On my way to outer space, again

Because sometimes air is too heavy to move around, and because I'm still alive although life doesn't survive a vacuum. Ready to leave, again. I refill my glass tank with green dream dust 6 hours ahead of the launch window. Sometimes it's better to launch now than to wait... for nothing. Gravity gets a little heavier with each launch, but who's counting?
10
9
Autopilot on, no longer in control of this ride. "How's that different from any other day?" The month-old hair in my bathroom sink asks. I answer, "Reality is a man-made construct. I escape, therefore I am." Because a mirror is not enough to exist, and because sometimes air is too heavy to move around.
8
7
What's on the menu today? Whatever it is, I hope it fits in my travel bag of souvenirs. I remember the wonder of tasting 2 extremes simultaneously as I wandered the cozy streets of Tokyo; a seemingly impossible combination of the soothing familiarity of an old friend, and the intense ecstasy of novel encounters. Both melting together and taking over me... because Montreal is too cold, and because Istanbul is too far.
6
5
What sandcastle world will I visit today? I remember how an elusive concept, such as womanhood itself, materialized within me. I never thought I could miss my sister, my friend, and my ex all in the same breath... because 2017 doesn't feel real anymore, and because sometimes the space-time continuum gets stuck on repeat.
4
3
Who will be my guide today? I wish Mr Ghibli had stayed with me a little longer, but he's already given me everything he has. I remember the minimalistic beauty of dissolving into a one-hour-and-forty-minute painting. I know dopamine doesn't solve any problems, but neither does cortisol... because I'm not here; I'm there. And because I'm not now; I'm then.
2
1
Lift-off!
I forgot to forget my suitcase of questions at home, so they come along, nagging and tugging at my sleeve: "Why does a man change so much in 5 seconds?" and "Is intimacy an expression of free will, or is it a predetermined blackhole?" I don't know. I don't know. All I know now is that I float, therefore I am. I inhale, harder and harder, as I try to wean myself off oxygen... because sometimes air is too heavy to move around,

T-minus 10 minutes
Reaching escape velocity
Unlike the astronaut, the orbit is stable
Main engines cut off...
>
>
>
Finally, I can almost forget...
what it was like
to be alive.

A Tale of 2 Planets

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Contents:

• On my way to outer space, again
  
• The Mural by Mahmoud Darwish
• The Colour White
• Encounter with Mr. Ape
• A Tale of 2 Planets 
   
   

The Mural by Mahmoud Darwish

This is my attempt at an interpretive translation of a short excerpt from my favourite poem by Darwish. He wrote this epic poem (over 1000 lines) after going through a heart attack and a risky surgery in which his heart stopped for 2 minutes before doctors were able to resuscitate him.

To summarise what this poem is about is to summarise life itself; it encompasses everything from the dichotomy of life & death (and the poet’s Lazarus-like experience of it), love, the duality & contradictions of the self, to the quest for meaning & immortality for which he borrows characters and their obsessions from the Epic of Gilgamesh. It is fair to say that The Mural is a sublime projection of Darwish’s psyche in its journey to both comprehend and fulfil what it is to be a “man.”

The Mural

This is your name
a woman spoke
and faded away into the corridor
between my body and soul.
As I reach for heaven, there, beyond the horizon
a dove takes me back
to a new childhood.

It wasn't a dream within a dream.
I was wide awake,
so I took off my body and floated.
One day, I’ll be what I’ll become among the stars

Whiteness surrounds me now.
The suspended sea above the clouds, the nothingness, and the sky
all white
I was and was not.
as I walked alone in this white eternity.
I heard no cheers or moans
and not a single angel came to ask me of my life.
I arrived before my time
and I walked alone in this whiteness
I am alone

Here, at the gates of heaven, time and emotions no longer hurt.
I can’t feel the lightness of things, or the weight of obsessions.
I can't find anyone to ask
Where’s “me” now? Where's the city of the dead and where am I?
I see no oblivion here, in is this “no-here” and “no-now”.

I feel like I've been here before -have died before.
I know this vision and know I'm walking into the unknown.
Perhaps, I'm still alive somewhere and still know what I want
One day, I’ll become what I want.

One day, I’ll become an idea
carried to the wasteland not by swords or books
just like rain that cracks a mountain with a blade of grass.
One day, I’ll become what I want.

