Following is Beckett’s play Endgame in lego terms. I haven’t read this play yet, but if it’s anything like Waiting for Godot then I am positive I will fall equally in love with it.

What follows is a transcript of what went through my mind as I labored through the novel Love in the Time of Cholera by Gabriel García Márquez. Think of this as a review of the book and be forewarned as it will ruin your experience of the story if you have not read it yet:

Yes, so he loves her.
She loves him.
She rejects him.
Meaningless events in his life.
Meaningless events in her life.
Some more events.
His sexual escapades.
Her mundane life embellished with travels.
Blah Blah Blah.
More events.
When will this story ever end?
A ton of GRE words here, good practice. Love Barron’s list.
They both age.
He still loves her.
He consoles her after husband’s death.
They’re old but still “active.”
They hook up on a boat.
The end.

Suffice to say that I did not enjoy the novel. I found the style to be tedious and onerous, and the plot to be an inflated repetition of an overrated romantic notion. What compelled me to read Márquez in the first place was the recent popular fascination with him, which I bluntly found to be uncalled for.

A brilliant short story/article fusion on how to become a writer, by Lorrie Moore, dated March 3, 1985:

First, try to be something, anything, else. A movie star/astronaut. A movie star/ missionary. A movie star/kindergarten teacher. President of the World. Fail miserably. It is best if you fail at an early age – say, 14. Early, critical disillusionment is necessary so that at 15 you can write long haiku sequences about thwarted desire. It is a pond, a cherry blossom, a wind brushing against sparrow wing leaving for mountain. Count the syllables. Show it to your mom. She is tough and practical. She has a son in Vietnam and a husband who may be having an affair. She believes in wearing brown because it hides spots. She’ll look briefly at your writing then back up at you with a face blank as a doughnut. She’ll say: ”How about emptying the dishwasher?” Look away. Shove the forks in the fork drawer. Accidentally break one of the freebie gas station glasses. This is the required pain and suffering. This is only for starters.

My favorite part is the end of the how-to:

Quit classes. Quit jobs. Cash in old savings bonds. Now you have time like warts on your hands. Slowly copy all of your friends’ addresses into a new address book.

Vacuum. Chew cough drops. Keep a folder full of fragments.

An eyelid darkening sideways.

World as conspiracy.

Possible plot? A woman gets on a bus.

Suppose you threw a love affair and nobody came.

At home drink a lot of coffee. At Howard Johnson’s order the cole slaw. Consider how it looks like the soggy confetti of a map: where you’ve been, where you’re going – ”You Are Here,” says the red star on the back of the menu.

Occasionally a date with a face blank as a sheet of paper asks you whether writers often become discouraged. Say that sometimes they do and sometimes they do. Say it’s a lot like having polio.

”Interesting,” smiles your date, and then he looks down at his arm hairs and starts to smooth them, all, always, in the same direction.

Read it all here.

I miss writing.

I am populating the list of books that I have read during the past year, and I am doing it because I have a haunting feeling of guilt and dissatisfaction with my reading skills. I am also doing it for future reference, to see if I will get any better a year from today. The titles are arranged in no particular order except that of my pathetically feeble memory, and I will record my impressions of each book depending on the aforementioned memory:

1- The Transformation (Metamorphosis) and Other Stories, Franz Kafka: It’s hard to write about each and every story in the anthology, but Metamorphosis was exquisitely disgusting and provoking and beautiful. Equally disturbing was In The Penal Colony, my favorite in the collection. It’s unfair that it has gone largely unrecognized as compared to Metamorphosis, it is an excellent story about torture and grandiose.

2- When in Rome, Gemma Townley:This was, to me, the literary equivalent of a chick flick. I read this story during my stay in New York this summer and I enjoyed it because it was light and easy and fun. I did not want to read a book that would make me think, not during my vacation, thank you. Oddly enough, the men portrayed in the story were strikingly similar to several people I know/knew.

3- The Wise Women of Havana, Jose Raul Bernardo: I bought this book from some store in NY for no other reason than its cheap price. It was actually on sale. Crappy story about two Cuban families and their respective members (especially the women).

4- A Passage to India, E. M. Forster: This was a boring read up until page 150. Honestly, I was very close to abandoning the book several times because I was so unimpressed with the almost-abusive details in those first 150 pages. After that, things picked up and the plot finally started to take shape. Brilliant read after page 150, expect to have several questions by the end of the book.

5- Nickel and Dimed: On (Not) Getting By in America, Barbara Ehrenreich: I read this real-life account on the living and working conditions of the American working class as an assignment. This book provides a realistic, touching insight into a class in American society which is never really given much attention in media or movies. Very revealing read and very enjoyable story. I had to write a paper about the book afterwards, not very fun.

6- Whitney, My Love, Judith McNaught: I got this novel as a present from a friend. I enjoyed reading it because it was different from the “heavy literature” I usually read. However, the story became too cheesy in the final chapters. Apparently, the author added those upon the request of readers. Big mistake, killed the story.

7- Waiting for Godot, Samuel Beckett: What can I say to give this play justice? It resonated with me and I loved it so much that I blogged about it! Beckett is an existential genius and a superb playwright who turned a massively complicated concept into simple scenes. Ridiculously fantastic!

8- Awlad Haretna (Children of Gebelawi), Naguib Mahfouz:This is Mahfouz’ tracing of the lives and philosophies of prophets (Moses, Jesus, Mohammad) and the relationship between god and man. He set the plot in a neighborhood where god is a supreme father figure and let events take place in the same location across various generations, each with their leader or prophet and his philosophy. This engaging and existential novel got Mahfouz stabbed in the neck in 1994 by religious fanatics. If only for that, it is a must-read, must-reflect account, but its relevance and fluid style already make it extremely enjoyable.

9- The Complete Works, Al Tayyeb Saleh: I have been in love with this Sudanese writer for what seems like centuries. I find his stories very enlightening, very simple, very poetic. I read this fat anthology in one go because I could not get enough of the wise Saleh.

10- Al Sarab, Mahfouz: This is a touching, twisting-and-turning account of an introvert’s life and the poisoning relationship he has with his mother. Typical of Mahfouz, the style is smooth, uncomplicated, and the plot is engaging.

11- The Harafish, Mahfouz: I didn’t realize I read so much for Mahfouz until now! I finished this long novel last week. Mahfouz employed a cross-generational examination of the characters in the story to build his content, just as he did in Awlad Haretna. Good read.

12- Fi Wadi Al Ghalaba, Ihsan Abdul Quddous: All I remember about this story is that it was short and simple.

13- Lan A3eesha Fi Jelbab Abi, Ihsan Abdul Quddous: Another short and simple story by the same author. I was surprised to discover candid descriptions of semi-sexual encounters in Abdul Quddous literature, I thought that was pretty progressive.

