The Pleasure of Sleeping Outside the Home – Sleeps 22

ghosts of alienation

In collaboration with Masoud Hayoun, guest editor for the month of April

I dreamed when I woke up that I was walking in the streets of the Levant, they reminded me of the name of the place in the dream, I forgot the names. Several days ago the Levant was filled with snow, how much we dreamed of the eternal washing of what was happening. Ten years we claim revenge on each other and bite our memories of pain. And our memory pulls us back as if they were horses that had lost their saddles, their houses, their riders, that had left only great barriers for them whose purpose we do not know.

The panting stops us several times, we are taken down inside the coffee mugs.

Ever since I was in Damascus, I once discovered the pleasure of sleeping outside the house, or I somehow thought about it and confused it between myself and myself as I made my way between Al-Fahahah and Al-Thawra Bridge made, half ate. -white cherries, they had a different taste. What is the reason, do you think? Is it early in the morning? Or is it early in the morning when you leave a house that is not yours and take a path you are not used to?

Hadeel once woke me up under the roof of Shami’s house, from those nights when you slept out of the house, and you felt like you belonged in the universe: nocturnal anxiety, waking up with unfamiliar sounds, new smells. I like sleeping outside the house. It must be that when I dream, I who often dream, and then wake up from place, my dream is mixed with my dream, and my awakening becomes part of the coma that follows my awakening.

I wake up so, as if I’m coming down from the sky, and this awakening is littered with questions that do not need to be asked, but walk here and with you like rain or something like: Why am I here? What is this new tree? How beautiful is the color of cherries if it is not wine or red, and what is even tastier, two cherries are enough, ten berries maybe, I who often ate hundreds of cherries at once. As if the cherry was once a way, an attempt to wander and change the path, and now while it is now, two cherries are enough, maybe ten, and a dark line divides it in half.

I showed my French friends pictures of Shami houses, hard to talk about, stripped of all the sediments they carried from the time we spent away from them, maybe these houses were always for strangers, like us, but time. Hours, we lose in our pockets colored with the clichés of soaps … a metaphor of alienation

I showed my Arab and French friends pictures of Shami houses, it’s hard to talk about it, stripped of all the sediments they carried from the time we spent away from them, maybe these houses were always strangers to they, like us, but only time. Hours, we lose in our pockets colored with the clichés of soaps.

In my house in the village I did not have a private room, even when my parents closed the “Eastern Veranda” with walls so that my sister and I could allocate a room, which was not insulated enough around me. too late to have a space of exclusivity that separates me from the outside world. What boundaries does the room make? A door, a separation from the others called a corridor, the corridor is the arm of freedom.

Its walls were of modern stone, and beneath it was extended a well, which we filled with water when state water flowed from our taps, silver, and then we lifted the water under the two rooms with a car with a white and pale button. , makes a noise that covered the mixture of the sound of cows and birds at that time.

I did not have a key or a corridor, so for some reason I may have built walls around me, walls that protect me from the outside, not because it is not safe, (the meaning of security was not of interest to me in those days, there was no immediate threat to your security), but because my inside was filled with groundwater The outside was fast and direct, not squatting until he explained to you or made you draw water , when the opportunity presented itself.

The outside was not concerned about you as a child with a fragile spirit and able to give and take according to its foundations, but as a fragile piece that we must protect and rehabilitate, rehabilitate it Why? For goals mobilized by societal ideas, and even that if you try to revise them, traditions sometimes leave you without rules that approach them, other times national slogans are planted randomly and just put the seed of fear in your inner, sometimes religious witchcraft.

If it were not for my grandfather’s loving hands, I would have questioned its meaning. The exterior was a fear that needed restructuring, a doomed mess, walls built on balconies out of a reluctance to plan, as long as everything just went as it was.

The prayers of my grandmother, the tenderness of my father, the presence of my mother near me, they transported me to a mat for the wind, which also had the form of chaos, but the certainty he had that he above places, derived from the walnut tree its scent, from the oak tree its enormous means and its extension to heaven, from the sumac tree Its wine sting, the olive tree its rare examples, its age and its relation to the place and rehabilitates it as it want, from the carob tree, how it is cut to become a wound in memory, you touch a scar that has come out of your hands and wait for it to grow to become a tree.

