Adonis Diaries

Posts Tagged ‘introspection

What is the Meaning of Life?  (April 6, 2009)


In a previous essay “Ideology: Not such a bad Concept before Ruling” I dealt with the notions of ideologies, philosophies, and religions: their purposes and structures. I ended the essay with the following paragraph:

“In many moments in life we ask “what is the meaning of and purpose in life?”   How about we start from the obvious?  We are a bunch of jumbled passions that we all share and that drive our life; we ache by reflection to re-order our passions and sort out the strongest passions that mean most to us. We want to be discriminated as an individual, not on physical traits but as thinking reflecting persons that have distinct set of strong passions that we manage to prioritize and focus; we finally think that we know who we are and what passions drove our life. We want to be at peace with our soul and spirit.”

When we claim that we are in an introspection phase then we are explicitly finding time to sort out the driving passions that were predictive of our life path.  We all have the same passions at various degrees of power and interest that no outside processes can change or transform unless we consciously act on them to redirect our focus.  Introspections are highly useful conscious periods in our life to comprehend the strongest of our passions and set priority for future activities.  Basically, we are adopting a philosophy to life that is compatible with our strongest passions.  That is what we constantly do: we are addicted to constructing models because we are spiritual designers.  We want to categorize our passions intellectually, by our volition and labor of reflection.

Most religions have to erect an ideology and sometimes slightly update it to face changes; the sacerdotal castes main job is to pressure you to accept their set of values and morals as the best that characterize you.  In fact, religions do not want you to exercise introspection and learn your own characteristics; they want to “save you that hassle” and show you the proper way; they want you to be the man, among all same men, with preferred set of passions instead of realizing your individuality.  Only those following the preferred “type” are selected in heaven as on earth; the black sheep of strong individuality are not recognized in heaven because only the mediocre, the humble, the naïve, the simple-minded can be saved.


That was a good starting lead to answering the meaning of life.  I have a question: if you were to choose between knowing the “truth” or safeguarding and preserving your conscious then what would you decide?   I know that you will try to circumvent this basic query by returning a question with another one such as “Isn’t conscious linked to truth searching?” or “Isn’t knowledge an illusion?”

If even scientific facts should be recognized as statistical facts because uncontrolled observations have the tendency to show up occasionally and need to be categorized, understood, and then modeled.  If justice is fundamentally a consensus agreement among the jury then why do we cling so staunchly to truth or “absolute fact”? 

If “truth” is not reachable, if we know that any predictive model can be altered by surprised “chance” observations, if it is proven at every moment in our life that uncertainty is king and it loves to convince you at the most critical events, then why fight for truth and spread disorder for an illusion? 

Our scientific and rational mind is fighting the good fight and is persistent in its endeavor because it refuses impositions of religious abstract notions that have no foundations or convincing premises. Our scientific mind is not fighting “faith” but fighting the sacerdotal castes’ value systems and ideologies.

What about conscious? We can define conscious by its consequences on our nerves, its wrenching battle through sleepless nights, and through nightmares.  Conscious is the constant fighting between imposed religious set values and your strong valid passions that define your individuality.  We are battling to preserve our rightful individuality in a manner that would not shock the community as “crazy behaviors”. 

Most of the time we define conscious as how the community expect us to act and decide because religious belief system is enduring and hard to conciliate with.


You always have a choice: truth or conscious; and this dichotomy is not to vanish any time soon and you will have to select differently at many moments. This critical choice is our daily battle and our constant struggle to find meaning to our life.


By God, I hope that the set values imposed on me is the correct one.  I would hate after death to face up a reality that is not compatible with what I cowardly submitted to.  I would hate to be condemned for laziness in the mind or condemned for not acting according to my own labor of reflection. Justice is ultimately an individual case and what the community believed is totally irrelevant and redundant for supporting supposed clemency.

Marie of my youth: Introspection (Addendum # 11)


“Marie”, She Said


It was a time when I was about seventeen or less.

By early dawn, I was on the balcony, the first floor of a ten-story building, facing Main Street. By early dawn.

I was reading or studying on that balcony, but my heart

Was looking out for this young girl soon to show up on the front steps of her building.


She was olive-skinned, large dark-eyed and hair done in two pony tails.

I was waiting for her to step out of her apartment building, opposite mine.

She would wait for her school bus with another schoolmate girl.


By early dawn, I am sitting or standing on that balcony,

And my heart is swooping down on that school girl about fifteen.

She is in her school dress, white shirt and blue short skirt.

Her blond and chubby schoolmate waited with her for the school bus.


Within two years, that blonde blue-eyed chubby girl metamorphosed

Into a blonde Nordic beauty, a svelte Prussian tall.

My dark-eyed girl used to lower her head then raise her cunning eyes up toward me.


It was a game for her. 