14- Shajarat Al Fuhood, Sameeha Khrais: A sophisticated portrayal of the reality of Jordanian life in the early-to-mid 20th century. I was very pleasantly surprised by this class-A novel by a Jordanian lady writer, and I learned a lot and related to much of the details in the novel since I had heard similar stories from the elderly in my family.

15- Between the Bridge and the River, Craig Ferguson: Honestly, I cannot give an unbiased opinion in a Ferguson-related issue. I am Ferguson’s biggest fan, but I will try to be impartial for the sake of I don’t know what. This novel was not critically acclaimed for nothing; it has bizarre incidents happening to dysfunctional but consistent characters in an intertwined plot that provokes a ton of questions on psychology, religion, and human nature. I enjoyed every single word on every single page, if only I can meet Ferguson to tell him that!

16- Small booklet on a religious issue I am uninterested in, thrust upon me by my father: Pure rubbish. I burned it, hope he never asks about it.

I think that’s about it. One book that I started reading but abandoned was Plato’s Republic, it was too argumentative in a complicated way and it gave me a headache. I will get to it in the future when my mental abilities have matured enough to contain it. I am currently reading Guns, Germs, and Steel by Jarred Diamond (another endless book), and Juvenal’s The Sixteen Satires. However, I remain unimpressed by my reading record for this year. I ought to have read more.

What did you read this year?

Tonight while driving home,
I saw two cats by the side of the street
And it wasn’t a busy street
I stopped and just looked at them
And found myself smiling
When they looked back at me

When I read parts of Ralph Waldo Emerson’s Self Reliance, I did not predict how very life-altering some of his philosophies would prove to be within the frame of my existence. This is the story of consistency and public approval.

The book I had was a dreary, cheaply photocopied anthology that had the bleakest black to its letters, and some shadow as well. The words were wobbly and seemed uneven, although that was only an illusion and nothing more. The pages had not been photocopied by a man kind to his machine, and he was evidently in a hurry, too. The whites did not match the blacks, and the lines were not straight. It was as if that book had been crafted by the clumsiest devil in hell.

I mistreated the book, I must confess. In my frequent manifestations of exaggerated self-importance, and possibly narcissism, I scribbled Tololy on almost every page, in every corner, and on the cover in large, purple letters. When class was in session against my will, and that happened often, I sat in my chair and drew little intertwined curves and swirls and circles, and then again scribbled my name under the incoherent art.

Sometimes during class, I would be so absorbed in reading some unvisited parts of the book that I would almost hear the words talking to me. Sometimes I would imagine the writers talking to me or narrating their stories exclusively to me, and sometimes I would see the events played out in front of my mind’s eye. It was a good thing I was never a fecund participant in most class discussions (although I was famous for some strange opinions expressed rather aggressively when the situation demanded) and so I was never interrupted while my imagination was at play.

I had that special connection with Emerson’s attitudes. I was both stimulated and entertained by his ideas and stands on things, and particularly by his take on consistency. At the time, I was going through a formulative stage of character-building and yet I was held back by the want to be consistent and by the socially-influenced desire to be simpatico with everyone. So Emerson’s rhetoric was my “Why didn’t I think of that?” moment of enlightenment.

A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesman and philosophers and divines. With consistency a great soul has simply nothing to do.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

Emerson’s argument on consistency is that it really isn’t necessary as it is just another unseen restraint to creativity and authenticity. If you want to be consistent, you will not change your opinions or grow up intellectually. If you want to be consistent for fear of being judged by people as having no true opinion, then you are doomed to live with your treasured “consistency” and social approval until your character completely erodes into a mold of everyone else, and you end up being another average nobody.

I have changed my mind frequently over the years on a number of major issues. These ranged from god to seafood, from the conflict in the region to creative writing, and from porn to shoes. It’s fascinating but I am not the same person today as I was yesterday, let alone the person I was a year ago.

Emerson also believed in experimentalism. He said “All life is an experiment. The more experiments you make the better.” Now if you have been following this blog for a while you will know that anyone swearing by experimentalism is my idol. I deeply believe in, and outwardly practice the cult of experimentalism (except in food, I’m neophobic), and there is not another way I would choose to live.

So for at least two excellent points Emerson made, on consistency and experimentalism, he has my undying admiration. Of course, until I change my mind.

From Act I of Waiting for Godot by Beckett; read and think of what the lines mean. Remember, we are not told who Godot is and why the two main characters Estragon and Vladimir are waiting for it/him/her:

Pozzo: You took me for Godot.
Estragon: Oh no, sir, not for an instant, sir.
Pozzo: Who is he?
Vladimir: Oh, he’s a . . . he’s a kind of acquaintence.
Estragon: Nothing of the kind, we hardly know him.
Vladimir: True. . . we don’t know him very well… but all the same
Estragon: Personally I wouldn’t even know him if I saw him.

I found the play quite revealing and deep. Evidently, people have different opinions on what it means and who the characters represent. It certainly helps to give it an existentialist reading; perhaps Godot is God, perhaps he will never show up, perhaps we humans so need to believe in a supernatural power that we create it, imagine it, and then wait for it to intervene in our lives while it simply cannot be bothered.

Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to mull over the singnificance of the following poem by Thomas Gray, titled On the Death of a Favourite Cat, Drowned in a Tub of Gold Fishes:

‘Twas on a lofty vase’s side,
Where China’s gayest art had dyed
The azure flowers that blow,
Demurest of the tabby kind,
The pensive Selima, reclined,
Gazed on the lake below.

Her conscious tail her joy declared;
The fair round face, the snowy beard,
The velvet of her paws,
Her coat, that with the tortoise vies,
Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes,
She saw; and purred applause.

Still had she gazed; but ‘midst the tide
Two angel forms were seen to glide,
The genii of the stream:
Their scaly armour’s Tyrian hue
Through richest purple to the view
Betrayed a golden gleam.

The hapless nymph with wonder saw:
A whisker first, and then a claw,
With many an ardent wish,
She stretched, in vain, to reach the prize.
What female heart can gold despise?
What cat’s averse to fish?

Presumptuous maid! with looks intent
Again she stretched, again she bent,
Nor knew the gulf between:
(Malignant Fate sat by, and smiled)
The slippery verge her feet beguiled,
She tumbled headlong in.

Eight times emerging from the flood
She mewed to ev’ry wat’ry god
Some speedy aid to send.
No dolphin came, no nereid stirred;
Nor cruel Tom, nor Susan heard.
A fav’rite has no friend!

From hence, ye beauties undeceived,
Know, one false step is ne’er retrieved,
And be with caution bold.
Not all that tempts your wand’ring eyes
And heedless hearts is lawful prize;
Nor all that glisters, gold.

It is that time of the year again – when calendars are sold at traffic lights in Amman. Two days ago I refused to buy a calendar from a man so intent on selling me one that I prepared two to three excuses to voice my rejection.

