Thirty Six..

خلاكَ الذم يا وصفي رماحي غيرُ مسنونة

ودربُ الحُر يا وصفي كَدربِك غيرُ مأمونة

A Recap of Sorts

So I've been abstaining from blogging for almost a month, and today..I decided to break the silence and speak..actually type, about the things I saw and heard in the past month or so.

First of all, I turned 32, one day before the 90th anniversary of the Balfour Declaration "Happy Anniversary", 28 days before the 60th anniversary of the partition of Palestine, again..Happy Anniversary, and 19 days before the Parliamentary Elections in Jordan..Bon Appetite and a very Merry 50JDs, or more..depending on shatartak.

Tayeb, The weather in London has been extremely bad, raining all the time..so Gene Kelly would've really relished the opportunity to really..Sing in The Rain, if it wasn't for his current disposition.

The other day, I watched a BBC documentary, -one of the signs of a healthy media- on the orphans in an Eastern European country, the programme was very disturbing, yet..to me, it was a real journey within, a journey within the human soul...or there lack of, the children were left for days, without human interaction or attention, as if their destitution and solitude weren't enough, leading them to literal insanity and short lives. Man can be a beast, I almost felt guilty watching them, and have no idea how their "care-takers" could look the reporter in the eye and claim that those children were in good care, Lying is one thing, but lying and believing it takes practice!

Hyde Park is nice these days..it always is, but this time of the year has its magic, the trees are changing their coats and preparing for the mascarade of autumn, some are red, some yellow, others are bright orange, The ever brave squirrels still venture around the green pastures, and a certain one looked at me the other day as if he knew me, but despite my vigorous attempt at recalling his acquaintance..it didn't ring a bell..or crack a nut for that matter, I might have been a squirrel in a past lifetime, or he/she was a human, who knows..we both might have been something else altogether!

I dreamt of Eve the other night, she visited me in my slumber, a more intimate setting than sobriety, she looked nice..as always, she smelt nice..as always; who knew one could dream of scents! She held my hand, and my temperature rose by 1.7 degrees or so, the best fever you can ever get is the one you get from a sublime world.

Published Confessions!

The Confessions of this Vegetarian Shark are now on Paper, thanks to the marvel of self publishing, nothing beats a book with your name on it!

you can find it here: http://www.lulu.com/content/1353756 AND http://www.lulu.com/content/1355623

Check it out, review it, rank it, toss it around..and if you have some extra cash...buy it! and yes..spread the word..lets see if this thing really works!

The Return From Within

I have to start this post by apologizing to everyone who came..knocked and found no answer, as I've been "Internet-less" by choice for more than a month.

I've been to Amman, and when a lover meets his loved one, the whole world seizes to exist..this is probably an extremely lame comment you might think, and I might agree..to an extent, but sometimes..you tend to want to be alone with a city, a whole city..with all her details corresponding with your own details; she notices the new grey hairs you didn't have when you left her and went West, and you notice..yet again, her drought, the very same drought you thought you knew before you left, the very same drought you wanted not to find when you went back; the drought of souls is even more painful than that of minds, minds can be revived, souls..are as delicate as the strings of a harp, and the sound they make is either tender like a choir of angels or they never give more than a hollow vibration into space..an empty hiss.

There's a book called طبائع الإستبداد "The Manners of Dictatorship" by an enlightened Arab called Abdul Rahman Al Kawakibi, and if I could borrow the title..and a little bit more, I'd describe Amman as a ruthless dictator, one losing her charisma, her appeal, her tender smile, and yet..her subjects remain loyal and drunken with her love, even when her only remaining appeal is her name, even if she is made to wear a million masks upon another million masks, even if her soul is barren..her people are in transit, looking and feeling like strangers..to her, and to their own selves.

She remains the Queen, and now that she's left..East, as I left West, she is missed, and her smile; the one I didn't find when I went to see her, endures.

