Tuesday, December 25, 2012

http://rupturedonline.com/ 's 2012 end-of-year lists

and i quote

I asked some of my favorite musician and artist friends, from Beirut and beyond, to list their 10 favorite albums of 2012…
Alternately, they could also provide me with a list of the records they listened to the most in 2012, regardless of date of release.



Nadine Khouri (musician)
- Patrick Watson: Adventures In Your Own Backyard
- Jess Bryant: Silvern
- Chilly Gonzales: Solo Piano II
- Fránçois & the Atlas Mountains: E Volo Love
- J. Allen: Wonder City
- Leonard Cohen: Old Ideas
- Flying Lotus: Until The Quiet Comes
- David Byrne & St. Vincent: Love This Giant
- Fiona Apple: The Idler Wheel Is Wiser Than The Driver Of The Screw And Whipping Cords Will Serve You More Than Ropes Will Ever Do
- Giant Giant Sand: Tucson

Allan Chaaraoui (musician, Lazzy Lung)
1- Death From Above 1979: You’re A Woman I Am A Machine
2- Cloud Nothings
3- Tame Impala: Lonerism
4- Zeus
5- Grizzly Bear: Shields
6- Free The Robots
7- Japandroids: Celebration Rock
8- Radiohead: The King Of Limbs
9- French Kicks: Two Thousand
10- Reverie Sound Review: An Anniversary Away

Zeid Hamdan (musician, Zeid & The Wings)
- Mayer Hawthorne: A Strange Arrangement
- Die Antwoord: Tension
- Rover: Self-titled
- EL Rass & Munma: Kachf El Mahjoub
- Alpha Blondy: Jah Glory
- Various Artists: Beirut Hotel OST
- Bassekou Kouyaté & Ngoni Ba: Segu Blue
- Sheikh Imam (various tracks)
- Oka W Ortega (various tracks)
- Zeid Hamdan: Roundtrip OST

enjoy


LX


Tuesday, December 18, 2012

nb



On the dancefloor in an ungrateful Beirut, pretending cities could be grateful - Yes, with terms like party, after party and the party after that, cities could. 

In bed with a stranger in an intermediatary Beirut, pretending cities could be destinations - Perhaps, with terms like martyr, heritage and outlined aesthetic identity, cities could.

Beirut, in its absolute glory, fails to combust enough life force for heat. You rely on fur, relay to her, your glutinous ears, as you listen to it, things about him, as he knows all, but barely sees.

Beirut, and its untamed aura, bulging diaspora, disregarded decay and impotent day, fails in silk robes - in deathbed sheets - cannibal, it eats itself, slowly, to a never end.

I leave.
Curtains do not close.
I hear no applause.
I hear crashing waves on a man-made shore, crashing, a sound foreseeing its everything, its today, its tomorrow.

Friday, December 14, 2012

Beirut OST


This is more or less the story of everyone in Beirut. Every night, after the sun puts itself to voluntary sleep so she doesn't see us anymore. We plush. We mask. We knock ourselves off our consciousness. In the real time world, no one sees us at all. We work all our lives for this moment in time. Cerebrally-absent maniacs on the floor.

Cheers to a great rework. 

And it's Friday already.





Just a Steel-Town girl on a saturday night
Lookin for the fight of her life
In the real time world no one sees her at all
They all say she's crazy

Lockin rythms to the beat of her heart

Changing moment into light
She has danced into the danger zone
When the dancer becomes the dance

It can cut you like a knife

If the gift becomes the fire
All the while you're stuck between
What's will and what will be

(CHORUS)

She's a maniac, maniac on the floor
And she's dancing like she never danced before
She's a maniac, maniac on the floor
And she's dancing like she never danced before

On the ice-filled line of sanity

It's a place most never see
It's a hard-won place of mystery
You can touch it but can't hold it

You work all your life for that moment in time

It can come or pass you by
It's a push of the world but there's always a chance
If the hunger stays alive

There's a cold kenetic heat

Struggling, stretching for the beat
Never stopping
With her hair against the wind

(CHORUS)


la la la la la la la la 

la la la la la la la la

(instrumental break)


