Emotions on Lebanese Revolution:
Second night
Excitement has never hit me like tonight. Arabic, French, English all in one sentence. Yes to my childhood again. Not those summers in France. My father knows you. But not me. Yet it’s all I ever dreamed of, unconsciously.
Beginning of the second week
Writing session. Setting: Manousheh, a place in New York City. Character: an artist struggling with cultural identity. Plot: Looking for a favorite Lebanese food. Additional character: a Pepsi bottle cap influences and pushes.
Somewhere towards the fourth week
A sketching evening with a friend. A pen. A notebook. A case full of colored pencils. Friend draws. Colors selected: too many. I write. Colors selected: red, green, several shades of blue, red, black for outline, green. Writing: same character. Other writing: a cat in Yerevan. Drawing: a Arabic coffee cup, several Lebanese flags. Add Armenian alphabet letters.. Draw more Lebanese flags. Admire the coffee cup. Admire the cedar trees drawn so differently.
At the end of the third week
Meeting you. And you. You. And you. Standing frozen to the spot because I don’t know where to stand. My balance is off. My right leg is out. Is in. I forget.
Looking at the flag. It wasn’t there last week. Not this one anyway. But the cedar tree was.
The reds were.
The whites were.
The greens were.
Old man, young man, designer, doctor, young woman, little girl, mother, sister, friends, we’re all here.
They hand the microphone to the poet. Just like last week. The little girl awes all. Dance, someone tells her. Dance. Dance. Dance. And I am like her.
The Teapot and the Postbox 