Tabouli in present tense one

Tabouli in past tense three

The Tabouli Performer is under siege in her hometown of Beirut and will not be able to be with you tonight to perform the third part of her tabouli service.

While hiding out in the northern mountains of Lebanon, waiting for the Israelis to stop their bombardments, and for the UN to announce an official cease fire, she made and served lots and lots of Tabouli, not to you unfortunately, but to many other healthy-minded, and 'news' addicted adults.

Tabouli in past tense two

TABOULI PERFORMER II
The rebirth of the Tabouli Performer took place just a few weeks before the birth of my first child, Zeynoun. I returned to my original text and Salwa, my hysterical house wife played the starring role. Lying on a long kitchen table looking up at the audience I told Salwa's story. With a lot of help from Irigaray, and my mum's excellent Tabouli the tale was told once again. Looking very pregnant and sounding very hungry, my mouth uttered a noise, a language, a silence.
My body is a map, one that leads to nowhere.
They map out my body and
carve it into strategic borders.
Here comes the knife.
A border divides my head from my body.
Cartesian dualism has done its share.
For security purposes, another border will form,
a
perpendicular line with the first
as it progresses all the way down to my
belly-button.
Finally,
my feet are fenced off into separate parts.
I am now
ready to be served
on a spiffy clean and silver-plated platter.
as an appetiser Tabouli is always preferred.
but for today i guess,
I
will do.

tabouli in the past tense

TABOULI PERFORMER I
The Tabouli tale was born while I was living in Jeddah. It grew out of a long and difficult struggle that I had experienced as a un-Australian child in Sydney and as a un-Lebanese adult in Beirut. Tabouli gave me hope for a brighter future and I embraced it wholeheartedly. Facing a very 'cool' Danish audience, who were sitting in beanbags and sipping on natural energy drinks I started to prepare Tabouli. I chopped badly all my ingredients, homemade slides of me waxing in the background. What was I going to tell them? About my identity crisis, or about the Qana massacre that took place the day before? Reciting the name Qana and all the other southern villages bombed that day, took my breath away. That evening, my Tabouli tasted as bad as I felt. Hooray for the brave Danish girl on roller-skates who was daring enough to try it!