في ثناء العادات الدخيلة؛ كيف انتاب الحب شعبنا؟

Forum Démocratique
- Democratic Forum
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اشترك في: الاثنين أكتوبر 02, 2006 1:26 am
مكان: حالياً (مدينة ايوا) الولا يات المتحدة الامريكية
اتصال:

الفرق بين الحب والتعبير عنه

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يا استاذة تماضر........ السلام ليك وللوليدات.... ولى الأستاذ محمد حسبو
ولى سؤال:
ما هى علاقة الحب المعطوف على الريدة كما فى قول محمد وردى : ( حرمت الحب والريدة) بالتعبير عن الحب الذى يتساءل الأستاذ محمد حسبو عنه كشأن مستجد لا يرى فيه انسجام مع انسانية علاقاتنا كسودانيين نحمل بين جوانحنا جينات ثقافتنا المليئة باصناف وأنواع من الحب قد لا تجدين عُشرها عند من لا يعرفون للحب من وجود إلا عبر نطقه بكلمات تخرج عبر الفم؟
ولا أظنك تقولين بخلو ثقافتنا من الحب ........ بدليل أنك عددت فى مداخلتك أصنافاً منه صنعت خصيصاً فى السودان وذلك كما فى قولك : ( الحب ده زاااتو بى معانيه الكتيرة دى ما دخيل فى السودان، من زماااااان في، بس كان بصورة روحية وسماوية، وشوية متسترين عليه يعنى نحن فى السودان بنهوى أوطاننا، وأحب مكان وطنى السودان ، وحب الله وحب الرسول (حب الرسول ده بقى أدب كامل و ياحليلهم أولاد الماحى) ...بس كان ناقص موضوع التعبير عن الحب البين الأفراد ده) أهـ. لكنى فهمت أنك تودين أن يدع الأخ محمد حسبو المعبرين عنه لتعبيرهم.
طيب ....... قولة ود اللمين : ( بريدك يا صباح عمرى) دى معناها شنو. وهل هنالك فرق تعبيرى بين قولة (بريدك) وقولة ( بحبك ) زى الجماعة بتوع الأفلام المصرية ... بالله عليك السودانيين باحساساتهم المرهفة البتعرفيها انتى كويس زى جوع بطنك يهضموا الكلمة دى كيف؟ وماذا يعنى لك افتعال التعبير عن الأحاسيس؟ ألا تخافين على هذه المشاعر الطبيعية الجياشة من الصناعة والتصنع والإفتعال؟
بعدين يا اختى أغنية الخالدى الجميلة بلا شك دى بتقول : اتعلمنا من (ريدا) ....... نحب الدنيا ونريدا
أفلا نتعلم نحن من نفس منهلها ومنبعها التعبيرى بدلاً عن تعلم هذا التعبير المباشر الذى ربما يكون فيه بالنسبة للكثيرين ابتذال للمشاعر بنشرها ربما على حبال الغسيل؟
ولى أسئلة أخرى حائرة :
لماذا ـ فى رأيك ـ تطغى على فقيدنا الخالدى هذه المسحة من الحزن وهو يغنى للريدة التى تعلم منها (حب) الدنيا؟ وهل يقتضى مثل هذا النوع من الحب للدنيا هذه المسحة من الحزن التى يتقطع لها نياط القلب؟ أيغنى الخالدى للدنيا أم عليها؟
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عمر الامين حباب السلام وعلى وليداتك كمان...

محمد حسبو قال الحب دخيل أو التعبير عنو ده..المذكور أعلاه، وأنا قلت الحب فى لكن "ملفلف" بى دلاقين

انت حسة رايك يعنى فى حب فى السودان ولا عكاكيز ساى؟؟ عرفنا الدوم والنبق واللالوب .. :lol:

طبعابقولوا كلمة (ريدة) عشان يخففوا بيها قولة (حب)وهى أخطر فى تفسيرها لأنها بتحتوى على الرغبة "أريدك" و "بريدك" الاولى بالفصحى والتانية عامية بيناتم خور بس خور ما أكتر ولا أقل :lol: ، وبعد ده كلو فى سبيل الزوغة من كلمة "حب" ...خلو دى وشالو دى؟؟ عشان كده ما قدروا يقولوها للأصحاب لأنها بتبقى شوية ما لافقة ..وقعوا فى الجماعة "كبع" ههههههههههههه الفكرة دى ضحكتنى والله ..

ويتخيل لى أنا حسة اكتشفت الذرة فى البوست ده...فاحم احم والحمدلله.
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اشترك في: الاثنين أكتوبر 02, 2006 1:26 am
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اتصال:

اصناف الحب السودانية

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الأخت تماضر
انا عارفك ما بتتمسكى بالساهل وبى اخوى واخوك.
وانا طبعاً وافقتك على تعدد اصناف الحب السودانية، وانو بعض هذه الأصناف صناعة سودانية صرفة، زى ما قلتى اولاد حاج الماحى مثلاً.
وانا بالمناسبة عندى راى يمكن تقولى عليهو متطرف فى حب السودان. ذلك انى فى الواقع شايف انو الحب الإنسانى الحقيقى مولود ومفطوم ومتربى فى حوش الثقافة السودانية. ابوهو وامو سودانيين بالعديييل ما بالكعوجة. مثلاً: أنا والله بحب تماضر شيخ الدين محبة لى الله سيدا وسيدى، ولقيت روحى بحب شيخ الدين زاتو مما قريت كلام تماضر الكتبتو عنو، لأننى اتخيلت الصورة الربا بيها شيخ الدين وليداتو، أعمل شنو يا ها مخيلتى ربنا خلقا كدا زى مخيلة كل السودانيين، تعمل صورة للناس وتحبهم من دون ما تشوفم، لانهم انطبقوا مع صورة فى المخيلة السودانية محبوبة ليهم بجبلتهم الثقافية. مثلاً اكان لاقيت بنيات تماضر شيخ الدين فى البلد البعيدة دى ، فلا يمكن ولمجرد هذه الخاصية السودانية الفريدة أخليهم يفوتوا منى ساكت قبال ما اطبق فيهم نظرية الحب السودانية دى واثبت ليهم ولى نفسى انو ديل ناس عندهم معاى خصوصية لا بد من اعطائها كامل حقوقها من اظهار الحب والتودد. وزى دا حاصل عليك انتى زاتك، لانو نفس الشئ حايحصل لو لا قيتى وليدات عمر اللمين مصادفة فى هذا البلد الغريب.
أمال إييه.... ما انتى سودانية بت بلد بالحق والحقيقة ولا على كيفك... أكان رضيتى بيها ولا ابيتيها.
ولاننى شايف انو الحب مولود من اصول سودانية، فلازم ابواتو يسموهو. وكعادتنا الثقافية فنحن ننادى مختلف اصحاب المسميات بصفاتها تفادياً لإحراجات كثيرة ومتعددة، والأمثلة متعددة عن الحديث عن الحب عبر صفاته وليس مباشرة :

قال الشاعر الغنائى:
الجرحو نوسر بى
غوّر فى الضمير فوق قلبى خلف الكى

وقال آخر:

لو الشجر اقلام جميع والنيل مداد
لو كتب اشواقى ليك ما عددا

و الأمثلة على قفا من يشيل، وهى تتوزع على مختلف ما ذكرت من اصناف من الحب فى السودان.
أما العكاكيز فهى لا تختلف عن الدوم واللالوب والقنقليز والبليلة وام تكشو وفكة الريق الصباحية بى ملاح الخدرة البايت وفنجان جبنة يا بنية الخ الخ....
الشيخ فرح ود تكتوك قال :

السكين اماناً من السلب
والعصاية اماناً الكلب
وفكة الريق مسمار القلب
والبيابا الصلح لا بد ينغلب

والعصى والعكاكيز طبعاً اخوات بنات اعم شقيقات ليهم ضروراتهم فى الريف السودانى. فأرجو أن لا تتحاملى عليهم ساكت.

