My Chameleon Car.

Though I am sure you’ve noticed; I loathe driving. I don’t like cars and I spot beauty in them only through Tarantino movies. The Ford in Pulp Fiction where Travolta chased dragons, the Dodge in Death Proof which the belle Bell had a proper adrenaline orgasm on and a few other similarities can only stimulate me. In addition, I fuel my ugly first impressions about men who have car-fetish with further ugliness. I hate it when I’m stuck with people in a car playing music I don’t like. I hate it when I am stuck with people in a car – that has one driver and much more smart asses trying to find Dijkstra’s shortest path in a bloody hot discussion to reach a 20-mins away destination. Who would want Dijkstra or any other in a beautifully laid out binary Cairo – Salah Salem or Autostrad, 6th of October Bridge or Azhar Tunnel, Downtown or Ring Road? The road you don’t take is always better, BEAU.

My chameleon car can change colour due to a lot of externals. I don’t want a Porsche. My car will have hurricanes of butterflies (may Muse allow me to rephrase) coming out of its back. Its colour will change depending on the music being played in it, the street it’s roaming and finally my word. My car will not have a horn, instead it will spread glitter like that coming out of Tinkerbell’s wand every time it wants to grab others’ attention. During early winter mornings, I will always forget my Irish latte mug on top its roof and take off quickly, but I’ll stop to pick the mug and the latte vapour coming out of its top will be the wake up aroma of the whole town. Finally, my car will not be a total saint, the bitch side of it will float on the surface when binary road decisions are discussed in a hot bloody debate. I forgot to say it spits humans at the sky.

Those who don't know your name.

Yes, I am a fan of meeting up with people I know over a beer and having a few or no laughs at all. I am also a fan of gatherings after rites of passage and all. In fact, I am a very sociable person, I am about to prove that. Mind you, the events that you are going to read about now are not events at all, not new at all, no. They are not new to me, not to you. You can stop reading now.
The notorious Cairo Downtown adds up to the component of my brain responsible for self-satisfaction. The location is thus a roof in an authentically old block in Downtown. People around the table I have known for quite a long time - that if you call 5 to 8 years quite a long time. The types of relations I had with them vary too, that's because I am a very sociable person I never let go of people, remember? (I am working on that already, no need for a doctor, but thanks). But because 2008 brings a new fashion of "belieflessness" and because I am a very fashionable person, I don't believe in the sacredness of friendship - not in the sacredness of anything earthly at all to tell you the truth. Therefore, I am free to admit that I felt alienated and bored. This evolved into instant obvious depression, the type you can't resist staring at its face, you know (pre-requires seeing my new haircut to know)? This was enriched and projected into a deeper alienation because of the evilness of vibes and voidness of speech.
He walks in and sits on a table for two, alone, next to the roof's wall. A few glances later, his beer has already been sipped on and the music in his music player has grown too intense that it can be overheard through the cheap speakers. Probably younger than myself, yet he has memories to rewind as he absolutely stares at nothing. At this particular moment, he has been closer than anything I succeed to remember. How dare I stare and scratch this majesty of this solitude?
Maybe when one should go, one should go alone, sit on a table for two, alone. A few minutes later, one's beer has already been sipped on. The music player will pour in favourite tunes through the cheap speakers, yet the notorious Cairo Downtown will give you beautifully dirty nothingness to stare at and rewind memories.

كل الأحاديث ما بتفيد" -- سلمى وزياد الرحبانى"

Farmers, Fruits and Flowers.

This is another outburst of the torment of ‘maturity’. It is such a torment, that I feel the only way I can get beyond it is continuously making abrupt outbursts and making a complete fool of myself. But a fool is better than a clown with tears that fuck up their makeup.

One used to think that if you seed, water, watch, grow and take care of a beautiful plant, that you will eventually harvest its fruits or flowers. One used to be naïve. The fact that you help something go from the ground to the sky doesn’t mean you have anything to do with its fruits and flowers, hell no. The grown healthy radiating good looking plant will give its flowers and fruits to the passers by it finds amusing, but no not you, hell no. The hand that feeds is a good reference and citation that we mention every now and then so that we don’t sound like ungrateful bastards, but no don’t care for it, don’t make it see the flowers or fruits they’ve grown, never share the beautiful taste of the blue sky with, hell no.

Don’t be so sympathetic with what I write. It is not necessary to mention that it is a vicious circle of routine, nevertheless I will. Because one has fed an entirely selfish plant, one feeds on an entirely naïve farmer. All farmers have the same destiny and all plants too. But we are all farmers and we are all plants, each in turn. Some plants even have several farmers, but a farmer – as wretched as they don't know they are – usually has one plant. So don’t you dare take sides and think you’re the goodie-goodie because your turn will come, vice versa too.