الى كل المصريين المحموقين مع احداث غزة

يا سيدى، اغفر لهم... لأنهم لا يعلمون ماذا يفعلون
لوقا 34:23

Eyes Up, Jaw Down.

The bartender understood perfectly that I am the only woman he shall not crave for, for he didn’t want to lose my weekly drunken session of confessions. I didn’t want to start lying to him either. Our meetings have been mostly weekly, not before eleven or so. I didn’t like walking into that blues bar with them couples sober enough to notice me or them solo men unlucky enough not to have found a lady companion for the night. I’d slip in around midnight, take my place on the bar and exchange a nostalgic hello with the bartender.

The bartender also understood perfectly that I love fooling myself that I am not a bourbon addict, and thus pours me martini and vodka in V-shaped glasses for the first hour or so. It doesn’t take long before I am devoured from those cheap perfume drinks and I give in to bourbon.

For some reason, I was dressed in a silver dress that night. I gave in to the flapper inside of me mercilessly. And what are my nights really but a series of give-ins?

I didn’t spend that much time at my usual bar seat. For when Tom Waits started disciplining his piano, with his half dimmed eyes trying to shield his irides from his intensive smoking habits, I was sitting at his feet on the glossy floor. My head was tilted on the leg of the black drunken piano and my thighs were spread on the floor. The whole idea was to stare at him from that angle, my eyes pulled upwards, my jaw dropped downwards. His face through his instrumental piano hands pretended I was not there. Without looking back at the bar, I could tell the bartender was jealous. However, through the V-shaped bourbon trip and the helplessness at Tom’s feet; he showed me what it is to love a man.

Just Throw It.

As we were having lunch at work, it was inevitable to speak about the Bush incident and watch it over and over again on TV with the satisfied fairy-tale-like expressions on everyone's faces. The mockery spark was born, and we brainstormed different ideas on how this will be a rich soil for a lot of parodies in the upcoming period. I particularly suggested an idea about a Nike ad. An hour later... a graphic designer colleague who was sitting on the same table sent me this...



It seems like it was hastily made.. but thought I'd share it with you.

Confessions to come.

Let’s face it. I am 22, good-looking and single on my official papers. Hence, it became my mother’s weekly habit to insinuate the presence of prospect grooms who talk to her personally or to members of our bigger Orthodox family about “tying the knot”. The first time this happened – which was right right after my graduation, I have sunk into a great state of bewilderment and relative depression. I had to talk my grandmother and my aunt (whom I considered my favorite person among this very big fat family) out of it. Using many conversational tools I have acquired, including seriousness, anger, sarcasm and light humor to indicate that this topic is out of question. Notice that I never had to talk my mother out of it, because this lady has known me well enough to fear approaching me on such topics. Instead, she asks other ladies of the family to talk to me about it.

I have gained a great deal of immunity though, which has always been the case with my family matters that force a psychological war. Thus, every time my mother re-opens the subject, I nod without attention, fall silent watching TV waiting for her to finish speaking about this week’s groom, maybe say a sentence or two along the lines of “Elly feeh el kheir, ye3meloh rabena”. However, today was a little bit different.

She started the conversation the way she always does… “A male friend of mine…” I also interrupted the way I usually do, without glancing at her “ya mama er7ameeny, 3arees tany?” And she spat out the usual… “ya benty sebeeny akamel”… And I helplessly gave in, to the TV’s remote-control of course. Today, the keyword “forty-five” caused me to pause my aimless switching through the channels, to squirm on the sofa in order to force my body to face her and attentively listen. She concluded “…I was really shocked and I just told him, I am sure you’ll meet the right woman”. I asked if he was really forty five. She nodded. My second question was… “Do you mean he has salt and pepper hair?” She nodded again. I spat out; “Shit, that’s hot”. My mother looked at me that confused look of hers… the one I know very well.

Worthless.

You realize you are a worthless bitch when in one week you’ve heard about five murders and three rape accidents in Cairo and have witnessed a demonstration about the welfare of atomic energy scientists in Nasr City… and all you can daydream about is shooting yourself in the head.

Fear tastes.

Things are not going to be okay. I thought time will heal a lot of things and I put a lot of stake on it, but nothing can help me out of this. I am not miserable... I am scared. I think for the first time in my life, my knees are shaking of tomorrow. Partially because I know my misery will never go away, but more importantly, because of the recent changes I have been witnessing.

I've been buying Vodafone cards only to find there are ones in my wallet that I haven't consumed and I don't even remember when I bought them. I've been forgetting appointments I apparently gave to people. I've been forgetting names of people. Lack of concentration is a bitch - and it won't be long before I lose my job. I've been forgetting all those little details that seem so little to everyone but seem like mega sins to any corporate fella. Last week, I sent an email to a client in the UK without a subject header - can you fucking imagine? I've been boasted off with for the past years at my mastery in verbal and written communication... but alas, I am a mediocre 22 year old maid who can't tell what day is today without looking at her Windows blue tool bar. I am failing constantly to be the corporate bitch because of my lack of concentration, and at those depression times, it won't be long before several corporate bitches slit each others' throats to take my place.

That's not where it stops... After I lose my job and I am penniless, I will probably go down a Heliopolis street to have a walk for a break or so, because that will be all I can afford. However, even then, I shall hurt myself greatly. Last night, I walked into an iron piece hanging out of a wall and it hit my forehead and glasses... I am so lucky it didn't break my glasses or I would have lost my sight, but now my forehead is swollen greatly. Furthermore, I nearly killed myself crossing the street three times in the past seven days because I can't 'concentrate' enough to remember to look sideways for crossing cars.

Thus, I am scared. And I am scared greatly. I am scared I will wind up as a victim of tasteless repetition. I am scared I will always be a slave to heartbreaks... an open door for a man to come inside, break and shatter my insides, light his cigarette out with his foot on the floor of me and leave without a word. I am afraid, very afraid, I will have to spend more time thinking about how to avoid my parents' pressure than ever wondering what do I want for myself. I am scared I will never get out of my past... I will always suffer yearning and nostalgia to people who were never deserving. I am... only afraid.

بتنجان

“I could say,” her mother went on, “that living among the hakujin* has tainted you, made your soul impure, Hatsue. The lack of purity envelops you – I see it every day. You carry it with you always. It is like a mist around your soul, and it haunts your face like a shadow at moments when you do not protect it well. I see it in your eagerness to leave here and walk in the woods in the afternoon. I cannot translate all of this easily and except as the impurity that comes with living each day among the white people. I am not asking you to shun them entirely – this you should not do. You must live in this world, of course you must, and this world is the world of the hakujin – you must learn to live in it, you must go to school. But don’t allow living among the hakujin to become living interwined with them. Your soul will decay. Something fundamental will rot and go sour. You are eighteen, you are grown now – I can’t walk with you where you are going anymore. You walk alone soon, Hatsue. I hope you will carry your purity with you always and remember the truth of who you are.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

*hakujin: The white people.


سبحان الله.. كلام الأمهات لازم يكون فيه جو البتنجان.. سواء الأم فى الأصل مصرية أو من اليابان..

Fuck Me.

Since the author of this blog is everyone's spoiled brat, and thus finds random movie files on the hard disk of their laptop - while they have no clue how they got there...



..they are obliged to pay it forward.



Thus, the author of this blog recommends you to..



Baise Moi.

:/

She refused to tell me her name. Google refused to tell me her name. She poured half the bottle of gin down her throat the way she always did. Purgatorio looked at her then stared at his gin bottle. Before she put the bottle down, he had already poured himself another drink… with ice - crushed. I stopped him from raising the glass to his mouth and put him some lemon remains. He stared at me and all he said was “:/”.

I never was able to break my mirrors.

Stills... are only stills.

Those photographers with black cameras stuck to their noses and grinning mouths to fake looking indulged and professional drive me crazy. Photography was never an art - I am sure I. G. will agree with me on that. To me, photography is too new age, too kitschy – too “Paolo Coello” to say the least. If we go a few years back – four or so, one could have taken a Calculus book or two and went to Cilantro Merghany to study on a Friday morning. That was always a quite resort – apart from all the domestic civil wars and all. But then… things grew too quiet. One Friday morning, I was solving some mathematical problems on Integration by Parts and I looked up for a second away from the Calculus drill, to see everyone around me has grown long – but not too long - hair, smoked Kent cigarettes, held a Paolo Coello book in one hand, an American coffee mug in the other and had an expensive mobile phone on the table – that can save several ringtones to several people, but which had Buddha Bar’s “Secret Love” as its one and only ringtone.

