Sailing Around

Whenever the question of gay marriage comes up it is always countered by the same phrase over and over; the sanctity of marriage. I know it will be hard to separate the religious aspect and influence on this topic, but for the sake of this article, we can only try (for the most part of it). It is no surprise that most of the population either disapprove of homosexual behaviors or simply force to accept them under a certain law. I have no problem personally with people who object on other people’s way of life as long as they keep their objections within reasonable limits. But when your objection becomes more of a rejection and refusal to grant a certain person their rights, then something go terribly wrong here.
Although some people will argue the homosexuality is a disease, some consider it a personal choice, but this is not the issue here, what matters is why are those who try to push away the right for gay people to get married are so angry? And over what exactly? Sanctity of marriage is always the first official response from a n average individual to head of states and governments. If we agree to take the religious part out of the equation, then what we are left with is logic (reason), morals, and traditions. Let’s break that down:
Reason: marriage represents family, family represents parents and children.

I grow up in a very religious community, in a traditional family and between good parents. I grew learning about God, and about his religion. By the time I reach 10 years old, I discovered that there are more than one “his religion” being practiced by many people. And slowly through my teenage years I became accustomed to the variety of sects and practices in each faith. But before I was “educated” about different religions and how to be “tolerant” to their beliefs and practices, I never knew God can be used for evil and bad.

Thomas Jefferson

  The democratic republic of Lebanon of a population around  4,000,000 hosts 18 religions, 40 daily news papers, over 100 banks, 42 universities, 350 night clubs in Beirut city alone,  1 doctor per 10 people, 70% of the students are in private schools, the name LEBANON appears 75 times in the Old Testament, The 1st law school was built in Lebanon, Jesus Christ made his 1st miracle in Lebanon, Byblos is the oldest city in the world, Lebanon is the only Asian African country that doesn't have a desert, Lebanon is one of the most populated countries in its archeological sites in the world, Lebanon is the only non-dictatorial country in the Arab world, Lebanon's name has been around for 4.000 years non-stop…and much more very interesting facts that deserves all the admirations and respect. But, a not so attractive fact must be added here for fairness:  The Lebanese government is an elected body of officials voted by the people to rule the people.

I apologize for any typos or grammatical mistakes that made this piece annoying to read through. Sometime in situations like this, my hands and minds can barely keep up with my heart and thought.

Nash
Projection Word Drops

More camera shots....through my balcony....
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Nothing much of post this time, just tested out few shots with the new cam and thought I'd share them here....I think this is my first iploaded picture ever...well expect of the profile's one  when I very first signed up...I t seems there are more features to LJ to explore.

  Summer of 1988, Beirut was a war zone, and it has been for the past 13 years. Non-stop bombardments, artillery and air strikes, those were the background music we got accustomed to that "summer vacation" in Lebanon. Between the Civil war (20 something groups making their points heard), Israeli – Lebanese war, Israeli – Palestinian war, 100 causalities weekly, snipers on every roof top, car bombs around each block, there was really nothing much to do than sitting home and hoping we'll get electricity back so we can watch TV or take a hot shower. As bad as these images were, people came together and spend more time than ever in each other's company.

 

 

I’ve been meaning to write a piece about my “cultural experience” moving to a whole new different country 7 years ago. By that I mean the incidents I encountered that proved how little You and I know about each other’s culture. But instead on writing it down as a whole piece, I decided to put it in a list, and make as general as possible, because I am sure anyone who read this can relate at some point in his life.

• My first experience was the 4^th of July, few weeks after I arrived there. I joined a family who went to the park to celebrate 4^th of July (Independence Day) and enjoy the fireworks and music. Later that evening,

    I’ve been fortunate all my life, blessed with good health, great friends, good education and an active brain. No matter how many thanks I give, it will not be enough.  Only way is to share the blessings and fortunes. That have been said,  I am taking the opportunity and liberty  given to me by this online community and the many friends and people I met through here, to announce my little project. I call it Visions Projection,  a place where myself, all those who contributed to this project and those who still joining in  widening this vision with their ideas and talents, offer help and assistance to talented individuals and those with original ideas that can benefit others to translate those visions into production over the net.

