في ثامر

* ترجمة لتدوينة البارحة الانجليزية Ode to a good man

-----

أكاد ان أجزم أنني استطيع ان أجد عيبا في غالبية الناس والكمال لله وحده لكنني على عكس العادة أكاد ان أجزم بأنني وجدت في ثامر سلمان اقرب شيء لذلك. لكن ثامر رحل منذ عشر ساعات.

كان ثامر طيباً جدا. فقد كان من الأشخاص الذين أنعم الله عليهم بكل شيء من عقل وصحة ومال ووسامة ولكنه آثر حسن الخلق على ان يكون مختالاً فخوراً. كان ذكياً وخفيف الظل وناجحاً و مثقفاً ومتعطشا للحياة. كان ثامر رائعا.

قد يكون ثامر الشخص الوحيد الذي كان دمثاً في تنافسيته. كان يتقن كل ما يجربه. من الطيران المائي (fly board) إلى اختياراته الثقافية. كان فعلاً متعدد المواهب والقدرات.

كان ثامر أيضاً كريماً جداً. حين اتصلت بي والدتي في نوفمبر الماضي لتطلب العون لطالبة ثانوية متفوقة ولكن من عائلة محدودة الدخل لدخول الجامعة قام ثامر بإدخالها لفصل يناير واستخراج منحة كاملة لها.

كنا نسميه ويكي (wiki) لانه كان يعرف كل شيء أو يعرف كيفية الوصل اليه قبلنا جميعاً. بل وصل لمرحلة من الاحتراف في استخراج المعلومات أننا سلمنا له الأمر ولم نعد نسأل غيره عن شيء. كان يجيب عن جميع أسئلتنا.

فكرياً، كان ثامر مهموما بحال العالم العربي وكان يتوق للمبادرة بشكل إيجابي للمنطقة. تحدثنا كثيرا عن مؤهلاته الخاصة كداعم ومؤسس لحاضنات ريادة الأعمال في العالم العربي.

الليله الماضية سهرنا للساعة ٦.٣٠ صباحاً. تسامرنا ولعبنا كرة القدم على البلاي ستيشين وحين انصرف الجميع حدثته عن قرارٍ إيجابي كان قد اقترحه علي الشهر السابق. فرح كثيرا لي. ثم دخلنا غرفنا للنوم وكنا اخر من صحا من الأصدقاء. تناولنا الغداء معاً ثم انطلق هو واثنان من الأصدقاء على الدراجات قبيل المغرب ثم حصل ما حصل رحمه الله.

الموت دوما يبعثر أوراق حياتنا ويسحق أبجدية أولوياتنا. موته سحق حياته وأي حياةٍ كانت.

أؤمن بالله وأدعو له بحسن الخاتمة. كان الله في عوننا.

Ode to a good man

I know many men with faults. Most men I know tend to have a habit I cannot praise. But to find no faults in a man is rare and hard. And that is what I found in Thamer Salman. But Thamer passed away 10 hours ago.

Thamer was so good. He was the guy who had it all and could've carried himself very differently but he didn't. He was smart and funny and successful and cultured and curious. He was wonderful.

Thamer is probably the only man I ever knew that was endearingly competitive. He litreally mastered everything he attempted. From fly boarding to DJing. He was a natural polymath.

Thamer was also very kind and generous. When my mother asked me in November last year to help a smart but very poor young highschool graduate to get into college, Thamer arranged for her a full schoarlship and acceptance to January's semester.

We called him wiki because he either knew everything or knew how to get it before anyone else did. He was so good we stopped asking anyone else anything. He answered all our questions.

Intellectually, Thamer was deeply involved in the ongoing events in the Arab world and he longed to contribute. We spoke often of his unique placement as a funder and founder of incubators across the Arab world. He wanted to do something about it.

Last night we stayed up till 6.30am (23 hours ago). We played music, then play station and then we talked. I shared with him some very good news that he'd been pushing me towards for the last few months. He was ecstatic. We then both went to bed. We were the last to wake up today. We all had lunch and then he and a few guys took the buggies out for a final drive before dark. And the rest is history.

Death is always messy. It is the primordial disruptive technology. His death disrupted his life. And what a great life it was.

I know he's in a better place but I miss him all the same. God help us.

All in

Tell me about the things you think but do not say
Tell me about them
Tell me about your wisdom to withhold
Tell me about your perpetual moments that won't become hours
Tell me about your torments that won't become delicate towers

Like you, I am of the light
It is corny they say
but corn will keep us alive
And as you know, I am free of the lame

Now exhale
And just be...
...free with me

Let them be intellectual and deep and forward
Let them claim to have found authenticity and truth in pain
Let them be the only thing they can

We've had enough of the blasé
We've had it rough
We're in...
...all in

Neverbay

Few things are as consistent as time and it humbles every-time you dare stare its eye. December smirks at me tonight. Last year I said I killed Peter Pan and then I missed him and then I saw him in neverland and I stayed for a while. We don’t live there anymore and that’s good because we’ll go back… often and together. 

