Will I be miserable when I get to Damascus, or is there a future for me there? Would I have to kill myself if I got drafted into the military? Maybe not. There is a great security, a dull comfort, in routine, an opportunity to surrender to an authoritarian-totalitarian government's schedule. I could write a play about it. Maybe the theatrical imagination is omnipotent. Because it has the potential to generate place and time from language. In real time. And in real space.
...
I could feel the resonance of her smile after she hung up the phone.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Al Hayat Article on Jawad al Asadi's NISA' AL SAXOPHONE
«نساء السكسو ... فون» تهتك نص الشاعر الاسباني لوركا ... جواد الأسدي يحاصر «البيت» الخراب بهواجس النسوة
بيروت – عبده وازن الحياة - 09/12/07//
لم يقتبس المخرج العراقي جواد الأسدي نصّ الشاعر الاسباني لوركا «بيت برنانردا ألبا» بل أعاد كتابته نصاً وعرضاً مشهدياً بعدما أمعن فيه تفكيكاً، حاذفاً منه مقاطع وشخصيات ومضيفاً اليه مقاطع وأبعاداً. «البيت» الذي شاءه الشاعر القتيل رمزاً لـ«السجن» الذي وسمت به اسبانيا في عهد الديكتاتور فرانكو جعله الأسدي عبارة عن «بيت خراب» بحسب عبارة إليوت (الأرض الخراب)، بيت عراقي وعربي في آن واحد. ولعل المشهد المأسوي الأخير الذي أطلت النسوة الخمس من خلاله بملابسهن السود، بدا أشبه بـ «وقفة» على أطلال ذاك البيت، الذي دمرته مواقفهن المشبعة بالكراهية والحقد والثأر، علاوة على الحروب المعلنة في الخارج التي أتت نيرانها على الحقول والحدائق.
ينجح جواد الأسدي دوماً في «استيحاء» النصوص العالمية وإعادة كتابتها حتى ليصبح وكأنه مؤلفها الثاني. هذا ما فعله سابقاً في نصوص لجان جينه وانطون تشيخوف واوغست سترندبرغ وسواهم. وعرضه المسرحي البديع «الاغتصاب» أثار حين تقديمه حفيظة صاحبه الكاتب سعدالله ونوس (اقتبس نصه عن مسرحية لأنطونيو باييخو)، نظراً الى «الخيانة» الجميلة التي مارسها الأسدي إزاء هذا النص الملتبس. في نص لوركا الذي أصبح «نساء السكسو... فون» (مسرح بابل، بيروت) حذف الأسدي ثلاثاً من الفتيات وأبقى على اثنتين هما أديلا وماغدولينا. برناردا ألبا نفسها جعلها مغنية أوبرا محافظاً على تسلطها و «ديكتاتوريتها». أديلا لم تنتحر كما في النص الأصلي وماغدولينا جعلها تقتل أباها عن غير قصد. الخادمتان اختصرهما في خادمة واحدة هي لابونتيا... لكنه لم يبدل الأسماء ودمج الفصحى بالعامية ساعياً الى ترسيخ أكثر من مستوى للّغة المسرحية تماشياً مع مستويات العرض المسرحي نفسه الذي تراوح بين الغروتسك أو التضخيم والبورلسك والأسلبة والواقعية والباروديا أو المحاكاة الساخرة التي لم ينج منها حتى الغناء الاوبرالي المزدوج (ديو) بين برناردا والخادمة. ونجح الأسدي في دمج الأنواع هذه مشهدياً جاعلاً من اللعبة المسرحية لعبة بصرية تهذي وتتفجر.
