There is just so much death…

Yes, yes, I know – someone will blurt out in true look-on-the-bright-side manner that death usually accompanies life, so there’s equally just as much life around. Let me side-step that totally and say “I don’t care about that right now, right this minute, I’m talking about death”. And truly, there is just so much of it around.

A few years ago, a friend who had moved back to Lebanon was weighing out her options about staying or returning to Canada. As we sat there listing the pros and cons, both professional and personal, I felt it was my duty to share with her my biggest discovery about being back here: death surrounds you. This was not a morbid discovery, and did not, at that time, relate in any way to conflicts or bombs (which has made the job of coping with death that much harder).
Quite simply, within our extended families and social networks, you will find yourself making that awkward phone call and digging out that somber black outfit more often than you think or like. In many instances, you will not even know the person who has just passed, and you go not truly in mourning but to comfort those he or she left behind, whom you do know and care about.

Having been one of those persons before, you find yourself in a Pavlovian reaction to their pain. I don’t subscribe to the endless search for reasons because, well, quite plainly, what’s the point? The pain I describe is quite different, and mainly has to do with dealing with an overwhelming absence. The emptiness left behind sucks you in – it’s not a passive gap or blank; there actually is a force that draws you in, as if physically excising with it the organs and thoughts in which you held that person. And that pain is indescribable, perhaps more so because we never expect it. After all, we are not pre-disposed to form a relationship with a conscious proviso that one party will disappear one day – and thank heavens for that! Thank heavens for that…

I always paint myself into a corner when I write about such topics. This time, I think I’ll stay there till the paint dries…

Nesting…

During a rather abysmal attempt at a carefree, spontaneous weekend out of the city (there have been many of these failed experiences, but that’s a topic for another installment), I found myself doing something I hadn’t done in a very long time – frantically cleaning up the apartment.

I’m not quite sure what caused it… There were very different plans for this long weekend. I was supposed to go up to a mountain retreat to do some overdue writing. The first crink in that plan came on the first day when I found that I simply couldn’t get out of bed. I wasn’t sick, there were no undue symptoms of anything, so I’m guessing it was a physiological strike against the exhausting rhythm of the previous two weeks. Either way, day 1 went to what I can now admit was badly needed rest. I’m actually still a little dazed about day 2 as well… I know that I did get up reasonably early, and drove myself up for a mountain barbecue. That didn’t take up all day, but I’m unclear about how the rest of the day was spent. I do know, however, that two thirds of the weekend had passed and I still hadn’t done any writing.

Which brings us to day 3 – frantic cleaning day. Waking up a couple of hours after my alarm clock(s) had gone off, I surrendered plainly to the failure of any attempt to write. I walked into my living room to find the chaos that had gone unnoticed during my 2-day daze, and weeks of spending little time at home. This scene coupled with the underlying guilt of not having been productive led to what can only be described as my nesting frenzy. Like a woolen sweater that unravels when you pull that loose thread, I was suddenly coasting through the house inch by inch, clearing up and throwing stuff in my wake. Newspapers were dumped, articles (that had been apparently waiting to be read or marked for a couple of years) were filed, DVD’s were put away, books were stacked… But it went on beyond just cleaning – I was cooking whatever I had in the freezer (and as too much was defrosted, I suddenly found myself creating concoctions with minimal, unreplenished seasoning to be consumed over the week), burning incense that I had long forgotten, hanging up trinkets that had been lying aside for aaaages, clearing pots for fresh planting… I tell you, it was insane! It was as if I wanted to galvanize and maintain each corner of the house.

And though I am the last one to deny my own insanity, I think the clear link to instinct is just too obvious here. Aside from the possible effects of changing seasons and an innate sense of putting things right before winter drives us indoors, I don’t truly think my senses are that attuned to the seasons. Quite simply, after losing control of my body, and my time within the span of two days, I suppose I was being instinctively propelled to reclaim my space.

At least my nest is now in order.

Futile Negotiations

By that, I am not referring to multi-party peace negotiations (which I sincerely hope aren’t futile) or multi-national business negotiations (which rarely are). Nor negotiations with a 2-year-old pulling a temper tantrum (where we can truly lose all control) or negotiations with tempting dessert dishes (where we have more control than we’d like to realize).

Not at all – I am referring to truly futile negotiations where we absolutely know no deal can be brokered, but continue to try anyway. For example, speaking to the skies while washing your car and attempting to reach an agreement that it doesn’t rain that same day… in the heart of rain season. Or carefully brushing your hair and attempting to convince the gray hairs that they would be uniquely special if they don’t invite more company. But my all-time favourite is one that I fall prey to practically every morning: negotiating with my alarm clock and snooze button to slow down time; wouldn’t that be nice?

Get my point – now that's futile!

Ode to Carrie Bradshaw’s Ode to the Perfect French Fry

There are days when there just isn’t anything to write about. This is not one of those days, but I’m not ready to write about what’s going on in my head, so I thought I would borrow from one of Carrie’s ploys to fill up her column.

For you ‘Sex & the City’ fans, you already know the episode I’m talking about; desperate for material, Carrie writes about her search for the perfect French fry in order to meet her column deadline. It’s not the plot of the episode, so we never really get any hints as to what she writes. But considering the nature of her column, this is what I think is some approximation (albeit a PG one) of what she may have written.

Finding the perfect French fry is like looking for the perfect man. For one thing, it’s very individual; some girls like their fries from the mass-produced, perfectly-cut frozen variety, some like them fried to a crispy crunch with a little skin, some like them so soft that they practically melt in your mouth. As for me, I like them home-cut so that you can almost sense the shape of the original potato, a bump here or there, a real and unique shape. You could almost say that what I like is the imperfection (and yes, you psychoanalysts can read into that what you like…). As for the cooking, I’m quite particular there too – the edges have to be crunchy, and the stem cooked such that there is something to actually chew without the taste of the potato being overwhelming.

As much as the criteria are individually defined, there are some elements that are common when searching for this so-called perfect fry:
1st – the fries have to be your main dish. Order them along with something else and you could miss THE fry.
2nd – location is unpredictable. You may stumble upon it in a new restaurant, or in the 120th plate at your favourite dive. Could be the fry, or could be just how you’re feeling that day… it doesn’t matter.
3rd – and here’s the final rub: however you define your perfect French fry, the only way to find out if it really is ‘perfect’ is by trying it out.

Just like men.