ومن الريف السودانى الأصيل المن حقو يفتخر باختلافه عن المدينة فى السودان أهديك هذه الأغنية السودانية الأصيلة:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cl8wFuCk ... re=related

بس ما تقولى كبعنى بى عكاز.

المودة حاصلة والشوق كتير.
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اتصال:

نقد ذاتى

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قالو مما دخل عليهم الكلام نشف وانقطع.

ودى أصلها بقت عادتو المعروفة عنو، أصلو البخش عليهو كلو بيحنجرو لامن ينشف الكلام فى حلقو. شوفو هسى خيط حسن موسى عن المسلمين وحماس نشفان وعادم الوصّاف كيف؟
قال شنو قال ؟؟؟ الكلام الجميل عن التعبير عن الحب الكتبو محمد حسبو و باراهو فيهو شباب عودن أخدر فجأة وبقدرة قادر ينقلب لى نقاش مسيخ عن قضايا الثقافة السودانية من وجهة نظرو المسيخة الماجايبا حقها عندنا دى.

وجاب لينا شنو كمثال ؟؟!! ...... أغنية جعليين يحيط بها ويتراصص من حوليها مجموعة مقدرة من أغانى الجعليين البتباطنو فيها بالسيطان راسو عدييييييل كدى، ما شفتوها؟ والأغنية الجابا كمثال عن الثقافة السودانية تحمل تعبيرات (سفّاكة) مثل: جدرى ابقيحة المجدرّ أو سم ابدرق المحدّر !!!!!! هو قايل الحكاية شنو؟ موت يعنى؟!!! الحياة دى ما بعرفا؟؟!!! أنا والله قايل إنو جد جد ما بعرفا، أصلو الزول دا منظارو سوادو حالك.
خلوهو، أنسوهو وما تشتغلو بى الكلام البقولو، وهاكم هذه الأغنية من جانب آخر مما تحبون من وضاءة الثقافة السودانية مما يضيئ بعض جوانب الحوار بين إخضرار سوق التعبير عن الحب فى محاورة تماضر وبين أحمرار الوجنات السودانية خجلة من هذه المباشرة كما هى فى حوار محمد حسبو.

للجميع محبتى وتقديرى ولهم العذر حتى يرضو عنى كربّاط وقاطع الطريق على متحاوري الثقافة السودانية، أعمل شنو ربنا خلقنى كدى، رباط وشايل عكازو، يعمل شنو غير الكبيع يا تماضر؟

الأغنية فى هذا الرابط:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_QEupoNS ... L&index=75
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نقد النقد الذاتي

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سلامٌ عليك يا أخي و شيخنا عُمر الأمين

بالله كيف عقلنت ظنّك هذا؟ أمانة ما اتلوّمت فينا و فيك، طيّب أنا كنت مُمتَحَن و قبلها بعافية شوية و لزمت المنزل لا أقارب الانترنت. هسة يا شيخنا فضيت تب لأوّل مرة من سنة و شهرين نسيت فيها القراية و الكتابة و المشي في الأسواق، ح نتلاقى في الجماليّة و آل البيت و غيرهن إن شاء الله، حيث يا عُمر أنا ردودك علي في موضوع الجماليّة كادت أن تصيبني بالجنون، و دي ما سبقك عليها زول، فقلت أحسن انتظر لامن انتهي من قرايتي دي و أجي أروِّق الكلام معاك، يا راجل يا مبروك..

و كمان السلام و الاعتذار للمشاركين بلا فرز عن هذا التأخير القسري، و البوست بوستكم بطبيعة الحال.

يا زوربا ناس النيل الأزرق ديل قصّة، وللا أنا لي زمن من الإبداع السوداني الأصيل ما عارف، غايتو الشتارات البتحصل لو باريتها بتوصِّلك مرحلة الإدمان عليها، بالذات لو كنت ممن يحبّون العوارة، عندي فكرة أعمل بوست مخصوص لقناة النيل الأزرق دي لنقد تجربتهم الإبداعيّة، و الله المستعان.
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النجوميّة بعض رحيق و Miss Lebanon راكبة لوري و الكيبورد ليست

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إبراهيم الجريفاوي،
صديقي في الغاري و الدمع الجاري (يوجد شعر).

و ما أدراك يا إبراهيم بصناعة النجوم في إعلامنا الرسمي و الشعبي، و هل قلنا صناعة؟ يس وي كان.. هب أنّك شاعرة أو مدوِّن أحاجي (= روائي بالدارجة السودانيّة) أو صحفي أو متداعية حرّة، فما هي متطلّبات الذيوع كعَلَمٍ فذنوعي في مجالك هذا؟ جميعنا نعرف، و أعرفنا هم الشاعرات و الحجائين المستفيدين بطبيعة الحال، الإجابة هي: تبادل المنافع. بقدر مشاركتك في أفراح و أتراح و ونسات الآخرين، و تعبيرك عن إعجابك بإبداعهم، و تمتين هذه الصلات بشيء من اللمسات الأكثر شخصيّة، مثل الإعجاب بجمال النساء منهن، و ظرافة الرجال منهن، و حبّذا لو كان لك أب أو خالة في صنعة مجاورة –مثل الطب/ العطارة أو تعليب التمور- تستمد منها العراقة و شبَكة التبنِّي، تلك هي مؤهلات الاعتراف في مجالك و أي مجال تشاء ما دمت حسن الطلعة و خلاسي كالبرتقالة.

الغريب، أنّ بعض الناس يستنكر العادة التي استشرت في زمان التمكين الإسلاموي، و يجعل منها نكتة، عادة أن تذهب للمعاينة متقدِّما لوظيفة مهندس فتُسأل عن فقه الجنابة و تُطالب بتزكية من مسجد الحي. و هؤلاء المستنكرين أنفسهم هم فاعلين في ذات النظام في حدّه الآخر اللطيف بكلام الصوفيّة، ورثنا قائمة طويلة جدّاً من الشعراء و الوزراء و المذيعين اللامعين و علماء النفس، و تتناسل كل يوم، و لا أحد يسأل عن معايير ألقابها، التي هي نفس فقه الجنابة و حيض البرتقال..