إنها «خشبة» جواد الأسدي أولاً وأخيراً. سينوغرافيا بديعة بألوانها المتنافرة (الأسود، الأحمر...) وجداريتها التي وضعها الرسام العراقي جبر علوان الذي صمم أيضاً الديكور والملابس. والنسوة اللواتي عُرف علوان بهن لم يغبن عن مخيلة الأسدي (أديلا حين تتمدد بجسدها المتفجر على الطاولة أو على الكنبة) وهن كنّ حاضرات في صالة المسرح عبر معرضٍ جميل، بأوضاعهن الجسدية (والنفسية). وبدا المعرض مدخلاً الى المسرحية، مدخلاً جمالياً ودرامياً. شاء الأسدي خشبته أكثر من خشبة: عالم داخلي تفصله عن «معترك» النسوة ستارة من «نيلون» كأنها غشاء بكارة حيناً وراءها يكمن عالم اللاوعي الذي يتفجر حين تنفتح (الستارة) بعنف غالباً، أو كأنها تارة جدار تتعارك معه الفتاتان، جدار سجن هو البيت نفسه. واختلق الأسدي أيضاً خشبة هامشية او زاوية للجدة العجوز الخرقاء والمهلوسة التي أدى شخصيتها ببراعة الممثل رفعت طربيه موظــفاً طاقــاته خـــلف قناع تلك العجوز التي تعيــــش على حافة «الذكريات» والهواجس الجنسية.
عالم داخلي، مغلق ومسوّر، تفجره النسوة المتشابهات، الأم والفتاتان والجدة والخادمة وكأنهن أمام مرايا ذواتهن وأجسادهن المقموعة. ضحايا و «جزارون» في وقت واحد، مسكونات بالكراهية والبغضاء، ينتظرن اللحظة التي تتيح لهن الانتقام من «الآخر» ومن أنفسهن، هن اللواتي وجدن في صورتهن صورة القامع نفسه. موت الزوج والأب لم يكن إلا موتاً للماضي السلبي: الزوجة برنردا التي تألمت لموته ظاهراً وجدت في هذا الموت متنفساً لها وراحة لن تطول كثيراً. لقد تحررت من هذا الجسد «المعطل» الذي مكث عشرة أعوام في فراش المرض وهي عشرة أعوام من الحرمان الجنسي. أما الابنتان فقد انتهتا عبر موته من فكرة «الأب» الغائب أصلاً و «الخائن» الذي لم يكن يبالي إلا بنفسه وهواياته وحياته الخاصة. حتى الخادمة لم تستطع أن تكن له المحبة، مثله مثل برناردا المتسلطة التي تعاملها باحتقار وقسوة لكونها الخادمة، على رغم انها كانت أداتها لتتسقط أخبار الابنتين، ولم تكن الخادمة تتوانى عن الوشاية بهما انتقاماً لنفسها.
عالم من الكراهية والكبت والبغضاء المتبادلة تصنعه نسوة مكبوتات ومحرومات يسعين الى انتهاز الفرصة كي يقتلن بعهن بعضاً، كي يقتتلن ويدمرن حياتهن المدمرة أصلاً. هكذا ذهب جواد الأسدي بعيداً في رسم ملامح هذه النسوة، متخطياً الملامح التي كان رسمها لوركا، معتمداً القسوة واللاوعي والحوافز النفسية الخبيئة. برنردا ألبا، الأم القاسية تجد نفسها وحيدة، ليس بعد موت الزوج وإنما بعد تحررها منه. الحداد الذي تعلنه كأنما تعلنه على نفسها، هي مغنية الأوبرا التي لم تبق لها سوى الذكريات. تلجأ الى الغناء الأوبرالي والكنسي (السرياني...) وبعض الفلامنكو (ظهر في البداية أيضاً) بحثاً عن عزاء. تمارس على ابنتيها سطوتها تعويضاً عما فاتها، لكنها لا تتمكن من قتل ما بقي من حنان الأم. هنا تكمن قوة هذه الشخصية التي جسدتها بقوة ورقة في وقت واحد المغنية جاهدة وهبي التي كانت احدى مفاجآت العرض. الابنتان أو الاختان، أديلا (ايفون الهاشم في إطلالة جميلة جداً) وماغدولينا (نادين جمعة في اداء قدير)، تفيضان بالكره والبغض، تشي واحدتهما بالأخرى، وتغار واحدتهما من الأخرى، خصوصاً في ما يتعلق بالجنس و «رجل الاسطبل». فتاتان تعيشان بجسديهما المحرّقين الى الرغبة، بل بالأحرى بهواجسهما الجنسية و «الفانتسمات» المتفجرة. جسدان على حافة الانهيار، يحتاجان الى نار الرجل التي تشعل فيهما اللذة. جسدان متألمان من شدة الحرمان وسط هذا السجن، وسط هذه العزلة القاتلة. حتى الخادمة التي أدت دورها عايدة صبرا بمهارة فائقة مازجة بين التضخيم والأسلبة والسخرية، بدت تعيش هاجس الجنس، لكنها راحت، بخبثها كضحية، تذكّيه في الأخريات، لا سيما في برناردا ألبا، التي ذكرتها مرة بعجزها عن الاستمناء. ولم تنجُ الجدة بدورها من هذه الفانتسمات» التي باح بها جسدها العاجز.