This December sun is a trick I tell you. This pleasant weather, moderately chilly around the evening and cool during the night, is a farce. The special bit about the trick is that we surrender to it and cannot protest because the Performer is not only masked, but also cunning. This leaves me quite unimpressed with us, human creatures.

The man at the traffic light did not seem to want to listen to me. I daresay he did not hear a word I said. He kept insisting that I buy one of his calendars and did not afford me enough room to explain why I do not buy calendars. I wanted to tell him, and in turn force myself to understand, that I do not understand the passage of time. I do not understand time, at all.

When I was still a little girl at school, there was this lesson where they taught us how to express time and the hours in English. It was all very British – quarter to two, half past eleven, five to ten. I could not grasp the concept no matter how diligent at studying it I was. Just say “to” if it’s before a certain hour, and “past” is it’s after it – my mother would tell me. It is possible that the operation was complicated because it was simplified so – time is not to’s and past’s.

In the exam about this lesson, the teacher tricked us by drawing digital clocks instead of the old-fashioned round-and-clear ones. That made me miss out on time even more.

The man at the traffic light started knocking on my window and pointing to the bulk of calendars he had with him, imploring me to purchase one. I thanked him time and again and motioned to him to go try his merchandise at another buyer’s window. The only use I have of the calendar hanging by the living room is reading the poetry lines printed on each day.

When you rip the pages off the calendar, you acknowledge the passage of your life. Each page is a day that you physically remove from your time on earth. The calendar printers take mercy on you, miserable person, and aid you to do it with style — they cleverly add a line of poetry to each day.

In my denial, I do not take pages out of the calendar by the living room. I find them later on lying about on some table somewhere and read their poetry, thinking that I had out-smarted almighty time. Secretly, I know this little game I play does not, cannot, see my triumph. I play it because I know of no other game that cheats both the digital clock and my naïveté.

Celebrate the approach of the new year thinking of your proximity to the end of all your years, miserable person.

He started to walk away, the man at the traffic light, finally submitting to my rejection. I bore my heart heavier with every step he took strolling to other potential customers. I realized that our calendar by the living room will be changed for a much younger one very soon and I envisioned the year, now dwindling into nothingness, thrown in the trash bin- what a sad reminder of the way we are compelled to discard our days.

I am slowly progressing in Forster’s A Passage to India, a book that I had bought some two years ago but never got the chance to explore properly. For one reason or the other, it always seemed to climb down on my reading list instead of climbing up.

Now at page 15, I think I understand why I prefer to read classical Greek dramas and epics instead of, well, anything a little younger. I enjoy the supernatural events, the Gods and Goddesses, the numerous intertwined plots and families, and the grandeur of mythology. I also appreciate the language (of the translations, naturally) immensely and there doesn’t pass a page without infusing me with linguistic inspiration.

Can a modern writer pull such fantasy off in the now and be considered anything but a hopeless sci-fi wannabe writer? Better yet, can a modern writer devise similar compelling plots and not borrow any from Aeschylus, Sophocles, or Euripides? Do these stories engage the reader so, that he cannot escape them to creativity?

This sort of argument is really inseparable from the knowledge that, fiction or fact, these Greek stories made part of a people’s religion. Separate from their religious setting, there is neither cause nor purpose for these stories. Drama was born during festivals celebrating Dionysus, and they were born to do exactly that – celebrate the God of wine. To want to imitate these masterpieces merely for their dramatic or stylistic or even linguistic value would, in my opinion, be a feeble attempt at matching something quite unmatched – something that traveled beyond the common nature of literature to the heights of belief.

The story behind this story is somewhat entertaining. I wrote this following story, The party people, in half an hour for the final examination of my creative writing class. The task specified in the exam was to “describe a party scene in detail, going in and out of your characters’ minds” – or something to that effect (I do not have the exam paper on me at this moment, did I ever mention that I collect them papers? loads upon loads of them?).

Since I do not appreciate drafts, or use them for that matter, I wrote the story and submitted it as is. I usually write and submit/publish instantly, and I rarely if ever change anything in the “completed piece” because when I finish pouring my thoughts I would have had just enough of them and would not want to read them too soon. Question: Is that abnormal?

At any rate, the story had a nice ending, one that I cannot entirely remember. This story is about the party crowd, in all its “phoniness” and shallowness. You see Jill and Mike together, who are the main characters, portraying a “good couple” image while each is having private thoughts which are extremely contrastive to each other. She thinks he’s nice while he’s faking it. The “twist” at the end, that I cannot bring myself to write at this time, is when one of Mike’s friends tells Jill ” Don’t worry honey, we won’t judge you” – after, of course, having judged her already.

Enjoy…hopefully.

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The spacious hall is bustling with people; some standing, some sitting and others swaying to the music while trying to sip on a lime-green liquid. The feature almost dominant in the scene, and which everyone adores, is the large, silver disco ball hanging from the ceiling. It adds a unique retro taste to the place and definitely helps joy-fakers fake some more.

With walls painted soothing blue, the open bar in the far right corner seems like a long-lost island. A Mecca for the thirsty and the naughty alike.

What with the revealing outfits, the fits of hysterical laughter, and the crazy atmosphere of dancing mindlessly, someone was bound to drop their glass because, you know, it’s not a party until something gets broken.

- “Oh my god! I just dropped my glass in front of all these people. Now they’re going to really think I’m so drunk”, Jill thinks to herself. “I’m terribly sorry”, she announces aloud, “really, I am”.
Her companion, Mike, tries to calm her frenzy.
- “It’s O.K. Nobody saw that”. He says.
-” Oh! They all think I’m drunk, don’t they?”
He thinks “I’m one of them!”, but says “No, they don’t. You’re overreacting. It’s just a party, so what if you dropped your glass, relax.”

-” Mom would be so proud of me if she sees me now like this. Oh my god!”. Jill goes on. “He’s such a nice guy”, she says to herself.
-”This is not right. This is so not right. I’m stuck with- with this drunken psycho”, Mike almost whispers.
-” Come again?”
-”I was just saying we need to get you another refreshing drink, and the party over there. Hey guys!”. He waves at a group of guys and girls at some table.

Jill feels flattered that he wants to introduce her to his crowd, little does she know.
-” I’ll go get another drink. I’ll join you at the table,” she tells him.

Mike, now with his friends, proceeds to telling them about his absent partner: “She’s been drinking non-stop ever since we got here. I think she has a problem, she couldn’t even keep on to her glass! Impossible!… Oh here she comes.”

-”Jill, this is Martha, Allison, Pat, and Ed. Everyone, this is Jill”.
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You Fit Into Me

You fit into me
like a hook into an eye

a fish hook
an open eye

“Good writing inspires me to write, good dancing inspires me to dance…”

As I search for the one thing, or person, or situation, that may trigger my creative gun to fire a flood of juices and in turn make me ecstatic in an almost lustful fashion, I go through a series of states.

