الكاتب: theroccafamily

letter #4: despite the storm

Dear Chau, Forgive me for not paying more attention to your excitement about the heavy raindrops while we were on skype a few hours ago. I suggested that you go and enjoy the storm and then we can continue with our call, but you said if you went you will need three hours. Why didn’t we pause for the raindrops, how did I waste such a moment? Why did i steal that moment from us? We were sharing some thoughts on surveillance at that point, how we are the consumers of our own fears. Later, I asked you if i suffer from political apathy, and you said that i am politically alienated, and it all started when people were cheering for Saddam and i wasn’t immediately after we had to leave Kuwait. Chau, i am challenged when it comes to words, i am challenged in saying what i need to say, there is so much in my head. When it’s in my head, it’s clear. I see it, i feel it, i smell it. I can see the big circles that i always tell you about, the circles that are floating and moving and sometimes they meet and interact, and they breed and good things come out of them. They feed off of each other, they are strong separately but they grow much more beautifully and strangely when they spend time together. When i was in Thessaloniki last time visiting you, and we were walking by the corniche, a storm was happening in front of us, we could see the lightning, and again you were so taken by the thunder and lighting happening in front of our eyes, in the distance across the sea, the water just a few steps away. And again, i stole that moment from us, i got distracted by some noise happening in my head. You are so patient. Dear Ola, I think about noise a lot. I feel more acutely affected by it and aware of it than ever, as a matter of fact i feel attacked by noise constantly. Cars, tv, sharp heels against the ground, electricity generators, non-stop-music, an uninterrupted confirmation of the invasion of earth. And i think it is no coincidence. This noise distracts us from what may be profound. Whether the noise is the sounds in our head worrying about the mundanities (as you would refer to them) of life, or they are outside of us confirming our bleak and fragile existence, they distract us from a possible moment of quiet when we actually may hear something. I am worried that with so much to hear and see, and even with all our audiovisual tools, we remain blind and deaf. Drugged. I am sure the noise dulls the senses. A couple of evening’s ago, i felt the need for a brisk walk and some fresh air so I went for a walk along the corniche you mention above and i felt i was navigating my way through the crowds as much as i was through noise. Keeping to the edge furthest from the cars, keeping as much distance as i could from electricity generators and music blaring from shops and restaurants, i felt like i was hardly keeping afloat. I pushed through but with a lot of effort and not without a degree of panic. I find myself thinking what might it be like buried under the noise of war? How does one think? How can one hear their own voice? I need to get closer to the storm. Take a distance from all this that seems to be our achievement: cities and motors and non-stop-online-chatter. I want to sit at the feet of a sky and surrender to her. I want to stand under the fat drops of rain and be cleansed. I want to hear the thunder and the shower. I want to hear the thunder and the shower and nothing else and try to find if there is any honesty there. I want you to know that i felt we were together in front of the thunderstorm. A theater of lightning which we were welcome to enjoy. Despite the fact that the lightning and thunder made you nervous, despite the fact the noise that was unwelcome, you sat with me. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4xx7fm_NKbU

letter #3: age in my chicken neck

From Chau to Ola 12 May 2018 [i wrote this the other day in a bar. dealing with age. i am dealing with age. i am surprised by how present it is.] I am older, sometime by much, than most of those around me. In amman and in thessaloniki, more than in san francisco or bakersville. Look at this young couple by the window, sharp in black and hip in tattoos and skinny, so serious and adult and much younger than me. I have arrived at the age of carefree bellies and comfortable clothes and bad hair. I have to stop referring to my age with the young, for they–like i used to–react with the silliness and ignorance of youth. They offer me denial or consolation. Age is a shocking matter of fact, so expected yet it creeps up, we count yet it creeps up, it happens all the time to everyone else yet it creeps up. I maybe, like every single human at age 43 (who made it to 43), am shocked by age. By my age. From Ola to Chau 16 May 2018 yes age is very present, i am now watching a new series, drama, very intense family relationships, actually it’s very good. the script is good. anyway, one older person who is dying from cancer tells a younger woman how arrogant she is thinking that she will live forever, and refusing to accept a very sweet invitation from a sweet guy. so he told her you think you want to take your time, there is no time, be aggressive and grab things now, there will be a time when you will be very slow and it will hurt. and we always hear this and always repeat it but for some reason the way he said it affected me a lot. he’s a black man, maybe that’s why. anyway, and then in the shower the next morning i started thinking, i don’t want to take things slow. i want to be active as much as possible, i want to have many projects going on, even if i don’t finish them or even start them, i want to be moving a lot. and i feel i am ready for it, like my body wants it. i want to keep learning and trying and and because yes it’s coming soon, where my brain and body will not respond to what i want. From Chau to Ola 20 May 2018 on the one hand i appreciate age and welcome it and i understand it is a channel that takes me to my end (if i am lucky and age is what kills me), but god does it scare me to realise that i, like many (dare i say most), will regret a life not fully lived. could that be escaped? only if life is robbed at an early age will one miss to regret not living it. how ironic. Time that we share is a gift and i bathe in it, like a cat bathes in a spot of sun. Ola, I cannot but see age in my chicken neck developing, the wrinkles where my breasts meet, the falling stomach and that funny loose flesh where my thighs meet. my age compared to others. in my twenties, i found i liked older men. these men are my age now and the older men like younger women. classic. that is what women have said for years in books and films and life around me and i never gave them a chance for understanding but now i am starting to. this is not to say that age does not compensate me with confidence and self assuredness and wisdom, it does and sometimes i feel that it is more valuable to me than youthful skin. my father did say it was not fair: youth is given the body that they only come to appreciate after that body is already gone. From Chau to Ola 21 May 2018 also, one good thing about age which i am enjoying is that i am not afraid of young men. there are many young men, sometimes in large groups who walk around the city, refugees waiting, waiting and i am not afraid of them. on the contrary, i have a soft spot for them. i understand their anger and frustration but i mostly see their sincere and awkward attempts to fit in and be attractive and they hold what remains of their dignity dear to them. this dignity may seem at times as a harsh facade or a know-it-all or even as violence but i think it is only that, what remains of self respect and hope. From Ola to Chau 27 May 2018 in amman now i am on the spectrum of middle age, i do feel middle aged, i spend a lot of time with 75+ or early twenties. i am also noticing more than ever that children are not part of my being at all, and it feels awkward when they are around. there is a big age group of humans that i have no idea about. shall i go and lease a few kids and have them hang out with me for a bit? i find myself counting to fifty, in one year i will be 45 and then 5 to the fifty. at the age of 43 i am now ready to explore my body in new ways. I stopped smoking three years ago, that is when i started being more aware of my body, the fog of smoke started fading and some thick layers of denial started peeling off. gradually i started feeling my skin, smelling it, seeing it. and now i am trying to forgive myself for ignoring and shaming parts of it.