دخل جواد الأسدي أعماق هؤلاء النسوة ونفذ الى لاوعيهن وهواجسهن وأحوالهن الداخلية وفجّرها، فاذا بهن كتل من لحم ودم وشبق وحقد وبغضاء. يكرهن العالم (البيت) مثلما يكرهن صورهن، مثلما يكرهن بعضهن بعضاً، مثلما يكرهن فكرة الأب والأم والسلطة كيفما تجسدت. وعوض ان تنتحر اديلا تُجنّ، وهكذا شقيقتها. انها القسوة التي طالما انتهجها جواد الأسدي، القسوة التي لا تطهّر الذات إلا بالعنف الداخلي بالموت، القسوة التي تجيب على الأسئلة التي لا أجوبة لها، عبر إلغائها. وعندما تجد النسوة أنفسهن أمام لحظة الموت (المجازي) أو العزلة المطلقة يلجأن الى التداعي من خلال «المونولوغ» مواجهاتٍ أنفسهن بأنفسهن. الأم والابنتان والخادمة، جميعهن يلجأن الى «الاعتراف»، اعتراف ما قبل الموت، ما قبل الخراب الذي سيدمر البيت. ولعل أجمل «مونولوغ» هو الذي تبادلته ماغدولينا مع الخادمة، وقد غدا «مونولوغاً» بصوتين انطلاقاً من دفتر المذكرات الذي دونتها ماغدولينا.
يجيد جواد الأسدي العمل على الممثل وكانه عماد اللعبة المسرحية. فالعرض هو عرض الممثلين مثلما هو قائم على السينوغرافيا والديكور والموسيقى والحوار... يعطي الأسدي الممثلين فرصة تحقيق ذواتهم انطلاقاً من الشخصيات التي يبنيها باحكام ومن العلاقات التي ينسجها بمتانة. يجد الممثل نفسه على خشبة الأسدي وجهاً لوجه أمام ذاته متجلية في ذات الشخصية التي يؤديها. هنا يصبح التمثيل بحسب الأسدي تجسيداً للذات الانسانية، بصراعها الداخلي وهواجسها وأحاسيسها العميقة. لكن التمثيل لن يخلو أيضاً من فن اللعب لا سيما في لحظات الهتك والسخرية والتضخيم.
لم يكن من المفارق أن يحول جواد الأسدي «بيت برناردا ألبا» بيتاً عراقياً وعربياً وأن يدمره ويجعله أطلالاً، مغلّباً طابع التشاؤم على المصير أو المستقبل، فالمأساة التي عاشها ويعيشها كمواطن منفي ومقتلع تشهد على عمق التجربة التي يكابدها. والمهم أن «الخطاب» المأسوي هذا ابتعد كل البعد عن التفجع والمأسوية المباشرة (والكربلائية العراقية) من خلال اللعبة الدرامية الفاتنة التي أدتها هؤلاء النسوة – الممثلات والتي توازت فيها السخرية العابثة والفجيعة الداخلية. انهن «نساء السكسو... فون» كما عبّر العنوان. وكلمة «السكسو...» ليست هي «الساكسو...» انها اللفظة الموسيقية المحرّفة بغية ان تشمل حال الجسد. انه العزف الموسيقي على مقام الجسد. وما أجمل هذا العزف حقاً.
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
Review: "Crying of My Mother"
Stripped of their galabayehs, they stand quietly with their backs to us under the soft blue light, their breath drifting like smoke in the frigid air. The expansion-contraction of their torsos is deep at first, but it slowly gives way to calm. Simple and ethereal, the closing stillness of "Crying of my Mother" is pregnant with a serene abandon that left us in the audience molten.
