Working overnight...

... just like I used to do when I was in university. Just like I was the night I started this blog. So much has happened since, so many things. I feel like going through all the writing I have on here, and trace my life through a cyber window, see how I've changed, if i have. See who has affected me, and why. See what I have to say about everything, and what that says about me، see where I'm going.

But I won't.

I'm going to hide behind the excuse that I have to finish this rushed job before I hear the neighbours rooster crow in a couple of hours. Of course, I could tell you that I'm scared of seeing myself in chronology, just like someone is fearful of putting his hand into a dark strange box. What if I don't like what I was, and I disappoint myself again? Or what if I find I've arrived nowhere? No no. Where's that excuse I needed? Ah yes. I need to work. Maybe I'll look through that window some other day, but not today.

I'm up after all the beings on this side of the earth have fallen asleep, and all the beings on the other side have begun to go about their days. And all I can think of is the next entry I want to write. Musha is sprawled on the floor, her paws crossed, and her muzzle twitching slightly every once in a while. I wonder what dogs dream about...

That excuse is becoming the elephant in the room. I guess I have to get back at it.

Good old days at the studio overnighting with everyone, smoking cigarettes, going crazy once in a while, and drinking diet Pepsi till my brain began to make that fizzing noise. I miss that.

There's the Mosque calling to prayer. The rooster's cue is in a bit.

Till the next post. A tout a l'heure, and goodnight.

(And seriously... what do dogs dream of?)

Hula Hoops and Pavement Tiles

I remember hula hoops.

I remember how adamant I was as a child to master the art of hula hoops. And I did.
I used to run out at recess, hurry to the back playground where all the toys were, and grab the lime green one. Nearly always the lime green one.
With a shove of the plastic circle in one direction, and my hips in the other, I could go on for hours if I was allowed it.

I remember hopscotch too. And that game that resembled cats cradle but instead of on our hands, elastic was stretched between the legs of two persons, and we would jump over and on the elastic, and do all sorts of crazy moves till we tripped up or ruined the pattern.

I remember all these things. All those days before I knew any better.
I say "better" but I don't know how much I believe that. Why is it "better"?

Those were days before I knew anything of sorrow, or death, or wars. Before I could understand what depression was, what loneliness was, what agonies failures and disappointments brought. Before honesty was scarce and caused complications instead of simply being the truth. Before I felt the weight of a broken heart, or the cold shiver a betrayal can give. Before I knew anything of life and all its onerous baggage.

Maybe back then was better after all.

So I suppose it should make sense to you when I do "childish" things. When I run through sprinklers, jump in puddles when it rains, pretend that the existence of humanity depends on my not stepping on the lines in the pavement tiling. When I feel like flying a kite, or hiding behind trees, or making shadow animals in the middle of a projected class presentation.
I love doing all those things. It makes me feel happy, free. For a tiny bit I'm granted the peace I once had, cradled in the arms of naivety. I feel invulnerable, and untouchable. I feel, if only for moments at a time, that I didn't grow up too fast. And why not?

I'm with Tom on this one. "I don't wanna grow up".
Shame I didn't realise it before I did; before I forgot how to spin a lime green hula hoop on my hips.

Dream Sketch #6 ~ Dreams of something

Dream Sketch #5 ~ Nightmares are better

Dream Sketch #4 ~ Happiness and the sea

The little things

What is it about silly romantic B- movies that can make someone like me, whose skin has been thickened by many an ordeal and considers herself a strong person to tear up silently?

It must sound ridiculous, to tear up at an imaginary situation, with imaginary characters, and an imaginary love. But that is, alas, the case.
A fantasy of sorts, having someone be head over heels for you, setting up the building roof with lights and a dinner to surprise you, leaving notes where they know you'll find it, walking the extra mile to show you they would do so for you, simple gestures, glances, touches that fill the heart like nothing else does.

Despite the ridiculousness of tearing at a B-movie, I've come to realise that it is not as a sign of weakness or naivety. No. On the contrary, it is a sort of mourning, a wish, an extra jolt of adrenaline in the race to the end. The race to being happy with your heart. After all, it is at the core of you, literally and metaphorically. It's a reminder in a way, of what some of us really would like to feel.

