An Egyptian Childhood - Heliopolis Summers

I was born in Charlotte, North Carolina, to Egyptian immigrants. When I was seven, my parents decided to move back to Cairo, Egypt. We lived with my maternal grandmother in Heliopolis area. Our apartment was on the third floor in a building sandwiched between a local park, The Merry Land, and the municipal court house. It was also adjacent to the sole supermarket of the nineteen eighties, Supermarket Express. This establishment more resembled a bodega than supermarket, as it occupied the lower two levels of an apartment building. Although small in size, Express was large in stature. It stocked a plethora of imported goods. Every Heliopolis resident knew Supermarket Express. Anyone who was anyone shopped there. My sister and I would save up our allowance money for weeks in anticipation of our scarce shopping sprees. We would waste it all on candy and bubble gum. We couldn't find the familiar Hershey bars, so we satiated our chocolate cravings with exotic European flavors of Lion and Smarties. My family couldn't afford to regularly shop at Supermarket Express, so it was always a treat to roam the store and reminisce about our memories of the US.

Our weekly groceries list was replenished from the local produce vendors who roamed the streets of Heliopolis , pulling wooden carts and singing their daily offerings in a voice so proliferating it radiated to the far realms of tenth story apartments. My mother would stick her head out of the window and shout out her order. The goods were delivered by an ingenious transportation device that comprised of a green nylon rope tied to the handle of a deep round basket. The rope was long enough to allow the basket to gingerly descend three stories to the street where merchants took their payments and placed the goods. Retrieving the basket wasn't always an easy assignment, depending on the size of the order. My mother was tasked with the obligation of fighting gravity and pulling her purchase up the very same three floors the basket had descended earlier. I spent many hours running to and from the local grocery story, Al Gameeya. My mother would send me on hunting expeditions to gather pantry items. We'd often run out of tomato paste, garlic, and onions. I would concede to her demands, often numerous times a day as she discovered missing ingredients with each step of the recipe. I always ran the entire distance, flapping my arms and raising my knees as high as they'd go. My long braids danced around my head and smacked me in the face. The fresh air would enter my lungs as I gasped for breaths through smile-parted lips. To this very day, every time I walk along the familiar path, I dream of running the whole way as I did in the past.

It was customary for the neighborhood kids to congregate during summer afternoons and play along the surrounding back streets. They rood bikes around the block and had impromptu soccer matches with stacked up debris marking the goal posts. Between the hours of two and four PM, mothers scooted their children out the door to play in the street while they enjoyed their afternoon siesta. My sister and I were not allowed to join these daily get-togethers. We spent the afternoons quietly cooped up in our glassed encased terrace, listening to the animated screeches and squeals emanating from the street. We laid on the floor and stared at the ceiling, daydreaming and reading Little House on The Prairie, with brief interruptions from the cable cars passing by at irregular intervals bringing with them the sound of metal chugging on gravel  and the toot of a whistle signaling the station right across our bedroom balcony. I was always amazed that my mother could nap despite all this ruckus, yet the sound of our hushed footsteps would awaken her in fits of angry rage.

Pining for Ryan Gosling

I intended to see The Place Beyond The Pines upon viewing the preview for the first time. The image of Ryan Gosling speeding into the tree lined horizon of upper New York was mesmerizing. I was curious to find out what he will bring to the character. Then, mixed reviews came in. Everyone praised Gosling's performance, he never disappoints, yet most found the three part vignettes disjointed and that the movie ran too long. With the film in limited release, I wondered if it was worth venturing out to Manhattan to see it. As my enthusiasm wavered and the film descended to the bottom of my to-see queue, I came across James Franco's review in the Huffington post (http://www.huffingtonpost.com/james-franco/ryan-gosling-place-beyond-the-pines_b_3014853.html). Franco's post about The Place Beyond The Pines is poignant, exhilarating and downright beautiful. He paints a vivid picture of Gosling (The Gos). He masterfully crafts each sentence in appraising the performance both individually and collectively. After reading the review, I too wanted to make love to the movie. Having availability this weekend, I decided to dedicate three hours to the appreciation of the Gos. With every scene, Franco's voice echoed in my head as if he was sitting right there whispering the film's narrative into my ear.