Choreographed by Muhannad Rasheed and featuring Rasheed and Duraid Abbass, the twenty-five minute dance performance ran December 1st through 3rd at Teatro in Damascus, Syria. The only private performance space in the city, Teatro is an old Damascene house cum theatre institute and production venue founded and directed by May Skaf, a well-known television and film actress in Syria. The performance took place in the central courtyard whose grand two-story arch has been rendered a proscenium.
The piece opens with Rasheed and Abbass in khakhi galabayehs cradled together before a fire. Rasheed's hand stretches forth taking in the heat while Abbass combs through his companion's afro. Their bodies, twin fetuses in a womb, are barely distinguishable from one another, and the moment denotes a sense of isolation as if the two worn men were resting for a night in the midst of a taxing journey.
But they are not desperate, not hopeless; rather, a tranquility, albeit one loaded with heavy fatigue, colors the scene. They have each other. The unbridled intimacy, at once brotherly and romantic, establishes a pianissimo, legato foundation from which the performance evolves. The movement takes on a staccato dynamic, and the bodies become disfigured and even corpse-like. Afterwards, the piece crescendos into a scene of mourning and concludes with a moment of ethereal peace.
As such, "Crying of my Mother" broaches the subject of death as metamorphosis. The transformation is, however, twofold: we witness shifts in the corporal and the gender identities of the dancers. After the theme of corpsed bodies builds momentum, the men slowly lift their galabayehs over their heads and clench their collars shut under their chin in silhouette, evoking images of mourning women in a chador, burqa, or jilaabah.
The quaking intensifies, and the performance climaxes as the men slowly pull the galabayehs off their bodies, shedding their skin and letting it fall to the ground. So, mourning entails the man's adoption the body of the woman--the mother--as a surrogate. Whereas the male body is the site of physical pain and death, it is the female body that carries the burden of emotional suffering, and it is the female body that has transformative agency, taking in the dancers--tortured, murdered, and left for dead--and bearing forth reborn, naked bodies.
Duraid and Abbass and their families were displaced by the 2003 American invasion of Iraq and subsequent civil-war and are refugees in Syria. Throughout the next couple weeks, "Crying of my Mother" will travel to the Netherlands and to Italy. The migration of the art and artists is a testament to the paradoxical realities of the military industrial complex which serves to colonize and to ravage peoples on the one the hand and to foster and to circulate the cultural production of pillaged societies on the other.
Choreographed by Muhannad Rasheed and featuring Rasheed and Duraid Abbass, the twenty-five minute dance performance ran December 1st through 3rd at Teatro in Damascus, Syria. The only private performance space in the city, Teatro is an old Damascene house cum theatre institute and production venue founded and directed by May Skaf, a well-known television and film actress in Syria. The performance took place in the central courtyard whose grand two-story arch has been rendered a proscenium.
The piece opens with Rasheed and Abbass in khakhi galabayehs cradled together before a fire. Rasheed's hand stretches forth taking in the heat while Abbass combs through his companion's afro. Their bodies, twin fetuses in a womb, are barely distinguishable from one another, and the moment denotes a sense of isolation as if the two worn men were resting for a night in the midst of a taxing journey.
But they are not desperate, not hopeless; rather, a tranquility, albeit one loaded with heavy fatigue, colors the scene. They have each other. The unbridled intimacy, at once brotherly and romantic, establishes a pianissimo, legato foundation from which the performance evolves. The movement takes on a staccato dynamic, and the bodies become disfigured and even corpse-like. Afterwards, the piece crescendos into a scene of mourning and concludes with a moment of ethereal peace.
As such, "Crying of my Mother" broaches the subject of death as metamorphosis. The transformation is, however, twofold: we witness shifts in the corporal and the gender identities of the dancers. After the theme of corpsed bodies builds momentum, the men slowly lift their galabayehs over their heads and clench their collars shut under their chin in silhouette, evoking images of mourning women in a chador, burqa, or jilaabah.
