The Oracles of Delphi

Everything’s been different ever since I lost sight of my north star, exit sign, firefly, or whatever label you’ve bookmarked for that thing. 

Last I checked, it was flickering in the distance as if to warn me to hurry up. I keep trying to walk a straight line though, hoping I don’t wobble before it starts giving out hand-me-down guidance again. It feels like I’ve been on one of those multi-task treadmills ever since it closed shop, hellbent on getting to the end of a tunnel that’s no longer there.

You never really pay attention to the stuff that’s always been there, you just get used to its convenience, to the fact that it’s always there doing whatever it does best, allowing you to not worry about one more thing on your list of exuberant responsibilities. The second it decides it wants nothing to do with you, you’re thrown into limbo, and this itch hurries into existence and takes over your whole body, instantly urging you to forsake any sort of clarity you’re sheltering inside your head and give in to frail obsessions and addictions. 

Regardless of what’s being thrown at you when you’re on your knees, you’ve always got a clenched fist around your bruised dignity; but what’s that going to do for you?
What’s shackled dignity in the face of a sense of direction of divine guidance. I’ve always found myself at the mercy of my indecisiveness, but that stuff gets tossed out the window when shit hits the fan. I wish my whole life was a ‘shit hits the fan’ sequence, maybe then I’d know what to do all the time. Don’t be fooled though, your mind isn’t always your right hand man; he’s already scheming behind a multi-lock door, giving you the impression that you’ve got a handle over your next ‘move’, and just when you’re about to take that next step, he pulls the rug from under your feet and raises his hands up like he’s on the same victim boat as you. All he has to show for it is a grin from ear to ear and a look of disappointment. Like that look your mom gives you isn’t enough, your mind needs to pull the same shit on you. 

When your mind fails you at your most vulnerable, you start outsourcing these tasks to more capable hands, the oracles of the modern world, women. God’s blessed me with a grandmother, mother, and sister who have always gone above and beyond when it comes to curing ailments of the heart; but this situation couldn’t be handled in their well-equipped infirmaries. Every conversation we’d have would end up with them drawing up a makeshift roadmap with an overly-ambitious final destination, or worse, the whole thing would be filled with ambiguous twists and turns, and lucky for me, they’d have all the road signs scribbled out of existence just so I use my own wits to find my own way. 

The oracle of Delphi was known for her prophecies and her ability to navigate and pull the various political strings of the Greek states. She was a priestess who was tripping on hallucinogenics, trying to tell every head of state, king, or distinguished individual that they were the protagonist of their own narratives. Superstitions ran rampant around 8th century BC, and I don’t blame anyone for seeking an audience with the high priestess, I’d probably sell my limbs for a few seconds with her, and even if she gave me a bag of pebbles and told me to look through them for a chance to see a glimpse of my future, I’d eat up every word; not for the ‘prophecy’ itself, but for the sense of clarity and calmness she’d empower me with.  

The women in my life weren’t divine, they weren’t imbued with any supernatural powers that allowed them to take a quick peek into my future. They had something better; perspective. 

Going beyond the women who were related to me by blood, when they failed me, I’d tell my story to any woman who had ears to listen and knew my full name. That’s when I realized I wasn’t looking for a prophecy synonymous with my way forward. I was looking for women to listen to my sob story and tell me not to change course; I hated the fact that my mother, sister, grandmother, and every girl I knew kept telling to forge a new path forward without my north star. Even with more than 20 prophecies at my feet, I was still looking for a prophecy that perfectly aligned with what I wanted. In my head, God had no business with what I wanted, neither did my family and friends. 

There’ll come a time when I’ll lend another ear to the many oracles of Delphi I’ve met over the years, and I know for certain that they won’t be foretelling my ‘destiny’ the way I see it, but rather, the way they see it, and maybe that’s for the better. I admit, I’m too stubborn to pick my head up and look at what’s in front of me when I’m sure of the road ahead. 

The north star doesn’t always shine true. 

Thank you, oracles. 

Sunlight

The days felt like the desert and every final minute of every hour was a mirage. It hasn’t been easy. The ticking of my living room clock has driven me mad, the stillness of my house has imprisoned me in my own home; two days after the bloody massacre, I feel like I’ve sunk into my furniture, rooting myself in-between the cushions with all the forgotten bread crumbs and dimes. It hasn’t been easy. 

