Signing Off

Alright. The nonsense stops right here. I haven’t really felt like writing anything for a few months now, as you might have noticed. I’m going through an extended passive stage; taking in all the music, the images, the words, the occasional car bomb, the garbage, the shit, the beautiful people, the kind strangers, in silence, alone, over a cup of coffee, in a sustained state of well-honed, manageable, low-intensity hysteria, which probably requires medical attention, but I shall pass. This started off as a place where I would write about movies once and a while, but soon mutated into this weird freaky beast. Sometimes I read the shit I posted and wonder what the fuck was I thinking about. Prolonged periods of isolation in the American South can mess with your head, I suppose. And then the war came upon us, and I was so nauseated by the conglomeration of Lebanese cyber Neanderthals masquerading as scholars, intellectuals, beacons of enlightenment and moderation and whatnot, that I just had to say something out loud. I don’t regret it, though revisiting some of the things I wrote back then (and more recently too), most of it strikes me as under-thought, too emotional, and too self-serious at the same time, completely lacking in any redeeming sense of humor. But that’s alright; it was therapeutic, in a way. And the same goes for the movie stuff. Too rigid, a little like shouting, like I was trying to impress someone, myself probably, and failing, but especially lacking in passion, failing to communicate how fucking miraculous, how wonderful and life-transforming it is sometimes to watch two people talking or having dinner, or someone walking down a supermarket aisle, or the reflection of a tree in a windshield, but I digress. And the dialogues, and the photographs, and those ridiculous stream of consciousness things (is that what they were?). Come to think of it, I would say I created a parody of myself; I assumed the identity of the person I usually spend my time making fun of. I profusely apologize to the three or four (five?) people who regularly visit and check out my latest drivel, I don’t know what your objective is, in fact I don’t even know who you are, but thank you, really, every exhibitionist needs a crowd, however small, I put this shit online because I wanted someone to read, for some mysterious reason, but let’s move on. I was saying that I really don’t have the desire to write at this point. I’d much rather talk, which I am doing, more and more often. In fact sometimes I just can’t stop, which can be embarrassing, intimidating, off-putting, but fuck it, it is what it is, I was silent long enough. In any case. I am not closing this thing down, just going away for a while, a long while in fact. And when I do come back it will be different, it will have order to it, and a clear objective, and a method, and such things. And it might be somewhere else. I know I am not a writer, not by any stretch of the imagination; in fact it is becoming increasingly clear to me that I am in fact an engineer, sadly, one that thinks about quitting on a near-hourly basis, true, but still, some form of engineer nonetheless I suppose, and a mildly good one at that, it seems, for they have not fired me yet. Yes. But I was saying, I do like to write, and I would like to do it more often, but just not now. Now I throw my body out there and whatever injuries I sustain in the process I shall welcome and nurse ungrudgingly, on my honor. Because it is worth it and there is nothing else to do, I assure you. But it was nice making your acquaintance, and we shall probably talk again in the distant future, and perhaps in the near future, if ever you are around the great city of Boston, give us a call, and we shall work something out, unless of course you are a fascist, a Zionist, a racist, a backward ape who mistakenly thinks himself civilized, then don’t call me. But you are not one of those, I am sure, I know, I just know, don’t ask me why. Right. This will do. Have a nice evening. The name is Jihad, by the way.

Cultural Exchange

A: Do you mind if I ask you a question?
B: Go ahead.
A: About your name… I am sure you have heard this a million times already.
B: Oh no, not at all.
A: Well, it should not be taken literally, right? I mean, it has no ideological connotations, it is just a name. In fact it is pretty common, isn’t it? It can mean many things, like struggle, or perseverance, or effort. Right?
Silence
B: No, not really.
Silence
A: Oh…
Silence
A: So your parents actually called you ‘holy war’?
B: Yes.
A: Oh…
Silence
A: I just remembered I have an appointment. Well it was very nice talking to you.
Exit

Quotes from the Underground # 65

Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy!

Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy!

The world is holy! The soul is holy! The skin is holy!

The nose is holy! The tongue and cock and hand

and asshole holy!

Ousmane Sembène (Jan. 1 1923 - Jun. 9 2007)

Another light goes off.

Ousmane Sembène, the director of Xala, Mandabi and Black Girl, the man who single-handily put African cinema on the map, died last Saturday. He was 84.