I am here to stay and say and pay and pray and play at neverbay.

Writeless

How do writers deal with not being able to write? Musicians would sing covers but writers can’t rewrite covers. Actors would play old sketches but writers can’t republish old material.

Writers are only true when they write… significantly. For the rest of their days and times they search for portals to take them back to that truth. Everything else is transitory. Everyone else is an escalator to the sun.

Words upon words from which a tavern this wayfaring scribbler may imagine and then remember his once upon a map of roads and odes.

Writers are never done writing... even when they say they are. Even when I imply I am writeless. It’s only a little matter of discord between my oracle and I. It is temporary. This will pass. I am pushing. I am pulling… myself, in both counts, towards her. She too will come.

Was it me or was it her? I always walked toward her. Maybe she always walked away and I only realise such visual oddities when I stop. I stopped not for contempt or insult, for in the face of inspiring muses those are petty sentiments. I stopped for air.

Oh dear Oracle, have I let you go? And what of words and terms you inspired? And even worse, what becomes of manifestos I desired?

O dear O, come back and speak softly or (yes I’ll compromise) just walk away slowly so I may run and it is me who is catching up with you. You may not feel contempt or insult, for in the face of bemused scribes to have those sentiments is to be petty. You stop (or slow) to remain fair. You may become rare but still a little there.

O my dear O, walk slowly and speak viciously. I want your rude with your sweet. I want all that you utter and think until I can write again and then you may leave and I may breath…. But let me know where you’ll be.

I wonder us

“I don’t want to start with I. I don’t want to start. I don’t want to. I don’t want to see this room. I don’t want to see its slanted broom. I don’t want to wonder where all its pre-occupants are now stored. Even if I have seen and known this all along, I cannot know it tonight,” he said.

What becomes of a space that cannot be replaced? Where does new furniture go to die? How are taboos cleansed? How are thoughts rethought? How do you evolve from what was meant to be evolution? How do you restart from an endpoint without going back? How do you save wisdom from humility? How do you save curiosity from confidence? No one does.

Nasser didn’t trust or doubt, he merely wondered. “I wonder us,” he always said. Some found it intoxicating, others found his curiosity anxious, still others would let their eyes smile while they sailed the course of his wonder.

But his curiosity was mathematically varied. At times it was incremental, at others it multiplied and for a while it was exponential. But it always compounded… towards infinity.

We just sat there

In my mind, I was standing and he was far though we still sat there. I tried to feel guilty. I couldn't feel guilty. Then I felt guilty for not feeling guilty. It was the kind that would give no closure. So I suppressed it and we just sat there. I tried to make conversation but there was nothing. I hated everything about this yet I didn't feel awkward. I only wanted it to end. And I was ready to saw all that was necessary for it to be so. Was I finding some purpose in this? Even joy? No. I can't think of this now. I will think of this later. It will be better to do this alone. Him. I will do him now. What am I doing with him now? This is turning into an exercise. But I cannot leave yet. Later. I have to reenter this room again. I want to remember this. I'm looking for closure… with me, not him. I won't rush this because I want to remember this truth about me… this re-found truth. I will tell him why we can be no more not because he needs to hear it, that doesn't matter. But because I need to hear my voice say it. My mind has said it a thousand times. This is the stretch: to say it without dejection. Not bitter or cold… just blunt. This is what he’s here for. He’s here to take it. But the coffee’s arrived. I forgot that we’d ordered it. This has to wait now. So we just sat there. Now I was reassured of what my purpose was so I couldn't let him see it coming. So I entertained his chatter. We spoke about Breaking Bad and the Brothers Karamazov. I told him I plan to watch the Three Colors. He said it was too sad. Oh my god! He really has no idea. How am I not incensed by this negligence? Because it reassures me. Because I am here to hear myself, not him. So we just sat there. He wanted to smoke. I didn't care, though my nostrils did. I ignored them. This was beyond my senses. I ordered a latte. I almost pour the sweetener but remember I now prefer brown sugar. He orders an espresso and fills it with white sugar. My coffee was good. His was fast. Why is he in a hurry? He doesn’t seem stressed. He is eager… I think. He looks at me and I look at him intently for the first time since we’ve sat down. I feel like a hunter of a blind game that is both deaf and immobile. I am obliged but not entitled to take this kill. I am obliged because he won’t stop sitting here. So I gave it to him sitting. I was monotonous stern. I was final. It was the most matter-of-factly thing I ever said and it shocked him. My capacity to be this cold both impressed and terrified me. His mouth was still open by the time I paid the bill. I got up and left and he just sat there.