Category Archives: Blog

Emily O'Dell at St. Jude's in Beirut

I became a clown when these docs came to the house in Berkeley and asked me to come cheer up kids. I’d just had my third spinal fusion, and I was looking for something to take my mind off the pain I was in. — Wavy Gravy

While doing a little karma yoga this week-end–i.e. volunteering at CCCL/St. Jude’s in Beirut–the kids and I found these awesome sunglasses in the playroom. Every time one of the kids needed a pick-me-up, I put on these crazy sunglasses–and they ignited an instant smile. Relishing this welcome reminder of the healing power of the ridiculous, I began to think that we could all use a much bigger dose of the ridiculous in this crazy world…

A clown is like aspirin, only he works twice as fast. — Groucho Marx

Going from room to room in the cancer hospital in my oversized orange plastic sunglasses, I thought of many clowns–Charlie Chaplin, Patch Adams, and Wavy Gravy–“the illegitimate child of Harpo Marx and Mother Teresa.” The clown–in critiquing society, mocking politicians, and musing on tragedy–has a unique and historical role unlike any other.

I remain just one thing, and one thing only, and that is a clown. It places me on a far higher plane than any politician.
— Charlie Chaplin

The clown is a public servant–and a politician’s nightmare. The clown is a doctor–and a madman. A mirror–reflecting back to us our collective and personal faults. Some say the clown is a saint. And many agree that the clown is free–like, for instance, Wavy Gravy…

(A viewer just told me that this link is not available in the U.S.–if that’s the case, you can watch the inspiring trailer for the amazing movie Saint Misbehavin’ about Wavy Gravy here)

Ideologies separate us. Dreams and anguish bring us together.— Eugene Ionesco

Here in Beirut, where bombs from Israel fell last week south of Beirut and car bombs killed many in Tripoli, everyone’s a bundle of nerves about the (likely?) possibility of American intervention in Syria. As for me, I’m thinking a lot about clowns. Clowns, the antithesis of ideology. Clowns, the unveilers of hypocrisy. Maybe it’s not more arms we need–but an army of clowns.

Where are the clowns? There ought to be clowns–quick, send in the clowns. — Stephen Sondheim

How much happier we all might be, if we just let ourselves be the clowns we were born to be…

Dare to wear the foolish clown face. — Frank Sinatra

Enough with perfection and pretension, send in the clowns! Enough with bullets and blood–send in the clowns! Enough with death and destruction–send in the clowns! Where are the clowns? Send in the clowns…

Nonviolence is a flop. The only bigger flop is violence. — Joan Baez

Sondheim’s “clowns” were the vaudeville comedians who would be sent on stage when an act was flopping–which is why they appear in the chorus of this song–sung by a character dealing with the pain of rejection by an old love, and looking to be rescued from her own personal flop. Since it’s so good, you might as well listen to it twice (each rendition has its own unique magic)…

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BnwJ5KIcKX4

Quick, send in the clowns. Don’t bother, they’re here. — Sondheim

Peter Sellars & Emily O'Dell in Beirut

On second thought, maybe we don’t need to send in any clowns–since we’re already here. Let’s face it: we’re all clowns–some masked, some unmasked–but who has dared to take their white gloved finger and wipe away the tear? Even Wavy Gravy didn’t become Wavy Gravy, until he was forced to find some positive and benevolent way to distract him from his pain.

When Peter Sellars was here earlier this year in Beirut, we spoke about the necessity of curating and creating “moments” and “spectacles,” versus “mass demonstrations” and “movements.” After all, that’s what clowns do–they use a small canvas, to make a big statement. To say “yes” instead of “no.” The clown’s touch is personal, but the clamour of a crowd is undefined. Perhaps it’s no accident that Peter–the genius-award winning opera & theatre director–has the face, heart, and wardrobe of a clown.