It can cut you like a knife

If the gift becomes the fire
All the while you're stuck between
What's will and what will be

She's a maniac, maniac at your door

And she's dancing like she never danced before
She's a maniac, maniac at your door
And she's dancing like she never danced before

Thursday, December 13, 2012

jinglebooks

This holiday, Fetish Systems will be available in 
AJEM (prisoners in Roumieh)
Catharsis (prisoners in Baabda)
Burj Hammoud Public Library
NGO Conseil de développement du littoral de Byblos

Antoine Online is launching a campaign to donate books to organizations, public libraries and NGOs. YOU can be part of this campaign by donating gift vouchers or by bringing along your used books.
--
Contact: contact@antoineonline.com
Donate: http://www.antoineonline.com/donate.aspx

--
Fetish Systems review: 
http://kalimatshelf.tumblr.com/post/17655574050/fetish-systems-raafat-majzoub-it-was-the-writer
Fetish Systems in your hand: http://www.antoineonline.com/Book_Fetish_Systems_by_Raafat_Majzoub_9789953020341.aspx?productCode=0009789953020341

Saturday, December 8, 2012


Martha Graham (May 11, 1894 – April 1, 1991) was an American modern dancer and choreographer whose influence on dance has been compared with the influence Picasso had on modern visual arts, Stravinsky had on music, or Frank Lloyd Wright had on architecture.


There is a vitality, a life force, an energy… a quickening… that is translated through you into action, and because there is only one of you in all of time, this expression is unique. And if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium but will be lost.
It’s not your business to determine how good it is, nor how valuable, nor how it compares with other expressions. It is your business to keep it yours clearly and directly, to keep the channel open. Whether you choose to take an art class, keep a journal, record your dreams, dance your story, or live each day from your own creative source, above all else, keep the channel open.
–Martha Graham

Friday, December 7, 2012

Thursday, December 6, 2012

وصفولي الصبر .. بس حبيبي في الشارع - فنزلت


(راجع الكادر)

roy wrote a very nice article about The Outpost in Al-Akhbar
a paragraph about The Perfumed Garden was omitted for technical reasons
it's pretty, so here you go

الروض العاطر، عنوان رواية قصيرة بقلم رأفت مجذوب، ومتوفرة داخل عدد مجلة "ذي أوتبوست" الصفر، على شكل كتيب يمكن فصله عن المجلة وقراءته على حدى. "الروض العاطر في نزهة الخاطر" كتاب ألفه الشيخ النفزاوي في القرن الخامس عشر، كان كتاباً في التعليم الجنسي، أما رواية مجذوب فتستعير من نشوة الجنس، نشوة حلم يرى فيه العالم العربي عالماً واحداً، تجتمع فيه المدينة مع طرابلس، ومع القدس، ومع حلب، ومع الإسكندرية... لا حدود فيها لا للرغبة ولا للنشوة. هكذا ينطلق الكاتب في روايته من علاقته بجدته، إلى قصة حبها مع تحيّة، بموازاة علاقة جده  ظريف بأحمد، إلى حكايا شخصيات أخرى من مدينة إلى أخرى لا تحدها الجغرافيا ولا الأحاسيس، ولا الرغبات.

Wednesday, December 5, 2012

to oscar


oscar left us on december 5, 2012 - he was 104
below is a children's short story dedicated to oscar published by Al-Mona Public Library in Tripoli
the plot of the short story narrates the relationship of a little girl, zeina, and the Tripoli Int'l Fair grounds designed by oscar in 1962



THE CLOSE PLACE THAT IS FAR AWAY
by Raafat Majzoub

to Oscar

In a place, very far away, in a place still very close, lived a lot of shapes and one color. Everyone passed by it, but no one ever saw how much fun everyone could have inside. From that place, very far away and very close by, no one heard any noise. No one heard any music. The people forgot it. The city forgot it.

