tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30031413157002626562024-03-13T15:30:21.775-04:00Amira Knows BestAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01369916403298870958noreply@blogger.comBlogger73125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3003141315700262656.post-25628509199121829132017-06-15T22:10:00.000-04:002017-06-15T22:10:47.386-04:00It Happens on a Thursday<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c.pxhere.com/photos/56/a3/dandelion_floating_flower_nature_flying_growth_wind_blossom-1205976.jpg!s" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="340" data-original-width="510" height="213" src="https://c.pxhere.com/photos/56/a3/dandelion_floating_flower_nature_flying_growth_wind_blossom-1205976.jpg!s" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">For the past few months, I have been going through intense awareness cycles. I call them cycles because I experience Aha! moments, followed by a sense of euphoria or dread, then self-doubt and sometimes self-loathing (depending on the area of awareness). At the end, eventual clarity and lightness evolve out of the process. This has been happening on and on for the last six months or so. I'm not sure if these are accumulative layers of awareness, or cause-and-effect sequences where one awareness leads to another. There are times when it feels like a wall has collapsed on me, and I am climbing out from under the debris one brick at a time. With each element I uncover, I can see the light more clearly and I can breathe more calmly.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Yet, there are times when the awareness is painful, necessary but painful nonetheless. This happens with those aspects of myself from which I have been hiding so masterfully. For years I had been living in denial, holding on to false hope that I or my circumstances will change on their own. Although, deep inside I knew that change would not occur. This awareness is the hardest for me. It is followed by bouts of cleansing tears and soulful reflections, but also agony. For some reasons, these onsets always happen on a Thursday. </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">There was no specific pattern to why Thursdays would be days of self-reckoning, yet during this avalanche</span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> of awareness my worst days fell on a Thursday, with the cloud of melancholy hanging over me through out the weekend.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">This Thursday, as I was getting ready for Taraweh prayers, I started to recall all the amazing experiences I have lived so far. I remembered lost loved ones and I was thankful for the joyful memories I had of them. Then I browsed my mental catalogue of serene life moments. I cried, as I did with every other Thursday before, yet these were tears of gratitude and remembrance that lifted my spirit. My tear stained cheeks plumed as I smiled at my good fortune. At that moment I was aware that if I never experience another happy moment in the years to come, I'll still die happy, for the experiences, memories, friendships, and family I have accumulated in these past forty years are enough to sustain me for lifetimes over. My smile broadened as I realized that this tearful evening has broken the cycle of chagrin. Yet, it too happened on a Thursday.</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01369916403298870958noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3003141315700262656.post-54719466916981748022017-04-19T05:45:00.001-04:002017-04-20T03:14:42.358-04:00In the Shade of Positivity<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It was a quarter to nine on a Saturday morning. I was getting ready for my first workshop with university students, and as a result I was visiting my alma mater. I hadn’t been back in over fifteen years. I was excited with anticipation. I hailed my Uber. Although the application stated that the trip from Heliopolis to Maadi would take no more than 25 minutes, I buffered an additional thirty minutes, just incase. I watched the Uber arrival time counted down to 3 minutes and I went down stairs to wait for the car, too excited to wait in front of the TV. The driver arrived promptly, and I got in. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">While traversing the seemingly empty streets of Cairo, that weekend morning, I noticed that the driver was tailgating alarming close to adjacent cars. I’m always nervous while on the streets of Cairo, whether as a passenger or driver. So, when trepidation creeps in, I try to soothe my thoughts, and stomach, by convincing myself that I am being overly cautious. I did the same that day, but for some reason, I couldn’t relax. As we cruised towards Magra El Ayoun area, the car started to veer towards a bus that was to the right, as if the driver had released the steering wheel and left the vehicle to its own momentum. I raised by hands to cover my ears, scrunched my eyes shuts, and exclaimed a silent scream. Right before the moment of impact, with no more of a hair’s width separating my window and the large wheels on the bus, the driver came to his senses and abruptly swerved to avoid the collision. Ignoring every instinct in my being, I didn’t get off then and there. “What are you going to do in the middle of Magra El Ayoun? How will you find another ride? Just grin and bear and get off at Maadi Cornish, there will be plenty of taxis to take you to your destination,” were the thoughts ricocheting in my head. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The adrenaline of the incident must have woken the driver from his haze. We crossed El Asheir bridge and I could see the Nile in the vesta, for it was a clear warm March morning. I relaxed and lost myself in thoughts of the workshop, while gazing onto the horizon. I was violently yanked out of this nirvana when the car jumped over the concrete partition that divided the Cornish into two opposite lanes. The driver zoned out once again. His lead foot drove the speedometer to 100 km/h. This time the car swerved left, as I daydreamed onto the Nile to the right. Of course, I wasn’t wearing a seat belt , so I flew into the front seat and smacked my eyeglassed face into the back of the head rest. Thankfully, the car didn’t fly over the curb to face oncoming traffic. A street lamp cushioned the landing, pushing the car back into the its original lane. </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">As I came about and realized what had just happened, my hands raced to my face and I patted around for injuries. Physically, I was fine, with the exception of broken glasses and a bruised cheek. Emotionally, I was a wreck. My first instinct was to call someone, but who? I couldn’t think of a single person to call. A good Samaritan taxi driver, ever an oxymoron, gave me a lift to my final destination that was a few kilometers away. I tried to reach the workshop coordinator, who was also a very good friend, to explain what had happened and postpone the first session so I could go to the hospital, but she didn’t answer her phone. Finally, I stood in the lobby and cried, waiting for her to arrive. Between tears and a bloody nose, reason returned to me. “Are you dizzy or nauseated?” I asked myself. “No,” I responded. “Is your nose broken?” I painlessly squished the permeable cartilage around, and responded “No.” “I’m okay,” I thought. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">My friend arrived and was quite distraught to see the shape I was in. I really was never a pretty sight, coupled with puffy teary eyes, a bloody nose, and a bruised cheek, I must have looked like the bride of Frankenstein. I calmed her down and assured her that I felt fine and would like to move forward with the session as scheduled. That was the best decision I had made in a long time. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The kids started to enter the lecture hall and my excitement returned. I apologize for my appearance and explained the situation. We agreed that I would continue, contingent that I’d excuse myself once I didn’t feel well. As I began to engage in the material and with the kids, who were an amazing group of youngsters, I couldn’t feel the throbbing pain in my right cheek. Through the sheer enthusiasm of the group seated before me, I completed the four hours as scheduled. After the workshop ended, I gladly stood on the sidewalk waiting for an Uber to take me home. I had a smile plastered on my face during the 75 minutes it took me to get back to Heliopolis. The positivity generated from the workshop permeated every molecule in my body. It pushed away all residual anger or resentment from the accident. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I have been exploring Positive Thinking for the past five months, since I was introduced to the concept during a Life Coaching class. I read as much as I could find on the topic, but I was skeptical. I often wondered, “How could one remain Positive while living in Egypt?” I masked my negativity with positive thoughts that were not genuine, and that never worked. The Positive impact the workshop and the group of college students had on me, post car accident, was a major paradigm shift for me. When we are open to Positivity, it’ll penetrate through to the core of us. Its light will prevail in the darkness of negative thoughts or negative situations. Pseudo-Positive thoughts, that usually manifest themselves as justifications and the other person's point of view, are not enough. Positive energy must come from an authentic place within the person, driven by a true desire to see and embrace the positive despite the negative. And accordingly, my lifelong journey to pursue happiness will traverse in the shade of pursuing positivity.</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01369916403298870958noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3003141315700262656.post-84376427165696508642016-04-28T02:48:00.003-04:002016-04-28T02:48:39.256-04:00Life<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I desire it. I've been good.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A sacrificed</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Reality isn't at peace</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I deserve nothing. I want it all.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The impossible. The insane.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">No compromise insight</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A compromise enticed</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Rejected</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A never ending need</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">An everlasting desire</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">unknown, undeserved</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A continuous spiral</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A glimpse</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">What's yet to come.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It never comes.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I need. I want. I covet.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Starts with I, ends with me</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So is life, the sacrifice</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A selfless existence without a self</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Starts with I, ends with me</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A breath of air. A breath of life</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">An expulsion of air, to my demise</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Starts with cry, ends with sigh</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A journey of discovery </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Start with I, ends with me</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01369916403298870958noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3003141315700262656.post-49303450239023491142015-11-01T04:39:00.001-05:002015-11-01T05:08:49.255-05:00The Purge<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">For the past few years, I have been focusing on my mental well being and positivity. This doesn't mean that I don't get angry, on the contrary I get very angry. But, I don't bottle it up. I release my anger in all of its fury, and then I'm free of the negative feelings. They no longer fester insides me. Sometimes I have a good cry. Other times, I lock myself in the bathroom and word out my frustrations to my reflection in the mirror. I often journal and write through the fog. I like to go for a brisk walk and regurgitate my anger. Although my actions differ, the outcome is the same. By allowing myself to experience these negative emotions, I can let go of them. I purge them from my being and achieve peace. I move forward, leaving behind the incident and associated feelings.