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The Alchemy of the Heart

Alchemy: from Arabic “al-kimiya,” the art and science of transmuting metals, also the quest for the universal solvent, the quintessence.

This document recorded in a USB drive is a biographical essay. It is commentaries on a kind of strife, a journal of upheavals in my last five years. It is an expedition into the province of my private lives. As you read it, you’ll become my aide-de-camp, my confidant, my secretary. Don’t judge me harshly. Like Freud said, sometimes we have to bend, even break some rules to maintain our humanity.

You’ll ask, why am I writing these chronicles of events? Alvard Norst, my friend, wrote a personal journal documenting his disease, a skin condition that challenged every medical treatment available. He envisioned an account of his emotions as he battled his chronic illness. It was a rendition of his spiritual journey through the path of his ailment. Inspired by his endeavor, I decided to venture into biography, my own diary.

The written word conquers time. It survives erosion and oblivion and reemerges triumphant. To record time is a way of freezing time. Unlike photography, the written word is imperishable. But on the orders of Caliph Omar Ibn Al Khattab, the seven hundred thousand papyrus books of the library of Alexandria were burned at the cauldrons of the furnaces that heated water in the public baths.

To sharpen my writing style, I registered for online writing classes offered by the English Department at the New School. I applied myself to weekly writing assignments. My online professor identified in my writing a descriptive talent. She complimented my originality and praised the vibrancy of my imagery. My prose was a dormant medium that laid stagnant and would have lingered inert in my unconscious hadn’t it been for my project to pen my memoirs. I expressed my gratitude for her encouragement and support and invited her to Balthazar, a French restaurant renowned for his Gascon chef. She turned me down because French cuisine didn’t suit her culinary regimen. That’s what she said. I’ve never been turned down by a woman before. I justified her rejection by convincing myself she had some food anxiety. She was very slim and slender, as a matter of fact. Was she anorectic? I was inconsolable for a while. My ego was bruised.