Despite being a bit long, with an over indulgent mid-section, The Place Beyond The Pines is an enjoyable experience. Having read the reviews prior to seeing the movie, I had a feed-forward on the events and the story's progression. This, however, did not diminish from the film's magnificence.   Gosling evokes a magnitude of emotions. I swooned, I smiled, and I cried. Gosling's rendition of the troubled soul but good at heart Luke is so consuming, you crave him in every scene. I wonder how different Bradley Cooper's chapter would have been if Gosling was cast in the role. I was eager to see him spar with Ray Liotta. Not to fault Cooper, for it is refreshing to see him convey other sentiments rather than disdain from behind his Hangover glasses. But how can he follow Gosling's performance - no one can. In large part, this is the reason Cooper's vignette seems over drawn. However, Cooper was successful in getting the audience to dislike Avery despite sympathizing with his character.

The Place Beyond The Pines plays like an inverted sandwich, with the dull stale slice of bread encased between two meat patties. The last portion of the movie is a powerful bookend to Gosling's chapter, bringing together the fate of our antagonistic protagonists. The film's major premises, as Franco so eloquently states, is a Shakespearean Sins of our Fathers. It begs the question, are we destined to follow in the footsteps of our fathers regardless how much or how little influence they had in our lives? As if our destiny is preordained by our genes not our actions. The movie also touches on the dichotomy of good and bad, more of the contrast between what society, and perhaps the viewer, deems as good or bad and the intentions of individuals. We often set out to do good, but in a bad way with the notion of the ends justify the means. However, when is this conflict accepted both publicly and privately. This brings us to another theme, conforming to society. The more we conform and assimilate with the masses, the more forgiving people will be of our sins. As opposed to loner stoners who do what they want as they deem appropriate. Society more readily judges and prosecutes their sins because they are viewed as renegades and outsiders. The Place Beyond The Pines raises the question, which of our two antagonistic heroes will die with a clear conscience.

After reading Franco's post, I was hesitant to publish this review. My writing could never so articulate my sentiment in such a profound manner as Franco's review. Whenever I try to wean myself off this Franco crush, he does something so admiral that elevates him to new heights, so admiral that he would serenade the performance of a fellow actor and pine for the Gos! If The Place Beyond The Pines is not on your must-see list, may I suggest that you read Franco's review and then decide. I guarantee that you'll speed out the door in search for a showing upon reaching the last words - Burn Hard Baby!

A Letter to President Morsi

Mr. President,

You are all mighty. You have achieved far much more than anyone else before. You've killed hope. You've slaughtered prosperity. You have proven time travel possible with Egypt now resembling that of the early eighties and literally the "dark" ages. You got Egyptians to condemn democracy and crave the security of the authoritative. You have united us in hate. You have divided us with hate. You got us to be thankful for what we have at hand, for we never know what we'll lack tomorrow. You got us to become modest, to covet the basic needs of humanity: safety, shelter, and nourishment. You got us to denounce the basic human right: freedom of thought. You got us to surrender our minds for it has become too tiresome to ponder on all that is happening. You got us to chronicle and long for the past. Yet, you are not satiated with all of this. You also want to takeaway the last thing we have remaining, the last thing that hasn't depreciated with the ailing value of the Egyptian pound. You want to takeaway our Joy. Our ability to scout humor in the darkness of despair, is the very thing that defines us as Egyptians. Have you forgotten that you are the president of Egypt, the birthplace of jokes? Why can't you have the grace and virtue of those who came before you? Why can't you remember the fate of those who came before you? Do you want to tell us that you have never laughed along with Adel Imam in Al Zaeem and Mohamed Sobhy in Takhareef, or have you forgotten.

