| .is there life after pink? |
. excerpts from: IS THERE LIFE AFTER PINK? post-prozac what happens when the box is empty? what happens when therapy is over? what happens when it's time to move on? pink is a specific state of mind. it can not be anything else but pink. pink is the color of prozac and mtv. pink is loud and a lesser version of red; pink is a broken red. pink is cheap and quick; it is sublime hysteria. pink is watching some people and an "american indian" perform a sacred ritual on baywatch. pink is a value meal. pink is a super combo. i used to be red, then something happened. i died. when i died, i started doing all sorts of silly things, like falling in love with a sniper. i can't be sugar, because pink is violent. i can't be violet or purple, because pink is ridicule and disaster. and i most definitely can not be mint green because i don't even know what that color looks like.
3. i remember once when i was very young, we wanted to go to the movies, but there were no movie houses working as there was a civil war raging. it was a very hot summer day. faysal got us into his fiat. where was this movie house he was taking us to? he drove us into the souk, parked the car and told us to wait. he walked into a small shop that sold all kinds of tin food, candies and any kind of household goods you could think of. we could see him talking to an old man. the old man was shaking his head and then waving his arms. faysal grabbed one arm and held him down and then pointed to us in the car. our eyes met his. and for a split second there was communication. our eyes were pleading for a movie. any movie. and so he consented. after a hand shake, the old man gave faysal some keys. he came out of the shop grinning. we knew it was a good sign. ok get out. we scrambled out. i remember my thighs making a ripping sound as i unstuck them from the hot sticky plastic seat. we toppled out of the car. i remember not knowing why i was so excited. but i could feel my heart bursting out of its cage. we walked towards a big brown door. faysal tried the key. it didn't work. after several attempts, he threw away the keys and broke the door down with a push of his shoulder. the doors swung open. for a while no one moved. we were in awe at the silence coming out of the space. we must have looked really strange. a man and three kids staring into a smelly dark space. " yalla , come on, follow me." faysal took the first steps into the room, holding sari's hand. nids went in next and i, last. i remember feeling a little scared. a cold wind washed over me, leaving goose bumps over my flesh. i stood at the edge of the entrance. hesitating to follow. trying to understand the space i had just walked into. as my eyes adjusted to the darkness, i began making out posters on the wall. they were pictures of sylvester stalone, arnold schwatznegger, and some other people i didn't know. they were movie posters. as my eyes roamed a little more, i made out a ticket booth and more posters. i was in a movie house! my realization was met bittersweet, for at the same moment, i realized i was completely alone. i could make out faysal and nid's voice up ahead but, couldn't see them. the joy turned into panic. i was alone. the cool breeze turned into a warm claustrophobia. i could make out a smell of decay as my eyes groped around, still adjusting to the darkness. the voices seemed light years away. the door we walked in through slammed shut behind me. it was so dark, i couldn't tell if my eyes were open or closed. the shrill came from my very soul. from the bones in my toes to the roots of my hair. i called for faysal. half way through the scream, someone grabbed my arm. "hey, do you want to get us thrown out?" faysal pulled me towards him, " yalla , keep up, we're right next to you." i guess my scream must have scared sari because i could hear nidal trying to console his sobbing. faysal pushed me into what felt like a chair. "come on guys, sit down." i grabbed sari's hand and told him everything was going to be ok. then faysal disappeared again. i began to imagine the space. three kids alone in the pitch dark, in a movie theatre. how many seats were there? 100? 200? 500? it was a strange kind of excitement. fear of the dark, of the unknown and a pleasure of knowing we were going to watch a movie!! i had only been to the movies in america and they were always so nice there. would this be the same? my thoughts were interrupted by a clattering up above. we could make out a dim light. most probably faysal's lighter as it was an interrupted flicker. "hey, what do you guys want? rambo or schwartznegger?" "rambo!!" we yelled back in unison.
