Category Archives: Stubborn Love

Emergence

I’ve been avoiding reading through Marion’s previous adventures. I feel as if I have disappointed her. I left her trapped inside the electronic pages of a fool for words’ blog, from which she never emerged. I tried, but the thing with writing (or with me) is I can’t force it. It has to call for me. It has to come to me. I can’t sit myself down and decide to take Marion places. She calls on me to go wherever she wants, and I take her: to her love and back, to her hometown and back, my words take her wherever she wishes –  the romantic fool in me – and she’s always been happy that way. I always got her, and she got me, never forcing me into an area of discomfort. She’s been one of my realest friends for a very long time, but this year, she is laying so incredibly low, I can barely sense her presence, and it pains me, because Marion and I, we grew older together, we lived each other’s realities and fantasies, whilst always somehow managing to stay side by side.

-courtesy of a first full of bolts-

-courtesy of a fist full of bolts-

I just finished reading Paula Hawkins’ Girl on the Train, and throughout the whole novel, I kept thinking to myself: how could her main protagonist be so rough of a character? How did Paula manage to bring her into life so vividly whilst preserving her own sanity? She seemed very much alive to me that I’m so envious of them both right now. I’ve got to make this happen, and I will. Hang in there Marion. I am coming for you.


Stubborn Love

The city is unusually quiet for a sunny Sunday morning. His almond tree has blossomed. The fact that almond trees do grow in the city in this part of the world has always bewildered her. “Only in Lebanon”, he’d always say, and she’d always laugh.

The last time she saw him was in Berlin, over a year ago. He tried winning her back then, to no avail. They haven’t spoken since. What if he’s changed houses? Fallen in love?? Eloped? But his almond tree is here, has blossomed and is fruitful. There must be life here. There’s no turning back.

photoHer bare feet are almost one with the ground. She’s given up France, her (second) engagement, her few but precious friendships, to be here, on a sunny Sunday morning. He loves Sunday mornings.

It’s all behind her now; the manuscripts, the debates. All she sees is this door, not the ripples in the walls, or the dry plants. All she sees is the almond tree.

Her stubborn heart that’s been set on him for over twelve years is no longer petrified by the constant medley of unspoken words racing through her every thought. Her few wrinkles and grey hairs have crossed paths with people of all courses of life, forgotten names and faces (but never his). She’s here, in the now, and what matters is for her to take this one step forward.

She glances around quickly: an 80-something couple are slowly walking their dog outside (or is it the other way around?!), a woman is jogging with an apparent residue of last night’s smoky eyes, and the Ka’ak vendor is here, always up so early, ever so enthusiastic. He recognizes her and waves; she smiles. “He’s always looked so content”, she thinks to herself.  Has he ever endured the same social or religious barriers she’s been struggling with all of her life or does knowing less make him happier? Is that the sight of victory? Is that why they say ignorance is bliss? Either way, she’s not settling for the unknown this time. Not this morning. All she hears is her heartbeat. With all the will and the hope and the fear and the faith and the love in her heart, she walks forward and knocks on his door.

He’s here…


You own his heart

“Anything could happen; take a step back and stand still for things to take their natural course. Take the bystander position, and let your life take its course. Do not interfere with whatever the universe is planning out for you. Trust that everything will be alright and it will be.”409448_10152420633145601_1055826654_n

But how? How is it possible for me to stifle this feeling of fear invading my heart? How can I go about my day knowing only he owns my heart, while all I own of him, at the moment, is yet again a fading memory of an embrace?

“Your heart was gifted to you so that you can gift it to others. It will wander around many places before it finds its comfort in the right place at the right time. Let it be, leave it. Fear not that it will be broken. It shall heal when the time is right, it has in the past and it will continue to in the future. What you own of him is what you decide you want to own. If the memory of an embrace does not suffice you, then you might want to choose not to own it. The question however is: Do you want more?”

I do, I want more, I want more warmth, I also want more of his skin and more of his mind melting into mine. I want more of him and more of the “me” that only his presence ignites in me. Yes, I do, I want more.

“Fear will not bring you more. Be open and receptive to the world around you. Be willing to accept things as they come. Don’t fight to make things happen, want them to happen, believe that you can make them happen, and then you will see. They will, without you having to fight. Open your eyes and your heart. Your fear has misled you. You do own his heart. I saw it in his eyes that night. You own his existence. Love him, fear not, give your heart to him, and allow for the warmth you’ve long been longing for to surround you.. for as long as it’s meant to.”


It smelled of daisies…

It was a dead cold afternoon in Berlin. She however felt all warm the minute she set foot at the airport. She was relatively excited about this trip. Her book was at last seeing light and she was mildly at ease with pimping her memoir out to readers on mediocre TV and Radio Channels. She had already determined to develop a better sense of flexibility and receptiveness, so there she was, trying to find her way to the Adlon, one of the city’s Top Notch hotels- according to her publisher, particularly following the screening of Liam Neeson’s “Unknown” (not a fan, but she was never one to complain).

The rain was getting heavier outside as she attempted to have what turned out to be a rather awkward conversation with her taxi driver. His French was as poor as her German, and chit-chatting proved to be quite a challenge. She reached out to her diary aiming to work around her one and a half day itinerary in the city instead. Her plans were rather uncomplicated: Grab a bite at the Gel-Gor, the contender of the world’s best Kebab, maybe tonight after her radio interview, and then visit the Pergamon Museum early morning tomorrow before her TV appearance.