The place had many friends. When the place was alone, the wind would fly between its shapes, and would make music between its rectangles and squares. With the wind, came birds of all colors, from places with no names. They came from here and there, and all of them came to sing and color. The blue birds would sit next to the purple ones, and the green birds would sit next to the yellow ones. But then the wind would come, and whistle its tunes, and the birds would all dance together. The blue birds forget that they are blue, the purple ones forget that they are purple, the green birds forget that they are green and the yellow ones that they are yellow. The place sings with the wind. The circles make echoes to how the wind blows, to how it turns around itself to make the birds jump. The place is happy. In winter, the wind would bring the clouds. The sky loves the clouds. When they come, it makes new lights just for them. This is how the sky says hello to the place. The place loves the sky, and when it rains, it hides all the sky’s children in its stomach. The birds, all of them, the blue, purple, green and yellow hide  in the place’s shapes. And when the rain stops, they all paint rainbows.

This is how Zeina saw the place that no one saw. She followed the rainbow. Not many people follow the rainbow, but if you follow your rainbow, the place will find you, and say hello. One day, after the rain, Zeina put her new shoes on and went out for a walk. She loved her city after the rain. She loved to talk to rainbows. This time, there was a special rainbow. It had eight colors not seven;  it had the most wonderful gray she had ever seen – and it made all the other colors more colorful.

Zeina loved everything new. She loved that this was a special rainbow. She loved the grey, so she decided to say hello, and when she did, the rainbow grew longer and longer. She followed and followed, until she reached a long wall that had no beginning and no end.  She looked to the left, then to the right, but she had to look again – because she saw nothing new. That wall, does not start and does not end. Zeina turned her head to the rainbow – and smiled, the rainbow smiled back, and decided to show her what was behind that big wall. Slowly, the rainbow became a stairway, made of eight steps of every color. Zeina did not wait. She ran up the rainbow, eight steps of Gray, eight of Violet, Navy, Blue, Green, Yellow, Orange then Red until she was high, very high, above everything.


From the top of the rainbow, Zeina could see everything. She saw Tripoli like she had never seen before. She saw the ice cream shop where her Mama used to take her after school, and the bakery that her Baba used to get bread from. She saw her school, and the trees around her school, and everything looked very small. There was one thing that Zeina did not know, something that she could not recognize. It looked like a very big egg in the middle of the city surrounding by the long wall she was wondering about.

Zeina is very curious. She wants to know everything and likes to get lost in places she doesn’t know, so she pointed at the egg, and asked the rainbow to color steps so she could go down. She jumped off the Gray steps, to the Red, then the Orange, Yellow, Green, Blue, Navy and Violet until she reached the place. When she got inside, it did not look like an egg, but she noticed that this time, she was on the other side of that long long wall. She was inside, and everything was Gray. The gray reminded her of the rainbow, and as she looked around to thank it, the rainbow had disappeared. This is what is funny about rainbows, they come all of a sudden – and they go without saying goodbye.

Zeina thought that she was all alone. In fact, she wasn’t, and she was going to know that very soon. Being the curious Zeina that she is, Zeina decided to walk around, to discover this new place inside the walls. She walked and walked, and all she could see were strange shapes in the middle of fields of grass that grew taller than her. Between the strips of grass, Zeina noticed some gray objects in a distance. The objects had the same gray as the rainbow did, and it was wonderful. Zeina wanted to see more, so she ran towards these things she had never seen anything like before. She ran and ran until she reached a gray mountain. The mountain was smooth and curved very evenly, that she couldn’t help but run up to its top and slide down. As she was climbing and sliding, Zeina noticed that this mountain had a door. She had never seen a mountain with a door before, so she walked into that door very slowly, to see what the inside of a mountain would look like. She walked in, step by step, and it was very dark, but it sounded very weird. For each step, she would hear more than one sound. She was scared, “Anyone there?”, she shouted.. and the inside of the mounted shouted back “Anyone there?” Zeina ran outside. She did not like the inside of the mountain, she did not understand it. She still wanted to know who was inside with her, so she sat in front of the door waiting for anyone to come out. She waited and waited, but no one came out. As the sun was changing it’s place in the sky, a purple bird started flying around the gray mountain. Zeina loved the color purple, so she sat there, watching the bird. The bird was the nicest she had ever seen, and she wanted to talk to it. She stood up and started waving at the bird, but the bird kept dancing in the sky, and then flew lower, until it went into the mountain through the little door. Zeina was scared that the voices in the mountain would harm the bird, so she started crying, but right after the bird entered the mountain, the most wonderful music came out. Zeina’s feet started dancing, and she immediately stopped crying. She looked around, and all the grey objects were smiling, she could see all the rainbow colors in everything around her. She ran into the mountain to see where the music was coming from, and in the dark, she saw this purple bird, flying around, alone, with the music of a hundred birds. The purple bird saw Zeina, and he liked how she danced, so he flew towards her and sat on her shoulder. The music stopped. 


