At this point you should have already figured out that this is going to be one of them farty long-winded "days of future past" posts filled with exaggerations and half-truths. While I would have a point of contention with the latter part of the description, I wholeheartedly agree with the former. This post is definitely full of hot air. RUN!!!! RUN AWAY WHILE YOU STILL CAN!
There is nothing for me to remember about Iraq, except the memories. The good ones obviously
I don't miss Iraq. Not really and not as a whole.
I do however reminisce something fierce, from time to time, on a few very specific moments in time, gone never to return, as is the habit with such pesky happy memories.
A couple of the moments I've been thoughtfully remembering these past few days have me being 15, sitting on a garden chair, feeling the light breeze of spring -all two days of it- slap my face. The breeze in Iraq does not kiss. It is probably haram for it to do so.
One other is the memory of literally finally being free, being released to my family on the night of the first of October, 1995.
Tea. Homebrewed and left to simmer on a kerosene burner. Sickly sweet and sticky and black, fit to coat roads with.
Walking home from middle school, a 3 km distance I usually covered sitting in the family car, yet oh so deliciously happy (and hot, and damp, and achingly painful) were the days when I could come home on foot, carrying my bag which must have weighed at least 15-20kg. (like many other Iraqi students I know I couldn't be bothered to fix my school schedule for the next day, so I just packed everything in, back and spine be damned) That is probably the reason why I have developed large shoulder, leg, and calf muscles, and why I'm only 5'10" instead of 6' like I'm supposed to be.
I remember being young, 8 or so, in my grandparents living room, lying on the cold floor tiles in the spring. Watching silly giant-robot cartoons I still love to this very day.
Giant robots that shoot rockets and lasers out of where their hoohah should be, and sword-brandishing girl space-pirates with impossibly bronze-hair and beautiful long legs. With shotgun-weilding midget sidekicks. In short, the very reasons why I'm into science fiction.
Okay. I just made the above up. There is no such awesomeness I the whole world and if there will be, YOU READ IT HERE FIRST. THIS BLOG IS PROTECTED BY A CREATIVE COMMONS LICENSE. (Which is admittedly worth exactly jack and shit, and jack just left town)
See I just came out of training and i remember writing almost three hundred words more down there but it seems that my phone ate them. Turns out I should have pressed Save.
Damn pesky phone.
So here goes, if I can remember the nonsense I wrote.
--Midnight Train to Midgar--
I must be going out of my mind. More so than the usual, at least.
The smell of burning locomotive fuel reminds me of the way the chlorine-treated waters of old timey swimming halls of Baghdad. And in a wholly-aromatic, totally straight-faced way. I like the smell.
Attached below is a picture of the fuming commuter train generating such smell:
#GEEKALERT Kinda reminds me of the train linking sector 7 to Midgar central. #ENDGEEKALERT
Today it is warm. -8 C°. Last week it was so cold it almost made me cry. Twice.
So cold that even the usual collection of homeless, buskers, and junkies had cleared out from Stockholm's city gallery (that's mall to you in America!)
(that's not the gallery, but rather the Kulturhuset, House of Culture, where I lurk every Tuesday and Thrusday for the puzzling two hours that exist between me leaving work and me entering the dojo.
So anyway, there exists a variety of types right near there asking alternately for food, money, drugs, or any combination of the above. Like I said, it was so cold they didn't even bother to show up at all for the whole day. How do I know?
Someone had taken the time and effort to leave them a couple of home-made sandwiches and a liter of milk:
People were walking by not noticing anything, like the naturally jaded, little zombie-swarm-commuters that they are.
I like the train station. Only place in all of Stockholm outside of sport clubs (and arab/muslim ghettos) where you'll find people actually enthusiastically shoving to get ahead.
Makes me feel right at home.
--Posted on the run!