Don't Look.

Nobody needs no saving around here. I hope we're clear on that.

We're just going to ride together in your car, hopefully a public bus,

hopefully even a train. We're going to go miserable places like

Alexandria and Fayoum, for no longer than one day, for only when

you go to a more miserable place do you feel relieved.

There won't be any talking around here. No sparse comments

about how good the food is, nor non-frequent comments about how

you enjoy red wine on winter afternoons with some French cheese

that none of us can pronounce its name right. But I don't speak

French, and I won't be able to point out your phonetical sins, only

because there won't be any spoken phonetical sins in the first place.

Nothing much will be going around here. We will read books on the

most lighted bench across the beach, or while lying on grass,

blinded by the sky light in the background of the parted thighs

of them books. If you like a particular paragraph or verse from yours,

save it for later use in one of your little pockets. And you'd better

have a few pockets...

We will go back the same way we came, we shall never switch

the medium. There will be a lot of similar rules around here.

Be it car, bus or train, it has to be the same back and forth.

You can then share what you've saved up. Make it brief.

We'll be putting music till we part, a lot of it. Sincere effort has to

be made avoiding the talk, since the most exciting sincere

form of attraction is between opposites that never meet.

Hung up.

I was counting the white stripes the other day,

Passing under the car, like I usually do,

On them winter nights,

When I heard Creep playing on the radio.

I held out my hand to press a button,

That had a plus sign on it, like I always do.

He tried to hold it as it was on my way back,

To whirl my hair that's been straightened the other day,

For the sake of passing time on a winter afternoon.

I pulled it away.. He asked why..

"I don't know, I am with someone now,"

I said, with my hand on my lap.

But I don't know if that's true, I didn't say,

He believed me and tried again.

bely bely bely.mp3

بمناسبة كومبو الأعياد

وأنه كلنا هنروح عند ستو

نأكل لحمة أو نفرقع بيرة

كل سنة وانتوا طيبين

واهداء خاص

أغنية الأستاذ طاهر صالح الجديدة

بجد نفسى العب

من زمان ملعبتش

بلى كشرى وبلى عادة

وجعليظة بلى سادة

كل دى أنواع

(البلى البلى البلى)

عايزة تطلع عايزة مهارة

فيها نيشان وانا الصنارة

وهى دى حلاوة

(البلى البلى البلى)

من يوم ولادتى من طفولتى

وانا بالعب عند ستى

كنت بأغلب كل الحارة

كنت شاطر فيها بتارة

مفيش عيل فى زمانى كسبنى

(البلى البلى البلى)

محدش كان يقدر يهزمنى

(البلى البلى البلى)

بجد يا ناس البلى وحشنى

(البلى البلى البلى)

بجد نفسى العب

من زمان ملعبتش

لعبت طسة وترنجيلة

مثلثات وترنجانة

وهى دى أنواع

(البلى البلى البلى)

تركيزها بيبقى مية مية

عايزة سرعة من اللى هى

وهى دى خطورة

(البلى البلى البلى)

مليانة لحدى محدش قدى

غلبت عبد القادر وجدى

كسبت جوايز أخدت ميدالية

وكأس كبير على شكل بلية

مفيش لعيب فى الدنيا يغلبنى

(البلى البلى البلى)

مفيش واحد قدر يهزمنى

(البلى البلى البلى)

بجد يا ناس البلى وحشنى

(البلى البلى البلى)

Death is the road to awe.

The counting of breaths and trees,

The Clint Mansell/Radiohead competition,

Falling in love with men and women on billboards,

Drunk dialing and above all,

Playing Zuma in wet eyes.. and winning.

It will all come back again.

In a heartbeat.

There was a girl I used to know. She had the inextinguishable fire in her eyes and she grabbed life by the balls. Of the few times I met her, she was telling the story of her divorce, as she tried hard to keep the smoke of her cigarette away from her 4 year old daughter. She shopped for groceries after a long day at work, carried at least four big bags of miscellaneous items nobody really needed, her handbag, and a bottle of wine, and finally climbed the four floors of her building till she got to her apartment’s door. Breathless as she was, she chose not to put everything on the floor and get out the keys from her handbag… as not to dissipate her remaining energy on dos and re-dos, but rather to ring the bell instead and just fling inside to the kitchen. Once… twice… three and maybe four times. Her husband, who was watching TV inside, opened the door and shouted outrageously at her for ringing the bell. Ungrateful as he was, he found a bottle of good red wine being shattered into pieces over his head. Their marital relationship didn’t really pick up since then.

Unlike everyone on our table, her reaction seemed completely natural to me, the normal consequence to impatience, intolerance, non-cooperation and non-controllable lust for putting the blame. But everyone thought that wasn’t the right thing to do, probably even my mom… for she never did it.

Severin, Severin.

How about you call me Venus as I dress in animal fur?

صحيت فى ميكروباص... شاكرة جدا، حطيت سماعات الام بى ثرى – اللى كنت اصلا استهلكت اخر بطاريته بمنتهى الشهوة فى الليلة السابقة – فى ودانى، عشان اتفادى اى استظراف أو استلطاف متوقع تجاه أى شئ يرتدى حمالة صدر فى ميكروباص – بغض النظر اذا كان يحتاجه أم لا. يفرق بينى وما بين السواق رجل بيقول على مراته "الجماعة" ولابس اخضر فج... ولكن السواق كسب نقط احترام، مش بس عشان اخد غرزة ما بين تلات تريللات من غير لما يشد اهتمامى... ولكن ايضا، عشان ضيع كل رصيده على السواقين اللى وراه بيشرحلهم ظروف الرادارات والكمائن...