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I admit it would be better if I could rid myself completely of these negative thoughts, and just not have them. But it doesn't seem to be in my nature, at least not for now. I also admit that my outbursts are not always in private. Sometimes people get caught in the crossfire, for which I apologize. Even though my apologies often go unaccepted, I won't allow myself to feel guilty about my emotions. Losing the guilt was the first step to releasing myself from the hold of negativity. Before, I'd either be immersed in a victim's mentality. I'd convince myself to concede to defeat. I was hopeless to change anything. Other times I'd spend hours, maybe days, plotting my revenge, thinking about all the things I should have said or done to retaliate. I'd live the situation over and over again, re-experiencing the negativity. It eroded my self esteem and self-worth. It suffocated life out of me. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But now, I allow myself to be angry, to defuse the negativity, and then I move on. As a result, my head is cleared and I can examine the situation and assess where I'd gone wrong and what are the triggers that had set off the explosion. Then I work on making amends. Furthermore, I won't be able to change everything in life, sometimes the only choice we have is to purge ourselves of triggers and to gravitate towards people who accept us for who we are and bring out the positive in us.</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01369916403298870958noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3003141315700262656.post-41785785207139356552015-09-02T09:51:00.002-04:002015-09-02T09:51:26.513-04:00Spritz at Your Own Risk<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">This morning, I saw a guy in the street wearing baggy shorts and a tennis shirt. He was carrying a gym bag and a bottle of cold water. He was obviously going to his morning workout. As he approached, I was over taken by a fog of citrus and greenery. He smelled amazing. This got me thinking.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">First, why would anyone wear cologne to the gym. You're definitely going to sweat. You're going to have to take a shower, and wash away all traces of your artificial scent. Maybe it was habitual. He absentmindedly reached for his cologne while checking out his coiffed reflection.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Secondly, I was told a long time ago that wearing perfume, for women, was akin to adultery. I was 17. My uncle's wife approached me with hushed tones and took me aside. With our bowed heads , inches apart, she gave me this pearl of wisdom. At the time, I thought, "This is the most absurd thing I have ever heard." I was a teenager, I only spoke in absolute superlatives. Furthermore, her manner offended me, her veiled judgement hiding behind the guise of concern. Needless to say, I haven't stopped wearing perfume because I want to smell nice. I enjoy going to the cosmetic section, sniffing floral and spicy aromas until I find something that captivates me. I wear perfume for me and not to attract men. But this is besides the point. When this guy passed me, his scent was tantalizing. I looked up and noticed his aviators and Tissot watch. I saw the pack of cigarettes he clutched in his right hand. The very same hand that rested on the gym bag hanging from his shoulder. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">As Egyptian females, we are told that wearing perfume is haram, forbidden, because it is seductive to men. We are told that wearing perfume is no better than sinning. Yet, men are instructed to liberally spritz themselves because it is Suna. My predicament is the fact that scent is seductive to both genders, and for some animals as well. So, why have perfume wearing women been labeled sinners, excluding men from this classification. Furthermore, why do we accept these arbitrary statements. Several people have reiterated the fact that it is haram to wear perfume, to a point that some women refused to use scented soap, yet no one bothers to quote Koran verses or Nabawy saying to support this claim. People simply regurgitate something they were told, something they chose to accept as a fact without questioning the validity of this ruling, and then they decided to broadcast these beliefs onto others in the name of guiding the less righteous to the path of enlightenment. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Yes, these are the sort of debates we need to have about Islam, whether wearing perfume is haram, or showing one's foot and ankle isn't proper Hejjab, and the proper placement of feet during prayer. These are the important issues. It's not like there's a group of terrorist killing innocent civilians and committing atrocities in the name of our beautiful religion.</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01369916403298870958noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3003141315700262656.post-13009843423473862232015-08-27T05:53:00.001-04:002015-11-26T02:07:46.778-05:00The High Rope of Life<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Life is a tight rope balancing act. We walk along the borders of dichotomies, balancing wealth with poverty, vanity with humility, knowledge with ignorance. The balance keeps us sane. It keeps us real. It keeps us human. Sometimes we lose our balance and fall towards one side over the other. It happens to most of us, on occasions, but there usually are safety nets put in place by governments, society or family and other support systems. These harnesses catch us when we tether on the brink of dissolve. But some of us are without these securities, these luxuries. They never climb out of poverty, vanity, and ignorance once they have fallen.They lose their balance forever. They create a life of poverty, vanity and ignorance. Their offspring grow knowing nothing other than poverty, vanity and ignorance. They have no awareness that something different exists and a yin-yang balance between both is possible. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It takes immense courage to climb out of the abyss and see the other possibilities. It takes immense conviction to strive for balance when you have been deprived and underprivileged for so long. Very few are courageous enough to try to be different. Very few posses the conviction to embrace both sides, to admit that there is such a thing as too rich, too vain, too ignorant. Very few are wise and modest enough to realize that one needs to experience wealth with poverty in order to appreciate what we have and empathize with those less fortunate, to be vain but humble to build our self esteem without crushing other's, to know that we are ignorant to everything in the universe in order to embrace our nobleness and fragility as human beings. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">For without balance there is no humanity.</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01369916403298870958noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3003141315700262656.post-41157421389297760612015-08-17T06:02:00.002-04:002015-08-17T06:15:42.151-04:00Cairo Heat<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The alarm clock echos with an urgent beep. I stretch out my arm and swat the nightstand with my hand in search for my eyeglasses. I slip them on and peep at the flashing numbers. It is 7:15, as it always is every morning. I drape my legs down the side of the bed and force my body up. I flick the remote control of the A/C over my shoulder and turn off the unit. I open the door to my bed room and step into the hallway. A wall of humidity welcomes me and assaults my sinuses. They immediately congest. I swivel into the bathroom and shut the door. I rest my back against the wooden barrier and exhale in relief as I escape the baked atmosphere. I glance to my left. My reflection startles me. I move closer to the sink and lean in towards the mirror. My eyes are two pink ping-pong balls, seamed with crust. My nose is inflated and tender to touch. My hair sticks to my scalp, drenched in sweat. Wispy strands stand in attention at the crown. I peel off my clothes and stand under the waterfall. I wait for the moister to saturate my pores and wash away the heat. </span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01369916403298870958noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3003141315700262656.post-89808231924342850902015-08-13T03:11:00.001-04:002015-08-13T03:11:09.116-04:00Selfie Sticks<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Tweet Tweet</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">You're not alone</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Tweet Tweet</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Look at your phone</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Tweet Tweet</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Are you there?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Tweet Tweet</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I don't care</span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01369916403298870958noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3003141315700262656.post-46597153026065804062015-07-12T04:16:00.002-04:002015-07-13T03:47:55.842-04:00Counting Leaps<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Last night as I lay on the couch, trying to fall asleep, I reflected on my lack of motivation to write. I told myself that I just don't have anything to put down on paper. As I tossed and turned, thinking about my dilemma, I reminded myself that I need to exercise my writing muscles. I need to try to write everyday, even if just journalling. Like all forms of exercise, the more I do it, the better I become at it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">These thoughts raced through my head. I had an inkling to get up and fetch my notebook and pen, turn on the lights and write them down before they flee. But then I thought that it was too much effort to exert, while I am trying to fall asleep. I turned over onto my left side and mulled over my laziness for the next thirty minutes. It was so difficult for me to fall asleep with all these thoughts battling in my head. If only there was a way I could purge my mind before going to bed. How marvelous this would be! I marveled at my idea for another twenty minutes. I glanced at the alarm clock, it was 2:25 am. I flipped onto my back and stared at the ceiling, "I have to be up in four and a half hours. I really should try to get some sleep," I thought. I forced my eyes shut. I saw a lovely green pasture divided my a wooden fence. A round bouncy sheep approached from the left and leaped over the fence. Soon after, he was joined by another and another. I counted 1 2 3 4 as sheep after sheep leaped up and over the fence. The sheep grew in number and the right side of field accumulated with white fuzzy furry sheep. They crowded one another. They pushed and shoved. There was no space for more sheep as I counted up to 133. Now this was a problem I needed to solve. Perplexed at the vision, I counted backwards, instructing the sheep on the right to revert back to the other vacant side. But that didn't seem like much of a solution. Once all 133 sheep abode and moved over, there wouldn't be any room left for more. I needed to count more sheep, I still hadn't fallen asleep. I opened one eye and peaked at the clock. It was three am. I rolled over and thought, "Instead of having all the sheep crowd each other as they leap over the fence, why not have only one of them jump back and forth." I smiled with triumph as I thought up this clever scheme. I began to count leaps instead of sheep. Every time snooze ensued, I was jolted awake when I recalled that thirty follows twenty-nine or sixty's not after fifty-eight. I'd sleepwalk through iterations of digits, but transitioning from one decade to the next brought me back to consciousness. When I reach 86, I saw my lone sheep was exhausted from all the jumping back and fore. What had I done, to solve my problem with the congested herd, I burdened my sheep with the trouble of carrying this task on his own. How selfish was I to demand this sheep do all this work so I could fall asleep.