I wouldn’t like to believe that all days of the week have conspired against me, it’s not my fault it’s been a while since I last looked up at the sky. Even if they were mad at me, how would they know I was murdered? The sun wouldn’t let them do that to me, not that way.

I never looked at the sun without squinting. I believe the human anatomy robbed us of truly noticing the radiating grace she filled our days with. Even with seasonal custody of the sun, I was thankful it was finally winter.

The sun had a tendency to peek through the pedestrian clouds to check if I had finally mustered up the courage to lift up my blanket, put my feet on the cold floor, and pull myself out of the sofa without breaking down. Luckily, the clouds knew my pain too; they knew I didn’t want to worry her. They’d let me sneak a few tears out of my eyes every time the wind pushed them towards her. Every moment lagged for a bit, giving misery a chance to flap its wings for a while longer, even when the sun was around, but I didn’t mind it, she was still by my side. As soon as the moon rose up to start its shift, there was no longer anyone looking after me.

The days were always better. It’s the worldwide general consensus, even when you strip it away from the whole ‘light scares away the baddies’ explanation; but when the sun was up, it was like the time was just as mystified with her as I was, and decided to take a break every once in a while. Time felt sluggish during the day, it used to care about my wellbeing. It would hurry its little minute troopers towards the afternoon, then midday and eventually nighttime just to spare a moment or two of agony, but the sun decided to wear its favorite red dress in December. 

The hours always had a problem with authority, especially when the sun wasn’t looking. Although time watched me grow from a toddler to a man, the hours didn’t look out for me, they just kept their heads down and clocked in before stepping out the door.

The sun and moon weren't the difference between day and night; it was all about the noise, the life, the going on of stuff, it made all the difference to my mind. That noise cast a shadow on my anxiety, crippling it, making it seem like it was escapable, but it wasn’t. Nothing escapes the maw. The only way to rid yourself of anxiety is to discard it; I mean, how can you possibly escape yourself?

You’re always reminded to dread the night. ‘Don’t walk alone at night!’, every mother says, but not everyone hates the night for the same reasons. Nighttime always hosted the most wicked entities next door; it’s like game night for the twisted. Fear, anxiety, worry, and horror always seemed to want to make an appearance, as if terrorizing mankind wasn’t enough, but I never cared…I was happy. Things changed for the worse after December came around. The sun couldn’t interfere with the moon’s endeavors, not for 12 hours at least.

After two nights in the dark, sunrise was divine intervention.

Eulogy

There’s something very unnatural about something as natural as death; you’d think human beings would get over the idea of dying instead of locking themselves up in a closet filled with self-pity, but after finally accepting my grandpa’s death, I realized death was life’s only protagonist. 

Why start a race you’re never going to finish? Might as well shoot yourself in the leg at the start line.  

My mom was unfortunate enough to be the one to find him like that in bed; imagine going to visit your parents after not seeing them for a year or two, just for one of them to pass away a few days into the whole thing. It’s one thing to find out that someone died, it’s a whole different thing when you’re the one to find them like that; it breaks your soul in half, especially if it’s my mom and jedo. 

Death always makes everyone feel like shit, but to my sister and I, it felt worse, we found out while flying back from our summer vacation in Portugal.  We weren’t even on the same flight, at first, after we got the call from mom, we honestly thought she was fucking with us, three seconds into what we thought was a sadistic joke, we realized jedo was gone. We had just seen him a few days ago in France, said bye to him, so sure we were going to see him again around Christmas or the year after. 

Talk about shitty timing, two days into our Portuguese getaway, jedo passed away and my mom was forced to put on a brave face to spare us for a short while. 

I never really saw jedo after that. During the funeral, teta made it a point to bring his body to the family house since he never really got to see it, but I couldn’t look at him. It wasn’t really jedo, my grandpa used to be alive, and this corpse wasn’t.

Jedo always had a lit cigarette between his fingers; this body had its arms tucked away. 

Jedo always laughed and ended them with loud coughs, this body just lied there, all silent and unresponsive, unfazed by the crying and wailing going on around it. 

Jedo always shared abstract Arabic proverbs with me, this body didn’t even bother making eye contact. 