The air grew too stinky… I left… to no avail of course.

Now those people wear out their eyes on a Brazilian journalist’s cheap philosophical words in the morning and spend the money left in their pockets – after extravagantly spending it in Diwan Zamalek and Cilantro Merghany, and isn’t that what’s money is made for my dear new-age intellectual friend? – at night, on photography classes and tripods and camera accessories. Then comes the harder part… what should be photographed.

If you are not a photographer, you will not understand what kind of a-fucking-important-thing-this-is. Those people go far… real far. There are several types. The most expected of which are the nature sissies. Those spend whatever money is remaining in their pockets – after the Diwan Zamalek, Cilantro Merghany and make-Kodak-a-bigger-corporation shopping spree – on trips to places you probably never heard of – which is the part I greatly appreciate. However, after our devoted photographer has travelled by bus with other fellow photographers or by his new-age Jeep Cherokee to a place that is very far far away and full of desert and some stones they refer to as mountains and after our devoted photographer takes them pictures and satisfies his/her sissy sexuality towards Mother Nature… you look at them pictures and you just wanna look them in the eyes and tell them that they could have just drove to Sha2 Al Te3ban or to the stones-full Wadi Degla to capture the same exact photos of some sands and some stones – but you wouldn’t wanna tell them that, after all nature sissies can be quite amusing in other aspects of life – of which I can’t remember any right now.

Nature sissies are very easy to spot and are the gum that loses its sweetness after a very very short while. The more interesting kind is the intellectual highly-educated new age stratum of detectives. Those Sherlock-Holmes of photography have such a sharp eye – you wouldn’t want to fart in their presence. The first step is that they spread in poor areas or areas that are so very full of “culture” – sigh, I have to use their vocabulary for a second, bear with me. The trick is that the more the photo they capture satisfies two elements, the more they get too proud of themselves and each goes home – him thinking he has a bigger sexual organ and her thinking she has bigger boobs. The first element is how contradictory is the picture to the bourgeoisie-ness of your expensive camera… for example, picture that street kid who is too dirty and is begging for a McDonald’s fry off of your lunch, or that door porter sipping on tea and dragging on a Cleopatra “Soopaarrr” – the more your picture reflects agony of the Egyptian nation and the more it is an option for a cheap Leftist newspaper, the more you gain points. See, here comes the feeling of purpose and hey-I-just-found-an-existentialist-answer sort of pride. The second element is how the elements in the picture appear as if they didn’t know the picture was being taken – even though the flash is made to blind them, but never mind. Now that’s very easy to achieve with things that don’t breathe – like a sheesha that you pay 1.25 pounds for (remember, we are in a poor area) or a broken wooden window pane. However, things get slightly more complicated as you take pictures of begging children or door porters – thus, our devoted photographer might want to tip them to pretend they don’t notice his flashy existence.

Another type of our devoted photographers is them with a details-fetish. Now those can take 9 to 99 pictures of those tiny salt and pepper containers found on restaurants’ tables, put them up on Facebook, add a caption to each and every one of them and never bother to convince the world of the difference between those bunch of pictures that just look the same to me – let alone the need to take one in the first place – because they “know” their artistic sense of “details-capturing” is well communicated. I will not indulge into details about this kind – I dated one of them.

Let’s be fair, though. There is this guy whom I consider the only Egyptian photographer who has any taste and style to what he’s doing. But again to me photography, will always be an everlasting failing technique to bring soul to stills… and soul cannot be flavored with poses nor with expensive devotion – but rather with drunken smiles on a table having some empty bottles of wine on it and perhaps a caption saying “Cairo 2005”, “Alexandria 2006”, “Beirut 2009”…

Necessary Invitations.

Mr. Mahmoud Hemeida-

You are cordially invited for a French billiards game. This will be an all day event and it is going to take place between our steel brain compartments – serving as the sides of the French table. We have been informed that you prefer snooker; however, the steel lacks the pockets. In addition, French billiards has proven to be very existentialist and supreme, in the sense that no one ever gets the whole point of it. You are encouraged to bring a friend; in fact, you are encouraged to bring your Catholic snooker companion – the one who owns our favorite Snooker and Billiards place and who usually stares at our curves as we miss our shot. If not, you can always French your score on a sole basis. Your favorite drinks will be served with topless escorts. There is no dress code – unless you want to have one. It won’t be necessary to have any clothes in the first place.

Your acceptance of this invitation will bring a lot of purpose and gratitude to our steel brain compartments.

Thank you.

Jigsaw falling out of place.

Just as I grab your attention,
Just as you write my number down,
Just as our drinks arrive,
Just as they play your favorite song,
Just as I read your book,
Just as you read mine,
Just as you pay attention,
Just as you hold my hand,
Just as you light your cigarette,
Just as you want to kiss me right here right now,
Just as you think you touched me,
Before we pretend we’re there,
Before you get bored,
Before you hang up on me,
Before you run away,
Before I get lost between the notes,
Just as I dance,
Before you hurt my eye balls,
Before we pretend our lives are great,
Before we lie to each other,
Before you glance back,
Before I pretend I don’t,
Just as I dance, dance, dance,
Come on, let it out – not just once, not just twice,
Just as the beat goes round and round and round,
Pay attention… jigsaw falling out of place.

My second blog.

Check out my second blog :)

About Me.

Sometimes I make love to Thom Yorke.

زيارات عشتار

لا أفقه كثيرا فى الطب النفسى... ولكنه مهنتى التى أجبرت عليها وورثتها أبا عن جد... لا أشعر بشئ تجاه أى من زوارى المرضى... ولا أشعر بالشفقة... فى ما عدا واحدة...

تزورنى عشتار حوالى ثلاث مرات شهريا... تدخل من باب مكتبى وتنظر الى سريعا وتحيينى... ولكن لا تحيينى بيدها.... تجلس على الكرسى أمامى وتنظر الى الأرض من خلال شباك سيقانها... أحيانا تشعل سيجارة... ومعظم الوقت لا تبكى... تشكو عشتار من حياتها العاطفية... والجنسية... تشكو من الوحدة ومن الاحباطات التى تنهال عليها...

تجبرنى عشتار على أن ابتكر لها حلول ونصائح فى كل زيارة لها... وأشعر أنها تعلم أنى أغير منها أحيانا وأحبها أحيانا أخرى... منذ اسبوعين أعلنت لى عشتار كم حبها لموسيقى جو كوكر... فنصتحها فى أن لا تخلع قبعتها أبدا...

أما هذه المرة... فنصحتها أن تستمر فى ارتداء نظاراتها...

:)

Push Thy Glasses.

Mothers wear glasses. They can’t formulate full sentences either. Thus, the mother walks on the school’s playground with steady steps, as if her high heels don’t sink in the sand or anything. She is too impatient and bothered about why she had to go pick up her daughter, who was detained, for reasons that weren’t revealed on the phone.

Mrs. Madelene also wears glasses. She can formulate long full sentences, for she is the English teacher. Her sentences are grammatically correct too. Mrs. Madelene isn’t as fashionable as the lady with the steady steps walking on the playground who is approaching her. Mrs. Madelene usually pushes up her glasses with her middle finger.

The daughter doesn’t wear glasses. She doesn’t formulate sentences at all. She has hair of equal length and no waves. She has straight lips with no curvatures or smiles. She also has blank eyes that blink mechanically. The daughter sits in a room not so far from the playground, and bets Mrs. Madelene is pushing up her glasses using her middle finger.

The English teacher smiles at the mother. The mother returns the smile coldly. Time seems to stroll slower and slower to the mother, as Madelene starts speaking of weird issues that the mother doesn’t seem to comprehend at all. Weird issues include her daughter’s odd behavior, isolation, silence, insecurities, skepticism and a whole lot of other words that only English teachers say and understand.

Daughters don’t speak to mothers, especially fashionable mothers. There is something about a fashionable mother that turns off the tongue of a little girl, as if it’s a locked door that has a “Do Not Disturb” sign. Fashionable mothers pity English teachers with vast sweaters and short manly hair. They constantly steal looks at their watches in presence of them, teachers.

Mrs. Madelene may be an English teacher, but she still is smart. She spots the mother’s boredom and impatience towards their conversation. She may be an English teacher, but she oddly has temper. She scolded the mother in a rough tone about how she should spend more time talking to her daughter versus her hairdresser.

Fashionable mothers are mean and weak. After demeaning Mrs. Madelene and taking her daughter into the car, she thinks about what the teacher told her. It doesn’t make much difference if the mother screwed the teacher over; she still knew she had a point.