The quaking intensifies, and the performance climaxes as the men slowly pull the galabayehs off their bodies, shedding their skin and letting it fall to the ground. So, mourning entails the man's adoption the body of the woman--the mother--as a surrogate. Whereas the male body is the site of physical pain and death, it is the female body that carries the burden of emotional suffering, and it is the female body that has transformative agency, taking in the dancers--tortured, murdered, and left for dead--and bearing forth reborn, naked bodies.
Duraid and Abbass and their families were displaced by the 2003 American invasion of Iraq and subsequent civil-war and are refugees in Syria. Throughout the next couple weeks, "Crying of my Mother" will travel to the Netherlands and to Italy. The migration of the art and artists is a testament to the paradoxical realities of the military industrial complex which serves to colonize and to ravage peoples on the one the hand and to foster and to circulate the cultural production of pillaged societies on the other.
Saturday, December 1, 2007
The St. Andrew's Ball
We left early. The champagne was tasty, but the St. Andrew's Ball at the Four Seasons last night did little more than confirm my disdain for expatriates, especially Americans and Brits, in Damascus.
I picked up my tuxedo from my aunt's house on Thursday afternoon in anticipation of my first Damascus ball, thinking Four Seasons + Damascenes + maziqa + dancing + open bar + Glam^3 = unforgettable. No one does Glam better than Damascus. No one. Except maybe Fergie.
The "chieftain" of the Caledonian Society, a hoary chum with eyebrows like ashen tumbleweeds, greeted us at the top of the staircase. His Lucky Charms shoes matched his kilt, and his Scottish accent rang with charming vigor. He directed us towards the saggy-faced lady.
"Table 31, Loch Lunaig," she said, dropping our tickets in the giant raffle tub. "Y'can see the tayble chart o'er dere." We glanced across the room past the dozens of men in kilts and marching band outfits and spotted--not the chart--but floating trays of champagne.
It's been ages since I've seen so many Caucasians. Where did all these expats come from? Where are they hiding in Damascus? I didn't see but a handful of Arabs. At first, I thought, "Duh, obviously, they'll show up at least an hour late." But I was wrong.
Thank the lord our table featured a bottle of Glenmorangie Scotch; otherwise, my friend Sh and I would have dropped dead of nausea. There were six Americans at our table, four of whom were teachers at the Damascus Community School. They looked and sounded like they had been plucked from their minivans in rural Nebraska and dropped in Syria. They knew little to nothing about this place and, aside from discrete comments about their cats who eat their scarves, had trouble conversing.
It was a nightmare featuring Laura Ingalls Wilder and friends. Remember those girls and boys from high school at Woodward who were so dull they just kind of blended into the background? Yeah, they were there, too.
After the British Ambassador's endless monologue about global warming (what the hell?!), the chieftain took the mic and invited everyone to the dance floor. The lead singer of the band, flown in from Scotland, proceeded to dictate dance instructions to the two hundred strong herd. When we saw the girl in the jester outfit doing a Scottish jig, we knew it was time to evacuate.
I picked up my tuxedo from my aunt's house on Thursday afternoon in anticipation of my first Damascus ball, thinking Four Seasons + Damascenes + maziqa + dancing + open bar + Glam^3 = unforgettable. No one does Glam better than Damascus. No one. Except maybe Fergie.
The "chieftain" of the Caledonian Society, a hoary chum with eyebrows like ashen tumbleweeds, greeted us at the top of the staircase. His Lucky Charms shoes matched his kilt, and his Scottish accent rang with charming vigor. He directed us towards the saggy-faced lady.
"Table 31, Loch Lunaig," she said, dropping our tickets in the giant raffle tub. "Y'can see the tayble chart o'er dere." We glanced across the room past the dozens of men in kilts and marching band outfits and spotted--not the chart--but floating trays of champagne.
It's been ages since I've seen so many Caucasians. Where did all these expats come from? Where are they hiding in Damascus? I didn't see but a handful of Arabs. At first, I thought, "Duh, obviously, they'll show up at least an hour late." But I was wrong.
Thank the lord our table featured a bottle of Glenmorangie Scotch; otherwise, my friend Sh and I would have dropped dead of nausea. There were six Americans at our table, four of whom were teachers at the Damascus Community School. They looked and sounded like they had been plucked from their minivans in rural Nebraska and dropped in Syria. They knew little to nothing about this place and, aside from discrete comments about their cats who eat their scarves, had trouble conversing.