I had this idea, a beautifully well-rounded female of an idea, that I played with in my head and that I made assume different shapes. I enjoyed that first state immensely but, right before I was willing to spill the notion down in virtual ink on a screen, she vanished. I only remembered the title.

Perhaps music will lure her back, I told myself. I played my favorite music and I stretched the title, I probed and dug; “what’s relevant to this title? Why don’t I feel the same tingling as I did when she was here? Why don’t those induced to appear before me now match her not in volume nor in essence?”

Where did she go? Why doesn’t she want to return?

Then I determined I will read pages of a book that may seduce her at a certain line into manifesting herself as she did once. That fat book intimidated me; Tolstoy could not have possibly known War and Peace better than I do these days – dismissed.

TV won’t do, it never did. I’m afraid she may not be immune from the gore as I have become. My skin, thick as an elephant’s, hurts all the more from bruises left by news bulletins.

“Fragile. Handle with care” – that’s what my package said. There was an arrow too: “This side up”.

I placed my fingertips on the keyboard and I promised that I will type and type and type until I reach her but some guests call in and I am interrupted even before I commence. The crowd upstairs sure can conspire miraculously should they desire to, can’t they?

I know she was a philosopher, discussing an aspect of human life based on meditative observations. I know she was deep, at least that’s how she seemed to me, and I know I created her. Yes, I created her and she was mine for a second but she eluded me during a mental orgasm.

She didn’t leave a number. I must create her again.

My quest does not stop. I think maybe if I tidy my room, better the setting, she will emerge. I install a hanging round light above my bed for when I dare to read before I fall into sleep’s embrace, all the while thinking of her, and I arrange things in the room – and rearrange them- as I reckon must find her fancy.

Tired as I am, I turn the laptop off. I cannot stand the sight of it without her spirit; it is dead to me at this point. I put on some Fairouz and turn the main light off, immersing the room in a dim red light that excites the senses, and I rest on the couch.
I envy those who are not inspired. Inspiration is torture if you cannot talk it into your level of appreciation and it’s as if it defies all order and has you abiding by its chaos. I am tempted, time and again, by this trying concept. I am tortured by it and it does not yield to my pleas, never satisfies its suppliant.

Love, inspiration – come back.

I think it better that in times like these
A poet’s mouth be silent, for in truth
We have no gift to set a statesman right;
He has had enough of meddling who can please
A young girl in the indolence of her youth,
Or an old man upon a winter’s night.

- William Butler Yeats

‘ I could tell you my adventures -
beginning from this morning- ‘

‘ At least I knew who I was
when I got up this morning,
but I think I must have changed
several times since then.’

- Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, Chapter X

For each ecstatic instant
We must an anguish pay
In keen and quivering ratio
To the ecstasy.

For each beloved hour
Sharp pittances of years,
Bitter contested farthings
And coffers heaped with tears.

- Source

It is May 6th today which means it has been five days since people officially took off their heavy garments and travelled much lighter in the streets and in beds.

But that’s of course all in the head of someone used to having a household rule not to ease the burden before May 1st. It is this date that as children we anticipated so eagerly, we waited impatiently for the day when mother would let us wear only one layer of clothing instead of three or four.

She would never allow it that we break this rule but some times some of us children would violate this sacred code and would dare to wear a T-shirt before May 1st. Amusingly enough, this child would always get sick shortly afterwards and mother would win, but she would not be happy about her triumph.

We have a small storage room in the house, and it has several large shelves installed in the wall for storing things. That’s where all out travel bags are, and the fat vaccum cleaner, and collections upon collections of old, deformed textiles and plastic bags. This room is special; it is never tidy and it is never well-lit- which gives it an air of mystery.

We call it, minimally, the small room. We use a ladder to climb up to the top shelves and to get the heavy travel bags down, and it is very very difficult to squeeze a ladder and a person and a chubby bag going downwards in the small room.

This difficulty made it a tough task to retrieve our summer clothes, and although we all yearn for the nice feeling of air against our skins, we put this off and mother eventually does it on her own.

The bags are always full of things we had long forgotten, things that seem so new. One bag is baby blue with a white round sticker on it, another is large and made of brown leather but someone wrote our family name on it in big red letters, and there is a set of three black plain bags in three degrees of size that I like so much. Each bag has a character of its own and each reveals a different treasure.

When we were children, mother would open one bag a day to keep the house in order. That did not help much, our rooms would swim in clothes that need ironing and looking into, and the garage would resemble a shop with lots and lots of tailored fabrics hanging in the sun. There would be also fresh bars of soap out on the floors, pecans, and little white bags that smelled funny and had tiny cehmical pearls inside.

Mother had a magical way of preserving items that belong to the 70’s and 80’s. We had a large original Mexican hat and a poncho in the big brown leather bag, and several thick medals in the blue bag. There were also slippers, charleston pants, dresses at least twenty five years old in the bags.

So when the sun climbs higher, lighting the hall leading to the small room and the calendar reads May 1st, we know it is time to discover the secrets of last summer- it’s our ritual that smells like pecans and soap and feels like leather.

O LOVE, Love, Love! O withering might!

O sun, that from thy noonday height

Shudderest when I strain my sight,

Throbbing thro’ all thy heat and light,

Lo, falling from my constant mind,

Lo, parch’d and wither’d, deaf and blind,

I whirl like leaves in roaring wind.

Last night I wasted hateful hours

Below the city’s eastern towers:

I thirsted for the brooks, the showers:

I roll’d among the tender flowers:

I crush’d them on my breast, my mouth;

I look’d athwart the burning drouth

Of that long desert to the south.

Last night, when some one spoke his name,

From my swift blood that went and came

A thousand little shafts of flame

Were shiver’d in my narrow frame.

O Love, O fire! once he drew

With one long kiss my whole soul thro’

My lips, as sunlight drinketh dew.

Before he mounts the hill,

I knowHe cometh quickly: from below

Sweet gales, as from deep gardens, blow

Before him, striking on my brow.

In my dry brain my spirit soon,

Down-deepening from swoon to swoon,

Faints like a dazzled morning moon.

The wind sounds like a silver wire,

And from beyond the noon a fire

Is pour’d upon the hills, and nigher

The skies stoop down in their desire;

And, isled in sudden seas of light,

My heart, pierced thro’ with fierce delight,

Bursts into blossom in his sight.

My whole soul waiting silently,

All naked in a sultry sky,

Droops blinded with his shining eye:

I will possess him or will die.

I will grow round him in his place,

Grow, live, die looking on his face,

Die, dying clasp’d in his embrace.

Link

a woman hungry and
dry asks a
stranger with a camera
pointed at her to
put it down
please
help me find my children
it has been five days

-Suheir Hammad

Link

Mutters under her breath “This is so not my thing.”

-“The newest member of our group is Ms.Delila Idris. Hello Delila, care to share something with the group about yourself?”
-“Yeah, sure. I’m 23 years old, and I dance for a living”
-“Really now? That sounds lovely. What sort of dance? Ballet?”
-“Nah. I belly dance”

Pause. The guys stare at her.

