller, a silly romance or a science fiction novel with nothing new to offer, will sell much more, (obviously this is due to a much larger consumer number who rather purchase a book that needs no pondering but is simply an easy exciting read).

This is in my opinion the harsh yet very true reality of the right path writer? Do I want that? Do I want to spend my years trying to publish something I have put so much effort into, knowing that it is a very long shot? I think I should first discuss the left path writers and their side, before taking a decision.


The left path writers are numerous. They publish a romance, million of heart broken girls relate to the novel, which offers absolutely nothing new, and the numbers rise up. The publishing house is happy. Write another one they say. You have two weeks! The book must hit the stands before the Christmas holidays! Your pay check is triple of what it was the last time. You manage to outnumber your last selling novel, and we sign with you a contract that will allow you to publish these series on monthly basis! Now with such high demand and the authors’ name known by millions, it is obvious his or hers life is comfort guaranteed. After all, the money the publishing house pays the author is marginal to the profit it makes! So the author sits and writes, but his aim is not to write, but to simple finish a novel before the deadline, cash his check, and get the new car and that house in the Hampton area. After all, how hard can it be to write a novel of a teen love, where the plot has been known for ages? A rich boy meets a lower class girl, cheats on her, lives her pregnant! She goes through pain and suffering only to raise the child all by herself, making a career for her and ending up to meet her first love miserable due to drugs or something like that! It’s true that these novels give hope to many, and many relate to them. But seriously, all that differs from one of these novels to the others is the Cover of the book and the minimal changes of the plot! These novels have been around for centuries, and are no longer shocking! They have been digested by simple minds for centuries! But can we blame the left path writers? They write, they publish, get paid, get a reputation and are able to provide for themselves and their families the best of the material things in our world. They are globally recognized, they are the pop icons of their age and time! Hundreds of even more famous people praise them to those sitting on the other side of the television screen, or to those reading about it in their morning papers. Making them believe that if they miss out on this new book of this best selling author, they are missing out on everything the entire society will be talking about until the next book will be published! But doesn’t the life of the left path writer sounds so much more easy and fun, providing and successful (in the most typical material sense of success) and off course so much more glamorous and enticing! It does! Who wants fame and glory that will only come after death! Doesn’t a person want to enjoy the fruits of his labor while he is alive? Doesn’t one want to be able to provide for his or her family and loved ones the best of the material things? They do! And I do too!

In conclusion, after writing the truth about the modern day literary world, and being honest to myself, I’m afraid I will disappoint you! I will not lie neither to myself nor to you and tell you that I’m different, and I would rather live to write than write to live! Because I simply don’t. I want to rise up in this socially material kaleidoscope of pretense lies and false ambitions and ideals! I want to be able to have what my parents were not able to give me! I want the fast sports car! I want the mansion with a pool! I want to have my name written on the guest list of every major event! I was born into a material world! And I am material at heart! Who knows, maybe after having achieved financial and social heights, I can then write a piece of moral ideals, and have it published after my death. I will surprise my readers, showing them that there was more to me than novels of minimal food for the mind! Show them, that I could have been the ideal writer of highly philosophical standards! But had I been that writer, I would have stayed anonymous to everyone! They would have never read about the characters that they have grown to love! Those characters, even though were nothing new, offered the people, my readers, an escape from the material world into a world that was in one way or another, safer, more fun, and exciting from the reality that they dealt with everyday!

...Cruel Beauty...

