Lonely in a warm way

I was ranting to my friends back home how bored and lonely I felt the other week. Marie told me to lower my work hours - and there I was, no longer bored and lonely. 

Four more hours to my daydreams and grocery shopping. I’m lonely in a warm way. 

Don’t go out much anymore, not like I used to. I can’t stop comparing myself to Mimi from two, three years ago. She wouldn’t stop comparing herself to me, too. We look at each other but we could never see each other, but I know how she would feel; she, couldn’t even guess. 

Bottle of red wine, from 2002, named after me by my late grandfather. Beautiful hills of Bentael, how I miss you!

I bumped into Maddie the other day, during a late-night tiramisu run (MyBasket, 300jpy for a whole container!) and giddy and joyful, we promised each other a lunch date soon. She said something like, “Sorry - I was off of the face of the Earth for a while, but mentally this is the best I’ve ever felt.” Me too, Maddie! Me too! 

Winter’s charm is its cozy isolation. I find hibernation quite suitable. If I had that choice, I would surely hibernate. 

I hand sew while watching Buffalo 66. The colors of the tapestry in my hands are the same that are on screen - I love parallels. My cousin loves to parallel park. 

Digi of Sofia and I at Saizeriya. Buffalo 66 is her shit.

I don’t have many home dinners with my boyfriend lately. At nights I’m still at work, serving dinner to people other than my boyfriend. I eat cookies in bed with him, instead; he listens to my munch and crunch and I pretend that I’m not leaving any crumbs. 

I like to think of the past, as in, the last two years. Two years ago, thinking about the last two years drained me of my blood. Now, not so much - I ride my bike and reminisce and laugh to myself. 

Unfortunately, I’m comfortable. I can no longer move from this state, now that I’ve found it, which is my father’s bane. Or, perhaps, I can find comfort in the change that seeps slowly into every day. My character is compatible with change, and I get activated the moment I hear a discussion about a big, drastic, dramatic end or start: a break up, new job, new city, development. I love seeing change at the horizon, galloping my way, hearing its muted thuds and clunks steadily like an unavoidable storm. 

I don’t drink alcohol anymore. I felt unsure about quitting, but immediately getting nauseous after a drink, no matter my state, was enough for me to go on with sobriety. It makes life easier, surprisingly. Wherever I go, I have one less decision to make: it’ll either be an orange juice or nothing at all (water from the sink). Sober me is no different from drunk me, anyways, if you know me. I’m just less rude and breathless. 

I wish I could drink like I was 14, though. I would be bright red, lose all my inhibitions, and make sure everyone knew. I remember the uncontainable joy I felt, bringing liquor to class, sharing sips with my girl friends and giggling. My parents would never know, they had no basis to accuse me of such a thing. They worried about me failing math. I was good at school, and people liked me, so no real repercussions. But never have I felt nauseous. Nausea is the worst feeling ever. It doesn’t go away, you can’t do anything about it except wait it out or expel it. 22 year old me looks at 14 year old me with envy. If I had to live my life again, I would make the same mistakes all over again, knowing how I turn from resilient to soft and malleable.

Mailing a letter to my friend Ora, vs receiving an email from my friend Tamara <3

On the phone with Marie, we talked at length about how we are doing with our New Year's resolutions and then about the little we know about communism. Of course, we agree on everything. When I asked her what she would be doing if money was not a thing, she replied that she would be doing the same thing she is now. My answer was the same as from when I was 16: “I would be a poet, if I am not one already!”

No such thing as good writing, only connection. I’ve read terrible poems with many accolades. No one can be objective, thankfully. 

Some nights it feels like all I have to myself are words - English words, mostly, a foreign language that doesn’t know my blood or kin. I wish I could speak Arabic and Japanese like I do English, French. I wish I could sing them, I wish I could read them, I wish I could swish them in my mouth and throw them up towards the sun like the Gemini I am. I wish I could build myself a house with them, and a vegetable garden. If I am gifted with expression, it’s only limited, and I grieve my shortcomings like failures of my character. But it’s not, it's just the way things are. I feel silly when I speak, most of the time, mixing up my thoughts and bumping my fist on the table to strengthen a point. I don’t feel bad, it’s part of the charm, but I wish to write my life away, only there is no one to read. I wish to write about nothing all day long, everyday, lovingly, liberally, but the world doesn’t spin for me. If money didn’t matter, I’d be a poet, so I am only half of one, today - cannot commit to something so subjective. It is oppressive being seen and being analyzed. How could I be a poet when most of my poems are about my lover but he can’t understand my language and I am not proficient enough to explain? Love is not enough, I want my blood true, I want my roots true, I want to speak in poetry instead of stuttering at the check out desk! 

I finished reading the story of The Secret Life of Saeed: The Ill-Fated Pessoptimist by Emile Habiby, 1974, a Palestinian historical fiction (if you could call it?) about resistance. What struck me was its humor. Is it Levantine, is it Arabic? Why is it so singular, so familiar? This book, as an English translation, needs some basic understanding of Arabic and the way it is spoken colloquially, because without it it might go over your head. It comes with very little context, culturally and politically, as it centers around Saeed’s misfortunes. It’s a funny book, in a comical way, and Habiby’s wholesome yet cruel delivery is thanks to his prowess on irony. I gave it four stars on Goodreads - I think I need to read it again to fully grasp it. 

And did not your poet of Galilee, Tawfiq Zayyad, write:

I shall carve the name of every stolen plot

And where my village boundaries lay;

What homes exploded,

What trees uprooted, what tiny wild flowers crushed.

All this to remember. And I’ll keep on carving

Each act of this my tragedy, each phase of the catastrophe,

All things, minor and major,

On an olive tree in the courtyard of my home.

How long must he continue carving? How soon will these years of oblivion pass, effacing all our memories? When will the words carved on the olive tree be read? And are there any olives left in courtyards still?

p.22, The Secret Life of Saeed: The Ill-Fated Pessoptimist by Emile Habiby, 1974.

Up next in books, trying to keep up with a theme.

I feel spring around the corner. I hope March is fruitful. According to a fortune-teller I saw in November, I should have good news next season. I hope you too, will receive good news soon.

Thank you a billion for reading.

xx mimi