Fall to Fly

I close my eyes and step off
Will I fly or will I fall?
Find myself not wondering which
Embrace both, life is what it is
We fly to fall and fall to rise
It happens, just a matter of time
Embrace both and move on
For the sun shines everyday
In clear skies or behind a cloud
The sun's there, it'll be found
Smiles endure pain, Agony endures joy
One without the other, doesn't exist
Together they intensify and persist
Joy Happiness Lonely Goodbyes
I am I and will always be until I die

Are you a ball or a balloon ?

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.

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.

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.

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.

Joy The Toy

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.

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. "They must be happy to be at the carnival", she thought. 

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. "What is so special about them?" 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. 

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. "Don't they know the fish will die?" Joy wondered. The little girls chose purple horses and orange kangaroos. It seemed that no human, big or small, noticed Joy at all.

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." 

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?"

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".

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.

Smoking - A Cautionary Tale

Molly walked out of the office for her hourly smoke. "I should really try to quit", she thought while pulling her parka vest closed. She was recovering from a cold and didn't want to relapse. The weather was dark and gloomy. Molly could tell that it was going to rain, she could smell it in the air. She walked out to the picnic table in the parking lot. She had to stand at least fifteen feet away from the building to enjoy her imported cigarettes. The picnic table and adjacent garbage bin marked the closet spot she was allowed to be. 

She stood by the metal and plastic structures, hunched over and cupping her lighter with both hands she lit a cigarette. It was early November on Long Island, cold but not too cold. Molly stood comfortably outside, preoccupied with her phone as she raised the long thin paper cylinder from her lips . The other smoke cohorts abandoned her for the warmth of the office. "Wusses", she said under her breath. She enjoyed these daily interludes, bonding over their shared guilty pleasure and gossiping about colleagues. Blowing smoke from her nostrils and thinking about a particular snarky fellow accountant, she felt sudden moister drip onto her nose. She looked up to the cloudy overhead and drew in tobacco laced breathes with haste to beat the rain. A sudden downpour fell upon her as if the heavens were pelting water balloons onto the earth below. She rushed to the side entrance and reached for her employee ID. Her pocket was empty. She stood in the rain, squinting and frantically running her hands over her jacket, attempting to locate the access card to enter the building, but to no avail. She raised her hands over her ears and bowed in defeat as she dashed around the corner to the main entrance. She opened the first door and stood in the vestibule twisting her long locks and shaking her limbs like a dog drying itself. She tapped on the security glass at the receptionists, mirroring the urgency of the rain tramping against the roof. She gestured at the door to get the receptionist to grant her access. Kelly looked up from her computer screen, startled at Molly's appearance. She raised an eyebrow in disdain and got up from behind the desk. She walked to the door and pushed the security lash. She stuck her head out and said, "I can't let you in with that thing in your mouth." Only then did Molly realize that the extinguished damp cigarette still hung limply from her lips. She discarded it in the waste basket and sheepishly crept by Kelly, who stood in the narrow door way holding it open. "I need a smoke", thought Molly sullenly as she entered the office, leaving behind her a path of wet footsteps in the beige carpeting.

The Wind

After checking website upon website, downloading MTA maps, and cluttering my phone with what-to-do-in-NYC apps, my vacation plan was complete. A neatly arranged spreadsheet organized my daily agenda. I simply had to wait for the weekend to arrive to start exploring the city. Little did I know that the capricious New York weather had a detour in store. The wind was insane that Friday. It blew in all directions. I had to wrestle with my hood to firmly secure it in place. My head hung low, cutting a path against the wrath of the elements on my way to the train station that morning. The surrounding buildings were shielding me from the worst. Approaching a major intersection, I saw that the street signs and traffic lights hung skewed to the west and rain visibly fell sideways as if Earth had been tilted onto its side. By the time I got to the platform it felt like I’d been through a few cycles in the washing machine. I was damp, dazed, and disheveled. Before reaching the elevator nook to seek shelter, a strong gust of wind bashed into me. It almost picked me up and carried me away. Thankfully, a bench broke my fall. I collapsed over the frigid metal frame. When I stood up in an attempt to restore some of my dignity, a bruise was forming underneath my jeans. This unexpected injury was going to derail my plans. How could I possibly walk up a storm in NYC for ten days, when I could barely make it up a flight of stairs without grimacing in pain? My mind was churning. If I didn’t mitigate this drawback, I risked wasting my time nursing an injury. The answer lied in Patrick. 