عيد الأم الموافق 21 مارس دا فعلا هو من تأليف مصر (فرع من الحضارة الكوشية) و فعلا في أماكن أخرى يوافق أوقاتاً أخرى من السنة، فهو عيد وضعي و موضعي، و شايفكم إنت و نجاة عاصرين على كشف مخطط الرأسماليّة بهذا الشأن، عالميّة كانت أم فرعونيّة، رغم أنّ هذه الأعياد مرتبطة بأساطير تسبق ولادة الرأسماليّة و الإقطاع، أرجو أن يقيل الله عثرتنا فنشارك بإيجابيّة في استغلال الجيّد من الأعياد ذات الرمزيّة التي تعضِّد رسالتنا الاشتراكيّة الغرّاء، و أن نقبل استغلال الرأسماليّة المتعفِّنة للأعياد التي تناسب رسالتها، فالدنيا تنافسيّة.

الأخ الكريم أبو الريش

أي نعم الحديث كان عن شعبينا في الخرطوم و قد ذكرتُ ذلك، و تبقى إضافتك غير مفهومة، و يبدو أنّها لا تتعلّق بجمال المرأة بذاته (إلّا كان قاصد ركوب اللواري هو معيار جمال المرأة)، إذ أراك حصرت حب الإنسان السوداني (هل تعني الرجل السوداني؟) للمرأة الجميلة بحال ركوبها لواري الإغاثة و هذا ربّما يعني أنّ السوداني لن يبذل حبّه للمرأة الجميلة التي تقرّ في دارها و لا تركب هذه اللواري، و لا أعرف كيف ستقيم الحجّة على قولك هذا و ما هي الأسس التي قام عليه..

تساؤلك هذا يا زمراوي، بجانبيه التقني و الفلسفي، سؤالٌ عويص.
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أها؟
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what really is this thing called Love

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صورة


سيّدتي الجميلة تماضر شيخ الدين

بعد إذن الأخوان الكرام القدامك و إكراماً لخطواتك العزيزات (يا جماعة أعفونا من حكاية الردود بالدور دي، الواحد بيحس بي حاله كحال جملود الصخر إيّاه الذي حطّه السيلُ من علٍ عندما يلتزم بها، التمسّك بتقاليد الحوار المرعيّة دا شغل غير إبداعي بالمرّة).

قلتِ

نحن دايرين يكون الحب هو الاصل، الا أن يثبت الموقف العكس ، وحتى لو أثبت العكس فهناك مخزون للتسامح والاتفاق أو الاختلاف "السامى"


كلامك القبل دا، و بعض كلامك البعدو كمان، ما عليهن خلاف و لا ضير، لكن دا هو الكلام الخلانا ندعو أبناء شعبنا للحب الحذر و المُستحق، لأن الحب الطليق (ليس على وزن الحداثة الطليقة) الذي يعقب أفعال الكراهيّة الطليقة (مثلما ابتُلينا به في سودان الإنقاذ) هو في البلاهة أدخل منه في الحب المنشود. يعني زول يقتل ليك رفيق أو جنى أو حبيبة، تجيب ليه مخزون التسامح يسوي بيه شنو؟ قصدي يا تماضر، أخواننا و أخواتنا البيحبوا بالجملة بهناك في سودانيز و في غيره ديل، قاعدين يحبّوا خليط أشبه بخليط النار و البنزين أو خليط الذئب و الغنم و البجعة، يحبّون الأمنجي (القاتل) و الكوز (اللص) و إنسان دارفور (ضحيّة) و الأبله (غير المعني بغير المؤانسة) و يجمع حبّهم الأم الثكلى بالدبّابين، و في هذا المستوى قصدنا أنو الحب بالجملة دا ضوء أخضر لمزيد من الجرأة و الاستهتار بقيمة الإنسان المُحِب دا ذاتو، و هو أمر لا ينبغي تشجعيه بل إذكاء الكراهية الموضوعيّة بدلاً عنه، لأنّ في ذلك مجلبة للمسؤوليّة و الاعتبار..


الحب ده أنا مابرضى فيه يا محمد حسبو وكان ما الحب مكنة الحياة بتقيف، ده زيت المكنةـ مالك داير تجوبك لينا الرصة


الحتّة دي يا تماضر جاوبك عليها عمر الأمين أفضل منّي، نحنا مشكلتنا ما مع الحب، بل مع الحب الطليق المبهول على العلات، و مع التصريح كمان بمثل هذا التكلّف و الابتذال، مع العلم أنّهن الإتنين (الحب الطليق و التصريح) ما عندنا معاهن مشاكل بل مطلوبات لو توفرت ليهن الأسس و بعدن عن الافتعال، و لهذا قلنا نصبر جيل جيلين، عسى و لعل..

أمّا الحتّة دي من كلامك


التسامح والسماح اسأل منه ناس السيكولوجى وعنده هرمونات عدييل كده بتقوم للزول من تالاه وكيمياء بتظهر فى المخ


فأهديك لأجلها، و أهدي الصورة كمان للعزيز قصي همرور و الأخت رشا شيخ الدين و جميع الأهل و الأحباب تالاك، مقالاً (بملحقاته) أن تجدي فيه متعة كيميائيّة..

(معليش المقال طويل كالعادة)