I was to her that stupid bookish young male.

In that game, she was the Beauty Queen and she was pleased of the attention.


She must have got used to me. 

Maybe she started to like me,

Or she appreciated the stubborn care that I generously bestowed upon her.


Her errands increased in the neighborhood so did my heart beats.


For a year, I could never muster enough courage to step down this one ridiculous floor,

Cross the street and start a chat with her.


One day she was waiting for a taxi.

I rushed down the stairs and waited by her side for a taxi.

I could not speak, my mind went blank and I barely was breathing.


Taxis made themselves scarce for an eternity.

I clumsily blurted out with a dry, unfamiliar voice:

What’s your name?”  “Marie” she said.


That is how it started. 

From then on, “what’s your name” is all the conversation

I could have with a girl I like.


Returning from a long stay overseas, I was told that the local militia ganged up on her. 

They used her as their love slave. 

She has gotten married.


It was a time when this womanhood was blossoming in roses and rainbow colors.

Fluttering in front of that manhood, shy and dazed with pallor.

It was a time when this womanhood was leaping in bounds, raw.

Looking at that degenerative manhood, crawling and craning his neck in awe.

Rachel of Bethesda: Introspection (Addendum # 10)


Rachel’s Sixth Sense (Nov. 2002)


I used to swim at a Navy complex in Bethesda from 1993 to 1998.

I patronized this affordable facility at least three times a week, mostly around 3 o’clock in the afternoon.


She was a beauty by any standard. I think she was a cadet in the Navy, following swimming training and evaluation.

I wanted to get to know her, but could not talk to her during her busy schedule. I wrote her a song and kept a copy with me for the next time I see her.


Here is the song:


Beautiful girls sense me.  They know for sure,

           Exactly, what I’m up to.

They sense me in a split-second and get busy.

           She swims with energy, non-stop.

She swims fine, back strokes, crawl, in laps.

           I do all that too, leisurely.

She swims constantly and does not breathe.

           I have strong senses too:

She is not taking a break.  Not Today.

           I decide for a note, dropped on her towel.

It should say: “I think you are beautiful”.

           Everything I see in you is beautiful”.

I feel more at ease and then, hope takes the extra step.

           She must take a short break, any second now.

My brain is boiling and I am editing.

           My sentence should be reduced to the bare essentials.

“I think you are beautiful, everything I see in you is beautiful” is too long:

           No time for her to hear me out.


Just “Beautiful!” will not do: I know that by now.

           “You are beautiful!” is about right.

 I am swimming leisurely.  There is no movement around me.

            There is no towel.  She vanished.

 Hang it all.  I’ll write about that swim.


The next time I saw her in the swimming pool I made sure that she saw me drop a piece of paper on her towel.  Then, I left.


A week later, I asked her: “What’s your name?”  She simply said: “It’s Rachel and I’m dating”.

That was all that was said between us.  Not even a thank you or an allusion to the note. 

History repeats its cycle. Rachel’s girl friends in the swimming team noticed me intently, every time I was there, swimming, and swimming.

Introspection: Chica Lupita (Addendum #9), (Dec. 2002)

Ariadna is from Atlixco in Mexico. Her English is poor. My Spanish is no better.

Our conversations were plagued with divergent misunderstandings. One time, after we made love she asked me how serious is our relationship.

I told her that we barely can communicate and that I can’t see much future with us together.

She jumped out of bed and cried, sleeping on the floor. Minutes later, seeing that I did not come down to console her she joined me in bed. We used to sleep on opposite side of the bed when not making love. I guess she could not stand my smoky breath.

Chica, or Lupita, or Chica Lupita, as she liked me to call her, rubbed her right leg on my dick several times. We made love again on the opposite side of bed this time: my head looking at her feet. 

Lupita has very white skin and a rather aquiline nose, like mine.  She liked to wear dresses that show a major part of her bosom. She was rather short and had her reddish hair cropped short. The tops of her feet were large and her heels very thin: She walked on tip toe and her heels barely touched ground. She never walked bare footed: the ground is the domain of the Devil.

Lupita held her head up, always looked straight ahead, back straight, and confidently conscious of people sizing her up. Chica was married to a young American. Her man committed suicide two years after their wedding.

I met her at a full-service retirement community. She worked as a cleaning lady. I worked odd jobs there for two weeks before I was later promoted as assistant to the manager. Chica was jealous of her superior at the cleaning and washing department; a lady from Guatemala who had an eye for me.

I asked Lupita out one day and we went walking Downtown. During our bilingual and confusing conversation I said: “The only real thing is the moment. Let us enjoy the moment.” She retained that sentence and reminded me of it during our many painful separations.

We went out again and then we started meeting in my private room at 2 p.m.

