Adonis Diaries

Archive for July 30th, 2009

Jane or love innuendos : A mostly fiction short story, (July 25, 2009)

I was signing my latest book at “Barnes & something” somewhere in New York City.  I had decided to transform these utterly boring sessions into enjoyable events:  The insufferable planners and organizers were created for wrecking my nerves out of jealousy.  I had decided to invest an average of two minutes chatting with every fan who came for an autograph:  My intention is giving the impression that they were visiting with me at the library. 

Gorgeous women were submitted to over three minutes of investigations; women flooded with perfume not to my liking, were thanked with a polite smile and meeting cut short: it is good business to learn to smiling.

I recognized a tall figure in the line, but I failed to localize the circumstances: time is a vicious enemy and it does affect beauty of the body.  I reckon time affects the spirit far worse, but people do not communicate long enough to find out.  As her turn came, she hesitated for two seconds before giving her name; I sensed that she was hoping that I’ll recall her name too.  She simply said “Jane?”.  It dawned on me like a thunderbolt.

I roomed at her 90 years old mother while studying at the university. Jane mother was even then a tall, svelte, beautiful, and kind senile woman.  It was not Jane who hired me to stay with her mother, sort of just having someone there close by for emergency sake.   Heck, I was not even paid; I paid rent for a room in a smelly house.  I even had to take so many crap from two of the seven or eight grown up “children” gone for lovelier and greener pastures.  I could have been older than gorgeous Jane by a couple of years at the time, but she looked and behaved far more mature: she was no longer a student, no matter how high was the degree I was shooting for.

I signed “Jane H” and looked up for the correct last name. Jane was surprised and had a slight semi-victorious smile.  She said “Jane H will do”.  I resumed my dedication “It feels stronger when love is shyly declared; no need to insert direct explicit “love” words for expressing friendly felt inclinations.”

I vividly recall sending Jane a feedback letter on her mother’s conditions; one of the paragraphs was a bare innuendo of love declaration, smartly injected within how a mother is missing her girl.  I am devoid of sensibility and lack imagination; with Jane, I somehow felt that my mysterious and tumultuous “love couched sentence” will drive Jane home. 

Jane replied a week later reminding me of that paragraph. The next week, Jane visited her mother from Santa something, maybe Santa Maria, in Northern California. I would love to get a copy of that paragraph: I must have been a good sneaky writer even then.

Jane went out on her evening jogging and returned to rub her feet with lotion.  I am crazy with strong large women feet; with athletic gable.  Jane demanded that I join her for a walk.  I dreaded that moment: I knew Jane needed direct and definite answers.  Writing is so much easier than face to face verbal challenges; especially in love matters; especially for me who lacks verbal intelligence.

In the first few steps Jane rushed right to her point; I valiantly avoided the question; I played it dumb which was not far from reality. I went on to state how confused I was; how I had no idea why I decided to resume my higher education and oh, how miserable I feel.

After I finished the dedication sentence, I looked up at Jane who was beaming with relief from the inside:  Confirmation of a doubt and revenge are always welcomed emotions to most people. I invited Jane to stay for the dinner party after the signing ceremony.  Jane needed five interminable seconds to nod: Closure was overpowering for her.  I can live without closure. 

You think that behavior changes with time; I was no longer kidding myself; I knew that my verbal intelligence was deteriorating at a fast pace.  I decided to learn mingling the hard way; I will obey my editor’s representative immediately.

Lillie, the editor’s representative, was a striking beauty and her frequent gazes at me convinced me that, definitely, we had a date after the official dinner. I told Lillie “I don’t know much of New York by night. I am terribly lazy for planning.  Would you arrange for a night out, just the two of us? You decide for the location of your predilection”  What else could I say? I forgot the American slang; as so many other formal words.

The general dinner was served in an empty restaurant with plenty of space; drinks were reflecting individual moods.  Lillie was greedy with her body heat: she kept her distance from me.  A man with haphazard hair (shaggy?) sat by me, and was highly interested in the Near East problems. He wanted confirmation that Palestine is the Jewish Homeland.  I replied: “You mean that before Palestine the Jews were living in a no-man’s land? That after they were transferred hundreds of years ago they still were living nowhere?” 

General history is stupid.  History book say that when a conqueror entered a town, people fled (connoting that they never returned to their villages and towns).  How far do you think common people could walk?  They just vanished for a couple of weeks for the frenzy soldiers to cool down from killing and looting.  Common people returned to their shelters in their villages, where do you think they would go?