(So what really is this thing called Love?)
Scientists say that the brain chemistry of infatuation is akin to mental illness—which gives new meaning to “Madly in Love”.
By Lauren Slater
Photograph by Pablo Corral Vega
My husband and I got married at eight in the morning. It was winter, freezing, the trees encased in ice and a few lone blackbirds balancing on telephone wires. We were in our early 30s, considered ourselves hip and cynical, the types who decried the institution of marriage even as we sought its status. During our wedding brunch we put out a big suggestion box and asked people to slip us advice on how to avoid divorce; we thought it was a funny, clear-eyed, grounded sort of thing to do, although the suggestions were mostly foolish: Screw the toothpaste cap on tight. After the guests left, the house got quiet. There were flowers everywhere: puckered red roses and fragile ferns. "What can we do that's really romantic?" I asked my newly wed one. Benjamin suggested we take a bath. I didn't want a bath. He suggested a lunch of chilled white wine and salmon. I was sick of salmon.
What can we do that's really romantic? The wedding was over, the silence seemed suffocating, and I felt the familiar disappointment after a longed-for event has come and gone. We were married. Hip, hip, hooray. I decided to take a walk. I went into the center of town, pressed my nose against a bakery window, watched the man with flour on his hands, the dough as soft as skin, pushed and pulled and shaped at last into stars. I milled about in an antique store. At last I came to our town's tattoo parlor. Now I am not a tattoo type person, but for some reason, on that cold silent Sunday, I decided to walk in. "Can I help you?" a woman asked.
"Is there a kind of tattoo I can get that won't be permanent?" I asked.
"Henna tattoos," she said.
She explained that they lasted for six weeks, were used at Indian weddings, were stark and beautiful and all brown. She showed me pictures of Indian women with jewels in their noses, their arms scrolled and laced with the henna markings. Indeed they were beautiful, sharing none of the gaudy comic strip quality of the tattoos we see in the United States. These henna tattoos spoke of intricacy, of the webwork between two people, of ties that bind and how difficult it is to find their beginnings and their ends. And because I had just gotten married, and because I was feeling a post wedding letdown, and because I wanted something really romantic to sail me through the night, I decided to get one.
"Where?" she asked.
"Here," I said. I laid my hands over my breasts and belly.
She raised her eyebrows. "Sure," she said.
I am a modest person. But I took off my shirt, lay on the table, heard her in the back room mixing powders and paints. She came to me carrying a small black-bellied pot inside of which was a rich red mush, slightly glittering. She adorned me. She gave me vines and flowers. She turned my body into a stake supporting whole new gardens of growth, and then, low around my hips, she painted a delicate chain-linked chastity belt. An hour later, the paint dry, I put my clothes back on, went home to find my newly wed one. This, I knew, was my gift to him, the kind of present you offer only once in your lifetime. I let him undress me.
"Wow," he said, standing back.
I blushed, and we began.
We are no longer beginning, my husband and I. This does not surprise me. Even back then, wearing the decor of desire, the serpentining tattoos, I knew they would fade, their red-clay color bleaching out until they were gone. On my wedding day I didn't care.
I do now. Eight years later, pale as a pillowcase, here I sit, with all the extra pounds and baggage time brings. And the questions have only grown more insistent. Does passion necessarily diminish over time? How reliable is romantic love, really, as a means of choosing one's mate? Can a marriage be good when Eros is replaced with friendship, or even economic partnership, two people bound by bank accounts?
Let me be clear: I still love my husband. There is no man I desire more. But it's hard to sustain romance in the crumb-filled quotidian that has become our lives. The ties that bind have been frayed by money and mortgages and children, those little imps who somehow manage to tighten the knot while weakening its actual fibers. Benjamin and I have no time for chilled white wine and salmon. The baths in our house always include Big Bird.
If this all sounds miserable, it isn't. My marriage is like a piece of comfortable clothing; even the arguments have a feel of fuzziness to them, something so familiar it can only be called home. And yet . . .
In the Western world we have for centuries concocted poems and stories and plays about the cycles of love, the way it morphs and changes over time, the way passion grabs us by our flung-back throats and then leaves us for something saner. If Dracula—the frail woman, the sensuality of submission—reflects how we understand the passion of early romance, the Flintstones reflects our experiences of long-term love: All is gravel and somewhat silly, the song so familiar you can't stop singing it, and when you do, the emptiness is almost unbearable.
We have relied on stories to explain the complexities of love, tales of jealous gods and arrows. Now, however, these stories—so much a part of every civilization—may be changing as science steps in to explain what we have always felt to be myth, to be magic. For the first time, new research has begun to illuminate where love lies in the brain, the particulars of its chemical components.
Anthropologist Helen Fisher may be the closest we've ever come to having a doyenne of desire. At 60 she exudes a sexy confidence, with corn-colored hair, soft as floss, and a willowy build. A professor at Rutgers University, she lives in New York City, her book-lined apartment near Central Park, with its green trees fluffed out in the summer season, its paths crowded with couples holding hands.
Fisher has devoted much of her career to studying the biochemical pathways of love in all its manifestations: lust, romance, attachment, the way they wax and wane. One leg casually crossed over the other, ice clinking in her glass, she speaks with appealing frankness, discussing the ups and downs of love the way most people talk about real estate. "A woman unconsciously uses orgasms as a way of deciding whether or not a man is good for her. If he's impatient and rough, and she doesn't have the orgasm, she may instinctively feel he's less likely to be a good husband and father. Scientists think the fickle female orgasm may have evolved to help women distinguish Mr. Right from Mr. Wrong."
One of Fisher's central pursuits in the past decade has been looking at love, quite literally, with the aid of an MRI machine. Fisher and her colleagues Arthur Aron and Lucy Brown recruited subjects who had been "madly in love" for an average of seven months. Once inside the MRI machine, subjects were shown two photographs, one neutral, the other of their loved one.
What Fisher saw fascinated her. When each subject looked at his or her loved one, the parts of the brain linked to reward and pleasure—the ventral tegmental area and the caudate nucleus—lit up. What excited Fisher most was not so much finding a location, an address, for love as tracing its specific chemical pathways. Love lights up the caudate nucleus because it is home to a dense spread of receptors for a neurotransmitter called dopamine, which Fisher came to think of as part of our own endogenous love potion. In the right proportions, dopamine creates intense energy, exhilaration, focused attention, and motivation to win rewards. It is why, when you are newly in love, you can stay up all night, watch the sun rise, run a race, ski fast down a slope ordinarily too steep for your skill. Love makes you bold, makes you bright, makes you run real risks, which you sometimes survive, and sometimes you don't.
I first fell in love when I was only 12, with a teacher. His name was Mr. McArthur, and he wore open-toed sandals and sported a beard. I had never had a male teacher before, and I thought it terribly exotic. Mr. McArthur did things no other teacher dared to do. He explained to us the physics of farting. He demonstrated how to make an egg explode. He smoked cigarettes at recess, leaning languidly against the side of the school building, the ash growing longer and longer until he casually tapped it off with his finger.
What unique constellation of needs led me to love a man who made an egg explode is interesting, perhaps, but not as interesting, for me, as my memory of love's sheer physical facts. I had never felt anything like it before. I could not get Mr. McArthur out of my mind. I was anxious; I gnawed at the lining of my cheek until I tasted the tang of blood. School became at once terrifying and exhilarating. Would I see him in the hallway? In the cafeteria? I hoped. But when my wishes were granted, and I got a glimpse of my man, it satisfied nothing; it only inflamed me all the more. Had he looked at me? Why had he not looked at me? When would I see him again? At home I looked him up in the phone book; I rang him, this in a time before caller ID. He answered.
"Hello?" Pain in my heart, ripped down the middle. Hang up.
Call back. "Hello?" I never said a thing.
Once I called him at night, late, and from the way he answered the phone it was clear, even to a prepubescent like me, that he was with a woman. His voice fuzzy, the tinkle of her laughter in the background. I didn't get out of bed for a whole day.
Sound familiar? Maybe you were 30 when it happened to you, or 8 or 80 or 25. Maybe you lived in Kathmandu or Kentucky; age and geography are irrelevant. Donatella Marazziti is a professor of psychiatry at the University of Pisa in Italy who has studied the biochemistry of lovesickness. Having been in love twice herself and felt its awful power, Marazziti became interested in exploring the similarities between love and obsessive-compulsive disorder.
She and her colleagues measured serotonin levels in the blood of 24 subjects who had fallen in love within the past six months and obsessed about this love object for at least four hours every day. Serotonin is, perhaps, our star neurotransmitter, altered by our star psychiatric medications: Prozac and Zoloft and Paxil, among others. Researchers have long hypothesized that people with obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD) have a serotonin "imbalance." Drugs like Prozac seem to alleviate OCD by increasing the amount of this neurotransmitter available at the juncture between neurons.