-“Hello”, said the purple bird
-“Hi”, said Zeina
-“You are a good dancer”, the bird told Zeina.
-“Thankyou”, Zeina replied, “but where is all this music coming from, with only you in this mountain??”
The purple bird told Zeina about how everything is made for a reason, and how his father, Oscar, made this big playground for everyone to enjoy. He told her about the story of this mountain and how its stomach is made to produce wonderful music with echo.
-“Echo?”, Zeina asked… “what is Echo?”

The bird smiled, and told Zeina to look at the mountain’s shape. She looked. The mountain is a perfect dome, and on the inside, this shape makes any sound bounce at different speeds, so you can hear it more than once, over and over. Zeina was puzzled, “so you can have as many friends as you like?”, she asked. The bird told her that she can never be alone if she’s happy, and this mountain only reminds her of that. Zeina was happier than ever, she started to like this place again, and wanted to learn about all the other things. She asked the bird about the gray rainbow, the floating ground, the cone, the tower and the flying carpet, but the bird said that the only way to know things is to go and try them, he kissed her goodbye, and flew away, and Zeina knew what she had to do.  

Sunday, December 2, 2012

it's totally okay to enjoy the stick-shift



now, relax

Gamal

*goosebumps*



Sound recording of 1954 assassination attempt on Nasser while he was addressing a crowd in MansheyaAlexandria

On 26 October, a Brotherhood member, Mohammed Abdel Latif, attempted to assassinate Nasser while he was delivering a speech in Alexandria, celebrating the British withdrawal. The speech was broadcast to the Arab world via radio. The gunman was 25 feet (7.6 m) away from him and fired eight shots, but all missed Nasser. Panic broke out in the mass audience, but Nasser maintained his posture and raised his voice to appeal for calm.
With great emotion he exclaimed the following:

My countrymen, my blood spills for you and for Egypt. I will live for your sake and die for the sake of your freedom and honor. Let them kill me; it does not concern me so long as I have instilled pride, honor and freedom in you. If Gamal Abdel Nasser should die, each of you shall be Gamal Abdel Nasser ... Gamal Abdel Nasser is of you and from you and he is willing to sacrifice his life for the nation.



Monday, November 26, 2012

Fetish Systems is going to be recalled from the market

Hi all. 

I just received an e-mail from my distributors that my book, Fetish Systems, is going to be recalled from the market by the end of the month. I'm trying to keep it on AntoineOnline but I'm not sure how that's gonna go. 

I guess it's been a fun year. If you've been postponing a trip to the bookstore, I think it's about time to get yourself a copy. While you're at it, get your friend a copy. If you haven't heard of it, check out this review on Kalimat Shelf


I'm not sure what to with the remaining copies, I'm lost between a bonfire and random mail-outs.Anyways, thanks everyone for deflowering me. Thanks if you bought it, read it, pretended to read it or just tried.

Here's a recording of a reading by the almighty Hamed Sinno followed by another by the lovebug Rosie ElGhossain - both of which recorded the whole book - I bow to both.





A bit more than a year from now, on my birthday, I wanted to go to Palestine. There was a wall, so I couldn't. There was the law, and I couldn't. Then Mahira sent me an e-mail that she had read the book. Mahira lives in Palestine. 



A bit more than a year from now, I went to Palestine.