 

  I got my first cell phone in 1997, new years’ eve to be more exact. The number even ended with xxx97, so I had few hours to brag about that coincident. Getting a cell phone back was a big deal to me; I was finally part of the “guys with a mobile” trend. My earliest memory and my main excuse to convince my parents to get me one at that age was a story I heard while a friend of the family was having coffee with my dad. It was something about this friend’s brother, living in Canada, getting stuck somewhere off road in a time of a blizzard.

 

  I believe it’s been 2 something years since I bought a bottle of water from a convenient store. It all started after I read an article in some magazine about the crisis of water shortage and pollution in Africa.  An article filled with statistics and numbers about what is happening there. It was really disturbing, but as most of the other reads everywhere, that cloud of concern was gone by the time I moved on to other pages and eventually closing the cover.

 

   We left Castle-rock bay 2 nights ago, the lads enjoyed the chance indulging themselves with warm fresh meals, rum and local whores from the town. I didn’t leave my ship, simply didn’t feel like leaving my cabin. By the time the crew came back on board, I heard one rumors about the mates humoring themselves by saying I might end up like Captain J.K.  It was an old tale swapped by drunken seamen about a ship older that the tale itself. A ship with red and white sails, wide hauls, and captained by a man called J.K. He named it after the woman he loves, “The Grace”.  

 

- Wealth without Work

- Pleasure without Conscience

- Science without Humanity

- Knowledge without Character

- Politics without Principle

- Commerce without Morality

- Worship without Sacrifice

 

I’ve want to start this piece with “Forgive me father for I have sinned”. And then start with each of the listed sins above and elaborate by examples, or just statements. Of course not each of will be of a personal example or experience or act, but from a general day to day chores anyone can write about or relate to. But I wanted to start the first one  by accusing myself of the first sin, wealth of education and knowledge, stating that every thing I know, everything I read, learned, taught, came from a teacher or a scholar, from a speaker or a writer, books, magazines, movies, published pieces…etc. Everything is built on someone else’s work, research, article, piece. None was mine. Then I realized that this particular piece I am writing this moment is built on someone else’s list of sins*, not mine.

So in a way it not a confession or a redemption, it is an ongoing act of a sinful behavior. It defies the purpose.  I had two ways to end it, irony or hypocrisy? So by cutting it short I believe I salvaged myself from the latter.

 

*Ghandi’s list

Captain’s Log:

 

  Monday, 19 days since we sat sail. Every night after sundown it feels we are getting closer to reach our destination, yet the sunrise seems to drift the horizon back another day. The wind has been generous to us so far, even the sea gave way all this time. But it’s the moonless nights

 

   It’s been a while since I grabbed a piece of paper and pen for a dance on the soundtrack of my thoughts or as a friend of mine once said “Brain fart”. I’ve trying lately to observe a certain topic around me. I am obliged to say here that I’ve made no attempt to research any of the following. I was going to, but then I decided to take this chance to do something I like. Just write it raw, and maybe in few years down the road I might get the chance to evaluate my point of views based on my own words that I’m documenting here.

I

 

   I hope this letter finds its way out of here straight to your hands. I am thinking of you, and I and I know I am in your thoughts too. Do you remember my face? Do you remember my scent? I remember the smell of your morning coffee; I remember the sound you make sipping on that cup. Do you still bake those famous pies of yours? I recall the times you used to yell at me so I would get up and get the sugar from the store down the street. Do you still wrap them in blanks afterwards to keep them fresh and hot? What about your mid-day naps? Sounds of those kids next door yelling and playing still keep you from having a good sleep?! What were their names? I forgot. Did you get help by the way? Or do you still clean and sweep that dust magnet porch by yourself? I am warning you, it will hurt your back when you get old; just get some help please if you didn’t already. Does that old stray old dog wanders back in front of house? I know, you said “If I keep on feedin him he will come back”, will if he does, I hope you are still feeding him. Come ‘on, how can you look at those little hungry dog eyes and not to. Does that bold headed mail man still work in our neighborhood? I love how friendly he used to be, how he used to wave every time he saw us. Don’t tell me you still didn’t throw that brown wooden box of old pictures? I can’t figure out why do you need to save so much pictures that only takes space in the closet, you barely look at them. Do you know that heavy white blanket with little flowers on it? Well, I hate it, I still can’t understand how can you sleep under that thing. And that fat book you were reading then? Did you finish it? It was a novel right? I can’t count the night I saw you up late reading it until if falls off your hands while your eyes go to sleep. It must been a heck of a book. I remember couple of times when that book of yours knocked the glass of water on the night stand; it would spell water all over yet not a drop on your book. Funny I guess.