I asked permission from the manager to rest for an hour around that time. Chica used to join me surreptitiously for an hour before ending her daily work. We used to undress completely, kiss, make up, and cuddle.

Two weeks later, she allowed me to investigate her rosy pussy. I licked, kissed and rubbed her pussy; I thought that I was very gentle but her pussy must have been virgin for these caresses. The next day at lunch Chica said: “Me duele. I am in pain.”

Chica pointed toward her vagina.  She would not let me lick her lower lips again.

A month later, Lupita let me in her. The moment I entered her she whispered: “You are for me.” I told myself that I am in trouble and cut my activity short for the moment.

We used to go to a semi private beach, at the foot of a villa perched on a high rock.

The villa belonged to a famous brain surgeon or a brain researcher; I could not get further intelligence of Lupita but that it was related to brain. Chica used to clean the villa on weekends. The small beach was hidden from the crowd by a large rock and we were tender behind that rock.

Chica used to hold and rub my dick and when I felt too excited she would laugh with pleasure.

We never had an apartment for ourselves. Lupita used to rent a room in apartments of some Latino families. Our privacies were restricted to a room with no private bath. Once, we had a great time when the apartment happened to be vacant. We took a long hot bath together and made love all morning.

I was introduced to her two brothers who were working and living in San Francisco.

At one stage of our relationship we stopped talking for two weeks. When we made up, her brother Juan said during lunch: “Finally, my sister is smiling, talking and happy.”

Chica loved me to give her massages.  She would lay on her stomach completely naked.  I would smear her entire body with cream and diligently rub her neck, back, arms and legs.  When I get tired of massaging I would lie on her back lightly and ask her to insert my prick.  We would lie still for a long time. Lupita’s moments of laziness could be highly luxurious.

Lupita used to spend her summers in Mexico. She used to have her physical check-ups and everything relating to her health and teeth. She invited me several time, with insistence, to visit Mexico with her. I was ready to spend all my savings to be with her in Mexico, but I could not leave the USA because of problems with my stupid visa. She brought me gifts on her returns to San Francisco.

One gift was a crucifix on a necklace that I still wear all the time. Some people were amazed at my guts for wearing religious icons in Lebanon. I could only reply: “This is a gift from a dear friend.” On one of our walks in downtown San Francisco, Chica liked a pullover and bought it for me. I bought her a red skirt, I guess, and she was all love.

The night before leaving to Washington, D.C. for good, I saw her in her apartment that she rented with her brother Juan.  I saw Chica crying for the first time. She said: “You are going to leave me all alone?”

I never went back to San Francisco: I could never afford it, but she kept calling me and sending letters. The first couple of sentences in the letters were attempts of sort of English and the rest in plain Spanish. Once, Chica asked me to write her a very intimate letter showing affections in order to chase away a guy who was crazy of her, as she said.

I satisfied her with a letter filled with lies, like that I enjoyed visiting her last week and that I’ll be calling her every day and on and on …Two weeks later, I received from her a letter in Spanish. I could feel anger in the words and something of an order to return all her photos. I showed the letter to our secretary from Salvador. After she read it she simply said: “She is very upset.”

Chica might have called one Saturday evening, the first week of my return to Lebanon.

My mother answered and hung up because she could not understand a word. End of a relationship.

Introspection: Rose (Addendum #8)

An Inch Taller Than Her Country Girls (Dec. 2002)

I love, respect and admire Rose. I will cherish her for the rest of my life.

She loved me, helped me unconditionally ,and worried for me.

This said, I apologize for my candid story, but it has to be candid for my own benefit. The story started in Norman, Oklahoma, in 1988.

Rose was short but boasted to be taller than most Filipinas.

She took pride to have a lighter skin than most Filipinas.

Apparently, she was part Chinese, from her father’s side. Her mother was tall, huge and large, a pretty contrast to Rose.

Rose married a giant of an American in the Philippine and divorced him when they settled in the USA.

Rose had a smart girl, Shannon, and a boy, Jason, who grew to be big.  Both kids are of large stature and well-behaved.

Rose worked awfully hard at many jobs to make ends meet.

I met her at a night club in Norman, a thirty minutes drive from Oklahoma City where she lived. She liked to dance a lot and wanted to dance with me. Rose had thick prescription glasses, like mine, and always wore pants.

She was stylish, spent at least a couple of hours on her make-up, and another hour for its removal before going to bed. Rose also sold cosmetics on the side, the sort of multilayered selling agent.

That night, she gave me a lift in her car to her apartment in the city. In her bedroom she stood on my feet and kissed me.She said: “You are thinking too much. If it was not obvious what I want, you would not be in my bedroom“.We shared a hot bath.

I was shocked at the sight of her hips, tremendously large, naked; her waist was uncharacteristically thin. She was plagued by nasty varicose from her knees down to her ankles.