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Then I remembered the restful nights I had when I religiously wrote every night. I'd set my journal aside, turnoff the lights, close my eyes and fall asleep within the minute. If only there was a way I could purge my mind.</span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01369916403298870958noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3003141315700262656.post-56964861989500030502015-07-05T03:01:00.001-04:002015-07-05T03:08:06.311-04:00Today I am 39 !<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Every birthday, I take the opportunity to examine the preceding year. I look back at my accomplishments and measure how far off I am to attaining my goals. For a long time this meant updating my CV because I used to define myself only in professional terms. If I wasn't able to add something substantial to my resume, to me this meant that the previous year was a waste. Not only did I not advance, I had actually declined, because in the business sense you're already behind when you stand still. My entire focus was on my career and my development as an employee. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A few years ago I finally realized that my job was merely a means to an end. It is important to keep my skills sharp and to advance in my career to ensure employment, although nothing is guaranteed in life. Yet, this was no longer my objective in life. I explored other facets of myself as an individual. I took a moment to be still and identify who I am as a daughter, sister, aunt, friend and human being. I discovered what it meant to be happy rather then just content. I rediscovered what it meant to live a fulfilling life. I slowed down and enjoyed life. Tiny minutia at work, that used to turn my life upside down, had no power over me, and for that I became a better employee. I still do my best at work, for my work ethics have not changed. I focus my efforts on mastering the elements within my circle of influence, while acknowledging the impact of my circle of concern and realizing that I have no control over them. I no longer spend sleepless nights mulling over macroeconomic indicators and organizational peace. Now, I sleep and wake up relaxed, with a smile on my face, thankful for the ability to wake up. I enjoy using my vacation days and sprinkling them throughout the year, understanding that resharpening the saw with renewed knowledge, interests and downtime are fundamental to a productive individual.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I still take stock of my life on my birthday. I count my blessings. I am thankful for the people I have in my life. I cherish and savor the moments we spend together and my heart swells with happiness as I look back on the memories.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Thank you to everyone who made feel loved for the past years.</span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01369916403298870958noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3003141315700262656.post-85281044605025522142015-04-29T03:28:00.000-04:002015-04-29T03:28:20.463-04:00Freedom<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Ocean, wind, sand</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Grass, birds, trees</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Space with no borders</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Land with no peaks</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">No limitations. No aim</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Be me</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">No hidden tears</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">No seldom cheers</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Free of</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Memories and Dreams</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Escape</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Reality and Fantasy</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Relinquish</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Future and Past</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Love the moment I'm in</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">No turning back to begin</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Someone new</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Somewhere different</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Realms of possibilities</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Gone by the end</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Walk. Run. Be</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">One. Whole. Unity</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">You are free</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01369916403298870958noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3003141315700262656.post-34388281268263738412015-04-07T04:51:00.000-04:002015-04-07T04:51:07.387-04:00The DOs and DON'Ts of Riding a Taxi in Cairo, Egypt<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">As an avid taxi rider, I have notices some peculiar behavior from cabbies. I shouldn't be surprised. Cabbies' actions are a reflection of the continuum of descent we face in every facet of life in Egypt. Each group simply descends in a manner congruent with their perception</span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> of acceptable behavior, not taking into consideration the affect of their actions on others. Not only do they neglect to acknowledge their impact, they simply do not care.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">As someone who works in change management, I have found it frivolous to try and change the behavior of Egyptians. A carrot never works, only a stick. Even so, punishment must be consistent and continuous. The moment you remove the stick, people revert back to their original state. They are willing to chance termination in order to be lazy, careless, and do as little as possible. The other alternative is to change the people all together and start with a clean crop of employees, while constantly weeding out bad elements. Do not delude yourself and think that harmful weed will not grow in your organization. The only way to combat mediocrity, is to constantly remove negative influences from their roots. If once, only once, you rest on your laurels, harmful weed will infest your entire garden. So, in conclusion, Egyptians are impervious to change.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">As a result I don not go into a long diatribe with cabbies, or try to lecture them on customer service, or explain to them how they are role models to future generations of taxi drivers and how their constant presence in the streets of Cairo has a harmful effect, far more penetrating than civilian drivers, yet they can also be a positive change, that is, if they wanted to. It is a fruitless debate that will render me breathless. That being said, it is not in my nature to passively stand by. If I cannot eradicate taxi behavior, the least I can do is not condone it. I own a carrot, the fare. I control my choice of cabbie, and thus have become quite selective and very aware of my own behavior as a rider of taxis.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Here is my list of DOs and DO NOTs:</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">1) When hailing a cab, select a proper area to wait. Take into consideration that when the taxi stops to let you in, he doesn't disrupt the flow of traffic. Avoid the corner of narrow busy streets and double parked cars.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">2) Be courteous to your follow taxi riders and stand after those already waiting for a cab.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">3) Make sure that you have enough change before getting into a cab. If not, let the cabbie know in advance so he can stop at a gas station and break a 200 pound note.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">4) Know where you are going and don't rely on the cabbie to know how to get there. Some of them are clueless and may not work in the area regularly. Identify the various routes that you are comfortable with and make sure that the cabbie does not detour.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">5) Put down your phone and pay attention. If the cabbie takes a detour you are unfamiliar with, ask him where he is going. You can also ask him to take another route. Be polite but unyielding.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">6) Commercial license plates are ORANGE. The blue ones are for civilian cars. Ask yourself, why is a civilian driver masquerading as a cabbie. Least of all, there will not be a meter.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">7) You are not obligated to shout out your destination from across the street because a cabbie doesn't want to pull over. Wait from another taxi who values his job and does it properly.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">8) A cabbie who cuts across from the left lane ahead of another taxi to beat him to a customer, is a person who will not think twice about cutting in line at the supermarket. If this behavior irritates you, then wait for the other cab who kept to the right.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">9) If you are crossing the street, in order to wait for a taxi from a better vantage point, and notice that a cabbie pulls over and waits for you, don't get in. This means that he noticed you standing on the other side of the road. If he's truly keen on picking up a customer, he would have been paying attention to the sidewalk to his right, where normal people wait to hail taxis, not the opposite direction.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">10) If you are happy with the service rendered, don't forget to thank the cab driver and tip him accordingly. They have a terrible job and the worse work environment possible. </span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01369916403298870958noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3003141315700262656.post-73775474805820173032014-10-29T04:40:00.000-04:002015-04-15T06:47:36.414-04:00Be Kind to One Another<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><i>"Be Kind to One Another" - Ellen Degenres sign off message on her talk show </i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">When we are invited to someone's home, most of us (if not all of us) are on our best behavior. We show respect and decorum towards our hosts. We use "indoor" voices when conversing. We don't track mud all over the carpet or deliberately break the china. When offered refreshments, we cordially accept and curb our eating to ensure that there's enough food to go around. We don't get into fist fights with other guests, despite how annoying they might be. We make an effort to be polite and pleasant.<br /><br />As humans, we are all guests in this world, yet we don't act accordingly. We devour resources with no consideration for others, not even future generations. We pollute and wreck havoc on the environment in search of convenience and ease. We have lost all sense of right and wrong. We continually insult our host by continuously rampaging through life. <br /><br />One behavior does not absolve the rest. How we act publicly should not be disassociated from how we act privately. As a guest at a dinner party, we act politely because we care about the opinion of others. When we leave a party, we don't want the rest of the guests to think that we were rude or gruff. So, we regulate our behavior accordingly. What will be said about us when we leave the Biggest Party of all? Will we be remembered as trust worthy, honest, deceitful? Will our children have clean air and water to enjoy all the conveniences we take for granted? Why aren't we thinking about these lasting impressions as much as we think about social decorum, which is eroding in and of it's self.