Day 17: rhyme, reason and resonance part one

The Morning After

27th of November 2009

Dear Chiz,

Our date at The Belgian Cafe last night was still buzzing gladly as I dragged myself out of  bed this morning.  I saw your SMS message and I had to rewind the images in 3D all the way to my coffee.  What’s tricky about a beer / wine-induced night is the fact that it can get faceless the morning after.  Then I remembered a word you said last night.  From the abysmal monologues twinned with the rancid kick of the morning, I heard you once again.  Your big measured voice saying, ” . . . you are not a player, then. ”  And then it all came back to me, in my morning coffee.  I smiled all the way through smelling the fresh mussels all over again, lazed on the couch and drifted on last night’s voices.

When you told me that I am not a player, I wanted to tell you that I am, actually, someone who loves to play.  Of course, I knew what you meant, but on a larger scale, my gut tells me that I am a silent player because I always study the rules mindfully.  And then I break them.

This lovely view from last night got us both spellbound.

I guess I would agree with you when you said that we all need to relax being in a city where everyone seems to be self-indulgent and competitive in a sense that their existence becomes the proxy of Dubai itself, with all its metabolistic thumps.  And its superficial herd of fair-weather friends and idiotic bosses.  On the other hand, as I enjoyed the floating Dubai, looking out at Business Bay with all my trusting soul, I replicated your views and wondered why, of all people, it was me who remembered that the trail to my head was, plain and simple, the key to unlock my heart.

I am sure that would have been a give away.  It has been years (and I mean years) since I allowed myself to sing my head out.  After 5 excruciating years living in this androgynous city, it is only now that I began unleashing my head out to everyone again.  I used to write verses and things back in Saudi Arabia because I worked less back in Saudi Arabia.  That was over 6 years ago and thanks to MY LIFE IN 50 DAYS, I was able to scratch my itchy head with its constant drone of approximations and sexless doctrines who screamed for a much-deserved permanent gender.  It is amazing how I actually heard you coveting on the same G-spot.  Was I too idealistic?  Did you even ask yourself why, among all the people you have gone out with, you lusted for life’s vexation through me more than discerning what you are really lusting for?

True to form, I felt that your hostility over the city has embodied your scheme of thoughts.  Come to think about it, you are a nomad.  The lion inside of you always longs for perfection and is, veritably, perfect in perfecting perfection.  Certainly, you are smart enough to relocate your judgments if found innocent.  Admittedly, you do accept your mistakes but fearlessly fight for the things you find equitable.  No pun intended.  In a lot of ways, you are full of passion and unknowingly have used this perspective in building your undertakings, haplessly misinterpreting heroism to hereticism.  As discussed last night, we always tend to scourge ourselves than actually realizing how lucky we are, especially in this country known for its luckless expatriates.

Dressed not as your fairy godmother nor your red-lipsticked dominatrix, I recoiled away from the Belgian Cafe’s guzzled semblance and dialogued on being like you:  enrolled at Fitness First, eating right and genuflecting on Self-Discipline’s image everyday.  Unfortunately, it was a dream I clung to for years.  To iron out my bohemian idolatry and put order into my divine disarray.  WELL, I have inflicted, de facto, your suitabilities and sang my cosmic gypsyness throughout night as you listened intently.  I was half eaten by your intensity – a befallen flower child –  but you altoed my sopranos that rose to a crescendo and we left the bar symphonizing our newfound frienship on soft core mismatches, a hymn that went along with the nippy air that enveloped Dubai nicely.

At The Cellar, we had wine.

Most fledglings does the tango in idle steps.  You did not.  You had this quality of jumping into the bandwagon of things that you are not accustomed to.  I, on the hand, saw your face lit up as we sat, sipped our wine, and overlooked the swinging people across the Irish Village, with their mindless dancing and spirited disconnections.  In a split second, we actually found ourselves gyrating to their cues and laughed to where our asses were situated, being the audience, rather than the players.  I guess you’ll agree with me when I say that liquor splits the body into three:    the willing, the ferocious and the bold.  Which one did you see yourself lounging on last night?

I was happy that we came to the right places last night.  We both agreed that the salacious bars of Dubai have become overrated though the years.  Some people may think that The Cellar and Belgian Cafe are wanton watering holes with its appeal to Japanese businessmen and stalwart Euro trash crowd but it is far better than coming to the Asian clubs with its cheap thrills and gossip ridden orangutans obsessed with vanity and partisanship.

More than anything else, I was happy I found you once again.  The first time I met you six months ago, I had this feeling that we will go a long way.  I went out with you last night and realized that the possibility is sound.  I particularly liked it when I told you,  ” . . . I was crushing on you back then.”   YOU looked at me, smiled and did not bat an eyelash.  Seconds later, we were lost in the rhythmical patterns of our laughter.

See you again.  Soon I hope.  Meantime, let’s swerve to the reality of Dubai:  work to the grind, then, we pause, relive the wine and yes, the sparks.

It was a lovely night.



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