Voila, l’Adlon! The feeling of warmth in hephoto(3)r belly suddenly jumped up a notch. “What is it exactly about Berlin?”, she wondered to herself as she made her way towards the Front Desk. “Hello, I have a room reservation for tonight please, under the name of Marion Estefan”.

“Of course Madam, allow me a moment please”, said the receptionist with a narrow smile. She could use a nap right now. She might actually doze off a little before heading out tonight. The hotel was busy, quite fancy, and smelled of winter daisies. Her publisher never got it wrong. As her eyes jadedly gazed around the lobby, she encountered a rather familiar sight. Did her heart just stop a little? It was him, at the very left end of the lobby, engaged in what looked like a serious philosophical debate with two fellow poets she once had the pleasure of meeting, while sipping his regular double espresso. His usual bedhead hair was brushed back for a change, a la perfection, and that navy blue outfit was sure working wonders for his demeanor. She secretly panicked, and as he took notice of her presence from afar and excused himself to walk his charm over and say hello, her make-up free face unwillingly lit up.

“What brings you to Berlin?”, he asked pleasantly surprised . “The book is ready, and I’m here for the night”, she said slowly trying to suppress her awe, and curb the overflow of her foolish emotions.

“The famous book is ready at last? Will I get a copy? Am I in it?”, he asked playfully. “I’m afraid not Sir, but I’ll make sure I save an autographed copy for you”, she joked not looking him in the eye (rather lied, as he was there on every single page).

“Hand it to me over dinner tonight. I know a place downtown with exquisite kebabs, Gel-Gor, you must have heard of it. Pick you up at 9:30?”

Oh dear, if he only knew he had her long before Gel-Gor…


A lot like love

She’s recently been finding herself quite unable to comprehend “love”. Throughout the years, she’s come to realize it does entail much more than supersized butterflies in her stomach and bittersweet tingles at her fingertips. She’s come to realize love is actually quite demanding, and a constant attention-seeker, smartly pushing  all her senses towards relentlessly being at its command:  chemistry, passion, desire, familiarity, affection, patience, forgiveness, logic, awareness, acceptance, inner peace, conviction, beliefs, amongst many others of course.
So this decade, she’s set one resolution, a single resolution: to uncomplicate the complicated: fresh air, light moves, happy food, and simplified feelings..is what she’s opting for as of this year. A lot like love, a bit of butterflies here, a bit of tingles there.. the utter beauty of the simplest things.

Photograph courtesy of Viola’ 


Joie de vivre

Her hand instantly gets bashful as she attempts to hold her pen (her grandmother’s lucky pen- and all she has left of her). It’s an absolute uncontrollable innate feeling within her soul, this passion for writing. Time and over again, she has tried to fool herself to believe it has vanished- to no avail-it always makes a comeback and proves her erroneous. She’s been fond of writing forever and a day…so secretly, so silently – (her grandmother always knew it- she misses her everyday and can still picture her reading Baudelaire aloud by the fire in the living room downstairs).

She’s grown older- writing about him still tops her interest list, in spite of the years that are elapsing so swiftly. She wonders if she looks older – she thinks he does, but then again- maybe not quite really. She remains thankful to have been there to witness this incremental transformation in his features. He was a lighthearted foolish  boy when she first tripped for his obsession with violins, collecting stamps and brown-banded cockroaches- he now is the man (but then again still the boy) she has been fond of all of her life, still so secretly and silently-  just like she has been fond of her writings. There is this never- ending link between him and those manuscripts of hers.  He’s been her muse, her sculpture- the masterpiece of her finger tips and oh, the words: he effortlessly makes them flow – never ceasing to make her heart  pour contradicting assorted emotions exclusively sensed for him (regardless of how dashing he was, he did find his joie-de-vivre in befriending what she dreaded most- cockroaches that is).

“It’s peculiar indeed -she thinks to herself-  how he’s been floating in my mind throughout my aging years ” Truth is she doesn’t mind his cockroaches anymore- as a matter of fact, they might just be starting to grow on her- yes, absolutely. Oh what insane manias a woman can do/ think/ tolerate- for the sake of love. She is ceaselessly youthful when she writes about him – or think about him, the (not so) modest moments she thinks af him still- her distinctive piece of art & astounding marvel..


Hay Hats

(She puts on a mild smirk as she rushes to her father’s room and tucks him into bed. His health has drastically deteriorated in the past few months- doctors have lost hope…)

She has spent her life in this house, vagabonding in the wheat fields, befriending birds and bees – she never thought she’d leave. So many nights, she sneaked out and hid behind the olive tree – in an attempt to immerse in her writings, or her dreams. It was underneath those sacred branches that she found herself… This is her sacred tree, the bearer of her secrets, the refuge of her journal and her heart…. The witness of her transformation from child to adolescent to woman … in love and out of love…

Oh, how many times had she and her father put on their identical hay hats on and given in to their fantasies in those fields. She was Coco Chanel, a French rebellion with a fascination for hats, men clothing and men themselves, while he was Jean Val Jean, Hugo’s unfortunate undercover hero who struggled with law wrongness and social injustice until the day he died – but he died pure at heart… just like her father will not more than a week from tonight… or so claim the doctors…

She will not leave this house… her father will be buried here, by the sacred tree that he loves, by the fields he has long cherished, by the birds and the bees he looked after all of his life… this is where he belongs, and this is where he shall be put to eternal rest… when the time comes… oh how she wishes time would just stop at this very moment…