i sit in the pink pyjamas. a mug of hot cocoa from bruges has just been gulped to soothe the grating in my throat. it was rich and wholesome as only chocolate from europe can be. yummy..and i suddenly had the urge to open this blog page and blurt again. life has been whirring by with the occasional flutters. for the first time i enjoyed the fall, though. the crispy foliage and edward hopper views. auburn leaves marrying the orange ones, bullying the green ones. a pumpkin in the back of my car has spilled its rotten guts onto the smooth carpet interior and now halloween for me smells of rotten pumpkins that don't destain..instead of the wafting aroma of pumpkin cinnamony spiced lattes and scones from the coffee cartel..it is starting to get chilly now and the darkness creeps in earlier everyday, but i am dreaming of a fireplace and roasted chestnuts and hardwood floors that will be a shade between brazilian cherry and plain old cherry..and a beautifully winding wooden staircase overlooking windows of stained glass and stained flowers..a front porch worthy of a mint julep and a swing. a sun room filled with sun...yes, the hopes and dreams of a new home buyer..

yesterday i took a little detour from the interstate on my way back from work. Ambushed the twirling roads, the cds in the door pockets of my car jittering, the little blue evil eye repeller bouncing, and the green hills rolling. i did not know there were hills in that area. portishead crooning. i opened the moon roof and the sun filtered in. there was lots of corn too. what was it, that sting song? fields of gold. More like a greenish version of gold. but it's true that in that moment everything was dancing...the cd's the evil eye thing my little monster of a car the corn portishead and the green missouri hills. and i did not want to reach wherever it was i was supposed to reach...i was content winding my way around the tiny road with the sun on my cheek and the wind blowing my hair straight into my mouth and my tongue trying to spit it out..one of those gargantuan "libellules" (i do not know the english word but this french word describes it perfectly) almost made its way into the car through the roof and i almost panicked but it whirred by like those little toys you buy in the supermarket, its enormous wings glinting in the distance.
i finally reached the (big) countryhouse with the elongated deck, wrinkled swimmingpool and "mowing" neignbour. i walked up, a bottle of wine in each hand, with slight trepidation because i wasn't sure why i was really invited.

self-talk

for the first time in my life, i'm at peace with myself. i'm even at peace with the restlessness, i've sort of accepted that it's just part of me, the part that will never rest. the driving helped. the one and a half hours on the fat road, forced to be with myself. i used to drown my thoughts out with NPR for the longest time, but now i shuffle the playlist and listen to those budding mental conversations. sometimes they make sense, other times they jump all over, skidding to a halt when i have to stop and fill gas (usually the thought of filling gas and how annoying the interruption is drives out all other thoughts). but listening to the thoughts, instead of banishing them to some deep realm in my brain, has really helped. i know this sounds nuttish but i have come to the realisation that i'd been deaf to myself for the longest time.

life is a fishy fishy deal..
that's all i wanted to say tonight, something deep and worthy of a facebook status

beirut continued

there are words called out somewhere. over the rubber tires and the smell of burning tar. across the landscape of huddled balconies and bulging curtains. in the wind. they glide over the purple streets. they slide over the people, the people of beirut. those people who clank their hammers and forge their metals and melt, melt in the undulating heat. 'come back'
'come back' i hear you
the child on the scooter on the crippled sidewalk wraps his way around the bends and the stuttering sewage holes. he misses the sturdy gentleman on the phone. he slips by unnoticed, groaning his way across the sea of scented strangers and stinking sweat.

beirut 1

in the car stuck in traffic. an assault of honks. they form a short interrupted octave. should we open the windows or turn on the ac. wait there's a breeze. keep it open. we are moving extremely slowly. my camera is ready and i snap one of the two disheveled men in the broken-down store. i don't know what they're selling. he smiles like a child. "look look she's taking a photo of me like on the lira". they both turn and pause. the car moves on. the balcony with rusted sinews of forged metal looks down on me and again i snap a picture. i suddenly lurch forward and grab the seat in front. "ya hayawen!" the man with the raybans and the cayenne is not glistening with sweat. in fact he looks so cool and collected while he attacks our car one more time. "wlek leik shou hal hayawen, ma byefham!"
and my little cousin presses forward stubbornly to block his way. the honks are getting louder and longer. the cars the weeds on the side of the road the dirty gravel are glistening with sweat. another balcony looks down displaying a series of white underwear, flanelles and long wailing shirts. black smoke rises. the little renault on the side coughs. a man is pushing his car up ahead, one hand on the wheel and the other pushing, straining with the swallowing heat.

connection

i've been twittering like mad these days. or tweeting. now blogging. then telephoning. smsing.
why this need to feel connected? why do some feel this need more than others?
what happened to sitting there for hours immersed in a book or an article or a thought?
am i afraid of my own thoughts? can't come up with an answer, and it's too long to tweet this for feedback