In a Nutshell

1. He sits in front of the screen. He stares at the blank wall. A spider hangs in the corner. Fifty years pass. He dies.
2. Another light goes off. Stand up. Walk across the hallway. Stretch your legs. So to speak. Walk back. Give us that trademark smile. Sit down. Another light goes off. Repeat.
3. Call me Ishmael.
4. Try not to bump into walls so often; it is unseemly.
5. Oh so you think that the chicken was a tribute to Bunuel?
6. Welcome, stranger. Once again you come shrouded in mystery. Please, come in, do have a seat, settle down, breathe in, let us begin. So, how have you been?
   
7. A job that slowly kills you. Bruises that won’t heal
8. A Babylonian harlot? You hurt my feelings.
9. Your eyelashes. A peculiar thing. I’ll call you tonight.
10. You came in with the breeze, on Sunday morning.

Lord,
this bitter earth
Yes, can be so cold
Today you’re young
Too soon you’re old

Images # 28

From Ali: Fear Eats the Soul, directed by Rainer Werner Fassbinder, 1974.

Quotes from the Underground #64

La robe d'Emma, trop longue, traînait un peu par le bas ; de temps à autre, elle s'arrêtait pour la tirer, et alors délicatement, de ses doigts gantés, elle enlevait les herbes rudes avec les petits dards des chardons, pendant que Charles, les mains vides, attendait qu'elle eût fini.

Try

Once again. Oh you two were high school friends, how delightful. Smile, chuckle, shake hands, close door behind you, gently, try not to stare, pretend you did not hear, have another cookie, then perhaps another one, why not, don’t even think about it, look out the window, don’t jump, feign interest, in moderation, hide your excitement, be reasonable, etc, and so on. You know what, I think I’ll walk today, it is oh so nice outside, but thank you for asking, once more, you never fail to ask, I appreciate that. Yes, exercise very important, essential, fruits and vegetables, yes, now go away. So sorry you can’t make it, no not really, well maybe, perhaps, possibly, I am not so sure anymore. Himmler was a chicken farmer. What? Never mind. What will it be then. The same as yesterday. Naturally. You may leave now. The train to Boston stops on the other side of the tracks. Yes I am sure why would I lie. Very charming, very lovely, very married. Of course. You are repeating yourself; I hope you are aware of that. Once again. Every single day, for the rest of your life. And yet. On the other hand. On my way to the train station. The reflection of an electric pole in a puddle of water, after the rain. A pile of cigarette buds, branches and dried leaves on the side of the road. A red neon sign with two burnt-out letters, after midnight. The old Chinese couple, the man pushing his grandson in the stroller, the wife lagging slightly behind, all three silently smiling as they pass me by. The monotonous sound of the dishwasher as I make another pot of coffee. That obese African-American man on Park Street, eating ice cream straight from the big box with a large plastic spoon. The look in his eyes broke my heart, I don’t know why. All those books, I want to learn Spanish, then German, then Russian. I want to unlearn Arabic then learn it again. I want to speak to you in ancient extinct mysterious tongues. The sad tired people waiting for the train. The rusty graffiti-ridden wagons under the bridge, the seagulls flying above. The trees, greener than yesterday, I could swear. Kids coming back from school, shouting. The highway, the sun shining on car roofs, glorious blue sky, someone asks me for my ticket, I can’t find it, but then I do. This compact and dense mass of beautiful impossible impenetrable matter, all around me, all the time. Sometimes someone steps out, smiles, talks to me, stays for a while, but no, then fades away. Impossible to get inside. Raptures and despair, one after the other, or rather at the same time. No way in, except sometimes, for a split second, or less, through other people’s words, through someone else’s images. Like when it rains inside the house on that small island somewhere in the infinite dark ocean. The reflected trees in the windshield as Yo La Tango play their guitar. Her shaved head. The look in her eyes. But I have talked of all this before, how tedious and pointless, how exhausting. Stop. Get up. Put your shoes on. Lock the door. Step outside. Breathe the evening air. Walk in the dark empty streets for a while. Stop. Stare at the yellow street sign. Turn, go back. Open the door, step inside, turn the lights off, close your eyes, sleep, just try. Just try. Try. Once again. Every single day, for the rest of your life.

Quotes from the Underground # 63

Once upon a time, and a very good time it was there was a moocow coming down along the road and this moocow that was coming down along the road met a nicens little boy named baby tuckoo...