Could it be true?
Was she the tormented one that stole the night?
Was she the evil of which we dare not speak?
The soul that cursed the men of yore
The little maiden with the heart of poison and no soul
The maiden whose beauty was unmatched
A marvelous creation of the god unknown
Blistering beneath the moon of vice

No man withstood her trial of survival
Meeting their doom after one glance into her eyes
Drowning in insanity, for her angelic posture was beyond comparison to anything of mortal race
A figure trapping the lads in their imagination
Their fascination and belief to make her of their own

But what cruelty was it that all had failed
And none have won her love
Her love that echoed agony and misfortune with it bound

I was not different from all the rest
Enchanted by her marble chest and velvet skin
Her flowing silken hair
That softly touched the crimson gown
And her mystifying emerald-green eyes
Filled me, with enchanting wonder

We met beneath that same old maiden we called moon
And blessed were by the spirits of the night
Embraced each other and left no place for reason
Drunk on emotions and desires to join our souls for ever more

We stood for what seemed an eternity or more
Bound by our senseless love
Guarded by wolves and creatures I never before seen
Covered by mother-nature with her quilt of snow

In me she found compassion, innocence and fear
In her I sought danger, power and the lust
Trading the missing pieces of life’s puzzle
We reached a sense divine and love prior unmatched

Now what’s this feeling in my heart?
Ripping sensation I have never sensed
And what’s that falling from her eyes?
Liquid diamonds sparkling in moonlight

We cannot be each others comfort
Our blood must never mix
Virtue and Vice a pair won’t be
Neither will death embrace the living

Her scent on me is present still
Scent of empowerment and lust
To hold in memory forever
As her presence still haunts all mankind

What form will she embody in the future?
A mild, and meek creature of the night?
Waving her beauty as a status of divinity
That will destroy her prey to dust

Her presence necessary always will be
Since light without shadows holds no sense
And all the good will lose its value
Without the battling evil that she casts

Mankind cannot live in harmony among each other
It needs a constant fiend to battle
And it is she who always will remain the target
Of mankind, present future and the past

Still screams haunt my sleep
But poisoned nectar within me stirs
So I may never again sing
For beauty is always cruel, unkind and unforgiving!

A Game We Play

Try to see what is it that I’m feeling?
Try to find out what lies deep beneath
Beneath the pretty complexion of this make-up world
Beneath the pretense and the mind games that we play
Will you choose to display the truth for all to see?
Or join me in this game of hide, disguise and lies?
Perhaps it’s better to live in the abstract thoughts of others
Or maybe create a world all of our own
A little piece of heaven here on earth
You’ll be the Eve and Adam I
Surprise me with the apple
And tear us down from the clouds onto the floor
And as we fall with no regret
Laughing out of pride and out of boredom
We had the chance
We didn’t last
So what will follow us in time to come?
Will we build another paradise for just us two?
Or get the tickets to the one around the corner?
It’s always easier to blame others for the failure that we’ll face
It’s always much more appealing and amusing
To have a scapegoat in our sight
A little being to throw up for the sacrifice
And buy ourselves the time we’ll need to find another
Another image of a perfect life
Until the day that someone breaks in with the torchlight
And sheds the light unto the shadows that dwell there in the corners
Revealing to our eyes what is already buried in our mind

V.O.I.D.

In my eyes a sight divine
An angel with wings on fire
A tiny fairy high on love
A troll asphyxiating
An elf with open wrists
My own forest of beliefs
A little place inside my aching head

An evil witch with rotten teeth
A princess locked away for life
A king with swollen lungs
A queen with a plastic heart
And a prince who fancies boys

My own creation
My own labyrinth of myths
My salvation
My desire

A dog that eats no meat
And a cat who shaves her tail
A bird that cannot fly
And a dragon who has puffed himself to death

A place where my imagination runs wild
A place where everything can happen
A kingdom I called VOID
Where I drug myself to point of no return
Where I can see the future clear
Where is spent much of my precious time
From where I come back broken yet relieved
A place where you can join me
And be whatever you desire
Only to wake up next to me in bed
With bruises, cuts and a feeling of disgust

The Sweet Stench that Dripped from the Eye...Georges Bataille and the Parasites in Me

