SELECTED WRITING
WHY ROAD RIDING MATTERS
‘When the waters of the ocean rise to heaven, they lose their bitterness to become pure again. The ocean waters evaporate as they rise to the clouds and, as they evaporate, they become fresh. That’s why it’s better to go on your pilgrimage on foot than on horseback, on horseback than by car, better by car than by boat, and better by boat than by plane.’
These words speak to Muslims of the Hajj, of that great journey to end all journeys. When I read those words, I became consumed with energy to explore the world. It spoke to me of the importance of the journey, of experiencing this connection between body and earth. It spoke to me of the open road, of the feeling of every curve and bump and bend. I tasted the wind and felt it tear through my hair. I felt the sun beating down, warming my back as it disappeared across the horizon. I recalled the dying light, like a bruise, changing hue a million times before plunging me into the darkness.
And I remember my destination. Not what it looked like, but what it felt like to get there. A pilgrimage is as much about the journey as the destination. Travel well to understand where you end up.
To do this is to go on bike rather than by bus, on bus rather than by train, by train as opposed to by car and by car instead of by plane.
With every mile you feel your body, you feel the earth. You feel the changing wind, the ebb and flow of the sun. You’ve arrived. You know you’ve arrived because you’ve been on a journey to a destination you chose for a reason that only you know. You’re exhausted, you’re happy, you look around. Relieved, thrilled and grateful for every molecule of oxygen offered to you.
Your eyes settle on the horizon, on the winding road that curves ever onwards and you pray that it never ends.
The importance of riding that road is summed up in a blessing on the lips that says may you never run out of journeys. And may you never forget the feeling of getting there.
BOOKMARKS
Pressed lavender from my grandmother’s garden. My CDG-TAS boarding pass from 2002. A cloth camel with ‘Petra’ stitched across the top in neon pink, acquired at Amman’s Queen Alia International Airport. A WH Smith’s purchase receipt for one hideously overpriced pack of chewing gum and some cigarettes. My oyster card. A cut up piece of my old school tie. A torn envelope with a recipe scribbled on in my mother’s illegible handwriting.
I’ve owned stuff which I’ve turned into bookmarks. But I’ve never purchased a bookmark. I suppose a favourite bookmark will reflect a favourite journey, or a particular period of time. The bookmark itself becomes its symbolic representative and the book, your counsel. They never last with me either. I lose them, or get frustrated and throw them away. Books accompany and guide me through every phase of my life, their nature constantly shifting and changing as a result. Bookmarks, if used at all, are the detritus of that life and, as with all such detritus, best discarded. So I absorb the book and discard the bookmark. Because we accumulate enough baggage in life as it is.
To that end I suppose the best bookmark I’ve ever used is a folded down corner of the page.
FAVOURITES
Let’s open a can of worms. Let’s talk about favourites. But I’m not talking food here, or cars. Not even shampoo.
I’ve got something more awkward in mind. Colleagues, friends, family, we all have them, and we all have our favourites amongst them. I’ve got a favourite parent: my mum. I love my dad, but I get along better with my mum. I have favourite friends. I’ve had favourite colleagues too. I think it’s a completely natural and human thing to empathise and connect with certain people more than others.
When I was younger all my cousins would get together for these boxing tournaments we’d have on the roof of my house. I hated boxing, and almost always lost. One day I dropped my gloves, and said I just didn’t want to do it anymore. My dad was sorely disappointed. He followed me with his gloves, cornered me and started punching me repeatedly.
"Hit me back."
"Hit me; come on hit me Harder. Hit me you coward."
"What is wrong with you? Hit me BACK I SAID!"
I was 5, I didn’t really know what to do, but I think the rage built up and I started blindly hitting him. I don’t think I had a choice. Thing is though, nothing was wrong with me, I just didn’t appreciate the blood, sweat and tears of boxing. I wanted to love it. But that was never going to happen. I could never be his favourite, and he sure as hell showed it.
My point is, why should any of this matter? We waste a lot of energy trying to be things we are not in order to appeal to others. I don’t know about anyone else but I am not on this earth to get as many people as possible to like me. That we all have people we prefer is without question; sometimes in life those preferences will be obvious, sometimes they won’t be.
In the end we learn and progress, make great impressions and endear ourselves the most when we are honest to ourselves. And whilst you still might not be a "favourite", you’ll have at least earned yourself the respect.
COMPASS
I want to step out into a city.
An electric, breezy metropolis of steel.
Narrow walkways flanked by rectangular giants.
Dressed in suits of twinkling yellow light.
Their gentle sighs accelerating through corridors with a howl that urges you on.
"Don’t look back", it whispers.
"Don’t look back."
Remember me not as a pathetic village.
Nourished by a stream that is no longer there.
Remember not the butchers, nor the bakers,
the poets or the shoemakers.
They drowned long ago in that stream that is no longer there.
Follow your compass, that prophetic tablet of fortified glass.
The entirety of human knowledge in your very hands.
Every thing everyone has ever known.
At your fingertips.
You God.
Onwards with you, you God.
May the gentle breath of giants propel you into the future you deserve.
A NEW YEARS WISH
I’m not sure if we were ever friends to begin with.
How can we have been, when I knew so little about you.
We are constantly told that in our younger years we invite all sorts of people into our life. Eager to please, we want to be everything to everyone. But as we gradually develop a deeper understanding of ourselves, we drift apart from the vast majority, retaining only a handful at best. My parents always told me this. My grandfather after a couple of glasses of whisky always told me this, before retreating alone to the veranda of his home in suburban Detroit, his eyes gazing into the near distance as he muttered proverbs to himself in Arabic.
I have drifted away from the vast majority; you number one of them. Our last exchange ended badly and although we haven’t spoken in 4 years, I’ve always known what you were going through.
It is terrifying to watch a person unravel, powerless to intervene.
I have long fantasised about picking up the telephone and screaming at you across continents. Sentences formed inside my head with an obsessive precision designed to convey exactly how I feel. Pearls of wisdom that I thought would wake you up from your trance and change your life.
I am sorry that I did not hear your voice shouting out from the dark, I am sorry that my pearls turned to pebbles upon contact with your world.
When I finally saw you again, I didn’t let you speak. Words flowed with surprising articulation. Conveying the crucial suddenly became easy; I guess it was the right time. Essentially I wanted you to know that everything was going to be okay. I wanted you to understand that you are worth more than you can possibly imagine.
I wish you peace, I wish you love, I wish you courage, I wish you closure.
I’m happy that you called and I’m happy that I’m able to hear a familiar voice ask:
“Hey…do you still hate me?”