Scary in the idea it could be a little overwhelming to have 70 or 100 clowns in a public space. Intriguing in that it could be something interesting. I’m up for any kind of public art. — Carol King

Emily O'Dell at St. Jude's in Beirut

Here are some closing quotes to inspire any inner clowns out there to dare to smile, to wipe away someone else’s tear (or their own), and to deploy the weapon and panacea of the ridiculous–to drown out all the darkness…

Laughter is the valve on the pressure cooker of life. Either you laugh and suffer, or you got your beans or brains on the ceiling. — Wavy Gravy

It is meat and drink to me to see a clown. — William Shakespeare

Sure, I could of done it different… put my clown in a closet and dressed up in straight clothing. I could of compromised my essence, and swallowed my soul. — Wavy Gravy

I see myself as an intelligent, sensitive human, with the soul of a clown, which forces me to blow it at the most important moments. — Jim Morrison

I always say, dare to struggle, dare to grin. — Wavy Gravy

Photo by Emily O'Dell

Photo by Emily O'Dell

Oh dear. Everyone I know in Beirut is getting ready for war. Redlines are being drawn (over cocktails)–as friends and colleagues debate how bad it has to get for them to leave. Between last week’s car bombings–and Israel’s recent bombing south of Beirut–some people are already skipping town, and others are refusing to come back from summer vacations abroad.

War is in the air–we all feel it coming. It’s just a matter of time, people say. All of our eyes, of course, are focused next door–waiting to see what happens next.

“Go stock up on groceries.”

This has been the refrain of one of my Lebanese friends all week. Today, I finally decided to follow her advice. Only something unexpected happened along the way–and I was dragged away from the usual route to my favorite organic supermarket by an unforeseeable detour.

You see, after I left my house–I didn’t find myself in the grocery store. Instead, I found myself shopping up a storm in boutiques across Beirut. Really–why buy vegetables, when you can buy treasures from Beiruti boutiques? While some people are drinking away their anxiety, and others are dreaming up their escapes–a few of us (I wasn’t alone in those stores–I swear!) are turning to retail therapy to process our impending doom. Considering the alternatives, it seemed like a healthy way to temporarily escape.

My shopping spree started at Orient 499–a stunning Atelier with exclusive, eclectic handicrafts, artwork, furniture, and clothes–located across from the old Holiday Day Inn–which still sits empty, after having been bombed to bits during the infamous Battle of the Hotels during the civil war.

Not only did I want to buy everything inside of Orient 499’s sleek galleries–but I also wanted to move right in (it would save me the trouble of transporting the heavy furniture to my house). Arabic leather notebooks, hand woven towels, silk Afghan pants, mother of pearl bracelets, Yemeni silver, Turkmen belts, calligraphic mirrors–for me, it doesn’t get much better than that.

To decorate my home from the divine collection at Orient 499 would absolutely be a dream come true–but the problem is, if we have to evacuate, I’ll have to leave it all behind. And truth be told–I wasn’t really shopping today for myself–I was on the hunt for some inspired souvenirs for a few generous and compassionate souls back home–to whom I owe a gift of thanks. Anyway, I’ve always found it more fun to shop for others, since I don’t need much myself (but that didn’t stop me from getting a few things for myself along the way today).

Perhaps the best advice I got today by email–from the same Lebanese friend who told me to get groceries–was:

Keep
Calm
&
Take
Pictures

And take pictures I did–so in my upcoming blog posts, I’ll be sharing a number of photos from my Beirut shopping bonanza–and trying, of course, to keep calm…

Photo by Emily O'Dell

The grief you cry out from
draws you toward union.

Your pure sadness
that wants help
is the secret cup.

Listen to the moan of a dog for its master.
That whining is the connection.

There are love dogs
no one knows the names of.

Give your life
to be one of them.

— Rumi

Even though I’m an Egyptologist, I’ve always been more of a dog person than a cat person. I belong to the cult of Anubis–not yet Bastet. But in every direction I look on campus, I see cats–by the hundreds. I guess it was inevitable that after a year of being surrounded by cats–and their kittens–I’m finally getting in touch with my inner cat love. I never thought I had it in me.

For the cats of Beirut–the American University of Beirut is a feline paradise. Cats here receive free health-care, get fed well-balanced regular meals, and are adored by students and faculty alike–and those who don’t adore them are prevented by AUB’s Cat Policy from causing them any harm. AUB’s Cat Program, as laid out in AUB’s Official Cat Policy, is dedicated to feeding, spaying, and neutering the healthy population of cats on campus.

In the words of the AUB Bulletin: As kindness is an integral part of education, AUB insists on upholding a humane policy toward animals. In its effort to demonstrate respect for life, and given that cats are sentient beings, AUB’s cat program is geared toward control of the cat population on campus.

