المقامر

عمرى ما حبيت شخصية فى حياتى قد شخصية المقامر فى رواية دستيوفسكى. يمكن يكون هو أكتر حد حسيت بيه وعمرى ما قابلته. عشان أنا بالعب وعارفة انى خسرانة... عشان أنا نفسى بتاكلنى لو مجربتش... عشان أنا ساذجة وعلطول فاكرة أن المرة اللى جاية هتحلى... عشان أنا فارق معايا أنى ألعب ، مش أكسب... عشان أنا الخسارة عندى مش شئ شخصى... عشان أنا راهنت عليك وعارفة أنى خسرانة... عشان أنا معنديش حاجة أخسرها...

الكوتشينة فيها 52 كارت ، واحد منهم بس جاك أوف سبادس... وبيجى معاها اتنين جوكر يبدلوه... يعنى الجاك مش مهم... ولو عايز رأيى الجواكر مش مهمة... وال51 كارت اللى فاضلين مش مهمين... مش مهم ايدك عاملة ازاى... مش المهم اللى بيلعب معاك أو ضدك مين... أنا مؤمنة أن أهم حاجة ، أنت ازاى بتحط الكارت على الطرابيزة... فى كروت بتترمى باستهتار... فى كروت بتتحط مقلوبة على الطرابيزة عشان أنت متأكد أنك هتلعبها مهما اللى قبليك لعب ايه... فى كروت بتحطها براحة كأنك خايف عليها ، أو يمكن عشان تسمع صوت بلاستيكها عالطرابيزة... وفى كروت تحيرك... وفى كروت تحيرهم... بس أهم حاجة ، أنت بتحطها ازاى وباصص فين وأنت بتوريها للى قدامك... باصص للكارت؟ باصص للى قدامك؟ باصص لنفسك؟ وطبعا ، مش مهم ورقة الحسابات ، عشان قبل ما بتعرف مين خسر ومين كسب ، المهم أنك تفتح بولة جديدة... وطبعا تطلب كأس تانى.

وعشان كدة أنا راهنت عليك... وخسرت... بس ده مش معناه أنى مش هيبقى عندى طرابيزة روليت فى بيتى ، أو أنى هأبطل كروت...

:)

Mystique.

Time came when I met a man who doesn’t speak much. He sits there watching, contemplating and smoking. The way he smokes, I’ve never seen someone else do it like him before. He would sit, rest his elbow on his knee, holding the cigarette, and he’d move to reach its tip rather than move his arm up to be able to drag on it. This position sort of gave him the air of anticipation and of challenge, as if he is looking the world in the eye and asking it to give him its best shot. His strong black body gave him further air of wisdom. Few are the times, I spoke to this man, and all were pleasant, deep and blessed except for one.

“He believes you`re as important as a feather in the sky of his memories, flying endlessly, without having the least bit of control over yourself. He loves watching you, wanting to scream yet unable to, like a wounded chained straw dog, watching the carnival from behind the shatters on an old wooden deserted door. He knows you`re aching and breaking, and he wants more. He`d look up at the sky and watch you stray and bleed, and he`d lay a kiss on her forehead because he was touched by the awe of such a scene. They’d stretch their bare feet to feel the grass they are relaxing on. It seems you have been the empress each king strives to please but secretly wishes to devour. And devoured, he shall make you. Your tears, young child, are precious to me. They’re like diamonds that fall off your green irides, and they are invaluable. Yet, to him, your tears are an outstanding revenge platter, and never did a platter so cold taste so good. I can ask you to stop, but I won`t be able to make you.”

“They slit our throats, like we were flowers – and our milk, has been devoured.” – Marilyn Manson.

Why?

Why this blog? I was told the world can know.

“How can I answer that if you’ve got the nerve to ask me?”

“How can I answer that if you’ve got the nerve to ask me?” Jude Quinn – I’m Not There.
ربنا يخليلنا الأخت المتفوقة على نفسها ، كيت بلانشيت.