“But nobody wants to play with me…” the daughter replied, as she pushed her mother’s glasses up her nose using her middle finger.


Drawing by Bashir M. Wagih

Prisoners don`t make love.

There are doors. Doors usually have knobs, sometimes a glass window that is not so see-through. Some doors have only knobs from the outside, those are prison doors. Prison doors usually have an opening at the bottom that closes and opens also from the outside. Prisoners cocoon behind prison doors. Prisoners sometimes sit, sometimes pee in a rusty stinky toilet that is in the very same cell. The toilet doesn’t have a mirror hanging somewhere near it. Prisoners sometimes sleep like embryos, sometimes they graffiti using their scratchy finger nails. Prisoners don’t make love. They don’t wear watches. They definitely don’t know what day is today either. Free citizens make love. Free citizens plan vacations. Free citizens save money for their phone bill to have romantic phone calls at night. They pity prisoners. Prisoners pity them back. Prisoners don’t want to be free citizens and they don’t want to hear anything about their activities.

There are prison personnel. Prison personnel have gruff voices. They have big bellies. Prison personnel use very bad vocabulary. They slip plates through the openings at the bottom of prison doors for the prisoners. Prisoners never want those plates, but the opening only opens from the outside as previously mentioned. The plates are persistent. Plates will contain news about American elections. They will tell prisoners about Sarah Palin’s new sex toys and the phone number of her hairdresser. Prisoners don’t have hair. The plates tell prisoners that, a 100-years later, it is 1929 all over again. The plates will tell prisoners, who do not eat, that they will starve and their families will starve and their children, yet to come, will starve too. Prisoners don’t make love. Plates are honest; they will tell prisoners they look ugly, old and cocooned. Prisoners never have a mirror. Prisoners never understand why they are forced their plates each day… for all they need is to sleep like embryos.

Prisoners pretend to sleep like embryos, hoping plates will grow empty.

1- "If I go down the street to buy a pack of smokes..."

There are a lot of things that I hear and I really think how much I want to be put in a situation where I can say such utterances. This "Put On My Lips" series focuses on this list.

1- "If I go down the street to buy a pack of smokes, I'll walk into nine men you've fucked."

The Boondock Saints.

Sanity is easy.

I am the sanest person that you're going to meet. Yes, I tell you, my sanity is something that people sets examples with... all the time. It's true, if you don't believe me go ask anybody we both know, I can give you my parents' numbers too. Everyone enjoys my company, they like it when I speak and when I listen, everyone loves my jokes, I always have a large table with a lot of booze, laughs and people. The people are never the same each year, but it doesn't matter. I have a few flaws - but again, they are made up for by my big table. I mean, it's not a big deal if I cry all the time, is it? Today, I cried when I listened to Massive Attack's "Live With Me". I also cried when I watched the court scene from Kramer Vs. Kramer when Meryl Streep was asked if she thought she was a failure at the most important relationship she ever had. My blanket had cherries, hearts and flowers drawn on it, so I cried. My mother cooked then asked me how I was, so I cried. My father told me that the door porter's son died this morning, so I corrected him and said "you mean the little girl?", he nodded, so I cried. In the elevator, on my desk, in the bathroom, in Aldo - the Korba branch, during conference calls to the United Kingdom and the United States... I am a crying devotee. Sometimes, I am on my way to meet people - who love it when I speak and love it when I listen - but my parents decide to go out as well, so I make a few phone calls pretending I am sick and nauseatic and can't make it to my big table, yes the one with a lot of booze and laughs... so that I can stay home alone and cry. I mean, one wouldn't waste such a chance of uninterrupted crying, would they?

It's easier to win. It's easier to be a healthy woman, with a bright face, shining eyes, expensive perfume and well-done hair. It's also very feasible to lead a healthy relationship, one that's full of big tables that are full of people and laughs, the sounds of cheek kisses, cell phones declaring the arrival of late night messages and choosing the same plate off two different menus. Again, it's a lot easier to smile in photos and to choose to answer your cell phone. Easy to remember the names of the actors rather than the director and easy to have your picture taken rather than take somebody's. I mean, isn't it very easy to call up a friend and blabber thoughts and complaints instead of sending letters to yourself? It's easier to befriend popular women whose photos come up in magazines with a caption saying "ياسمين وميار والجميلات" rather than the girl at the back. The capability to laugh at weakness, that's a piece of cake too, in addition to making fun and public ridicule. It's easier to hate Radiohead and Anathema. Impressing people and having them yearn for the next time they meet you, is also very easy. It's a favored easy thing to make fun of addicts and women and people who are biased-against without any second thoughts. It's easier to go mainstream, to be liked and loved and favored and yearned for. It's easier to be a hero, to be a slave to drama, to make a god out of Ledger because he overdosed... I am a loser - but still the sanest person you're ever going to meet.

Murk inside, murk outside.

“I am supposed to act like they aren’t here, assuming there is a ‘they’ at all. It may just be my imagination. Whatever it is, that’s watching… it’s not human. Unlike little dark-eyed Donna, it doesn’t ever blink. What does a scanner see? Into the head? Down into the heart? Does it see into me – into us – clearly or darkly? I hope it sees clearly because I can any longer see into myself. I see only murk. I hope for everyone’s sake the scanners do better. Because if the scanner sees only darkly, the way I do, then I’m cursed… and cursed again… and I’ll only wind up dead this way… knowing very little… and getting that little fragment… wrong… too.”


A Scanner Darkly - Philip K. Dick

no-reply@companydomain.com

Dear Tinkerbell-

This email is sent to you upon nobody’s request. Personally, I felt the need to send it to do myself a favor. You might not understand this, because you do not vent out your disgust when you are filled with it, instead you suck it inside. Upon observing you, I realized this is not a very healthy trend to follow – thus my disgust is to become a subject of this letter.

I have known you now for around six weeks. You probably never noticed me because you are self-indulged, even though we spend quite some time together on a daily basis. It is needless to mention that we are not friends, even though I thought that this is going to change by time and I wanted it to. You can be stuck in an elevator for six hours with somebody you don’t know and you won’t bother to initiate a conversation, because you believe the probability that you will not be disappointed is too low. However, from what I have seen during the past period of time, I do not think I want to commit such a crime to myself – your friendship or even companionship.

Tinkerbell, self-indulgence isn’t your sole problem. Let me rephrase; self-indulgence is too light to describe what you have. You move in a bubble and you do not wish to change that. You know that your five senses collect data that aren’t necessarily accessible by others, and you do not wish to give this up. Thus, you are a very selfish creature, indulged in your own needs and world, separated from what everyone around you want to take from you or even give to you. The words you utter out that are not in the form of a song’s lyrics are too minimal. The number of people you trust, who don’t happen to be dead, musicians or movie-makers, doesn’t deserve to be mentioned. You have absolutely no friends.

In addition to the increasing self-indulgence, you are going to suffer from decreasing self-confidence. Every day I have to look at your miserable face and I have to tolerate it. Your unhealthy hair, your eyes that squint, fragile skin, elf ears and weak physique send me an unbearably negative vibe. Let alone your pathetic moves; your playing with your hair, your restless legs, the veins that show on your hands upon different movements, your breath… They all give me something that I can hate just for the sake of doing it, and isn’t that what you do? You hate things and people, undeserving of your bubble, just for the sake of it? I forgot to inform you, that as I was forced to stare at your stagnant face today; I noticed a white hair growing on your left side. It is right in the front of your face, Tinkerbell. All your hair is going to turn white and your eyes won’t remain magnetic for long. The people that try to get to you will decrease day by day as you turn into a bubble – that is not so beautiful. I wait that day impatiently.

I do not feel any sort of sympathy or compassion as I tell you all of this. Why should I when those who should care about you… simply don’t? Let’s start by your family, who constantly fail to touch any trail of your isolated island. Your friends? I already told you… none. Sometimes a man can be interested in your magnetic eyes – that won’t stay so for long, as I previously mentioned – but it takes a maximum of a month before he realizes how worthless you are.

I tell you all of this, Tinkerbell, partially because I just want you to feel worthless as much as I think you are. I also want to fill you with self-loathing. However, more importantly, I tell you this, because I hope you can do me and yourself a favor and stop showing up every day for me to stare at your face for hours. I don’t care where you rot, but don’t make it here.


Thanks,

Dell Desktop Screen,
Company Name
no-reply@companydomain.com

One thousand rules and one.

I am having an excessively exciting reading experience on this.

