حكمة الأسبوع

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

اكس: انا شايفة انك تصاحبى واي

انا: نعم؟

اكس: ايوة.. انتوا لايقين جدا على بعض

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

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

انا: انتى شكلك اتهبلتى

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

انضف بقى

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

“انضف بقى”

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



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



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

But no, hell no.

And now the drugs don't work..

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

Anonymous

A Moment.

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

Charles Bukowski

Berserk.

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

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

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

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

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

Of Fish and Bourbon.

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

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

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

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

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

Self-closing Tags.

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

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




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

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




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

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