One day, I’ll become a bird and seize my existence from my void
as my wings burn, I’ll grasp for the truth, and rise again from the ashes.
I’m the conversation of dreamers
forsaking my body -myself to fulfill my journey for meaning
which burnt me and flew away
I am the longing in the heart of a wingless sparrow
but one day, I’ll become what I want.

On day, I'll become a poet
and water will flow out of my words.
words of metaphor for metaphor
so I’ll no longer need to speak of home, or point to home 
home is my sin, and my alibi
I’m from there.
My “here” betrays my footsteps for my fantasy.
All I am is what I was, or I what I will be.
Born from and slayed by the infinite sky
One day, I’ll become what I want

One day, what I have will be mine again
The sea in Haifa is mine
The cool air in Jerusalem is mine
This pavement, my footprints and my sperm on it, are all mine.
What once belonged to me, is still mine.
And my name, even if I misspell it as 6 horizontal letters, is mine.
M for the moonstruck, the mournful, and the morning narrating the mystery.
A for the adored and the abandoned, aching for answers.
H for the home and the heart; two heartbreaks and two hopes.
M for the mighty martyr, mindful of his menacing mortality pursuing the mirage.
O for outliving love, and an oath to parenthood.
U for the urge to be united with the unborn.
D for the dawn, the drenching tears of departure, and the dove dancing with and shattering me.
This name belongs to me and to my friends wherever they may be.
And my transient body, whether absent or present, is mine.
Two meters of this earth is enough for me now.
One and seventy-five centimetres are for me,
and the rest is for chaotically coloured flowers
slowly soaking me up.
What I have is my past and what will be mine.
my distant tomorrow, and the return of my stray soul.
as if nothing has happened.
and as if nothing had happened.
A mere scratch on our absurd Present's arm.
And History mocks his victims, and his heroes.
Glancing them as he passes by.
This cool air is mine.
And my name, even if I misspell it on my coffin, is mine.
As for me, filled with all the reasons for leaving, I am not mine
I am not mine... no, I am not mine.

A recording of Darwish reading the excerpt in his beautiful voice: 
https://youtu.be/sthWFHx3q2w 

The original excerpt in Arabic:

الجدارية 

هذا هُوَ اسمُكَ /

قالتِ امرأةٌ ،
وغابتْ في المَمَرِّ اللولبيِّ…
أرى السماءَ هُنَاكَ في مُتَناوَلِ الأَيدي .
ويحملُني جناحُ حمامةٍ بيضاءَ صَوْبَ
طُفُولَةٍ أَخرى . ولم أَحلُمْ بأني
كنتُ أَحلُمُ . كُلُّ شيءٍ واقعيٌّ . كُنْتُ
أَعلَمُ أَنني أُلْقي بنفسي جانباً…
وأَطيرُ . سوف أكونُ ما سأَصيرُ في
الفَلَك الأَخيرِ .
..
وكُلُّ شيء أَبيضُ ،
البحرُ المُعَلَّقُ فوق سقف غمامةٍ
بيضاءَ . والَّلا شيء أَبيضُ في
سماء المُطْلَق البيضاءِ . كُنْتُ ، ولم
أَكُنْ . فأنا وحيدٌ في نواحي هذه
الأَبديَّة البيضاء . جئتُ قُبَيْل ميعادي
فلم يَظْهَرْ ملاكٌ واحدٌ ليقول لي :
" ماذا فعلتَ ، هناك ، في الدنيا ؟ "
 ولم أَسمع هُتَافَ الطيِّبينَ ، ولا
أَنينَ الخاطئينَ ، أَنا وحيدٌ في البياض ،
أَنا وحيدُ …
..
لاشيء يُوجِعُني على باب القيامةِ .
لا الزمانُ ولا العواطفُ . لا
أُحِسُّ بخفَّةِ الأشياء أَو ثِقَلِ
الهواجس . لم أَجد أَحداً لأسأل :
أَين (( أَيْني )) الآن ؟ أَين مدينةُ
الموتى ، وأَين أَنا ؟ فلا عَدَمٌ
هنا في اللا هنا … في اللازمان ،
 ولا وُجُودُ
..
وكأنني قد متُّ قبل الآن …
أَعرفُ هذه الرؤيا ، وأَعرفُ أَنني
أَمضي إلى ما لَسْتُ أَعرفُ . رُبَّما
 ما زلتُ حيّاً في مكانٍ ما، وأَعرفُ
ما أُريدُ …
 سأصيرُ يوماً ما أُريدُ
..
سأَصيرُ يوماً فكرةً . لا سَيْفَ يحملُها
إلى الأرضِ اليبابِ ، ولا كتابَ …
كأنَّها مَطَرٌ على جَبَلٍ تَصَدَّعَ من
تَفَتُّح عُشْبَةٍ ،
 لا القُوَّةُ انتصرتْ
ولا العَدْلُ الشريدُ
 ..
سأَصير يوماً ما أُريدُ
..
سأصير يوماً طائراً ، وأَسُلُّ من عَدَمي
وجودي . كُلَّما احتَرقَ الجناحانِ
اقتربتُ من الحقيقةِ ، وانبعثتُ من
 الرمادِ . أَنا حوارُ الحالمين ، عَزَفْتُ
عن جَسَدي وعن نفسي لأُكْمِلَ
رحلتي الأولى إلى المعنى ، فأَحْرَقَني
وغاب . أَنا الغيابُ . أَنا السماويُّ
الطريدُ .
..
سأَصير يوماً ما أُريدُ
..
سأصيرُ يوماً شاعراُ،
والماءُ رَهْنُ بصيرتي . لُغتي مجازٌ
للمجاز ، فلا أَقولُ ولا أشيرُ
إلى مكانٍ  فالمكان خطيئتي وذريعتي
أَنا من هناك . "هُنا"يَ يقفزُ
من خُطَايَ إلى مُخَيَّلتي ...
أَنا من كُنْتُ أو سأكونُ
يَصْنَعُني ويَصْرعُني الفضاءُ اللانهائيُّ
المديدُ .
سأَصير يوماً ما أُريدُ