It's been such a long long time since I said such a thing. I wonder if he wants to adopt any 22 year old women. If not, then I wonder if he wants to marry one.

Napalm Love.

That’s the truth. That’s the simple bloody truth. Tomorrow I will wake up early in the morning, will snooze the alarm for 15 minutes, or sinfully for 20 if I was to give myself a treat. I will turn on my laptop, to put on some music that I don’t really wanna listen to, then leave it to go shower. I won’t forget to put some water to boil. As I get out of the shower, all dressed and smelly with glittery body lotion, I will pour myself a hazelnut flavoured cappuccino. I’d probably munch on some biscuits, sip on the cappuccino, listen to some music and stare at a white and blue website that I’ve been checking for a while now. That will probably take around 20 minutes, my lazy morning treat. I’ll get down and I’ll good-morning a door porter, whom I don’t really like but have no authority to just burst into his face and tell him how much I just hate his guts for no apparent reason. Apparently, I just nicely good-morning him, because he has a nice wife and a nice little girl – so basically two women save his ass every morning, but that’s another story. I get out my mp3 player and I stick the two headphones in my ears, and the bloody thing always plays “Napalm Love” as the first track, in other words, it has the same seed for its random number generator – but I wouldn’t want this talk to go any more technical. I cross the street and then cross a very big square with a lot of intersections. If this was any normal day, I’d walk for a couple of blocks and await my usual bus to work. But no, tomorrow I will trample over a gun that is just lying around in the square and that caught nobody’s attention but mine. I pick it up and it’s fully loaded. I point it to my heart and its dirtiness makes a mark on my well-ironed white shirt, one of those shirts I wear to work and all. I pull the trigger without hesitation. On the contrary, I do it with the energy the hazelnut-flavoured cappuccino filled me with and with the same extroversion that I spread around… and that’s the simple truth.

عبادة القهوة السادة

العقل المدبر لهذه المدونة بتقولكوا تسيبوا اللى فى ايديكوا واللى فى رجليكوا واللى فى اى طرف تانى وتروحوا مسرحية "قهوة سادة" النهاردة بمركز الابداع الفنى بالأوبرا.. العرض بيبتدى الساعة 10 مساء.. ولكن لازم تكونوا هناك من الساعة 9 مساء عشان تعرفوا تلحقوا تذكرة.. التذاكر عددها محدود جدا وكل واحد لازم يستلم تذكرته بنفسه وليس لهم مقابل مادى.. العرض مستمر لحد يوم 25.. سبتمبر او رمضان كله واحد.. بس نصيحة تروحوا قبل يوم 25 عشان يبقى عندكوا وقت تروحوا مرة او اتنين كمان..

اه يا كافانا اه

يا جماعة انا ابتديت اقلق على اناتيما وعلى عيلة كافانا كلها... ماشاء الله يعنى ربنا ينعم عليهم زيادة ويزيد حالة الفرح والتفاؤل اللى هما فيها دى... بس يعنى لازم نعرف ايه سر التغيير ده... ماهو مينفعش بعد لما يثبتوا انهم يستحقوا الثقة اللى ادينهالهم وياخدوا توكيل الاكتئاب بتاع ملايين المعجبين والمعجبات... يخونوهم كدة ويتحولوا الى كائنات متفائلة مستحمية بتظهر الصبح والدنيا ملونة والزرع اخضر والسما زرقا وشكلهم مزز ولابسين شيك جدا وناقص تشم ريحتهم الحلوة... لازم نطالب بمبررات... مينفعش كدة... انا خايفة شوية كمان الواد فينسنت كافانا يقول كلمات زى اللى بتقولها مادونا فى البومها الأخير...





من الاخر يعنى... لو دى مرحلة وهتعدى ربنا ينتعهم بالسلامة، ولو مش هتعدى لازم مبررات... عايزين نعمل زيكوا يا جماعة...

Eye Candy.

Finally, something made me drool..

The Black Angels' logo...



Inspired by Nico...



She's the classic favourite.

White-Collar Blabber.

Apparently, my silence is annoying a lot of people. Even my father, whom I’ve always thought goes into competitions of silence with dead fish – and eventually wins, can’t tolerate my silence. But what do I have to say? I don’t have anything to say to anyone, not even here, even though that’s supposedly an anonymous blog and all. In fact, I hate this blog, because all I ever blabber about lately is personal outbursts, and I have no fucking clue why are you here reading this. It’s bitter to admit it or write it down and then read it later. It highlights the fact I’ve already reached, that nobody has control over anything. Oh, I miss the good old days, when I thought and people thought I am a master of puppets and I am the control goddess that they look up to when they’re lost. No, that’s another lie, I don’t miss those days, and I wouldn’t want them to be back, no, no, not at all. I don’t want anyone to believe in me, it sets standards. And I fight standards now. I fight standards so hard, that if you saw them standards, you’ll find explicitly sadistic scars on its bloody face. I mean let’s face it, my greatest fear was mediocrity, now I don’t fear it anymore – I embrace it with devotion. There was once shining glamour inside my chest, which attracted travelling wanderers, and now it’s gone. There was once a business I led and my title was “The Dream Merchant”, but not anymore. And in mediocrity, I am lying around - in sloth and sweet laziness. At least, I admit it.

I pray my father stops getting annoyed with my silence… but that’s the maximum I can do about it.

Were you serious?

To those who preferred Ledger as the Joker.. were you serious?

The Only Enemy.

وكان يشتهى أن يشبع من الخرنوب الذى كانت الخنازير تأكله، فلا يعطيه أحد - لوقا 15:16

And I couldn’t help but compare where I was and where I am now… And there was the new definition of brutality. Questions are not made of words, but of knives that are made of steel. The what-have-I-done dilemma is like a Samurai fight scene from a Japanese movie that has made it to the American charts, with the sounds of clashing long swords and flying warriors over walls and all – all in my head. Let alone the can-I-ever-get-a-second-chance whirl of uncertainty, which sucks out the air from your lungs and leaves your eyes dry from tears that need to fall. Needless to mention, the what-was-I-thinking and the do-I-deserve-a-second-chance-in-the-first-place. All of course, are masters at infusing me with self-loathing, guilt and sweet temptation to further linger in a filthy abyss.

Years ago I would have fallen with eyes closed and had hands to catch me, but now, I find ways to coil my limbs during the fall so that I only get bruised – rather than hit my head or lose sight or grow a Donald-Duck sort of head-soreness with flying birds and/or stars around it… and of course be in a state that allows me to go to my too-white-collarish job the next morning. And the bruises never last long, for they are refreshed with new ones. And I forget the pain… but I don’t forget him. Tell this to Purgatorio and he’d tell you “He’ll be back” with that slow-Bango voice of his. Tell this to Gouda and he’d say “I am proud you made the comparison” with his manly voice of confidence. Tell this to H. and she’d blabber out “There is hope” with a tone that tells you she is far from convinced of what she’s saying. Tell this to him… “Now it’s her turn to suffer,” with a tone I’ve never heard before.

I am my only enemy.

صباح الخير يا...

بنحب نصبح ونقول.. حمد الله ع السلامة يا احمد سامى

Cruellaville.

“You should never have to watch as your only children are lowered in the ground,
I mean you should never have to bury your own babies.”
Dave Matthews.

My experiences with death are not that many.. The first time I ever went to a cemetery was yesterday.. It erupted inside me a bunch of thoughts that I don't want to write down, because I don't want to keep a registry of them, because once I forget them I don't want a way to remind me I ever had them in the first place.. In all cases, you shouldn't live to bury your own child, you just shouldn't. No, you shouldn't.

Fighting Dorian Gray.

I had a portrait that I hung inside my heart because I didn’t want anybody else to see it – for I am sure that if anyone did, their eyes will fail to see it the way I do. Through the years, I didn’t mind change to seep through anything – including my physical traits, my social circles, my phonetics and spelling, my religious core, my drinking hard core… and any other core that there is. But I won’t let change touch that portrait. I fought so hard for it to remain the same way I see it. And I’d burn with jealousy when someone claimed they saw him the same way he looks in my portrait – but I won’t show it, because I am a very hard-to-see-through person and all, trust me I am… I mean I must be.

That portrait was more important to me than the person it impersonated. In my darkest nights, I’d kneel on my knees, clasp both hands, weep out my eyes and pray. I didn’t listen to Souad Massi or Billie Holiday and united my state with a miserable blue woman’s voice nor did I listen to Mohammed Mounir and felt how “7a2ee2y” he is and how I must know everything about life just because he’s on my playlist. I didn’t whine to girl friends over the phone, even though sometimes I’d do that to Purgatorio online – but only sometimes. I didn’t use my recently-acquired hard core drinking habits to fake drunkenness and call him up instead of kneeling in front of his portrait. I didn’t do any of that… I just prayed.