  It has been 8 years since I waved goodbye to you that day. 8 damn years, and yet they said this would be a quick easy war, in and out kind of war. I remember the sergeant saying “you’ll be back before anybody would miss you son”. 96 months and 26 days to this day. I have no face anymore, just the face they tell me to put on. I smell like gun powder and smoke. We have no fresh coffee smell here to wake up to, nor warm bread to drool over. All we smell is burning flesh of fellow men falling down. We don’t wrap them in blankets you know; we stuff them in plastic bags. No children running around, no yelling and games to wake us up, our alarm is of bullets and grenades. We get men waving at us few times a day too, usually commanders, telling us to move to duck. I get to run down the hill too to fetch some needed stuff from the camp near by, not sugar though, but more of medicine and so on. Every time, I run back as fast as I can, not because my commander might yell at me, but because I might lose another comrade depending me. I have no porch to dust here, but I have my rifle to keep in top shape. And a uniform keep clean, usually it takes time to clean off blood stains. Don’t worry not my blood, but the blood of an injured soldier in front of me. I saw a stray dog the other day, but he would get close to me, I guess my smell was appealing that day. Never saw him since, lucky dog. I keep a metal box with me too, full of letters written by those who can’t mail them anymore. I carry a book you know, not a novel, but full of maps and codes, coordinates I need to survive each day, now that is a good book. I have a grey blanket, more of a coat actually. It keeps me dry when it rains. Doesn’t do much in the cold though. I don’t mind the smell anymore; I guess you get tired of complaining. I don’t get enough sleep here, between night watch and morning raids and mid-day march; you barely have an hour to get you eyes shut. I don’t find peace when I close my eyes, no dreams any more, no nightmares even, just visions, flashes of what happened and will probably happen the next day. I believe this is worse than a nightmare or a bad dream. The say the war is almost over, they say we won. Well it is sure no one won here on this front. Not the soldiers at least. I guess I will make it home around your birthday, it’s hard to find a gift shop here mom, but I am coming home.

There she sits on the right side of the couch, old and weak. She has been this way for few months now, barely moving, barely talking, and almost rarely smiling. She knows who she is, but can’t recognize this world she lives in, she can’t see the faces she once knew, the voices she used to recognize. She knows she is alive, she can touch, smell, see, hear, taste, but this is world, these surroundings are not hers, nothing she remembers, nothing she feel safe around. Yet they all call her name, touch her, say hi to her, even start conversations with her, she does answer them back and talk her way through their subjects, but she still find no shelter or refuge in that. Still a stranger in a stranger place, stranger couch, strange coffee table, strange carpet, strange windows, not to mention all those faces they keep showing and asking how she’s doing. Sometimes she is there sitting with her skinny body fading away day after day, just consumed by fear and confusion, memories and shadows that yesterday made more sense that too day, or sometimes worse, memories that were real yesterday and now just an illusion. In her little shrinking mind she is off to 1942 when she just married her husband, its an event that happened to her 4-5 months ago, now they are telling her its 2007 and that good man she married is dead, how can that be she wonders all the time. A woman keeps referring to her as mom, yet she is certain she gave birth to no one yet, she wants to, but not yet, she is been married for 5 months as far as she is concerned. Events she knows, incidents she remembers are now being told to her by others to be history not news, HOW! She wakes up everyday and feels she is even deeper in her long gone world than she can bear. She feels like a 20 year old, but how come her legs are not responding as fast, this is killing her, how come every time she looks at the mirror there is an old lady on the side, that’s not her, she is sure of that, last summer she was wearing her wedding gown and makeup and now there is this old rusty wrinkle-face woman who can barely support her head up. This can’t be her, she is sure of that. She knows she reach to the glass of water in front of her, yet something is dragging her down something is making her feel heavy and slow, she is in constant battle to understand how comes her body is not keep up with there, how come it feels old and lazy! What are these terms they talk about, computers, internet, laser, etc. She is educated, and she traveled the world as a nurse, but now she feels outdated! Was she asleep all this time? She keeps asking herself. You can see it in her eyes, the question, and word, WHY. Why do they keep tell me to eat, sleep, watch out how I stand up, or how to sleep or how to hold up the glass of water? WHY WHY . So much doesn’t make sense anymore, more than 50 years has been gone, her whole present is different, she memories don’t add up, all those faces claiming to be family trying to get close to her, this woman posing as her daughter who keep bathing her and feeding her and caring for her, all this is different. All of is unreal.

