Pretending — Another Lethal Pandemic!

There are several reasons why I haven't written anything here for a while, but I am not mentioning them all. One will suffice. Poetically, that one reason is the same substratum that establishes this piece I am writing aimlessly. That reason, that pathological condition, is none other than the pitiful act of pretending.

We are all pathetic pretenders. Some are good at it; some are still learning.

I have a friend of mine who is barely living by. He runs a register in a clothing store and receives a trifle of a monthly salary, and he can barely afford his one-year-old girl's diaper and milk. He and I had a phone call the other day in which we cracked many hardly funny jokes coupled with coerced titters. I also happen to have a relative of mine living with an incurable disease, yet she keeps on posting funny posts on Facebook. I have an ex-coworker who is married to an abusive husband, but she keeps on tagging him on romantic posts hoping he would change and become a fucking civilized amiable human being.

We are all pathetic pretenders. Some are good at it; some are still learning.

There is also me, someone whose mother has had a brain stroke that made her bedridden, nonverbal, and unable to feed herself naturally. My autistic child, as well, is barely showing any improvements. There is a look of loss in his eyes that makes me despise my helplessness. I, nevertheless, keep distributing social smiles fuelled by lukewarm vodka and innate fakery.

We are all pathetic pretenders. Some are good at it; some are still learning.

We pretend to be happy and contented, I pretend to be poised, and she pretends to be strong after that devastating emotional crisis.

We are all pathetic pretenders. Some are good at it; some are still learning.

Am I a good pretender? 

Behold! This is I...pretending to be a writer.

 

 

A Lost Man's Memoirs

Beirut, 30 December 2013

How many watersheds are there in the average lifespan of a typical human being? Growing up, I thought I would go through a couple of life-altering events. But now, I am starting to believe they could be up to 10–15 events. A watershed, however, does not necessarily entail a complete redefinition of one's embraced mindset and envisaged road map in their entirety. There will always be leftovers from the previously adopted convictions. I firmly believe that life is a process in which we incessantly customize ourselves to function smoothly throughout the different stages of living. This customization includes reinforcing many ancient components within the character, abandoning others, and introducing a few new ones.

This year, I am going through a new watershed that should result in a confusing mixture of positive and negative complications, as I am witnessing the demise of too many immanent components and the rise of too many unfamiliar ones. These events are unavoidable; however, they're manageable—irrespective of the saddening fact that I personally never manage to manage the manageable! Hence I always worry about the final product, the new redefined me, resulting from such turning points.

When a milestone makes me turn into a humanized thing I despise, I try to relive the older selves I have once been. This is achievable by holding on to dozens of dust-filled memories neatly tucked under the bed within my subconscious. By now, you should have realized that I am already rummaging through dusty memoirs to distract myself and redirect it towards a lesser undesired outcome. The picture above, for instance, always reminds me of a euphoric moment I wish I can have again. I always look at this photo—along with a few others taken on the same day, the day before, or the day after but I cannot share them—if I want to revisit a period of time in which I put the whole world on hold and experienced unfeigned joy and raw carelessness about everything about me.

I have always envied the way she loved life and smiled right in front of hardships, and I fucking miss Beirut so much!

A New Year, a Rekindled Obsession

Me in 2014, in Sweileh, writing the third chapter of my novel "No Ravens Fly in Heaven" 

2019 has been an exhausting year—emotionally, physically, morally, and materially—in its entirety, but the first quarter of it has been the harshest three-month period in this past decade. However, that overpowering hardship I went through was quite informative in terms of enlightening me about the mediocre limits of my composure. This past year has taught me, in the most inconsiderate manner possible, that one knows himself or herself the most at times of unforeseen agony.

It all started in mid-January when someone very dear to me went to jail. The nonstop weekly visits I paid him, until the day of his release in May, resulted in immense pain from which I am still recovering. I cannot deny, though, that I have learned a lot during that period. For instance, I now know that all lawyers are liars. Most of them are even much worse than their law-breaching clients. Within a lawyer's mindset, justice is just an accessory; financial profit is the only power that drives these people. If hell exists, and I hope it does, lawyers would be the ones whose bodies are relied upon to stoke the fire and keep it raging indefinitely.

The end of the year was as depleting as its start. My mother got admitted into the hospital last month, suffering from a deficiency of blood platelets. Again, the experience was truly edifying; I learned that humans can be an unstoppable force of benevolence as I witnessed firsthand acquaintances and strangers alike rushing to donate blood for my mother.

I still vividly recall plenty of unpleasant, as well as pleasant, events that took place in 2019, but I don't want to be loquacious about a year I should forget already. It's all about 2020 now.