-“Hmm, interesting. What else would you like to let the others here know about you?”
-“ I don’t do drugs, don’t do spirits, and don’t do after-the-show-gigs. Could you please tell those two guys over there to stop staring at me?”

Pause.

-“OK. Why did you join this group, Delila?”
-“ I figured I could get to talk to other people about my problem. Maybe learn something, makes life easier.”
-“That’s right Delila, we’re all here to learn.”

Note: Handed in with a certain Creative Writing portfolio, an assignment to force a character into a situation where talking is a must. Conversation is revealing of many personality traits; this was the moral of the homework.

“A famished fox crept into a vineyard where ripe, luscious grapes were draped high upon arbors in a most tempting display. In his effort to win a juicy prize, the fox jumped and sprang many times but failed in all his attempts. When he finally had to admit defeat, he retreated and muttered to himself, “Well, what does it matter anyways? The grapes are sour!”.

It is easy to despise what you cannot get.

- Aesop’s Fables, selected and adopted by Jack Zipes, published by the Penguin Group in Penguin Popular Classics 1996.

2005 is drawing to an end, another year; another chapter. The relationship between Man and Time is never exactly clear in my head. Following is something I posted on my previous blog on January 2nd,2005. It sums up the year 2004, and I might just write another one to wrap up 2005. I wrote this at 9:31 PM, my mood was “Thankful”. I hope you will enjoy the read, make it visual.

Hello World, My name is Tololy. I would like to share with you some of my memories of the past year. And it sounds rather funny calling it “last year”,because it is still too close to be believed far enough and worthy of the title.

I’ll try to imagine me and you sitting across of each other on comfortable red sofas, no I will be sitting on the floor because I like that, you may sit with me on the floor if you want to. Here’s my mental image nevertheless, you,world, and I are sitting on the floor in a simple room. And there are two red sofas behind us,and we support our backs against them. Do you have that image depicted in your mind,world? … Very well then, I will start my chronological narration.

Relax.

2004,I say – playing with my hair-, was a year of intense change and thorough explorations. The only clear memory I have of the first five months of the year is a bit blurry, I will not be telling you any tales so remove the thought instantly, I will only tell you what I deem essential. Stop looking on that wall,world. I am talking to you, are you bored already? No wonder we don’t get along so well,you and I. Oh, now you’ll listen? Promise! For your sake, I hope that was a promise pronounced from a sincere heart.

As I was saying,the reflection of that first half of the year is a bit blurry. Notwithstanding the confounded cloud that surrounds it,I will dig deeper in my memories and extract what’s needed. I can clearly remember a mournful day on which I was drenched in black. I will not relate to you what day it was, but it was a melancholy anniversary. Let us not dwell on dark thoughts now,world. Stop pleading with me to relate the details. I won’t, Stop!

The second memory I have of those early months is of a time when I discovered how prejudiced people can be. I had prior experiences with racism,I knew what it meant to be judged and then viciously attacked on basis of race and religion. But I never,in my utopian universe, imagined such false and unspeakably wrong ideas to exist in my own home. I was bitterly shocked. I did not accept that reality at first, and influenced by my young enthusiasm I fostered a personal belief that I might undo the wrong. I tried, and failed. You see,world, wrong had grown too old and intent in their hearts that I struggled in vain trying to eliminate it and wash it off. These series of events obliged me to give up a precious dream and yield to reality,cruel reality.

I did learn a lot from that,I learned to be realistic and measure things beforehand. It also hardened my shell, and nurtured my hatred of racism even more profoundly.

I sigh,then look at you, and I continue : Oh well, I have a conviction that I learn from everything,everyone and every event that occurs. And I am thirsty for knowledge. As far as studies are concerned,I do well. I was on a straight A spree for a year, then summer came and brought watermelons,sunshine and a C+ with it. Here I learned yet another lesson, corruption spreads fast and eats the produce of my country. I learned how it feels when you are degraded,and how a single person can ruin and control your life for a given period of time. I learned that no matter how decent and honest you are, some people could not care less. They are willing to crush you with their feet and stamp on you for daring to raise your head up and for telling them that they are mistaken. Fortunately though,such an ordeal produced little effect on my schooling. I retained my high GPA,but lost a big chunk of my faith in justice. She does exist,but only fully in another realm, in God’s court.

Contemporaneous with that pain, a strange joy introduced itself in the shape of a friend. I was willing and ready to discover my true self,and I did. It was a time of wild caprices,and thoughtfulness all together. It was a sweet sweet journey,short as well. Reality checked back in my hotel,and I gladly but painfully agreed to be its hostess. I learned that it’s alright to break the rules,provided that I have my own to replace them. It also taught me that I am what I think,literally,that all of my virtual mental images I have of myself are real. I don’t need to live in a parallel universe to realise them, I am they.

You’re a good listener,world. Why can’t you always listen like this?

Then I tasted another aspect of human nature, dominance. I had a chance of letting go of my sweeter side,and dragged the curtains away from the dark,tyrannical face I have. I enjoyed it at the beginning,then it struck me as unnatural,and barbarous. I ceased it. This taught me that people can be governed by their fantasies,and whims. And it taught me that looks are deceiving, and that I am not to be blamed for the defects people have.

I met the most special person in the last two months of the year, and he taught me so much. He was like a lantern,a source of illumination. But I was more of a butterfly,and the attraction could’ve been fatal had it not been for another twist of events that conveyed him away as magically as it had produced his presence. I argued with myself,and I questioned many fundamentals. It agonized me, then relaxed me. And I was overwhelmed with the security my faith granted me.

From this experience I learned that time is not a barrier,and neither is age. I learned that all it takes to form a friend is understanding,not time. I learned to be more aggressive towards life,and accept no less than what I deserve. It revived in me the sense of ambition, and realistic optimism. It also made me see and believe how race and religion – or the lack of it – don’t affect my treatment of others, I treat people as humans and humans they are. I don’t care what they believe in as long as they don’t take advantage of this leniency. It made me a better person.

I gaze at my palm for a minute or two,and go on : I got a hint of what loneliness is,be it emotional,mental or physical. I knew all three. My dearest two sisters left me,and I suddenly found myself lonely. This consuming sensation drove me into a careless,naughty mood. And I acted accordingly. I don’t regret anything I did last year, it all serves to teach me valuable lessons.

World,do you nod your head because you understand what I’m saying, or are you humoring me into a better mood? Or a better story? No? I’ll have to take your word for that I guess.

The Naming of Cats is a difficult matter,
It isn’t just one of your holiday games;
You may think at first I’m as mad as a hatter
When I tell you, a cat must have THREE DIFFERENT NAMES.

First of all, there’s the name that the family use daily,
Such as Peter, Augustus, Alonzo or James,
Such as Victor or Jonathan, or George or Bill Bailey -
All of them sensible everyday names.