To me, the last time Jedo was Jedo was when he was waving goodbye to my sister and I at the airport. I should’ve known better, I should’ve complimented how shiny his shoes always were, how well he dressed, how well he combed his hair every single morning, how thankful I am for having him as my grandpa, how thankful I am for him raising my mom and aunt when they weren’t his children, how thankful I am for tolerating my fuck you attitude that one winter when I stayed with them. 

I never realized I’d miss his scent. Teta had decided to bring all of jedo’s stuff with her to Lebanon to give them away; she always said, “fi ness binemo bala tyeb w akel”. Regardless of whether or not his soul still clinged on to his things, teta had set her mind to giving everything away. 

Thankfully, my mom and I were there to see it all happen, and while the whole thing was happening, I was nosey enough to rummage through the luggage and see what jedo had all packed up in his closets. 

And there it was, that black, hoodless jacket he always wore, rain or shine; he’d have it on, nagging about how the weather’s horrible and how much he hates the rain – no umbrella in hand, of course. 

Teta did not want me to have it, saying, “3ando jekatet, fi ness ma 3anda shi ya Lina”. I’d always send my mom to talk to teta about these things, seeing that everyone knows teta has a special place in her heart for my mom, her eldest daughter – even though she’ll deny it and say she loves all her children the same – we know better. 

Finally, teta gave in, came over to me, handed me the jacket, and told me to make sure to wear it “la2an de3an”.

I know that jacket wasn’t jedo, that jacket hadn’t seen its owner for about a year or two, but it smelled like him. 

Four years after his death, whenever I wear that jacket, I can smell his scent, even after sticking it into a closet with all my clothes, I can still smell my grandparents’ house in Marseille. 

He used to tell me, “Kol 3a zaw2ak w lbos 3a zo2 il ness” – I’m going to dress myself 3a zaw2ak this winter, jedo. 

Mama’s Boy

You’re supposed to love your mother, that’s how it is, isn’t it?

The idea is stamped next to your name on your birth certificate on the account that she carried you around her belly on that Disneyland tour and pushed you out of her normal-sized vagina.

Not my mom though, the phrase “I love you, mama” takes flight the minute I open my mouth because of who she is as a person. 

Every guy can agree with me on this; set aside your macho-Sylvester Stallone act for a second and ask yourself, who do you string along with you whenever you go shopping?

Mothers are another breed of best friends who we as sons and daughters tend to overlook at every corner except during finals, job interviews, meltdowns, and break-ups. 

Yes, Arab moms come with their fair share of ideologies, ‘strict’ rules, difficult upbringings, and straight A report cards; but they’ve got their reasons; PlayStations, Cartoon Network, Gameboys, and World of Warcraft had taken over our worlds, and they had taken it upon themselves to steady the ship and straighten our ‘course’. Her childhood never included a color tv, an air-conditioned room, all the things we now take for granted, or rather, I take for granted, having lived in the United Arab Emirates all my life; but somehow, her motherly instinct, also known as superpowers, kicked in, and she figured out a way to manage all this stuff, albeit she had three kids before me to perfect her craft.

I don’t blame my mom for wanting me to study medicine, or for wanting me to stop stuttering, all she wanted to do is end my suffering the best way she knew how. As frustrating as it was for her, to conjure any thoughts of her little boy suffering or get a call from school about how students and teachers mocked her son, she never took any of that shit out on me. 

Her face was the sun and I was her world. 

Our culture sets us on a path of ‘respect’ and single-layered love when it comes to loving women, and mothers are the real victims here, they cradle their sons to adulthood, baby them until marriage, and then, they watch them mutate into men that have forgotten their mother’s love. 

I was raised to be a better man, a sane man, a loving man, all thanks to my mama.

So many things have happened since I moved out of my parents’ house that have shown me how much my mom loves me, how much I mean to her, and why, in my mind, I’m her favorite - the last point is not up for debate; but one instance has always stuck with me, the day my mom packed scrambled eggs for our long flight to France. 

Flying was always an issue for mom, especially when you factor in a husband, four children, and a need to be on top of every single thing. I mean, I was also a big issue; I didn’t eat a lot of things when I was a kid, salads and greens, sauces, ketchup, and vegetables, but my mom had cracked the code - I liked scrambled eggs.