Her varicose was a visual handicaps only, but no real bother in her active life, since she never complained or shown tiredness.

Rose consulted a cosmetic surgeon for her drooping right eyelid, in order to be pleasing to me, she said, though I never brought up any of her physical aspects. The consequences of the surgery were too dangerous and the physician did not recommend it.

Shortly after we met, she had to removed her appendix and she was terribly disappointed when I failed to visit her at the hospital: I had no car and public transportation were practically unavailable.

Rose once paid me an evening surprise visit at my lab in the basement of the engineering department. We were alone and kissed tenderly, at every corner of the room and in the corridors. I had completely forgotten about this event and what we did, but for her reminiscences about us. I certainly did not tell her that I had forgotten about these tender moments that she absolutely cherished.

Once, while making love, I slapped her behind one time too many. She looked at me in bewilderment. “Why are you doing that?” she said.

What could I say? That I watched a movie about behind slapping or a friend told me that women liked being slapped on their behind? I did not even apologize.

I am not hot in biology or anatomy, though I should have been an expert as a Human Factors graduate.  I know about G-points, but not on which side or how many. From a few of my experiences, it seems they are located on the left side of the vagina: The translation direction pointed that way.With Rose, the G-points may be distributed in a circumference.

Once her vagina grabs me, I am captured and made prisoner: no egress, no ingress or any kind of “gress”: She rotates slowly, steadily in a constant velocity.

One day, I was depressed on account of my uncertain future and difficulty with my PhD experiments and writing up this boring thesis, and Rose got worried. She said to me: “You are not enjoying our love-making. Is it me?” I lied and said: “It is because you don’t give me much freedom in my movement. I need to feel in control, now and then.” Rose let me do my way this one nigh, just to please me as usual.

There was a period Rose was angry with me, more like depressed.She then called me to make up. Fifteen minutes before her arrival, a male colleague and friend of mine came to visit. He stayed longer than usual and I told him that I am expecting someone. He was about to leave as Rose showed up.

Rose was furious and got even nasty and said: “What! You need a friend to mediate?

I had this nervous laugh that I did not mean at all, a laugh that could be interpreted as a mockery, for this ridiculous chain of circumstances. Rose ran out crying and did not stop. I could not reach her again.  She vanished.

A girl friend of Rose told me that she resigned from her job and moved to another State with her kids. Rose told me later that she could not suffer being that close to me and keep on living. No man would do a move that stupid! Would he?

After I graduated in May of 1991 with a PhD degree in Industrial Engineering, I mailed to her a long letter to Nashville, Tennessee. Women have this knack of seeing in a letter much more than what it is. Rose immediately flew back to me.

As soon as she entered my apartment, she unzipped my pants and gave me a blow job; her first with me. She is not the type to swallow sperms and went to the bathroom to spit it.  She said: “Gee, it kept growing and growing in my mouth.I did not know yours could have it that huge.“Then, I promised her to join her in Nashville soon.

A couple of acquaintances gave me a lift on their way to Kentucky.The guy was to stay at his folks for the summer and his girl friend was to pick me up on her return trip. The same night Rose took me out on a romantic tour.

A girl friend of hers accompanied us. Rose wanted her friend as a witness to what she thought would be a declaration of love. I had no intention of declaring anything. It might have crossed my mind to marry her for the purpose of obtaining a “Green Card”, but even a temporary commitment is a huge tribute to pay.

I slept on the sofa that night and the following night. The third night she moved me into her bed for the duration of the visit. I tried applying for a position in that period of acute recession during Bush Senior Presidency.

I even experimented with selling books for a multilevel scheme company.

Rose reluctantly let me use her brand new Japanese car. I don’t drive other people cars, but I was dead broke. The company allocated me a neighborhood to sell the “book of the week” that was to be promoted…

The deal is that you don’t miss a house or a business office in the area and you tour the streets clockwise to close the loop. You leave the customers the book of the week for three days for their perusal You come back the next week to retrieve the book or sell it.

We had to be at the warehouse at six in the morning, followed by a military style pep talk and then we are trained to memorize definite phrases to eliminate hesitations and how to close deals.

At six in the evening we had to learn the accounting procedures for our business and stay way after eight or even nine.  Supposedly, a few of our role models who were poor in math learned to add and subtract, to harangue, and to get rich.  I lost money in the final analysis because a few books could not be accounted for.

Rose’s ex-husband was to drop by for a few days and I decided to execute my plan to attend a conference in San Francisco and to stay there applying for jobs afterwards.

The graduate woman student picked me up on her way back to Oklahoma in her tiny beige VW.  I vividly remember we didn’t say a word during the entire trip. She didn’t ask questions and I was very worried on what I should be doing next.  It would have been polite to inquire how was her stay and let her start a conversation. I am obviously not good at communicating or socializing.

