I
take
off
my
gold ring
every
night
before
I go to
sleep.
This
is an important part of the Ritual.
I
refresh myself
with
cologne
after
I shower
every
morning.
This
is an essential part of the Ritual.
I
leave my apartment
everyday
with
a heavy sense of
sorrow.
This
is a solemn part of the Ritual.
I
meet
my
friends
every
evening
in
a rundown
coffee-shop
in
Old
Damascus.
This
is a necessary part of the Ritual.
I
never mention
your
name
to
my friends
any
longer.
This
is a desperate part of the Ritual.
And
I take
the
long
way
home
when
the get-together is
over.
This
is an even more desperate part of the Ritual.
I
never look,
as
I walk,
at
any of the President’s
omnipresent
posters
and
pictures.
This
is an automatic understandable part of the Ritual.
And
I,
unintentionally,
close
my eyes
shut
as
I pass by
your
residence.
This
is an idiotic and rather dangerous part of the Ritual.
I
hear a goat bleating,
a
lamb
being
slaughtered,
and
a horse neighing
just
outside
your
window.
This
is an enigmatic part of the Ritual.
I
hide
my
tears
by burying
my head
in the garbage can
near your front door.
This
is a foolish rather disgusting part of the Ritual.
I
salute
the
security
guard
strolling
by
as
I enter
my
building.
This
is a rather forced part of the Ritual.
I
think of some
hapless
girl
I
met
sometime
ago,
somewhere
or
other,
I
think of her
naked
and
willing
as
I masturbate in the bathroom.
This
is the survival let’s-go-on part of the Ritual.
I
go to sleep at 4:00 am.
And
with my head under the pillow,
I
pray.
I
pray
in
the name of
the
Unknown,
Unworshipped,
Unworshipable
God.
Or
something, anything, along these lines,
to
keep me alive and sane
throughout
the
next
day.
This
is a crucial part of the Ritual.
At
a
certain
point
in
this daily process,
I
know,
I
must have greeted
my
loving
parents,
(who
have absolutely no idea
of
what is going on).
This
is an informal part of the Ritual.
Quite
an informal part of the Ritual.
May 1998