I prayed for dreams that were the victims of genocide, I prayed for a future that might have flourished, I prayed for resurrecting the past, I prayed for a final chance… but above all, I prayed for forgiveness. But just like those millions who pray daily to their own God, for the flourishing of Egypt in churches or for the freeing of Palestine in mosques… none of what I prayed for ever came. And again just like those millions… I still prayed.

The existence of my portrait slash god corner could have remained longer and grew stronger, for I am full of persistence and all… I mean I must be. However, there is this one thing that I couldn’t fight back – for he came and ripped off his own portrait and how I have seen him for all those years went down to the abyss. He’d boast off how low and cheap and sinfully human he has become and how lustfully he fucks obsessive mistresses, and that all those traits can’t belong to a god… and he’d go a step further to prove it by scratching the inside walls of the heart with blades. Apparently, he thought I deserve all that and all.

Now I am portrait-less, with a rectangular space that looks awkwardly clean other than the rest of the wall in the place of the portrait, which was removed. I don’t want any votes for a god, thank you, I am better off. It really hurts though, that he took away the only imagery I looked up for; it’s just not his right – he can vanish and lust and fuck, but not alter the portrait I had.

I am idle now on them dark nights... and I really don’t want Massi, Holiday or Mounir around.

Resistance.

There is nothing particularly sexy about rusty steel huge dirty pieces of junk that look like they are leftovers since the Industrial Revolution, which are full of holes from bullets that light seeps through bluntly without permission the same way a prostitute would look at passing prospects, which look like they are leftovers from the war that killed your remaining sibling and only lover, which amateurs use to practice shooting to add further holes or to simply enlarge the existing circles, which have no talent and no assets to utilize to fly away from the earth prints their weight has made, which are thought to be ugly by even the insects that reside inside them for shelter away from human steps, which have no god to pray for, which have no sexual organs to make love and seep out their self loathing, which are detested by the breeze that passes by. No… nothing particularly sexy… not at all, no.

Do You Folks Like Coffee?

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Dethklok.

Small Crimes.

She’d wear next-to-nothing clothes and stand there every night for the trick the audience awaits.

He’d wear a tuxedo and a black hat and say a few warm-up thrill phrases to the audience.

She’d stand hand-folded against a wooden wall for him to throw the knives around her still body.

He’d throw confidently.

She’d not bleed if he misses, not in front of the audience, not in front of him.

He’d miss.

She’d wonder if sometimes he misses… on purpose.

July 2008.

Even though July is not yet over, but I decided I will write about it now. The reason behind this is that the remaining week in July will probably be just like the previous three weeks – and that’s exactly why I fucking love this month.

July 2008 is the intermission month after my graduation and before the start of my white-collar career. I didn’t really make any plans for it but I felt that it’s going to be different. I thought I’d find ways to indulge in the summer frenzy or do things that have been pending for a long time because of university obligations, like having that planned photo shoot for example – but to be honest; I didn’t do anything out of what I planned. This month has been spent in absolute dumbness and extreme sloth. No energy whatsoever was exerted, not to do anything memorable nor to even try to think of what I want to do. I spent days in bed and nights listening to music and reading lyrics – too lazy to even type on instant messaging applications. I so proudly declare that I failed to finish any of the things I intended to utilize this month of idleness to, like the book and the script. I gave appointments that I got late to, I started reading books that I never finished, I stopped looking at my watch that frequently, I listened to musicians more than I listened to people, I took long showers, sipped on a lot of wine, stared into nothingness, counted my hair and counted trees while riding in slow cars as we drove through without having a real destination. I shut down all my receptors to those who demand me to do things that involve any sort of thinking, like both my parents who each of them has their own vision of what I should do and how I should do it, and like friends who might bring up unpleasant subjects that involve love tales from the past or any social drama. Furthermore, I built a big wall surrounding my senses against bad vibes intentionally forced upon me. And I have done all of that with great persistence and sweaty devotion.

This month is one week away from its death, and I salute it, for all of the idleness and sloth it brought me. I didn’t know what it is to be in total darkness, not knowing what you are doing or where you are going and yet not caring to move a hair to change any of that – till this month came.

I might still have that photo shoot though…

Suicide Is Painless.

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MASH by Robert Altman.

Cocoons Don`t Fly.

She: Oh by the way, I saw M. yesterday.

He: You did?

She: Yes, she came with us to finish that business thing.

He: How is she?

She: Fine.

He: Where is she?

She: Starts work soon… She is avoiding everyone obviously.

He: Is she okay?

She: I don’t think so.

He: Does she fly now?

She: What?

He: Does she have wings and all? Does she fly? That’s what she told me when she left… that I prevent her from flying.

The Real Nigga.

Dear J,

Writing letters and not sending them has turned out to be a very effective habit, because in our case silence and distance are the only humane actions we can take. I have been minding my own business lately and have been away from that social tub we used to share for a long while now – not intentionally and it’s all temporary, but let’s say that that’s the most humane action to take. A lot of things seem to attack my immunity shield though, like whenever I trample over certain people and they mention you and your current affairs, or when I walk into a Cilantro for pure peeing purposes and my eyes find a "Maws Tawt". Even with my great efforts to minimize my friction with things like those that remind me of past times, I go home to speak to Purgatorio who speaks about Snowhite who reminds me of you – I think you and Snowhite share a lot in common, but that’s another story. It’s not only Purgatorio, for even Mariah speaks of you and of how she misses the good old days, and I feel a lot of pity towards her, for she is all the way in Austria and has no clue what she is talking about is now an illusion. Bottom line, people like speaking about you.

I heard about the new girl. I heard she asks about me and that she doesn’t particularly like me. I heard she will go throw herself from the highest mountain if she knew you and I met by coincidence down the street without even saying “hello” – that is of course after she shreds your body to pieces with blood and flesh and bones and all. That’s a matter of habit to me though; I am used to girlfriends doing evil spells and voodoo dolls for me. I heard she is a kitten stuck up a tree and that you save her every day, I also heard she climbs up the tree again just because she is the pretty girl who likes to be saved. I heard the guys don’t like her. They secretly miss the good old days and they secretly miss me. They miss me putting ice in everyone’s glass and watching over the glasses and refilling them with whiskey without them having to ask. I heard they miss me playing cards and them not having to worry about bottle-openers in cars because my teeth are amazing and strong. I heard they miss themselves talking freely with you, for your new girl doesn’t like bad words – because in the past, things like that wouldn't have mattered. I heard they miss me roaring with them in football matches, raving hard and even rocking harder. I heard everyone misses me and misses us together, but they just won’t admit it to you. I heard the girls miss me too. I heard the new girl is obsessive and weird, that she picks up on all your phone calls and stalks you. I heard she lies to the girls and tells them that you are busy or away or not willing to talk to any bitch of them. I heard everyone misses me that rumours started spreading around about me, that I now live in the Northern Coast, or that I am married with children in Ukraine or that I am a coke addict who won’t let people see her in such state. I heard everyone misses the real nigga I was but nobody will ever tell you such a thing. I heard you nearly stopped drinking because you claim it brings you nausea and all, but everyone just knows that you do that out of respect to her Islamic beliefs. I heard she fasts with Christians too, out of solidarity and some drama talk. I heard enough.

All of what I heard doesn’t make a difference to me; I will still be the shadow in Ukraine who is married with children, or to be honest, the coke addict spreading her feet in Northern Coast sands. But I can’t help but wonder… is that what you wanted, a pretty kitten up a tree?

Sincerely,

The Nigga.

تسكر وتفتكر

لم يذهب اللواء سالم كثيرا الى الكنيسة، فكان يعتقد أن الرب يرعى شئون الجميع، ولكن ليس شأنه هو. هذا لم يغضب اللواء سالم كثيرا، فهو رجلٌ فخورٌ بأنه بنى تفاصيل حياته معتمدا على نفسه. إضطر اللواء سالم للذهاب الى الكنيسة عندما توفيت زوجته التي أحبها كثيراً. وقف اللواء سالم أمام باب قاعة الرجال فى زيّه الرسمى الذى يعطيه الهيبة، ولم يسمح للدموع أن تهرب من عينيه، حتى عندما رأى إبنته، التى كانت شاحبةً على غير عادتها ولا تستطيع المشى فى خطٍ مستقيم من فرط دموعها. لم يُعر اللواء سالم اهتماماً كبيراً لما يقوله ضيوف العزاء، فكلهم يقولون نفس الكلام المحفوظ... "البقية فى حياتك" أو "تعيش وتفتكر"... ولكن أصدقاء اللواء سالم القدامى كانوا ينظرون فى عينيه ويقولون "تسكر وتفتكر" ثم يذهبون للجلوس فى الركن تحت أيقونة السيدة العذراء ويحتسون القهوة التركى في صمت.