final note: thank you and bye bye

https://youtu.be/v_A2nzk5CPI The Rocca Family is concluding the 2017 USA Road Trip. We left our Mission flat in San Francisco on Nov 30th 2016 and with this note, we raise a drink to the adventure. Salute صحة everyone! Although it felt like the steepest of learning curves, plenty to file and absorb with our senses on high alert, we appreciate that we have only experienced a small bit of this vast place. For one, we are still to see a bear. During the year, we have kept this blog post as a space to pause, contemplate, process and share. Zizi and Taita O joined us with philosophies and music on several occasions and we enjoyed very much our work with them, for proof: https://vimeo.com/239395645 The journey often felt like we existed in an abstraction, often each other’s only company for days, the echo of our laughter coming back to us, pointing and calling on each other to look at the 2 bald eagles at the tip of the tree, the swimming manatee drinking water, pinching each other in front of the Grand Canyon, and pretending to be really cool while we waved hello at the Amish family. But we were never alone, our friends never ceased to make their presence reassuringly present in one way or another. Our lovely friends and family, humans and beasts: thank you for checking on us, for your curiosity and long-distance care, following our map and reading our blog and liking our posts, thank you for worrying about us and taking care of our disappearances sometimes. Thank you for hosting us, feeding us, for holding space for us to perform and present and be who we want to be. Thank you for connecting us to your friends and favorite spots. Thank you for loving Rocca the cat. Thank you for housing our boxes, art collections, suitcases and mail. Thank you for documenting our work in your sincere ways. Thank you for visiting, even when you had to cross oceans and take awkward routes, thank you for all the audiovisual communications even when the line was bad and the internet intermittent and for being patient with our mixed dates and change of mind and not being able to plan ahead of time. Because of you the Rocca Family was able to take this journey, knowing you are out there watching over us. And stay tuned for our future adventures in a new chapter entitled Ola y Chao.

note # 33: I forgive myself

Why can i not be in the moment? Being in the moment, it is a practice that needs practice. I opened the bedroom-balcony door wide open despite the rushing winds and the cold. I wanted to feel as outside as possible from my bed. And i wanted as much sun as possible to come in through the clouds and between the rains and across the Puget sound. As soon as the confident sun walked into the room, I left. I needed to be drinking coffee with this moment. I could not stop myself. I had to have coffee in bed while the sun shone through. I knew going to make the nagging cup of coffee that I might miss the sun entirely. Waiting for the coffee to boil, my head voices repeating why can you not live in the moment? Why can you not bloody fucking hell just live in the fucking moment? And then I see the deer. I have been waiting for him for days (since the time I saw him and did not live the moment and got too excited and wanted everything out of that experience: I called for Ola too loud and reached for my phone too fast and the deer ran and Ola hurt her arm. If only I had just surrendered to the moment and watched it looking for apples or something under the tree in the front yard, I had just told Alma the night before that our spot was great but not where deer came through. Wrong!). There he was, under the tree. Why he? Because deer in Arabic is a male noun غزال and not like a cat who is she but rather like a dog who is he. And I decided to experience the moment. He moved a little, I wondered if he had eaten any of the apples I had left for him, licked his side, looked this way and that, I sipped the coffee looking at the deer through the window, for a minute or two until I prayed for its safety when it crossed the street and he was gone. So was the sun. I am not closing the balcony door just in case she (the sun is female) chose to visit. * Best quotes from a conversation with neighbors in Bakersville, NC “If he does become a dictator, we will fight him, the American people is the biggest army on earth.” “Britain is to blame for it all.” “Of course i have a gun. If a person comes to my house and knocks at my door and i ask who is it and they do not answer i will shoot him, of course i will.” (“But, but what if he was deaf? Or just could not speak English?” I suggest) “Truth is, I cannot even understand what people around here are saying half the time.” “Have another beer.” (sure.) * Camp adventures Jumana gave me a camping workshop in her backyard in Oakland before i left to the road trip. I got a refresher from Linda in Grosse Point Park and she gave us her tent and a sleeping bag ++. Our first camping experience, a spot by the water in the Everglades in February or was it March? Tobias gave us his mosquito shirts and they sure were useful against the attack of the nasty mosquitoes. We set up camp, tent and all, but the spot did not feel right, it was not as pretty as the pictures. Then, just at sunset, we found the right spot, the beautiful spot by the water. We had but ten minutes to break and set camp. Tent folded with the our gear in it stuffed rolled up and held outside the window, most doors still open we quickly shoved everything in and miraculously, challenging physics, we made it. Over the period of a year, Ola and i camped a total of one night and i barely slept. We were meant to camp for two but a storm came and we evacuated. * Did it ever happen? I am not sure how and why we found ourselves in the car driving up to the Roan Mountain tip during a snowstorm. As if we were unable to go against a pull, a pull to the top through a snow blizzard. There was silence and white and wind and cold and we continued upward. It was also really hard to make a u-turn. At Carver’s Gap, Suad and Ola stepped out of the car while I stayed at the wheel, turned around, picked them up after they got a 30-second kick and went back home. The trip has acquired, as early as during it, a sense of magic and nonsense and fiction. Like a dream or simply an act of folly. After this trip Suad no longer asked why we did not go for longer walks. 1) walks are subject to the availability of publicly accessible land (or be gunned down for trespassing), 2) it was fucking freezing. I am happy to revisit my love here, The Roan Mountain https://www.roccafamily.org/single-post/2017/04/10/note-12-goodbye-my-love * The curse of a grilled freshly caught octopus on a Greek island After you have experienced that: a fuss free dinner of freshly caught and simply cooked seafood and a drink and a smoke exactly by the water, very few experiences will ever match up to it. Searching for a no-fuss place by the water to eat something from the same water has proved near impossible. Not when we were in California and nowhere along the Pacific Coast. Ola had high hopes for Oysterville, WA. Hopes based on the suggestions of its name. We drove through it until we double, triple, quadruple checked that the town indeed was closed. The whole place, for the season, for ever, I am not sure. The best near to Greek island magic was buying shrimp and fish off the boat. Looks like this boat tours the islands and docks for a couple