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">What a life we live where we leave bad impression wherever we go. Our impact will linger after we are gone. What a life we live where we can't even bother to be kind, to be polite, to be charitable. What a life we live where senior citizens are bullied and discriminated against because they are old. </span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">What a life we'll live when future generations, who grew up with a sense of entitlement, will take over. </span>What kind of life do we live ? </span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01369916403298870958noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3003141315700262656.post-92018295501566156752014-10-21T03:46:00.003-04:002014-10-21T03:46:31.377-04:00Micro Story - Blue Light<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I'm walking along 34th street on my way to Penn Station. The sun has set and twilight is upon me. I look up and see a faint ice blue light dancing in the horizon. I squint my eyes to get a better look, but I can't make out the image. It looks like a radioactive firefly. The perfect round circumference is too uniform to be the flame of a lighter. Maybe it's a bee on a tiny flying motorcycle with an LED light. </span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">The illuminated dot and I are walking towards each other, yet it doesn't grow bigger as it approaches. I quicken my pace in haste to discover what it is. Ten meters away, I see that the dot is at the tip of a long metal cylinder cradled between impeccably manicured fingers. A woman is holding an electronic cigarette. Her hand rapidly moves to and from her lips with a graceful flick of the wrist. Her arm is raised in a permanent V, with the elbow hovering a foot away from her body, and her nose points to the sky, signaling, "Look at me with my e-cig. I'm so hip."</span></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01369916403298870958noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3003141315700262656.post-84546755831822031602014-09-06T03:34:00.001-04:002014-09-09T07:10:10.626-04:00Beauty in midst of Disarray<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I've been back in Egypt for three months now. It has been a tiring process of adjustment and assimilation resistance. Somehow Egyptians are more tolerant of my peculiar personality than before. Though unjustifiable, for I have not changed at all. I suppose I'm much less edited and thus amplified, but I am the same person I have always been.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I must admit , I'm finding it difficult to return to the state of contentment I inhibited before leaving. I never fitted in with society's definitions of who I should be and how I should behave. I've never been happy, living in Egypt. I hate the dust and crowds. Very few things brought me genuine happiness. These things revolved around certain people. But, beyond them, I merely existed. I went through the motions everyday because I had no other choice. My only solace of satisfaction and self actualization came from work. The only beauty I perceived was watching my niece and nephews morph into human beings. I was never truthfully happy, only content. That was my life in Egypt. I had grown to accept it for what it was. I lived one day at a time.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Moving to New York, I found new avenues that excited and motivated me to live. My job there played no role. It was tedious and mind numbingly boring. But it didn't matter. Fulfillment came from else where. My colleagues were an amazing wonderful group of people. I enjoyed their company profusely. I looked forward to spending time with them every week. Most importantly, I'd eagerly await the weekends. It's in those forty eight hours that I truly lived. I divided my time between choirs and fun. I read books and wrote stores. I watched films and went to the theater. I walked around New York and enjoyed the scenery. I took in nature and people watched. It was a beautiful serene interlude. I will, forever, dearly hold those two and half years in my heart. I look back on those times, mesmerize, cry and smile.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My move away from Egypt was a lifestyle change. I exercised more. I ate healthier. I met new people. I made new friends. Everything I could not and cannot do in Egypt. Everything that makes me happy and I no longer have in my life.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The choice to move back was a rational one. I had my reasons. I do not regret it. But, I'd like to retain some of my New York being. I enjoyed being happy. Mere contentment is unacceptable. I have boxed my professional life in a 9-to-5 window. I refuse to carry my job around with me all the time. Once I step over the office's threshold, I shun all worries. It hasn't been easy, but I persist. I'd like to maintain a healthy diet. Something that has proven more difficult to do. There isn't an abundance of fresh fruits and vegetables. My roommates deplete my food stock. I want to continue writing, but inspiration is fleeting, as is the solitude necessary for the writing process (just had an argument with my mother to explain to her that I need to be left alone while writing). So far, I've been unsuccessful at maintaining a happy lifestyle. But I haven't given up hope.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The theater is the one true thing I miss the most about New York, together with green grass and donuts and independent bookstores and a bunch of other things. There's something electrifying about live performances. The energy from the stage is contagious. There's inherent beauty in witnessing artists creating art. In an attempt to retain that beauty, I attended a Harp recital at Cairo's Opera House. Despite the misery associated with purchasing tickets and battling God awful traffic during rush hour, the concert lifted my spirits. It was like finding a radiant rose in the middle of a garbage dump.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The performance was held in a makeshift open area stage on a Wednesday evening, early September. Temperatures were too high to accommodate for outdoor activities. The musicians melted under the added heat of spot lights. We sat on bare boned banquet chairs that were very uncomfortable. The audience unapologetically chatted amongst themselves during the performance. Many people popped out of their seats to get a better vantage point for their smart phone cameras. Despite all this, the musicians, centered around Dr. Manal Mohei El Din and her harp, closed their eyes and lost themselves in the music. Their heads swayed to the rhythm. Their energy infected the audience, who soon enough clapped along with the beat. A smile emerged from my lips. I forgot the heat. I forgot the traffic. I forgot contentment. I was happy for two hours.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The beauty of art is that performances stay with us. We reminisce the experience and relive the moment. Every time I hear Elqamh El-Liela, I remember the recital and smile at the memory.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Since June 30th 2013, Egyptians have been bombarded with fund raising themes. Donate to Charity. Donate to rebuild the country and renew prosperity, despite paying ever increasing taxes. We are assaulted with beggars and hobos who have sprouted on every corner. These are all noble causes, but charity should also extend to one's self. Donate an evening to yourself. Experience art and be touched by the performance. Support local artists and appreciate their work. </span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01369916403298870958noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3003141315700262656.post-23798141647851946382014-06-24T07:02:00.000-04:002014-06-24T08:22:47.555-04:00Solidarity – Freedom For All<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";">Solidarity - Union or fellowship arising from common
responsibilities and interests<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";">In
2011 I made a conscience decision to leave Egypt because I had a premonition
that sectarian rule will reign supreme. Not that I had the ability to see into
the future, but my logic told me that Egyptians will elect parties running on a
religious platform since it is easier to believe that a religious man can be
trusted and will do the right thing, than to debate candidates and comprehend
their ideologies. Logic also dictated that there is nothing holy about politics
and that politicians hiding behind the cloak of righteousness and religion,
whether be it a beard or a veil, are nothing more than a fox in sheep’s clothing.
Thus I moved to the US.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";">While
living in New York, I participated in stand-ins and protests against the
Brotherhood (I will not associate my beloved religion with this group) because I
firmly believed that they would infringe on the freedoms of our nation and that
their only loyalty was to their group and no one else. I didn’t want my niece
to grow up without the freedom to choose how she dressed, what she did with her
body, and to be deprived of the chance to become anything she wanted to be. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Having moved away from the apex of events, I
had a more objective view. I was liberated from the fear of a future lost and
doomed destiny. This doesn’t mean that I was objective throughout the entire Jan
25 revolution, on the contrary. I was among the group of people marked with the
moniker “The Party of the Couch – Hezeb El Kanaba”. I firmly stated that
Mubarak wasn’t as bad of a tyrant as Tahrir painted him to be, and I still
stand by this statement. Sequestered for 12 days in a small Cairo apartment with
my mother, brother, sister, and her three young children, not knowing if I had
a job after the curfew, not knowing what kind of future my niece and nephews would
have, completely giving up on any kind of future for myself, I was appalled
that a bunch of kids who did not work and thus didn’t pay taxes would demolish
the country and bring it to a standstill. I feared a civil war. My world was
shattered in a matter of days and I couldn’t envision a life beyond the moment.
I wished someone would go down and just gathering everyone in the streets and
reset Egypt back to my normal operating procedure. I didn’t care about the
freedom of others as long as my status quo and the safety of my family were
maintained.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";">While
in New York, although my future was still MIA, I reflected on the situation
more clearly. I am not going to justify my change in stance, for my convictions
within 2011 were wrong. Yet, as much as I loathed the brotherhood and everything
they stood for, I supported their freedom to practice politics in the state. I
support the freedom of those who support the brotherhood as much as I support
the freedom of those backing the army and Al Sisi. To me they are exactly the same.
I roll my eyes at inane Facebook and Twitter comments, but I support the
freedom of these people to express their point of views despite how stupid they
seem to me. Although I was among those standing at Etihadyia on June 30,
enjoying the festivities, I didn’t support the ouster of Morsi, as it didn’t
help the implementation of democracy in the country. Yet, I was happy and
relieved when he left and I can understand the elation of my friends still
living in Egypt upon the departure of the brotherhood. I don’t support any
criminal actions performed by the brotherhood’s leadership or members, or any
citizen for that fact. I personally believed that Sisi remaining as minister of
defense and a counter force to an elected president would have been better for
the country, yet I respect the freedom of those who voted for him or Hamdeen,
as well as the freedom of those who boycotted the entire process. I firmly
believe that democracy represents the freedom of citizens to practice politics and
participate in the process accordingly to their desires. I also believe that
Freedom is absolute and cannot be segmented into acceptable freedoms and
regulated ones. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";">With
the ouster of Morsi and the ascendance of Sisi, I became somewhat optimistic. I
saw a future beyond the moment. I admit that my optimism was attributed to
pre-2011 status quo, yet the pragmatists in me wouldn’t rest on her laurels. I
knew that Egypt will not rewind to a time before the revolution and that Sisi
is not Mubarak. I was apprehensions because I didn’t know his political tendencies.
