Intolerants Rant: Weightlifting, Wanderlust + Vicissitude (The Heart as a Muscle)

Intolerants Rant: Weightlifting, Wanderlust + Vicissitude (The Heart as a Muscle)

Goodbyes never get easier, or perhaps they do if you say them often enough. There are times when I think I’ve figured out how to deal with people who bemoan my departure before I’m gone. I spend time strategizing though I know the flippant comments, curious questions and heartfelt sentiments have nothing to do with me. They’re about people finding a way to cope with the various changes taking place in their own lives. But while I might be aware of this reality I still can’t help but bristle with each “I’ll miss you” cast in my direction.

These are the times when I think the heart just might be a muscle.

change

Thwack is the sound my palm makes, carrying the weight of compressed fury behind it. I’m barely able to get my body out of the way before the car brakes and another flesh-on-metal collision is avoided. I clutch a heap of dry cleaning against my chest as I push off the steel and cast-iron beast, shooting the driver a withering look of contempt. In that instant I’m reminded of all the countless near-impacts and crushing harassment over the years and so I conjure up as much filthy Arabic as I can.

“Are you stupid?” the man yells in broken English, his right hand on the wheel as the left presses his Blackberry against his ear.

Tozafeek 3ars, I’m trying to cross the road! What part of that did you miss?” Hitting the hood again I stomp down the street and wave my arms in the air. Another woman gone mad, muttering ibn el mitnaka the whole way home.

Fuck yeah. The heart is a muscle.

the intolerants

Here. There. Everywhere. Nowhere. I live between spaces, trying on places and sprinkle little pieces of myself—in the spirit of Gretel—along every step of the way. From Beirut to Berlin and Brussels to Bangkok, there are times I can’t figure out if I’m coming or going. I instead feel as if I’m residing in the pockets between moments, the pregnant pauses that feed memory and give substance to this thing called life.

I carry the souvenirs of each place I’ve lived in the form of jet-lagged stretch marks. Wanderlust scars. Their outlines are café au lait tinged and blurred at the edges, and like nuclear imprints they leave long shadows that creep down the wall. Displaced reminders that are radioactive to the touch.

The heart is perhaps something between an organ and a muscle.

the intolerants

Cairo. I may not like her that much but I’ve become familiar with her persona. I know the sound of her voice and the way her bosom heaves under the weight of 17 million expectations. I know how she tastes (astringent and salty). I’m quite aware of how she looks (grainy and textured). I’m well acquainted with her demeanour (highly mercurial and schizophrenic). And I know she smells like sandstorms and dustbins slightly tinged with desperation.

I sit for a long time on the floor of my empty flat. Every movement echoes as the vibrations ripple down the corridor of my ears to lap against shores of soft membrane and hidden cartilage. The sound is cold and alien, suggestive of yearning and absence. Only yesterday my flat was stuffed with trinkets, furniture and people. It was occupied with emotional mementos and memory—all the other stuff a home is made of.

 

It took movers less than two hours to compress my life into a stack of marked boxes. This irony does not escape me; in fact, I see the poetry residing within my situation. Everything has come full circle. We stand at the cusp of another beginning. I arrived in Cairo empty but now am full again. What started as a newly occupied apartment is vacant once more.

The burn may have faded, however Cairo’s long shadow has marked me. It will be impossible to forget her regardless of how hard I try. And with that understanding recorded into the new blemish that has formed, I stand up and brush off my jeans. I wipe the dust from my face. I do this knowing every fresh start needs an ending to arise from.

That’s the way new adventures begin.

Thud. Clunk. Lurch. Moan.

The heart is much more than a muscle.

*Originally written for Empress Teaan experimental and creative group blog that acts as an artistic outlet to inspire and encourage participation from talented women from across the globe.