note # 32: play

This morning over breakfast diala told me that she had a profound conversation with her mother over the phone about play. Her mother, who is someone i am very close to and admire a lot, had some philosophical wondering about child vs adult/play vs no-play. Being a child makes a lot of sense because there is play, but then one is an adult and the play stops. Why? And that made me change what i was planning to put into this blog today. I had planned to write about the nostalgia i am already feeling regarding the road trip. The road trip is ending in a few weeks and i am very sad and scared, scared of not being able to go on like this for ever and ever and sad for making the choice to end it with my own hands. I love playing, i’ve always been and still am a strong advocate for play. Many beloveds have told me that i was still in so many ways like a 14 year old boy. My brother, a couple of years younger than me, has also said that to me when i repeatedly and persistently teased my father and poked at his cheeks. I am an advocate for non systematic and non forced play, but play as a spontaneous and ongoing act of pleasure. Play for the sake of playing and not for the purpose of making use of one’s time, or timed and assigned like to a holiday, a family union, or a certain day of the week or time of the day. Play in how we dress, play in how we cut our hair, play in changing furniture around the house. I am still not sure why people get so serious about their hair, my mother always told me “if life was like hair, things would be so easy.” Mother, thank you. My hair is my most enjoyable and painful playground, it’s where i still want to prove (mostly to myself) my freedom. I have a history of inventing games. One of my earlier games was “torture room” غرفة العذاب. A game that my cousins and brother remember horrifically but i think i will not say more on that here. I invented a similar game a few years ago “the finger game” لعبة الاصابع, which involved two players and fingers and biting and guessing the secret word. Then there is the monster game, where i turned into a monster, and the person, my prey, always laughed so hard the laughter turned into tears. My father did hide in my grandparent’s house in Alexandria, Egypt when the electricity went off, and made ghost sounds. My mother, to make us “laugh,” flipped her eyelids. That is the definition of growing in a non traditional household. I met a couple in Portland a few months ago, their game was hiding a “crying jesus” and sometimes it took one of them a few months to find the “crying jesus.” Play is necessary, play needs courage, and on this road trip i played a lot. I am playing and i am proud to say it. There is no shame, i played on snow, beside lakes, i played on sand dunes, i played with the goats, and most importantly i played music. I have not played music for almost 20 years. I met a wonderful teacher, Nat Wilson, in northern New Mexico and in his own magical way, my fingers did it. Bob, with his hand-made and collected inspirational music instruments, allowed me into the rare moments of play for the sake of playing. This is one reason why i am scared that the road trip is ending, what if i forget to play? https://youtu.be/GaC0oDuOBgQ

note # 31:loves me loves me not

Memorable coffee Somewhere between Missouri and Kansas, it was time to get a cup of coffee. That is not always an easy thing, especially if you love coffee and the coffee you love is not popular. We were not on the main highways and consulting with google maps, we found ourselves taking a few lefts and rights into a small town and into a restaurant. People were there eating lunch, it was full and awkward, not sure where and from whom one gets a cup of coffee, it took a few minutes listening to the clicking of silver against porcelain (neither silver nor porcelain), before we were handed large cups to fill from the large thermoses. Back in the car, smelling of over-fried fat, Ola looks at me and says: “did you see how no one in that place had any teeth?” And it is an image that stays with me reconstructed in time, faces looking to my direction, faces of bodies around dinner tables, in this image they are all friendly faces, smiling and chewing and talking and yawning without teeth. I never did drink that coffee. It sloshed back and forth until I threw it out. I do not think it was coffee. Not a sandwich There are places where food is not food. The most expensive meal I ever ate was a “gourmet cheese sandwich” and tea from dunkin donuts. One square yellow plastic barely melted between two brown square plastics and scalding hot water with a thing in it that seeps a bleak brown color. The least plastic thing of the affair was the paper cup, the true waste. I am sorry, sad and sorry that anyone would eat this. My friends waving goodbye in San Francisco said: “you will miss the food.” This is not about poverty or access. This is about wiped out cultures. Isles and isles in huge supermarkets with nothing to eat, not really. This is about capitalism and globalization and inhumane priorities packaged in greatness and the American dream and supa pawa bulldozer. Coming from the land of (where things are being corporate sabotaged as I write) freshly fried falafel sandwiches with freshly made hummous, unpretentious fresh cheese-in-season and beautiful traditionally squeezed olive oil (precious), I cannot help but wonder what the fuck happens to a people if they do not have access to good food? To real food? Can they be happy? Are they angry? Always hungry? Never satisfied? Just think of one person on a diet of deprivation multiply by a nation. As we drive and hunt for food or stand at a beautiful view point, Ola wistfully says: “all I want is some tabouleh (really fresh, sour and salty and hot serrano chili) and a glass of arak.” I dream of kibbeh niyyeh and arugula. (imagine this, the sun shining across a blue sky, in the middle of war and economic depression, a small town by the water, a sexy sun-weathered man smoking brings out a dish of freshly caught immediately grilled octopus and in the other hand two small glasses of ouzo and an ashtray.) I am angry at how the usa fucks up people’s lives around the globes with wars and globalization and mc-democracy to scratch its narcissism and greed, lives like mine. Now after months on the road I am also angry for the usa-americans whose lives have also been fucked by usa. Loves me loves me not In the middle of what felt like nowhere. In Kingman, Arizona. We stood outside the bar, no, too many tv screen.We stood outside another bar, maybe not, are we too brown?The bar tender says hello and she brings a basket of perfect popcorn and everything is ok.“Can I ask you a question?” The truck-driving-looking-white-guy asked (it turns out he was a truck driver). Ola at the juke box. Two butch women kicking two bike riders’ male asses in billiards. “Sure.” I said. “Say, is this an Arab gay bar? At the end of a day exhausted (yes, beauty and nature and sweet beast encounters can do that over a long day), hungry and ready to kill for a beer, we stopped at the busiest most local looking bar and grill in Forks, WA. Walking in, everyone was white and they all turned slowly towards the door squinting and are staring at us (actually, they were not, maybe a couple did but there were TV screens). A server camp-swings by and says “sit wherever you like ladies.” And we take the seats best to watch everyone. It was too early to sleep, too dark to walk, too cold to hang out in a little town in Oregon on my way to Seattle from San Francisco just after the solar eclipse and all the hotels were no-vacancy and I will sleep in my car but I really need to pee. I walked into the only place open: the bar. Akh, all men. Except, the voice from behind the bar is a woman’s and she says “hi, what can I get you?” And everything is good. He asks: “where are you from?” And I say: “San Francisco.” And he says: “did you get to see the eclipse over there?” Mechanics Off the path, in the smaller places, there are mechanics. We changed the oil and checked the tires every three thousand miles on average, every once in a while the car demanded some special attention. About mechanics: Most mechanics are gay men The rest are men with ambiguous sexualities All mechanics are really clean The mechanic in Santa Barbara did not trust the news. I think he was racist, it is really hard to say and he did call our car “the cleanest car from Michigan.” I did not understand anything the tire-guy said in Bakersville North Carolina. I really liked him. With the help of his boss they kept trying until they figured out an historical problem with the tires in the 2009 subaru. They succeeded. Thank you.