There are fancier names if you think they sound sweeter,
Some for the gentlemen, some for the dames:
Such as Plato, Admetus, Electra, Demeter -
But all of them sensible everyday names.

But I tell you, a cat needs a name that’s particular,
A name that’s peculiar, and more dignified,
Else how can he keep up his tail perpendicular,
Or spread out his whiskers, or cherish his pride?
Of names of this kind, I can give you a quorum,
Such as Munkustrap, Quaxo, or Coricopat,
Such as Bombalurina, or else Jellylorum -
Names that never belong to more than one cat.

But above and beyond there’s still one name left over,
And that is the name that you never will guess;
The name that no human research can discover -
But THE CAT HIMSELF KNOWS, and will never confess.

When you notice a cat in profound meditation,
The reason, I tell you, is always the same:
His mind is engaged in a rapt contemplation
Of the thought, of the thought, of the thought of his name:
His ineffable effable
Effanineffable
Deep and inscrutable singular Name.

“A slight clinking behind me made me turn my head. Six black men advanced in a file, toiling up the path. They walked erect and slow, balancing small baskets full of earth on their heads, and the clink kept time with their footsteps. Black rags were wound round their loins, and the short ends behind waggled to and fro like tails. I could see every rib, the joints of their limbs were like knots in a rope; each had an iron collar on his neck, and all were connected together with a chain whose bights swung between them, rhythmically clinking.”

When description does not blunt reality’s ugly end, read:

” Black shapes crouched, lay, sat between the trees leaning against the trunks, clinging to the earth, half coming out, half effaced within the dim light, in all the attitudes of pain, abandonment, and despair. Another mine on the cliff went off, followed by a slight shudder of soil under my feet. The work was going on. The work! And this was the place where some of the helpers had withdrawn to die.

They were dying slowly- it was very clear. They were not enemies, they were not criminals, they were nothing earthly now,- nothing but black shadows of disease and starvation, lying confusedly in the greenish gloom. Brought from all the recesses of the coast in all the legality of time contracts, lost in uncongenial surroundings, fed on unfamiliar food, they sickened, became inefficient, and were then allowed to crawl away and rest. These moribund shapes were free as air- and nearly as thin. “

- Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad. A penguin popular classics book, published in 1994. Pages 22 and 24.

This salt
in the saltcellar
I once saw in the salt mines.
I know
you won’t
believe me,
but
it sings,
salt sings, the skin
of the salt mines
sings
with a mouth smothered
by the earth.
I shivered in those solitudes
when I heard
the voice of
the salt
in the desert.
Near Antofagasta
the nitrous
pampa
resounds:
a broken
voice,
a mournful
song.

In its caves
the salt moans, mountain
of buried light,
translucent cathedral,
crystal of the sea, oblivion
of the waves.

And then on every table
in the world,
salt,
we see your piquant
powder
sprinkling
vital light
upon
our food. Preserver
of the ancient
holds of ships,
discoverer
on
the high seas,
earliest
sailor
of the unknown, shifting
byways of the foam.
Dust of the sea, in you
the tongue receives a kiss
from ocean night:
taste imparts to every seasoned
dish your ocean essence;
the smallest,
miniature
wave from the saltcellar
reveals to us
more than domestic whiteness;
in it, we taste infinitude.

Link

Today’s celebrations should carry a special flavour, hence I shall post a short story that I wrote for my Creative Writing class in some five minutes. The comical yet sardonic bit about this brief tale is that I did not want it to develop into this shape at all. I commenced my writing session, against my will, and I devised a semi-plot and thought I would see it consummate.

Short-lived were my expectations. I soon forgot what the plot was and about five ideas crowded my head simultaneously. I was frustrated and wishy-washy about which to so proudly pick and claim my own and which to discard.

An eerie feeling of how twisted the whole situation is took over me and I convlused and scratched my head in the process. Then I adjusted my protection glasses that make me look like the nerd that I probably am, and I resolved to let the “ideas” flow with no plot prepared.

Well what do you know! I had my story readily. One last thing remains to be said about the satire at the end of the tale, a word of advice, that is, if you feel the presence of subliminal messages, do not scold yourself. Sometimes those happen, sometimes they don’t. In either case you could be mistaken and self-abasement is usually called for in more crucial issues. Save that for later.

The tale behind my becoming the leading rooster of the chicks and chickens is one not too long to narrate. I was told that when my chicken mother laid me as an egg, alongside my sibling eggs, that I was a bit distinct in color. My egg was more on the yellowish side and its shell was harder.

She settled on us, my chicken mother, until the eggs hatched. The other eggs all opened up with a weak picking from the soft beaks of the other baby birds. Mine was not so easy to unlock, I picked at it endlessly to no avail. My chicken mother gave up on me and altered her attention to the caring of her other babies. So much for motherly love, in retrospect I say. I eventually grew weary after that trial and I heard my beak creaking so I decided to try one last time. Lo and behold! It worked.

Once out, my chicken mother cared for me on equal foot with her more fortunate chicks. I was a weak male chick, really; playing with my peers, picking here and there for seeds and what not but never volunteering for a fight or anything of the sort. My friends came to call me “Rooster” as means of teasing me about my helplessness. I did not even mind that.

There was an ugly old rooster in charge of us, group of chickens. He was known under the name of “Spike”. My chicken mother often told of his unlimited strength and adventures. She even fabricated stories of him defying the farmer and preventing him from taking eggs and such. Those were lies, now I know that for a fact. But at the time when we were entertained and petrified by them they seemed utter reality.

I was playing casually one day with my chicken friends when Spike came up to me and lashed me with his tongue. He spoke ill of my mother and I was enraged by his behavior. I picked a stone and threw it at his arrogant head and the old fellow crumbled to the ground, his limbs shook and twitched. His crown got smeared with dirt and eventually his limbs twitched no more.

My friends and I stood awestruck for a long time. It was a painful pause during which I did not have the slightest clue what to do. Then all of a sudden my friends started laughing in a down right repulsive manner, they dragged me off to the chicken shed where we lived and there they proceeded to telling everyone what I, in a moment of fury, had done.

To my great surprise the chickens did not seem to mind Spike’s death. Ceremonies took place and I was crowned the leading rooster of the company. They still call me Rooster, it’s severely odd when you think of it. I am an ineffectual chick by my own admission and yet they applaud me as a superior rooster. Who ever said that governing the company requires preparation was doubtlessly mistaken.

I thank the person who brought the works of Jelaluddin Rumi to my attention. Rumi is a famous Persian Sufi who lived in the years 1207-1273. He was a ” saint and mystic, inspiration for the Mevlevi Order of the whirling dervishes, highly revered for the great Mathnawi which is a majestic tribute to the depth of spiritual life.”