It was a nightmare featuring Laura Ingalls Wilder and friends. Remember those girls and boys from high school at Woodward who were so dull they just kind of blended into the background? Yeah, they were there, too.
After the British Ambassador's endless monologue about global warming (what the hell?!), the chieftain took the mic and invited everyone to the dance floor. The lead singer of the band, flown in from Scotland, proceeded to dictate dance instructions to the two hundred strong herd. When we saw the girl in the jester outfit doing a Scottish jig, we knew it was time to evacuate.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Castrating Simba
One of the wool rugs was missing from the long marble corridor leading to my bedroom.
"He's pissing everywhere, now! The rug's drying on the balcony. Emily washed it, and it's hanging outside," Mama Hiam complained, crunching through a heart of raw lettuce. "He meows at night, all night, outside my door. I'm castrating him. Tomorrow. We have an appointment at 9am with the doctor, and we're going to castrate him."
Simba is a spoiled and reticent Turkish angora. He takes his meals in the kitchen but drinks only--ONLY--from the crystal ashtray that Hiam fills periodically throughout the day. Every morning, after a cup of Nescafe and half a red apple, she puts on a hospital mask and brushes Simba inside out, working his body like he was a rag doll. He's surprisingly okay with all the maneuvering, and it's only when she gets to his tail does he begin to resist.
It was Hiam's daughter who managed to coax her to getting a cat shortly after the war last summer. At first, Hiam rejected the idea altogether, I think in a stubborn effort to assert her self-sufficiency and comfort in solitude. She didn't need a cat, she wasn't lonely. Eventually, she caved in to the suggestion, and the rest is history.
She seemed disappointed when she returned from the veterinarian that morning. She was in the kitchen making kibbeh with Emily, and I overheard the dialogue from the living room.
"He didn't castrate him. Simba has psychology. You know what is psychology?"
"Yes, Madame."
"He says he keep Simba to examine him. But he did not castrate him. He did the echo, but no castrating him."
"He's pissing everywhere, now! The rug's drying on the balcony. Emily washed it, and it's hanging outside," Mama Hiam complained, crunching through a heart of raw lettuce. "He meows at night, all night, outside my door. I'm castrating him. Tomorrow. We have an appointment at 9am with the doctor, and we're going to castrate him."
Simba is a spoiled and reticent Turkish angora. He takes his meals in the kitchen but drinks only--ONLY--from the crystal ashtray that Hiam fills periodically throughout the day. Every morning, after a cup of Nescafe and half a red apple, she puts on a hospital mask and brushes Simba inside out, working his body like he was a rag doll. He's surprisingly okay with all the maneuvering, and it's only when she gets to his tail does he begin to resist.
It was Hiam's daughter who managed to coax her to getting a cat shortly after the war last summer. At first, Hiam rejected the idea altogether, I think in a stubborn effort to assert her self-sufficiency and comfort in solitude. She didn't need a cat, she wasn't lonely. Eventually, she caved in to the suggestion, and the rest is history.
She seemed disappointed when she returned from the veterinarian that morning. She was in the kitchen making kibbeh with Emily, and I overheard the dialogue from the living room.
"He didn't castrate him. Simba has psychology. You know what is psychology?"
"Yes, Madame."
"He says he keep Simba to examine him. But he did not castrate him. He did the echo, but no castrating him."
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Cheney undergoes heart treatment
english.aljazeera.net
Dick Cheney, the US vice president, has been treated with electric shock treatment for an irregular heartbeat discovered during a doctor's visit. Cheney who was sedated for the procedure on Monday, later returned home and will resume his normal schedule at the White House on Tuesday, his office said.
"An electrical impulse was used to restore the upper chambers to normal rhythm," the statement said. "The procedure went smoothly and without complication."
Cheney, who had gone to see doctors because of a lingering cough from a cold, was found to have "atrial fibrillation, an abnormal rhythm involving the upper chambers of the heart," Megan Mitchell, his spokeswoman, said earlier on Monday.