note #30: what is missed and what is not

It’s officially been 11 months on the road, and here are some of the highlights of what i didn’t miss: 1- waking up to the same loud construction sounds in the city, or car honking, 2- the sound of the neighbor’s pee in the middle of the night, or high-heels going down the stairs five times a week at seven in the morning, 3- relying on my computer to do “work” and being contained in an apartment, 4- seeing people sleeping on the streets, passing by them and just feeling sorry, and only participating in adding to their misery, 5- wanting to consume all the time, 6- feeling guilty for not doing enough, 7- not being able to feel spaciousness as a matter of fact, 8- not seeing at least three different kinds of animals everyday, 9- the need to drive and drive to be in nature, or nature as a “vacation” destination and not part of the everyday, 10- how conservative and closed we become when we live in one place that sells itself as being liberal for the most non-genuine reasons, 11- how arrogant big city citizens are. And what i miss 1- brown, 2- knowing who my neighbors are, 3- un-interrupted internet, 4- the smell of my own bedsheets even when i had not changed them for a couple of weeks, 5- not having to search on airbnb, vrbo, craigslist (all online housing websites) and see how greedy people are, and how many own private lakes, bays and oceans, 6- not having to negotiate rent with renters in off seasons, 7- the deep trust my ass feels while sitting on my toilet seat, 8- cooking while not worrying that the smell of fried onions will stick, 9- not wondering about the hair on the blankets, 10- my cat’s love, 11- weekly casual meetings with my friends who live around the corner, 12- holding a book that is mine without worrying to bend its pages, 13- sleeping without having to think where next, 14- sleeping deeply. disclaimer: i really enjoy making lists. i think i take after my father. In the evenings, chilling, he used to write down some lists (next day to do list, future plans, future dreams, finances) in tiny notebooks. Whenever i traveled, this was what he asked me to get for him as a gift. He is no longer interested in lists. On the road, i buy the $1 tiny notebooks and they come in colors, i keep them with me. A part of it is i know that my father would appreciate (would have appreciated) that, and the other part is that i really love making lists in tiny notebooks. I’ve been making lists since i was very young. In college, i used to exchange letters with my father, i was in Beirut and he was in Amman, and in some of these letters i found that he asked me for lists of what i needed, like if i asked for $200, he would in turn ask for a detailed list of what i planned to do with the $200. Thank you Baba, lists are now a blessing on the road.

note #29: housy house – بيت بيوت

One of the reasons I needed to leave San Francisco was the couch in the living room. I found myself frustrated with the fact that the queering (forced and/or embracing) did not extend itself to my domestic ways. Was I missing out on the adventure by being too keen on the comforts of home? Like in the movies and the homes of families and friends, like in the catalogues and at furniture shops my living room was in the living room and it had a couch. I know many dream of playing house, and I hope everyone who wants it gets it, but I got to a point where I did not know if I was playing house or house was playing me. So we gave up our couch-ways and took to the road. (True though cozy in the knowledge that there were houses that will open their doors to me when I want it or need it (thank you all). So, not straying too queerly or awfully far, but free definitely of a couch to call my own. Over the past nine months, we have traveled north to south east to west and have found ourselves in motel rooms, furnished flats, borrowed bedrooms and on the couches of friends, we have spent one night to a whole month in any one of those stops and in every one of them we made house. The move from car to new dwelling routine varies depending on what and where. The coffee set comes down first, icebox, main spices, favored herbs and bananas. We unfold the woolen blanket and put up a trinket, line up the toiletries and hang our clothes, line the slippers by the door, and what a fiesta if there was a bathtub down came the epsom salts. The books find themselves a spot with the notebooks and maps, computers, phones, chargers and such. Open the windows and establish a corner for the stretch routine. Writing this from our home of fourteen days. This one is spacious and all our things came down from the car to rest. Had dinner with our friend and host. Did some work. Heard a coyote or a dog, it could have been a duck. Might brew some sage tea and drink it sitting on my couch-for-the-time-being and watch the fire burning in the heater before I go to bed. It will take time. Or maybe I will always love me a bit of house.