By prosecuting Bassem Youseef and others, you are defying what it means to be an Egyptian. Voices can be silenced, but not hearts. Save your soul and engage your conscience. How can you be in a position of magnificent power, yet squander in pettiness and deceit. You can have eighty million hearts praising you. How can you refuse to see this? Are you blind? If you are drunk with power, take a moment and think about the not-so-far past, just a few years back. Thank god and think of god. What will be the testimony of your hands, tongue, and heart upon facing your deeds? When life and false glory are gone, all that's left are your deeds and what they feed. Stop harboring hate. Don't hide from your critics, face your actions. The past and present come together to tell a story. What will your story be? Look into the mirror, examine your deeds of the past year and reflect on your future (you are the only Egyptian who can claim to have one). What kind of legacy are you going to leave behind? But keep in mind that man is feeble, he perishes. Egypt has stood the test of time for THOUSANDS of years. Egypt will preserve despite of you. You can either join and make history or become history. Currently, the choice is still yours to make. Seize the opportunity.

Sincerely,

An Egyptian Citizen

The Power of Art

As I read Ginsberg "Kaddish" again, trying to grasp it firmly with my feeble mind, tears come to my eyes. 

I recall my mother and how I'd like to appreciate her in her life and never ever eulogize her death. 

Isn't this the beauty of art, nay the power of art. 

The power to evoke emotions. 

Of course these emotions are conditioned with our conditions (circumstance). 

This is why a piece can make us happy one day and sad the next. 

Maybe art doesn't evoke emotions, but rather shines a spotlight, amplifies our feelings. 

As theater cannot exists without lights, life cannot exists without art. 

For without it, 

we'll no longer be able to distinguish life from death, 

jubilance from despair, 

love from hate. 

Those who want to kill art and silence minds, 

want to kill life, 

want to take away our basic right to feel.

My attempt at Science Fiction and Fantasy (2)

This is a writing exercise, turning a narrative into a dialogue. This is based on the narrative piece titled "My attempt at Science Fiction and Fantasy"

"I've gotta go. I don't want to miss the train."

"You can take a later one"

As I said this she was already out of her chair, getting ready to leave. I just stood there watching as she collected her things and put them away in her bag. I knew my abrupt declaration of love has prompted this sudden need to catch the train home. I didn't want to make matters worse, but I also didn't want her to leave. I started snatching papers and folders from in front of her. She looked up and gave me a daring stare.

"I didn't mean to upset you."

"It's okay. I'm not upset. I just think it'll be best if we leave it at that."

"No, don't go. I won't mention it again. Stay. We have so much work. Please, stay."

She hesitated for a fraction of a second. We looked at each other with eyes screaming of a thousand unspoken words. She shook her head and continued arranging her notes in a neat pile. I stood by quietly watching her stuff the documents into her pink folder. She paused and gestured towards the papers in my hand. As I gave them back, I tried to read her expression. All I could see was a blank stare, a blink here and a blink there, as a crimson flush raised up her face like the evening tides. I reached out and took her hand, a silent plea to get her to stay. She looked at me and sighed loudly, "I don't want to do this now." I didn't let go of her hand, so she continued,

"I can only imagine how difficult it was for you to say that. But you don't actually love me."

 I opened my mouth to protest, but she didn't give me a chance.

"Will, you have to give me enough space to say what I need. And you have to promise not to interrupt and to listen to what I have to say. Not just hear, but listen. Do you promise?"

"Yes."

"You don't love me. You're simply intrigued because I am weird, because I am different. Once the novelty wears off, so will the attraction. My heart is shouting for me to go for it because I have feelings for you too, but my head knows better. I'll be shattered when it ends and I don't have that luxury. I can't afford to break down. I can't."

"Are you done?"

She shook her head in a yes motion.

"Can I speak now?"

She kept shaking her head and mouthed "of course", although the words never came out.