Patrick frequently participated in Ironman races and marathons. Thus, I assumed he’d be well versed in managing muscle pain. Once at the office, I darted to his desk and asked for advice, “What kind of ointment can I use to heal a bruise?” He simply stared at me without uttering a word. Perhaps he was surprised; I did just barge into his office, offering no hello or good morning. I explained my predicament. To my dismay, he stated that there were massage cream for muscle aches, Ibuprofen pills for pain, and cold presses for swelling, but no bruise-away medication. I panicked in fear of having to eliminate a large portion of my activities. As I limped over to the break area for my morning coffee, I bumped into Imke. Originally from Waldenbuch, Germany – home of Ritter Sport Chocolate, Imke has been living in the US for fifteen years. She looked at me and asked,”What’s with the sourpuss, aren’t you going on vacation? You should be glad that the week is almost over.” I told her about my dilemma. She gave me her signature smile and said not to worry, she had a magical cure. In Germany, she had access to various homeopathic remedies. Whenever she visited, she’d bring back ample supplies, especially a certain herbal cream for bruises and muscle pain as her sons frequently suffered from sports related injuries. She went to her car and came back with a tube of the miracle cream. She ordered me to apply it immediately. And magic it was. By the end of the day, the dark purple coloration on my upper thigh began to fade. Some pain and tenderness persisted, but it was bearable. Furthermore, the toe-numbing cold of December weather had a soothing effect on my bruise. I took this as an omen that my ten-day adventure would proceed uninterrupted.

The Humdrum of Gravity

I wasn't very eager to see Gravity. Boredom was a guaranteed companion, coupled with the annoyance of donning the bulky plastic 3D glasses over my prescription ones did not sweeten the deal. Nevertheless, the film was playing at a near by theater and I had a free Sunday afternoon to spare. I pushed my skepticism aside and went to an 11:00 showing. Although the local AMC I frequent quite frequently cannot compete with the modern facilities of its Manhattan counterparts, I always have a good time at its early shows due to the mature clientele of respectable town residents. Even when the theater is packed, the morning movie goers are always polite and courteous to others.

I sat through the previews, both 3D and flat, with deflated enthusiasm and  I braced myself for the onset of nausea promised by most of the reviews I read prior. I am happy to report that Gravity was a 90 minute nausea free affair for me. Since I suffer from frequent bouts of motion sickness and always get dizzy at planetariums, I am led to believe the nausea rumors were merely a Hollywood ploy in an attempt to authenticate the outer space experience of the movie. As a nausea expert, I find it hard to believe that Dr. Ryan could have performed her duties while disposed. Moreover, the lack of perspiration and heavy breathing are counter to my motion sickness experiences. With these first few scenes my conviction dimensioned even further.

I understand that gravity is a movie about outer space and in that respect the cosmic imagery is truly amazing. I was transported and thoroughly moved upon the site of George Clooney and Sandara Bullock aimlessly floating around with earth in the background centered on the illuminated outlines of the Red Sea and river Nile as George asked, "Where's home?" (I'm from Egypt). There were a couple of head jerking moments successfully employing 3D gimmickry. Yet, had Gravity stayed true to it's original purpose as a movie about space, I wouldn't have deplored it as much. However the invisible intrusion of Hollywood is blatantly apparent with the film's feeble attempts to create a plot and characters that defy reason and stretch the realms of physical possibility. 

I must say that the best thing about Gravity is it's brevity. I believe the film makers would have been better off in keeping the story simply about astronauts doing what astronauts do. So if you want to gaze into outer space, then by all means see Gravity (preferably in imax). If you are looking for adventure I believe you'd be better off with Prisoners or Captain Philips.

Everything Good Must Come to an End

Those of you who follow my blog (who are you by the way? Do you actually exist or are you a figment of my imagination?) will know that I harbor a school girl crush on James Franco. It started innocently enough at the end of 2012 when Mr. Franco showed me much kindness at a time I was low on any positive sentiment and has flourished through a yearful of Franco shit. In the beginning I secretly followed his artistic fortes, writing about my Franco induced adventures in my journal, until a colleague at work started to mercilessly tease me, shouting Your boyfriend was on Howard Stern or Letterman or whatever as he passed me in the corridor. As long as I was being ridiculed for this crush, I might as well shifted it into high gear. I vowed to experience as much of Franco's art as I could. 2013 has been a busy year for James Franco and thus it has been quite easy to work on my Year of The Franco project, in which I have,

• Read 4 of his books. With the 5th "Actors Anonymous" at the top of my to read pile
• Watched 7 of his old movies, 6 of his new releases, and 3 on my to see list
• Attended his performance art show at MOMA PS1 titled Bird Shit
• Attended 3 of his book signings in NYC - I even got to ask him a question in the Q&A section of one of the events

Not to mention a long list of books I have read because of him. A detailed description of this odyssey will be posted on my blog on Dec 29 2013, if God is willing. It has been quite the ride. I have enjoyed every bit of it. But now it's time for me to crawl out of my head and back into reality.