note #28: swimming with seaweed

in beirut around 2002, my lover then proposed that we both acquire an old restaurant by the mediterranean to seduce me to stay. i am learning that i never want to be attached to one place. the more i move, the more i see how being settled in one place makes humans more rigid, more judgmental, more conservative, even in the most acclaimed to be “liberal” places. in kuwait from 1977-1980, my father took me fishing at 5:00 a.m, it used to be dark. we sat on a rock, he fished and told me stories. i don’t remember the stories. when i see fishermen, i miss my father, i miss me and my father, i miss my father telling me stories. also in kuwait we camped by the sea, just like this. swimming with seaweed, they stick to my wetsuit, i can still feel them, and on my face, a new sensation, a sticky sensation. they made me feel wanted and welcomed. i come from dry places, not a lot of rain that requires special rain dress. now, here, i was told i need one for this time of year. i didn’t know that rain jackets are hard to find for bodies with big asses until it felt lonely in the store that specializes in rain jackets. then again when the person shopping with me told me: “قوليلهم طيزك كبيرة”* so that a salesperson expert could help me find a suitable big ass fitting jacket. * “tell them that your ass is big.” i just learnt recently that grieving causes fatigue, i am fatigued, on the road and fatigued. fatigued that i can’t imagine stopping. marisa anderson’s music is enchanting, especially driving through the oregon coast. i met her in portland and had a very open conversation about being here without knowing that she is a musician. https://marisaandersonmusic.com a declaration of happiness, i no longer feel shame in admitting that i am happy. happy because i am able to see and feel, to really see when the good comes along, to feel the sadness and heartache when it comes along, i can be sad and low and very pissed off and still be happy. so much around us tries to destroy us, and to make us forget how to be happy, to make us fear being happy or ashamed to admit it. i no longer feel shame about being happy. it’s my resistance now, how i want to survive. i insist on living with the ability to see and feel the good. even in the small things and in places least expected. i thought i invented the word or act of sealing, which is when two or more humans get close to each other and all they want to do is seal (of the sea creature seal) together, either in bed or on the beach or on any surface they find in any moment in time. they practice this at least twice a day. it turns out that the mormon church practices sealing “when a man and a woman are married in a mormon temple, the ceremony is referred to as a sealing. when children are later born to this couple, they are considered automatically sealed to their parents.” i want to think about this more

note #27: i want to be wild

It is hard not to ask: what next? At first, when we started this trip (even during the planning months) the answer to the question, what next? Where will you go, what will you do after the road trip? Was easy. I do not know. We called it the 2017 USA Road Trip, imagining a year on the road. But who knows? This maybe the beginning of a never ending road trip. Or we might stop. Who knows? Sometimes, i have fantasies of a spacious open breezy sun flooded house by a meadow on the mountain with a body of water in the near horizon with trees constantly in bloom/heavy with fruit and birds chirping and the possibility of wildlife is only the night away with friends and wines and fresh breads and cheeses and lots of time to walk and read. Sometimes, i feel i cannot settle down just yet, this is just the beginning. Finally! Now, is the time to go for that year in Turkey after all, that year learning Spanish, that year hiking, that year visiting friends (meet my oldest friend’s newborn), that year in silence writing. Wander, lighter, with less fear in my joints and relocate my instincts. I want to travel light with as little as possible. I find myself searching the net for smart packing, thinking for hours as how to pack the basic minimum, i have started a list: the pair of the perfect jeans (if located), and another pair of pants, something for cozy time? And a skirt for looking smart? A bunch of t-shirts and at least one smart top, a top to keep warm (a nice cotton hoodie). Warm and light socks, two shoes, and slippers, bras, a jacket. Oh and contact lenses+saline solution+moisturizer+toothbrush+paste+soap+painkiller. All advice/experience sharing welcome. Oh and my coffee maker. A station: arriving without a worry to my sister’s where i sleep as much as i like and watch tv for as long as i like and eat everything. Alma makes home and it is open for me, in some ways an extension of my mother’s home in Amman. Always welcome. How precious it is to feel at home in a big wild world of hunger and thirst (not my hunger nor my thirst, but the more i travel, the less i take a home, a bite, and rest for granted and the more i appreciate them). She travels (how is it that the trip that causes most anxiety for an immigrant is the trip home?), and i spend some time with rocca the cat, as much as she allows for, getting reacquainted with each other. Some family members are not as excited to see you as others. I have a thin black notebook, Lil gave it to me, with handwritten names of amman to san francisco flora. I carry the notebook with me at all times (most times) and i try here to process some of my thoughts and i have been working on working with the notion: I want to be wild. I want to be wild. I want to be wild. I want to be wild. I want to be wild. I want to be wild. I want to be wild. I want to be wild. I want to be wild. I want to be wild. I want to be wild.I want to be wild. I want to be wild. I want to be wild. I want to be wild. I want to be wild. I want to be wild. I want to be wild. I want to be wild. I want to be wild. I want to be wild.I want to be wild. I want to be wild. I want to be wild. I want to be wild. I want to be wild. I want to be wild. I want to be wild. I want to be wild. I want to be wild. I want to be wild. I maybe on the road for a while. A literal translation of the journey of life.

note # 26: Under the Influence of Jet Lag

I am officially on a non stop jet lag, it’s been seven years now. I usually make life-changing decisions every six or seven years, but the biggest change of all was when I moved from one side of the earth to the other seven years ago. Since then, I’ve been in this constant jet lag. Right now, I am writing this from my hotel room in Dearborn, Michigan, my head feels heavy and I can barely focus on what I am writing, but I want to try and write while I am in the midst of this severe jet lag attack, maybe it is not that severe, it’s still 9:00 a.m. and I slept at 10:00 p.m., but my body feels like I only slept for 3 hours, I feel like eating a big meal, nothing resembling breakfast but rather a stew of some sort, with a beer maybe. Other than the usual symptoms of jet lag, which I am not that keen on including insomnia, mild depression, bathroom disturbances, heavy head, there are certain aspects of it that I am getting addicted to. Jet lag makes me calm, it’s what they call lethargy, but I feel it as calmness, time slows down, and there is no way to make it go faster, it allows me to pause, in many moments I feel like I am meditating, my head is so slow, it takes a break, it might not make a lot of sense, but I enjoy this slowness immensely, especially that I’ve become an expert at not committing to anything that requires my brain to go fast for at least 3 days when I expect to jet lag. So, I am now writing under the influence of jet lag. I love the moment when I cannot control the sleep attack, it feels a storm hitting me and that there is no way I will be able to stop it, so the out-of-control-self is very satisfying and challenging and in so many ways sexy, I feel I go to a place where nothing worrisome really matters, all the small details that I usually spend time on or care about no longer matter, everything feels ok. I am realizing now, that jet lag might be my drug: it allows me to stay in bed for many hours, and I can feel that my body is thankful for that, it allows me to space out, it softens me, I worry less and care less, I just ate seven dates to stop the craving for a stew. My eyesight becomes blurry, and my dreams become vivid. Moving in between those two visuals, I see the world differently. Since I’ve been time lapsing between two “planets” over the past seven years, jet lag helps me cope with each landing by blurring my focus and memory, I become less aware of the harsh realities of each planet and more sensitive to the skies, smell of summer or end of summer rain, appreciating landing safely and with the least damage possible on each planet. I will not speak here of the part where it gets painful awakening from jet lag, when the realities of each planet start to clear out. On the road again, at this moment in Seattle at the public library, a big part of me does not want to end the road trip, I am now trying to see if it could continue for ever like hoping to be jet lagged for ever.

