Sunday, November 21, 2010
lay a mess in my head
left a taste in my mouth
and burned holes in my bed
You put a taste in my mouth
you lay filth in my chest
now you’re running around
playing games with my guests
You left filth in my bed
let him use my cologne
and all the while im working
wearing my hands to the bone
So drown under my skin
fall into my head
maybe then you'll see
why I said what i said
Cos i worked for the meat
but you put nails in my bread
and i slaved at your feet
but you put filth in my bed
but ill build it with my own two hands
come to my house
i'll build anything you demand
and architects may laugh at us
modernists more learned and such
the neighbors they may start a fuss
about the flowers on our hutch
your mother she just might complain
say this man will bring you shame
even ask you to refrain
from being marguerite my lovely dame
i'll hide money in the back
someday we'll have a fairer shack
but a hutch and flowers's all i can give
and a hutch and flowers's all i can lose
come to my house
i'll build it with my own two hands
When you just can’t see the point
When it all feels misunderstood
And self is asked to disjoint
From the desires burning in its corpse
How do you pick a road
When all feel like means
To an end that comes too soon
How do you destroy the self
At the altar of an us
Born in the image of them
And vicodine-numb every last taste
Lost in a sea of bodies
Shamefully drawn to yours
Only drawn in mine
When answers lost at birth
Become missing pieces to a jigsaw puzzle in the clouds
And what time spent in between,
Feels retrospect wasted
Copied and pasted
To fit into the puzzle that is you me and the rest of us, and sometimes them
For what purpose no one knows
For the likes of us were taught
Very early on
That the self was something to be destroyed
At the altar that is he
Who if whispering little secrets
Is taking little notes
About matters of the flesh, yours and mine
And burning that figment
Drawn to your corpse – only drawn in mine.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Growing up in a country perpetually at war, sound takes on an immense social significance. You learn to tell the difference between the sound of fireworks, loud crackling sharp successions of beats in the distance, and gunshots, which sound almost the same but echo differently as the bullet breaks the sound barrier. You learn how sound has a Pavlovian affect on a society when you see mothers frantically telling their kids to stay away from windows as soon as they hear a loud thud that sounds like a car bomb. And you learn about the musicality of conflict, when you watch restlessly frustrated, politically castrated bodies swaying to the beats of a Scissor Sister’s track in a bar to drown out the noise of militia-men killing each other amidst the storm right outside. What continuously inspires me is how quickly music can generate a community around itself, a sea of individuals searching for melodies to quiet the all-too-familiar beats bouncing off the Mediterranean Sea as a warship bombs the southern district of their city, and for a lyrical cure to their social anomie, lost in the cadences separating one string of violent beats from the next.
Growing up in a conservative Muslim family, my aunt often told me that singing would result in my eternal damnation. I sang anyway. Music for me is that moment of confrontation with your family, when you discover Nietzche in freshman year listening to The Doors, when you fall in love for the first time listening to Aretha Franklin, when you find out about social justice listening to Tracy Chapman, and when you realize that a completely foreign sound emanating from the speakers of an old stereo can offer you the comfort of knowing that you are not alone in a city where mosques and churches compete to make the loudest sounds, trying to colonize the urban sound-scape of a post-war nation. It is that moment of self-realization that happens when you listen to Bob Dylan’s “Blowing in the wind” at five in the morning while watching the sunrise after a long night of crying over existential angst. It is the intellectual ecstasy of the death of the author in the fragmented meanings of Kurt Cobaine’s lyrics, the fuel for youthful rebellion listening to Patti Smith’s Gloria, and the sensitivity of gender performance separating the emotional Abdul-Halim Hafez’s westernized ballads, from Abdul-Wahhab’s stern adherence to oriental modes and scales.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
the rhetoric of identity is imported.
so is this blog.
so are my clothes.
so are yours.
why is my identity an issue. i just want to get married.
minus the historical progress of society.
maybe there's power in playing other.
i feel like i belong to another war.
im not one for novelty.
i just dont feel like i think they did.
the ones before.
someday media power will be the solution.
and the war will be over.
salamat min lubnanabad.