اللى كان المفروض يحصل أنى أروح أنا والجميلة سندس شبايك و"الملئ بالتيستيرون" (على رأى البريطانية المتغطرسة سينجر ، أيوة يا عم) حسام ملا ، عشان نعمل لقاء تليفزيونى فى النيل للثقافة عن بصى. بس سندس فكست ، وأنا اتخنقت أنها فكست. لكن اتخنقت أكتر لما رحت وحصل فيا اللى أنا مش مصدقاه لحد دلوقتى.

الراجل المسئول عن البرنامج اتكلم معايا أنا وحسام عن بصى قبل ما نطلع عالهوا... ففهمناه الفكرة وبعدين سأل ايه المواضيع اللى احنا اتكلمنا عنها...
أنا: " تحرش.. ختان.. طلاق.. علاقات محرمة.."
هو: "ايييييه علاقات محرمة !!؟"
أنا: "أه.. وكمان تحرش بالأطفال.."
هو: "ايييييييه تحرش بالأطفال!؟"
أنا: "أه.. وكمان نفقة..."
هو: "يا بنتى فى فرق بين اللى بيتقال بين المثقفين فى ندوات وبين اللى بيتقال فى التليفيزيون الأسرى..."
أنا سمعت حتة المثقفين دى ، وأنتوا عارفنى من أخر حاجة قلتها عن ميشال سينجر وقد ايه أنا موتى وسمى اللى يقسملى العيشة مثقفين فى وادى وباقى العالم فى وادى وجو بقى ياللا بقى قهوة فى وسط البلد عشان الكلام الكبير يحلى والليلة دى بتجيبلى حساسية... فطبعا سرحت وفهمتش هو بيقول ايه وصحيت على الجملة دى...
هو: "يعنى مثلا لما الكويت تعمل عمل تليفزيونى عن التحرش بالأطفال فى الكويت ، كل العالم هيفتكر أن كل الكويت بتتحرش بالأطفال..."
طب ماهو الناس كلها عارفة أن الكوايتة ليهم فى العيال الصغيرة ، هو احنا مستنيين عمل تليفزيونى... هى الكويت عندها تليفزيون اساسا ؟ طبعا سرحت تانى ، بس لما رجعت لأرض الواقع ولقيت الراجل ده لسة بيتكلم، قصرت وفهمت المطلوب...
أنا: "يعنى حضرتك بس عشان نفهم بعضينا... تحرش وطلاق ونفقة أوكى؟"
هو: "يا بنتى انتى كله أوكى ، أنا مش بقولك تقولى ايه ومتقوليش ايه."
أنا: "لأ أصلى عشان ميبقاش فى خلاف (وأم الليلة دى تعدى) بعد العرض عالهوا..."
هو: "من غير خلاف يا بنتى... أه أوكى ، والختان كمان أوكى"
أنا: "يعنى بلاها علاقات محرمة وبلاها تحرش بالأطفال؟"
هو: "أه عشان لو بنت بتتفرج مع أبوها على التليفزيون متتكسفش."
وأنتوا عارفين أد ايه أنا بهتم بحياء ولاد.... الناس طبعا.
أنا وحسام فهمنا الليلة ، واحنا الاتنين مش نايمين وجعانين وتعبانين ، فقصرنا.

بس ايه بقى !! أنا طفلة الرب المدللة... هو الليلة تخلص هنا؟ فشر !!!

طلعت واحدة ست من تحت الأرض معنديش فكرة مين دى ، وكانت سامعة الحوار من النص ولا تعرف حاجة عن بصى اساسا... والراجل ده كان بيتملقلها كما يفعلون فى روايات اجاثا كريستى لما يكون فى واحدة عجوزة هتموت ومعاها فلوس كتير. اللى فهمته بعد كدة،أنها دكتورة بكلية الأداب ، أدعت أنها مترجمة، ثم عندما ذكر حسام شئ من الأدب (كله جاى فى السكة) قالتلك لأ أنا بتاعة تاريخ ، وبعدين فى لقائها على التليفزيون المذيع عرفها على أنها بتاعة أدب... بس ماعلينا ، اليكم وجهات نظرالدكتورة باكبر الجامعات المصرية...