How stiff to make the children rock in places that used to be branches that hung between two trunks, flexible branches the color of milk chocolate, the ants passed under them and we passed near them, to what were called our houses.

A while ago she stopped going to Syria, those bags, so we do not know what to fill them with anymore, perfume? Gifts? Notebooks and photos? We turned it into a house of documents proving our stay in this place … A metaphor for the ghosts of alienation

I never had a key to lock the room door in my youth home, maybe that’s why I no longer care about it while I’m here, in France, I was abandoned by possession, so I replaced it with internal possessions, with clothes to decorate the turtle’s house, I make it not look ugly, until I with all I own furniture, blankets, cold and dried flowers between the passers-by, with Nike and adidas on, sharpened the smile on A Yves Saint Laurent lipstick, as if it were a key to happiness, on a delicious piece of chocolate, as if it were compensation for a jump in my late father’s lap, pulled the smile tight with laces not to explode Between them are memories that no longer exist here, no place for them here, no house, no room with four walls, and a key.

During my university studies I lived in a room, we were more than walls, six girls in a room of no more than thirty square meters. The bed was the grave of a dream, and the window the widest in place, and so I learned again, until the age of twenty-three, to stretch out of place, and randomly the so-called boundaries of mine body creation and soul, Picasso’s feather making squares and circles encircling me, expanding the boundaries of my formation through random geometric passages but minutes, then sending me in a packet of mail from one lot to another.

I owned several keys, between Damascus, Rouen, Rams and Toulouse. In Syria they were always slums, in France they were the keys to small, modern houses. I see beautiful decorations, I buy them as gifts for others, homeowners, I do not have enough tables to put them up, it is not necessary to buy many tables, they oblige those who want to stay here, on their place, and I am like other Syrians, our tables are our suitcases.

A while ago she stopped going to Syria, those bags, so we do not know what to fill them with anymore, perfume? Gifts? Notebooks and photos? We turned it into a house of documents proving our stay in this place.

I tried to explain to you the meaning of safety, I slept while I finished the story, satisfied that a swordsman would not kill me, evaporated from old anger, anger of abandonment, sadness, absence of the idea and its intrusion into the chambers of the mind with a broken lamp, he wants to lean on an olive tree inside, then set everything on fire. One day we will drown in our story, and turn off the light.

man

He takes a small bag on all his travels

Small bag that fits my size

Away

Leave my size on the bed

And the memory has the shape of a bag.

I see houses as they descend on their owners, times you kill them, times they see it from afar, to make you doubt if they have become ghosts, and I doubt if you are like them. The repetition of these images makes me count, then it stops, it’s like a kind of hallucination. What do the fugitives want to carry in their pockets? Or maybe the whole body becomes a bag, a key, a house and rooms that are extinguished, we need a long time after it is lit, with lamps borrowed from other times and new places.

I walk in with all my furniture, blankets, cold and dried flowers between the passers-by, with Nike and Adidas on, the smile amplified on a Yves Saint Laurent blush pen, as if it were a key to happiness, on a delicious piece of chocolate, as if it were compensation for a jump in the bosom of my deceased father … Alienation

And I dreamed that I made bones grow

You fixed me there

As I’m tired of flying

There are cities that look like morning

and wear it inside

Grind it to the last grain

Until it’s a lost night

Maybe he was happy with that identity.

Stylish sky in front of the castle

dull noises in the house

I told you to come and give up some of your nihilism

We’re both strangers looking for a poster that smells like home.

Let’s watch thirty episodes of a Syrian series from the beginning of the new millennium

Where everything seemed so flawless

With that all the mess

He painted on our faces

Until our walls become

by date

When did we dry out?

And everything dared to pass us

leave inscriptions

And smells.

Relax in our memory

And within the windows from which the voices of Umm Kulthum emerge

Come feel the nostalgia emotional and simple

We fill it with a scene

Come on, I’ll tell you the stories of the Justice Palace, in which I did not work.

About the great law school in its French building, which compressed my soul and then sent it to France

And here I try to scatter wheat grains between the Eiffel Tower and a pierced past

How many bathrooms

in this country

And this.

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