note # 25: A Letter from San Francisco

Dear Diane, I am back in San Francisco for a few days. Too short of course. You would be happy to know that i have many friends in the city and i feel at home. Driving up here from LA via the I-5, i found myself frequently thinking of you. Remember, Diane, when we first met, really met (since i have known you/of you all my life), we met at Tartine’s bakery and you had the lemon meringue pie. August 14 2010. I remember the delight you took in eating it, the cream on your lips and teeth. Your eyes sparkling with the pleasure. Your eyes were always sparkling with the pleasure of life. I do not know what i myself had on that day but since then i have had a few sandwiches, the lemon bar, coffees and used the bathroom and i will never forgive or join the long lines to the bakery, living and working so close i guess it was easier for me. Diane, your presence in San Francisco was like fertilizer speeding up the growth of my roots in this new hometown. I do not know when i recognized that i loved you, deeply, that you were my best friend and my family. One day, you were. You bought me my purple shopping bag that could be folded into a small pocket so i can cope with the San Franciscan life a little better. You bought me my pink plastic mesh wallet, during one of grocery shopping adventures at Rainbow’s, that fit into my jean back-pocket which i used until the plastic thread poked into my ass, it is now housed in the car with coins for parking meters. Was i happy to see you when you showed up, my sole witness, at my Zizi Hasheeteh (group) performance, uncomfortable, lonely and shy, on Market Street as part of the Cries of San Francisco project by Southern Exposure. You brought me a black ring made of zipper from the MOMA shop because you thought it would fit my character. As a treat, after introducing you to City CarShare (who have since ceased to exist), you drove us to the edge of Golden Gate Park near Ocean Beach and we hung out at the tulip garden. Coming over to your place, I must have brought hundreds of currant scones from Arizmendi’s which opened on my way to 24th St. and Mission St. Bart station. How many movies did we watch together over the span of five years? Across town at the Metreon, Embarcadero, Downtown Century, Castro Theater, afternoon show at the cinema on Van Ness, Clay theater after bison burgers. Did we ever go to the Roxie together? No matter how hard i tried to get there before you, you were always there, in your silver hair and black jacket, with the tickets in your hand. And always, always, we chatted about the movie until we could not longer stay in our seats when it was time for the following show. I want to go to the cinema with you. You had such gentle ways of taking care of me and mostly including delectablities. Ooooh, all that good bread and butter we consumed and endless cups of coffee alongside brunch at the St. Regis across the street from your flat in your graceful attempt to distract me from worrying about a decisive interview simultaneously taking place across the globe. You took me to the ballet for my birthday, my first ballet at age 39. I had mentioned in passing in front of you that i had never been. Did we get a chocolate chip cookie at the intermission? We planned season after season to go watch football, you described so scrumptiously the garlic fries, or was that baseball? I remember vividly our last farewell. It was my 40th birthday. April 19 2015. And of course you came and climbed up the stairs for me. You got me Niman Ranch steaks as a gift but they were really for Ola. We ate shakshoukeh. Our conversation got intense about the elections. You could not come to the beach with us. Was i shameless to want so eagerly to go to the beach for my birthday when you could not go? I stood with you waiting for the taxi and i wanted it to come fast so i could go to the beach. We took chips and sparkling wine and blankets. The beach was cold and there were millions of little purple jellyfish like creatures dead on the sand. Beautiful and tragic. Was it China Beach? You know, Diane, i think you and i really saw each other. I felt seen by you, you really paid attention to me. As best as I know how, I loved you. Of course now it feels like it was not enough. Never enough. Your departure shook the grounds below my feet so hard, my roots became loose. I took to the road more eagerly, more easily. You visit frequently. I nod when Ola says: “Diane would have been so happy for us.” I was in your neighborhood yesterday, I did not walk up to 680 Mission St, # 29 D but i did wink at you from the pavement in front of the Yerba Buena Center for the Arts. Thank you. Love, me. San Francisco, August 20 2017

note # 24: AJNABIEH

Where are you from? Where are you from? Where are you from? Where are you from? Here or there, it is the same question said in different ways, such as where is this beautiful accent from? Where were you born? Where do you come from? I am bored and tired, but mostly deeply bored. I think i am going to start thinking that this line of questions is pure flirting and nothing else with no intention of saying you are not from here. If i move around thinking that the person with the question is trying to flirt with me, then the possibilities are endless. Lots and lots of people are flirting with me, taxi drivers, airport officers, young shop sellers, coffee baristas, older women, phone operators, supermarket cashiers, bank tellers, beggars, homeless people, bar tenders, flight attendants, waiters, waitresses, so many from all races and colors and genders. Sometimes i ask them to guess, and this is what i mostly get: Russian Armenian Colombian French Irish Spanish Greek Mexican On the other side, I am told that i look like an AJNABIEH اجنبية which translates to alien; extraneous; extrinsic; foreign; foreigner; outsider; strange; stranger. Basically, i am an official alien on one side with an official document/card which states that i am an alien by the government of that side. And on the other side, i am chosen by the people to be an alien. I just need to relax into it and embrace it and walk confidently with it and stop trying to resist it. It is cool to be an alien, i am not from here or from there, i am from an unknown place, i am myself, nothing else is like me. My mother is my only concern, in how she needs to defend this alien she brought into this world, and walk around with it. She loves me, i know she does, she’s proud of me, i know she is. But, is she comfortable with it? This alien. I am not sure. In one of our outings she expressed her concern for my safety because of my alien look, so i asked her to imagine that i was a famous person, like a movie star and to imagine that people are staring at me because i was famous, they want to admire me and that they will not harm me. I am glad i am not a movie star or any famous being. I advise all similar aliens to play this game. There is no blame here in what kind of questions people want to ask, it’s their own curiosity and wondering. I can’t see what they see. It’s impossible for me to see what they see. Maybe if i see myself through their eyes, i will have the same question. Sometimes, i pause and don’t know what to answer. I forget. Maybe that is a blessing. Side note: according to the results of a DNA test that my brother did, and which mine would be very similar, this is what we got: 37% Middle Eastern29% Greek/Italy28% Caucasus5% Africa1% European Jewish

