The sky is beautiful tonight. In the language of water colours I’d describe it as ultramarine going over in pthalo turquoise and prussian blue. If you look to the west, it lightens up in a faint cobalt where the sun disappeared an hour ago or so. It’s so hot, the air feels like a warm, living thing breathing into my ear. This has been the hottest day so far, and it seems to be not so smoothly transforming into the hottest night.
I’m sitting here, leaning out of my open window on the second floor. Most of my view is obscured by the linden trees, their green crowns heavy and fragrant. Underneath them, I see feet shift as their bodies moves in for a shot at the pool table. Muted sounds as the cue hits the billiard ball, and the following collision of plastic against plastic. Some of the balls seem to have hit home. Somewhere behind the trees I hear voices, drunk, loud, happy, singing along to Alannah Myles Black Velvet. It’s the third time I’ve heard it tonight, and it’s not getting any better. But when the other choices are “Blue (da ba de)” and ”Don’t Stop Believing” by Journey I guess I should count my blessings. The smell of the warm pavement wafts up to where I sit. This, and the boisterous voices, the coloured lamps that glimpse through the leaves, gives an almost continental feeling, a feeling that the night is vibrant and alive. I’d argue that this feeling is rare for Sweden. The short, sometimes cold summers tells us that the night is something to take cover from. Then there are nights like this. Nights to live and remember.
Light reflects ever so faintly on my skin as taxis go by. The smell, the street lights and the noice gives me a nostalgic feeling and I think of Lebanon.
”It’s dark. I’m on a dirty balcony, looking over an equally dirty street, over-hung by power lines. People are sitting around outside, gossiping in front of little shops, cafés and doorways, eating nuts and salted pumpkin seeds and smoking hookah and cigaretts. Beyond the streets of Nabaa, Sin el-Fil and Dekwaneh, in what with just a little bit of imagination could be called the horizon, the mountain is glowing with a thousand man-made lights. This night is full of sound and chaos, but still feels calm. You can hear cars on the highway, someone is honking, another one steps on the gas. A third cusses. Behind these paper thin walls I hear that hollow TV-sound, a boy sneezing, cutlery clattering against porcelain. There’s debke music coming from an open window. A cockroach crawls around on the kitchen zink, unperturbed and undisturbed. This kind of night, I like it too.”
In Arabic, there’s a word that I like, and that is سهر (sahira). According to the dictionary it basically means to be sleepless or to stay up at night. I always felt that the word had an almost celebrative sense, however, like you’d be spending the night awake in order to enjoy it, live it. And that’s what I’m doing tonight.
People you once knew
Walking my baby back home
One Monday afternoon
Looking for escape routes