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.