I love how I have these gay friends that are so bisexual supportive. Like the more shit they see me going through for being bi the more they support me. With jokes and love and aggressive and excessive reblogging about the importance of bisexuals, which Facebook updates about biphobia.
People who think I hate gay men don’t seem to realise that one of my biggest support systems is the group friendship dynamic I have with me and four gay men. They are my rocks and I don’t know where I would be without any of them.
If you mention Lebanon, I immedately think of my childhood and teen-years in Australia.
When i was growing up in melbourne, our favorite neighbors were lebanese. My dad’s best buddies were lebanese. We watched lebanese movies and maybe listened to Fairouz sometimes and whenever we had a birthday party, we’d play Walid Tawfik’s ‘Happy Birthday To You’. Half the kids at school were lebanese. And even a couple of favorite teachers were lebanese. Lebanese food was everywhere - from ma’moul right down to tabuleh. Nostalgic stories of life before the war and during the war were told often and at every opportunity. It was so much immersed into my childhood back in Melbourne that it almost felt like a calling, when Lamia proposed we go to and spend Easter this year in Beirut. I was hypnotized.
And of course the memories came flooding. I remember some of those kids from school in my Arabic classes and their sing-songy accents as they spoke to each other, so lyrical compared to the droning Egyptian accent! I remember their eyes the most - distinguishable anywhere you go, like they’ve been lined in kohl and something else, something warm and sweet and promising. Like they’d seen so much but remained alive and still able to live, despite it all.
There was this one boy, i remember, who was a rowdy loud kid, annoying as hell and always in trouble. And yet one afternoon, for some reason he started to tell me about Beirut… and i’ll never forget the misty look in those hazel eyes as he told me how glorious Beirut is in the winter, how the mountains looked in the snow. He told me there was nothing like it. I’d never forgotten that.
And indeed, there was nothing like it.
I was awe-struck by Beirut’s phenomenal nature. Mountains and cedars topped with snow and intricate caves of limestone. Trees. So many trees. Such vastness as I looked at the city from the highest peaks at Harissa and Fraya Mazaar. Beirut’s beauty struck me hard. I’m not sure I even have the words to describe it. But I suddenly understood why my schoolmate back in Melbourne became misty-eyed when he spoke of the mountain. Why a kid that age would feel so terribly nostalgic. How could he not? One hour up there, looking down at the city, at the formations in the mountains on the way down, I felt as If i could’ve wept from the terrifying beauty of it all. There were stories everywhere. Life everywhere.
La liberté de penser, et de mal penser et de penser peu, la liberté de
choisir moi-même ma vie, de me choisir moi-même. Je ne peux pas dire «
d’être moi-même » puisque je n’étais rien qu’une pâte modelable, mais
celle de refuser les moules.
La chambre est baignée d'une pâle
lumière, légèrement cuivrée par un soleil couchant hivernal. Rien
ne bouge. Sur un lit coincé dans l'angle de la petite pièce, une
jeune fille est étendue. Affalée sur la couette chiffonnée, il
semble qu'elle se soit juste laissé tomber là, sur le flanc. Ses
pieds dépassent : elle n'a même pas retiré ses chaussures et
les lacets de ses Doc Martens étouffent ses chevilles, pas assez
frêles, tout comme son jean étroit moule ses jambes à outrance.
Ses doigts se sont refermés sur un plaid épais, sans qu'elle n'y
ait vraiment fait attention, comme un nourrisson saisit d'instinct
l'index maternel. Comme pour combler une absence, chercher une
présence, une main dans la sienne, rassurante. De l'autre main, elle
tient son MP3, qui noie ses oreilles sous les doux accords d'une
balade mélancolique. Le câble noir de ses écouteurs serpente sur
la couette, se glisse contre son ventre immobile, remonte le long de
son bras lourd, se perd un instant au milieu des mèches éparses qui
encadrent son visage serein, apaisé, esquissant même un léger
sourire. Retrouvant son chemin, il contourne son épaule d'une courbe
sinueuse et vient vicieusement s'enrouler autour de son cou pâle.
Bercée par la musique, ses paupières se sont fermées. Au coin de
ses lèvres bleuies, perle une goutte de sang écarlate.
Don’t miss the moules! Marcel Broodthaers: A Retrospective closes Sunday. Broodthaers’s irreverent sense of humor and love of wordplay are visible in his use of mussel shells and eggshells, which he obtained from a local restaurant and which became his signature materials. In French, the word moule means both “mussel” and “mold”; in Broodthaers’s hands, the discarded shells gave form to artworks with multitudes of poetic meanings.
[Marcel Broodthaers. Cercle de moules (Circle of mussels). 1966. Mussel shells with tinted resin on painted panel. 63 in. (160 cm) diam. Private Collection. Courtesy Hauser & Wirth. Photo: Gretchen Scott]