Coins Of One Face.

Sometimes I am on the dancing floor among a raving crowd, trying to dance the animal inside out of me, and I clasp my eyes shut. I have to close them lids, or else those around me will interrupt my trip. However, I still can feel them lights quickly drawing all sorts of coloured rays on my body, like endless quick knives thrown at a woman in a circus trick. Sometimes, I feel I am the queen of this world. But suddenly, a huge robotic mechanical arm will quickly close its knuckles on my waist and notch me quickly out of the crowd. It’s like when I pluck a hair of my eye brow or when a kid wins that arcade game and the arm picks them a teddy bear as a reward– that they never really wanted. I fight back, and I beat the iron arm around my waist, but I wind up with sore knuckles and the grip of the arm gets tighter tearing my cloth – and the arm shakes me, as if it is after something hidden inside me that it wants to fall out of me.

* * * * * * * * * * *

There are other times, when I am a woman wearing a nice simple dress with light colours that fit with the morning party I am attending in a garden. Usually, there are people around me chitchatting, sipping on champagne and commenting on the colour changes the morning light brings to my facial features. But suddenly, I am able to crop everyone out of my sight. I smile the smile of a teenager who is excited they heard the door close as their parents finally got out of the house. I run to the buffet in excitement that doesn’t fit with my high heels, then gently lay down my champagne glass on the white cloth covering the buffet and I start throwing dishes. There is nothing more relieving than throwing one after the other at totally random targets, laughing like an uncontrolled beast, breaking my French-manicured nails and having a few bruises due to my carelessness. I’d suck on the blood that escaped my finger and I’d throw more – making noise, making a mess, making the crash I yearn for.

* * * * * * * * * * *

But there are those times, when I am walking a dog, having my hair raised up in a practical manner and wearing shorts and a T-shirt, in a Cairo street where by-passers don’t stare at each other. I keep walking and I don’t care where my legs take me. Then another dog, which a by-passer is taking for a walk and doesn’t care where his legs are taking him, either, grins and growls at my dog. The by-passer and I will stare at each other, even though we have been avoiding that, and the eye-contact will give birth to that spark of challenge, rivalry and awaited violence. A mud pool will pop out of nowhere and the two dogs will stop their growling because they have a better play to watch now. The by-passer and I comprehend each other pretty well – the purpose of this mud fight is shallow and doesn’t deserve to be mentioned, but its mercilessness and the anger it reveals are the commons aims we share. The proper mud fight lasts for hours till we are completely breathless, then we’ll get out, wash the mud off our weary bodies with some water, air dry, look at each other and smile the business-like smile of “goodbye” – so will the dogs.

طب بالنسبة للفيل؟

تقريبا نسيت يعنى ايه مصر الجديدة... كان بقالى فترة بعيد... وبقالى فترة ماتفرجتش على الزحمة والنيون الكتير من كرسى العربية اللى جمب السواق... والمطبات والمقبات... والبوليس اللى فى حتت غريبة... وتقريبا نسيت ازاى سكان مصر الجديدة اللى بيسوقوا بيتحمسوا جدا فى استعراض التخريمات الجديدة من الزحمة... وازاى على عكس مناطق اخرى، الشحاتين بيسرحوا بفل وكيوى... وازاى ان العربية اللى جمبى غالبا فيها ام صاحبتى فلو سمحت بلاش نكسر عليها...

المهم النهاردة كنت فى مصر الجديدة، فى عربية، وطلع اقتراح قديم أوى وعليه تراب ومسمعتوش بقالى كتير...

"بوريو؟"

"بووووورررررييييييوووووووو طبعا..."

"يلللللللاااااا بيييييننننننا..."

وبعد ساعة الا ربع مثلا من الزحمة والتخريمات وسباجيتى العربيات... وصلنا لمحل من المحلات المشهورة بتوع العصيروالبوريو والشبح والباتمان والى اخره... وللأسف الراجل احبطنا تماما... لأن مفيش بوريو من امبارح...

"طب ايه يا شباب.. نروح حتة تانية؟"

"لأ فكك.. انا هاخد مانجا.."

"وأنا هأخد فيل.."

وكله طلب... ومصدقتش عينايا لما الراجل رجع تانى... كل الطلبات نازلة فى كوبايات بلاستيك مقفولة من فوق ومحطوط في كل واحدة شفاطة... وأنا اللى هو بصيت بصة اللى هو... "أنت بتشتغلنى؟!!!"

يعنى أنا المطلوب منى أنى اشرب عصير مانجا من شفاطة؟ طب وبالنسبة للفيل؟ أنا اصلا مبطيقش اختراع الشفاطة ده... وبأتهرب منه فى جميع الأماكن... ومبأطيقش الكوكاكولا الفونتاين... ولما باشرب اى حاجة لازم اشربها بلغوصة ولازم ارفع رقبتى على قد انا عطشانة قد ايه... والكلام ده ماشى على العصائر والصودا... ووحياتكوا البينا كولادا...

لكن حرام لما الموضوع يوصل انه محل عصير فى الشارع فى مصر الجديدة ينزللى مانجا فى كوباية بلاستيك... وبشفاطة... طب ولو كنت طلبت قصب؟ كنا هنقضيها بلاستيك برضه؟ وكنت هتجيبلى اتنين شاليمون بدل من واحدة عشان تضحك عليا بتضاعف الكمية اللى انا باسحبها... ماهو قصب يعنى...

ارحمونى بقى !

Euphoria.

My eyes hurt from all the Oriental eye liner I have put into them but I am too hesitant to go wash them, for I am afraid that if I do, I will ruin the mood I am in. There is nothing more that I want than the spontaneous state he puts me in. That’s all I need at this point in time and he is God-sent. I am addicted to his recklessness and his lack of plans. I am in love with the fact that he wears no watches and forgets his phone in the car wherever we go. We pause time in a special glass capsule he creates, and I am in love with it. He doesn’t write and doesn’t read what I write. We speak a language that is much different than this one I am using right now, one that is full of cartoon-like metaphors, one that is full of spongy terminology and beautiful misspellings and sexy bad grammar, one that takes someone like him to recreate. Let go.

كل ما أردته

كل ما أردته هو احتساء بعض النبيذ الأحمر، وعدم التفكير لدقائق معدودة...
كل ما أردته هو بعض التحدى واستعراض بعض الأفيهات الجديدة اثناء لعب الطاولة...
كل ما أردته هو انتظار موعدنا القادم، الذى لا يحدد غير قبلها بساعات...
كل ما أردته هو التفكير فى مقتنيات يابانية، واستعراضها امامه عند توفرها...
كل ما أردته هو بعض الغزل، بعض الشغف، كثير من المزيكا، كثير من الأفلام...
كل ما أردته هو الكثير من الضحكات الغير المبررة التى تأتى بعد أفراح البيرة...
كل ما أردته هو كل تلك الأشياء التى شجعنى على وجودها، وبالتالى اردتها دوما...

ولكن لا... فلماذا ننتظر الغد الذى كان سيحتم علينا قطع كل هذه الأشياء...
فلنقطعها الآن... فكلها لا تستحق الوقت التى تستغرقه...




لا أريد أى منها الآن.

Intense.

What if I told you I have expanded my senses? True, true, I have managed to temporarily widen the radii of the senses I have - by means I don't wish to disclose.

I was able to see more than I usually see, in fact, my eyes have turned to cameras with good mechanical tripods and rotating reels. They could bring into focus those that deserve focus, like a Penelope Cruz coming from afar, only to find out that she's a woman as old as my parents but won't allow her wrinkles to affect the choices in her drawer. She has had her share of the two-camera screen, so the focus moved to a strolling family down the European kerb - it was a new visual game, how they remained in focus as I could still see other moving things in the background that are hazy and out of focus.