I shall leave the rest for you to discover. Bear in mind though, that you need to approach the works of Sufis with delicate care and no prejudice. Prejudice, or preconceived ideas, will only serve to make your refusal of the texts hasty. Do not be tempted by effect of what you have thus learned to pass a ruling and dismiss the works of Sufis, denying yourself the pleasures of exploring them.

In the orchard and rose garden
I long to see your face.
In the taste of Sweetness
I long to kiss your lips.
In the shadows of passion
I long for your love.

Oh! Supreme Lover!
Let me leave aside my worries.
The flowers are blooming
with the exultation of your Spirit.

By Allah!
I long to escape the prison of my ego
and lose myself
in the mountains and the desert.

These sad and lonely people tire me.
I long to revel in the drunken frenzy of your love
and feel the strength of Rustam in my hands.

I’m sick of mortal kings.
I long to see your light.
With lamps in hand
the sheikhs and mullahs roam
the dark alleys of these towns
not finding what they seek.

You are the Essence of the Essence,
The intoxication of Love.
I long to sing your praises
but stand mute
with the agony of wishing in my heart.

– ‘The Love Poems of Rumi’ By Deepak Chopra

The man did not expect to find his true love while dancing. He just wanted to have some fun and not think of work for the night. So he headed to the nearest disco and there he drank until he could no more. He found himself dancing with girls he had never seen before. Girls varying in size and looks, some old enough to actually be called women.
“I think I like you”, said the woman. “I think I could learn to like you”, said the man.
The two danced on. Drunk and ecstatic.

The couple walked to his house, he opened the door and his cat rubbed its head against his foot.“Oh! That’s a nice cat!,” exclaimed the woman. “Yeah. That’s Oliver. I just got him fixed”, said he. “Poor thing! Here Oliver. Come here, that’s a good pussycat”.

Significant each other’s other or not, the man and the woman had a steamy lovemaking session, a no-strings-attached-one-night-stand.

The man said: “That was good”, and she nodded, too tired to speak.
“I am really a man”.
“No way!”
“Yes way. I should’ve told you but I thought you’d freak out.”
“Freak out? Are you kidding me? What the!”
“I know. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m telling you this in the first place. I don’t know you, you don’t know me. And this is a one-night stand for god’s sake. I’m sorry I’m just really stupid sometimes. I should’ve just shut up about it”
Now looking at the ceiling and not knowing what to say, they both lay there, silent. Oliver curled up on the floor and closed his eyes in sweet sleep.

Then someone said “Well OK. I was a woman once”.

Of Gibran’s “The Prophet”, one of my all-time favorite reads, I bring you the following lines. The book I quote is a Wordsworth Classics of World Literature, 1996 edition published by Wordsworth Editions Limited.

And a woman who held a babe to her bosom said, Speak to us of Children.
And he said:
Your children are not your children
They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you.
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the Archer’s hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look will easily unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands

Link

In my previous blog,and on October 29th 2004, I posted the following words. (Mood: sleepy). It is amazing how I can still relate to them.

I am “categorised” everyday, call it peer pressure or pure shallowness,it is an innate behaviour in human nature.
One of my all-time fav poems… This poem is straight forward and simple.

Claims

I am not soft, hennaed hands,
a seduction of coral lips;
not the enticement of jasmine musk
through a tent flap at night;
not a swirl of sequined hips,
a glint of eyes unveiled.
I am neither harem’s promise
nor desire’s fulfillment.

I am not a shapeless peasant
trailing children like flies;
not a second wife, concubine,
kitchen drudge, house slave;
not foul-smelling, moth-eaten, primitive,
tent-dweller, grass-eater, rag-wearer.
I am neither a victim
nor an anachronism.

I am not a camel jockey, sand nigger, terrorist,
oil-rich, bloodthirsty, fiendish;
not a pawn of politicians,
nor a fanatic seeking violent heaven.
I am neither the mirror of your hatred and fear,
nor the reflection of your pity and scorn.
I have learned the world’s histories,
and mine are among them.
My hands are open and empty:
the weapon you place in them is your own.

***
I am the woman remembering jasmine,
bougainvillea against chipped white stone.
I am the laboring farmwife
whose cracked hands claim this soil.
I am the writer whose blacked-out words
are birds’ wings, razored and shorn.
I am the lost one who flees,
and the lost one returning;
I am the dream, and the stillness,
and the keen of mourning.

I am the wheat stalk, and I am
the olive. I am plowed fields young
with the music of crickets,
I am ancient earth struggling
to bear history’s fruit.
I am the shift of soil
where green thrusts through,
and I am the furrow
embracing the seed again.

I am many rivulets watering
a tree, and I am the tree.
I am opposite banks of a river,
and I am the bridge.
I am light shimmering
off water at night,
and I am the dark sheen
that swallows the moon whole.

I am neither the end of the world
nor the beginning.

My slim, sly hand, which dwelled on that thin border between “warm” and “freezing” and swayed gently to frost, seized the cup and the liquid it contained in a magical stealthy movement. I took a single look at the fluid substance that seemed to swim and bask under what little sunshine crept to stare at it through the imperfect round opening just above it, and I fell in love with it for a quiet moment.

It was an exclusive experience. The cardboard cup was made cautiously as if the fingers of a modern Picasso lavished upon its every detail hours of meditative labor and great portions of ingenious mind-vision. The fragile lower edges were tenderly wrapped to the guts of my cup; they were so fluently tucked inward that – now- it appeared as if the fingers of my imaginary artist never touched them, as if no human hands have. The stature of the object wasn’t impressive, save for the grace it shed on it and, indeed, received in return. It wasn’t wholly short, but it wasn’t tall either. It was at a medium stop between both. It had a waist, but no limbs. The thickness it possessed was also luxurious; it relaxed my hand and never strained it. In a way it was an athletic cardboard cup, it was at rest when I held it though. I must confess that I shortly surrendered to the weakness of its walls and the immediate spun it conjured in my hand, thus it drooled a sip of melted chocolate syrup on my thigh.

My cup’s rims were white; they were of a clean, fresh white. But its body was of a delicious light-brown coat, which somehow resembled another hue of beige or yellow in an optimistic day. The inhabitant of the cup was an African-American colored liquid, an absolute eye joy. It swam there, in its own designated loving pool. Every so often it lost its dazzling vivacity and gave birth to a darker tone of brunette, and that tone once ate the sun. I saw the sun inside my cup, and I saw my face, too. I marveled non-stop at this extraordinary feat of cardboard engineering and astronomy. The fluid danced as well, it had all sorts of dances arranged for my eyes, as if it had been waiting for its liberation from the huger container and longed for the embrace of the cup. It rippled and jumped as I hastily walked. It was happy with me.