Marazziti compared the lovers' serotonin levels with those of a group of people suffering from OCD and another group who were free from both passion and mental illness. Levels of serotonin in both the obsessives' blood and the lovers' blood were 40 percent lower than those in her normal subjects. Translation: Love and obsessive-compulsive disorder could have a similar chemical profile. Translation: Love and mental illness may be difficult to tell apart. Translation: Don't be a fool. Stay away.
Of course that's a mandate none of us can follow. We do fall in love, sometimes over and over again, subjecting ourselves, each time, to a very sick state of mind. There is hope, however, for those caught in the grip of runaway passion—Prozac. There's nothing like that bicolored bullet for damping down the sex drive and making you feel "blah" about the buffet. Helen Fisher believes that the ingestion of drugs like Prozac jeopardizes one's ability to fall in love—and stay in love. By dulling the keen edge of love and its associated libido, relationships go stale. Says Fisher, "I know of one couple on the edge of divorce. The wife was on an antidepressant. Then she went off it, started having orgasms once more, felt the renewal of sexual attraction for her husband, and they're now in love all over again."
Psychoanalysts have concocted countless theories about why we fall in love with whom we do. Freud would have said your choice is influenced by the unrequited wish to bed your mother, if you're a boy, or your father, if you're a girl. Jung believed that passion is driven by some kind of collective unconscious. Today psychiatrists such as Thomas Lewis from the University of California at San Francisco's School of Medicine hypothesize that romantic love is rooted in our earliest infantile experiences with intimacy, how we felt at the breast, our mother's face, these things of pure unconflicted comfort that get engraved in our brain and that we ceaselessly try to recapture as adults. According to this theory we love whom we love not so much because of the future we hope to build but because of the past we hope to reclaim. Love is reactive, not proactive, it arches us backward, which may be why a certain person just "feels right." Or "feels familiar." He or she is familiar. He or she has a certain look or smell or sound or touch that activates buried memories.
When I first met my husband, I believed this psychological theory was more or less correct. My husband has red hair and a soft voice. A chemist, he is whimsical and odd. One day before we married he dunked a rose in liquid nitrogen so it froze, whereupon he flung it against the wall, spectacularly shattering it. That's when I fell in love with him. My father, too, has red hair, a soft voice, and many eccentricities. He was prone to bursting into song, prompted by something we never saw.
However, it turns out my theories about why I came to love my husband may be just so much hogwash. Evolutionary psychology has said good riddance to Freud and the Oedipal complex and all that other transcendent stuff and hello to simple survival skills. It hypothesizes that we tend to see as attractive, and thereby choose as mates, people who look healthy. And health, say these evolutionary psychologists, is manifested in a woman with a 70 percent waist-to-hip ratio and men with rugged features that suggest a strong supply of testosterone in their blood. Waist-to-hip ratio is important for the successful birth of a baby, and studies have shown this precise ratio signifies higher fertility. As for the rugged look, well, a man with a good dose of testosterone probably also has a strong immune system and so is more likely to give his partner healthy children.
Perhaps our choice of mates is a simple matter of following our noses. Claus Wedekind of the University of Lausanne in Switzerland did an interesting experiment with sweaty T-shirts. He asked 49 women to smell T-shirts previously worn by unidentified men with a variety of the genotypes that influence both body odor and immune systems. He then asked the women to rate which T-shirts smelled the best, which the worst. What Wedekind found was that women preferred the scent of a T-shirt worn by a man whose genotype was most different from hers, a genotype that, perhaps, is linked to an immune system that possesses something hers does not. In this way she increases the chance that her offspring will be robust.
It all seems too good to be true, that we are so hardwired and yet unconscious of the wiring. Because no one to my knowledge has ever said, "I married him because of his B.O." No. We say, "I married him (or her) because he's intelligent, she's beautiful, he's witty, she's compassionate." But we may just be as deluded about love as we are when we're in love. If it all comes down to a sniff test, then dogs definitely have the edge when it comes to choosing mates.
Why doesn't passionate love last? How is it possible to see a person as beautiful on Monday, and 364 days later, on another Monday, to see that beauty as bland? Surely the object of your affection could not have changed that much. She still has the same shaped eyes. Her voice has always had that husky sound, but now it grates on you—she sounds like she needs an antibiotic. Or maybe you're the one who needs an antibiotic, because the partner you once loved and cherished and saw as though saturated with starlight now feels more like a low-level infection, tiring you, sapping all your strength.
Studies around the world confirm that, indeed, passion usually ends. Its conclusion is as common as its initial flare. No wonder some cultures think selecting a lifelong mate based on something so fleeting is folly. Helen Fisher has suggested that relationships frequently break up after four years because that's about how long it takes to raise a child through infancy. Passion, that wild, prismatic insane feeling, turns out to be practical after all. We not only need to copulate; we also need enough passion to start breeding, and then feelings of attachment take over as the partners bond to raise a helpless human infant. Once a baby is no longer nursing, the child can be left with sister, aunts, friends. Each parent is now free to meet another mate and have more children.
Biologically speaking, the reasons romantic love fades may be found in the way our brains respond to the surge and pulse of dopamine that accompanies passion and makes us fly. Cocaine users describe the phenomenon of tolerance: The brain adapts to the excessive input of the drug. Perhaps the neurons become desensitized and need more and more to produce the high—to put out pixie dust, metaphorically speaking.
Maybe it's a good thing that romance fizzles. Would we have railroads, bridges, planes, faxes, vaccines, and television if we were all always besotted? In place of the ever evolving technology that has marked human culture from its earliest tool use, we would have instead only bonbons, bouquets, and birth control. More seriously, if the chemically altered state induced by romantic love is akin to a mental illness or a drug-induced euphoria, exposing yourself for too long could result in psychological damage. A good sex life can be as strong as Gorilla Glue, but who wants that stuff on your skin?
Once upon a time, in India, a boy and a girl fell in love without their parents' permission. They were from different castes, their relationship radical and unsanctioned. Picture it: the sparkling sari, the boy in white linen, the clandestine meetings on tiled terraces with a fat, white moon floating overhead. Who could deny these lovers their pleasure, or condemn the force of their attraction?
Their parents could. In one recent incident a boy and girl from different castes were hanged at the hands of their parents as hundreds of villagers watched. A couple who eloped were stripped and beaten. Yet another couple committed suicide after their parents forbade them to marry.
Anthropologists used to think that romance was a Western construct, a bourgeois by-product of the Middle Ages. Romance was for the sophisticated, took place in cafés, with coffees and Cabernets, or on silk sheets, or in rooms with a flickering fire. It was assumed that non-Westerners, with their broad familial and social obligations, were spread too thin for particular passions. How could a collectivist culture celebrate or in any way sanction the obsession with one individual that defines new love? Could a lice-ridden peasant really feel passion?
Easily, as it turns out. Scientists now believe that romance is panhuman, embedded in our brains since Pleistocene times. In a study of 166 cultures, anthropologists William Jankowiak and Edward Fischer observed evidence of passionate love in 147 of them. In another study men and women from Europe, Japan, and the Philippines were asked to fill out a survey to measure their experiences of passionate love. All three groups professed feeling passion with the same searing intensity.
But though romantic love may be universal, its cultural expression is not. To the Fulbe tribe of northern Cameroon, poise matters more than passion. Men who spend too much time with their wives are taunted, and those who are weak-kneed are thought to have fallen under a dangerous spell. Love may be inevitable, but for the Fulbe its manifestations are shameful, equated with sickness and social impairment.
In India romantic love has traditionally been seen as dangerous, a threat to a well-crafted caste system in which marriages are arranged as a means of preserving lineage and bloodlines. Thus the gruesome tales, the warnings embedded in fables about what happens when one's wayward impulses take over.
Today love marriages appear to be on the rise in India, often in defiance of parents' wishes. The triumph of romantic love is celebrated in Bollywood films. Yet most Indians still believe arranged marriages are more likely to succeed than love marriages. In one survey of Indian college students, 76 percent said they'd marry someone with all the right qualities even if they weren't in love with the person (compared with only 14 percent of Americans). Marriage is considered too important a step to leave to chance.
Renu Dinakaran is a striking 45-year-old woman who lives in Bangalore, India. When I meet her, she is dressed in Western-style clothes —black leggings and a T-shirt. Renu lives in a well-appointed apartment in this thronging city, where cows sleep on the highways as tiny cars whiz around them, plumes of black smoke rising from their sooty pipes.