"But these things don't happen in real life."
Perhaps not always. But aren't movies supposed to be imitating life? Someone must've done it, or thought it, or seen it happen for them to write it up, cast it, direct it.

I don't know why I'm writing this post, I don't know what compelled me to write it. But I suppose this is just what this blog is for...

So why not fall into the moments of "you complete me" and "olive juice" and guitars in front car seats and take them for what they are ...

After all, it is the little things that count.

Shooting stars

He sat on the edge of the world, hands by his sides, his legs swaying slightly back and forth.
The scene before him was breathtaking, the sun rolling under the curvature of earth, staining the sky shades of yellow, orange, red, purple, till it hit a deep lilac and then a blue of night ever so rarely noted.

But despite it all, his face had a subtle sadness in it, only visible in the slight sloping of his eyebrows, the gentle dip of his lip edges, and the light creasing of his forehead. His wings were folded neatly, the feathers clean and slick, a silver radiance reflecting the vanishing light.

As a sigh escaped his being, he looked down at the stars that twinkled awake in the new born darkness, and started to count the shooting stars.
He whispered names as they streaked by, each one weighed down in its letters, falling one after the other, tumbling from his mouth to nowhere the eye could see. Each ending just as the their corresponding trail of light withered and extinguished.

More than a few names later, he brought up one leg onto the ground, pushing himself up with his arm till he was fully stood, head still slightly lowered towards the ether. His wings shivered slightly, ruffling in an attempt to relax.

Burdened, and tired, he rubbed his face, sighed once more, and accidentally allowed a tear to escape and roll down his face.

I cannot do this anymore, forgive me, he whispered this time louder than before, looking to his right.

Without even flinching, his wings opened up suddenly, the fronds of feathers unhinging and separating in what seemed like a couple of movements till they were full breadth. They embraced the breeze in their stalks, giving it a slight whistle.

And he fell.

He did not jump head or feet first, he simply fell forward, allowing the arms of gravity to pull, and the blanket of wind and cloud to envelope him.

Faster and faster, his fall took him, till he was blurred. Faster and faster till he burst into a flame, a flame brighter than ever.


In a garden, a girl laying on the grass suddenly smiled and pointed at the sky.
"Look, a shooting star!" she exclaimed, a smile gracing her lips, its light mirrored in her eyes briefly before being claimed by the night.

Dream Sketch #3 ~ Doomed to dream

Bruise beautifully

You bruise beautifully baby.
Rainbows line your skin
Under the darkest of skies, the fullest of moons
Is there gold at the end you think?

You bruise beautifully baby.
Every cloud has a silver lining
A bit of colour in a world of black and blue
See? You do it without even trying.

You bruise beautifully baby.
Wipe the tears from your eyes, because
at least you bruise beautifully baby.

Dreams of cars and snow and crashes

I had a dream last night.
It was more like a nightmare.

No monsters, no demons, just enough discomfort to make me twist and turn till the anxiety finally sprung my eyelids open at 2 a.m in the morning.

I had a dream about driving, I had a friend in the car, someone I hadn't seen for a while, and someone who had caused some discomfort in recent months.
I was driving my car, going somewhere I'm not sure where. And I was speeding slightly, the feeling was that I had to get where I wanted to go.

I'm winding on mountain roads, and there's snow, and for some reason this surprises me, and I attempt to slow down. But it's too late, the car is swerving and twisting left to right to left, and I have no control whatsoever. I can tell there's not enough momentum to gravely harm me or my friend, but the car becomes a priority, and I'm worried about hitting it badly.

By the time I get the car under control, it's only a few minutes before once again the car is beyond any command. And the feeling was horrible.

I see the edge of the road, and it looks like I'm headed there, a cliff that overlooks a deep deep ravine, and the only option I have is to crash into a parked car.

And I do. I get out of the car, look at the damage, it's been destroyed from the left side. My friend gets out of the car inspects the car, and begins to talk to onlookers who have come to check on us.

It's snowing, and cold, and I realise my car is missing wheels.Three in total. This takes over my thoughts, and I begin to look at the road we had come from, skid marks in the snow, wet dirty slush christening the slight uphill, and someone shouts that one of the wheels is further down. I run down, my breath fogging up and drifting into my eyes, cold wind pinching my cheeks.