هذا البحرُ لي
هذا الهواءُ الرَّطْبُ لي
هذا الرصيفُ وما عَلَيْهِ
من خُطَايَ وسائلي المنويِّ … لي
ومحطَّةُ الباصِ القديمةُ لي . ولي
شَبَحي وصاحبُهُ . وآنيةُ النحاس
وآيةُ الكرسيّ ، والمفتاحُ لي
والبابُ والحُرَّاسُ والأجراسُ لي
لِيَ حَذْوَةُ الفَرَسِ التي
طارت عن الأسوار … لي
ما كان لي . وقصاصَةُ الوَرَقِ التي
انتُزِعَتْ من الإنجيل لي
والملْحُ من أَثر الدموع على
جدار البيت لي …

واسمي ، إن أخطأتُ لَفْظَ اسمي
بخمسة أَحْرُفٍ أُفُقيّةِ التكوين لي :
 ميمُ / المُتَيَّمُ والمُيتَّمُ والمتمِّمُ ما مضى
 حاءُ / الحديقةُ والحبيبةُ ، حيرتانِ وحسرتان
 ميمُ / المُغَامِرُ والمُعَدُّ المُسْتَعدُّ لموته
 الموعود منفيّاً ، مريضَ المُشْتَهَى
 واو / الوداعُ ، الوردةُ الوسطى ،
 ولاءٌ للولادة أَينما وُجدَتْ ، وَوَعْدُ الوالدين
 دال / الدليلُ ، الدربُ ، دمعةُ
 دارةٍ دَرَسَتْ ، ودوريّ يُدَلِّلُني ويُدْميني /
 وهذا الاسمُ لي …
ولأصدقائي ، أينما كانوا ، ولي
جَسَدي المُؤَقَّتُ ، حاضراً أم غائباً …
مِتْرانِ من هذا التراب سيكفيان الآن …

لي مِتْرٌ و75 سنتمتراً …
والباقي لِزَهْرٍ فَوْضَويّ اللونِ ،
يشربني على مَهَلٍ ، ولي
ما كان لي : أَمسي ، وما سيكون لي
غَدِيَ البعيدُ ، وعودة الروح الشريد
كأنَّ شيئا ً لم يَكُنْ
وكأنَّ شيئاً لم يكن
جرحٌ طفيف في ذراع الحاضر العَبَثيِّ …

والتاريخُ يسخر من ضحاياهُ
ومن أَبطالِهِ …
يُلْقي عليهمْ نظرةً ويمرُّ …

هذا البحرُ لي

هذا الهواءُ الرَّطْبُ لي
واسمي -
 وإن أخطأتُ لفظ اسمي على التابوت -
 لي .

أَما أَنا - وقد امتلأتُ
بكُلِّ أَسباب الرحيل -
فلستُ لي .
 أَنا لَستُ لي
 أَنا لَستُ لي …

The full text in Arabic: 
http://www.darwishfoundation.org/printnews.php?id=836