History of problems
He went to the hospital later in the day for the outpatient procedure. Atrial fibrillation is a disorder becoming increasingly common. The heart's two small upper chambers quiver instead of beating effectively and blood is not pumped out completely, so it may pool and clot, putting the person at risk of a stroke.
Cheney, a close aide to George Bush, the US president, has had a history of heart problems. He survived four heart attacks before he became vice president. The last one, shortly after the November 2000 election, was considered mild. More recently he was treated for a blood clot in his leg that was discovered after a trip to Asia and the Middle East. He underwent quadruple bypass surgery in 1988 and he has also had angioplasty to reopen a partially blocked artery.
...
Gosh darn it, working for peace is stressful!
Dick Cheney, the US vice president, has been treated with electric shock treatment for an irregular heartbeat discovered during a doctor's visit. Cheney who was sedated for the procedure on Monday, later returned home and will resume his normal schedule at the White House on Tuesday, his office said.
"An electrical impulse was used to restore the upper chambers to normal rhythm," the statement said. "The procedure went smoothly and without complication."
Cheney, who had gone to see doctors because of a lingering cough from a cold, was found to have "atrial fibrillation, an abnormal rhythm involving the upper chambers of the heart," Megan Mitchell, his spokeswoman, said earlier on Monday.
History of problems
He went to the hospital later in the day for the outpatient procedure. Atrial fibrillation is a disorder becoming increasingly common. The heart's two small upper chambers quiver instead of beating effectively and blood is not pumped out completely, so it may pool and clot, putting the person at risk of a stroke.
Cheney, a close aide to George Bush, the US president, has had a history of heart problems. He survived four heart attacks before he became vice president. The last one, shortly after the November 2000 election, was considered mild. More recently he was treated for a blood clot in his leg that was discovered after a trip to Asia and the Middle East. He underwent quadruple bypass surgery in 1988 and he has also had angioplasty to reopen a partially blocked artery.
...
Gosh darn it, working for peace is stressful!
Sunday, November 25, 2007
3ajami
No, life here was very nice. Let me tell you why.
Wafic was a guy who loved life. I mean, for one, he never liked staying at home, and, two, he'd call me from the office: 'Get dressed. I'm picking you up.'
Five-thirty, we'd go to a house party. Then, there'd be a cocktail, so we'd go to the cocktail. We'd come back home. He'd change and then say to me, 'Get some sleep.'
'Why sleep? I just got back from the cocktail party, why sleep now?'
'I have to meet my buddy at Cape des Rois, then we're meeting some friends at the Mocombo around eleven, twelve, one.'
'We're going together.'
We were a Lebanese group, and we always went out together.
At the end of the night, there's this place called 3ajami, in the Souq el Taweeleh, on a paved street, a really narrow lane, half the width of a bedroom. The best stores were in Souq el Taweeleh. On both sides there were shops, and at the end a tiny little spot called 3ajami. They sold drinks, food, fool emdemmas, akel libanais.
It was in Centre Ville. Now, il n'existe plus. It's nothing now. They destroyed it, built it up again, put in a road, I don't know. There's nothing left of 3ajami.
Wafic was a guy who loved life. I mean, for one, he never liked staying at home, and, two, he'd call me from the office: 'Get dressed. I'm picking you up.'
Five-thirty, we'd go to a house party. Then, there'd be a cocktail, so we'd go to the cocktail. We'd come back home. He'd change and then say to me, 'Get some sleep.'
'Why sleep? I just got back from the cocktail party, why sleep now?'
'I have to meet my buddy at Cape des Rois, then we're meeting some friends at the Mocombo around eleven, twelve, one.'
'We're going together.'
We were a Lebanese group, and we always went out together.
At the end of the night, there's this place called 3ajami, in the Souq el Taweeleh, on a paved street, a really narrow lane, half the width of a bedroom. The best stores were in Souq el Taweeleh. On both sides there were shops, and at the end a tiny little spot called 3ajami. They sold drinks, food, fool emdemmas, akel libanais.
It was in Centre Ville. Now, il n'existe plus. It's nothing now. They destroyed it, built it up again, put in a road, I don't know. There's nothing left of 3ajami.
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