هى: "مفيش تحرش... مفيش عنف ضد المرأة... مفيش اغتصاب... يعنى لو 100 واحدة حصلها كدة وسط 80 مليون ، يستاهل أن الموضوع ده يتعمله عمل فنى؟"
هى: "الفن يعالج الاستثناء عشان يشد انتباه الناس ليه... لكن أنت كدة مش بتعالج الأغلبية... القاهرة مش بتعبر عن مصر... مش كل الناس ساكنة فى فيللات ومعاها عربيات..."
هو: "ايوة يا دكتورة بالضبط... يعنى مثلا أن فاهمين أن فى أوروبا المرأة واخدة حريتها... بالعكس تماما !! النخاسة ليست حرية... لكن احنا عندنا هنا فى الشرق لما يسعى الرجل لخدمة المرأة وحمايتها... هى دى الحرية."
هو: "يعنى ايه واحدة تروح ترفع قضية على جوزها عشان شخطها ولا ضريها... وعلى رأى المثل ، لو اتحبس مين هيجيب الخبز بليل للعيال؟ يعنى هو كان رفع عليها قضية لما عملت الأكل ملح زيادة؟" (وحيييييييييياة أمى قال كدة)
هى: "وبعدين انتوا حاشرين نفسكوا ليه؟ عادى يعنى ، فى بعض الأوساط الراجل بيضرب مراته عادى يعنى وهى مبسوطة وراضية. أنتوا حاشرين نفسكوا ليه ، الناس تحل مشاكلها مع بعضيها."
هو: "أيوة يا دكتورة. يعنى مثلا فى بعض الستات بتقعد تغيظ جوزها عشان يضربها ، عشان بالشكل ده هى بتحس بالاهتمام."
هى: "تؤ تؤ تؤ ، بس دى أقلية مريضة." (نعم يا حجة !! وهو اللى أنتى عمالة تقوليه ده طبيعى يعنى)

أنا طبعا سرحت كتير... بس فى مرة فقت ، لقيت الغلبان اللى اسمه حسام ابتدى يقاوح معاها... فسمعته بيقول:
حسام: "يعنى مثلا جين أوستين."
هى: "ده ممثل؟"
حسام: "دى كاتبة عظيمة"
هى: "أصلى أنا مش متابعة اليومين دول ، بعدين أنا أصلا ليا فى التاريخ."

وسرحت كتير.... وعملت مليون تليفون عشان الوقت يعدى... وعدى...
وطلعنا على الهوا مع حتة مذيع مزة مطول شعره ، بس مالوش فيها بقى خالص يعنى!! هو مش فاهم هو بيقول ايه ، ومش فاهم المسرحية عن ايه ، وهمه أنه يخلص ويروح...

يعنى يا بصى، لو شكلى كنت هأقوم وأضربه على الهوا زى ما سندس قالتلى ، أنا مش بأعتذر لول... أراهنكم لو كنتوا مكانى أنا وحسام كنتوا عملتوا عليهم حفلة...

توبة.

Note: To those who can't read Arabic, sorry but their quotes had to be put as is.

Wael Gom3a.

She: If Wael Gom3a scores a goal, I’ll marry him.
He: She’s drunk.
She: No, I am not.
He: I won’t pour you another cocktail.
She: I’ll pour it myself.

She: I am hot.
He: Hush.
She: No, you don’t understand.
He: Please, there are people around.
She: I can’t breathe.

She: Tala3oony men hena ya welad el kalb.
He: Ignore her. Get some water.
She: I can’t breathe; your bodies are in the way of my air.
He: Water, on her face, yes.
She: You f**king, *puke*
He: The toilet.
She: Thank you for holding my hair.

