Fighting the feeling is useless,
for the storm moves on relentless.
I’m a drowning man going under.
I’m a shipwrecked soul surviving
with no glimpse of the golden shore.

But before I sink into the sea of sorrow,
I see the sun seeking my soul.
It’s distant warmth melts the horror
and depression begins to go.

The skies are clear as my soul ascends,
and my sanguine self is whole again.
Pounding through me like perfect pleasure.
Rising over fresh fields on new wings
with no portent of impending time.

© 2010 Wasted Space Publishing

The ecstasy of love fades and the frenzy of sex is too ephemeral to have any effect. What can we do when we find no food to satisfy our hunger? You’ll be swept into the tornado and annihilated. There is no way to bring back stability after it has died.

A brunette dancer at the New Paris attracted him with her gaiety and lithe body, so he went after her. He saw Margaret on the stage, returned her smile, then invited the brunette to his table. To Margaret it must have seemed a clumsy play in the game of love, but in the storm he’d lost all sense of humor. The brunette left with him, enticed by money. It didn’t really make things better, but he thought his heart stirred slightly as she laughed. If his heart didn’t stir, it would die. Poetry, wine, love – none of them could call forth the elusive ecstasy.

Every night he picked up a woman, from one club or another, sometimes from the streets. At the Capri he sat with a dancer called Muna. Yazbeck rushed over to greet him, exhibiting obvious pleasure. It angered Omar, for he saw it as a kind of death notice of his frustrated hopes.

“My good man. Did….?”

Omar looked at him sternly and left with Muna. As he pressed her to him, he trembled with an unaccountable urge to kill her. He imagined himself ripping open her chest with a knife, and suddenly finding what he’d been looking for all along. Killing is the complement of creation, the completion of the silent, mysterious cycle.

“What’s wrong?” Muna whispered.

He awoke, startled. “Nothing, just the dark.”

“But there’s no one around.”

He raced the car at such a speed that she grasped his arm and threatened to scream. Later, as he was undressing, he felt that the end was coming – the answer to his search – insanity or death. Warda sat on the bed. “I’m going away,” she said.

He answered gently, “I feel responsible for you.”

“I don’t want anything.” After a moment’s silence, she spoke again. “What’s sad is that I’ve really loved you.”

He said wearily, “But you’re not patient with me.”

“My patience is at an end.”

He felt such revulsion toward her in his soul that he didn’t comment.

Finding no trace of her when he returned the next night, he smiled in relief and lay down in his suit on the divan to enjoy the silent, empty flat. Every night he brought a new woman to it.

Mustapha laughed and said, “Hail to the greatest Don Juan on the African continent.”

Omar smiled lamely as Mustapha continued. “It’s no secret anymore. Several of my colleagues have spoken about you. The news has also reached your cronies at the club. They wonder what’s the story behind your rejuvenation.”

He said with distaste, “Honestly, I hate women.”

“That’s obvious!” Then he continued more seriously. “Empty your heart of what’s troubling you so you can settle down, once and for all.”

In the spring it was a relief to sit outdoors in the nightclub gardens, rather than in the closed halls. But the agitation remained, and he was exhausted by his dreams. Occasionally he found solace in reading, especially the poems of India and Persia.

His nighttime adventures took him once more to the Capri. As he sat under the trellis, sipping his drink and receiving the spring breeze, Wards appeared again on the stage. He felt no emotion, surprise, agitation, or pleasure. In autumn it had started. Ecstasy, love, then aversion; when will the grieved heart smash these vicious cycles? When will it break through the barrier of no return? She sees him, than continues dancing, while Yazbeck steals worried glances. He felt no determination. But after the show, noticing Warda not far from him, he invited her to his table. She approached with a smile, as though nothing had happened. He ordered the usual – the drink which had earned him renown in the clubs – and said with sincerity, “I”m really sorry, Warda.”

Smiling enigmatically, she said, “You shouldn’t regret what has passed.” Then gaily: “And the experience of love is precious even if it brings suffering.”

He said, biting his lip, “I’m not well.”

She whispered, “Then let’s pray to God for your recovery.”

He felt the glances of the other women who’d gone with him, night after night. As Warda smiled, he muttered, “I didn’t desire them.”

She raised her eyebrows.

“I know them all, without exception, but there was never any desire.”