The moment I really got in touch with my inner cat love–was when the tiny kitten below crawled on to my lap last week–when I sat down on the main gate stairs on my way out to go meet friends. Two minutes later, having adopted my lap as its new home, the kitten curled up into a ball, closed its eyes, and fell asleep. Though I was late to meet my friends, I could have stayed sitting there with that precious furball all snuggled up in my lap for hours–in my unexpected initiation into the cult of Bastet. It wasn’t until some fat cats came around the corner that the kitten stirred–and minor league turf wars began over their territory and food. Though I was tempted to take the kitten home–as so many of my colleagues have done with kittens from campus before–I knew that if I adopted just that one kitty, I’d soon have hundreds roaming my house. I would go quickly from the crazy chihuahua lady–to the crazy cat lady.

Emily O'Dell with an AUB kitten...

So here at AUB–whether we like or not–we’ve all got cats on the brain. How would we not? They’re everywhere we look–we trip over them on the way to class, find them on our doorstep when we come home, and shoo them from sitting at our feet while we eat lunch under the palms. They even influence our creativity and research. While some like to point out the reasons why AUB cats are more awesome than the rest of us, others turn the so-called peaceful co-existence of AUB’s cats and pigeons into a political lesson for Lebanon–or use them to practice their photographic skills. With a president who is an Egyptologist, it seems especially fitting that the cult of Bastet is thriving so widely on campus–and now, perhaps, I can count myself a member.

In the hand of Love I am like a cat in a sack;
Sometimes Love hoists me into the air,
Sometimes Love flings me into the air,
Love swings me round and round His head;
I have no peace, in this world or any other.
The lovers of God have fallen in a furious river;
They have surrendered themselves to Love’s commands.
Like mill wheels they turn, day and night, day and night,
Constantly turning and turning, and crying out.

–Rumi

Emily O'Dell at the Club Riviera in Beirut

This is Beirut. Daily parties in the pool–swim up bars during school. Neon bikinis hip hoppin’ it on the seas–even after the bombs go off. Not even yesterday’s twin bombings could stop the city from partying all night–into the gentle dawn of this national day of mourning.

When I arrived in Beirut from Europe, I felt the oppressive, damp heat, saw the unkempt palm trees and smelt the Arabic coffee, the fruit stalls and the over-spiced meat. It was the beginning of the Orient. And when I flew back to Beirut from Iran, I could pick up the British papers, ask for a gin and tonic at any bar, choose a French, Italian, or German restaurant for dinner. It was the beginning of the West. All things to all people, the Lebanese rarely questioned their own identity.

― Robert Fisk

This is Beirut–but chances are, when most people think of Beirut, they don’t picture the festive scene above from the Hotel Riviera–which features just one of the city’s many private beach clubs.

Photo by Emily O'Dell

“Yeah, when I moved here, people asked me if I’d have to wear a burqa,” I said, biting into one of the peeled almonds floating in my glass.

“Yeah right, a burqa–try more like a bikini,” my friend said.

While many still refer to Beirut as the Paris of the Middle East, it’s more like a love-child of Miami and the East Village (or the West Village, the way it used to be). But even though the party hasn’t stopped–the conversation now includes everyone’s Plan B–and C.

“Listen–never expect your plans to work out, but also keep on living your life as normally as you can–as if nothing unusual is happening,” my friend suggested, as we traded our best guesses about what the future has in store for beautiful Beirut…

Sunset on the sea...

Emily O'Dell with globe-trotting Anubis in Lebanon

Don’t wait any longer. Dive in the ocean, and let the sea be you. — Rumi

Whether there’s a bombing in Beirut or a fragile peace–the one place to where I run every day is the sea. While I go to swim with the turtles, Anubis goes to bathe in the sun. On occasion, he’ll agree to cool down by taking a dip in the water–or basking in the steady breeze in the shade.

Anubis testing out the waters in Lebanon

Anubis swimming in the sea

I am a turtle, wherever I go I carry home on my back. — Anzaldúa

While hunting for turtles this week in between waves, I realized that in spending all of my time under the water chasing after turtles and spying on fish–creatures with eyes–I’ve been neglecting the other inhabitants of the sea–along with its pulse. The hypnotizing rhythm of the seaweed as it sways. The pistachio shape of the encrusted shells. The whispers of the foam riding in on the waves.

All these details, I’ve been missing. And now, like any lover, I want to explore every inch of that unknowable sea.

The lover of nature is he whose inward and outward senses are still truly adjusted to each other; who has retained the spirit of infancy even into the era of manhood. His intercourse with heaven and earth, becomes part of his daily food.