5. beirut in 1994 was pretty damn cool. the war was just over, so the streets were relatively safe. there were practically no rules. no driving rules. no drinking rules. no nothing. it was pure freedom. the only thing i had to worry about was making it to class occasionally. and, not running into my grandmother first thing in the morning as my boyfriend and i would try and sneak past her on our way to university. it worked 9 times out of 10. when she did catch me i would sometimes pretend i was too late to answer questions and dash out and if she was really cranky, i would deny his presence beside me. hoping that she'd believe that she was just seeing things in this crazy beirut heat. back to nids. he has an obsession with mosquitoes. he's always trying to kill them because he thinks they're all out to get him. he does this thing in his room. he kills mosquitoes by smacking them on the wall. their tiny little bodies squished up against the wall by a rolled up magazine. then he leaves them there, blood, ooze and all as a sign to all the other mosquitoes. it's a warning. get the hell out of my room or end up on the wall like your friend here. a long long time ago, just before i was moving to beirut. nids had a talk with me. he told me not to let it get to my head. not to go crazy. you know what these beirut people are like. they're all crazy because of the war. the war is not the only thing that will make you crazy. it's also the family. family is really tight here. it's too much. aunts and cousins and uncles and grand parents and friends of the family and family that live up in the mountains and family that live in syria. i promised nids that i would retain my mind. that i would never let it get to me. and i think i've done quite well so far. i'm not the one smacking mosquitoes. i always wonder how i made it in beirut for so long... and then i realize i didn't. at first it was all about the novelty. post-war beirut. what a cool word. a real reason to exist. a real reason to be walking the path headed towards the meaning of life. post-war meant 6 to 12 hours of electricity. this was in beirut and of course the city got the most hours of electricity (compare to the suburbs 3-6 hours or the mountains 3 hours if you were lucky). post war also meant experiencing stores, restaurants, movie theaters that opened up after being shut down for the last 25 years. the interiors were as if time stood still. which it literally did during the war. so everything had a cool sort of retro look. beirut in the 90's looked like it was still in the 60's and 70's. so retro was in, without it being self-consciously hip. it was hip without the pretension. how much more perfect could that be. it was authentic. original. and real. and everything smelled old. old wood. old leather. old logos. old colors. post-war beirut was like walking through a museum at every street corner. it was an experience to have a cup of tea at a sidewalk cafe. it felt real. like life had a real meaning. that we were truly living. that we were the coolest fucking people on earth. the only real people left. that we were the center of cool. we were cool itself. we were discovering what it was like to drink and drive at ultimate speeds. we were the ones breaking into houses that were boarded up during the war. we discovered the black and white photos. the orange telephones. the forgotten wedding dresses. we drove around and defied army check points. i was the only girl awake at 4 in the morning. walking along the cornishe. talking to the sea. one day you and i will be two daises in a field of sheep. but they will not eat us cuz we will tell them jokes. we stayed up for hours rehearsing poetry by candlelight. not to be romantic, but because of no electricity. which i suppose was romantic in it's own way. you can always tell a lebanese by their key chains. there is always a mini mag light and a makeshift swiss army knife. always be prepared. back then, it was cool to wear your grandmother's clothes and cooler to wear your pyjamas to university. we really thought we were breaking all the rules. after 25 years of war, the society can tend to be a little on the conservative side. i remember back then, heroine was really cheap, and consequently really in. but not me, no way, never touched the stuff. it seemed like there was a dark cloud passing over beirut when everyone was suddenly getting caught. you know when you see a guy with his head shaved that he no longer will be touching that stuff and will most probably, sooner if not later, be deported from the country. a shaved head meant a night with the cops. ask a fellow to open his shirt and lo and behold you will find a set or two of broken ribs. the cops in this town are ruthless. heroine, marijuana, coke, it's all the same punishment. a good beating from the cops and a haircut to go with it. you'd be lucky to make it out alive. it's always the kids with the rich parents or good "wasta" that make it out alive. *wasta: connections. you need connections to get anything done in lebanon. even if it's something as simple as registering for a class. if you don't have wasta, you could have to wait in line for 3 days before your university advisor agrees to see you. the maganatise : the maganatise is a theory by nids. he believes that the reason people are so aggressive in this country is because the electro-magnetic waves emanating from the ground under beirut is very very strong. it creates a lot of energy that makes people angry, frustrated and down right mean. so on a bad day, nids can often be quoted with, "the maganatise is strong today". by the way maganatise is the arabic way of saying the magnetic pull. my counter theory: my counter theory is that it is not the magnatise that is pissing off everyone, but rather the souls of all the dead people still roaming the streets of beirut. people who were killed by snipers, bombs, explosions, assassinations, mines, etc... most of these people died for no reason, didn't receive proper funerals, and now they're really pissed off and are taking it out on the living. the worst spots are the tunnels. people were killed there in hundreds and their bodies left to rot for ages. i'd be pretty pissed off too. i try and avoid the tunnels as much as i can. a few years after the novelty of post war wore off, the country fell into a state of depression. everyone was rebuilding and everyone was in debt. there was nothing to do. no where to hang out. people getting fat. bald. sweaty. working long hard hours for a minimal salary. where was the stress of war? where was the excitement of running into the bomb shelter at 2 in the morning with all your neighbours? where did all the bonding go? the card games? school being shut down? communal dinners? enter prozac. xanax. enter lexotanil. at least one person in each family has suffered from a nervous breakdown. at least one person in each family is on anti-depressants. at least 2 people in each family has experienced anti depressants. at least 3 people in each family is suffering from clinical depression. enter nicotine. alcohol. enter hashish. enter. enter. end. 9. i saw a commercial on tv and it said: buy her a diamond ring, make her keep falling in love. out here in the west, people take each other too lightly. out here, we're just bodies interacting. all our morals and cultures are disregarded. all feelings quenched. nothing means anything. everyone strives to lose themselves. but, at the same time can't stand to be alone. the further away you can get from your mind and your heart, the better you function. and love and honesty is replaced by false realities and anonymous sex. they won't accept to see their loss. they would never be caught crying. they find comfort in the system. and this system turns them into cold machines. i know you know all this. i know you can see it. but, for how long?