I have always been told that 7-UP, my current #1 drink on the cold-drinks charts, is made out of lemons. Honestly, I never spotted any resemblance between 7-UP and lemons, till I expanded the radius of my taste. What happened is that I could feel a half-circled sour lemon relaxing and tanning on the middle of my tongue after each sip I took from the soft drink can. I started looking into the 7-UP can and shaking it to see if there were any half lemons lying inside there... I even started wondering if I was unaware of the fact that I might be drinking tequila and forgot a half lemon inside my mouth - like most heavy tequila consumers would, but I found no lemons in my mouth either. Every sip I took was a complete sour-lemon peak.

There are very few things in life that I find orgasmic, and one of them is when I am able to feel the music with my heartbeat before I actually listen to it. I did that too. Every other beat coming out of those speakers sent a pulse to my heart, which in turn sent a tune to my ears. And that's how I expanded my listening, by feeding on the heart. The beat won't change, it won't speed, it won't become more intense - and unlike rock music, it won't reach a peak. It will remain the same, but with each repetition of it, I was sent further every time. It looped with the same beat, frequency, tone... but I was thrown further and pulled back to my starting point, like a basketball gaining speed in its player's hands. It didn't take long before I was in absolute trance, progressively moving from realm to realm.

I could feel more. I could feel each and every hair on my arm move with the soft breeze coming out of the air conditioner. It is very rare, because usually I don't feel hairs on my body moving every time I walk into an air conditioned place. This time, I could and it was tickling - very tickling. And there was nowhere to go, no matter how itchy it gets and how I move my hand on my skin, I was still tickled. It didn't take time before I started to enjoy it and smile as I was tickled.

I can't smell, really, so there was nothing to expand.

The experience was thrilling, being exposed to all of these changes simultaneously. I'd go there again... and again.

ياض

احمد مكى دخللى من سكة جديدة وغير متوقعة... زى ما تقولوا كدة اخد يو-تيرن من ورا دماغى ودخل من غير لما الحقه... والفيديو كليب يحكيلكوا اكتر

بس الأهم من ده...

"خر خر خر ياض... خر خر واسمع ياض"

:)

نكسر سكة الكآبة اللى اتخذها البلوج ده بقاله شوية عشان نقول...

"مرة واحد فرفور شاف تمساح، قال "اييييييه دههههههه
Lacoste!!!""

:))))

In Brief.

Bid On Me.

Let's say I go on a boat trip, one that goes to Guatemala or Germany or the Northern Pole. The boat crashes into dramatical pieces and I don't drown - even though I can't really swim. Instead, I wind up on an isolated island or so, somewhere where the only living creature next to me is star fish that don't make any noise at all - no, not at all. How many days will I spend continuously screaming?

Kindly place your bets.

The place I live in has no 'Welcome' door mat.

Look closely at the background colour of this page. It is black, isn’t it? That’s for a reason of course and it’s not only that I have personal fetishes towards black. The only reason most web pages are not in black is because it will be expensive to print them out – but apart from that, it’s absolute expression. I want you to stare deep into it and imagine there are no words in white, no lines and outlines, no coloured thumbnail of Tinkerbell and no white bars of the explorer you are using. Can you do that? Are you doing it? Good.

Now, I want you to take this a little bit further. I want you to imagine this blackness filling your whole screen – yes, I am sorry you’ll have to interrupt any important navigation of other web pages or personal instant messaging windows. Have you done that? Great, we’re doing well. I will ask you another favour – I want you to put off any music for I want you to listen to the sound of this blackness. Yes, I know you can’t hear anything, but you will.

This is the hardest part, for you have to trust me on it a little bit. I know trust isn’t the easiest commodity people can share nowadays, but give me some – I mean how many blog posts have we known each other really? I want you to stretch your hands into this blackness of your screen. There… can you feel it? That blackness is liquid and you can listen to your hands playing with its viscousity. Now, stretch both hands and make them dripping with blackness. Make everything around you dirty, painted and smothered with this blackness. Don’t worry and be generous – the black paint will never ever run out. When you feel your hands are dry and the paint you are applying is not so generous, come back for more from your screen. Keep repeating, till everything around the room is black and you can’t see any light. Make sure you cover that light coming from underneath the door – it can ruin the whole thing, you know. Those tiny details – you have to pay attention to them, we don’t want any light around.

Are you there yet? It’s okay; there is no need to rush. I wouldn’t want to rush my first visitor.

Welcome home.

Stop crossing my mind, for this is private property.

It is hilarious - the amount of things you think belong to you.

My latest efforts, if any, have been solely dedicated to shut off my mind. Out of absolute selfishness, I don't want to impress the world with my usual smartness, I don't want to think straight - to be fully honest, I don't want to think at all. Sloth and dumbness are realms that, I believe, are the only ones worth of my attention during those days. It is only one month to me becoming a white collar lady and I am not going anywhere. I can't travel and I can't move anywhere away from this white-walled apartment... and I don't mind it, as long as I can shut it off. But even this, is apparently too much to get.

It is hilarious - the amount of thinking you need to think to stop thinking.

So I followed the scientific method, I "dealt" myself a fine bottle of Old Jack Tennessee Whiskey, got filled with different realms of music and delegated the job of picking the finest fruits of European and American cinema that I didn't yet watch, to my devoted brother. And I have all of this right here... and I am happy about it. But there is a missing ingredient.

It is hilarious - the amount of vibes and emotions you collect.

Personals ruin things. I've learned this lesson so many times, but to no avail. I am turning 22 in a month, and apparently I can't yet fine tune the amounts of vibes I get from people. There is a bouquet of people, that I can't believe I don't have control over the way they make me feel. There is a certain somebody that I can't breathe well when we talk because of the amounts of lies I can see through but yet he keeps telling. There is another certain somebody who figured it's the right time to have second thoughts about me just when I started to intensively think of him. There is a third somebody who won't stop pressuring me as if I have all the answers in the world up my sleeve. There is a fourth too, who thinks I am the reason behind the world's misery and doesn't hesitate to constantly stress that thought. I hope none of them reads this. But if they do...

Kindly stop crossing my mind, for this is private property.

Portraits From Words: II- The Doctorate

Portraits From Words

II- The doctorate.

دى بتريح الزبون...

I have known the doctorate since we were high school girls with unfolded ties, short skirts, dark manicure, coloured Chupa Chups and the whole package. It is pretty random how we met, for I was sitting in a lonely armchair, bored to death and was humming some Beatles tune, when she joined in. We moved from Beatles to Eminem to Metallica when she asked about my name. Boring school days passed by and we got to know each other more, getting to know details about daily activities, families, issues – you can use the word “friends”, yes. And this has lasted for several years, for me to witness the amount of darkness that can be disguised behind a white medical coat.

There are two uniform things that didn’t change about the doctorate ever since; the first is that she always forced people to sympathize with her without giving them a solid reason to feel sympathy for. For some reason, she always felt that she is the world’s center of unfairness and misery. I have put great efforts to get into her darkness – let’s not forget about my magnet – and I succeeded. Her darkness is justifiable with what she has witnessed yes, but the unique thing about her, is that she never exerted any effort to get over it – she absolutely liked where she stood, a headquarters for sympathy.

The second habit of hers is that she loves to “teraya7 el zeboon”. The doctorate with all her prestigious education and her seven years old medical certificate never has her own opinions. She is well aware of the pathetic human nature, and how humans get attracted to those who agree with them, not who argue with them – and she has always been so witty to agree with people, regardless of what they were saying. But that technique was more like Chinese food – spicy and delicious, yet makes you get hungry in no time. She is jaguar-fast in making best friends, yes… but even faster in making enemies. Yet, there is a villain inside her that works around the clock and absolutely fires back at anybody who shows their teeth at her – and in no time, her white coat will be covered with their shredded flesh and blood. However, she is fastest at cleaning herself up and adding back an angel halo that fits with the whiteness of her new coat.

The doctorate is not an ill-mannered person. She is always there around her best friends if she has nothing better to do or when she is single. She likes to befriend social keys that lead her to pools full of fish so that she can practice her witty fishing techniques. When the doctorate is done fishing, she will go away with her caught fish, for as long as it takes to consume the fish tricks and would then throw it all away. A “social climber” may not be the exact term… but it says a lot, for she has no hesitance to turn against those closest to her for better fishing chances.

If you ask me, I will not know where the doctorate is now. She is probably walking her dog, cooking vegetarian food, listening to French love talk on the phone or sipping on a bottle of Egyptian red wine that is hidden under her bed. In all cases, I hope the doctorate finds some light.

Portraits From Words: I- Purgatorio

Portraits From Words

I- Purgatorio

ده اللى هيخلى الاسكندرية تروح لبنان...