I feel that he is leaning more towards a socialist state than capitalist. I
fear protectionism of industries and nationalization of corporations akin of
Nasser era. Never in my wildest dreams did I think that Egypt would revert to
the worst of Nasserizm and Bushizm with the infringement of citizens’ basic
freedom to peacefully protest, express their opinions, censorship of media, and
intelligence surveillance of Egyptians. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We
are being bullied by the state and the government. Within the last few months
we have witness atrocities of the most cowardly nature. The cancelation of a
satirical TV show or dramatic series seems a silly issue but it exhibits a weakness
I wasn’t expecting of the Sisi regime. If the rulers’, government, and citizens
cannot take criticism of any kind, how will we evolve. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";">Regardless
of my opinions, whether agreement or disagreement, I call for the immediate
release of activists, journalist, the deregulation of media, and the
prosecution of any and every criminal activity that has been proven with
concrete evidence beyond any doubt. If for anything, it will give the country a
clean slate to start anew. If the president will not intervene, I call upon the
constitutional court, namely Egypt’s only living former president Adly Mansour,
to right the wrongs and to be our moral compass. To any Egyptian who calls for
the right to vote, the right to a respectable existence, the right to safety
and stability, we must all standup for what is just. For today the freedoms of
someone external is being violated, tomorrow it will be yours.</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01369916403298870958noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3003141315700262656.post-46450470454741450682014-06-07T05:46:00.000-04:002014-06-08T18:45:26.720-04:00Serenity Now - Egyptian Edition<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Having moved back to Egypt, I've been observing the general atmosphere. Although I've only been here a week, yet not having the sanctuary of knowing that I'll soon retune to a place I prefer, I've become more attuned to my surroundings. I'm not going to catalogue everything that is wrong with the country, or compare it to the US. There's no benefit in doing either. This piece is rather a reflection on our ability as Egyptians to live in Egypt. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In 2011, I made a conscious decision to leave the country. Everything bad, everything disgusting, everything appalling about Egyptians came out after Jan 25. Although, I willingly lived and worked in Egypt for the entirety of my adult life, the country - post Jan 25 - suffocated me. I decided to leave, in order to continue loving it. It make sense that all our bad habits would surface midst the turmoil Egypt is witness at the moment. When something boils at high temperatures, all impurities and imperfections rise to the top. Egypt has been simmering for the past twenty years. Hopefully we can skim off the layer of scum soon.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Now, after three years of toil, the country has digressed to the dark ages. The neglected streets, power outages, and exaggerated prices are reminiscence of the 80s. Yet, the worse thing about Egypt at the moment is the overwhelming sense of negativity that permeates the country. Everywhere I go, everywhere I look, every breath I breathe is saturated with negative vibes. Everyone I talk to, they are all complaining, all the time. Whatever happened to Al Hamed Lellah, Thank God. Do we have nothing for which we are thankful? I understand that Life's a Bitch, with a capital B. All of us endure the hardships of living in Egypt and life in general. The last thing we need is to be burdened with other people's aliments. We can offload every once in a while, but our only dialogue has become a constant array of whining and moaning. If you are unfortunate enough to glimpse at local TV programs, you'll be assaulted with a slew of national "newah" complaints, or God awful soap operas. Our streets are void of smiles and laughter. If you greet someone with Al Salam Alaykoum, you either get a begrudged mumble in reply or nothing at all. When have we become such a miserable nation. The most enduring thing about Egyptians, was our ability to smile and make fun of dire situations.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I'm a firm believer in Karma. If we wallow in negativity, we'll only reap negativity. Life is too short to spend it being angry. I try to be positive as much as I can. I try to ignore all the little irritants and not bother myself. I try to maintain relationships with people I truly value and care for, and shun those who emit negative energy. Each morning, I'll try to start my day with reciting at least one positive thing about living in Egypt. I expect the list to be short and brief. I also expect it to grow with every sunrise. Hopefully, I'll discover things I couldn't see before. Hopefully, we, the Egyptians, will embrace happiness for a better future and remember that smiles and greetings are charities for our souls.</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01369916403298870958noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3003141315700262656.post-36328227846634638782014-04-27T17:23:00.001-04:002014-04-27T17:25:54.988-04:00The Kiss<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Him: "Have you ever been kissed?"</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Her: "Romantically?"</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Him: "Is there another kind?"</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Her: "Definitely. I've been kissed by my mother, my aunts, my uncles, and my niece and nephews. Of course, I have to coerce them into kissing me. They oblige me for the moment, yet they're getting at the age where kissing will not be an option."</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Him: "I meant romantically. Have you ever been lovingly kissed on the lips?"</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Her: "No. I have never been kissed 'lovingly' on the lips."</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Him: "May I kiss you?"</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Her: "What? No! Why? What? Do you want to kiss me?"</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Him: "I think it's such a waste to go through life not knowing how it feels to be kissed."</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Her: ................................</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Him: "I'm sorry if I have upset you. I didn't mean to."</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Her: "No, I'm not upset. I'm just looking for the appropriate words. You seem to be coming from a sincere place. But, I don't want my first kiss to be out of pity. I want it to come from a place of passion, lust, and yearning. I want the moment our lips touch to be electrifying that it sends sock waves throughout my extremities and I collapse in his arms and have to peel myself away from him. I'm also not a fool, I know it probably won't happen like that. But when it does, if it does happen, I want it to be out of love, out of desire, not pity. Thank you for offering but I'm gonna have to pass."</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01369916403298870958noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3003141315700262656.post-50102376612311044662014-04-18T12:37:00.001-04:002014-04-18T12:41:46.956-04:00Daggers in my Heart<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">My only solace in life</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Pain & suffering to suffice</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">An atonement, I'm still alive</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Every day's a battle</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">That I survive</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">One breath at a time</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Hope's darkness</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Sucks me in, to begin</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">To find light at the end</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">No light is found</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Air, space, time </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Are wasted </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I'd give my minutes to the ill</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">To bid their farewells</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">My days to the young</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">To remain sincere</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">My years to the wise</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">For humanity, to devise</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">My minutes, days & years are not mine</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">To give away</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">They're my burden</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">To bear</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">To carry</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">To despair</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">To stay</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01369916403298870958noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3003141315700262656.post-73481711365051197292014-04-09T12:01:00.003-04:002014-05-15T10:21:25.724-04:00Ode to A Gray Pubic Hair<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">A few weeks before my thirty sixth birthday, I woke up at my usual time of 6:00 am. It was a beautiful sunny Saturday morning, mid June. Sitting on the toilet and contemplating the day ahead, I looked down and there it was, a gray pubic hair. Instinctively I shouted at my crotch, " Nooooo ! This can't be happening. This is so fucked up. I haven't used you yet, you can't be aging !" </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I have never been obsessed with age, for it is but a number. Yet, I have always been amazed with the notion of growing older, growing up. I remember the first time someone bestowed me with the ominous "ma'am". It was physically painful. I swore to never utter the word. Even if the woman I addressed was a hundred years old, I'd refer to her as Miss, and hopefully people will repay me in kindness. My niece and nephews call me by my first name, unadorned with any title. I actually cringe when called auntie by some misguided youth. It's not that I have no desire to be a ma'am or auntie, I simply don't feel like one. I never did.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I was in the fifth grade when the idea of elderliness first dawned on me. Meeting my best friends during recess, I kept tell them that, " We're in the FIFTH grade! I can't believe that we are in the fifth grade. This is so huge." They didn't respond with words, they just gave me what-the-fuck looks. Still, in the feeble mind of an eleven year old girl, fifth grade somehow amounted to the threshold of adulthood. It marked a point of no return, where all innocence was lost amidst the hardship of life. I can't help but wonder if certain milestones change who we grow up to be. I'm inclined to believe this is true. I wonder how different I'd be had I married and became a mother, had I studied Literature instead of Management, or had I stayed in touch with my childhood friends. The possibilities are limitless. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">As the years passed, I didn't put much thought into aging. I didn't mind the additional responsibilities that came with each birthday. Yet, I desponded at the external displays of maturity we were expected to exhibit. Apparently adolescent young ladies could no longer have pig tails or wear jeans and sneakers everywhere. All of a sudden I was expected to have bangs and don skirts, stockings and high heels for crying out loud. The ability to balance one's self in high heels is allegedly a god-given gift to any woman. I acquiesced for a while until I discovered my own sense of style and confidence to dress for myself and not others. And yes, I have a special place in my heart for stilettos. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">My family didn't make a huge deal out of birthdays. Nevertheless, I got a somewhat shindig for my sixteenth. I had a couple of friends over for cake and a bit of dancing. Although I turned sixteen that day, I didn't feel any different than I did at fourteen. Something must had been wrong with me. I was never a youthful person. I opted out of parties for the company of films and books. I was more at ease with my older sister and her friends than kids my own age. I always amused that I had an old soul. Yet, in my heart of hearts I knew that I was an eternal six year old. If I could, I would dress in nothing but shorts and t-shirts. I'd run everywhere instead of walk, and I'd skip into work every morning. I've always felt like this, regardless of my age. Thus my confusion in attempting to reconcile with the physical manifestation of my aging body.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I'm not the same person I was a year ago. I know that. I'm not the same person I was in college either. For one thing, I can hold my own in any discussion on most subjects, or at least I can fake interest.I have discovered my self esteem and can admit mistakes and defeat with grace. I'm at ease with who I am. However, each wrinkle that appears on my brow fills my heart with dread that my body is conspiring against me. Now, that I have finally learned how to enjoy life, my body is getting in the way. It's becoming a hindrance. I can no longer read for hours on end without getting glass-burns (red irritation on my nose where my glasses rest). I can barely walk up a flight of stairs without taking a moment to catch my breathe. I can't be outside without sunblock. I reaped what I sowed. I abused my body when I was younger. I neglected to exercise and indulged in every unhealthy food choice available. And for that, I'm truly sorry. I vow to turn back time as much as I can. I have commenced my first every beauty regime of facial cremes and body-basting lotions. I workout on regular bases, and eat consciously. Most importantly, I allow myself to embrace happiness where ever I may find it. I allow myself to laugh without the concern of crowfeet. I allow myself , a well-read perpetual six year old silly old fart with a decaying molecular structure, to be the person I am without loathing or judgement</span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">. I'll never be able to align the internal and eternal me with my external self, and that's just fine. For I am who I am and will always be.</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01369916403298870958noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3003141315700262656.post-73722778347381465682014-03-07T15:19:00.000-05:002014-03-26T15:19:50.208-04:00A Chance Encounter<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">This is my original story chronicling how a Christmas holiday spent exploring NYC helped me cope with the emotional turmoil of leaving my home and family in Egypt after the Arab Spring.</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><b><i>A Chance
Encounter</i></b></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><b><i><span style="line-height: 150%;">By: Amira
Badawey</span></i></b></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">All my
bags are packed I’m ready to go</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I’m
standing here outside your door</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I hate to
wake you up to say goodbye</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">But the
dawn is breakin’ it’s early morn</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">The taxi’s
waitin’ he’s blowin’ his horn</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Already I’m so lonesome I could die</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">So kiss me
and smile for me</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Tell me
that you’ll wait for me</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Hold me
like you’ll never let me go</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Cause I’m
leaving on a jet plane</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Don’t know
when I’ll be back again</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Oh babe I hate to go</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><i>Leaving on a
Jet Plan</i> echoed in my head while I packed
my life into two suitcases. I was preparing to leave my home, my family, my
country and move to the US. I sorted through my belongings, selecting what to
take. I wept, knowing that I’d be leaving behind loved ones, a lifetime of
memories, and a future of dreams.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Hard work always pays off, or so we’re told. Study diligently
and you are rewarded with high grades. Put in the time and effort at work and
you get a promotion. Yet, a single incident can eradicate all the hard work and
in a heartbeat you lose everything. One of the first phrases our parents teach
us in Egypt is “In Shaa Allah”, if God is willing. <i>Can you take us to the amusement park? In Shaa Allah. Can I get more
allowance for doing the dishes? In Shaa Allah. </i>We learn early on that we
are not in control of our destinies, for everything is by God’s will. Nevertheless,
we’re expected to strive at achieving life’s rewards. We must work tirelessly and
maintain the patience of Job. When the coveted promotion goes to the boss’s
inept nephew, people condole us with “God wasn’t willing for it to happen. He
has something better in store for you.” When we lose everything we’ve worked
for, all our hopes, all our reasons for being, it is God’s will. We are
helpless. We can only pick ourselves up and start over, while thanking God for
his mercy, for we are better off than others. Mourning our loss is a sin. “Do
you object to God’s will?” we are accused, “This is a test. Patience and
perseverance will get you through. God will reward you, if not in life, then in
the afterlife.” We are programmed to endure hardship with a sliver of hope for
a reward after death. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Spring is a time for blossoming and prosperity. However,
the Arab Spring hit Egypt like a hurricane, destroying everything in its path. The
revolutionists wanted to dispose of the country in its entirety and start anew.
