A new e-mail from my brother in Lebanon:
". . . Because in the past five weeks I only lost four, and I still stand poor.
Every story on this planet springs from me, and dies in my arms, Pietà. This story does, too.
I live in a city that is not a city, I live in city that does not love itself, in a city thirsty, hungry, and kissing.
I know everything. I know the dreams and the nightmares that attack you just before sunrise, I know of the sweat at my armpits, shit, and I know of terrorism and globalisation but I will tell you of the rest.
Of the words written at the margins, and of the margins yet to be discovered, of only the things that I see and feel, of the bad air that I breathe.
. . .
I live in a country that is not loved by anyone, and that is open to everyone's Freudian fantasies (in both senses; sexual and aggressive). It is okay if our civilians are slaughtered, and Israel may block gas, food, and air from us upon any whim. No one shall object, anyway, because we are wléed kalb [sons of dogs].
Shall I tell you of the monsters? The monsters are those who we leave behind once we decide that it is okay if we asked for a decent life, id est a life where we do not need to worry about not having enough water, electricity, units, money, or security to-morrow. The monsters leave once we realise that we do not even have minima, and yet we love this place.
The monsters spring from Mohammad who tells you that you do not need to learn everything from your own bag, and that he cannot live again; all Mohammad had was one life.
The monsters are very simple. When they have (Japanese) tea, the monsters make jokes about the Lebanese not daring to plan for to-morrow, because they know that whatever they plan, it shall not happen.
And I am not mourning here, and I am not sad and not complaining. I am writing to tell you of the monsters that live inside of me . . ."