Renu was born into a traditional Indian family where an arranged marriage was expected. She was not an arranged kind of person, though, emerging from her earliest days as a fierce tennis player, too sweaty for saris, and smarter than many of the men around her. Nevertheless at the age of 17 she was married off to a first cousin, a man she barely knew, a man she wanted to learn to love, but couldn't. Renu considers many arranged marriages to be acts of "state-sanctioned rape."
Renu hoped to fall in love with her husband, but the more years that passed, the less love she felt, until, at the end, she was shrunken, bitter, hiding behind the curtains of her in-laws' bungalow, looking with longing at the couple on the balcony across from theirs. "It was so obvious to me that couple had married for love, and I envied them. I really did. It hurt me so much to see how they stood together, how they went shopping for bread and eggs."
Exhausted from being forced into confinement, from being swaddled in saris that made it difficult to move, from resisting the pressure to eat off her husband's plate, Renu did what traditional Indian culture forbids one to do. She left. By this time she had had two children. She took them with her. In her mind was an old movie she'd seen on TV, a movie so strange and enticing to her, so utterly confounding and comforting at the same time, that she couldn't get it out of her head. It was 1986. The movie was Love Story.
"Before I saw movies like Love Story, I didn't realize the power that love can have," she says.
Renu was lucky in the end. In Mumbai she met a man named Anil, and it was then, for the first time, that she felt passion. "When I first met Anil, it was like nothing I'd ever experienced. He was the first man I ever had an orgasm with. I was high, just high, all the time. And I knew it wouldn't last, couldn't last, and so that infused it with a sweet sense of longing, almost as though we were watching the end approach while we were also discovering each other."
When Renu speaks of the end, she does not, to be sure, mean the end of her relationship with Anil; she means the end of a certain stage. The two are still happily married, companionable, loving if not "in love," with a playful black dachshund they bought together. Their relationship, once so full of fire, now seems to simmer along at an even temperature, enough to keep them well fed and warm. They are grateful.
"Would I want all that passion back?" Renu asks. "Sometimes, yes. But to tell you the truth, it was exhausting."
From a physiological point of view, this couple has moved from the dopamine-drenched state of romantic love to the relative quiet of an oxytocin-induced attachment. Oxytocin is a hormone that promotes a feeling of connection, bonding. It is released when we hug our long-term spouses, or our children. It is released when a mother nurses her infant. Prairie voles, animals with high levels of oxytocin, mate for life. When scientists block oxytocin receptors in these rodents, the animals don't form monogamous bonds and tend to roam. Some researchers speculate that autism, a disorder marked by a profound inability to forge and maintain social connections, is linked to an oxytocin deficiency. Scientists have been experimenting by treating autistic people with oxytocin, which in some cases has helped alleviate their symptoms.
In long-term relationships that work—like Renu and Anil's—oxytocin is believed to be abundant in both partners. In long-term relationships that never get off the ground, like Renu and her first husband's, or that crumble once the high is gone, chances are the couple has not found a way to stimulate or sustain oxytocin production.
"But there are things you can do to help it along," says Helen Fisher. "Massage. Make love. These things trigger oxytocin and thus make you feel much closer to your partner."
Well, I suppose that's good advice, but it's based on the assumption that you still want to have sex with that boring windbag of a husband. Should you fake-it-till-you-make-it?
"Yes," says Fisher. "Assuming a fairly healthy relationship, if you have enough orgasms with your partner, you may become attached to him or her. You will stimulate oxytocin."
This may be true. But it sounds unpleasant. It's exactly what your mother always said about vegetables: "Keep eating your peas. They are an acquired taste. Eventually, you will come to like them."
But I have never been a peas person.
It's 90 degrees on the day my husband and I depart, from Boston for New York City, to attend a kissing school. With two kids, two cats, two dogs, a lopsided house, and a questionable school system, we may know how to kiss, but in the rough and tumble of our harried lives we have indeed forgotten how to kiss.
The sky is paved with clouds, the air as sticky as jam in our hands and on our necks. The Kissing School, run by Cherie Byrd, a therapist from Seattle, is being held on the 12th floor of a run-down building in Manhattan. Inside, the room is whitewashed; a tiled table holds bottles of banana and apricot nectar, a pot of green tea, breath mints, and Chapstick. The other Kissing School students—sometimes they come from as far away as Vietnam and Nigeria—are sprawled happily on the bare floor, pillows and blankets beneath them. The class will be seven hours long.
Byrd starts us off with foot rubs. "In order to be a good kisser," she says, "you need to learn how to do the foreplay before the kissing." Foreplay involves rubbing my husband's smelly feet, but that is not as bad as when he has to rub mine. Right before we left the house, I accidentally stepped on a diaper the dog had gotten into, and although I washed, I now wonder how well.
"Inhale," Byrd says, and shows us how to draw in air.
"Exhale," she says, and then she jabs my husband in the back. "Don't focus on the toes so much," she says. "Move on to the calf."
Byrd tells us other things about the art of kissing. She describes the movement of energy through various chakras, the manifestation of emotion in the lips; she describes the importance of embracing all your senses, how to make eye contact as a prelude, how to whisper just the right way. Many hours go by. My cell phone rings. It's our babysitter. Our one-year-old has a high fever. We must cut the long lesson short. We rush out. Later on, at home, I tell my friends what we learned at Kissing School: We don't have time to kiss.
A perfectly typical marriage. Love in the Western world.
Luckily I've learned of other options for restarting love. Arthur Aron, a psychologist at Stony Brook University in New York, conducted an experiment that illuminates some of the mechanisms by which people become and stay attracted. He recruited a group of men and women and put opposite sex pairs in rooms together, instructing each pair to perform a series of tasks, which included telling each other personal details about themselves. He then asked each couple to stare into each other's eyes for two minutes. After this encounter, Aron found most of the couples, previously strangers to each other, reported feelings of attraction. In fact, one couple went on to marry.
Fisher says this exercise works wonders for some couples. Aron and Fisher also suggest doing novel things together, because novelty triggers dopamine in the brain, which can stimulate feelings of attraction. In other words, if your heart flutters in his presence, you might decide it's not because you're anxious but because you love him. Carrying this a step further, Aron and others have found that even if you just jog in place and then meet someone, you're more likely to think they're attractive. So first dates that involve a nerve-racking activity, like riding a roller coaster, are more likely to lead to second and third dates. That's a strategy worthy of posting on Match.com. Play some squash. And in times of stress—natural disasters, blackouts, predators on the prowl—lock up tight and hold your partner.
In Somerville, Massachusetts, where I live with my husband, our predators are primarily mosquitoes. That needn't stop us from trying to enter the windows of each other's soul.
When I propose this to Benjamin, he raises an eyebrow.
"Why don't we just go out for Cambodian food?" he says.
"Because that's not how the experiment happened."
As a scientist, my husband is always up for an experiment. But our lives are so busy that, in order to do this, we have to make a plan. We will meet next Wednesday at lunchtime and try the experiment in our car.
On the Tuesday night before our rendezvous, I have to make an unplanned trip to New York. My husband is more than happy to forget our date. I, however, am not. That night, from my hotel room, I call him.
< p>"We can do it on the phone," I say.
"What am I supposed to stare into?" he asks. "The keypad?"
"There's a picture of me hanging in the hall. Look at that for two minutes. I'll look at a picture I have of you in my wallet."
"Come on," he says.
"Be a sport," I say. "It's better than nothing."
Maybe not. Two minutes seems like a long time to stare at someone's picture with a receiver pressed to your ear. My husband sneezes, and I try to imagine his picture sneezing right along with him, and this makes me laugh.
Another 15 seconds pass, slowly, each second stretched to its limit so I can almost hear time, feel time, its taffy-like texture, the pop it makes when it's done. Pop pop pop. I stare and stare at my husband's picture. It doesn't produce any sense of startling intimacy, and I feel defeated.
Still, I keep on. I can hear him breathing on the other end. The photograph before me was taken a year or so ago, cut to fit my wallet, his strawberry blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. I have never really studied it before. And I realize that in this picture my husband is not looking straight back at me, but his pale blue eyes are cast sideways, off to the left, looking at something I can't see. I touch his eyes. I peer close, and then still closer, at his averted face. Is there something sad in his expression, something sad in the way he gazes off?
I look toward the side of the photo, to find what it is he's looking at, and then I see it: a tiny turtle coming toward him. Now I remember how he caught it after the camera snapped, how he held it gently in his hands, showed it to our kids, stroked its shell, his forefinger moving over the scaly dome, how he held the animal out toward me, a love offering. I took it, and together we sent it back to the sea.