وعادى يعنى... يستمر سواق الميكروباص فى أخدان الغرز ما بين التريللات ويتغاضى عن الثلج اللى بيزحلق العربية تحتيه... فهو على رأى المنادى... برنس الطريق... فيقرر الشاب الفج فى أنه يخدش الكادر الكوول للسواق ويسمح أن موبايله يرن برنة صراخ واحدة بتولد والموضوع بيقلب أن هى بتضحك بهيستيريا... بديهى جدا... كلنا اتسرعنا... وبديهى جدا سرق الشاب الفج الكادر من برنس الطريق... فزى اى راجل لابس أخضر... هو عاشق تافه للانتباه...

كنهاية طبيعية لأى اتنين مصريين فى الموقف ده... انتهى الأمر ان الشاب اللى عنده "جماعة" بيسمع السواق نكت عن البلديات من الموبايل... وكل الركاب... كأى ركاب مصريين طبيعيين... سمعوا كل النكت للأخر وبلعوا البضنة بمنتهى الشهوة...

وعلى اخر الطريق كدة... على الغرزة الأربعتاشر... الراجل اللى ورايا لقيته بيقول "يعنى انت ينفع الطريق كله كدة تشغل نكت عن البلديات؟" ننظر احنا التلاتة... أنا ، ناسية تماما انى المفروض باسمع السماعات اللى فى ودنى، الشاب الأخضر فى بداية احراجه ، وسواق الميكروباص فى المراية الأمامية.

يجلس خلفنا راجل وامرأته وابنته... صعايدة... وصعايدة يعنى صعايدة... جبهتهم واسعة ، تكاد تكون كارتونية... وعينيهم واسعة... وجلدهم قمحى بيلمع من اللون اللى مينفعش تبصله باستمرار... فيرد الشاب الأخضر فى منتهى السسّينة... "انا مالى يا عم ده هو اللى بيقول مش أنا..."

تنظر المرأة الصعيدية أمامها ، وكأن هذا الصوت يصدر من حشرة خضرا... لا تستاهل رحلة الى عبوة الفليت... بل فقط غمزها فى قعر أقرب قبقاب... برضه من غير أى انتباه من عينيها... فتقول...

"هو فى رچالة غير فى الصعيد؟ هو فى مرچلة برة الصعيد؟"

وكأى فتاة قاهرية تافهة ، من أصول صعيدية لا أعلم عنها الكثير... توقعت أن ينظر سواق الميكروباص والحشرة الخضراء الى زوجها ويوبخوه عن ما صدر عن "جماعته" أو يطلبوا منه أنه يلمها... ولكنهم غاصوا فى صمت... وتبللت جبهتهم ، الغير بواسعة كثيرا... ولم يجدوا الجرأة أن ينظروا اليها فى عينيها...

كسر سواق الميكروباص ذلك الصمت بمنتهى التردد والتهتهة ليقول "أيوة يا... ستى... أنا أصلا... عندى... أصل صعيدى"... فأنهى أقوى مشهد سادى رأيته فى حياتى.

iPray.

God..

Give me the money to travel around the world,

the seyaعa to always discover good new music,

the health to drink like a vulgar pig,

and the ears to hear you calling me "Mahfouz".

Sea of Beads.

For some reason I’ve been lying in a quick sand of beads for as far as I can remember. It’s been there ever since I was born. I choke on beads, eat beads, shit beads, and breathe beads. I have never had a good sleep… never with eyes closed, back stretched and legs in sloth… beads can’t make beds, can’t make pillows either. I took it for long enough now. Yet something has changed, since early last year. Somewhere along my skin where my hands cannot reach, a hole was created and the beads flood inside of my body, making me heavier, weaker, not fitter… not happier… like a pig stuck in a cage, sometimes on antibiotics. And no amount of alcohol can help me believe the lie I’ve been enforcing upon myself… that I am as strong and I am doing a good job grabbing life and people by the balls, as I always did before… and always survived.

I never stayed long enough, not to call those beads – or anywhere – home. The sea of them beads flows mercilessly and forces change. And I’m sick of change, of light bags, rental houses, evil omens and lie-convincing alcohol. Now all I wanna do is stand right in front of you, look you in the eye and spit out an avalanche of beads right at your face. To be specific, I want to bull-eye your eyes and create holes somewhere along your skin, where your hands won’t be able to reach or sew, and I will fill you with beads… make you a pig dead… in a cage… with no alcohol.

Something in the Way.

Randy 'The Ram' Robinson: Goddamn they don't make em' like they used to.

Cassidy: Fuckin' 80's man, best shit ever !

Randy 'The Ram' Robinson: Bet'chr ass man, Guns N' Roses! Rules.

Cassidy: Crue!

Randy 'The Ram' Robinson: Yeah!

Cassidy: Def Lep!

Randy 'The Ram' Robinson: Then that Cobain pussy had to come around & ruin it all.

Cassidy: Like theres something wrong with just wanting to have a good time?

Randy 'The Ram' Robinson: I'll tell you somethin', I hate the fuckin' 90's.

Cassidy: Fuckin' 90's sucked.

Randy 'The Ram' Robinson: Fuckin' 90's sucked.

Darren Aronofsky's The Wrestler

Nosferatu.

There is no camouflage in the air. Not at all, no. For I stand, a flapper, naked under a short black dress, mounted by a glittery tilted hat and with weaved spider-web stockings around my thighs. There is not even color in the air. It’s all black and white, even my red lipstick… even the black smoke coming out of my cigarette. Passers-by don’t quite grasp it, for they look at me and spit out remains of chewed tobacco at my flapper shoes and look at me with disgust. It’s quite understandable; they are pretty much disappointed at the uncountable Tom Waits strippers I failed to become. I don’t really care that much, lonely towns make lonely flappers.