The economy and every other domestic system crumbled with the crush of the
political structure. The only form of communication to survive the tumultuous
birth of democracy was argument. Everyone was fighting with everyone. If you
didn’t wholeheartedly support the revolution, then you were against it. If you
dared to criticize the situation, you were pinned with a scarlet letter of
traitor, democracy hater. Egyptians only saw the world in black and white. White
being their opinions and black was all the others, the naysayers. I had lost my
country, my job and life savings were soon to follow. I sought refuge in
leaving Egypt, while I still loved it. As I stepped off the plane at JFK with a
tear stained heart, I was certain that I would fall apart after a few weeks. Yet,
I survived the first year and was planning a vacation. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">For the past twenty years, I had been the good
student, the obedient daughter and diligent employee. I was exhausted, always
rushing to meet deadlines and working tirelessly to secure my career. I
continuously did what I was supposed to do, when I was supposed to do it. And In
the process, I became dull and humorless. I couldn’t remember the last time I
laughed out loud, the last time I played hooky to go to the movies, or the last
time I merely had fun for the sake of having fun. I decided to spend Christmas
break in New York and enjoy myself as much as I could. Yet, solitary tourism was
a grim notion. Not having someone to remind me of the memories, someone to
smile with over the mishaps was disheartening. My insecurities about being a
thirty-seven year old single woman unfolded. The thought of spending ten days
with just me, and no other human contact, was daunting. Surprisingly, I received
a message from a friend, Magdy, saying that he would be in Philadelphia for the
holidays and might come into the city for a quick visit. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">***</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">On The night before the beginning of my vacation, I
was as excited as a child on her first day of school. I woke up the next day with
a smile on my face as I rushed through my morning routine, eager to get to the
city as soon as possible and rendezvous with Magdy.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I arrived at Penn
Station at 8:30 am. The streets weren’t yet littered with tourist. I leisurely walked
around without fear of stumbling over sightseers. Hidden snuggly in my jacket
was a faithful travel companion, my digital camera. I took it out and captured
the memories for future returns. I photographed Macy’s window displays along 34<sup>th</sup>
street, the statue at Herald Square, the Christmas tree at Bryant Park, Radio
City Hall, the enormous holiday decorations lining 6<sup>th</sup> avenue, and
the Cartier store disguised as a gold and red glittery gift. I spent the
majority of the day roaming Rockefeller Plaza. I enjoyed chocolate dipped
macaroons from Godiva. I browsed the merchandize at the NBC experience store,
reminiscing about Seinfeld and Friends. I admired the Chinese silk tunics on
display at the MET shop and scrutinized the overly priced Egyptian memorabilia.
I obsessively glanced at my phone, checking for missed calls or text messages,
although I knew there were none. “<i>This is
ridiculous</i>”, I thought, “<i>Am I
expected to spend the entire day tethered to my phone, hoping it’ll ring?</i>”
I decided to call Magdy. I looked up the familiar number and dialed. The phone
rang for a while and then it went to voice mail. I left a message, </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 64.9pt 0.0001pt 70.9pt;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">“Hi! This is Amira. I just wanted to let
you know that I’m already in the city. So call me when you get in and we can meet
up, . . . or whatever works for you. . . . um. Okay, looking forward to seeing
you. Byeeee.” </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 64.9pt 0.0001pt 70.9pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I wondered aimlessly around the Plaza. With nothing
better to do, I decided to ascend Rockefeller Center to the Top of The Rock and
observe Manhattan. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">It was a sunless New York winter day with clear skies.
I could see as far as the George Washington Bridge. Forgetting my fear of
heights, I surveyed the magnificent Manhattan horizon. It is always the unexpected
that brings so much joy. If Magdy hadn’t stood me up, I would’ve missed the
best view of New York City. I sat on a large leather bench and took in the
sight. The sheer size of Central Park was overpowering. Although it looked more
like a winter horror than wonder land, it was captivating. As I rode down the
psychedelic elevator, I checked my phone. There were still no messages, but to
my surprise almost ninety minutes had passed. My ticket included admissions to
MoMA. I wasn’t sure if Magdy was coming. Ever the planner and always the hopeful,
I convinced myself to call him one last time. There was no answer. I reached
for my guidebook and headed north on 6<sup>th</sup> Ave in search of the modern
arts.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I started on the last floor of MoMA and worked my way
down. I looked at exhibits and paused on occasion to read the descriptive
plaques. My heart wasn’t really into it, until I came across “The Scream”. I
couldn’t stop staring at the painting. It was smaller than I expected, yet
quite poignant in the expression of agony. The distorted face conveyed
congealed shock, pain and fear. I could’ve been looking into a mirror. During
my first year in New York, I was overwhelmed with the newness of the experience.
I missed my family and the familiarity of little things like the metrics system
and Celsius degrees. I missed Egyptian food I rarely ate but always had the
convenience of consuming when I got the urge. I frequently ended in bed, crying
and catching my breath between sobs. Washing away the tears, I was always
surprised by the person staring back in the mirror. I didn’t recognize myself.
I was a stranger. An old stranger agonizing over what the future might hold.
“The Scream” evoked all those tearful nights.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Upon exiting MoMA, I walked straight to Penn station.
It was early, not yet dark, but I had no desire to remain in Manhattan. I
wasn’t hungry, despite only eating the macaroons. It’s amusing how things changed
over the course of the day, how harshly they turned from sweet to sour, from
light to dark. My feelings were dark, a mixture of blue sadness, black anger,
and gray melancholy. I was homesick. I was lonely. I was angry for being
homesick and lonely. As the train moved away from Manhattan and back to Long
Island, my disposition darkened with the skies.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">***</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I had planned to see a production of Cat on a Hot Tin
Roof the next day, but I wasn’t in the mood. I decided to stay in and watch TV.
The rest of the holiday wasn’t any better. Every morning, I forced myself to
get out of bed, to get dressed and do something, anything. Every second, I
forced myself to breathe in and breathe out.
I saw a couple of movies and I caught a cold. I went to an outlet mall seeking
retail therapy to alleviate my somber trance, but to no avail. Each evening, I had dinner in bed and counted the days until the end of my self-induced sequester. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">On the last Saturday, I had a ticket to see The
Nutcracker. Lincoln Center was a vision out of the enchanted forest. Snowflakes
cascaded onto the fountain and an animated toy train circled a large Christmas
tree atop Avery Fisher Hall. I stood outside admiring the view. My mood
lightened as I watched children catch snowflakes in their mouths and tourists pose
for photographs. Entering the David E. Koch Theater, a smile emerged and
remained plastered across my face throughout the entire performance. My joy
didn’t deflate during intermission. Nestled squarely in the middle of a bank of
seats, I was privy to the interactions of those around me. I sat in my place
happily thumbing through the playbill and eavesdropping on their conversations.
As the final act came to an end, I jumped out of my seat with jubilance and
applauded with all my might. I understood why The Nutcracker was a cherished
Christmas tradition and why families continue to attend the performance whether
with their six year old daughters or grown sons. Clara and Fritz invite us to
venture to their amazing dreamland, where gingerbread soldiers battle mice and
little girls are crowned princesses of the Sugar Plums. A land we can revisit
as often as we please as long as we hold the memory of The Nutcracker in our hearts.
A land I was fortunate enough to witness in all the glory of the New York City
Ballet.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I woke up the next day still basking in a dreamy
state. My sadness, anguish and melancholy were fading, not so much for the
imminent end of the vacation but rather the joyful aftertaste of The
Nutcracker. I resolved to spend the day in my small town of Rockville Center,
sleeping in, checking Facebook and Twitter, and eating at a local diner. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">One topic in particular was trending in the Egyptian
Twitterverse that day. The country’s political unrest had devastatingly
devalued the local currency. The elected government did nothing to rectify the
situation. Instead, they adopted a passive attitude, blaming the old regime and
never putting any solutions forward. Everyone was tweeting about the economy
free fall. Comprehending the complicated tapestry of Egypt’s infant political
system was as vexing as following the online rants. I escaped to Facebook, yet the
Egyptian Pound’s plight followed me. The virtual arguments were taxing. Rather
than justify their rational, people hurled insults at one another. I responded
to tweets and posts with humor to deflect the tension. Soon after, I was
frustrated and my earlier exuberance melted away. “<i>To Hell with this</i>”, I thought as I turned off my computer, got
dressed and left for Manhattan. Not wanting to spend the day stewing in an
endless political debate, I jumped on the train and retreated to New York City,
hiding from the chirps of my twitter account.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I exited Penn Station and walked up the familiar path
to Time Square. It was December 30<sup>th</sup>, preparations for the New Year
celebration were underway. A large crystal ball hovered over the busy
intersection of 7<sup>th</sup> avenue and 47<sup>th</sup> street. Two stages were
erected to accommodate TV presenters. The area was packed with crowds of people.
