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.

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.