I always, always feel very awkward at James Franco events - refer to my post about Bird Shit for details. One phrase comes to mind as I stand in the line of very young - mostly artistic - creative minds,"I'm too old for this shit!" With every event I am overwhelmed with a dread of absurdity and pathetic notions and swear to never return again, yet all is forgotten as he dispenses a dedicated smile, reducing me to a giggly blushing twelve year old. That has always been a huge part of the allure. For all of you out there doubting that Mr. Franco is great and powerful, let me confirm his magical smile as it has the ability to shave decades off a woman's age, rendering her to a silly preteen. It never ceased to amaze me that I - a well composed, eloquent, forceful, mature woman of 37 - could be reduced to a babbling fool by the cheer whimsy of a kind sincere smile. Experiencing the antithesis of Amira (at least who I am expected to be) was intoxicating. I indulged in my Franco habit in hopes of sustaining the euphoric bliss. Our serendipitous chance and planned encounters miraculously aligned with either holidays I was celebrating alone in NYC or receiving dispiriting news from back home. I hung onto the feeble moments of juvenile joy to hide away from my bleak reality. I allowed myself to regale in these events as long as they made me happy, that is until the last book signing at The Strand - Quel Cauchemar !

I stumbled across this event in the comments section of one of Franco's Instragrams with a remark of "See you at The Strand". Curiosity lead me to the event page of www.strandbooks.com. Tucked snuggle in the October calendar was James Franco's book signing for the release of his novel "Actors Anonymous". I immediately reached for my credit card and purchased admissions a month in advance. I won't state the obvious and call this an impulse purchase - as it definitely was, but I was also motivated by two factors,

1. The first signing I attended for Mr. Franco was in July - also at The Strand - for his book "A California Childhood". The book was released in March, thus I already owned a copy and really didn't need a second one. I opted for the gift card option (which I used to buy his chap book "Strongest of The Litter") to gain access to the event. An interesting discussion led by Frank Bidart preceded the signing. I even got to ask James a question, but I didn't get a signed copy of the book. At the time I didn't think much about having a signed copy
2. Early September, I attended another signing for his art book "Moving Pictures / Moving Sculptures" at the PACE Gallery in Chelsea. I stood before him as he sat at a table and signed his name with a doddle of a decrepit smilie face ( BTW James what's up with those smilie faces. They're not even smilie faces. They have a coned shaped nose, so that makes them more of a snowman. Therefore there's a headless snowman somewhere. Moreover, why do they have stubble? any way). We engaged in small talk and I got a dedicated  smile, all for me, just for me. 

As a result I really really wanted a signed copy of Actors Anonymous, in hopes of getting another smile. So without hesitation I purchased admission and resolved to be at The Strand on October 13 at 7:00 pm.

On the day of , I arrived at 5:20 pm, almost three hours before the event, as it was pushed to 8:00 pm, only to find that a queue had already started. I took my place inline. Equipped with a book, I was ready for the wait. While the staff handed out the wristbands, they informed us that the books will be signed but not personalized (i.e. no meeting James and thus no individual smiles will be dispensed upon us like pixie dust).  Dismayed at the news, I debated leaving then and there but I wanted my already paid-for book. At 7:00 pm we were ushered into the loft to discover that it was standing room only. My initial reaction was, "I'm too old for this shit!" I had a coveted spot near the roped off area. As more people joined the herd, they elbowed their way nearer to the podium thus crowding the space further with each human addition. My claustrophobia kicked in and I couldn't breath. I retreated to the far side of the loft. At the very end there was a dusty crate with two inhabitants on the top. I asked their permission to join them and they obliged (they were a nice couple). Since I had a good vantage point of the podium from my seated position, but not for long, I really shouldn't complain but I'm afraid it just got worse from this point onwards. Franco didn't show up until 8:30 pm (bless the heart of those who kept standing around the podium for him, some of them were in heels for crying at loud!). By then the loft was half full and I couldn't see James atop the podium from any angle, nor could I hear him well. The only remedy would have been to stand on top of the crate with the others, but neither my knees nor my ego would permit this. The place was just insanely crazy. As Franco embarked on step number five of Actors Anonymous, I decided to leave. I limped down five flights of stairs and claimed my pre-signed copy at the exit. I rushed to Union Square and took the R train back to Herald Square, then I ran to Penn Station to catch the 8:55 LIRR train. Next morning I woke up to an array of aches and pains traversing my body, reminding me yet again that I'm too old for this shit and apparently too short to handle the Franco pandemonium.

I don't blame James for the atrocious time I had. I blame The Strand. Needless to say, I will not be attending any of their future events. But I also owe them a debt of gratitude for making me retire my Franco colored glasses and revert back to a normal admirer of his art.