"Bull shit! That's just bull shit! You're afraid. That's it. You are afraid. And what's up with all this I don't love you crap? Did you tear open my heart and look inside to so boldly declare that I do not love you?"

"Why are you shouting?"

"Because I am angry. You know what Ava, I do have a problem. Sometimes I don't listen and I jump to conclusions. But you're even worse. You assume that you are right about everything. You think that you have to be in control. You can't live life like a contingency plan, avoiding risk and mitigating pain. Guess what, life is hard and you're going to get hurt in the process. Stop analyzing and start living. Don't rationalize the reasons why you shouldn't be with me. What is your heart telling you?"

"That you will loose interest. And what's going to happen to me then? I know that I act all tough, strong, and confident. Maybe I am all those things, but not emotionally. My emotional being has been smashed to a million pieces and I'm holding it together with masking tape. One jolt and it'll come tumbling down. Hell, I can barely make it on my own as it is."

"I know that you are afraid but I love you. I promise to never intentionally hurt you. But I can't promise that there'll be no pain. There will be times when it'll get very difficult and we'll have to work hard at our relationship, but I'll always be there. We'll hurt together and we'll heal together."

She leaned in and took me by surprise. Our relation has never transcended the boundaries of our desks. Sure our feet have touched on the rare occasions we'd somehow synchronize a stretch. Our fingers have grazed while exchanging notes and handing out coffee. But never before have we engaged in a deliberate act of physical contact. I was amused that she'd be the one to make the first move. Her body moved in closer to mine. She overtook me with a warm embrace. Standing tippy-toe, Ava wrapped her arms around my neck, nestled her head in the crevasse below my chin, and held on for dear life. I could feel her pressing against me. I could smell her scent. I could feel her breath. I could hear her heart beat in harmony with my own. We stayed there for what seems like a short eternity. Then, she kissed me on the cheek and disappears as if in thin air. I just stood there, trying to permanently edge this memory in my being.

The Art of Mastering Something New

A few weeks ago, I embarked on an adventure, only to discover that it'll be a long work-full journey. On my thirtieth birthday, I compiled a to-do list of things I wanted to achieve before turning forty. "Write a Book" was among those items. Let me clarify that I have no illusions of finding success in a writing career. I never even desired to parler it into a career. I simply took it up as a challenge, a way to unit the voices in my head with my daydreams and broadcast them onto the masses, a new venue for the debates between my ego and id. I have been keeping a journal for the past seven years, writing nonsense. In 2010, I started a blog to publicly spew the nonsense. But I never sat down and tried to write a book. This task always seemed daunting. I have all these stories rambling around my conscience, but they never materialize on paper. I didn't even know where or how to start. A traumatic experience in college plagued my thought process. Whenever I fancied myself a writer, I would hear the voice of my English professor ripping apart my essays as derivative, repetitive, and excessive with the use of "and". I turned to the one thing I knew best, the one thing that ushered in the light. I enrolled in a creative writing course.

In the very first class, in the very first sentence uttered by the proffessor, we are told that it is going to be difficult. If we are serious about writing, we are going to have to work hard at our craft. We have to continue writing daily in order to learn how to write. I never shy away from work, no matter how laborious. I don't mind that it'll take at least five years for my writing to get to a point where it is read-worthy. What I find the most disturbing is the fact that I really suck at it. Don't get me wrong, I'm not egotistical to I assume that I am an expert at everything. There are many things I do not do well. There are even more things I don't know how to do at all. Hello, calculus! But if I'm going to approach writing as a profession and dedicate the required time needed to call myself a writer, aren't I suppose to be good at it? I'm not saying great, but I should at least be adequate, right? And that, I'm not.