I turned left onto a side street to escape the masses. As I walked down 46<sup>th</sup>
street, passing Broadway marquees, I noticed a poster promoting Cat on a Hot Tin
Roof. I bought a ticket for that night’s show. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">The play had nothing on Elizabeth Taylor and Paul
Newman. The cast stumbled around Maggie and Brick’s bed while shouting out
their lines. The performance finally ended after three agonizing hours. As I
stood up and turned around to put on my coat, I noticed James Franco in the
seat behind me. I was overtaken with the urge to proclaim “That’s James
Franco”, but to whom? Should I have told the couple to my left, who spent the
entire time sipping wine and kissing? Should I have told the lady to my right
who was chatting with her husband? I stood there looking left to right, following
some invisible tennis match. On a whim, I decided to complement his acting, but
for the love of God I couldn’t think of any other movie besides Pineapple
Express. “<i>You are a sophisticated thirty
seven year old woman who enjoys the ballet and Tennessee Williams, how can you
praise a stoner movie?”</i> I scorned. After a while I finally remembered one
of his worthier performances, thus saving face, but not for long. As I conjured
up enough courage to approach him, his back was turned. That didn’t stop me, for
I was hell bent on talking to him. I
tugged at his sleeve and he turned around. His face was five inches away, if I
had tripped, I would have fallen into his arms. I gave him my most poised smile
and said, “I liked you in Milk.” He nodded and replied with a silent thank you.
For a sane person, that would have been enough. But I was running low on sanity
that day. Instead of walking away, I gushed, “This is such a big deal. I have
been in New York for a year and you are my first celebrity”. As soon as the
words flew out of my mouth, remorse followed.
Concealing my blushed induced embarrassment, I looked down at the floor
and wished him a happy holiday. Mr. Franco’s response was quite charming and
gracious. He smiled, with all his face, and wished me happy holidays in return.
Although he was smiling in amusement to my comic reaction, I chose to believe
that he was simply smiling at me.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">On
my way back to Penn Station, I noticed a bounce in my step. I was dying to tell
someone, anyone, that I had just met James Franco. I almost shouted it out to
complete strangers. Skipping down 8<sup>th</sup> Avenue my smile widened with
each leap. The darkness dissipated into New York’s aura. As the sadness, anger,
and melancholy lifted, I could see more clearly and out in the obscure crowd I
noticed a face, someone I hadn’t seen in over twenty years. She looked up and
smiled. We ran towards each other and embraced. The first thing she said was,
“Oh my God, you look so old.” This took me by surprise, for I had forgotten how
painfully honest she can be. Then I remembered detecting glimpses of her
throughout the week. She was present in my passion for The Nutcracker and
disdain with the political discourse, in the ferociousness of my humorous
tweets, the spontaneity of planlessly riding into the city that Sunday, and the
giddiness of proclaiming <i>My First Celebrity</i>.
At that moment, I decided to hold on to her, to hold on to me. A me that
existed before the seriousness of life took over, before I was burdened with
the responsibilities of making a living and riddled with the guilt of
disappointing my mother for never marrying. A me who made her own luck. A me
who allowed herself to be silly and relished the experience. Since 2011, I’d
been living the life of a victim, grieving the loss of my country and predictability
of my life. I’d been pursuing the negatives and neglecting the positives. By
approaching James Franco, I took control of the situation. I changed it from
“Seeing James Franco” to “Meeting James Franco”. I made that happen, and I can
make my time on earth a great and memorable experience. I have learned to
savior the little things in life and embrace happiness, even when it comes in
the form of a chance encounter with James Franco and the pleasure of bragging
about it to everyone I meet.</span> </span></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01369916403298870958noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3003141315700262656.post-71644299518084238702014-02-23T17:08:00.000-05:002014-03-01T16:44:42.514-05:00A Frankenstonian Dictatorship<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Late January 2014 I was on holiday in Egypt. Jet lagged and unable to sleep, I got hooked on BBC's Sherlock, watching all three seasons consecutively. I was already aware of Benedict Cumberbatch, for he was all over the place in 2013, yet I wasn't intrigued enough to learn his name. I regrettably referred to him as the English Cucumber. Sherlock was my tipping point. I have been on a Cumberbinge since.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">It is such a shame that in the larger moviesphere, Mr. Cumberbatch might be known for Star Trek into the Darkness and The Fifth Estate. Not to fault his performance in either film, God knows I do not want to anger his Cumberbitches, but the man has such an artistic range with twists and turns that Khan or Assange do not do him justice, despite his tribute to both characters. A quick YouTube search returns remnants of amazing performances by Cumberbatch as he engages his entire faculties to convey sentiment. He breaks your heart with a single tear drop cascading down his long face. He imparts consonance with a constrained um and menace with a smirk. Those of you who know Benedict Cumberbatch only as Sherlock have simply tapped the tip of the iceberg.</span></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-s6SxKoka7l4/UwpxhOdvtNI/AAAAAAAAAJY/PT-I_XfMr8g/s1600/Frankenstein_Boyle_Poster.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-s6SxKoka7l4/UwpxhOdvtNI/AAAAAAAAAJY/PT-I_XfMr8g/s1600/Frankenstein_Boyle_Poster.png" height="177" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">While <strike>cyberstalking</strike> researching Mr. Cumberbatch, I came across Danny Boyle's Frankenstein. In 2011 Danny Boyle adapted the play for the Royal National Theater in London. Both Benedict Cumberbatch and Johnny Lee Miller portrayed Frankenstein and his creature simultaneously, iterating the roles each day. Available on YouTube are various clips on the making of the play and snippets of the performance. Reviews bestow special praise for Cumberbatch's creature as he was recognized with an Olivier Award for his performance. Upon watching the small clips, I was enraged, angered for not being blessed with the opportunity to experience Frankenstein live. The production was broadcasted in certain cinemas in limited release. I scoured the internet in search of future showings. My efforts were in vain. My heart sunk further, for it was set on seeing the full performance. Then I had an epiphany. If the play was shown in cinemas, thus it lives on film. Somewhere there was a digital copy of Danny Boyle's Frankenstein.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Try as I may, I couldn't find that lone digital survivor. Surely I could stream it! No, I could not. Surely I can get it on DVD! What ever the price, where ever the location, I did not mind. I would have paid hundreds of dollars and waited months just to see Cumberbatch's Creature, and possibly own it for life. But no DVD existed. I was beyond angry. I was annoyed. My desire to see the play intensified with each failed attempt to locate the filmed footage. I was insulted by the depravity of accessing something I strongly desired. This took me back to a time not long ago when I was growing up in Egypt during the 80s and 90s. Back to a time when access to books and movies where restricted. If one could afford to buy books with bloated prices due to taxes and tariffs, one couldn't always find what they were looking for. The scarcity of bookstores, pre-Diwan, and censorship made it difficult to find certain materials. Even Naguib Mahfouz, an Egyptian Nobel laureate for literature, was not spared the scrutiny of narrow minded censors. Films were butchered and violated in the name of virtue. During my school days, video tapes smuggled from abroad were a hot commodity, with Silence of the Lambs and Basic Instincts at the top of everyone's choices. Yes, we congregated around a friend's entertainment center and giggled at the stylized sex scenes, but we also enjoyed an unadulterated version of Oliver Stone's JFK. With these forbidden fruits, my disdain for censorship was born. As years past, Egypt became enlightened and technology advanced. With satellite television and the internet, an abundance of content is available </span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">literally </span>at my finger tips, but not Danny Boyle's Frankenstein.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">The makers of the play state that their production was meant to be seen in the theater. Anything else diminishes from the experience. An opinion I can respect as their artistic prerogative. Yet, filming the play indicated that the creators intended for it to been seen in a medium other than a live performance. So, why limit it to a cinema screen? I have no doubt that the live performance was electrifying and moving in ways not transpired to remote viewership. In an interview, Miller states that the play was created in a manner to provide every member in the audience with the same experience, allowing Frankenstein and his creature to be viewed in the same light regardless of seat position. Am I to infer that a larger than life cinema projection provides a similar perspective. What difference does it make and why must the creators dictate how audiences enjoy their creation? Why film the play and not give access to the masses?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">As a teenager I didn't have the means to travel to London, Paris or New York to view illustrated art in museums. The only resources I had were prints and art books. I learned early on that I had a proclivity for Degas and Monet. Yet, nothing prepared me for Monet's magnificent water lilies when I had the opportunity to see it in person years later. Visiting MoMA in Manhattan, I sat on a bench in front of the massive canvas, jaws wide open in awe. The visible brush strokes gave the drawing a third dimension, transporting me to the 1800s as I stood before the landscape, breathless. The years spent admiring a small print of the painting, inspired me to go to the museum in the first place. I am sure Mary Shelley intended for her Frankenstein to be read not seen, yet that did not stop her from attending theater productions of her master piece. Shakespeare is meant to be seen not read, yet who amongst us doesn't have a favorite play they secretly read every year. The creation of art is a selfish act. Artists seek to relate their point of view through their work. Once the art is publicly released, it belongs to the audience to do with it as they may. Artists cannot, nor should they, control how their work is received by others. Nowadays, there is so much talk about political democracy and freedom of speech. What about the freedom to experience beauty and to be inspired by it. Who will uphold such freedoms if not artists. So, to the creators of Danny Boyle's Frankenstein, I petition the release of this magnificent creature into society to be loved and to be marveled.