https://ngm.nationalgeographic.com/2006/ ... er-text/10

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اقتباس من الموضوع أعلاه:


It's 90 degrees on the day my husband and I depart, from Boston for New York City, to attend a kissing school. With two kids, two cats, two dogs, a lopsided house, and a questionable school system, we may know how to kiss, but in the rough and tumble of our harried lives we have indeed forgotten how to kiss.
The sky is paved with clouds, the air as sticky as jam in our hands and on our necks. The Kissing School, run by Cherie Byrd, a therapist from Seattle, is being held on the 12th floor of a run-down building in Manhattan. Inside, the room is whitewashed; a tiled table holds bottles of banana and apricot nectar, a pot of green tea, breath mints, and Chapstick. The other Kissing School students—sometimes they come from as far away as Vietnam and Nigeria—are sprawled happily on the bare floor, pillows and blankets beneath them. The class will be seven hours long.
Byrd starts us off with foot rubs. "In order to be a good kisser," she says, "you need to learn how to do the foreplay before the kissing." Foreplay involves rubbing my husband's smelly feet, but that is not as bad as when he has to rub mine. Right before we left the house, I accidentally stepped on a diaper the dog had gotten into, and although I washed, I now wonder how well.
"Inhale," Byrd says, and shows us how to draw in air.
"Exhale," she says, and then she jabs my husband in the back. "Don't focus on the toes so much," she says. "Move on to the calf."
Byrd tells us other things about the art of kissing. She describes the movement of energy through various chakras, the manifestation of emotion in the lips; she describes the importance of embracing all your senses, how to make eye contact as a prelude, how to whisper just the right way. Many hours go by. My cell phone rings. It's our babysitter. Our one-year-old has a high fever. We must cut the long lesson short. We rush out. Later on, at home, I tell my friends what we learned at Kissing School: We don't have time to kiss


حسبو سلام
ياله من نص بليغ من واقع ود ابن آدم

الفاضل الهاشمي
The struggle over geography is complex and interesting because it is not only about soldiers and cannons but also about ideas, about forms, about images and imaginings
ادوارد سعيد "الثقافة والامبريالية 2004"
صورة العضو الرمزية
ãÍãÏ ÍÓÈæ
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الحب كتعويض

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شريكنا في وطن الغربة، محمّد سيد أحمد

فاتني ريتشارد الثالث و عصام أبو القاسم، غفر الله لنا و عاش التركيبة.

آش، صاحب القوس اللّعين
بوستك داك يا أشرف كان من أوّل ما شدّنا لعالم العنكبوتية دا، أي و الله، و لعالم كينيث كول أو كما قال الراوي.

شيخنا عمر الأمين
أنا بقيت زول قراية بس، الكتابة ما نجحت معاي و سأتوقف عنها و القلم ليه رافع، فهاك شاركنا القراية دي عن الحب بوصفه ويك أب كول، دا تمديد لي مخاوفك القلتها لي تماضر عن أن يكون مفتعلا أو متصنّعا..


[align=left]
Why Good People Cheat
By Laura Fitzpatrick

South Carolina Governor Mark Sanford's June 24 statement that his yearlong affair with an Argentine woman began "innocently" has drawn both sympathy and scorn. Can you really have good intentions and still wind up in bed with someone other than your spouse? Mira Kirshenbaum, a couples' counselor and the author of When Good People Have Affairs, says the answer is yes. She talked to TIME about why people cheat and how a broken marriage can be repaired.
You argue that the majority of people who have affairs are actually good people who just made a mistake. Isn't that letting them off the hook?
No. They're good people because they really are suffering. And they don't know what to do. They want love in their life, [and] they feel that there's something radically wrong and they don't know how to correct it.
You note that 47% of men and 35% of women get involved either emotionally or sexually with someone other than their spouse. Do you think one type of affair — emotional or physical — is more dangerous than the other?
No. If the other person would feel betrayed, then it's an affair, whether it's emotional or sexual. It's surprising: some people feel less betrayed by a sexual affair than they do by an emotional one.
Is one type of affair easier for a marriage to bounce back from?
It depends. If both people want their marriage to survive, the key is for the cheating spouse to make sure he earns forgiveness, and not just by saying he's sorry and showing remorse. He has to do the time-consuming work of listening — for hour after hour, if necessary — to how much and in how many ways he has hurt his spouse. He has to commit to understanding what she needs to feel safe in the future, and to doing those things. And they both have to commit to healing the broken parts of their marriage and revitalizing it.
You advise people never to confess to their partner that they've had an affair, even if they're asked point blank. But won't they miss out on that process of forgiveness?
There are many people who have no talent for forgiveness. It's as if they're frozen in this betrayal for years and years. If [you plan to stay in the marriage], [color=red]why would you tell your spouse something that's going to devastate her and make it so much harder to heal? Couples end up talking for hours about every little detail. They want to know: Did you go there with her? Did you do this with him? The conversation becomes about a past that can't be changed. And it's heartbreaking. Don't ever lie again. But do not confess to an affair.
In his press conference on Wednesday, Governor Sanford said that his affair began "innocently." Do you think affairs really can begin in an innocent way?
They most often do. You're friends with someone, you're just hanging out, you're getting to know them, and then you find yourself having feelings. We all have feelings, but you don't have to act on them.
Reality stars Jon and Kate Gosselin have also made headlines recently for their marital woes. Do you think people in the public eye tend to cheat more often than the rest of us, or do we just hear about their indiscretions more frequently?
Based on all the studies I've seen, roughly half of all marriages will be touched by an affair at some point. The prevalence of affairs is a function of two things: less-than-happy marriages and opportunity. And these celebrities have many more opportunities than most people.
You also argue that affairs can be good for a marriage. What do you mean?
They're a wake-up call. They tell you there's something seriously wrong here [and] you can't go on with business as usual. And if you really listen and you take that seriously and act on it, then you have an opportunity to make something wonderful happen.
Speaking of working on a marriage, you write that there are only two stages in a relationship: ignorance and rehab. That sounds pretty cynical. What do you mean?
At the beginning everyone is on their best behavior, so you're really ignorant of the ways [the relationship is] not going to work. You take care of the problems that can be solved easily at the beginning. [Later on in the marriage] you have to keep making sure that you're paying attention to your most important needs and make sure you're getting them met.