I am now puzzled! Why is it that when our thoughts are in one way or another materialized, be it in the form of Words, Pictures, or Movies, that we find them to be much more shocking? I am currently reading Georges Bataille’s “Story of the Eye”, and I must say that I’m finding it to be utmost fascinating. It’s not the pornographic language and images, it’s not the fetishes of the characters and not even the scenery in which all the debauchery takes place that struck me. It’s the idea of finding myself shocked by my own reaction. I personally never felt or viewed sexuality (in its broad meaning) as something immoral, an object to fear or keep locked away from the eyes and ears of those around me! To me the restraint from it seems much crueler than giving into it. As humans, we all think of it! We all fantasize, dream and experience it! So why is it that when our thoughts are right there in front of us that we find ourselves shocked. G.Bataille has a way of daring his reader to see her/himself reflected in his characters! I certainly saw myself, and yet it frightened me! A man almost a century ago, knew me! He knew my friends, my deepest and most bizarre fantasies! If he knew, and he is an ordinary man that separated himself from the rest via being able to say out loud what the others thought, does that mean that others know as well. If we all know those things about each other! Why are we all quiet? Society and morals you may say, I’ll give you that…We all need to survive in our society with the morals that it places on us…But we all go crazy…Why am I reading how eggs can be used in the most bizarre way imaginable to bring forth such high states of pleasure…and feel that it is wrong for me to admit to myself that secretly (well no longer since this is for all to see) I want to be inside the novel and experience all the debauchery and filth…the lust and disgust…the fear and tension…the automatic and raw sex drive….This brings me to think of J. Hiller Millers and the idea of parasites and Hosts…

I am a parasite devouring myself, since the society has labeled me as the host!

Since I know I have the ideas that Bataille depicts inside of my head, these ideas are my parasites feeding on my outward appearance which the society puts together forming a presentable and approvable host! But the parasites are there….At the same time…My parasite body is devouring the host which is my brain for bringing out the parasitical thoughts….The parasites are killing the parasites inside the host, which makes the parasite infected host nothing more but a parasite in disguise….

I will continue my idea as soon as I finish the book….

The Need, The Want and The Fear of Love

We as humans by nature are social beings. We need to feel the presence of others around us to feel alive. Many times this presence develops into something else. We develop feelings and emotions. Yet, most of the time we live in denial of this. We pretend that what we are going through is an illusion, we refuse to let go of the fear of abandonment that I think we develop in our early childhood experiences. This remains with us in our subconscious and paves the way for us to emotionally close off to our true desires. Often people connect on a level at which their mere being together causes sparks to fly. But this feeling soon grows into a habit, and we never stop and take a look back on how lucky we are to have found what we have. Since we need this feeling, and we do because we spend most of our time fantasizing and looking for it, why are we in such a hurry to foreshadow the low end of it we are sure is bound to be around the corner? There must be something programmed inside our heads that leads us to see the darker side of things. We want it, since we are most likely to do almost anything to obtain it. Then why do fear it so much? Do we fear to be right about the assumptions that arise at the peak of our joy or are do we fear the state in which we will be thrown back if those darker images spawn into reality. I think that most of the time they do materialize simple since in our inner selves we want them to. We need to feel the misery and the pain to reflect back on the sunnier times and promise ourselves that the next time things will be different. But will they? Will this next chance ever present itself? Some people go through their entire lives looking for this ultimate high state of love, when in fact it probably was there right in front of them this whole time. Take a look around and reflect. It’s there. Grab it! And once you have it within your possession, try not to sneak back into the fear in the back of our head. Focus on the need and the want!