— Ralph Waldo Emerson

All year, I’ve been ignoring the worn rocks reaching under the water to break the surface–and only just started standing on them like a balance board–my body hovering like a ghost far out over the sea. Whenever a playful wave comes to buckle my knees, I resist its pull and keep my feet fixed on the pocked rocks–to slowly push up and rise again. Rooted and swaying, like the seaweed stroking my shins, I’m slowly becoming attuned to the message of each wave.

You are not a drop in the ocean, you are the entire ocean in a drop.

— Rumi

Standing today on one of the rocks, my hair bathed by the wet breeze and my body battered from the lessons of the waves, I looked out from my invisible perch and saw infinite space. Like an ancient statue in ruins, I felt ready for the sea to swallow me whole. Under my toes, was already buried a brilliant coral bouquet…

My bounty is as boundless as the sea,
My love as deep; the more I give to thee,
The more I have, for both are infinite.

— William Shakespeare

Emily O'Dell flipping out in Beirut

On a cycle the frame is gone. You’re completely in contact with it all. You’re in the scene, not just watching it anymore, and the sense of presence is overwhelming.

― Robert M. Pirsig, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance:

***

“There’s a lot of people out tonight–for a bombing night,” my friend said, passing me a bowl of garlic potatoes.

Despite the enormous blasts today in Tripoli, and Israel’s bombing of an area south of Beirut, my colleagues and I–like so many others–hit the town this evening to enjoy a relaxed late-night dinner in Beirut. In crowded alleys nearby, the dance clubs were booming–just like any other Friday night.

After dinner, my friend said he’d take me for a ride on his motorcycle–a short one. Leaving our rowdy neighborhood in our wake, and hugging the coast–the waves whipping the shore in concert with the wind whipping wisps of my hair from my helmet–I knew our midnight ride wouldn’t be a quickie after all. Pulling the bike to the side on a steep hill on the coast, my friend suggested that we take a stroll on what some people call “The People’s Beach” and others call “Hezbollah Beach.” In Beirut, each beach has its own character and “scene.”

We weren’t the only ones leaving footprints in the sand. Two girls in veils holding hands. A young couple barefoot, hooked arm-in-arm. Swimmers in the distance, riding the strong waves of a lopsided moon.

“You know, this is the beach where the U.S. Marines came ashore,” my friend said, as I stumbled in the stand near an empty lifeguard’s chair. After a long day of digesting news about violence to our north and south, I couldn’t stop yawning, as we tried to fill in the empty gaps of our knowledge–about Lebanese politics and our own.

When we hopped back on the bike, I was sure he was going to take me home, but we continued on in the opposite direction–swerving through neighborhoods that many predicted would be exploding tonight in violence–but all of them were calm. Pulling up slowly to an army checkpoint, we were waved straight through by the soldiers to continue our midnight ride–which was now no longer a midnight ride–since the hours were quickly passing.

Soldiers in tanks we passed seemed bored. Some lit cigarettes, others played with their phones. Even the streets of the refugee camp were empty–not a soul in sight–no shimmer of light. Veering from our usual route, we turned the bike around to return to our corner of Beirut.

When we pulled up to my gate, I hopped off the bike while looking into his eyes, instead of the ground–my calf brushing up against the scalding silver surface of the bike’s exhaust pipe.

Grabbing my leg, I fell to the ground–in pain and on purpose–to see what damage the pipe had done. Burning doesn’t bring tears like blood. Some of the skin slid right off–and where it didn’t–tiny bubbles rose to the surface on top of a red and purple welt–lopsided, like the moon.

“Hurry up, go and put cold water on it,” my friend said.

As the guard let me through the gate, I smiled–instead of wincing in pain. Forget bombs, checkpoints, tanks, and machine guns. The danger which caused me pain tonight–was sitting under me all along–heating up for when the time was right to strike. I’d been so busy looking outside of myself–and our metal frame–that I hadn’t seen the threat lurking beneath me the whole time–even though my friend had suffered a more serious scar from that same stealth pipe several months before.

As I watched my friend pull away from the gate, I was glad to see he was wearing long pants. He had learned–through the pain of his own vicious burn–how to shield himself from the slick sting of that vital pipe. A lesson, I guess, I’m just learning.

The place to improve the world is first in one’s own heart and head and hands, and then work outwards from there. Other people can talk about how to expand the destiny of mankind. I just want to talk about how to fix a motorcycle. I think that what I have to say has more lasting value.

― Robert M. Pirsig, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance

Tonight’s ride through Beirut…