  Some of us dream of time travel, some of us let our mind wander into different realities and worlds, we go great lengths to speed up out growing bodies so we might look adults faster. We have a ritual where we “take five” and relax and roam into our safe zone and safe world. Now it seems nature answered our prayers and gave us an answer to that, and my grandmother got it, doctors call it Alzheimer’s.

Walking the streets of the old city
Morning breeze welcomes you.
The sunrise guides you to the old man’s bakery;
Miles away you can smile it, you cam almost taste it
Your footsteps quicken, your heart is racing
Right to the patio where the bread is waiting;
Out of the brick oven, warm and fresh.
Every piece is a story, every bite is a poem.
The burning wood, the flames of the old oven;
The birds hovering around hunting for leftovers;
The old woman whistling;
The crowd’s humming and sipping coffee;
The quite wind blowing sweeping the leaves
Carrying an invitation to where we stood.
All but an orchestra between man and nature. 
Old man smelling, like flour and wheat, waves you farewell
When you are out on your way,
Walking the streets of the old city.

 Now it is but an old memory to tell
A story to share and image to pass,
About the old man who once stood there
And a shadow of an oven long gone.

 Walking the streets of the old city,
Cars horns and vehicle fumes welcome you.
Clouds of smoke of a nearby factory blind your way.
Smell of wasted gas and running engines,
Dust, mud and broken glass pave your way.
Visions of billboards and lights,
Images and faces of strangers,
A young man in a clean uniform,
Waves you to stop until your turn comes.
There is no background music, only noise.
But you struggle on, walking toward it,
A massive shop where the old bakery once stood.
Smell of food and coffee, maybe sweets too
A small window with an old man inside.
Passing bags filled with cold bread with no smell
Waving the car to move one so the next will par,
Under the narrow window where the old man stands.
Some are inside behind walls of metal and glass, sheltered
From all the cloud, noise and dust, from the city.
You glance to sky with wonder and a smile
Where a bird hovering around, in sorrow and pity,
Waving for you farewell
Walking the streets of the old city.

Walking the streets of the old city
Morning breeze welcomes you.
The sunrise guides you to the old man’s bakery;
Miles away you can smile it, you cam almost taste it
Your footsteps quicken, your heart is racing
Right to the patio where the bread is waiting;
Out of the brick oven, warm and fresh.
Every piece is a story, every bite is a poem.
The burning wood, the flames of the old oven;
The birds hovering around hunting for leftovers;
The old woman whistling;
The crowd’s humming and sipping coffee;
The quite wind blowing sweeping the leaves
Carrying an invitation to where we stood.
All but an orchestra between man and nature. 
Old man smelling, like flour and wheat, waves you farewell
When you are out on your way,
Walking the streets of the old city.

 Now it is but an old memory to tell
A story to share and image to pass,
About the old man who once stood there
And a shadow of an oven long gone.

 Walking the streets of the old city,
Cars horns and vehicle fumes welcome you.
Clouds of smoke of a nearby factory blind your way.
Smell of wasted gas and running engines,
Dust, mud and broken glass pave your way.
Visions of billboards and lights,
Images and faces of strangers,
A young man in a clean uniform,
Waves you to stop until your turn comes.
There is no background music, only noise.
But you struggle on, walking toward it,
A massive shop where the old bakery once stood.
Smell of food and coffee, maybe sweets too
A small window with an old man inside.
Passing bags filled with cold bread with no smell
Waving the car to move one so the next will par,
Under the narrow window where the old man stands.
Some are inside behind walls of metal and glass, sheltered
From all the cloud, noise and dust, from the city.
You glance to sky with wonder and a smile
Where a bird hovering around, in sorrow and pity,
Waving for you farewell
Walking the streets of the old city.

    Last night I was while I watching TV and flipping through channels, the Discovery channel was playing some show about TOP TEN military machines or something of 2006. Anyone who gets the chance to travel around will notice that Discovery Channel broadcasts almost everywhere on this plant, yet you will realize that their shows