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HomePosts Tagged "posts-letters&liminality"

posts-letters&liminality Tag

"Spring in the City" by Nour Annan Inspired by Antonio Ruiz-Camacho's 'Origami Prunes'. Mama, You often asked how I came to know her, this is how: I had egg yolks on my mind the night I met Salma. It was a humid New York evening, the type of August existence where it feels like the city is grabbing you by the neck and only letting you go once you admit that it is, indeed, "the greatest city in the world." It had been two years since I'd graduated from NYU with an arts degree bankrolled by you and Baba. I'd spent

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Letters, prose
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"Passenger" by Nour Annan October 10, 2019  Dear Aysha, I have finally got my driving license. I know I will be leaving this place soon, but I couldn't stand the immobility anymore. Let me tell you about my first lesson with this old man-Clifford.  "Drivers here are courteous, you know. Don't be alarmed if a car waits for you. I know you're not used to this back in your home country," he said, and I let myself feel small, glancing away so he could not see the look in my eyes. I never responded to his comments about my home country, which he had

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Letters, prose
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"Crescent Shy" by Nour Annan       Astronaut, I don't remember before. Just that I was aimless, conjoined with an aching that began to cease as I descended. The moment we crashed into each other, I reached out my hand, engulfed by a wave of familiarity, and at our collision point bloomed a birthmark that never blanched. I was overcome with the scent of something sweet and solar as I entered the epipelagic, forsaking breath and buoyancy. I knew, somehow and all at once, that we were on course towards something significant. I free-fell through hues of blue and black and marine snow suspended,

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Letters, prose
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"Pillow Memory" by Nour Annan Bella, It is a windy Saturday. I took Tommy on his favorite morning walk. I got him apples from the cocktail bar in Sassine Square and some grapefruit juice to mix with my gin. Tommy loves to watch the Christmas lights dangling from the shops and the buildings. There are fewer this year. They only glitter when the government electricity is on, at most three hours a day. The generator only lights the holy tree in the square. It's decorated with angel wings this year, a mercy call to the Holy Spirit. You would

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Letters, prose
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"Untitled" by Nour Annan Teacher,  This letter is to ask if you remember brown me,  fat-pudding from the Middle East you couldn't swallow.  What did you feed the white kids every day? It's been years, are you dead yet? Were you ever alive? I unstitched your name from my lips but still that scar in my mouth and your face, the thread of your tartan, red hair, beady green  of your eyes. You, an avalanche,  still. Remember how  you drew the line at me,  lined up at the tuck shop for fudge or snowballs? The snacks my mother made you snatched to give  to ruddy kids with earwax. Eat less, you said, you said it to my face before a bunch  of smug pink

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Letters, prose
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"Orange Season" by Nour Annan I used to travel light, carry-on luggage only, sometimes nothing more than a last-minute backpack. I loved exploring new cities in airports that all looked the same. I called myself a traveller (in a tone that rhymes with wanker).  Carelessly, I waltzed past the luggage carrousel. Carelessly, past the people stuck waiting. Carelessly lost, as in Instagram #lost. It felt like the background music played just for me, back when I took a perverse delight in stretching out the edges of what I know, to see how many more certitudes I could fit in there. I would

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Letters, prose
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"Beirut Again" by Nour Annan Dearest friend, Amanda Lee Koe asks, is this how a spirit is worn down, sliver by sliver? The illusion of conspiracy was almost comforting, a better bet than coherence. I hadn't yet realised my spirit was being squeezed out from me from the moment I could hold a pen; by the time I released these words into the air, it was too late for me to do any more than offer resentment. For so long I have been trying to carve out my own way of living, find some break in the series of obligations constituting

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Letters, prose
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"Remember Me Forever" by Nour Annan Subject: "It is finding that is astonishing" From: Nur To: Sima, Nawal Thu, May 30, 2019, 5:15 PM Dear Nawal and Sima, A friend, Sarah D., shared with me a New Yorker article by Kathryn Schultz called "When Things Go Missing." She gave me a heads up before. The piece had devastated her. I can confirm after reading it that the piece is indeed devastating. It masterfully hits what we all fear: loss. In it, Schultz intertwines two types she's experienced-the deep, debilitating grief of losing her father and the everyday, more trivial, misplacement of things like her wallet, bike,

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Emails, Letters, prose
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"Variations on Sleep" by Nour Annan It is 4 p.m. in Tunis and all you want is sleep. The hotel is called Africa. The nondescript room, the unexplored city outside. Never mind. Sleep. You have come so far, for so long. Never mind the beckoning. Sleep. Earlier, you had photographed the first glimpse of sky over a new continent - a shade of Mediterranean that startles. Your youth had falsely taught you of the possible blues. You praise the airplane for landing over seas that don't honor the sinking of bodies, orange pockets full of lead, as light as hope.  Earlier, you had embraced the languid poses of spirits there to greet you,

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Poetry
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"Within/Without" by Nour Annan Dear Most Beautiful Berliner of All, You were one of my first encounters in Berlin.  I departed Beirut in late summer of 2020 in the midst of utter destruction and loss, and arrived in this haunted city.  I bought a yearly pass to the national museums as soon as I arrived. Maybe, without even realizing it, I was searching for you. With the museum pass, I received a catalogue enumerating the sights included in my subscription with descriptions of the most significant object in each museum. You were displayed in the main fold of the catalogue as the anointed "face" of

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Letters, prose
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