When I first glanced down at my cup, I saw a peculiar swirl-shaped cluster of foam. Newborn appealing bubbles that fulfilled their destiny in less than two or three minutes. They either hopped on to my lips and juggled down my throat, or flew away like fairies to where I couldn’t follow them. They were lovable, disposable tricks, conceived by the union of the racing chocolate fluid and the angry, dull machine.
My now brown- now black drink emitted a haunting perfume. Some genre of an exotic aroma glided up an unseen ladder to my nostrils, tickled them and proceeded to my most intimate brain cells. It was tastefully venomous, my eyes were lulled by a sudden desire to sleep and I instantly demanded rain.

The cup twitched, and I sympathized with its plea. I gave it a tender kiss and swallowed the dark ooze it gratefully smothered me with. I took pleasure in draining it gradually, and a flood of rapture enveloped me as I sucked away the last drop of brunt-brown juices.

I took my cup in both my hands, and realized that the hands of roughly every other person standing close by was holding one of its identical twins carelessly. Strictly applying wintry lips to the edges of the cups’ bodies. I knew my cherished cup had identical twins, it doubtlessly had at least a thousand.

It was an unaided victim of the art of mass production. Although in my eyes it was a masterpiece, “un capolavoro”, a fine companion on a trashed January morning. Sheepishly I regretted that my favorite item of that morning was made by a machine, or a family of machines for that matter. I had attached to it a lovely construction of my trance, a blooming supplication of a personal tint. For a faint moment, I was engrossed in melancholy. I puffed composed air and the newborn bubbles of dismay were shelved. Then I left my dear cardboard study cup with a bundle of its twins in the trash can.

P.S. This was written in January,9th,2005 on a previous blog. Mood: Guilty.

” I was afriad to raise my eyelids, but looked out and saw perfectly under the lashes. The fair girl went on her knees and bent over me, fairly gloating. There was a deliberate voluptuousness which was both thrilling and repuslive, and as she arched her neck she actually licked her lips like an animal, till I could see in the moonlight the moisture shining on the scarlet lips and on the red tongue as it lapped the white sharp teeth.Lower and lower went her head as the lips went before the range of my mouth and chin and seemed about to fasten on my throat. Then she paused, and I could hear the churning sound of her tongue as it licked her teeth and lips, and could feel the hot breath on my neck. Then the skin of my throat began to tingle as one’s flesh does when the hand that is to tickle it approaches nearer – nearer. I could feel the soft, shivering touch of the lips on the supersensitive skin of my throat, and the hard dents of two sharp teeth, just touching and pausing there. I closed my eyes in a langurous ecstasy and waited – waited with a beating heart. “

- Bram Stoker’s Dracula, Chapter III. Jonathan Harker’s Journal.

You can’t imagine how thrilling & relieving it is knowing that my last lecture is over. A feeling well known for most university students, if not all. It would be fascinating to hide somewhere and locate such young faces full with absolute joy; it would indeed be eye candy!

So a hectic day of lectures is over, and I survived it. I managed to get through all the nosy glances, sarcastic comments, and some serious brain straining classes. All I can think of is home, sweet home. I just want to get there, I’d do anything to get there.I walk with steady steps, heading towards the main gate. And finally I am outside the university campus. My car should be parked around here, that is, if I had one. Ah, moment of truth: I, dear reader, do not own a car. Unlike many of my more privileged colleagues, I have to get home by other means of transportation. That’s always a bus!

Fortunately, the bus stop is close by. But oh, there’s no bus there. I have to walk some 300 meters so that I can catch a bus, you see, my fellow students have developed some sort of maneuver over the days. Why wait for the bus? They thought. We’ll go “get” the bus. Thus, this bus stop is merely a cliché. So I walk, again. But this time I am frustrated. I walk until my legs can’t anymore, then I stop, and wait.“Here comes the bus!” shouts my little heart with joy.

My eyes widen and I get excited. But the bus stops before it reaches me, a bunch of girls hop in. and a terrifying notion reveals itself, what if there is no place left for me? I need to go home! Please god, one empty place for poor old me. I pray and repeat my prayers over and over again. The bus begins to move again, and the driver definitely notices me standing by the street. I signal him and the bus stops. The world becomes a brighter place all of a sudden. I am finally going home.I take a quick look inside the bus to check for any empty places, I find one and I seat myself with pure content. I think I can relax now, the hard part is over. I’m in the bus, and I’m on my way home.

Could there be more to ask for? The answer shortly comes rushing, YES!My friend the bus makes yet another stop. Strange, because I don’t see any room left for anybody. Some girls get in, and “The control” directs one of them to squeeze herself next to me. “Sit there, next to your sister” he says. I find this terribly unpleasant. But I, out of politeness, move a bit so that she can semi-sit next to me. My arms are squeezed against the window and I can’t move them. I can’t even grab my wallet to get the necessary change. Now I know what else is there for me to ask for, I demand my personal space!As the bus moves slowly, and with as many number of stops as you can possibly think of, I just can’t help but watch my sitting partner’s moves. The way she’s dressed, what color is her purse, and I wonder what on earth made her choose those shoes. I think of many possible answers, which can all be summed up in only one reason. She has a really lousy taste.

I take a general look at every other girl in the bus, and I proudly reassure myself that I’m the most stylish girl around.I totally forget “why” I’m in this bus in the first place. And some dilemma presents itself in the driver’s and control’s actions. Why did they take extra passengers? How much more money could they possibly make out of this deal? Not enough to pay for the ticket they’ll get if a policeman notices this, that’s for sure. Do they do it out of pity? I’d often hear them discussing whether they will or will not take a certain passenger, the control would always be sympathetic with girls. He’d stress that “she needs to go home to help her mother” & I’m not making this up!

So here I am, faced with such a major enigma while on my way home. My mind wonders: Am I really dealing with a materialistic situation? If so, then why do they normally ignore most of the guys? Or is it more ethical than I think it is? Do the leaders of the bus take girls because they feel it necessary to “save” the girls from the streets? .. My partner moves, she demands more of my personal space. And she seizes it. I shrink.I remember having shared a seat with some girls. I am guilty of doing so. My only excuse is that my last lecture was really late, so I’d technically “jump” at any available bus. I didn’t mind squeezing myself next to people, because I’ve been squeezed, too. Call it my way of taking revenge, call it my sin. When squeezed, I often question myself, did I pay my 15 precious piasters to be seated this way? Don’t I ,by paying this sum of money, have the right to sit and enjoy the ride, instead of being glued to the window?

It seems endless, the journey home. I stare out of the smudgy glass and struggle to get the sufficient sum of money to pay for this wonderful ride. Is that music? No, it’s simply what the driver “thinks” music is. All I hear is some major annoying noise. Funny how tastes differ, no?We’re getting closer to where I live. I let out a sigh. The bus stops for the last time, as far as I’m concerned. The expression on my face is indefinable, a most bizarre combination of happiness, anxiety, disgust & relief all together. I get off……

P.S: This I wrote in July,2003. It was published in “Blossoming Writers” which was a journal that celebrates the writings of the students in my university. Sadly enough,we had to stop publishing the journal (which was strictly on campus) due to “administrative complications”.