 




xx


calvin harris + florence welch (+) grandtheft + diplo






Saturday, November 24, 2012

Hamed Sinno + Erik Truffaz Quartet


هايدي حريتي لا اللي هل صوت هاي سماواتي خياري , للموت 

هاي حراكا تي وهايدي اديي واللي هل طبلي واللي هل بوق.. 

هل بوق هل بوق تركوني روح تركوني روح تركوني روح 

تركوني روح هل لحظة بتعود لايلي وبتعود بعمري ماكنت مني 

موجود لبكرة ايلي أنا عال طريق خلونا عم نعزف لا لا مانفيأ 

تركوني روح تركوني روح تركوني روح تركوني روح

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=47jECvDi8NY


Friday, November 23, 2012

I feel outdated.

Scientists create cartilage using 3-D ’tissue printer’ (via Raw Story )

Scientists at Wake Forest University in North Carolina have developed a “tissue printer” that “prints” cartilage, the flexible connective tissue that cushions our bones and joints. According to the Toronto Star, the printer, which was featured in a study published in the journal Biofabrication…

Saturday, November 17, 2012

Thursday, November 15, 2012

The Perfumed Garden \ The Outpost Audio Show Ep. 5

Layal did her magic, and an excerpt of The Perfumed Garden is now part of an amazing Audio Show line-up she prepares weekly for The Outpost. 
Listen to it here (Right-click, Save as)


The Perfumed Garden is very dear to me. It's a chapter of Khan elThawra, a book project I have been toying with for almost a year now. It's an experiment in producing a narrative piece that is liable to a constructed universe, as opposed to it being a narrative fiction. 

Briefly, the book is about a Khan in Tripoli. Khans are sectors in the old city, each specializing in the commerce of a certain product. Examples of existing Khans are Khan elSaboun (for the trade of soap), Khan elDahab (for the trade of gold) and Khan elKheyyateen (for the trade of textiles). The story proposes the existence of Khan elThawra, for the trade of the revolution. The story is carried out by a group of accidental friends living in Beirut that decide to kill their city and escape up North to be part of Khan 
elThawra, a myth in a story told to one of them by his grandmother. 

The book deals with the commerce of –isms, ideals, morals and the constant state of performative revolution 
acted out by the youth of the region in a grotesque, satirical manner. The book will not be written initially in text form; I intend to layout the narrative through an extensive series of visual representations, performances and audio recordings. The story, then, will be written off these materializations of the narrative. Ideally, I will be producing material such as maquettes, paintings, photographs, film, audio recordings of dialogue and context as a first draft. The literary work will be a documentation of the story being unraveled tangibly in phases.



The project has been on hold for various reasons. Until this one night, dancing in Sporting, that it made sense. I have been working with Ibrahim, Layal and a number of our friends in the region on the creation of an imagined Arab city. A single entity that would outperform its constituents, apart. A city with one road leading from Beirut to Jerusalem. We were Khan elThawra. And the first issue of The Outpost would be part of that constructed universe. 

The Perfumed Garden was born harvesting characters, stories and settings from The Outpost. It told stories of people in places, sandwiched between a before and an after in the making.

Excerpts and experiments

When one thinks of prospective prophets, if that would make sense, Oum Kolthoum is more or less the essential mother of that character. As others might fancy costumes and aesthetic modules of play, most of my fantasies started with matching Oum Kolthoum with the father or mother of my potentially acceptable prophet. Nizar and Oum Kolthoum could have had a baby, and the world we live in would have been a better place. I say better with full conviction and awareness of the subjectivity of the matter, as it would not be better for current organized religions, current loci of power, and current traces of authority, none of which would lasted with such intensity to our present day, if Nizar and Oum Kolthoum had a baby.