note # 23: when i owned 6 acres with the perfect view

The sign was by the unpaved path at the side of what looked like a piece of land, maybe the for sale sign included the land where the trailer was, i could not tell. But from where i stood, the world was open as far as my eyes could reach all around me except for the side where the mountain range stood–that alone would have qualified as a perfect view. It was the view of all views. And the sun was setting and the dark clouds were running and there was lightning in the horizon. And i was haunted by the idea of having a piece of land with the perfect view. Over dinner a day or two later i asked the group, three of whom live nearby on their own pieces of land. It turned out the piece of land even more perfect (it had its own access to fresh water running from the mountain) was a 6-acre piece of land whose owners need to move closer to their kids. I went to see it the following morning and the description was no exaggeration, this indeed was the most perfect piece of land. Six acres at an incline, the mountain range on one side and then endless horizons all around including a view of the most enchanting plains where the sun sets. A couple of months ago, driving through endless plains across middle america i was thinking how could anyone any-ONE own earth? Thinking of all the sixty five million made homeless not counting the other homeless at home. Sixty five million do not know where their tired bodies will lie to sleep or if they will ever wake up on their way looking for a place to call home. If they will ever be at home in a vast vast world with so much empty space and so many empty towns. And i could not believe it that there was a system in place and very much encouraged where anyone could own a piece of earth and sometimes really really really big pieces and sometimes pieces so large they only used parts of. For half a day i owned 6 acres. I did think of what it would be like to open it up to a small group of the i seem to have been concerned with earlier but mostly i thought of the silence and the space i could call my own. Why? I wonder, if i could afford any bit of it would i have thought of it any longer or whether i allowed it to be a dream for a moment only because i knew i could not? I first imagined just building a deck, with 360 degree views, i could move the chair with the sun or in relation to the wind. It would be nice to have a toilet and an outdoor kitchen and shower. For the cold, maybe i should build a room. What about friends, a room for friends, one more for family, a couple as studios, and bathrooms and more and more. It will remain the most perfect piece of land. And the absolute most perfect 360 degree view.

note # 22: I am thinking maybe i am tired & road fellows

I am thinking maybe i am tired. My senses a little dulled, my brain a little slow, my giggles a little low. But i am thinking it is the kind of tired that comes from extra being, maybe? Intense living. So much to recall and process. So much to archive. 7 months on the road. Quieter. A sporadic social life, hours on the road, stranger in many stops, even the longer ones, somewhat in that sense a mellower life in general. But the truth of it, the reality is, it is a huge trip. Seen and felt and touched and tasted a span of a continent. This last trip alone, from the stop in New Mexico to the stop in California, drove through the Navajo Nation, stopped at the Grand Canyon and slept in Joshua Tree. In the waters of the Pacific a few meters off the soft sands of Santa Claus Lane, swam with sharks and dolphins, the creatures that made an appearance. Some of the road fellows are: Rabbits large and small brown and grey cold and hotDesert rabbits or a miniscule deerBaby owls flyingManatee drinking rain waterMagpies graced every morningDogsChickenDolphinsSquirrelsChipmunks they squeakMiceRat a rat walked the tightrope wire above our heads and almost slippedSkunks dead and aliveOne blackwidow all with a red shaped thing on its big round bodyCows grazing dozing gazing in the shade by the treeHorses close and farSheepCrocodiles drop jawAlligatorsSnakes have a special way of movingFlamencosFrogsHumans strangers and friendsOpossum mostly deadAn animal with really pink legs like a big rat or a small opossum walking calmly by the roadScorpion deadFoxes crossing the streetWeasels funny thingsGophersMany roadkillFemale elk a group at dusk in the field and one that crossed the road right in front of usLlamaElpacaCoyotes heard a band and half saw one cross the sakiaDonkey funny enough not that manyVulturesHawksMany birds of all sorts of sizesCardinalsEaglesRavensWoodpeckersBlue heronsWhite heronsPelicansTortoises water ones and land ones small and very largeRoadrunnersHummingbirdsFish – troutPigsDucksCatsGoats + goat just born babiesTurkeysLizardsTobias’s special lizardBobcat maybeDeer they sometimes responded to my callingWhite shark swam with it once before we knew and once after we knewSea lions a really dead one with the color draining until it was almost green-whiteSealsMosquitoesFliesGrasshoppersBees

note#21: so that i dont forget

It’s almost eight months now. We started with snow and now we are sweating. My constant worry is that i will forget, what if i go back to my life before the road trip and forget all the daily fantastical simple dreams and hopes of the road trip? The deep feelings of getting very close to what i want and how i want it, to being very honest with myself, to seeing very closely what makes sense and what does not, what’s real and what’s conditioned and fabricated. I already feel that i am forgetting, everyday brings a new surprise, a new hardship, a new disappointment that takes away from some of what i want to remember. For now, this is what i want to remember: 1- feeling lost is a constant, it’s an instinct, it’s who we are, it only gets numbed by things (distractions) like taking care of family, wars, raising children, falling in love, going to school, immigration, illness, age, money. 2- things are out of my control. 3- changing habits is not that hard. 4- all i want to do is create spaces of intimacy, i don’t know anything, but i know that this is what i love to do and i am good at. 5- spaciousness is necessary. 6- to learn and keep learning, and once i stop wanting to learn then i know it’s the end. 7- coping is an instinct too, we are all coping, no one is better than the other. 8- i no longer want to be in high consumption structures. 9- listening to birds early in the morning has changed me. 10- all relationships are bound to change, and that is a good thing. 11- i no longer want to look for a home or the meaning of it. 13- i want to want less. 14- one dream is to create a network for queer arab women that will kick ass. 15- i love all the relationships and connections i have. 16- my heart is my weapon. 17- i accept death. 18- music, i always dreamt of making and playing music and being surrounded by people who make music, i’ve been trying since i was 9. It got interrupted by the death of my tutor, by war, by disappointment, by lack of confidence, by life. But i want to keep trying. I will keep trying. 19- i believe there are aliens, because my brother does. 20- my hardest relationship is with my father, it’s always been and it will always be. 21- my mother has protected me all along, how do i do my best to protect her? 22- i want to stay away from crowds and loudness and fastness. 23 – water is my home. 24- i accept that everybody around me is feeling down, lost and helpless. Otherwise i would think they/we have all gone mad. 25- no complaints, more thank yous. 26- my continuous struggle is the liberation from patriarchy in all its forms.