She: I can’t breathe, my bra!
He: Maria, take care of it.
She: *pukes*
He: Get me a bag and get everyone out of this room.
She: I can’t breathe.
He: Stay with me.
She: White light.
He: Don’t go. *slap slap slap*
She: It’s pulling me.
He: Stay, I can’t go without you.
She: *pukes*
He: Good girl, sleep now.

She: You stinky smoker.
He: *laughs with tears*
She: What happened?
He: You were about to go.
She: I can’t leave you.
He: You have so many lives.
She: I saw white light.
He: I know.
She: You pulled me.
He: I love you.
She: My hair is ruined.

Firing Orange Fudges.

Last Tuesday, May 15th 2008, I got on stage for the very first time. The BuSSy Performance has been my first acting experience, and hopefully not the last. I may not have directed before and not acted before, but trust me you can refer to me as a “theatre-goer”. I’ve been to enough plays for me to claim that I’ve seen popular opening and closing nights at theatres, roaring sweaty music concerts and stuffy premiere film nights with camera flashes and all. Sometimes I didn’t get a proper spongy seat, sometimes I sat on the floor and others I was told by guards that I am too late and doors are closed, but never ever did I blame it on directors, actors, ushers or the associated marketing department.

Apparently, I live in a world of my own. Nowadays, individuals should feel free to blame actors, directors, workers and the Israeli army too if they please, if a show has a big enough crowd. Miss Singer got me to notice this fact with her latest article “Bussy’s back with more grease and less meat”. The food metaphors she uses don’t stop at the title only as will be later clarified, I guess we should have served some snacks before the show started, but that’s another story. Miss Singer and her “fellow friend theatre-goers” suggest that the BuSSy cast should have prepared a special show for family and friends, and I vote for that as the lamest suggestion I’ve heard since 2008 started. The BuSSy cast includes around 20 actors, 3 directors, 2 stage helpers and a lot of volunteers so do your own maths. Should we have tested kin relationships at the Howard door in case of that private premiere?

The writer claims that it doesn’t really matter which language a show is performed in, but this shouldn’t be the case with BuSSy because it’s not just a “performance” in the first place. Finally, a bullet from her gun is hit for a target, not just to create sound. I totally agree with her, however, it must be admitted that 2008’s BuSSy has a new flavor of pieces like “Two Faints”, “Hafla Maganeya” and “Samira” just to name a few. The commonality between those pieces lies in the fact that they are not inspired by the “the liberal and educated” and they aren’t “patently aimed at the AUC crowd”. On the contrary, they are inspired by poorer classes and scripts coming from a circle outside of the “AUC crowd” overall. Perhaps a gradual change for the voice of BuSSy to be heard outside the AUC circle?

Furthermore, BuSSy has exerted great efforts this year to take its performance outside of the “intimate” walls of Howard to the Downtown garage-theatre Rawabet. This attempt, in my opinion, should be met with great applause and encouragement – rather than being described as “unlikely to change things” because Rawabet is still a “cultural hub”. It was this sentence that really got goose bumps on my skin! I am not sure where to start, really. What is a “cultural hub”? Are people differentiated as cultural or not? If yes, how can you force a “non-cultural person” to come to a theatre? Should BuSSy take another “non-cultural” form, other than a performance on a stage, to fit for the needs of the “non-cultural”? Are we really that naïve to believe the “AUC crowd” is the same audience as that of “Rawabet”? Why are we bothered with translating the scripts if they are the same audience then? Should we ignore pieces coming in from authors who express themselves in English, Arabic, or a code-switching medium because they are either too “cultural” or too “non-cultural”? Aren’t those authors – “cultural” AND “non-cultural” - living among us as well? All those questions seem to be ignored by her before she embarked upon such an educated guess of hers – Rawabet isn’t likely to change things.