Relative Happiness

What makes you happy? Isn’t happiness as relative as taste in music, understanding of beauty or lifestyle choices? I spent some time thinking about what is it that truly makes me happy. I made a list. I then asked several other people what makes them happy? And although certain things were the same as mine…many others differed. So what is happiness? Family? Wealth? Waking up every morning? The ability to see, hear, taste? All these things are pieces to the puzzle, but what does this puzzle look like once complete? What does it resemble? This question was on my mind the whole entire day. I talked to my mom, taking into consideration the age difference, thinking that the way she perceives happiness would differ from me, but apparently we had more in common then a friend who is my age. I even talked to two completely different types of people, a young successful business man and an old security guard…they had more in common then my younger sister and her friend. This made the puzzle seem even more complex. If two persons who seem to be the complete opposites of each other have more in common in the understanding of happiness then two young girls of the same age and social class…what is it that determines out perception of happiness? To some money is the universal key to the gate of everlasting joy.Others see that in the eyes of their newborn.A third party only sees this joy when following a path to fulfill their own desires of lust and passion.I guess what it all comes to is that happiness is not all that relative. Since apparently relative is something much more complex then it seems.Happiness is that one thing that defines the moment of tension release within a person, the fraction of a second when the muscles in our face tense to form a smile. And the reason to why this happens could be anything…No matter what that reason is, a person will go to mortifying lengths and heights to achieve it. And that’s when happiness seems to be more of a scare then a relief.

Never Stop Thinking

In the recent past years I have come to notice that less and less people around me are willing to think! It’s not illegal yet! Then how come do we find ourselves Googling and Yahooing the answers to every question that rises in our heads! Many blame television! Others blame video games consoles and other entertainment sources that are favored by the upcoming generations. But these products will never stop seducing our eyes, since our eyes are the sources of what we think we need and simply cannot live without! Thought has become conveniently unavailable to all the kids. And why should it be? All they have to do is write their question in an empty slot and more than hundred solutions will appear in less then five seconds. Everyday we tend to think less and less about everything and nothing that surrounds us! We simply walk through our days, led by the advertisements on the streets, on our radios and television sets! They do all the thinking for us. And we simply surrender to their power! Some of us try to fight back! They limit the hours they spend in front of their televisions. But is that enough? Others claim to be neutral to the whole idea. But how can we afford to be neutral in this fast paced world of immoral formality? So what are the solutions? I don’t think that television is the devil, or anything in that field of lexicons describing evil. It does have interesting information on certain occasions, and the internet is great! This dilemma is complex. Its like a labyrinth where one loses her mind, his senses and their powers!

The Need to Attract

This constant need to attract attention to ourselves is not likely to go away anytime soon. Perfumes, hairstyles and clothes! Fashion in general consumes and preys on the human need to attract attention to themselves, as well as to separate somehow from the rest. Even though many believe that it is only the women that constantly strive to achieve a look that will place them on a higher pedestal from all the others around them, I believe that men are involved in this web and ongoing game for distinction and are not playing in a slower pace at all. We all need to be distinct. We all are distinct! It’s in our D.N.A. We don’t look alike under the microscope; neither are we similar from miles away or face to face. In a group of either sexes, the members are competing to look better, to the very least look their best! We feed on the compliments and the looks that are thrown our way from every direction at any given place or time. It’s funny how some people claim to look for the inner beauty of a person. When reflecting on such boasts, I always wonder…how you will see the inside character and quality of anyone if their physical look is something you will most certainly miss. If a person looks as plain as a white piece of cloth, will you seriously take the time to see the kind of material that cloth is? So flaunt and parade yourself in the best way you know you can! Attract with no mercy! Morals are lovely, but even they have been upgraded. Invent new colors! Stand out!