From time to time, F. Scott Fitzgerald gives me a call on my old 1918 Nokia. I am always standing by that same corner when he calls. I tell him not to worry too much… “Fitzzie, ye need not worry too much,” I always say. He never listens to me, always has to check on me. He’s a nice guy… His sister Ella too. They live uptown now; don’t get to see much of them anymore. Ella sings too. Ella is the flapper all other flappers follow. It’s a lonely lonely corner ever since the Fitzgeralds left. The whole district can agree except that they have them Tom Waits strippers now.

It was a black and white humid Monday when he passed by my corner. It took a minute or two till he spotted my eyes under the piles of black liner I have on. It took less not to spit any chewed tobacco, but a little bit longer to get me on my knees. “All `em Tom Waits strippers you failed te be,” he said as he smeared the lipstick off of my lips, “don’t know what ye will become.”

But Parov Stelar knew… damned well.

حكمة الأسبوع

حديث ما بينى وبين صديقة قديمة جدا ليا.. نسميها اكس يا ريت.. ونسمى الشخص اللى بنتكلم عليه واى

اكس: انا شايفة انك تصاحبى واي

انا: نعم؟

اكس: ايوة.. انتوا لايقين جدا على بعض

انا: ازاى يعنى؟ انا عمرى ما فكرت فيه وانا وهو مننفعش مع بعض

اكس: لازم تفكرى.. الواد تحفة.. ومزة.. وتعرفوا بعض من زمان.. ونفس اللايف ستايل
(مفهمتش اوى ايه لايف ستايل دى بس نعدى يا ريت)

انا: انتى شكلك اتهبلتى

اكس: انتى اللى اتهبلتى.. ما هو يا اختى احسبيها صح
الواد معاه باسبور.. مفكرتيش لما الاخوان يمسكوا هتترمى انتى فى انهى داهية؟

انضف بقى

For those who have gotten close enough to me, they can tell how far I have gone loathing any production created by TV. They have definitely heard me whining and giving speeches about how I puke a little in my mouth because of the bleak lame stupidity-combo present among each TV actor’s face. How my stomach squirms in pain whenever my eyes fall on a scene with too much lightning – like any TV scene should… and would. And further, how I have troubles with my breathing pace whenever they play those fake sounds of people laughing in the background forcing – for some unjustified reason – each and every one of the audience to laugh, all in a herd, all in turn, all in puppet smiles. Oh and let me not forget that words like “episode” and “season” give me goose bumps. Give me time to dwell upon… the dumb script-writing, the repeated jokes, the camera movements… and finally after skipping some dwelling-upon, my worst part, those who sit around me, watch TV productions get obsessed with them or laugh at them. For those who have gotten close enough to me, none of you know that I used to tongue-lash my brother whenever I walked into our living room to see him watching an eye-scarring scene produced by an amateurishly disgusting crew on TV. I used to rush away to force the television apparatus out of my eye sight after I have shouted at my brother…

“انضف بقى”

I have not however, closed all doors, and when finally someone broke through my racist Nazi TV walls, I thought I’d just admit it and share…



Christopher Titus was introduced to me in a setting of a very few favorite people, as all good things get introduced in such settings. Faced by a sigh or two of resistance from my side, which did not last for long, for I have long given up on catering my own personal elite inclinations among the sitting-on-sofas-and-watching-MTV-in-an-air-conditioned-room generation. But Titus was not like any MTV-watching in any air-conditioned room. Finally, someone has written something so wittingly for TV, that made me survive one and two… and three and four “episodes”… someone who speaks a language I understand and have perfectly practiced… someone who knows where I am coming from and went all the way to meet me there… and finally, someone who made me not take notice of all the elements, previously mentioned, that make me feel worse than PMSing while watching a TV production.



Dysfunctional families – or whatever those carefully dressed-up toffee-munching people who love giving big names that sound awful to normal things, give to it – are the main theme of the Titus show. Coming from a family of a psychopathic schizophrenic mother who loves her children for beer-filling her mugs at bars, and a drunkard father who is an expert at self-esteem demolishing and loving his children for being his scapegoats, and finally a brother who takes it all as lightly as Titus does, the scene is weaved, very much like most of that of most of the families I have known. Titus creates a world of sarcasm and light black comedy… giving a middle finger at what the world forces us to see as an ideal family portrait, and how guilty we grow and how self-destructively we follow in the footsteps of what this same world paints to the likes of us… product of “dysfunctional families”.

But no, hell no.

And now the drugs don't work..

Today is Thursday.
I slept in.
I had a pepsi for breakfast.
I saw my therapist.
We talked about you.
We doubled the dosage.
All I can think is
one more time from the beginning.
Let's get it right.
I have nothing else to say.
I will just go watch The Office
and when I laugh out loud I will
look next to me and realize I am alone.

Anonymous

A Moment.

I don't know if this is true to you but for me
sometimes it gets so bad
that anything else
say like
looking at a bird on an overhead
power line
seems as great as Beethoven
symphony.
then you forget it and you're back
again.

Charles Bukowski

Berserk.

Let’s lie down on the wet grass on an autumn morning with my sweatshirt stuffed against my back, allowing damp greenery to ache my stomach strip. Don’t lie on your back, but rather on your side, allow me to be in your sight. Balance your head on one hand and hold the e. e. cummings poetry book with another. Read a poem for me out slowly, as I puff my smoke at God. Give me the book. I shall read one too. By-passers will not grasp my attention and will not interrupt the flow of words out of my lips… nor the smoke.

Allow us to go shop for groceries and buy chocolate bars and coffee jars. On our way home and as you drive, I will remove the branding tickets off of everything we shopped for – for we promised to keep our kitchen brand-free. I shall not litter any street with those removed tickets – let it be ugly or beautiful. I’d keep them in a plastic bag and get rid of them in the trash can on the sidewalk on the right of our house’s door.