Modern genocides, still an ongoing process in most region on Earth, forced the common people very far, with the understanding that they may never return to their habitat.  The Palestinians in 1948 fled with the understanding that they are returning within a couple of weeks: The UN promised that return.  Over 64 years later, Palestinians in refugee camps are amassing on the borders with Israel (in Lebanon, the Golan Heights, the West Bank, and Gaza), carrying the Palestinian flags in peaceful demonstrations, chanting: “We want to return to our lands”.  Israeli troops and snipers opened fire on the demonstrators and killed over 60 Palestinians and seriously injured 500  in two week-ends!

The man with crazy hair got heated and blubbered something of a God-given or assigned nation for the Jews.  I replied that the concept of nation is a new concept fabricated by the colonial powers to dividing the spoil and to fictitious increase of the number of their citizens by expanding their borders, until determined confrontations stabilized the limits. The colonial powers inforced that concept by all kinds of coercive means.

I went on: “The Zionists ideology was an idea of the time and found its expression in Palestine against all odds, and by using the British colonial ruthless means and with their blessings.”

Jane joined us and grabbed my arm and offered an excuse for an important private matter.  I was glad for the first second, and then terribly worried the next second.  Jane claimed that I read minds. I retorted: “I don’t read the mind. You speak so loudly to yourself; I can almost hear you.  You speak a “fleur de peau”, kind of skin deep at best”.  Jane said: “Well, were you in love with me?”  I guess I was in the driving seat this evening and in a chatting mood. I replied: “At that period, you looked beautiful, healthy, dedicated, and determined. I was relatively ugly, short, confused, miserable, and I needed you.  If I were a somehow handsome and tall guy, then I am certain that you would have commanded me to follow you. The handsome guy might not have obeyed, but I, the not so handsome guy, would have at that time.  At least, to have the opportunity to travel to California and rediscover the milder weather”.

Lillie decided to make her move as our body gestures worried her that the conversation might drag on.  Lillie approached with her tequila sunrise glass; I like tequila if you skip the sunrise, but my acute thirst asked for a sip.  I had this quick idea (they are many, but far delayed in real-time) of selecting the location of Lillie’s purple lipstick stain on the glass and had a sip and gently gurgled.  Jane said: “How romantic” I said “I like to spread Lillie’s beneficial germs”.  I made a surreptitious exit with Lillie.  I was standing tall; I felt tall that night.

Note: This is mostly a fictitious story, but the feelings were not?

I visited my “Motherland” once; (July 28, 2009)


I read Ulysses once; it was all ancient Greek.

All languages are suitable for writing poems:

Poems are meant to express the spirit of the Land;

Long before languages were created or codified.

Samuel Butler demonstrated that Ulysses was written by a woman,

A young woman and single; I like that better;

It is more convincing.


Butler confirmed that Ulysses’ trip was around Sicily.

Seven years to tour Sicily is irrelevant.

Years in ancient times were measured by seasons.

The shorter year was winter; the longer one was the extended long dry season.


One systematic mind split the differences in moon rotations.

Another mathematical mind worshiped number three.

His enemy preferred the symmetrical number four.

Years kept shifting in length.


It was a time of confusion and rare standards.

It was a time of total freedom of ignorance

Mainly for the “free men”.

Slaves were redundant and obeyed the will of their masters.

They still do on a larger scales, number and ignominy.

The masters are mostly regrouped in “Secret Clubs” of free men;

Sometimes in veto power nations around a United Nation.


I visited my “Motherland” once.

I returned to my City-State of Itaca once.

I had no Penelope there waiting for me:

I would never care for a dumb witch waiting for a war man.

I have never been a war man: I fled the war zone for reasons.


I visited my “Motherland” once.

I visited my “Motherland” with my new family.

I called up my exiled friends to join me.

I didn’t care to face little men and little souls;

Petrified and perched on mountain peaks.

Petrified erect statues, line fishing in a dirty dying sea.

I toured my motherland solely with my family like a tourist:

Nature and natural phenomena are romantic and truer to my origins.


The children loved my motherland;

They had plenty of fun with super energetic and fun children.

They climbed trees, jumped walls and cliffs.

They played war battles with sticks;

On land, seas, and around the galaxies.

Fire crackers a go-go; makeshift guns and swords flailing around.

Many wounds and scars to mend;

Barely missing their folks; the tamed ones.

It was a dangerous habit experiencing natural chaos among the kids’ world.

I won’t allow my children this extravagant climate;

They won’t visit my motherland as long as in protection.