A friend lent me $100 for the Greyhound bus fare. The trip to San Fran lasted almost 3 days and I spent my money on junk food.

This is a period I’m still not ready to face, much less to write about. Suffice to admit that I roomed with my adviser in the hotel, and that he woke me up to tell me that my snoring was loud.

After the convention was over, I was on the verge of joining the file of the homeless. I managed to be hired in a full-service retirement hotel, for room and board in exchange of 4 hours work a day. I accepted all the overtime I could get in all the various departments, until I was offered the job of assistant to the manager two weeks later.

Rose visited me and I reserved a room for her in the hotel. I managed to make love to her a couple of times only. She sarcastically complained to the manager: “Adonis kept showing me San Francisco; as if I cared.”

Rose moved to Palo Alto with her ex-husband, supposedly in separate rooms, so that she could be closer to her kids who were now studying in California.

We kept meeting in San Francisco, going to parks, holding hands, but not talking much. We did not attempt any king of love-making but we made up for a few furtive kisses.

I was dating another girl but I did not tell Rose. That is not the reason for not making love: I am basically faithful to my old flames. The truth is that she did not ask me explicitly, and I had resigned my position as assistant to the manager: I had lost a few of the perks and advantages that come with a title.

Rose remarried her ex-husband as of her last letter to me before I moved to Washington DC.

Introspection: Hilda (Addendum #7)

You’re Hungry, Eh!? (Nov. 2002)

Every single book in her apartment was wrapped in a plastic bag. She was allergic to dust. Hell, she was allergic to almost everything. She kept a huge, black Labrador inside. Maybe the plastic bags were to keep her dear dog from getting unduly dusty. The place smelt of dog in every pore of it: Another overpowering odor that can hugely depress me. The dog was her best friend, maybe her unique real friend. Hilda was dead confident that she could see her dog smile and feel him/her when depressed; yes, Hilda had a thorough knowledge of the dog psychological moods.

Like many women there, dogs are at the center of their lives. Crucial decisions were based on the dog feedback. A husband, boyfriend or whoever, was to agree with the dog emotions or vacate immediately.

What is it with indoor dogs? I know a friend of mine who married an American girl. She was a political activist, and lived with her lifetime dog. Many years later and now married to a Lebanese girl and living in Lebanon, my friend still keeps a dog indoor. I do suspect the dog is a living prompter of a past when he was younger, happier, very much in love, with big expectations and ready to improve the world dialectically, and ultimately, taming these blood-sucking, capitalist imperialists.

Hilda was with a girl friend of hers at a dark dancing club. Hilda had black thinning hair, cropped very short, in spikes. Heavy, thick and non colored prescription glasses were hiding her eyes. She looked desperate for a lay and her eyes followed me persistently. Her girl friend was nudging her and encouraging her to make a move. Hilda finally managed to invite me to dance with her. I reluctantly agreed.

Hilda drove me in her car to her place at the outskirt of town. In the much better lighted room, I noticed villain large blue blotches on both her arms. I needed to run away on the spot, but for my acquired politeness, I decided to stay a little longer.

For the first time I saw her feet.  They were neat, large and strong. I liked these feet. A woman with feet like that signal to me security and protection for her male. So, we shared a hot bath. I sponged and massaged leisurely her feet more than needed.

Hilda turned out not to be so desperate tonight.

She asked plenty and well targeted questions. She wanted to come to a safe decision, for a safe sex. Meanwhile, I reached the part of my life story where I admitted being born in Africa and that I lived there, lately, for a year. I could hear the click in her mind:  Oh! No, no and no! What about AIDS and the million other diseases, stupid!

Damnation! I thought that I won’t be seeing these feet again.

We cuddled up in bed, stark naked, Including her thick eyeglasses and mine.

God! She had really beautiful large green eyes, and her face was just lovely, lying on a bed and without glasses. Hilda displayed round and hard bosoms, a slim waist and an exquisite stomach, lean and mean for her age. She had a perfect body in bed, but for these large blue blotches on her arms.

Damned feet! They got me over excited and cut short on my foreplay. She liked to kiss very much, kissed me all over my gorgeous body. I mounted her in haste and tried to penetrate her clumsily and in vain. She wouldn’t let me in, no way.

I ejected prematurely between her soft thighs. Hilda was in the meantime in ecstasy;

She was frankly moaning which increased my bewilderment and dejection.

Hilda had decided that no intercourse is to be consummated with this African touring man. I turned over on my back and blurted out: “Oh boy, am I hungry!” She lost her control and screamed: “Hungry, eh!? You want to eat right now, eh!? Right away, eh!? What’s wrong with you men?  You feel hungry right away? What about resting a while longer?”

This early ejection reminds me of another story with Helga over seven years earlier.