https://www.time.com/time/printout/0,881 ... 02,00.html

دا مش برضو يا الفاضل نص من واقع ابن آوى الغلب اللقّاط؟
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الوليد يوسف
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اشترك في: الأربعاء مايو 11, 2005 12:25 am
مكان: برلين المانيا

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الي جميع المحبين

أحبكم جميعاً بمناسبة عيد الحب، هو الحب بقروش ولا بقروش ؟ (فليذهب الحب سمبهار ويبقي ما يفيد الناس)

وليد يوسف
السايقه واصله
صورة العضو الرمزية
تماضر شيخ الدين
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اشترك في: الاثنين مايو 09, 2005 9:14 pm
مكان: US

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محمد حسبو

باسم الحب

أهديك هذا الفيديو لأناس "كجنوا" الحب بالله واحد

وأظنك كنت على حق ...وانا كنت على باطل، والاعتراف بالذنب فضيلة

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Emdf2vO-rAQ
صورة العضو الرمزية
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اشترك في: الاثنين مايو 09, 2005 9:42 pm

كيف أنتابتني الغفلة فذهلت عن هذا الخيط

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أول حاجة شكرا جزيلا يا الوليد.. لولاك لما شفت هذا الخيط أبدا
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يا ود حسبو .. والله من مدة طويلة جدا ما قريت لي كلام بي نفس واحد كده من أولو لي آخره .. لكن لمن لقيت الخيط بتاعك ده قلت كدي النخش نشوف الزول ده عندو شنو جديد بي مناسبة الفلنتاين وكده (بالنسبة لي نفسك يا وهم).. أها لمن دخلت لقيت الخيط قديييييم من زمن (البيرة أم جمل) قلت لا حولااا ده أكيد خيط مخستك زي سيدو عشان كده ماف زول إشتغل بيهو إتوكلت من باب (أنصر أخاك ظالما) وبديت اقرأ.. والله ناس المكتب قايلني جنيت.. انا بضحك دوحك (زي ما قال عمك عابدين الله ارحمو في عش المجانين)..ياخ شكرا للمتعة الذهنية العالية وللرأي السديد.. وللإستعراض الممتع وفعلا (ما أنت بشاعر) وفعلا (وما بصاحبكم من جنة) إن هو إلا فكر كريم.
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بس، وفي "صياغ" آخر-صياغ دي كيف بالله -وفي حديث مشاتر- بختلف معاك في كلامك مع تماضر:
كلامك القبل دا، و بعض كلامك البعدو كمان، ما عليهن خلاف و لا ضير، لكن دا هو الكلام الخلانا ندعو أبناء شعبنا للحب الحذر و المُستحق، لأن الحب الطليق (ليس على وزن الحداثة الطليقة) الذي يعقب أفعال الكراهيّة الطليقة (مثلما ابتُلينا به في سودان الإنقاذ) هو في البلاهة أدخل منه في الحب المنشود. يعني زول يقتل ليك رفيق أو جنى أو حبيبة، تجيب ليه مخزون التسامح يسوي بيه شنو؟ قصدي يا تماضر، أخواننا و أخواتنا البيحبوا بالجملة بهناك في سودانيز و في غيره ديل، قاعدين يحبّوا خليط أشبه بخليط النار و البنزين أو خليط الذئب و الغنم و البجعة، يحبّون الأمنجي (القاتل) و الكوز (اللص) و إنسان دارفور (ضحيّة) و الأبله (غير المعني بغير المؤانسة) و يجمع حبّهم الأم الثكلى بالدبّابين، و في هذا المستوى قصدنا أنو الحب بالجملة دا ضوء أخضر لمزيد من الجرأة و الاستهتار بقيمة الإنسان المُحِب دا ذاتو، و هو أمر لا ينبغي تشجعيه بل إذكاء الكراهية الموضوعيّة بدلاً عنه، لأنّ في ذلك مجلبة للمسؤوليّة و الاعتبار..

يعني مجمل الكلام ممكن أن ترى وجاهتو.. لكن ما أظن إنو لدى التفصيل بصح.. غايتو ملخص لي كلامي أنا بفتكر إنو ماف فرصة بالمرة للبشرية إنها تتقدم الا إذا تخلت عن روح الإنتقام وتصفية الحسابات ونشرت الحب الحقيقي (الحب الحئيئي، بعيش يا حبيبي :) ) الحب الذي يعلم التسامح، ويعلم أن نسير الى الأمام بلا ضغائن فالإنتقام نفسه لن يشفي أو يبرد غليل الفرد المغبون.. فلو قتلنا عمر البشير ألف مرة لن تبرد نارنا على الشهداء والمظلومين.. وهذه نفسها ليست دعوة للمياعة أو ترك الناس بلا قانون أو محاسبة.. ولكنها دعوة لمعرفة النفس وكيف "تبرِّد" غليلها.. من أجمل ما قرأت عن (محمد أحمد بن عبدالله) الذي إشتهر بإسم "المهدي" والذي أختلف معه في 99.9% من أقواله وأفعاله، أنه قال:
الفشَّ غبينتو، خِربت مدينتو
وعليه فإني لا أرى (كراهية) موضوعية "إطلاقا"، فالكره داء فكري ولا يكره الا من فقد جزءا من عقله، فغيب عنه ذلك الجزء الغضب والحنق والغيظ وستأتي أفعاله الإنتقامية (الكارهة) ظلماً جديداً يكتوي به ابرياء جدد وكم علمنا التاريخ ذلك.
لو كنت فارسا: لعبأت نشابي بالفرح.. وصوبت نحو البشرية جمعاء.. لا أخطئ أحدا.
لو كنت ملاك موت: لصعدت عاليا عاليا.. وهويت الى الأرض أدق عنقي (عادل عبد الرحمن)
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الفكر أكسير الحياة
(الأستاذ محمود)
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