Seattle • November 9, 1992 • فيزا
Y'know what day today is? November 9 would suggest you that this is the third anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall... and it is, yay! But I've still got a barbed wire fence around my heart and no one is helping me to get rid it, so I'll take the 'yay' back... and I'll probably try and say something slightly more insightful from this point on.
I promised myself I wouldn't have started another diary, y'know, because my previous one didn't end well and I'm still a little traumatised by the adventures in it ... but I couldn't stay faithful to that promise for more than just a few days, because that's how much I love writing. It's not my fault if I have a way with words and a blessed life, and I want to capture as many of my adventures as possible, because I know that my life will change for the dramatic all over again the day I'll head back to my country. I'm just a girl, a very wholesome and grateful one, okay? In nine months from now I'll be back to being a full time non adult adult in my native land, and I really do want to have vivid memories of that crazy year of total freedom spent in the US. And I ultimately want to figure out if it's better to live in complete freedom, or if it's preferable to live subjugated and at war with something bigger than god. As of right now, three and a half months into living in the US, and nine more ahead of me, I still haven't been able to figure out which one of the two options is better for me. I get the vibe that, for as open minded and libertine I can be, and I am, more than my average compatriot... the Western lifestyle just ain't for me. If that wasn't enough for me to wish I were in my natal womb, picking olives and counting actual sheep, to say it à la Cuntrell... I must confess that, whenever I feel particularity homesick, I just cry, hug my 'I ❤️ Bethlehem' camel plushie close to my heart, and take a healing nap. Then I wake up to the same nightmare in which I revive the moment when my *cough* ex boyfriend pushed me onto the bed, called me a fucking childish ass, and told me to grow the fuck up as soon as possible, for my very same camel plushie hugging endeavours... and eek. Realisation kicks into me the moment I rub my eyes open again, and I keep re-learning, day after day , that home is where the heart is. Aka, seven thousand miles away from here. But I'm not entirely sure about that. Why? Because my heart is a little bit everywhere, these days. And I get the vibe that I left at least three slices and half of it on Sean's hotel room in Madison.
I promised myself I wouldn't have written about a guy who got his last haircut in 1988... but when I said that, I clearly didn't consider that once back here in Seattle, everything would've reminded me of him. Everything, beloved book of my secrets. From the cold, rainy, cloudy and depressive weather that he so loves, to that fucking street named after him, Sleater-Kinney or whatever it's called, all the way to the places I would've wanted to go to with him, but couldn't because we didn't stand the test of time. I went to Alki Beach all on my own last night, that because I wanted to escape from home for a few hours and feel some emotion that wasn't entirely negative. Turned out I cried my heart into a tall glass of wine (which I don't even like as a beverage) because I wished I would've someday gone there with him. I had actual plans to go there with him as soon as we would've headed back to Seattle after the tour. We had a peaceful agreement to make that happen. And tears just followed, copiously so, when I realised that there was no hope at all we would've had a chance to walk by the shore while holding hands and smooching every couple steps as in my original fantasy.
Many things remind me of him, painfully so I must add... including my name at the registry office. These days, I'm making resolutions to use it more often, because I love it, and the thought that I was named after the king of Saudi Arabia, the mighty and oh so resolute Faisal bin Abdulaziz, because my baba is a big fanboy of the man... makes me feel like royalty, and like who I am for real. My name means 'triumphant', or 'victorious', hence my his-Toric nickname 'Tori', short for 'Victoria'... but lately, I wanna pass for who I am for real, relentlessly so, and be real proud and unapologetical about it. I don't care if it ain't very triumphant of me, to still cry over a man who ultimately broke me. I don't care if everytime I think about my own name, I can clearly hear 'Fay' in his voice and consequently feel all weak in the knees. I don't care if the yanks don't quite pick up my name... I am Faiza. And fuck who still dares to call me Tori. Except Bessie and Chrissie: they're the only yanks I'll make an exception for. Apart from my blonde and my brunette angels, I don't aim to please nor make things easier for anyone anymore. I'm not in my villain era, I could never be the villain, with my caractère... but I'm in my self acceptance era and loving it, between a crying stint and another one. I'm Faiza, Khair too sometimes, and that's literally the only thing I'm proud of at the moment.