I see one wheel on the side of the road, and its dismantled into two parts. I may not be a mechanic, but I know wheels don't do that. The inner balloon tube is a weird flower shape, and as I look on, I find another one of the inner tubes off the road, dangling from a tree coming out from the side of the mountain.

What exactly possesses me to reach for it, I'm not sure, but the next thing I know, I'm kneeling on the snow on a cliff side, the cold damp seeping through my jeans, reaching out for it.

I can hear my breath, and the warm blood pulsing through my neck as I stretch and stretch and I feel feeble and weak and I begin to lose balance. The anxiety of being in a car crash is adding up, images of my car side crumpled, the fear as I attempted to keep it all together, the helplessness. I'm upset, and distressed, and I wake up.

My phone is blinking blue, I check and find a message, reply in a groggy daze that I just had a nightmare, and turn over to my other side, thankful that my car is parked at the end of the road, thankful that it's not snowing, and thankful that I woke up before I felt any worse.

I read that among other things, dreaming about car accidents is a sign that one feels they are not in control of their lives, or a situation, whether the situation has or will happen.

Why are my dreams telling me what I already know?
A rude awakening at 2 a.m. doesn't make things any clearer, just more disturbing, with a twist in the stomach and slight fear as a cherry on top of a rotten dessert.

I guess I'll be more careful driving my car these next few days. And I'll check my wheels too.

Little Miss Muffet in the desert

In this city of sand and fake life, I sit in the peculiar cool of building shade. The trees they stand tall, but despite being real, they seem frozen and a sham, green statues unhappily planted in pots and plots cut out of concrete, forced to bring a bit of green and verve to a metal and glass kingdom built of dreams bought by clammy back pocket wallets.

The people they are like the trees somehow. It's a weird sensation to walk here a visitor, among those who live here. They function normally, almost too normally. Stepford wives with a damning and horrible twist. Perhaps this is just my feeling. I'd rather not find out.

I sit on the patio furniture that's orphaned from an actual patio, and listen to my music, drowning out the talk of work, social scandals and sighted fashion faux pas', sipping on a milkshake with artificial berry flavouring.

"And along came a spider and sat down beside her..."

It must've landed on my hand from a grey office windowsill, craving a bit of warmth, a tiny little thing, with 8 legs that wouldn't measure up to a fingernail. And I crack a smile.

It walks around the playground of my hand, as I twist and turn my wrist to keep it in view and keep it level headed. Even spiders feel gravity.
It sits on my tip of my finger and decides to change the scenery, but not leaving me completely, it dangles on its silk, weaving it slowly to gain momentum, and hey presto, a swing set to go with the palm playground. I hold it up and watch it shorten and lengthen its rope to swing smoother in the light breeze.
Thinking it perhaps would like to get off this merry go round of a ride, I offer it a table top, but the glass is not as appealing, and it scurries up its life line towards my finger. Fair enough spidey. Fair enough.

It takes a few more strolls along my love line, my health line, a little promenade on my soul line, and life line before once again venturing to the edge of a digit and dangling for a quick swing.
This time, I need to let it go.
I place it softly on a fake straw chair, and it reluctantly disappears among its weaves, once again to roam a fake plastic, metal, and glass jungle, an ambassador of what is real, a lion among cats.

Time to look for another real Little Miss Muffet.