Apart from technicalities now… I believe that art is divided into two abstract parts; content and form. And in all cases, it has to be judged without the interference of a “sore-bottom’s” effect. That’s where she got all confused; the difference between sore bottoms and orange fudges among chocolate boxes. Miss Singer can have as criticizing opinions about actors positively or negatively as she pleases, however I tend to believe her criticisms would have been a lot more positive if she was seated on a chaise longue and perhaps only then all BuSSies would have been her favorite buffoons. Miss Singer can have personal opinions about movies and scripts and plot lines, but I tend to believe she can’t be coarse towards real life experiences, for example she describes “Elusive” as a piece for a girl who “needs to eat less”. Imagine the author reading that?! Under the umbrella of strict censorship, hesitant support from responsible entities, intimacy of the only allowed theatre and the great devotion of youthful yet an amateur student cast, I think the writer should broaden her expectations of “women issues”. Thus, I am glad to declare that BuSSy isn’t at all evaluated by the nine months efforts that were put into it, but by comfortable vs. sore bottoms. It is the same as claiming that it is not evaluated by Bailey’s filled Swiss chocolate versus orange fudges but rather by the color of the covering of the box of chocolates.

Without me getting too Forrest-Gumpish about things, BuSSy is a box of chocolates with 29 chocolates, that are of 29 different flavors and not one orange fudge – and no sore bottoms.

Read Singer's Article here.

Playing Bridge with Mary Shelley.

I stared onto the wooden glossy table having my card put and that of the player on my right. Mary Shelley threw a third card casually, a Jack of Spades, over the incomplete trick. Then I looked at her as she spoke to me and said…
“You know, I wish I met you before I wrote Frankenstein.”

She dragged on the slim metal tip attached to her cigarette and looked me straight in the eye.

“And I wish I met you before I met mine,” I replied.

Guatemala.

So I can go to Guatemala, and learn Guatemalian bit by bit so that I can be able to say Good Morning to the land lady every time I see her – even though it will probably be 5 PM. I’d walk down the street with the French kerb and enjoy the sound my heel-less shoes are making. The beat will probably fool me in some way or another to see something new in the same street I walk down daily. I am not sure if there IS something new or it’s me just being desperate to want to see something new. The bus is almost always there when I reach the bus station, because that’s the maximum generousity God can give a soul like me during those busy days. It’s good enough, for I loathe waiting. Public transport is fun; the maximum interaction with anyone is when you pay for your ticket, then you can listen to your own stale music. Then I go to that work place, do the same night shift over and over again. It won’t matter what I work though, it’ll probably be something anyone can do really if they wanted to – and probably they won’t.

So I don’t mind draining myself out of energy for a job that doesn’t change the world or gets people to get a chance to tan on Mars one fine morning – even though I can do that, I am super smart, trust me. I don’t mind it really, as long as it drains me so much that I get home and fail to remember where I was before I came to Guatemala, why I came to Guatemala and that my land lady looks at me in pity when she tells me Good Morning back in Guatemalian. But it shouldn’t drain me that much, for I need the energy to be able to pour myself a drink when I get back. I am sure that’s written in job descriptions and all.

So I can spend my Sundays adding more Black and White posters to my Guatemalian house’s walls, of dead people, who probably had a harsh overdose before they died and their names are frequently seen on the screen of my Chinese mp3 player – yes the one for the bus. I can go shopping for some pencil and paper, then some food if I remember. I can spend the Sunday evenings writing on pencil and paper, then waste more time typing what I wrote. Typing straight away is very not inspiring – I wonder who will change that first, MS or Apple. I write, making sure I have no audience. On the very rare times I turn my TV on; I’ll probably watch some news of how little children are genocided in a far away country that I’ve never been to and never will. Then, God reminds me of how selfish I am, how inconsiderate and how ungrateful, being so lucky to be who I am, yet sitting there not thinking of others. So I think of my land lady and how lonely she probably is.