During our 6-hour flight to Marseille, mom woke me up in the middle of the night because I had fallen asleep during dinner service (I wouldn’t have eaten my meal anyways) and told me to open up and eat. Alarmed and confused, I quickly said no, hoping she’d let me go back to sleep, but the stubborn lady persisted, softly telling me to straighten up and eat; however, I one-upped her stubbornness and ‘rudely’ told her that I didn’t want any. 

That instance compartmentalized itself into the regret section of my memories without letting me take a closer look at what really happened, and for years, I’ve been shouldering this burden of making my mom go above and beyond because I was a little bitch about almost everything. 

A year back, my mom came to visit me in Beirut and we were having poshed-out afternoon tea.

I decided to bring it up in hopes of getting rid of that hunchback, but like every time, my mother’s response put a smile on my face, she giggled saying, “Hay wala shi, habibe”.

Fanta by the Pool

The recreation center was my PG13 childhood; but as uneventful as it was, it was always exciting to walk through those doors.

Joana had her moments there, Tareq and Mohamed had their moments, and I think I did too. 

‘We’re Lina’s children’, my sister would answer whenever the receptionist asked; ironically, they’d always know which Lina she meant. 

Looking back, I have to say, my sister was a bad ass, still is, in fact. She had this commanding aura surrounding her at all times and it was jaw-dropping. 

I remember once in the school, during recess, some boys from her class were having a laugh on behalf of my stutter and I was trying to shrug it off like a ‘big boy’, but my sister was having none of it, she had them shivering and biting their nails by the end of it, and for the first time, the cool kids were apologizing to me.

’Hey, that’s Joana’s brother; how’s it going?’, that’s how things were after my sister stepped in.

Movies spoon-feed the idea that having big brother is what it’s all about, but having a big sister is always having a safe haven in your back pocket. 

Whenever I think of the recreation center, I think of my siblings. I remember my sister always going there to play basketball and hang out with her friends and that boyfriend my parents ‘didn’t know about’. My brothers and I were always allowed to tag along; although Joana never said no to the idea, we knew we’d just be a nuisance, it wasn’t our scene just yet.

When it came to my brothers, I’d always wedge myself into their recreation center plans whenever they’d go to ‘spontaneously’ meet their high school crushes. 

I never had that sort of experience, or at least I think I didn’t, and by that, I mean I never had a recreation center crush.

I remember how it all started; my dad used to take us there on Fridays back when Joana was still too young to drive and weekends were still Thursdays and Fridays. I still didn’t know how to swim at the time, and all I did was sit on the edge of the pool or sit on my dad’s lap whenever he’d be talking to his buddies; to a wide-eyed kid, I was Richie Rich living the high life.
But then, my dad decided to carry me, hurl me into the water, and send my sister after me so I don’t drown. I thought he was declaring war on me for always ruining his brobro hangouts, but he opened up my world and taught me how to swim. 

Our experiences started converging once Joana got her driver’s license; dad started taking the passenger seat and we started riding shot gun, and most times, dad just stayed at home on Fridays, watching the premier league or some Steven Seagal movie on MBC 2.

My sister, being the Commander-in-Chief of our makeshift squad, would let us know what time we’d go to the center to avoid people, burn the mix CD which of Britney Spears, Linkin Park, and Backstreet Boys, and pack the tanning oil and towels for all of us. 

And just like that, out the door went the Ragheb Alama cassette and in came the Linkin Park and Co. CD.

It was no longer dad’s free day to have fun with the guys, it was our time to have Fanta and fries by the pool.

Everyone loves jumping into a large blue box of water, but once you’ve had Fanta by the water, it’s never going to be the same; every sip away from any body of water will always be underwhelming. 

The main attraction was always going to be the swimming pool, but they were missing out on the Fanta and fries combo.

Van No.4

Between my bed and office desk, I brace myself with a strong head of optimism; it’s always the same thing, a daily commute of around seven kilometers fueled with favorable what-if’s, but you know as well as I do, I’m never getting off this van.

Keeping my composure helps get me through my day.

Even after muting my forenoon demons, at the end of everyday, I realize how fickle my mind really is; just like that, the thought of mediocrity barges right in and rips apart the sliver of composure keeping me together for the whole week. Red carpet in hand, my thoughts are now in prime position to welcome self-pity and gloom into the circus I call my head.

For me, it’s still Monday.

Coming to the realization that you’re mediocre really changes you; it’s vicious and erratic, relentlessly nipping at your already capsizing willpower like a divine woodpecker.

