A ficitonal letter to a possible child of mine.
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According to Hollywood – being a foremost runner of the mass media – "lovemaking" or "romantic" sex, especially in first experiences, should take place with the lights out and undercover, to boot. They must've taken Cobain's words literally. I've always hated that. I have nothing against it, but it has been dogmatized over the years – don't let me babble about the presumed virtues of "Middle Eastern" men and women and "Eastern European" (Russians included) taxi drivers – and it's high time I said something about it, since it is the elemental act that would've brought us together. Long story short, if you ever were compelled to demonize something, sex isn't the right thing. Demonize demonization instead.
I'm almost sixty now. My life appears to have taken a lone path, whereby I spend these days studying the possibilities of bringing you into this world. I lost my left eye recently. I'd always known there was something wrong with it, ever since I was a kid, but never really looked into it. Sometimes people compensate the loss of an organ with a "spiritual" one; a futuristic one that is. I now look like an eyepatch-less John Ford (Whom I'd never liked, really. I spent my youth not perceiving such characters. My disgust with irritability and racism deterred any possible interpretation of "higher criticism". My disgust transpired when I were making fun of patriotism and armies at a friend's farmhouse. I postulated that there were few reasons why any soldier, anywhere in the world, would join the army: One, they would like to the get out of their villages and towns which they'd never liked, and "see the world". Two, they would to like to defend their countries and claim the hero status. Three, they liked guns and shooting people and they needed a "noble" way to do it. Four - which I declared was the best option - they needed money to "see the world" properly or to seek other harmless ventures, like education, for instance. They would eventually use the experience to denounce the concept of a State altogether and make art out of it. This alienated me for years, except for few people I knew ….) not weary with experience but with age. Nothing but age.
I take the not-too-long, not-too-short road (the only one) to school where I teach English, and where I studied agriculture for four years. You would've wound up studying in the same school had you been a boy. The principal has always told me I could retire anytime I wanted but thought they'd lose a great teacher; he meant it. But the reason I stayed all those years had nothing to do with the school that essentially ruined me academically when I was young, no. I had to stay for I grew fond of something I'd always abhorred: teaching. And also because I had nothing better to do.
Dear daughter, dear son, I hope you'll be aware, not self-conscious, of the days ahead of you; of the people you'd meet along the way, whether in reality or fiction; of the mercurial state of your own existence where you need neither your father nor you mother, nor your partner to function as a whole individual capable of no-bullshitting. I hope you'll be peaceful, not lucky, to think twice about everything, to embrace tolerance within yourself, not influenced or inculcated by any authority ( …. the people I knew very well, knew me well enough. I lived for the people so I didn't need them. I cherished their company but never begged for it. People have their own ways, naturally) and hereby I offer no advices or insights. Certainly, our real conversations would've taken a different form, more honest and real. Certainly, my concept of you and I, whether stemmed from within or without, would've taken a concrete image upon whose contents we'd always explore.
To elaborate briefly on my selfishness and altruism, I'm sorry for not bringing you out. Sorry for bringing you in. I'm glad for the same reasons. I would like, however, to end my letter with Shakespeare's sonnet 14. I would've loved to share something in Arabic but it would be better if I did so in another letter written in Arabic.
Share the sonnet with your partner, whether you'd like to have children or not. If you wound up like me, share it with the child you've never semened or ovaried. Or adopted.
Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck;
And yet methinks I have astronomy,
But not to tell of good or evil luck,
Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality;
Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,
Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,
Or say with princes if it shall go well,
By oft predict that I in heaven find:
But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,
And, constant stars, in them I read such art
As truth and beauty shall together thrive,
If from thyself to store thou wouldst convert;
Or else of thee this I prognosticate:
Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.