I visited my “Motherland” once.

I fled as quickly as the airport was re-opened.

I boarded the ships of my adoptive nation;

Evacuating its citizens from a worn torn dysfunctional society.


I visited my “Motherland” once.

Nobody cared to ask me about my life in my “adoptive” society.

They blabbered about stories and anecdotes of the dead and mostly the dying.

They recounted of newer generations, totally irrelevant to me.

Nobody cared to ask how much I suffered and struggled to survive.

Everybody mocked the caring soul who ventured to know the new me.


I visited my “Motherland” once.

I am currently living in a standardized society,

Highly organized and administered for just the free people:

A society every bit the dream of racist Plato in his Republic.


I visited with trepidation:

I had been given a medal of honor in my adoptive society.

I kept on my high white horse and barely mingled.

They insisted on raising me on shoulders and necks.

I lamely fought this uncalled for barbaric show of substituted glory.

Another medal of honor was attached on my lapel.

The officials never cared to investigate if I was proud of my origin.

I was a sample of men worthy of the motherland’s origin.



I visited my “Motherland” once.

I visited with hesitation; I am back almost broke financially.

A life of learning and struggles is irrelevant.

I kept my silence, wrapped in mysteries.

I created my own island.

With inexistent public transportations

It is so easy and comfortable creating islands;

Alongside islands of communities.

I returned for good to my island.


Many poets toured the world for inspirations.

They returned to keep silent.

The world was too gruesome to laud humanity;

Miserable beings were no inspirations for chants and songs.

Pablo Neruda was also frustrated and lived in solitude abroad.

He clawed to his roots, the toiling and brave workers.

His “Canto general” was a culmination of the spirit recounting its origins;

Of dirt, mud, forests, rivers, sand, wind, wilderness, and the survival of man.

Neruda returned to chant the dignity of South Americana.


All languages are suitable for writing poems and the best ones.

It is the spirit of the Land that chants through the soul.

No need to be ashamed of traditions and customs;

All civilizations had almost similar traditions and customs.

Cultures that banished theirs for the sake of modernity

Are not bearable communities for the living.

Cultures that banished theirs for the sake of modernity

Transferred them to exclusive clubs, secretive associations,

The guardians of the customs and traditions

To rule, govern, and safeguard the continuity of the “Free elected Men”

Dysfunctional “Global Villages” or visual politics platforms; (July 26, 2009)


Hands off.

Lebanon is not a Nation: it is a message (Pope Jean-Paul II).  Nice try. What message again? We never believed in any message in the first place for us to transfer and disseminate our messengers.


Lebanon is not a Nation: it is a Carrefour of civilizations (Maurice Gemayel).  Nice try. What Carrefour again?  I see; a state of the art infrastructure with a Space Center; a human potential incubator for foreign investors to select from, use, abuse, and milk dry.


Lebanon is not a Nation: it is a project of communication facilitator, an audio-visual plateform (Joanna Choukeir). More likely a project that could fly. Sort of a guinea pig laboratory of dysfunctional people living in a dysfunctional barely “recognized” state to study the feasibility of a futuristic dysfunctional “Global Village”.


Lebanon is not a Nation: its leaders never believed it as such; they tailored made their concept of a State recognized by the UN.  Lebanon’s sectarian leaders lived the good life of organized chaos within their castes; they forced Lebanon’s citizens out in disgust; seeking the bare minimum of dignity and potentials for survival among stable societies with sustainable institutions. 


Lebanon is a comprador Carrefour; governments systematically taxing the poor with modern high tech taxing facilities to aid the comprador noble caste to fructify their businesses out of Lebanon. We are fleeing for individual professional recognition; we may receive recognition for anything but the dignity of a worthy society that could generate worthy citizens.


The cup of dignity always overflows of the spirit within. We have proven to be meant plain catalysts for potentials of change that could never materialize in a sustainable spiritual survival of any kind. Our thin and porous shell never protected; what was inside never germinated to full bloom; it disintegrated prematurely.


The only spiritual dignity left is growing in south Lebanon; the least attended to part by our successive governments because they gave up on that land since independence in 1943.  The disinherited neglected “citizens” of the frequently bombed and displaced land are returning, holding on in observation posts, monitoring the pre-emptive war plans of the enemy of occupation, resisting for a whole State in their trenches; never relinquishing their faith in a sovereign Nation commensurate to their worthy dignity.