</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01369916403298870958noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3003141315700262656.post-77924648396699780292014-02-15T12:53:00.000-05:002014-04-22T16:42:55.872-04:00Fall to Fly<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I close my eyes and step off<br />Will I fly or will I fall? <br />Find myself not wondering which<br />Embrace both, life is what it is<br />We fly to fall and fall to rise<br />It happens, just a matter of time<br />Embrace both and move on<br />For the sun shines everyday <br />In clear skies or behind a cloud <br />The sun's there, it'll be found<br />Smiles endure pain, Agony endures joy<br />One without the other, doesn't exist<br />Together they intensify and persist<br />Joy Happiness Lonely Goodbyes<br />I am I and will always be until I die</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01369916403298870958noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3003141315700262656.post-48473323112392245262014-01-22T11:13:00.000-05:002014-03-31T13:57:16.003-04:00Are you a ball or a balloon ?<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Last year, I enrolled in a creative writing class. I had several motives for approaching the class. I wanted to learn how to write fiction. I also hoped to meet new friends. During the class we developed inspirational lists, a rendition of topics from which we find inspirations for our stories. One of the lists was titled "Obsessions". Each student wrote down the topics they just couldn't stop thinking of. The instructor told us that Obsessions are good. As writers, we should fuel our obsessions as they generate the most passionate pieces.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">My list of Obsessions contained many items, one of which was Loneliness. Having moved to the US two years ago, leaving behind my family and friends back home in Egypt, I have been struggling with the challenge of coping with the expansive alone time I have on my hands. This theme isn't quite new. For seven years, I have been preoccupied with mental reflections on being single, otherwise known as spinsterhood. This topic has often intertwined and interacted with Loneliness. I wasn't brave nor confident enough to blatantly incorporate these sentiments into my writing. I masked them behind characters in my stories and vague poems. I also started working on another project titled 'Notions Of Love', where I watch and review popular romance movies while analyzing how Hollywood distorted our perception of romance. I came to the realization that my true obsession is relationships. I'm intrigued to learn how relationships work, what shapes and controls interactions among people. My focus is on romantic relationships, namely how and why we fall in love. I can only infer that my interest in the subject matter steams from my lack of knowledge. I have never been in a romantic relationship and therefore they remain a mystery to me. I don't know how they work nor how people in a relationship act. I don't have any first hand knowledge. My hypothesis are based on the examination of other couples. Having stripped my obsession of any emotions - moving from Loneliness to Romance to Human Relations, I can observe more clearly without the influence of pink or grey colored glasses. I suppose my interest also steams from a pure desire to learn and expunge my ignorance. I also harbor a deeper desire to decipher the puzzle of why some people remain coupleless.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Some of the questions that came to mind upon reflecting on human relations were - Why do we want to be in a relationship? Why do we tether our happiness and self worth to other people? Are we really designed to live in groups and to have a mate? Is it a genetic disposition or a result of cultural paradigms? When we find that one person with whom we connect, do we become a ball or a balloon? Balls interact with humans, bounce off of them and gain momentum. They do roll away on occasions. Sometimes they find their way back and sometimes they are lost for ever. Balloons, on the other hand, must be tied down, otherwise they'll fly away from humans. Balloons spend their entire life trying to escape, until they finally give in and deflate. So are you a ball or a balloon? Maybe that explains why some of us remain single, forever. We are the tenacious balloons who can't be tied down. We enjoy roaming the world, flying high, and discovering ourselves along the journey.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">So, when any of you fellow singletons get the 'Why Me?" blues (you know what I'm talking about), take a vibrant red balloon to the nearest park and let it loose. Sit back and watch it soar, gleefully prancing alone.</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01369916403298870958noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3003141315700262656.post-53244386775931543232013-11-05T20:12:00.001-05:002014-03-24T16:13:41.168-04:00Joy The Toy<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Joy was a stuffed grey bear who lived at an amusement park. She spent her days propped up on a shelve, watching the crowds walk by the booth. She shared her shelve with the other prizes. Any human capable of throwing three colored rings onto three silver bottle necks could take home any of the prizes on the shelves. Joy couldn't remember when she first joined the booth. She only knew that the shelve was her home.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Joy liked to see the children herded by the big humans. She liked the little girls with their braids and bubble gum, skipping next to their fathers. She liked the little boys with their sticky cheeks and chins, eating cotton candy and candy apples. She liked it when the children jumped and chanted "Pleeeeeeeeeeeeease". Joy always wondered why they were so pleased. "<i>They must be happy to be at the carnival</i>", she thought. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Every summer, for as many summers, Joy sat on her shelve and watched the humans pass by. Whenever someone walked up to the booth and handed Gus the green paper and flicked the colored rings towards the bottles, Joy prayed and prayed that they'd succeed and pick her for a prize. As time went by, summer after summer, Joy learned the habits of the humans. Families with little ones never stopped at the booth. The big humans held the hands of the little ones and hurried to the petting zoo. The big ones lured the little ones away from the booth with promises of ice cream. No one, big or small, stopped at the booth during the noon hours at all. Sometimes couples came to the booth. The males tried to fit the rings around the bottles to impress their dates. But those couples never chose Joy. They always attempted to win three times in a row, placing nine rings over nine bottles, and picked a prize from the shelves up high. Joy couldn't see the toys on the highest shelve from her shelve below. All she could see was the excitement on the face of the humans as the ninth ring landed over the silver plastic neck of the ninth bottle. Their eyes glistened as they gazed high above Joy, their hands darted left and right and a finger protruded to locate the coveted prize. Joy tried to stretch her neck and scooch to the edge of the shelve to get a look at the prizes above.But try as she may, she could never move her fiber filled body. She only saw glimpses of fluffy fur in Gus's hand as he handed the toy to the giddy human. Only then could Joy see those toys from above. "<i>What is so special about them?</i>" she wondered. They were big and chunky. The humans could barely carry them, nevertheless cuddle them. Joy kept count as long as she could, with each high shelve toy carried away, one by one. She counted 60 pandas, 15 Giraffes, 27 Koalas, and 9 tigers. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">The little human boys and girls were the ones who tried to win only once. When they successfully placed three rings over three bottles, Gus told them to choose any prize they wanted except for the ones up high. "You'll have to try two more times, if you want any of the toys up high", he'd say. The children tilted their heads towards their parents and gave them inquisitive looks. The parents would shake their heads side to side, signalling the little ones to selected a prize. All the little boys chose the bags of water with a yellow fish. "<i>Don't they know the fish will die?</i>" Joy wondered. The little girls chose purple horses and orange kangaroos. It seemed that no human, big or small, noticed Joy at all.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Summers came and went. Dust collected on the shelve around Joy. Her nice grey coat was shinny no more. Her black button eyes still stared at the humans who walked by, until the left one came loose. It didn't fall off completely. It hung loosely from Joy's head, giving her a permanent view of the lines of silver bottles below. Each summer arrived with fresh boxes of toys. Gus placed them on the shelves, the big ones up high and the others cluttered with Joy. One day Gus opened a box of pink bears. As he clutched each puffy pink toy and extended his hand to sit it down, Joy panicked. She tried to jump. She tried to shout, "Don't do it Gus. Don't hide the crowd. How can they pick me if I'm not around?". But her mouth didn't move and her legs remain seated. Gus kept adding pinky after pinky, crowding the toys. With each addition, Joy edged to the back of the shelve until she was completely sheltered by a clump of pink fuzzy hair. Under the curve of a pink round ear, Joy's one good eye peeked out to see the humans pass by. She told herself, "One day stinky pinky will be carried away and humans will see me crammed on the shelve. Some day a human will pick me too. I hope it's a nice little boy who will hug me to sleep, or a cute little girl who will make me some tea. Boy or girl, it's all the same. It won't matter as long as they love me." </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">All the stinky pinkies were carried away. Little girls and little boys held pinky's hand and twirled him around as they skipped away. Joy looked on as each prize departed the shelve. Her heart wept as she said goodbye to them. She wished she was stinky pinky. She wished she was the panda. She wished she was the koala, the tiger, the giraffe, even the yellow fish in the bag of water. She wished a little human would twirl her by her arms. Her heart cried because her button eye could not. Her heart cried because it knew that Joy was destined to spend forever on the shelve. Her heart knew that Gus would place other toys in front of her. Even if Joy wasn't hidden by the other toys, her heart knew that no human will ever choose her as a prize. "No heart, you're wrong. That cannot be. Why would I be the only toy left? Why wouldn't any human want to play with me?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">More summers passed and Joy remained unclaimed, hidden behind layers and layers of new toys. "Okay heart, you win. I admit, I shall remain on this shelve for ever. I will never know how it feels to be hugged. I will never bring Joy to anyone. Cry as much as you need Heart, I finally understand. But it won't be long. My coat is no longer shinny, nor is it grey. It's dirty and dusty. A hole in my back has let most of my filling escape and my one good eye is hanging by a thread. Hopefully some day soon, Gus will clean the booth and throw me away, then I won't have to watch the other toys get carried away".</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Many summers passed with Joy sitting on the shelve. She no longer kept count. She no longer watched the humans. She just sat there waiting, passing the time.</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01369916403298870958noreply@blogger.com1