“Then why?”

“Hoping the divine moment would unlock the answer.”

She said resentfully, “How cruel you were. You men don’t believe in love unless we disbelieve in it.”

“Perhaps, but that’s not my problem.”

The scent of orange blossoms drifting from the dark fields suggested secret worlds of delight. Feeling suddenly light and unfettered, he asked her fervently, “Tell me, Warda, why do you live?”

She shrugged her shoulders and finished her drink, but when he repeated the question, he was so clearly in earnest that she replied, “Does that question have any meaning?”

“It doesn’t hurt to ask it once in a while.”

“I live, that’s all.”

“I’m waiting for a better answer.”

She thought a moment, then said, “I love to dance, and to be admired, and I hope to find true love.”

“To you, then, life means love.”

“Why not?”

“After loving once, weren’t you disillusioned?”

She said with annoyance, “That may be true of others.”

“And as for you?”

“No.”

“How many times have you loved?”

“I told you once…”

He interrupted her. “What you told me once doesn’t matter; let’s discuss things openly now.”

“Your violent nature is getting the better of you.”

“Don’t you want to talk?”

“I’ve said all that I…”

He sighed, then continued feverishly. “And God, what do you think of Him?”

She looked at him distrustfully, but he entreated, “Please answer me, Warda.”

“I believe in Him.”

“With certainty?”

“Of course.”

“How does such certainty arise?”

“It exists, that’s all.”

“Do you think about HIm often?”

Her laugh was a bit forced. “When in need or adversity.”

“And other than that?”

She said sharply, “You love to torture others, don’t you?”

He stayed in the club till 3 a.m. and then raced out in the car to the Pyramids Road. Going out alone that night, he reflected, was an interesting development. He parked the car along the side of the deserted road and got out. The darkness, unrelieved by ground lights, was peculiarly dense, unlike any night he could remember. The earth and space itself seemed to have disappeared and he was lost in blackness. raising his head to the gigantic dome overhead, he was assaulted by thousands of stars, alone, in clusters, and in constellations. A gentle breeze blew, dry and refreshing, harmonizing the parts of the universe. The desert sands, clothed in darkness, hid the whispers, as numberless as the grains, of past generations – their hopes, their suffering, and all their lost questions. There’s no pain without cause, something told him, and somewhere this enchanted, ephemeral moment will endure. Here I am, beseeching the silence to utter, for if that happened, all would change. If only the sands would loosen their hidden powers, and liberate me from this oppressive impotence. What prevents me from shouting, knowing that no echo will reverberate? He leaned against the car and zed for a long time at the horizon. Slowly it changed as the darkness relented and a line appeared, diffusing a strange luminosity like a fragrance or a secret. Then it grew more pronounced, sending forth waves of light and splendor. His heart danced with an intoxicated joy, and his fears and miseries were swept away. His eyes seemed drawn out of their very sockets by the marvelous light, but he kept is head raised with unyielding determination. A delirious, entrancing happiness overwhelmed him, a dance of joy which embraced all earth’s creatures. All his limbs were alive, all his senses intoxicated. Doubts, fears, and hardships were buried. He was shadowed by a strange, heavy certitude, one of peace and contentment, and a sense of confidence, never felt before, that he would achieve what he wanted. But he was raised above all desire, the earth fell beneath him like a handful of dust, and he wanted nothing. I don’t ask for health, peace, security, glory, or old age. Let the end come now, for this is my best moment.

The delirium had left him panting, his body twisted crazily toward the horizon. He took a deep breath, as if trying to regain his strength after a stiff race, and felt a creeping sensation from afar, from the depths of his being, pulling him earthward. He tried to fight it, or delay it, but in vain. It was as deep-rooted as fate, as sly as a fox, as ironic as death. He revived with a sigh to the waves of sadness and the laughing lights.

He returned to the car and drove off. Looking at the road dispiritedly, he said, as if addressing someone else, “This is ecstasy.” He paused before continuing. “Certainly, without argumentation or logic.” Then in a more forceful voice: “Breaths of the unknown, whispers of the secret.” Accelerating the car, he asked, “Isn’t it worth giving up everything for its sake?”

– The Beggar by Naguib Mafouz

It’s just a small part of your small life.
It may seem like an eternity to overcome,
but it’s just a blink of the eye.