She was a middle-aged German, working at a luxury restaurant. In her dim room with a leopard spread cover on her bed, I was frantically trying to enter her, and vigorously making love to her. After I ejected, she sadly but forcefully said:

“God damn it Adonis, didn’t you know that you were still out?”

I decided, then and there, to ask my future bed companions to insert me themselves. It turned out to be a great rewarding decision in life.

Let us go back to our original story with Hilda and not Helga the German middle-aged woman. We had breakfast sooner than expected. Hilda made up for losing her temper a minute ago. Back to bed, she gave me a brain liquefying blow job. The process was thorough, complete from A to Z. She acted as if she was enjoying a delicious ice cream cone: A lick from the top, then several on the sides.

She kept at me after I was long done, and I experienced a forced lasting erection. I patronized her place a couple of times more for her expert specialty when I come to think of liquid or liquefaction or ice cream.

If you are interested in a girl from down South, please, do not mention visiting Africa.

Introspection: Elizabeth (Addendum #5)

I Could Break your Eyeglasses (Dec. 2002)

We had a large apartment in Beirut and it was almost vacant for the duration of the civil war as a living place.  My brother installed a dental clinic in that apartment and then rented it for a while. In 1980, I was just freshly arriving from the USA and I passed by our apartment for a couple of minutes, for no reason, and the phone was ringing. A secretary for a local company was summoning me to an interview the next morning.

I had no recollection of submitting a resume to that Lebanese company. Next morning, I was meeting a high level representative, who came from Cyprus for a couple of days, just to hire new engineers for their expanding business in Nigeria. He did not ask me questions. I did not ask him questions. I needed to be off and out of Lebanon.

At the airport in the Capital Lagos, a few agents from the company met me and facilitated my entrance. I flew the same day to the headquarter in the city of Benin. I was lodged temporarily at a motel. I met an American young man in the dining room and ended up sleeping with a very young Nigerian girl. I have the impression that she was waiting in my room. We made love all night and I remember not sleeping much.

Curiously, I cannot recall how I met this girl. This motel must have a curious way of welcoming new guests. My hidden cash was dwindling for some days. I told my co-workers that I’m conducting an experiment to find out how much per day the culprit is stealing.

They laughed their heart out for my stupidity. I confronted the middle-aged cleaning lady. She stepped in the bathroom, removed her panties and bent over the bathtub. It was a quick standing exercise. I moved out the next day: I was running out of hiding places for my scant dollars.

A month later I was transferred to a remote compound. I stayed four months in a field compound, out in the nowhere, at a poor town lacking television transmission, called Okitipupa. I was ordered to wearing regulation tall brown boots for discrimination purposes. A few thugs entered the compound one night, killed three guards and threatened the manager to open the safe. We were awakened at three in the morning to go and lodge a complaint. We drove to the police station past the slaughtered watchmen.

I was recalled and ready to be shipped out to Cyprus. I was somewhat reluctant for this sudden transfer even after this harrowing experience. I had to stay for another month, redundant at headquarter. The company accommodated me at a house with a private driver and a house servant. At night, the Nigerian driver would take me to a dancing place in the open air and surrounded by a few huts. I was to select a girl of my choice.

I liked a fantastic black beauty but she was taken that evening. I ended up taking home Elisabeth, another beauty. We made love all night. She was great in expressing her delights and happiness in soft moaning. Elisabeth was pretty, large eyes, flat tummy, firm, round and proportionate tits.

She had a major handicap: the tough leather feel of her palms, hands and feet. She did not ask for money and I didn’t give her any. The next evening I joined my first choice of the previous night and talked. My Elisabeth was upset and cut us off. Her friend girl understood and stepped aside: no fair play in this business. Elisabeth still came home with me. I don’t recall calling her Beth or any other nickname. She allowed me to undress her and kiss her all over her body, but she would not let me kiss her mouth.

She obstructed any kind of intercourse for the night. I tried hard all night at no avail. I suspected the reason for her behavior and decided to ask her in the morning. In the morning, she let me enter her, fixating me with her black large eyes, frigid and stone faced all the while.

I asked her: “Elisabeth, what’s the deal now?” She replied: “I had to punish you. You cannot ask another girl when I am around”

At breakfast, she said that there is an emergency at her house and that she needed money. I offered her ten Naira.  She went ballistic and screamed: “Ten Naira? You bloody cheap! I could break your ugly glasses!”

The scoreboard was heavily tipped on her side: My lame excuse was that I had the right of choice. Surely, my excuse would never balance a modicum sense of decency for all the money in the world. Beside, she has not taken money the first time for me to do business as usual.

The day to leave Nigeria was near. I asked the driver to let Elisabeth know of the departure date. She met me with her beautiful girlfriend at the gate: They were not allowed to enter the tarmac. I sadly waved to these generous hearts.