Unlike past years, this time I do have goals for the new year. And I promise to reread this blog entry at the end of this year to evaluate my progress. As an inexperienced goal setter, I won't be too wild and will settle for three goals only.

My first goal is to write every day. I have been quite lazy this past year when it comes to exposing my soul, heart, and mind with my relentlessly expressive words. By writing daily I mean writing anything: a random two-line notion on my cellphone, a full blog entry, a Facebook post, or a single sentence for my novel. Speaking of which, I know I should have finished my novel a long time ago, but I have been preoccupied with too many mundane matters in my recent years. Another reason for this delay—or perhaps the only valid reason, but I just keep denying it—is the lack of a muse, especially after I had a powerful one when I first started writing this book five or six years ago. The good news is, if I am not mistaken or merely being delusional, I have found a new muse. But this one is different, and the situation that brings the two of us together is hazardously complex. I need to be extraordinarily cautious with my approach.

My second goal is to try something completely new. Yes, it is as simple as that. I told you I am inexperienced when it comes to setting goals, didn't I? Somehow, I have developed an unhealthy craving for new experiences. I want to experience something like my first unsuccessful attempt to ride a bicycle in the early nineties when my dad was rooting for me while everyone else on the street was laughing their fucking asses off; or the first time I ever composed a piano piece and felt immortal; or my first day at work as an elementary school teacher who was scared to death; or the first song I wrote, rewrote, recorded, and then quickly deleted it forever; or maybe something radically redefining such as fatherhood.

My third and last goal for the year 2020 is to be a little bit selfish. I know this sounds…selfish? But I have been selfless for more than 34 years already. I have neglected my aspirations for too long for the sake of others; it's time to devote myself to myself.

I promise that I'll be obsessed with sketching my own fate.

Here I come, and I'll keep coming.

Death Stranding: A Reminder that the Verity of Life Lies Within Death

It has been almost four weeks since I first started playing Death Stranding, the long-awaited game by the legendary video game developer, Hideo Kojima. I beat the game a few days ago after spending 86 hours and 47 minutes on it. Since then, something has been itching the nooks of my soul, heart, and mind. It was—still is, since I am now trying to complete the side missions of the game—a remarkable experience that reshaped my entire mindset and drastically altered the way I perceive life and death.

The game's setting is a post-apocalyptic, dismantled America in the faraway future where people are rarely seen outdoors due to severe climatic changes that brought "Timefall," an acid-like precipitation of rain and snow that accelerates aging and ruins everything it touches, including inanimate objects. To make things worse, there are also invisible ghostly figures known as BTs—an abbreviation that stands for Beached Things—who accompany that deadly precipitation and kill human beings on sight. Amidst this futuristic horror, there is a man called Sam Porter Bridges (played by the actor Norman Reedus) who is destined to be the one who reconnects the severed joints—or the loose "knots", as they are literally called in the game—of the broken world.

The "unsung hero," Sam, has a pod—which is a virtual or artificial womb—that contains a fully grown—also artificial—fetus called BB. The fetus has the gift of being able to see BTs and even detect them from afar. Sam is connected to the pod via a man-made umbilical cord, which makes him possess the same preternatural abilities BB has. The relationship between Sam and his BB evolves dramatically and we get to witness an exceptional, intimate, fatherly bond manifesting unapologetically. Some details, like having to soothe BB when he cries or hearing him laugh at something funny, definitely add a breathtaking, surreal dimension.

To rebuild the dilapidated world, Sam has to deliver necessary cargo to secluded areas and get them all connected into one online web, known as the "Chiral Network," that makes living a lot easier.

The game addresses several themes. The most essential ones are probably fatherhood, the ineluctability of death, loneliness, and social solidarity. The last two are brilliantly presented by the game's online mechanism that allows players share the equipment they make. Let's say, for instance, that I used a climbing anchor to traverse a mountainous area. I can leave it behind so other players would use it and I would collect points as rewards. This applies to all items players produce: ladders, ropes, electricity generators, shelters, watchtowers, bikes, trucks, paved roads...etc. However, you will never come across any other player; you merely see their vestiges and in return they see yours—a way to be reminded that you're alone in this world, but not entirely!

I remember in one of the earlier episodes of the game that I was using a motorcycle to get to my destination. The bike's electrical engine was dying, and I thought I would have to ditch the bike eventually and proceed on foot. However, just when I was about to lose hope, I found an online generator built by another player and placed in a perfect spot where most porters would be in need of electricity. I used the generator to charge my bike and I was ready to travel hundreds of extra miles. That incident urged me to pay it forward. I suddenly found myself building things I didn't really need, but I simply anticipated they would be needed by others.