Fatal Attraction to Beauty

As Rabih Alameddine once said “It’s a good thing a mother’s vagina contracts after delivery or everybody would try to crawl back in!” That’s exactly what’s happening in our society of Dior Facelifts and Vivienne Botox injections! I always used to think that oppressed emotions eventually turn into great art or murder justifications, but lately they simply seem to turn into the constant need to dial the fabulous doctor and schedule your next exotic razorblade body peeling session in order to look younger then your children. Now don’t get me wrong, beauty always has and always will be one if not the most important part of existence, I’m simply stating that the plastic surgery parties have gone out of hand and no place proves this more then Lebanon. The first days of college have turned into an early Halloween bash with hundreds of bandage covered, purple stained bloated faces gleefully parading around wondering why the hell hasn’t that other girl lifted her chin, reconstructed her cheekbone structure or at least turned her nose into a tiny bump with nostrils which will definitely make brain observation so much simpler. A friend of mine who was visiting Lebanon earlier this year was astonished to the point where we literally had to get out of the car and take a picture of him standing beneath a billboard advertisement which was advertising a bank loan for plastic surgeries. “There is no way my friends back home will believe this unless they see me standing beneath it!” he exclaimed with wide opened eyes and a sight-blinding American smile. His joy and excitement reached to the point where he was considering leaving his home country and move to Lebanon. The Lebanese society and its starvation for beauty has long ago turned the Lebanese outing and night life into a catwalk of glamour. But that’s great right? Off course it is, but this is only Lebanon as seen by an untrained eye! As long as we will have sleek macho guys confidently displaying their Dolce Armani shirts and Emporio Versace jeans at clubs to which they arrive in their old cars and spend the entire night with one drink in their hand, fashion and beauty will be an illusion, a scent that true “Haves” leave behind them for the “Have-Nots”. Now many people tell me: “Money will not bring happiness!” and I simply reply “No, but it will simply allow you to be miserably disgusted in comfort!” And I will stick to my belief call me what you may, and at the end of the day when my psychiatrist asks me if I’m ever troubled by immoral thoughts? I will simply reply “No, Doctor. Actually to be perfectly honest, I rather enjoy them!”

Is this the norm ?

She wakes up. Staring with her tired and sleepless eyes at her watch, she tries to trace back time to the last event before she passed out. Yes, she was at a club. Off course she didn’t pay the bill. What modern girl living in the fantasy of wealth she has none of, ever does? Tony took care of the bill, he always does! Her bodily odor has crawled through the thick wall of expensive French perfume. She reaches into her bag, a knock off of that three thousand one she saw at the mall, and picks up a small mirror. “Never looked worse!” she cries out as loud as she could fake knowing that everyone in the house will hear and run to protest that she looks great. No one comes through the door and it’s awfully quiet. Not the reaction that she played in her head a minute ago. She stands up and tries to find the bathroom. Ok, so if I am in the living room, the bathroom must be someplace at the end of one of these long corridors. She walks past some other people, whose faces are vaguely familiar. The bathroom door is at the end of the hall. Walking in, she locks the door behind her. Can’t wash the make up off, I’m not home! Damn! Exiting the bathroom, a new mission awaits. Find the cellular phone and call the cab after finding out exactly what part of town she is in and making up an appropriate excuse for the family for not spending the night at home and just exactly why her phone line was shut. Great! Carla is here! And she’s passed out next to that guy whom she met last night! What the hell was she thinking? Seriously, people should know when they don’t belong and not try so hard to blend in! At least she now knows that she is at Carla’s and that there is no way she can afford a taxi back home. Can’t call Ian, and explain why she isn’t at Mel’s studying for the finals. That bag in the corner looks genuine, so it must have some bucks in it, right? And whoever can afford a genuine LV will not mind a couple of green papers missing, plus if they are passed out after last night, they should assume that someone got away with paying the bill and made them pay instead taking into consideration that they are way too drunk to realize that they have already paid! Great! Got the cash, called the cab! Now think of the excuse for the family and then Ian. The cell phone’s battery died out and since she left the charger at home, and bringing up the fact that Mel’s phone is of different brand, which means that her charger did no good, Ian’s excuse seems pretty good. Anyway she’ll call him as soon as she gets home, frustrated how he did not find out Mel’s phone number and called her to see why her phone is off, this means he doesn’t care, he was probably out with someone else! Damn, this excuse might even get her that necklace she wants. Awesome! Now what do we tell the folks? Why didn’t she call them and tell them that she won’t be spending the night at home. The phone story will work out for the parents as well, but parents are not rich boyfriends and they will surely throw back the line “Why didn’t you call us on the house line?” Ok, relax, concentrate. Got it! Mel’s parents are out of town and Mel totally forgot to pay the phone bill. The parents don’t know that Mel has a cell phone. Wicked! Seems like this is just another one of those days when a girl can get away with anything as long as she has her wit, passion for life and high heels on.