13. generation protest august 7, 2001 we were born with nothing to fight for. no world war. no immediate threat of hostile take over. we are bored. we have nothing to "fight for." there is no way to fill in our parents shoes. so we create myths. to keep us alive. pretend wars. wars of the mind; depression, boredom, fatigue, disinterest, anxiety, xanax, lexotanil, prozac. we create the alien image and create cults. something to believe in. anything. please, anything to make me feel like i'm part of something greater. something better. go to the gym, go to the mall. go anywhere, anywhere but here. the anarchists, the leftists, the bourgeois, the cool, the hip, thug life, seattle, quebec, genoa, quatar. must stop eating. must vomit more. must buy. must have. must own. must wear. i am gay. am i gay. i wish i was gay. i'm gay when it suits me. at a club, at a bar, at an interview, on tv. rave. rave on. glow in the dark. take some pills. smoke some pot. drink a little more. just a little more. to help me forget. to take me somewhere. to be someone else. anyone but me. just a little more. just a little on the plump side. just a little unhappy. just a little confused. it's ok. i'll be fine. just a little coke. just a little speed. just something to pick me off my feet and i'll be fine. just this one last time and i'll be fine. post-prozac. what happens when the box is empty? what happens when therapy is over. what happens when it's time to move on. move in. move where. move now. now what. what am i supposed to do. who am i supposed to fight. who am i. what is my purpose. how am i supposed to make it. what kind of job am i supposed to work. what type of man am i to marry. do i want to marry. i don't want to be alone. not anymore. do i want kids. doesn't it hurt. i need a legacy. i need to feel complete as a woman. women are here to have kids, right? if we don't then who will. but i can't have kids. i can't take care of them. i don't know how. what if they start crying. what if they get sick and die. what's the point. then. what. for. need. a husband first. what kind. from where. from which part of my past. from my religion. yes, definitely. undoubtedly. no. don't want to . yes, i must. no. it's not fair. yet, i don't have a choice. too bad. good luck. better luck in the next life time. better luck next time. ok. no kids. need to create. something. anything. don't leave me alone with my mind. "me love you." something external. something meaningful. paint. sculpt. rip. stick. plastic. glass. pins and needles. here, there. that looks right. that feels right. just a little better. just a little better than before. and i don't have to worry about it crying. no, i don't have to worry about it dying. and if that's still not enough, i can always put on a pair of combat boots and protest. protest against mcdonalds. protest for women's rights. protest against globalization. protest against animal tested products. protest against the corrupt government. protest against the system. protest to protest. protest against mother. protest against father. protest for a better life. a faster car. longer lunch breaks. better programming. anti-depressants. bigger. better. faster. harder. stronger. content. happier. meaningful. fulfilling. oblivious. painless. entertaining. destructively time consuming. anything to buy the time. to make the time go faster. hurry up. hurry up and get me there. instantaneous. perfect. now. now. now. how long does it take for this pain killer to work? another disaster. another war. switch the channel. i can chose not to watch. i can chose not to know.
16. body and out of reason, spawned the adversary, as it became self-aware and congratulated it's existence. then reason called for help and from reason and evil, the soul was created. but the soul was not enough, so a body was made to contain. which gave room to exercise the word and the antecedent. the body is home to cause and effect. thesis and anti-thesis manifest in the body.
17. my head i think i have a big head. it would make a beautiful canvass.