Shower. I won’t. I’ll leave the coffee jars in the bag, grab two chocolate bars, and throw them on the table by the sofa. I’ll put on some music and intentionally list two or three tracks to play before “Private Investigations”. I’ll lie again on the sofa with my damp sweatshirt stamped against my back allowing the warmth of home to soothe my stomach strip. By the time you are next to me, it will be one track away from Dire Straits’. By the time we are half way through the chocolate bar, it plays. Lips.

Let’s make babies so that on the days you choose to ignore me, I’ll drive across town to get them to spend time with Omar. He will teach them what they cannot be taught in schools and what they can’t learn from you or me. There is no need to bring up Omar when one of them is always putting ear-speakers and so-not-depressingly feeding on Salinger. They got that from me.

I’ll drive back across town and shop for wine bottles that I shall let the baby in the backseat remove the branding ticket for. I’ll secretly get some bourbon too. But before I throw anything in a trash can, and before I throw any chocolate bars on the table and definitely before I prepare any playlists, I need you to know… My hands are scarred from touching all the wrong people.

Of Fish and Bourbon.

There is a bleak piece of furniture in the only room I can stay the night in these days, which I fail to recognize what it is called. It has four drawers and two compartments where I put all my stuff and I don’t order any of them. Ordered stuff get on my nerves, I mess up my clothes whenever I find them tidy to tell you the truth. If I get into a girl friend’s house and find her clothes ordered according to colour and her shoes according to heels, I secretly declare she’s not a friend anymore. There are a lot of items on that piece of furniture, that I don’t recognize what they’re called, ranging from stuff that I use daily like slim perfume containers and black-framed eyeglasses all the way to shoe boxes that have items inside their hollow stomachs, that I never use. I know you’ve noticed how I’ve remembered the perfume and the glasses, but I like to pretend I forget things. It is a newly acquired habit, for when I actually forget things; I can always blame it on my fish memory. For example, I can save the guilt trips I am forcibly injecting into myself today for forgetting the card I was given by the most important salt-n-pepper haired man in a multinational corporate, on my fish memory that I convince myself I have… but that’s another story.

There is a bleak piece of furniture in my room and the only reason it exists is for a half empty bottle of JnB to sit on.

I get home and that’s all I can stare at.

I travel the distance between my bed and the piece of furniture. I raise a shot. I raise a second. Now I can get back to bed harmlessly and safely. I can get back and convince my body to sleep and beg my mind not to think of today. I don’t want to think of today nor any other day. There are things I have to forget like how I know things are getting from bad to worse, from expected failure to utter failure, from temporary safe to permanent hollow and from phases of vulnerable to classic modeling of lonely.

Years down the line, I might not have a room which I know I shall stay the night in nor the cash to afford proper bourbon. However, I wish I can still depend on bleak pieces of furniture having a cheap bourbon bottle on top and my earned fish memory.

Self-closing Tags.

The younger sister sucks on my knees without any consideration to the bone joints her teeth are carving into. It’s been years since she was born and breast feeding has never really been her thing. She sucked the life out of our mother’s breasts and now years down the line; my knees are the only source for her to feed, to breathe and to smother her ugliness with further life. I throw my head back, at first glance; it looks like it’s out of ecstasy. My upper body on that wooden chair might look like that of a woman getting her long-awaited treat, but when one looks closer, my hair is falling on the floor – out of frail, my lips are growing whiter – out of motherhood. I wish I have the strength to let that groan out. I wish my moans were any audible to express the pain. They’re not though, gratefully not making her misunderstand my pain for wanting her to halt. She never stops; she smothers her lips with blood, teeth with flesh and body with gluttony.

Outside there is night. The suckling sister wolf-runs outside when she hears the footsteps of a man. I fall off the chair, thirsty and drained. I jump unconsciously back and forth between the white light I see when I close my eyes and the sounds of my younger sister being humped outside. I fall for the white light again and she brings me back. Orgasm after another, my little sister saves me for that light was pulling strongly… enough.




Beware of the old lady who brings apples to your house. She stands before me with the classic basket of full ripe apples in her left hand and her fake smile in her inviting right hand to pull me off of the floor. I bite off her hand and spit it inside the basket she holds in her left hand and thus her smile goes back to her more familiar smirk which in turn goes back to her face.

By the time I stood up, she vanished into thin air. I go outside the already open-door and run at full throttle on my four limbs. My hands give me a strong front force as the asphalt cuddles the wounds on my knees and increases them. I run not for very long away from the house but I find myself getting back to it. When I wondered how could I run away from something and still get back to it… I was answered that this world is small.




Whenever he is around, I can’t look at his face. I look down at my naked stomach and I find red rays of sunlight coming out of it. There… there it is my definition of love. The red rays wrap my fair body and choke me against them. When he decides to hold me, I don’t feel any arms nor body – for the rays and straps of light are already pressing too hard on my skin.

I open my eyes to find me still lying on the floor, this time – naked. The rays are gone but a certain pain down there suggests there has been a man – one I have never felt. This time I don’t bother to get off of the floor but I could hear my sister licking the rest of the mud off of my knees so that she can have her brunch.

Thy Button-sewn Eyes.

I’ve been awaiting the new Henry Selick with stretched toes and bitten fingernails. In my opinion, Selick’s peak was in 1993 when he coupled up with Burton’s story to create the immortal “The Nightmare Before Christmas”. Selick’s career so far has been brief and non-vibrant ever since; I personally believe the reasons can be summed up in Selick constantly failing to find a grotesque hard-core dark content that he can fine-tune into a more pleasant film. I mean, working with Burton in the early nineties will definitely leave you for a while starving for an equally mind-blasting content.