note #20: Ojalá

More so than ever, a radically changing attitude as a matter of fact, i find myself admiring more and more the wisdom in the expression إن شاء الله. inshallah. إن شاء اللهGod willingOjalá I am uncomfortable even writing it here, confessing it to this space and in writing (my mother said never to write down anything we had any desire to keep a secret), it is an expression i grew up feeling distrust towards: it gives too much power to god, it is a loser motto, the expression of the lazies, the helpless, it translates into no or i-do-not-care or or maybe or i-am-too-weak-to-commit. Now as i am more inclined to see myself on the camp(s) of the losers, lazies and too weak to commit, this expression has acquired new translations that stem from humility and an acceptance that indeed we are not as high and mighty to be in full control of our lives. Inshallah is an appreciation of the power of nature, a balance between the attempt to make plans and dream and aspire and the surrender to that which is bigger than us which include other human whims, other creature doings, natural elements, accidents, chance, mutations and deviations. We want, we plan, we take into account conditions and variables, and we attempt and we try the best we can and we hope for the best. At any point on the journey the weather changes, the car breaks down, people fall in love, someone dies, a detour is presented, a father is diagnosed, plantar fascia partially ruptures, a residency application is accepted, he is also a music teacher, the grand canyon is on the way. I used to think it was an expression exclusive to us. But i have found it since used by others. إن شاء اللهGod willingOjalá The frustration with the change in plans, the self loathing about accidents, the failure to deliver on a commitment, the assumption of health or guarantee of life, the blindness to what gifts maybe delivered in getting lost, being late, missing a ride, being forced to take a break, being forced to deal with a change are the results of arrogance and an attitude that is bound to disappoint. I am now thinking my attitude I can/must control my life was exclusive to those of us who think that the only place for us out there is as a plug in the big machine, automized, fit snuggly in one’s place, freakishly repaceable, a yesterday very much like today, a tomorrow with a blueprint. On a walk, towards the end of the time in Lama Mountain in New Mexico, I almost bought land. Estimated casually over dinner at $150,000. For a moment I believed it. For many reasons it was impossible. But I saw it, for a day or two, the chair facing west. إن شاء اللهGod willingOjalá Arrived to the edge of the continent. Such an anticipated meeting with the ocean. I lay on the sand and imagined the daily walks. Some jogging perhaps? Sunrises and sunsets. Maybe even swim in the cold water, i am sure i can do it. But not this afternoon, i am lazy, stretching to the warm sand as the fog descends. Tomorrow. I will swim tomorrow. No matter how cold the water is. Tomorrow i hurt my foot.

note #19: the night visitor

they speak of unusual sounds, sounds that visit them every night, i can’t hear them very well, they whisper, there is a cough, there is heavy breathing, there is snoring, someone is waking up, heavy breathing again the coyotes are here, they are five or maybe ten, there are small ones and their mother, they sound like torture, they wake up, heavy breathing, i hear a bottle of pills shaking, one pill and another swallowed, the coyotes are gone, one is sleeping, the other is listening someone got bitten, there are bumps in the back of her head, i can barely see them, i think they are bleeding, she is inching and aching, she is leaving the bed, she is crying the birds are loud, the magpies are out of control, its windy, they are all gathered by the window, the sun is out, she is staring at the ceiling, deep breaths, the bumps are worse the nose is loud, the throat is dry, there is cough again, the lights are turned on, i hear banging on the wall, i see blood, mini dots of blood, they are on the floor, a massacre of tiny beasts, some are still hung on to the curtains, they are silent she woke up from a dream, the mountains are speaking to her, asking her to stop the tears and screams and loud laughs, they’ve had enough of her, she is whispering, she is ready to leave them they both can’t breath, the air is tight, she stands up and uncovers the bed, throws the sheets on the floor, the remains of the beasts are there, i can see them, i can feel them, there is silence.

note #18: June 18th roughly 20:10-20:55pm across the field of grass and alfalfa

Engulfed by the earth AliveEncompassed by the skyAliveWords shrink toAmazing!Beautiful!Fuck. faaak!Really?Wow! Wow? Wow. Language is youngArrogantSeparateIn the center of as far as my eyes can see my ears can hear my skin can feelMy mind fails to really understand and my body takes overVisceral(i understand–my mind needs to be involved)In the center of my experienceMy language becomes animalAaahhhhsooohhh hhhmmmm m m m mm nnnn n n g g shshsh shs hhhhhh silence And thenExtra heart beatsHeart expansionsStomach churningsSkin tinglingsEyes wateringsAir exploding into sighs If it were not for all the bloody insectsWould i shed all the humanly objectsMy shoes off and socks and braMy eyeglassesMy phone my walletOff off off Everything grass blades growing covering toes ankles calves kneesgrowing stinging thorns to fend off the bees?Grasshoppers checking out the new terrainMoss grows between my legs and armpits behind my ears And language ceases to have meaningMy mind stops fightingMy fingers interlace with alfalfa my toes disappearAnd night setssilence And thenExtra heart beatsHeart expansionsStomach churningsSkin tinglingsEyes wateringsAir exploding into sighs If it were not for all the bloody insectsWould i shed all the humanly objectsMy shoes off and socks and braMy eyeglassesMy phone my walletOff off off It got darkAnd i could hear all the small soundsThe creeping livesI feel hungryThirstyI need the toiletI will watch another episodeCheck in on my friend if she got home yetOne bite too manyI turn around and go inside knowingThere will never be another night like this oneWhen i return next time i will stay a minute longerAnd maybe i will get my chanceIf i dareIf the night is still hereTo earth to sky to blend to betomorrow