23. untitled we have a habit of running into each other between the hours of 8 to 10 pm. our friend, the disenchanted singer relishes on memories of the past. when his voice rang clear and true. without the breaking resulting from his discreet use of heroine. and every 15 minutes is forced to excuse himself to the bathroom. of which he emerges in what looks like either a heavy sweat or a bout in the sink. he munches loudly on crispy fries. proudly belches remnants of his hormone invested meat burger. occasionally, his voice runs away with him only to be halted, usually followed by another excursion to the toilet. what is this song he sings. and who is the audience in his head. is he tall and bellowy or small and dainty. does he sing of love or sadly love's regrets. and what of the humming. is it the same. we walk into this joint demanding our tasty meat burgers. meat burgers clothed in north face parkas. tables placed close together as we intimately munch on our meat burgers, our eyes being to shift around the room. trying to make a connection. trying to pair up for the night. the chicken eaters usually place themselves at the far left corner of the space. close to the door. eager. ready. to make an efficient exit when required. the chicken eaters are effective. they know each other. the nods of their heads as they nibble away betrays their inability to contain their excitement. physically, a common trait they share are their scrawny legs. their hair is also usually greasy. the chicken eaters are quick about their business. a tall man walks by. his glasses are smeared in the corner. grease from the burger or cum from the toilet? it is impossible to tell as both liquids, resembling each other in viscosity, are just as integral and recurrent in the lives of the chicken eaters. big moe stands in the corner of the bathroom stall. he is sweating again. the pills have failed to work this month. his immunity has dropped again. as he urinates, a small song begins to creep out his throat. this is his favorite stall. no one around at this time. and through the emptiness, his voice resonates well. he shakes off. his warm fingers around his dick trigger off a vision in his head. the girl sitting near him, opening her mouth to insert a cheeseburger. her succulent lips wet with desire. her eyes wandering to the left. trying not to reveal her excitement. he wonders if she noticed him sweating. his body is hot now. he runs his fingers across his dick and then with a quick grab, begins to pump up and down. there was no need to build up. he came almost instantly.
24. amerika on some days, it feels as if i'm going to burst.
29. the militia man 2 he is dark. dark skin. dark hair. dark beard. he wears a plain colored shirt. it could be an olive green or white. his hair is ruffled. down to his shoulders. he is thin and unkempt. his hands are dirty and rough. he is ruthless. all emotions of love and happiness have been killed off. along with his family. when he fucks, it is hurried and spontaneous. most of the time with his pants still on. there are only three things that make him happy. johnny walker. kalashinkov. and hashish.
30. the militia man 1 he joined the palestinian training squad just so that he could shoot a kalashinkov. he used to crawl under barbwire. he used to drink whiskey at the barbers. once he was bored and grabbed a couple of guys, drove up to chutura, finishing off 10-12 bottles of beer each. now they are all employed as security guards, chauffeurs, bouncers at super night-clubs, or personal body guards. but, now that the violence is gone, they are bored. things just aren't as much fun these days. "they made us give back everything. all semi-automatic weapons. but i kept my magnum. no one could take her away from me. close to my side. as always. not for any pressing need, but you never know. you just never know when things are going to break out again. and besides, that's where she's always been. why should that be any different now? not to mention, there's always that long drive back home every night. out of beirut, through the suburbs and up the mountains, into the wife's arms, already waiting on her back. good girl. sometimes i try and tell these kids about some of the stories. i know they could never understand. this generation is pampered and intoxicated by television. what would they know. and besides, they'd probably think i was regurgitating an old episode of mc giver. which they accuse me of watching too much of. anyways, what would they know. if it weren't for us, they would not be here. there would be no lebanon. no family. and what do we get in return? forgotten by our communities. perhaps, perhaps it's better this way. at least this way, my secrets will stay safe. the screaming remains locked in my heart. the smells. the taste. sweat. blood. gunfire. burning. burning trees. burning flesh. no, they could never understand."
31. noha sits in front of the tv. she is wearing an electric green sweater with horizontal red stripes. she reads the subtitles out loud. we're watching xena, princess warrior.
32. the porn theater in my car. on bliss street.. i swipe a sip from my plastic water bottle. switched the water with wine. the heat is unbearable, but i don't care. i need the buzz. i am parked right outside the local porn theater. before the war, it used to hosts the classics straight out of hollywood. situated right across the street from the university, it was prime in its days. during the war, a militia took over the locale and rendered it useless. a meeting point for endless debates on some macho bullshit no one remembers any more. today, it stands practically empty. and the only thing keeping it alive is the daily screening of the latest or sometimes classic porn flick. and sometimes, sometimes if you're lucky, you can catch an action pic or something that was censored and never made it to the movies. like kalifornia. la poliziotta a new york; a half naked stewardess in caricature riding a boeing with several other cast members. sleeping with strangers, braveheart, blue chill, the family jewels and possibly something in arabic. the italian flicks seem to be most available. something with a long title: san pasquale babylonne protettore delle donne. la trappola de veneria and some chinese flicks. edisson theater there is no way you're keeping your rent on these cheap flicks. what's going on, really? what are you hiding. who are you hiding. a man walks by me dictating into a machine.
33. my cat's name is chloe. but in lebanon everyone pronounces it as kelewee . kelewee in arabic means kidney. so my cat's name is really kidney.
39. new yorkers have a bad habit of walking into shit. i don't, cuz i think about it a lot |