Nobody can ever tell if Selick gave up or had a hard time with mediocrity, but then came Neil Gaiman with his 2002 9-pages novella “Coraline”. Frequently compared to Lewis Carroll’s “Alice in Wonderland” and described to have been found scarier by adults more than children, “Coraline” was the awaited content for Selick to convert into his new 2009 stop-motion film. He did a great job, making a festive out of the simple illustrations one can find in a 9-pages comic strip using the concept of stop-motion. The same one used all over by the Burton-infused “The Nightmare Before Christmas” and “Vincent”; defined by Wikipedia as an “animation technique to make a physically manipulated object appear to move on its own”.



My initial reaction after watching the movie was not all that impressed; especially that it had neither a Danny Elfman soundtrack nor any rhyming literature-orgasmic Tim Burton conversations. However, it grew on me, for the rest of the day; I couldn’t get the story out of my mind. I mean, this is sheer genius. Coraline, the unsatisfied ignored-from-her-parents-blue-haired kid gets to find a secret door where she gets inside to get to her “other family” who get her everything she wants and lacks in her “real life” including waves of good food, a better garden, better neighbours, pure attention from everyone’s side… correct pronunciation of her name. However, since there is no such thing as a free lunch, her other mother tells her that she can stay there forever if she wants to, on the one condition of “sewing buttons in her eyes” for her to be just like them. If I read this novella when I was a child, I would have probably been blind by now for I would have definitely tried to sew buttons into my eyes… I mean what sort of grotesque drug was Gaiman on. It had been a long time since someone gave me a simple metaphor I can dwell and day dream about. Coraline left me with a mission of acquiring the novella in my possession – even though this whole possession of things stuff was never really my thing – in addition to his Sandman comic series especially when he gets to introduce Death as the older sister, tag lined “How would you feel if Death was your older sister?” but that’s another story…

كولد تيركى

نسيت شكلك. بأحاول افتكر ملامح وشك وبتيجى وتروح بسرعة قدام عينايا... كأنوار رعاشة على صالة رقص... كل اللى فاكراه منك هو جسمك الضئيل... الضعيف... الممل...

طول عمرى فاكرة أنى بأتشد للناس اللى عارفة هى عايزة ايه... بس لما بأفكر دلوقتى فى أخر اتنين أو تلاتة شدونى على مدار السنة اللى فاتت... كلهم مش عارفين حاجة... وقرروا أنهم ميقرروش... وجسمك الضئيل، الرفيع، الممل كان بيكملى البورترايت ده... بتاع الشاب اللى مش عارف... مش بس مش عارف هو عايز ايه ولكن مش عارف أى حاجة... ضد جميع معايير الصحة التافهة... ضعيف... غير قادر على أى شئ...

من اللحظات المهمة فى السينما وغير السينما... لما يضرب قائد حرب الأرض بركبتيه فى استسلام ضوضائى... درعه على شماله ملقى فى منتهى الهزل، وسيفه على يمينه... وذراعيه مفرودتين أمامه... ليس كمسطرة فارعة قوية ولكن كجزع شجرة هفأ على وشك الانكسار... وعلى وجهه نظرة... "ها؟ ايه تانى؟"... بالنسبة لى ده من أكتر الأشياء المثيرة حاليا... وده اللى شدنى فيك... أنك ضعيف... هفأ... زيى بالظبط.

كل ده دلوقتى مش موجود... اللى موجود بس شوية أنوار رعاشة رقصا على مزيكا اليكترونى... فخورة أنا بالمرحلة دى... وفخورة بأسلوب الكولد تيركى اللى اتبعته عشان أوصلها... الهفأ عمره قصير... يقدم مواساة تافهة يجب أن لا تستمر أكتر من شهر أو شهرين والا تحولت المواساة الا مآساة... وبعديه مفروض يختفى تماما... مش مفروض يظهر فى أى لقاءات اجتماعية خفيفة... مش مفروض يتشاف له صور ولا يتسمع له مكالمات تليفون... مش المفروض يتشاف اسمه على تليفون... بالظبط زى البار مان اللى بتعيطله وانت سكران... بعد لما تفوق مش عايز تعترف بيه أو بأى ارتباط كان يوصلكم...

جسمك الضئيل.. الضعيف.. الممل.. لا يثيرنى حاليا...

Hot Stuff.

Bloody 2009. Everyone around me has lost their job, been laid off, graduated with a 3.68 AUCian GPA and can`t find a job, or got back from an Arab country ball-broken and sucking on their lower lips with disappointment. One missing category is one that includes myself – those losing their jobs slowly... like someone wrapping a plastic bag around their heads for a slow masochistic death. Everyone knows that the IT community has been a melodramatic scene all over the world for the past five months – but we`re Egyptians and this is Egypt, the only immune place on Earth against all sorts of bullshit – unless of course, it has to do with cute slaughtering of 300,000 wild pigs, relating it to religious discrimination and getting the whole world to scratch their heads at what the hell Egyptians were thinking – but that`s another story.

But sigh, how long could this Egyptian shield stand against cancerous recession? They have already halted all sorts of raises, bonuses, allowances, cash-outs, promotions and social events at where I come from. Signs of poverty have already flourished all over my working place – the bathrooms are not working, cold drinking water is a rare commodity, sugar for your coffee is sometimes not a possibility and every white collar neck around me is too depressed – unlike their usual hyper over-excited unjustified bloody annoying optimistic happy attitude – knowing this is only the beginning.

Now here it comes, a twelve year old movie, one that knew very well it shall be appreciated twelve bloody years later. The Full Monty ladies and gentlemen, yes AND GENTLEMEN, is here to tell you that there is always a way out of what seems to be a “fookin` hell”.

This Week's Accquired Fact of Life.

A person who doesn`t drink is more stupid than a person who does. A person who doesn`t drink yet smokes up is the dumbest of them all.

Trentemoller`s Moan.