---

She asked me where I was from. I had forgotten. I asked her where she was from. She told me I could decide. She told me I was a romantic. I told her there was no such thing. She raised her head and kissed me. We sat there for about an hour, mostly silent. She stood up, her dripping back towards me, colonized by a tattoo of the gridded windows of the abandoned Holiday Inn hotel in Beirut. She walked out of the tub into the bedroom. I followed.
I walked out to the balcony. She followed. Every time I look at this city, it changes. Eleanor stands in front of me, facing the city, her back towards me, holds the railing and fixates my hands on hers. She raises her back
a bit, her ass pressing on my cock. Incidentally, I have been trying to go into Holiday Inn for five years now. I grab her by the hand, lay her on the bed, her hands on the headstand, facing down, Holiday Inn in the air. She refuses to moan to my subversive promenades in her not-so-abandoned hotel, Eleanor, my sweetheart, her sweaty hands cramping, my grandmother’s silver pendant pivoting from her neck banging on her heart and the headstand, on her heart and the headstand, agitated clockwork timing a sterile fuck. She cums. I’m done. She sleeps on the sofa. I sleep on the bed. She wakes me up at dusk. She opens her closet and hands me a fresh pair of briefs, shorts a t-shirt and a light pink linen vest.

---

Put on that dress, your black dress that shows your verse tattoos. Words of god to that muted diva. Words with delicious phonetics to that delirious nation. The light at the end of the tunnel turned off. Flashforwards of adventures behind bars. Tribunal erotica. Jingle bells of churches, arias to mosque accapellas. National orgasm, as we smile on electric chairs, as we smile and necklaces of rope, as we smile in asylums, as we smile in refugee camps, as we smile to each other, as everyone else, most conveniently, cries.  
Each and every one of them played an instrument. Each of their parents, like most Lebanese parents of the time, insisted their children played something. It was not a social fiesta, salon extravaganza, but more of a necessity. Why? The war. One can blame anything on the war in Lebanon – electric outages, botox, pollution, unemployment, noisy neighbors, March, homosexuality, the flu and of course, the parental desire of musical offspring. Marcel played the oud. Iman played the violin. Omar played the piano. Thurayya played the harp. Ahmad wanted to play the drums. The sax was more soothing, his mother argued. Ahmad played the sax. 
Each and every prepubescent one of them played for their nicotine exhausting parents as households 
anticipated the worst. As households bought more bread than households could handle. As households lost the war.  




Tuesday, November 13, 2012

http://soundcloud.com/poingi/igniopi-dont-touch-my-drama



قالوا إنا له وإنا إليه راجعون  

سنموت جوعاً، 
أنا وأنت 

سنذهب سدًى
فارغا المعدة 
كما أتينا 

هزيلاً في المرآة أنا وأنت 
هزيلان عبر النافذة وأنت تختفي 

تخيفني 

والفراغ يخيفني 
وطريق العودة 
مثواك ومثواي 
 فراغي و فراغك
عري الروح وإنعدام الجسد

ورائحة المسك 

تخيفني 

Wednesday, November 7, 2012

beirut just expired for me, Draft #1

i would like to dedicate this blog post to a city that just ended. a city where i met my best friends. a city where i read books i would have otherwise hidden. a city hosting the bed of my first sex. a city where i got stuck in an elevator and couldn't explain myself to a first love. a city of my long walks, our long walks, her tunnels, alleys, abandoned buildings and the corniche. a city where we got drunk on rooftops, and high on ground floors. a city where i first lived alone. a city where i first lived with friends. a city of weekends where we would cook in my yellow kitchen, drinking leftovers of booze from my book signing. my first book. a city that invited me to write of its erotica.

i dedicate this aimless post of closure to a place that was home for a while, but not anymore. i dedicate it to the illusion of bliss, by lovers, by stories, by things. i leave it as an open wound that would never cicatrize. i will come back, as tangible strolls down physical memory lanes, and if i ever come back to live it would be her or i who must have changed.

i leave with no shreds of remorse, as i thought i would have. i leave dry. i leave full. i stand almost confused at my readiness to leave. i always hated packing, for somehow i must have never started packing with the luggage inside. 

Sunday, October 14, 2012

#margin

you don't know how to care about him. you try. you fail. you blame him. 

Wednesday, September 19, 2012

#beirut,

the love/hate.


Whether you've been to Beirut or have seen this city in any interpretive medium, there must be a thing or two that make it flawfully unforgettable, 'circa' blood, the seventies, haifa, aesthetic activism and all that jazz.