Be calm.
Wait for the chaos to pass.
Relieve the pain.
It’ll be gone soon enough.

It’s just a short time in your short life.
It may seem like the pain will never end,
but then it’s gone with a sigh.

It’s hard.
Emotions are topsy turvy.
Stay on an even keel.
It’ll pass like all change.

It’s just a single episode in a vast panorama.
It may seem like the end of your world,
but it’s just a change in the way things seem to be.

© 2010 Wasted Space Publishing

A brief coldness that passes like a sharp wind,
and I realize it’s better to bloom than worry
since within I know I love her.

Regardless of what I think has happened,
it’s better to make a fool of myself in private
than to boyishly act unsure.

Because I know where my suspicions begin.
They are born in the marrow of my psyche
where I cannot hide from what I know I would do.

So my emotions hide in the ground,
waiting for the winter wind to pass by
and giving me time to face what I fear.

© 2010 Wasted Space Publishing

But that’s not what has Friedman in a twist. It seems we’ve missed another opportunity. George Bush shouldn’t have wasted his time standing on the rubble of the twin towers with a bullhorn saying, ” I can hear you. The rest of the world hears you. And the people who knocked these buildings down will hear all of us soon.” Obama should never have engaged in all the finger pointing about who’s to blame or “we’ve been on top of this since day one” garbage. Both presidents would have been better off heading straight to Congress and demanding something much more important.

A tax hike. On gasoline.

An extra dollar a gallon at the pump seems to be about right to Mr. Friedman. I guess Rahm Emmanuel is right. Never let a crisis go to waste. After all, a new tax is a panacea for what ails our country. Ram ‘em through whenever you get a chance, and there is no better opportunity than when the country is worrying about a real problem.

I’m sorry to pick on Mr. Friedman. He’s not the only one over at the New York Times that seems to have lost their logic gene. In just the past couple of weeks we’ve learned what a terrible thing it is that people aren’t watching the network news anymore, or CNN or MSNBC or (gasp!) reading the Times – they’re watching an evil news network that shall not be named or listening to that pesky talk radio. We’ve learned how bigoted the people of Arizona are, as well as 70% of all Americans, for passing such a “troubling” illegal immigration law. Perhaps, like the administration, they haven’t read the law and don’t understand that if the Arizona law is racial profiling waiting to happen then so is the SEVENTY YEAR OLD Federal immigration law. Oh, and the Tea Party. They’re hillbillies. No, they’re racists. No, they’re – what is it they are now? Please.

I don’t think the Old Gray Lady is just old. I think she has dementia. She remembers what happened in the sixties like it was yesterday. But she just can’t seem to remember that two out of three Americans are against about every position they take today.

A tax hike? On gasoline? As a response to 9/11? They must be crazy.

It’s not about love.
It’s not about me.
It’s about the world we live in.
It’s about the way thing ought to be.

There are so many things that are wrong.
Where are you?
Don’t you care that our world is dying?
It’s been killing us all along.

Every day in the news is news of death.
Every day is a contest.
Our leaders simply want to win their wars,
but the wounds they leave are the people’s scars.

Scars of a world gone mad.
Wounds of the starving and the sad.
Pictures of turmoil and despair –
a world on the brink of nowhere.

It’s time to talk about love.
It’s time to think about you and me.
It’s time to heal the world we live in.
It’s time our world was the way it should be.

But I can’t change the world without you.
Where are you?
It’s going to take both of us and all of us
to do what we have to do.

To build a world of love.
To build a world for you and me.
To feel safe in the world we live in.
To remake our world the way it ought to be.

undaunted by the pull of earth
into the weightlessness of silent space
where physical constraints no longer take their toll

on a life released.

once burning in a bitter fire
with vision blurred by smoke and flame
is the sightless depression of a sunken soul.

set free now by a fearsome flood
as it washes away hazy perceptions
and no longer lets the elements take their toll

on a life released.

© 2010 Wasted Space Publishing

what has already happened to me?
yesterday.
the day before.
in all my muddled past.

is it a loose association
or a concrete path?
is my future predestined
or determined by my past?

what’s happening to me now?
a creation of the future.
a re-creation of the past
in an endless cycle of death.

or is each day a bright new child
to be nurtured for its possibilities?

© 2010 Wasted Space Publishing