Told last night ibn Batuta visited the mosque nearest our house.
The Haba’ib of Yemen and Sh.Muhammad among others: the Mahdi's coming. Told over the ages, fuqaha’ and the ahl ul-hadith and so on have given such dates, only to be proven wrong, but this is the first time the sufiyyah have seen this, the kashf of the awliyaa’. So few monthsyears left, and then everything we turn our lives around means nothing, all of a sudden. Our lives are so small. "State of readiness," I blaze out, "is all we can do." How easy words are to say, they drip as emeralds to gather in streams on the floor. It is what blood would do facing air.
Talk till late after ice cream, night after night—sufi shuyukh, karamaat, marriage, society—where do you draw the line?
Mawlid season (Prophet’s birthday) turns Sham into one grande celebration. Masajid packed, tinsel and light displays, anasheed and Qur’an and cake.
White afternoon sky. Thinking of Wuddistan, nine thousand kilometres awae, and how so many places on this earth have so much natural beauty but for some reason we build our cities out of concrete. I had forgotten, and even now frame words in comparison.
Topic recurring: identity. In comparison will claim Canadiana, in heritage will claim other things, but none of these are identity, and I am not ready to take the next plunge to that which is obvious. The pens are lifted and the ink has dried.
Mezzeh’s a lot like Beirut. Surroundings are cleaner, people are prettier, and things are more expensive.
This is not a coherent post, it is thrown-down thoughts. I can’t believe it’s been eight months here. I used to be afraid whenever I thought this, what have I done, but that has passed for a stunned silence. Four more months. It is enough for the Revolution, but only begging sincerity, and again the parable: blueberry muffins split in half satisfy no one. Almost that I would not know anyone except a few, run to the coast.
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Photo of today, entrance to Salahuddin’s castle. "don’t mess with us."