I struggle to embrace that fact that I'll have to wonder around aimlessly until I find my way. Along the journey I will stumble and fall, I will scrape my knees and bruise my arms, and I will learn how to become a writer. We tend to forget how difficult it was to master the jobs we have. We forget how long it took us to get to where we are in our professions. We forget the mistakes and missed deadlines. We forget the arguments and failed interviews. We forget the Bs and Cs. We only remember the praise and accolades. Learning a new skill is tiring, let alone mastering it. Some of us aspire for the recognition and thus preserve through the hardship with that carrot hanging in the horizon. I, on the other hand, am motivated by the learning process. I don't know if I'll get any better. I don't know how long I'll stick with it. But I do know that I will do my best to strive to lean how to master the art of writing well.

My Take on Spring Breakers

I must admit that I wasn't very keen on seeing Spring Breakers, it seems I could catch an STD by simply looking at the poster. Yet, after reading multiple conflicting reviews, I decided to decide for myself if the movie is any good. I went to an eleven a.m. showing at a local theater anticipating that I would be the only one there. I ended up with five other cohorts in the audience.

Spring Breakers is being marketed as an Art House film, something I like to call Artsy Fartsy because it either protrays art or artistic farts. I find it helpful to approach such movies with little to no expectations. That way you're either pleasantly surprised or not disappointed. On both accounts I found Spring Breakers belonging to the later categories. Despite my skepticism, I tried to keep an open mind. The movie has the elements of good to interesting stories, extreme religion vs. overindulgence, yet the movie never follows through. We are presented with four college students who want "penis" and to go on spring break but lack the necessary funds besides 300 dollars they saved up , amounting to seventy five dollars each. This begs the question, why didn't these girls get jobs to pay for their vacation? I suppose that would have been the pragmatic thing to do and reality really wasn't the concern of this movie. Moreover, Spring Breakers would have lost an important plot point had the young ladies opted not to hold up a local chicken eatery, but this would imply that the film has a well developed plot.

The four heroines are, Faith, the only brunette in the group, a church going good girl who wears a Garfield t-shirt to bed, and Candy, Copulate, and Curse. These aren't the characters' actual names, with the exception of Candy, as I can't remember what they were called. I didn't bother to look them up, because it really doesn't matter, all three seem to be the same person especially Ashley Benson and Venessa Hudgens. In order to go on spring break, these three mouseketeers musketeers decide to rob a local eatery, that looks like it has never seen better days, with squirt guns and a junior sledge hammer. During their midnight heist, our uncapped crusaders choose to wear lets just call them "bikini bottoms" and ski-masks with their hair sticking out from underneath, thus making it easy to provide a description (Pink Hair anyone !!!) to the authorities. But we never see these girls answer to the consequences of their actions, unless cruising around on scooters in their very same bikini-bottoms was meant as a punishment. In case you have forgotten, this felony was committed because they only had 300 dollars in their spring break fund, yet we see them moments before consuming alcohol and snorting cocaine. One might ask how could they afford to pay for hard drugs? That's just another pesky detail the story doesn't bother itself with.

I won't go further into the story since it is so flimsy we find that entire chucks of monologue and dialogue are repeated verbatim, and scenes are used over and over again throughout the ninety-four minute duration. Maybe this is a good strategy for aspiring writers, when you run out of ideas, just repeat something you used earlier. Don't even bother with paraphrasing, simply copy and paste it ,as it is. In regards to the characters, we are left to our own devices in figuring why they do the things they do. We are only told that they want to go on Spring Break. We see them talk to a parent or caregiver, but we never get a glimpse of their relationship with the people on the other side. The film's creator, Harmony Korine, repeatedly denies that the movie is an F-you to Disney despite that all the leads, including Franco, are Disney/ABC stars, with the exception of Korine's own wife who plays either Candy, Copulate, or Curse - you take your pick. The girls even give a rendition of Brittany Spears "Baby One More Time", another Disney Alumni. Why would college kids know the lyrics to a song released in 1999 - do they even know who Brittany Spears is (I can hear the reply of a co-ed: "Oh yeah. Isn't she that old chick who like shaved her head and went like totally crazy.") Again, I approached Spring Breakers with no expectation what so ever, just curiosity. So I'm not surprised by the weak female roles developed by a middle aged man. I can understand why such young actresses might see this movie as an opportunity to break their Disney mold, but what kind of statement are they trying to make? Do they want to position themselves as serious grownup actors? In that case, might I suggest a film that requires them to act. Spring Breakers is void of any meaningful dialogue to a point that I feel like the writers were too lazy to even eavesdrop on actual college kids and steal their interactions. Even the metaphors are blatantly spelled out - Franco warning the girls to be careful in the water because there are sharks waiting to prance on them - how very subtle. 