There are not a lot of things I do for distractions - that is because I don’t do distractions. Yet there are those who master wars of silence and magical powers of killing you with their detachment. Those people exist, and they consume you and eat you out and ruin your day.

One of them actually pushed me to do distractions today. My first trial was Jack White – knowing me, and how all my friends are named Jack. I asked him to wake Meg up and meet me down their alley. It wasn’t long before we were in London, exchanging roles to play Jack’s favorite Bleeding-on-Red-Stripes shooting thing on dull forsaken rooftops. He killed me twice and I confused Meg for having her period several times too.


After lunch in Paris and coffee in Rome, we had the afternoon stroll in Prague. I was walking next to Jack and we were not holding hands, he wasn’t putting his hand on my shoulder and I wasn’t putting my arm around his back. In fact, we weren’t physical at all – knowing me and how odd that is with all my Jacks. He asked me if I was as ugly as he is and I expressed how relieved I was with the fact that he was Meg’s brother, and how this way, I can be comfortably and intensely attracted to both of them – be manipulated by them, enslaved by them, enslaving and sexualizing them with all possible permutations of 3. He let out a brief grin and called for Meg – who was a bit ahead of us. She walked side by side with him, he put his hand on her shoulder and she put her arm around his back.

Meg asked if I talked to Heath today, she didn’t even glance at me as she asked – which made me think her words were drumsticks on my ear drums. I had to disappoint Meg soon and tell her how the person I thought was Heath was only a fake bastard – but I chose not to, I only replied;

“Heath Ledger is dead. He’s expecting us in a few.”

She let out a comfortable rare smile of hers and I thought I heard her say “Okay.”

I went back home to find the fake Heath eaten out by an army of white ants that happens to live under my bed. It made me happy and I kissed the ants one by one because I don’t need to do any distractions anymore. However, I thought I’d still give the Whites a call in a couple of days – after all, I was wearing Meg’s bra.

raison d`etre.

you do it as if it’s natural,
like the puff following the drag,
or the breath following the dive.
you do it as if it’s unnoticeable,
you can even speak in the background,
look around, glance and smile.
you do it and you’re unaware.
you are completely unaware,
that when your finger runs on my skin,
the world stops,
time pauses - my heart stops - my breath stops.
your touch is natural,
like an e. e. cummings poem.
it is my raison d`etre,
yet you are completely unaware.

شو غريب الشكل باياك

- طب وشو قالت أمك؟
- ولا شئ... راحت اشترت حجاب وما بدها تلبس كم قصير
- شو عم تحكى؟
- تعرف شو كمان قال؟ قال المسرح حرام... والسينما حرام... والروك أن رول موسيقى خلاعية.
- شو يعنى خلاعية؟
- يعنى السيكس. وموسيقى السيكس من عمل الشيطان. خد بقى.
- هلا بول أنكا صار عميل للشيطان؟ شو غريب الشكل باياك... طب شو قال عن الموسيقى العربية؟
- قاللى أم كلثوم معلهش.
- أم كلثوم؟؟ ما أم كلثوم ما بتغنى الا السيكس.... عن جد، شو غريب الشكل باياك.

The place we can be alone.

It’s bloody simple really. Never own a wardrobe nor a fancy big mirror in your house and you`ll never have trouble. Don`t spend any money on hanging posters on the four-walled white room and do not… I repeat, DO NOT… hang your clothes properly after you come back dead and tired after a long day. It can be a lot easier, if you stop thinking about owning a dog or a cat or an endangered family of Queen Alexandra’s Birdwing Butterfly… and of course, don`t even consider plants. Always remember that things that run on electricity are better than those which need fire, and those that only need your hands are even better. Don`t cook a meal you don`t want to wash the utensils for. Don`t cook at all, I mean, what`s really better than food that you bring from a third party that only needs you to throw away some bags and cartoon paper after you`re done – kindly forget about the associated environmental guilt. Remember that every few months; you will be invited to a place with full fridges and some fancy almond-fudge-and-rosemary-hinted dip for your movie crackers… never get comfortable. Don’t feel uncertain about inviting people over, only if they don`t come from a full-fridge background – and trust me, most people do. On second thought, invite whoever. Do not envy them. Do not whine. Do not compare.

Kindly note that clothes are recyclable – as you buy new ones, remember you did so because there are old ones that you do not need – and there is someone who does whom you can give them to and can gain you extra points on whatever religious/moral schema you`re following. This makes you pack a lighter bag. This makes you move easier and faster. Do not own a bar, only a bottle or two if you need cocktail them together – I mean, how would you feel if you threw away most of them, or even worse if you had to carry them? However, never make your place void of wine. Red Wine. Dark clothes. A lot of dark clothes. Bleak colors, which match anything and everything. Remember that fashion does not determine which clothes to wear, but rather how tolerable and match-able they are – what good will an orange brown-polka-dotted chiffon scarf do you if you need to wash it every time you wear it?

Friends are recyclable too. Friends are determined by a few dimensions – space, time and money. Don`t get over too intimate with people, because if you lack one of the previously mentioned elements, this intimacy will not be maintained. Thus, don`t feel bad about it and don`t re-evaluate your metrics and standards of whom you should trust or whom you shouldn`t. Everyone is a passer-by and it`s never proven otherwise.

Remember that you are in a position that everyone else wants to be in but they can`t. Think that way. Think that way with a lot of Nutella and the previously mentioned red wine. Whatever you think, just never feel home.

Adagio For Time.

"Dear Mother: I have written to tell you my worrying secret. Now don’t cry when you read it because it is neither yours nor my fault. I suppose I will have to tell it now, without any nonsense. To begin with I was not meant to be an athlete. I was meant to be a composer, and will be I’m sure. I’ll ask you one more thing — Don’t ask me to try to forget this unpleasant thing and go play football. —Please—Sometimes I’ve been worrying about this so much that it makes me mad (not very)."