My return at Lagos airport was not accompanied by company officials. I was searched five times and finally, I had to give away all my tiny bottles of liquors to get through.

I kept a picture of us, Elisabeth and me, embraced and smiling. I kept a picture of her beautiful girlfriend too. Polaroid photographers in that “dancing” joint had to make a living.

Note: All current articles and essays are published first in the category “finance/politics”


109.  Are Free-Trade Zones in the Middle East being worked out? (December 1, 2008)


110.  What is this “Greater Syria Nation”? (December 3, 2008)


111.  A cultural political movement in Lebanon (December 4, 2008)


112.  After Iraq: Any good news in and out? (December 7, 2008)



113.  What is “Syria National Social Party”? (Part 1, December 5, 2008)


114.  Who is Jesus of Nazareth?  (December 6, 2008)


115.  What is “Syria National Social Party”? (Part 2, December 6, 2008)


116.  Joblessness or “what ignite dormant revolutions” (December 6, 2008)


117.  Blood all over the floor (December 8, 2008)


118.  What is “Syria National Social Party”? (Part 3, December 9, 2008)


119.  Is Democracy a panacea for every social ill and for change? (December 9, 2008)


120.  Sociology: a sub-field of climatology?  (December 10, 2008)


121.  Judas Iscariot (December 11, 2008)


122.  A Moratorium on State Terrorisms (December 12, 2008)


123.  Bi-weekly report (#4) on Lebanon (December 12, 2008)


124.  Any dignity left? (December 13, 2008)


125.  Is religion still monopolizing our fears? What about technology? (December 14, 2008)


126.  Hot spots: border pretexts (December 15, 2008)


127.  Jesus Christ: A reconstructed biography (December 16, 2008)


128.  Human Rights: from contentions to standardization (December 17, 2008)


129.  Political self-criticism: kinds and applications (December 17, 2008)


130.  Bi-weekly report (#5) on Lebanon (December 18, 2008)

131.  The Oriental Christian sects in the Middle East (December 20, 2008)


132.  The largest and best planned scheme in history: executed by the worst cowards of all (December 22, 2008)


133.  Re-defining histories (December 23, 2008)


134. Zionism: an ideology of apartheid, terror, and crimes against humanity (December 24, 2008)


135.  Hypnotized reasoning (December 27, 2008)


136.  Bi-weekly report (#6) on Lebanon (December 27, 2008)


137. “Trailing a butterfly” by late Palestinian Mahmoud Darwish (Part 1, December 29, 2008)


138. “Trailing a butterfly” by late Palestinian Mahmoud Darwish (Part 2, December 30, 2008)


139.  “As the Crow lost his way” (A short story, December 30, 2008)


140.  No food, no medicine, and no oil for Gaza:  just exploding bombs (December 30, 2008)


141.  Top Gun (December 31, 2008)

142. “Trailing a butterfly” by late Palestinian Mahmoud Darwish (Part 3, December 31, 2008)

“Why am I how I am?”: Four Supporting Factors


Reason #6: Ideology


The next year I joined a political party. 

With next to nothing in political awareness I was carried away.

I was approached by close friends who already joined the party.

I attended secret lectures on the principles and doctrine of the party.

I read many of its literature and the writings of its leader.

I agreed on many terms of its principles and moral standings.

I still would not have joined if not for urgent nudging.

Even after joining I was not satisfied until I read the literature

Of the alternative political parties to compare and strengthen my belief.

I did not care for the positions of the right wing political parties.

I focused my ideological education on those claiming to be leftists.

I read all the volumes of Karl Marx, Lenin, and Mao Tse Tong.

I even read Kim Il Sung, go figure!

I slaved for that party:  I spent my scares financial resources which I did not earn.

I invested much time and efforts in organizing, marching in demonstrations,

Participating in ceremonies, attending the required meetings, and basically,

Wasted the better of my university years in chimera.

I failed to excel in my academic studies.

I failed to striving for good grades and looking forward for a brighter personal future.


Joining wholeheartedly a political party or any civic association could have advantages.

It could be an excellent decision that open varied opportunities for youth.

It can develop their personal potentials and connect with proper referrals.

Not this particular party and not for me.

My political party was a pariah to the Lebanese system of governance.

Theoretically, your application for joining the party is kept a secret;

Absolutely not true, but what youth knows?

Many political parties offer ways for advancement and jobs.

In my case, all public services and administrative position in the State were closed to me.

Even teaching in the public schools and most private schools were prohibited for me.

Political parties need leaders, directors, managers, and mostly “soldiers”.

The leaders are usually selected from the outspoken and the well connected.

My fate was to slave in the dark, spend my money and be an extra number.

Time is of the essence and the most critical at this juncture of my life.