And this brings us to Mr. Franco. Those of you who know me, know that I harbor a school-girl crush for James Franco, nevertheless, my need to be objective and fair is greater and more powerful (pun intended). A review in the Huffington post likened Franco's Alien to Pacino's Scarface, which might be true in terms of pop reference, for there are many to go around (why you act spicious y'all?). Despite Alien being the only interesting character in the movie, we never get to the root of his motivation. Why was he attracted to the girls? Was it to corrupt them - if so why didn't he further pursue Faith, the least corrupted of the corp? Alien comes off more goofy than dangerous. James Franco just wasn't menacing enough. Unlike Pacino in Scarface and The Godfather, Franco's eyes remain kind and congenial. Maybe I was blinded by my Franco colored glasses, but I think the character was meant to come off as a gangster wantabe and an all out imposter (thus the comic, albeit short, rendition of yet another Spears song "Everytime"). There are scenes where you can see fear in Alien's eyes, something you wouldn't expect of the the only white boy growing up in the hood. Having seen Franco's other performances, I tend to believe these moments of "what the fuck is going on" glares to be intentional and not momentary lapses in his performance, unlike his accent that trailed off at times. But still Franco's Alien left something to be desired, as much as the rest of Spring Breakers. I would have liked to know more about the character. Why did he and Gucci fallout after being childhood friends, besides the very generic turf tug of war? But Spring Breakers does not satisfy us with any answers. Staring at James Franco's face as Alien on the huge screen, I couldn't help but think of the contrast between his appearance (which was pure white trash - I had a very strong urge to grab a luffa and scrub him clean) and that of Johnny Depp in Pirates of the Carribean who was very suave and sexy with his eye liner, greasy hair, scurfy face, and mouth grid. Further reenforcing the goofy vs. menacing debate. Dear James, and I says this with much love and admiration, if you are going to spend the majority of a film shirtless, may I suggest hiring a personal trainer, preferably Ryan Goslings's trainer. Dear Production Team, if Mr. Franco refuses to train for the role, putting him in a tank top would have sufficed, better yet photoshoping his head onto Ryan Gosling's torso isn't a bad idea. 

When all is said and done about Spring Breakers the one thing that remains with viewers is the image of gyrating bodies, an image so intense it is nauseating. Maybe that was Mr. Korine's intentions all along. Anything in excess is sickening, whether be it religion, partying, schooling, drugs, or naked bodies. I don't know, maybe I'm not sophisticated enough to digest an Art House movie, God knows I'm not among its target audience. Yet, I left the movie theater not knowing what point Spring Breakers was trying to make, or even sure if it had a point of view to start with. Interestingly, upon existing, I noticed that "Oz the Great and Powerful" was also playing at the same cinema. I couldn't help but wonder whether they intentionally placed both movies in adjacent theaters, and if so, why? I chose to believe it was a coincidence, but pondered on the contrast between the two films, the wholesomeness of the Disney family productions vs. the lewd cringe-worthiness of Spring Breakers. I pondered on the contrast in Franco's appearance as Oz and Alien, yet he is surrounded by four female leads in both roles (counting the China Girl in Oz). I pondered how all eight females character are very poor examples, wondering whether this is a testament to Hollywood's paradigm towards women or Mr. Franco choice of projects.