Try a little tenderness

"Remember that guy I once told you about? The one I had the thing for a few months back, but ended up giving up on? The guitarist?" she asked, reclined on my sofa, smoking a cigarette with the TV mumbling in the background.
"Yeah, I think so. The one that started as fun, but ended up turning emotional." I replied, taking a sip of my tea.
"Yeah.. ha, him. Did I ever tell you about the time we ended up making out against his car one night?"
"Which time would that be?" I smirked. Yeah, so it was a cheeky response, but she and I were friends enough to let things like that slide.
"Funny. You're funny. Anyway, he said something that night. I still think about it sometimes." She paused for a second, as if just mentioning this spun her into a spiral of thought about that very same thing.
"We had stumbled out of the bar near that restaurant on Hamra street. It was near to 3 a.m. and he offered to drive me to my car. What a lame excuse for a goodnight kiss if you ask me, but the mood was right, and he was a sweetheart, so we walked towards his car, and well, ya da ya da ya da, I pulled him towards me and we sorta fell onto the side of his car. We kissed and stroked and well, you don't need all the details, you've done it before..."
"Of course... so? What's the point of your mini risque story?" I interrupted.
"Well, there was a moment where I slid my hands under his shirt, and caressed his back, and sides. Softly. There wasn't anything very animalistic about it you know?" She took a drag of her cigarette, and I heard the slight crackling of the tobacco. "He stopped, pulled his head back and looked me straight in the eye, smiled slightly and stroked my cheek with his hand, so I asked him what was wrong, you know what he told me? He said no one had shown him tenderness like that before. It practically made me flinch in shock, and then I felt sad for him, you know? Can someone really not feel simple tenderness before? I mean, is it even possible?" Her eyes and tone became twisted with confusion and slight melancholy.
"I don't know... I suppose yes, at the same time no. I guess it shouldn't be possible to never experience that sort of basic affection, but surprisingly, a lot of people don't." I say, and realise how scientific and dry I sounded.
She turned out her cigarette in the ashtray on the low table in front of her. As she blew the smoke in a straight stream that slowed and dissipated closer to me, her mouth curved slowly downward, and once again, I lost my friend to thought. Her eyes were a tell tale. They slowly strained with sadness, and as they fluttered slightly, I saw her lower eyelid line with silver.
"I think that's the saddest thing I've ever heard..." she said still staring into the space in front of her, heavy with remnants of smoke, before turning to look straight at me and continuing "..right?"
I sighed softly, and felt the burn of her question.
"Yea... it is. It really is."

She straightened up, stood, and walked out onto the balcony letting some fresh air in.
And in the sunlight, she lit another cigarette, and looked up at the sky.

(day)Dream Sketch #2 ~ Love and Smoke

Dream Sketch #1 ~ Fireflies and Keys

Despite everything...

... it caught up with me.

Shaving with Occam's razor

She realises things are getting too much.
And everyone is loud.

She decides to shave it off. All off.
She grabs the razor, and glides it over the layers of excuses and questions and thoughts that clog up her lungs, and blur her vision.

Things don't have to be so complicated, she thinks to herself.
The simpler the better.
Don't overthink, don't make excuses, don't wrap yourself around yourself, looking for yourself, she tells herself...

She grabs the razor and shaves. It all falls to the floor and spills through the gaps under the doors, and out the windows and into the drains.

Thank you Occam she whispers. Thank you for trying.

3 a.m. minuet

"You know what your problem is?"
"Which one?"
"Hah. funny. *raises glass*"
"Ok... what.."
"You're a very good person...."
"That's my problem??"
"Ok. No. Wait, let me finish. You're a very good person, and I'm being honest here because I'm sorta tipsy, ok? You always put your self in these existential inner turmoil situations."
"Ok..."
"You're a very good person... and I think that you want to be happy. You'd like to be happy."
"Ok..."
"But I think that somewhere in that head of yours, you don't think you deserve to be."
"Maybe."
"...*short pause*... drink your goddamn wine."

