Actually...

... it's not all that bad.
But life surely is complicated.

A long time since

Someone recently suggested I should start writing again. The thing is that emotions have got the better of me, and battle scars so raw that I may vomit words and regret them later, which seems to be the story of my life the past couple of years...
That's why I set up La Gueule du Monde. It's easier to speak in images these days. I have slowly given myself to vulnerability, and the anonymity and apparent distancing through the lens allow for the filthy/gorgeous to spill out without compromising my integrity.

But I maybe will pick up the keyboard again if I can practice self-restraint and the same pseudo-objectivity that I have come to enjoy with my cameras.

The List.

I always feel nervous when I am being controlled by authority, even if I theoretically know I have nothing to fret about. Like in Beirut when stopped at an impromptu checkpoint by the army. Or on the bus when they check my Oyster card. I feel 'guilty until proven innocent'. Or when I'm queuing for a party and I know I'm on the guest list, but a part of me feels that my name will have magically disappeared, or that I just imagined it all...

I went to a big invite-only party last night. A trashy rival magazine's birthday bash. My name was on the List, my colleague and I were both on the confirmation email of our names being on the List three hours before it was due to roll.
I get there on my kitsch bike, and take my place in the queue. They're all in groups, greasy teenagers with ripped tights, bleached manes, and thick-framed emo eyeglasses. I get to the lady with the clipboard. She's got the List. It feels like a test. "Your name?", I think she was chewing gum. She had bangs and a long ponytail, white killer heels and the attitude of a bitch.
She's got to be, she's in possession of the List.
"Your name?
- Rasha."
She chews her gum and looks over the List. I glance at the clipboard, but she notices and swiftly hides it from me, like the nerd schoolgirl who wants you to fail in class.
It's taking longer than I expected.
And then she turns to me and says:
"You're not on the list, step aside.
- What?! I should be on the list, S. put me on it today. My colleague's already inside.
- Sorry mate, step aside now, behind the rope."

Everyone's looking at me with a smirk. I'm a 'blagger'. I don't look like one, though, I'm not wearing any make-up, not wearing heels and my dress in made of wool for fuck's sake! Blaggers are tall, caked in green eye-shadow and pink foundation, and wear gold mini-skirts even in sub-zero celsius. I didn't fit the part, yet everyone was staring at me, an underdressed un-cool blagger in brown wool...

List-lady's assistant the bouncer looks at me, after I've been pacing for ten minutes dialing number after number:
"- Can I help ya?
- Yes, my name is supposed to be on the list, my friends are inside, but I can't call them cause there's no signal inside."
And he looks at me with dead eyes and says:
"Well, that means it's time to go home."

I've got to admit, it's a pretty good line.

So I go back to chewing gum lady with the List, and I insist that she looks at the List again. I'm ON it, I must be. Can you look again? She rolls her eyes, but I'm sure that she gave me a break because I was just some plain, short girl, and I couldn't possibly be a blagger looking like I did.

"It's Rasha. R-A-S-...
- R-A...?
...
Yeah, you're on the list. I looked at R-U-S before. Yeah, let her in."

And, with that, I was ushered through security and into the dingy sweaty party.


Russia, again.
Old damn story.

Daft White

OK, I must try to understand why blogging has suddenly become one of the hardest things to do at the moment. I used to effortlessly rant on about this or that. I'd simply open the New Post page, and from the whiteness of the box would spring a witty observation about something trivial yet fundamental.

Now the whiteness remains white.
Why, I ask myself?

My life is not less interesting. Quite the opposite, whereas I used to be unemployed, drained in beer-piss, theoretically penniless and selling my soul to any design firm with an extra computer at hand, I am now happily employed, on my way to a raise, out every night on the other side of the bar (drinking white wine, not beer-piss), invited to parties and music festivals. I've got a lounge, a cat, I go to the gym, I cook to eat -not to drown my frustration-, and I don't fret about going to places by train and not by bus.

Is this what they meant by life sucking the soul out of you? Has my semblance of balance stolen my creative spark??

Is my life suddenly uninteresting because I nag less????

I kind of miss the good ol' days of desperately trying to sniff glue to be one of those teenage delinquents I read about in novels, the drama made me a queen (in my head). Or later on, being jilted and having half of my heart ripped out of my chest... at least I became poetic.

So it's true that being happy kinda makes you boring.

But, then again, I'm not really that happy. Human and happy don't mix. I mean, I'm me, and me loves melancholy. I just drown myself in white wine these days, not in words.

I will one day return to the life of a student, and going cold-turkey on the ability to shop at will shall probably return to me the power of witty observation.

Until then, here's some pictures...

Hello again

Fine, I'll get back to writing because staring at the same posts over and over and trying to summon some form of witty comment on life and whatnot is a bit depressing. So I'll just write about nothing. A daunting Nothing, that is.

I got myself a little kitten that I can project all my lack of affection and winter-fear onto. She's just about the most adorable being on earth, and has become the only thing at the moment that makes me laugh. She's all black, but she really is the most un-black thing at the moment. She's so black actually that it's hard to take a picture of her. She's just a black outline in all the photos, and if I use flash, her eyes make her look like the devil. But she's cute, trust me.

Apart from all of this black talk, well, there's nothing much to say...

I promise I'll be better tomorrow, and might even find something remotely interesting to write about.

At least I got a new post!

Ya Beirooooot

London is becoming more and more like Beirut.
There's too much Hummous in my fridge. Everyone says Yalla all the time. My arabic has improved in the last two years. And my flatmate does a riz aa djej that rivals that of my mum's...

Maybe that's why I love my job so much, I can pretend I'm actually in London again.

Although they've now asked me to help curate an exhibition about Beirut Art (that's Kerbaj and Zeina El-Khalil to you and me.)

Akkkkhhhhh....

Can I?

There is a rumour slowly travelling across blogs that the war will be over in two days. On Monday, they are saying...
Can I dare to believe?
Can it be true that they want nothing from us? Can it be this simple?




-- POUF --

Go away. All of you. And never come back.