Samuel Barber - (March 9, 1910 – January 23, 1981)

Hell is not hot.

Save all your efforts. It makes me feel more paralyzed seeing you squirm in front of my eyes, trying and failing and repeating. Everything I fake, I fake it for you. I don`t mind doing it, but I mind you believing it. It makes me feel as if I am acting – which I probably am doing, but I don`t feel it till I am believed. Kindly lie down next to me, let`s watch the stars and hear each other breathe. Let`s pretend we are interested in what we tell each other, it`s ok – we can nod too. I`ll lend you one of my speakers and I`ll let you think now you know what I am all about. Let me lie to you and tell you how I`ve never met anybody who makes me feel like you do. I can linger on about how my life was in its particular normal time frame before you came. Please don`t ask me if I ever smile though, I haven`t memorized those lines yet. Forgive me if I pause for a few seconds before I return your emotional revealing, sometimes I just need to – recollect. I am only here because I have nowhere else to go. You can do all you wish, I am the puppet in your realm that shall not object. But whatever you do, kindly only believe me when I reveal that… I am as ugly as I seem.

Cat Blues.

All of us have grown hearing to all stories about victims. Black people are victims of a go-way-back history of racism. Women are victims of violence, harassment, sexual exploitation and a bunch of big-worded titles that I am not interested in recalling. Palestinians are victims of… of basically everything you can think of. The result behind living such a childhood full of such Utilitarian slavery, is that I am simply not moved anymore. It gets really awkward sometimes, when people are all sympathizing around me and everything, and I can’t help control the muscles of my grin. Furthermore, what’s even worse, is that I get really tense when I find people around me still get “surprised” by things. I don’t think anything in this world is neither surprising nor original. All things have been said and done before so recurrently – like those stories of victims – to the extent that even paying attention to any happening scenario sounds just silly – let alone, indulging in any so devotedly.

Apparently, that’s not the case in the other side of the world…

Now call me a racist, but I am sure all of you have noticed how Americans living in Egypt get all hype, excited and enthusiastic about the dumbest things. I don’t get to deal much with any really, but on the short occasions that I do, I let my friends do the talking. However, last night I was sitting with an American on my right and an Eastern-European on my left. None of who was hot, to at least take away from their unjustified excitement about everything. I was asked if I like cats. I told the truth – “No, I don`t really like them, but I happen to be one.” The American twisted in his chair to look at me as the Eastern European asked how that was possible. I declared that I firmly believe I have cat genes and all, that I carry the whole cat-like attitude and manners in addition to physical traits like my eyes switching color according to mood and light. They were all so impressed and I was suddenly surrounded by gasps and no-ways and wows and all. I tell you, it filled me with goose bumps. So I fought back by simply continuing to hold my serious face and controlling my grin’s muscles on a very rare occasion… and I said with question marks all over my cat-like hair… “I am not so sure whether it was my dad or my mom who decided to sleep with a cat though.”

Their wows and no-ways faded into a very awkward situation that their waves of sudden silence could not mop away. That’s it. Nobody laughed. Nobody found humor in what I was saying. So I just kept my serious face and turned the whole thing into a really serious wondering business of who my cat male and/or female ancestor might be. I tell you, it’s a rough rough world out there.

It`s not April.

A friend of mine just sent me those. Mo was having a smoke outside his corporate premises when he stumbled over those couple in heat.. It`s not even April and lust is in the air..




I absolutely heart them.

Vitiligo.

Bleak white paint can fall off any building in Cairo – it`s not particularly the least polluted place in the world. It falls off buildings in chunks and has a random vitiligo sort of look. However, there is this particular building in Heliopolis that faces one of Cairo`s most classy most expensive sporting clubs. It also happens to face the residence of our president. The second floor’s balcony is the only balcony of the building that has its paint off – in a random vitiligo sort of front. Now that’s not a very important thing for anyone to notice really - not the people going inside the club on wheels costing hundreds of thousands of pounds and not to the people standing in public transport buses waiting wrathfully for the parade of black cars to pass by as the First Lady goes out to do some shopping. It is a noticeable fact to tree counters, but that`s another story.

That other sunny morning there was a woman standing in that balcony. She seemed quite pissed. She was shouting at the top of her lungs, her hair seemed rough and has probably been uncombed for years. There was this vibe that she has been beaten up… psychologically as well as physically. It was quite awkward, for I tried to see what or who she was shouting at there was only the sporting club, the presidential residence, two lanes to allow herds to come and go in addition to the famous Heliopolis railway. It was too theatrical, for she was using her four limbs to let out her what-seemed-to-be endless recurring state of wrath. I could feel it… I mean, she seemed quite pissed. There was nobody staring at her but me. I was there for ten minutes, during which she only went inside the flat only once to only come out and resume more dramatically her fight-against-nobody-in-particular. It has occurred to me that her only wish was to locate a physical target – and only then perhaps, her verbal monologue of anger can turn into a physical bloody orgasm of violence.

It has also occurred to me the paint has fallen off her vitiligo balcony by her years-long persistence scratching of the walls. I mean, she seemed like she had gruff nails and all.

Swimming Pool.

Imagine a world that has an Ingmar Bergman, without actually the Ingmar Bergman inside Ingmar Bergman. I have sat for a film course that required me to watch Bergman over a cold Fall semester in Cairo, at least once a week. I really know the ups and downs of that dead director corpse like the palm of my hand. He has a few good glitches, one has to admit. But it wasn`t until tonight, that I have realized, that one can enjoy a Bergman`s Persona without the awkward Bergman clichés that force your blood to boil, your toes to tap and you to bite your nails.

Swimming Pool – Francois Ozon


I am just a Charlotte Rampling whore.