I wasted time and efforts amply in the wrong direction and purpose.


These university years were the best in cultural development.

I spent countless hours seeing movies, watching theater plays and attending conferences.

Alone, always alone.


Reason #7: Smoking


I started smoking at the age of 26, just to fit in a bar exhibiting girls dancing nude.

I could not stand the taste or smell of cigarettes but managed to finish a box.

Slowly but surely I got hooked to smoking even though I still could not enjoy it.

I never even tried a single puff before then or was tempted to try.

This addiction to smoking precipitated my downfall:

I have been noticing substantial declines in whatever cognitive abilities I had.

I experienced lack of concentration on any subject for more than fifteen minutes.

My memory deteriorated even further.

I felt shortness in breathing, continuous coughing, and vocal degradation.

Smoking is nefarious for social relationships, especially among women.

Smoking is categorically not appreciated in a working environment.

I quit smoking for ten days: a beautiful girl made me promise for just that duration.

I fasted for 40 days because I wanted to share the fast of a Muslim friend of mine.

I excluded smoking from the constraints.


Reason #8: A social naïve


I am basically very naïve in social machinations.

This may not be a reason but a by-product of the previous reasons.

I keep my word even when I realize that the given promises were deceptive.

I once promised a manager to stay for a year as his assistant at a certain monthly pay.

The pay turned out to include the cost of many perks.

I resigned after a year.

I keep my part of any contract even when I discover that I have been abused.

I worked for four years at a job that was not within my domain:

I was promised a higher position after the work is finished.

I suffered stomach aches for six months:

The physical diagnoses didn’t show any cause.

It was a purely nervous work stress or a psychological factor.

But I fulfilled my contract.

I worked for five years in Real Estates, listing and selling private properties.

After two years of literal hunger I managed to earn a decent return on my persistence.

I spent lavishly on advertisement from my own pocket.

I had to convince the Internal Revenue Services of my poverty for months.

My profit was not commensurate to their assumptions by a long shot.

I consistently lowered my share on percentages which I thought were outrageous.

My position on commission rates raised the angst of my associates:

They activated a campaign to curtail my business and even kick me out of the syndicate.


Reason #9:  Lack of financial support and proper connections.


This reason might also be categorized as a byproduct;

It is at best a supporting factor;

As opposed to the previous basic and fundamental reasons.

My parents could not initiate another successful business after they returned to Lebanon.

While in the USA for higher education the civil war in Lebanon was raging.

My folks had no money coming in.

They even lost the remaining of their financial resources.

The devaluation of the Lebanese pound reduced their savings to nothing.

I had to fend for myself though the original plan was to visit every summer.

Now, many overseas Lebanese students were purchasing the latest car models.

I was pedaling a two-speed bicycle; the only transportation available to me.

There were no public transportation facilities in town.

I slung a backpack over my shoulders for provisions and whatever errands.

As a matter of facts all the cars that I bought were old and cheap.

Cars ruined me and I ended up giving them away to charity organizations:

I could not afford to repair them.

I had no family or relative connections whatsoever to providing any recourse or news.

Many students could get married for the purpose of obtaining the American citizenship.

I lived for over 20 years in the USA and did not secure even a Green Card;

An essential mean and requirement to be hired by any established company.

Strong connection or backed by powerful referrals do secure good jobs.

Many worthwhile jobs were denied me on the basis of not having this lousy Green Card;

It also disqualified me from a few important university projects.

The projects were directly or indirectly financed by the all pervasive Defense Ministry.

Introspection: Kim (Addendum #4)

What’s Wrong With You Men! (Nov. 2002)

She was separated from a Yugoslavian guy and was taking care of her two years old boy. Korean by origin, she was a peculiar beauty and somewhat chest flat. I don’t recall her name. Yes, it is Kim, or at least the odds are high for Kim. Kim for Kimberly, the odds could be much lower. The story is in Houston 1978.

She used to dance with every guy who asked her to dance. Rumors were spreading that she needs a man. I danced with her.  She enjoyed my dancing. Kim gave me her phone number with some prodding.

I called her the next day for efficiency reasons but she kept giving me excuses. I called her often to refresh her memory of which guy I might be. Many calls and persistence gave fruits for a date. She gave me her full address with directions.

I visited Kim at her apartment and was surprised to see her baby boy. She needed a listening ear and valiantly tried to make conversation. Warding off my hot hands, my hands were valiantly responding to her talk. Kim gave in.  It was quick.

I felt sorry. She felt sorry. Helplessly she said:” What’s wrong with you men? All you have in mind is that!”

I never felt so ashamed, so little and insignificant in my life. I felt a surge of great pity for her and for myself. I wished I could make up for a lifetime friendship with her.

It could not be possible. When a relationship fails at the start, women know better not to resume.




January 2022

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