The original score of the game is marvelous and incredibly captures the essence of the entire journey. Kojima's musical taste has always been phenomenal, so the beauty of the in-game music was unsurprising at all.

At the beginnings of the game, Sam is required to dispose of the dead body of someone to whom he was closely related. His mission was to deliver the cadaver to the incinerator. In the final chapter of the story, he goes to the incinerator again to deliver another dead body of another person to whom he was closely related. The cycle was complete, and so was the revelation he sorely needed.

This game offers a virtual reality that is teeming with virtues the real life lacks so desperately. The desolate landscape in that fictional world seems a lot brighter and more hopeful than our real world, where loneliness is felt the most when we are amidst hordes of people; the reason is simply because we are a dismantled nation of stupid fucking homo sapiens.

Now, if you please excuse me, I have deliveries to make and roads to build and pave for fellow human I have never met. Fuck this world and have a nice day!

"Glass" Movie Review — the rawest taste of humanity

Image by Andre Spengler

A couple of weeks ago, I finally got the long-awaited chance to watch the movie "Glass," the third installment in the brilliant trilogy written and directed by M. Night Shyamalan. "Glass," released earlier in 2019, is a thoroughly thought of sequel to "Unbreakable" and "Split" released in 2000 and 2018 respectively. Both were great pictures with captivating moments thanks to the intriguing stories and outstanding acting by Bruce Willis and Samuel L Jackson in the first installment and James McAvoy in the second. The three actors are finally brought together by Shyamalan—who, by the way, was the genius behind The Sixth Sense, a memorable masterpiece in the history of cinematic arts and one of my personal all-time favorites—to orchestrate the anticipated finale.

If you haven't figured this out yet, then I'll say it explicitly: You must watch the first two movies before you watch this one.

In "Glass," we witness the predictable, yet intense, convergence of the paths of three enigmatic individuals: Kevin Crumb, a man with multiple dissociate personality states; David Dunn, a security guard who quite later in his life discovers that he possesses superstrength and the ability to see informative visions; and Elijah Price, a genius thinker who suffers from a severe condition of osteoporosis and refers to himself as "Mr. Glass."

James McAvoy, who plays the role of Keven Crumbs—and nineteen other characters—did a phenomenal job. His memorable performance in "Split" was snubbed outrageously last year when he didn't receive a nomination for an Academy Award or Golden Globe, but I am certain this will not be the case this year. Hedwig, the 9-year-old boy; Patricia, the classy and domineering lady; and Dennis, the mastermind are the most three personalities I liked out of the twenty ones McAvoy portrayed so painstakingly.

The writing stood out for me, as a writer, and I surly enjoyed the subtle wittiness of it. The amount of quotable lines is truly impressive, but I will not share any to keep this a spoiler-free review.

The most thing I loved about "Glass," however, was how the simplicity, triviality, and mundaneness of certain elements were transformed into something godlike that signifies fear of poetic justice and virtuous vendetta. No flashy suits with tens of features, no colorful capes with distinctive logos, no preternatural projectiles, and no exaggerated multiverse tales. David's rain poncho, Elijah's wheelchair, and Kevin's shirtlessness were the only symbols of heroism and villainy in this movie.

The majority of movie critics bashed the movie. They can, of course, toss themselves onto an uncharted zone in hell where they can fuck themselves sideways. Man, I fucking appreciated the artistry of this film!



 

Selective Empathy by "Pro-Resistance" Palestinians

Photo by Elena Gatti

Back in 2011 and 2012, at the peak of my political awareness and avidity for activism for the sake of my country, I used to receive plenty of invitations to participate in sit-ins or demonstrations against the Zionist entity and its ongoing heinous crimes committed against my fellow Palestinians. My response, most of the time, would be the following: "No, thanks! I wish you all the best, though. Long live Palestine, and down with the Zionists!"

The reason was simply the filthy backgrounds of the organizers of such events. More than 90% of "pro-resistance" Palestinians in Jordan—and this percentage is merely based on my own experience—are people who support dictators and oppressive regimes around the world. North Korea, Iran, and Syria all have increasing fan bases comprising thousands of Palestinians. How the fuck are you supposed to be a freedom advocate when you're openly backing countries that perfectly embody a dictatorship, a theocracy, and an oligarchy respectively?