افهموها بقى

"بجد أنا ذنبى ايه؟
أنا تعبانة أكتر منك...
أنا عند ستو... محدش عارف حاجة...
أرجوك رد على...
هأموت نفسى لو مردتش عليا...
أنا عايزاك جنبى ومحتاجة لحضنك...
والله هموت نفسى بجد"

لابسة فستان سواريه لسة مخلصش وواقفة على كرسى بلاستيك عشان الترزى يقدر طول الكعب. حواليا مليون مراية ولقيت الرسالة دى جت على الموبايل من نمرة غريبة. الأول افتكرته واحد بيستظرف عايزنى اكلمه اسأل مين لأن ده بقى الطبيعى خلاص... وبعدين قلت ممكن تكون واحدة وباعتة لنمرة غلط... طبعا عشان انا قلبى حنين قلت هأكلمها لما أخلص البروفة واقولها أن النمرة غلط... انا قلبى حنين اه بس مش لدرجة انى اقاطع الترزى يعنى... وعموما اللى بينتحروا بيترددوا شوية... فأكيد معايا ومعاها وقت... بس بلاش ننسى أنى مسطولة، فنسيت اكلم النمرة... الكلام ده كان امبارح...

النهاردة افتكرت الموضوع تانى... وضميرى وجعنى يعنى... وقعدت بقى اسأل نفسى طب لو الأنسة الروشة دى أنسة رومانسية وكدة... وعملت أى حاجة فى نفسها... عشان فاهمة أن الدنجوان نفضلها وأكيد مخها الدرامى هيوصلها أنه أكيد بيخونها وعشان كدة مش بيرد... وطبعا البنات فى حوارات الخيانة دى ممكن تموت نفسها أو يجيلها انهيار عصبى بالمستريح...


أنا: الو

هى: ايوة؟

أنا: حضرتك بعتيلى مسج امبارح

هى: لأ مبعتش حاجة... مين معايا؟

أنا: أنا صاحبة النمرة اللى بتتصل بيكى... وانتى بعتيلى مسج

هى: طب قلت فيها ايه؟

أنا: قلتى انك هتموتى نفسك وان محادش عارف حاجة وأنك عند ستك

هى: أه انا بعت المسج دى لخطيبى

أنا: لأ انتى بعتهالى أنا... وأنا قلت أقولك لحسن تفتكرى أنه بينفضلك ولا حاجة... وتموتى نفسك وذنبك يبقى فى رقبتى

رقعت ضحكة من النوع بتوع الأفلام العربى اللى حافظين مش فاهمين وعايزين يبينوا أن صاحبة الضحكة فتاة ليل ذات خبرة
هى: يا حبيبتى ميرسى أوى... أنا كنت باعتة المسج دى لخطيبى بس هو أصله عامل الخاصية دى يا أختى اللى هى لما تتصلى بيه يقولك الموبايل مقفول وهو لا مقفول ولا نيلة

أنا: أه عارفاها.. دى مودية ناس كتير فى داهية

ضحكة أعلى من الأولانية
هى: أه ولاهى... انا اسمى مروة

أنا: ازيك يا مروة، أنا مبسوطة أنك مموتيش نفسك

هى: لأ يا حبيتى متخافيش عليا... احنا بنهدد بس يعنى... بس ميرسى أوى أوى يا حبيبتى

أنا: طيب يا مروة... المهم أنك فرفشتى... سلام أنا بقى

هى: باى يا جميلة


قالتلك احنا بنهدد بس... افهموها بقى...

Legs, Wheels and Rails.

I walk for hours. I stopped counting trees and streets as I do. Street after the other, song after the next and wet tissues are left as my breadcrumb. It is as dull as that. Sometimes, I crave for action though. I walk late at night in dark secluded streets and daydream of a bunch of idle guys stopping me with a small knife or two asking for all the money I have. I also daydream about not giving it to them and insulting them coldly without blinking. Sometimes, I daydream about them hurting me and leaving me with scars, and running away with it, but I never daydream of letting go of my bag or wallet. Sometimes, a bleak car stops by interrupting my daydreams. Usually, I drift to walk on the sidewalk, thus making it clear that I am not for sale… but sometimes, I daydream about getting in and sticking a knife or two between his legs – yes, the ones I stole from the bunch of idle guys, again without letting go of my bag or wallet.

When my phone rings, I never hear it. But when I do feel it, I get really pissed. It usually interrupts my daydreams and my trail of wet tissues. However, that doesn’t really happen much. I am just playing popular over here… my phone never really rings. It did a lot today though, because it happens to be Christmas and people happen to believe am Christian and all. And it pissed me off… it really did. But I never really hear it…

When I am not walking, I am on public transport. I love buses, only if I am sitting by the window’s side. I stopped counting streets and trees as I ride… I promise I stopped. Sometimes, it’s too public though, and people can spot my eyes getting wetter and wetter, but I am too lucky, for when that happens, I find a man asking me for my ticket. I fiddle all over my many winter pockets and get him out all the tickets that don’t belong to this bus line. That’s when my eyes stop getting wet, because you know, it’s not really funny anymore. The man looks at me and tells me that it’s fine – because he really thinks am sexy and good looking and all and that is enough for him to make him bend the basic rule of his job. Right after the man gets out of the bus, I find my ticket though, sometimes I want to stick it in every passenger’s eyes staring at me with the what-a-hot-lucky-bitch expression… but I don’t do that, I just stare outside again and work on getting my eyes wet.

I am thinking currently of stopping at every Metro station, getting out of it and walk for an hour or so around the surrounding region. I am thinking of doing that over the weekend, but I am not sure which areas will be more suitable for day and which will be more suitable for the night. It really excites me that there are a lot of Metro stations, let alone two lines.

I walk for hours.