Take me, for example, I obsess over and inflate the thought of self-importance and attach it to my life; I'm pretty sure it’s an escape from insignificance, a makeshift narrative with a happy ending that’ll keep me going.

Listen, mediocrity has thrown me around my life like a rag doll, and I've allowed it; it tends to normalize self-ridicule. This stuff is practically mental wildfire, it quickly combusts into a need to give penance for all the shit floating around our heads.

Take a seat, its going to be a long week.

The Spice Master

As we hop into my psyche to euthanize my problems, I notice myself getting sidetracked by popup crap; it’s complicated.

Every sidetrack reroutes my trajectory towards the life I want for myself, the good life. That being said, every reroute dilutes the good in that life, and by the end of my so-called journey, I’m just a guy with a terrible hunchback and too much baggage.

You need to understand that problems never go away after they’ve been dealt with, some of them stay behind as a reminder. Yes yes, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, that’s fine and dandy, but it’s also bullshit, a heaped serving spoon of bullshit. All your problems get digested with whatever other crap you’re going through at that moment, and that births some sort of monstrosity you don’t ever want to deal with, and closeting that abomination gives way to a jaded version of yourself to surface, whose conversations always seem to regurgitate the same shallow message, ‘I’m alright’, ‘All is well’, and my favorite, ‘I’m taking my time rediscovering myself, that’s the key to my own happiness’.

No one’s born into a good life, that phrase is slave to context.

You can argue that I peer-pressured myself into wanting the good life, a metaphoric home on a hill everyone talks about but no one visits. My wants reel me into a sandbox filled with problems I didn't need.

Realizing that all this was my choice seems to set the tone that I’m also the pseudo gatekeeper that gets to choose what kind of problems I get to let in during my pursuit of that home up Good Life Hill.

I gauge my self worth according to how I score in each of these three categories, my career, family, personal life.

And as of right now, things aren't looking too good.

I’m not going to stand here and try to prove to you why life in the 21st century is overwhelming, but just hear me out.

Everyone sets themselves up for failure when they sit themselves on a steep pedestal, and it’s even worse when they blatantly expect light at the end of the tunnel. Life’s a bland pasta dish that does its best to vex your taste buds, and we’re just standing there with salt and pepper shakers hoping we can season the shit out of it.

The Apartment Complex

No one really gives a ‘natour’ much thought in a city like Beirut. From what I’ve seen, my neighbors treat Mohammad like an amenity instead of any‘thing’ else. 

In lament Lebanese, that’s racism with a glaring wink.

A few days back, I got locked out of my apartment and I truly thought I was done for; right then and there, I thought to myself, ’I’d have to break the bank to break into my apartment; in an economy like Lebanon’s, with human-vultures gliding every shivering dollar, I’m screwed.’

And there was Mohammad, the Batman to my Gotham.

We discussed how we’d get me back into my apartment without breaking anything, but given that I live on the 5th floor, Mohammad wasn’t going to simply Tarzan his way into my apartment balcony, avoid stepping on my darling plants, hope to God I hadn’t locked the windows, hop in, avoid startling my cat or getting viciously attacked by him, and finally, open the door for me. However, that’s exactly what Mohammad did.  

After Jackie-Chaning his way into my balcony with balls of Vibranium tucked in-between his legs, my door unlocked and the gateway to heaven opened up right in front of me; there they were, my sanctuary and my savior.

As dramatic as I sound, I just want you to know that I live alone in a country that is not my home-home, plagued with unprecedented recession and all-around depression, misfortune, and never-seen-before desperation; so forgive me if I indulge in my very few and far-apart happy moments. 

Truly, this goes without saying, my Natour is definitely better than yours; he’s got the oomph and sass to back that claim up.

Knocks on my door with his MacBook Pro in hand wanting to ask a few questions, that’s him.
Writes and posts poetry on his Facebook page with photos of him photoshopped into the background, that’s him.
Keeps it real with me, gossiping about how shitty the building tenants are, that’s him.

My girlfriend was there to see the man in action, and while he may not have that ‘wow’ factor dazzling every pair of eyes day-in and day-out, Mohammad sure shows up like LeBron James when it matters most. 

In short, Mohammad is a real-life superhero, and I’m glad he’s my Natour in shining Stan Smiths.