There is a magnet hidden somewhere in my body that attracts darkness, and them dark people are two types; those whom you regret knowing and those whom you are grateful you knew. Purgatorio was of the second type and he wasn’t a genius kid. During school days, he probably gave up his lunch to bullies in the men’s room and wasn’t the type of guy whom the captain would immediately pick for the football game. Let me tell you, he has had problems with his voice since he was two… and was nicknamed “Bango” for he always sounded slow like someone who smoked a lot of cheap Egyptian weed. Bottom line, Purgatorio wasn’t the flashy kid at school and currently he’s not one of those flashy successful business men in their late twenties who never get food stuck between their teeth and never ever let their skin show between their pants and socks. And in those “mediocre” details, lies all his greatness.

In my opinion, Purgatorio is a muse and is a pillar of support. He has had it the hard way, for the past quarter of a decade. Nothing turned out well for him, he has enjoyed the whole bouquet of bullshit, yet he never whined. Amid the bouquet’s peaks and classics, he’d check out on the ladies of his life and make sure they are alright and busy watching TV – then he’d have his own few moments chasing dragons.

It can get a whole lot frustrating to convince Purgatorio to write and not rip off what he wrote right away, even though to my eyes, he is the most talented writer. However, regardless of the art behind his words – his stories were able to move a city like Alexandria to want to go to Lebanon to kneel on its knees to his Snowhite asking her to be merciful and to allow things to be fixed. This Snowhite business requires books to be written and I am not the person and this is not the place. It is enough to mention that Purgatorio… isn’t the giving up kid. And in this lies further greatness.

But God won’t just let us be – or at least won’t let him be, for they obviously share a lot of unfinished business. Purgatorio now feeds on gin – yes, the most bleak of all spirits – every night, spends his day earning MS certificates with all its permutations in a white-collar sense that doesn’t go along with his darkness, spends his free time contemplating Lebanese asses as he sips on Starbucks products, spends his elevator times with Indians who make everyone uncomfortable… and secretly thinks about his long-missed old lady or about Snowhite.

وتستمر وتستمر وتستمر

بالصدفة اخدت بالى انى كتبت المقامر بالضبط من شهر... وضحكت... على الاحباطات التى تستمر وتستمر وتستمر... ثم تتسرب وتتوغل وتقتل.... ثم تحييك مرة اخرى لتستمر وتستمر وتستمر...

تعبت

شارب وبيمول

محسن: لو سمحت ، كنت عايز اشترى بيانو

العامل: اتفضل معايا...

محسن: ثانية بس ، انا عايز بيانو من غير صوابع سودا

العامل: نعم؟

محسن: معلهش ، شوفلى بس طلبى عشان مستعجل

العامل: مفيش حاجة اسمها كدة

محسن: يا سيدى مالاكش فيه ، انا عايزه كدة

العامل: ثانية واحدة

يذهب العامل الى المكتب فى الداخل ويخرج ومعه رجل كبير فى السن، مسيو فينسنت

فينسنت: ايوة خبيبى؟

محسن: عايز اشترى بيانو... بس من غير صوابع سودا

فينسنت: اه طبعا طبعا خبيبى، بس انت عارف ان ده عمره ما اتصنع

محسن: لأ طبعا اتصنع، انا شفت ناس بيستخدموه

فينسنت: طب معلهش خبيبى، ايه رأيك تاخد بيانو عادى وبلاش تلعب صوابعه السودا

محسن: لأ، اخاف العبهم بالغلط

فينسنت: هممممم، طب وانت هتلعب شارب وبيمول ازاى؟

محسن: احنا فى 2008

فينست: هو انت تعليمك فرنساوى.... ولا لاتينى؟

محسن: لاتينى طبعا...

فينست: واضح، واضح... بس قوللى خبيبى، انت ايه مشكلتك مع الصوابع السودا؟

محسن: انا باخاف العب الصوابع السودا، لحسن حياتى تبقى زيهم

فينسنت: انا معرفش انت ميولك فى الموسيقى ايه، بس انت عارف ان احلى الحاجات بتتستخدم الصوابع السودا؟

محسن: انا فاهم، بس دول اعداء النجاح... انا باحب الروتينية والملل بتاعة الصوابع البيضا... بتحسسنى بالأمان... أنا متأكد ان حياتى هتبقى هايلة ومنتجة لو انا فضلت العب ع الصوابع البيضا بس...

فينست: خياتك ايه خبيبى؟ انت شكلك من اللى بيتفرجوا وبس...

محسن: يعنى ايه؟

فينسنت: يعنى زى ما انت مش هيحصلك حاجة وحشة لو ملعبتش الصوابع السودا، فانت برضه مش هيحصلك حاجة كويسة... انت صعبان عليا خبيبى...

محسن: طب يعنى انا اعمل ايه دلوقتى؟

فينسنت: باردون خبيبى، انا محبش يكون ليا دخل فى اسلوبك ده... جوود داى.

10 Things to Do in Job Interviews.

There are secrets that I’ve learned throughout my interview experience… and it’s time to spill them since I am settled on a job – or at least that’s what I think.


• When kept waiting with a secretary, who is probably pretending to do something of value, flood her with questions. The questions shouldn’t be too fast, they should be interrupted with pauses so that she has the time to get back to what she was doing so that you are able to interrupt her again. Questions can be along the line of “Can I use your personal computer for a second, I need to edit my resume to say that I PMS twice a month, just in case this sort of info is important around here?” or “Do you have a come-to-work-in-a-bikini day? I heard that’s the reason why Google is taking over the world.” Or “How do mermaids reproduce?” or my personal favorite “Do you know the abbreviation for “Fornicating Under the Consent of the King”?”

• When breaking the ice with a male General Manager or interviewer, tell them you prefer Bourbon… On the rocks.

• When left waiting alone in a room with a camera, make sure you initiate conversations with E.T. who will always listen if you keep pointing your finger to the ceiling, periodically stamping your feet on the floor and scratching your belly.

• When left waiting alone in a room without a camera, stand behind the door and eavesdrop, till your interviewer comes to slam the door and hit you in the head. Look at them and say “I’ll take that for an acceptance, I start in a month.”

• When breaking the ice with a female General Manager or interviewer, compliment her by saying that you love the Revlon long-lasting-not-to-be-removed-easily lipstick she is using, and when she smiles in gratitude, ask her if she uses it because her husband works here as well.

• If asked about the type of work you prefer doing, and you start explaining about how C++ is way better than Java, start drooling a bit, moving your body a bit restlessly and make sure you finish your answer by saying “C++ excites me, like really excites me… I can code in C++ for hours and hours because it excites me *bite lower lip*… I had troubles with my ex-boyfriend because of my Object Oriented fetishes but I understand that will be no problem here… right?”

• When asked about your expected salary, simply state that all you care about is covering your crack bills.

• When the security guard stares at the religion in your national ID for long, offer him a cigarette, point at the ID in his hands and mention that it is forged and you’re Jewish, from an Israeli family that prosecutes Palestinian little children out of mere boredom, but you need the ID to get around here.

• When asked about your strengths, your reply should be that you are as patient, considerate and sane as Angelina Jolie in Girl Interrupted. When asked about your weaknesses, your reply should be that you are as calm and vulnerable as Hannibal Lectar.

• When you end an interview, say “Bye sweetie, have a good day” or if you like the interviewer, “Bye darling, but off the record, are you doing anything tonight?”

After the Curtain.

The girl: Daddy, I wanna go to the bathroom.

The father: Not now.

The girl: But why? The show is over and the makeup is hurting my eyes.

The father: I am sorry baby, we must wait. What makes a good clown a good clown is that they know they should keep their drawn smiles after the curtain, and you’re not only a good clown, you’re the best trapeze in town.

The girl: But daddy please, my eyes hurt, nobody will see me, everyone’s leaving.

The father: Maria, I said you can’t and that does it. You never know who is looking; you can do whatever you want in your room. When you grow up, you’ll understand.



















The girl: Mommy, I wanna go to the bathroom.

Maria: Not now. We’re still after the curtain.

The Sisyphean Affair.

I’ve always looked up the hill, and saw nothing.
I still fought my way up, because everyone knew,
And everyone told me; beyond that rite of passage,
The hill will go up no more.

Now, I am one step away, from that rite of passage,
And I look up the hill and still see nothing,
The hill has no peak, and it remains to go up,
The stone I push grows heavier with burdens too.

I am not mad at the myths people repeat,
Yet, I have a nagging temptation to let go completely,
Let the stone roll over me, all the way down,
Fill me with scars and bruises as I laugh uncontrollably.