Lebanon’s national resistance is setting the right tone and basis to satisfying a meaning of why Lebanon should exist among nations.  Lebanon the message, the Carrefour of civilization, of communication among cultures, and of human potentials could still be feasible if our internal enemies plainly desist of continuously maligning our resistance of liberation, land, and spirit. 


Hands off Lebanon; you foreign interests never had good intentions for Lebanon; save us your traveling officials.  We are to suffer another injury: the head of our Parliament want to save the Lebanese of the ignominies and the intricacies of forming a national unity government claiming that total blackout on news is the solution; as if our leaders are the ones suffering from insomnia, misery, and a bleak future.

Dressed in multicolor gala attire (July 27, 2009)


“The larva of yesterday is dressed in multicolor gala attire”; you may have as well said the butterfly looked sensational in her dress but that would sound insipid and boring static descriptions in the world of poets. It does not mean that plain talk is not the job of poets: imaginations carry through the purpose of reminding the people of the spirit of the Land far better than logic and reasoning. 


It might be useful nowadays to add butterfly in parenthesis as people have no time or patience to figure out anything unless spoon fed; that would not be a bad idea if it encourages reading splendid poems and retaining magnificent imageries.  Kids should be encouraged to memorize imageries.  Imagery in poems is the foundations of affordable imaginations: poets are down to earth and have keen eyes to see the horrors and ugliness of the “As is” and are impatient to refuting the miseries of reality, ugly behavior and customs, and transmitting the urgency for a change, always feasible changes; at least of worthy poets.


Every survivor on earth, plants, insects, or mammals, is constantly fighting the good fight to surmount the difficulty of living on earth.  Long lasting changes are not done by exhibiting fire works or victory celebrations but the daily struggle to live for another tomorrow.


Earth atmosphere and environment was noxious to everything we could be seen with our naked eyes. After millions of years of evolution and catastrophes anything still surviving was incredibly lucky to exist today. Heck, oxygen was meant to be a poisonous gas to man until he adapted to a certain mixture. Earth was not created for man; he evolved against all odds, in an almost improbable continuous string of lucky hazards.  Yet, we cannot withstand a tree blocking a stupid view, birds chanting by dawn and disturbing our unnatural cycle, a flower not looking as pretty as a rose, a neighbor less fortunate or more wealthy.  Yet, we resent someone who decided to rest on a Wednesday instead of a Friday, Saturday, or a Sunday.


Poets need to be unsatisfied; they carry the message to communicate the will of reducing inhuman realities to a human order of acceptability.  Poets are frequently revolting on the world of “as is” and changing life according to affordable imaginations. The value of poetry is essentially to be present in the center of time and space.


Imagery is to agree for passionate re-conquest of nature and our standards of living.  The main ingredient for poets is the potential to creating a sustainable life by offering imageries that make changes feasible and attainable by the spirit.  Poets are infusing this hope that inhuman conditions of nature or man-made could be interacted with to accommodate humanity and its surroundings.


Man has been struggling for all kinds of emancipations that cover forms of liberations such as slavery, exploitation of the masses, women rights, oppression of minorities, domestic brutality, colonized people, and so many other forms of social domination that restrained the blooming of human spirit. 


Maybe one of the major factors for the failure of successive attempts for social and individual liberation was the failure to regularly read poems to the illiterates who were shouldering the entire burden of reforms and revolts. The masses of workers and peasants respect and appreciate poems that talk to their spirit far more than the well to do.  If the people managed to be that patient and sustained misery and daily toils for too long it is because they were free to recite poems and sing love songs and songs of freedom after a hard day of labor. External political changes for reforms fail to mature and take roots simply because the internal changes in the people were forgotten or not taken seriously.


Pablo Neruda, the poet of Chili and South America recount the dignity of the hard working people and how they sheltered him and fed him during his escape to exile:

            Along the grand night, throughout the enitre life,

            Tears on paper, from attire to attire,

            I marched in those misty days,

            The fugitive to the police:

            I was handed over from hand to hands.


            Grave is the night but man disposed of his fraternal signs.

            By blind roads and plenty of shadows

            I reached the lighted tiny star that was mine.

            I don’t feel alone in the night.

            I am people, innumerable people.

            My voice carries pure force

            To cross the silence and germinate in the obscurity.


Neruda recites a poem to thousands of miners who instinctively removed their hat and head gears in respect:

            I write for the people.

            Many cannot read my poems with their rural eyes.

            Time is soon; a line,

            Air that disrupted my life;

            Will reach their ears.

            They will say ”He was a comarad”

            That is enough; this is the crown of laurel that I desired.




July 2009

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