There is a cafe in Amman where Jordanian and Palestinian communists meet regularly. And by the way, I have absolutely nothing against communism. I know its virtual lifespan is relatively short, I mean...*cough* *cough* the Soviet Union *cough*...it's all fun and shit until you collapse and fall into a bottomless abyss; but as an ideology, I believe it should be completely fine to be believed in—or even religiously adopted—by others. So, anyway, I went there in 2012 and met with some people. They struck me as highly intellectual individuals...until we started talking about the Syrian regime. It turned out that the Assad family was deified by ALL of them—and "them" here refers to all the 5 people I met that night. The fact that the same family has been ruling the country for more than 45 years with utter despotism, denying political pluralism and depriving the people of their basic democratic rights, is completely meaningless to them. Mentioning the thousands of political prisoners and the horrendous torture methods taking place in solitary confinement also had no impact on those five young activists at all; they would either deny it or justify it—and the latter was outrageous to say the least. And by the way, that meeting took place prior to the emergence of ISIL, NF, or any other terrorist militias.

Furthermore, atrocities happening elsewhere in the region are often overlooked by the ilks of the aforementioned people. Take Egypt, for instance, where the military coup was and is supported by numerous "liberal" Palestinians. I have a friend on Facebook who used to publish daily posts, bashing Mohamed Morsi and everything he stood for. That friend, unsurprisingly, was so delighted when Sisi first took over simply because that imbecilic military general was not an Islamist unlike Morsi. But now, after tens of crimes committed by the Egyptian regime headed by that tyrant, that friend of mine is oblivious to what is going on in Egypt. He still posts about Palestine and the tens of crimes committed by the Israelis, though. Of course, I read those posts with unprecedented disgust.

I personally never supported Morsi; I supported the will of the people that brought Morsi via the first ever democratic elections in the history of the country. I couldn't careless about his party, and that's the point those people are missing.

So, I am afraid you and I cannot march side-to-side against one murderous entity when you are a fan of a similar—if not more murderous—one.

There is a song I like by Garbage; no, it's a good song, but the band goes by the name "Garbage." There is a part in that song I like very much and maybe it harmonizes quite well with what I am trying to say:

"We are not your kind of people
Speak a different language
We see through your lies
We are not your kind of people
Won't be cast as demons
Creatures you despise"

Memoirs of a Veteran Gamer Who Just Started Playing Again

A still from a video of me playing Tekken Tag Tournament
on PS2 — the shitty quality of the image is intentional to
harmonize with the content of this piece.

I was first introduced to the world of video games circa 1993. It was a Nintendo console, but I cannot remember which one it was. I was markedly fascinated by the idea of being part—or rather an integral part—of an alternative world and being in complete control of various characters to achieve different goals. Little by little, my fascination grew. The ultimate pinnacle was in 1998 when my dad bought me Sony's revolutionary console, PlayStation (PS1). I spent thousands of hours playing PS1 games back in the days. While that huge amount of time was a direct result of my immeasurable affinity for gaming, I cannot deny that another factor was being away from my country, Jordan, due to family circumstances that forced me to live in Oman from 1998 to 2000. I was lucky enough during that two-year stay to own my first PS1 (I bought another one later) which helped me immensely kill both the time and fictional enemies.

And then, PlayStation 2 (PS2) came out, granting me a new experience of incomparable joy. I beat all of my favorite games, most of which were sequels of PS1 games. Upon graduation, which was in 2007, I quit video games to focus on two things: finding a job, and finding the writer within. So, PlayStation 3 (PS3) and PlayStation 4 (PS4) both came out while I was in a state of self-imposed oblivion. For ten years, I had not played a single PS3 or PS4 game; and the only rationale was not to get distracted—for considerably long hours—and neglect my life objectives.

After I got married, back in 2017, I started replaying some of my PS1 and PS2 games. Although those gaming sessions were quite few and far between and would take place primarily when I was home alone, they were enough to rekindle the gamer I once was and prompted me to buy a PS4 last December.

After almost a month of this new personal era of gaming I am living, there are three main observations I would like to share: first, it turned out that there was no reason for me to feel sorry for not keeping up with the newer generation of video games because there was no fucking way I could afford those insanely costly games back when I was still a jobless college student. $50 dollar for a game? That's literally 50 pirated PS2 games. Yeah, sue me. Second, the graphics have improved dramatically and I wouldn't be surprised if next year's games have graphics that are indistinguishable from real life. And third, which is also associated with the first observation, there is now something called downloadable content (DLC), which is basically additional components of the game (more characters, episodes, equipment...etc.) you get only if you pay for them. Are you shitting me? This stuff is something that was called "unlockable content" you would get upon beating the game or completing certain side missions or challenges. Sadly, the gaming industry has become greedily commercial.

I am still coping with some major differences between my ancient history as a gamer and what I am experiencing now. For instance, online gaming is a newfangled realm I haven't explored before. However, I'll most likely never play online because I mainly play single-player games that cannot be played online anyway.

Overall, I am having a hell of a nice time adapting to this highly rich gaming environment. I have missed a lot (two complete generations of video games, to be precise) but I will be steadily, patiently, and joyfully making it up for myself this year.