Apparently I am one of those who 'stayed'. I look around, very convinced. I look around, and not so much. The ticket that would lure me out would not need to be golden. I think I am still lubed of impotent yesterdays and never-happened's.

This city, Beirut, the love/hate, houses my goods and my bads between its remains. Until each and every one of us leaves, I take pictures of us so I remember that we once tried.

Lea and Yasmine hanging around with other people on my bed.


Waiting, like hungry hound-dogs, for Asterix to re-open after its summer break.


Le Chef, Gemmayze, enjoying the smoking ban.


The view from my bed as I re-initiate my Murakami sessions.

Lea decides to move our Murakami sessions to the train station. They kick us out. We use someone else's private space as our public space. 

Lea has wonderful neighbors. 


On Lea's abandoned rooftop with fine rose wine and Niggaz in Paris.


At Sporting club with Ibrahim and Frida dancing to Jade's C U NXT SAT marathon. 6 a.m.


Another 6 a.m. walking home from Horch Tabet.


Corniche elNahr. Poetry and longing on the walls. 

I am meeting Omeia in a bit before she heads to band practice. We could go to the corniche, but I think we'll end up on a pedestrian bridge near my place drinking some form of espresso, watching the cars slide under us in and out of Beirut.



Saturday, September 15, 2012

if birds flying high ever know how we feel -


We have just finished work on something that will change the miniscule.

We have just reordered the rock bottom to fit our egos.
We have let go of our good fortune, our blessings, our social status, our rather normal breathing patterns.
We have just started building the outpost.


Gathered are our sticks and stones, in front of archaic bones, with words that will hurt them.

Summoned are orgasmic flips and throws, to promiscuous thrones, with verbs that will deflate them.

The world will not change. We will.
Breathe in. Then out.

The Pope is here today. Roads back home were all closed. We made it though. We always do. 

Saturday, September 1, 2012

@AbirKopty @Mashrou3Leila #RHCP #Beirut #Palestine #TelAviv

Habibi, 
we're opening for Red Hot Chili Peppers - September 6 - Beirut Waterfront. I don't think I'll be able to sleep tonight...
7obb wa gharam,
Leila x 

That was a happy Leila yesterday.
A friend sent me a link a couple of hours ago, a blog post by Abir Kopty urging Mashrou' Leila to cancel opening for Red Hot Chili Peppers.

Fine, one would say, let's read her argument. 

Fine, she's a Mashrou' Leila fan, is going to Amman this September to watch their concert, and agrees that their lyrics are an honest manifestation of the world they believe in, and that they haven't and won't compromise artistically in conveying what they have to say.

Fine, she thinks co-boycotting a concert in Tel Aviv is the way to go.
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but it becomes a bit Not Fine when she concludes that those who do no boycott the Red Hot Chili Peppers concert in Tel Aviv must be boycotted themselves. NOT FINE!

Abir, what are you? It's easier when one decides. It can be temporary, but what are you?
What do you care about, and what do you want? 

Do you want social values that auto-punish anyone that harms someone else for what they believe in? 
You just boycotted that. Not fine.

Do you want a free state, where Lebanese and Palestinians can have coffee together?
You just boycotted that. Not fine.

Are you interested in a new generation that's keen enough, eloquent enough, to get their message across, which is probably quite similar to your message, a new honest generation that'll change this slum of a phase of Arabia?
You just boycotted that. Not fine.
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Arabs have been potty-trained for communal misery, Abir. Boycotting a pop band from performing in Tel Aviv could be a hobby, but your day job must not be that. I'm afraid I'm falling into the same trap you're in, telling you what to do, but I'll just redeem myself by scrapping the request for people to boycott you because you don't fight your battles like they do..

Abir, this is a new place, and if we use our grandfathers' weapons, and our forefathers' games, this Arab sheep-lingo is gonna think it's the alphabet.

Enjoy Amman, I won't be there this time.. but the last time Mashrou' Leila were at the citadel, it was the closest to an Arab Unity scheme since Abdel Nasser. 
Don't boycott that. It won't be fine.