Reading cards

She shuffles the cards in her palm, her elbows resting on the old mahogany table in the garden.
Her fingertips stroke their delicately ornamented gilded backs as she layers card over card from one palm to the other, and crickets chirped in the undergrowth under a sky stained dusk.
"This is the last time" she whispers. He tilts his head at her statement.
"Huh?"
"This is the last time I do this. No more readings." She say, this time with more irritation in her tone. She sighs softly.
She flips the first card in the pack over. It's the Queen of Cups.
"Interesting. She is royal. And that is in no way literal. She seems to be like anyone else, but she is not. She is far more superior. The Queen of Cups is wise, and governing but with love and tenderness. She is a mother, a friend, and a lover all in one..."
He clears his throat slightly, taking it all in, and again, she flips the next card.
"The Moon. Although the moon does not shine its own light, it allows for one to look at it in the face. It is honest, the light from the sun allows it to shine, but not bright enough to blind, just bright enough to show you the way. It is never the most obvious light source, but it is there, always."
He rests his head on his gripped fists and closes his eyes, listening carefully and trying to understand where the pieces fit.
"Two more cards" she says, as she reaches for the pack, caresses the card and flips it over.
"The World. Hmm." she pauses. "This card links to the first...the Queen and the World..." she rubs her chin with her forefinger, and the lines in her forehead form slowly.
"The Queen, all loving, all giving, is offering the World.." her voice trails as she starts to flip the last card.
"The Queen is offering the world to...."
He looks at the card, and looks up at her as she utters the words as if to reaffirm what his eyes already see.
"...the Fool."
He stands up. "And what does the Fool stand for?"
She looks at him and smiles briefly. "Come on...That's something I don't think I need to explain."
He laughs slightly, before crossing his arms and losing himself in thought.
"You never were never good at reading Tarot" he says.
"Then why do you keep asking it of me? There are only so many times things can be explained."
An owl swoops and hoots low. And the crickets stop chirping for a moment.
She sighs, and looks at the ground near his feet. "If you cannot see what there is to see, I cannot be your eyes. I wish I could, but it is not my place to be your eyes. I have no right to be your eyes. But let me leave you with this cliche of cliches : You won't know what you're missing until its gone. And then it could be too late."
She gulps the last bit of wine from her glass and stands up. Stroking a loose strand of hair from her face behind her ear, she picks up her cat and strokes it, looking up at him for a second.
"The moon is out already, and I'm tired. No more readings. I'm done... I'm done" she states, her voice twisting with melancholy.
She turns her back and walks away, the grass crunching quietly and crispy under her feet.

"The fool.." she whispers to her cat when she is sure he cannot hear her. "The fool.. if only he knew.." The cat shakes its head as a tear lands on its fur, meowing as if in sad agreement.

And as the distance between them grows bigger and bigger, he notices the motif on the back of her jacket.

It spells "Queen".

Strangers at a table

"Can I use your outlet?" he asks, holding a laptop charger plug in his hand and eyebrows inquisitively raised.

She nods after lifting her eyes from the work on her screen.

He sits opposite her and starts to type. Every once in a while he humphs or sighs annoyingly or grunts sarcastically. He has an irate demeanor about him, scowling constantly, with a smile like democracy - nonexistent.

He intrigues her. He seems to be gay from his mannerisms, and although she knows she must be generalising, she can't help it. She spies on him every few minutes from behind her screen and from in between her headphones, careful to not appear to.

She orders her diet coke, a few minutes later he signals to the waitress to bring him a cup of a coffee.
He is disturbed by the smoke from her cigarette.
She feels a bit guilty, and tries subtly hard to keep it from floating in his direction.
It worries her unnecessarily. Also something she cannot help.

As she works he becomes more familiar to her, a quiet friend, companion.
I'm not alone, she thinks, as he sits opposite her living his life while she lives hers, completely separate.

And then a few hours later, he gets up. He politely points out that she's plugged her charger into his extension chord and if she could remove it.

"Of course" she says, the only words she's uttered the whole time they were there.

He packs up while organising a plan on the phone he is balancing on his shoulder. He's hurrying, and fumbling, and as soon as the zipper on his laptop bag closes he turns and leaves.

She sees him walk away through the window, his back turned.
And she suddenly misses him, this stranger.
She suddenly feels like she's been dumped by someone who doesn't know her, jilted by someone who she probably would not like. Walked out on by a scowler, and a grunter, and someone who sips his coffee loudly. She suddenly feels a tinge of pain, albeit briefly.

She looks at the empty seat in front of her, and in the crowd of the cafe, she feels terribly alone.

A Conversation with Holden Caulfield - blast from the past

I was mentioning this poem I wrote like 6 years ago to a friend of mine that had to do with Holden Caulfield, and I decided to dig it up. I forget the context I wrote it in, but in any case, here it is...

Conversation with Holden Caulfield

I spoke to Holden Caulfield
And he said everything would be alright.
I asked him why,
He said because of the stars
in the sky at night.

I asked about the ducks,
The ones that flew away.
He said he didnt care anymore
To him, they were just another day.

And the stars?
The stars were different, he said.
The stars were different.

They were as perennial as
the sight in his eyes
They were always in the skies,
in their perfect constellations.
Free in space.

The thought of stars,
brought a light to his face.

"I cannot wait till night falls
to see my own festival of stars
From within these four white walls
And through the this window
this window with bars.."

I left Holden Caulfield,
who had said everything would be alright.
And I found out that they would be
That very same night..


(21/2/2003)