يمـوتُ الهــوى منــّي إذا ما لقـيتُها

ويحيا إذا فارقتـُـها فيعــودُ

On Emotional Literacy

I've recently grown more aware of the learned aspect of emotional conduct, the one you tend to pick up as you grow older, or is put within you as a child by emotionally literate parents.

I've always been amazed by the effect of Good, but good isn't just a nice trait of character, Being nice to people is something taught, and I don't mean respect..for respect can be forced, but your own voluntary genuine feeling of compassion towards people is one of the greatest heights of Emotional Literacy, your smile in the face of people in the morning, your humility and tenderness towards children, the compassion and patience you give to the most vulnerable; children, older people, the less fortunate..the sick and weak, is learned..and taught.

Your awareness of the importance of making others happy, and your deliberate intent to make a difference, taking a minute to put a smile on someone's face..whether that someone is close or a stranger is a great sign of emotional literacy, for you reach the calculated conclusion of the importance of human interaction..positive interaction can create miracles, it might even be a healing force, it also makes you feel good..as you provide a proverbial breath of fresh air to someone who might be gasping for it, Emotional Philanthropy is the highest degree of human conduct.

Never underestimate the power of kindness, a smile..a lending hand, can go a long way, it charges the soul with a mysterious charge..one probably blessed by angels, for kindness is a divine attribute, it probably smells like lilac and tastes like cotton candy, your execution of an act of kindness is an extension to the compassion of God towards His Creation.

I have enormous respect for people who work in Humanitarian aid and charities, those people are the most emotionally literate Humans..their minds are set up in a totally different way than ours, they wake up in the morning, they make someone's life a little bit better, and go back to being unnoticed only to do it all over again and again without seeking recognition or reward other than the recognition and reward from within, those people teach me..and us all a lesson every time we run across them, and by doing so..our own emotional literacy is enriched and complimented.

Music in My Head

So here's the deal: I'm a very music oriented creature, I like listening to music..when I'm working, when I'm walking, when I'm in the shower..yes I know its weird but what can you do!

So during one of my unintentional moments of contemplation, I've reached the conclusion that most of the Arabic songs that I like..express defeat and anguish for the most part. I sat up straight so that the blood would have a smooth sail into my brains and hence get my thoughts in order, and I realized that most Arabic songs, the most "romantic" ones..express a feeling of pain for the loss of love..hmmm, why? you might ask..well, I think that we -Arabs- enjoy heartache, it's a genetic feature embedded in our DNA, our culture is one expressive of consecutive heartaches..both collective and individual, the stories of Qais and Laila, is an example of the individual, the story of Da7es wal Ghabra2 is one of the most renowned collective traditions of heartache, let alone the tragedies both we and our forefathers lived, from the loss of Al-Andalus to the invasion of Iraq.

So coming back to the present day..some of us aren't good to our hearts, some of us are intentional manipulators of others' hearts, it makes us feel better when we can decide if someone is happy or sad, some of us aren't even able to decide whether we want to be happy or sad, others are always victims, whether they really are or not. It is an embedded code in our genes..and it's reflected in our music, 7abeebi absar shoo malo..tarakni wo ra7..ma banam el leil...etc.

These lyrics sink in the deep corners of our minds, and we keep them in our psychological archives until our real lives cross the path of similarity with those hidden lyrics..and when they do, and instead of having emotional intelligence, we resort to the very silly game of emotional manipulation..we punish our loved ones..so we become the ones who leave..physically or mentally, for a short while or for good, and by doing so we create a stupid romantic tragedy where we become the heroes, and where the soundtrack is always on standby to be played, or; we are the one's who get the short end of the stick and are left..again with the soundtrack ready to be played, and by creating that romantic tragedy we convince ourselves of the virtue of pain, even if we really have no idea why we liked the person we left to begin with, or why we left them, the pain of loss cleanses us, even if loss wasn't that tragic, or was our fault..one way or another.

We enjoy heartache, and we like emotional deprivation, it makes us feel good, it makes us innocent..even if we really aren't, it proves us true to our hidden personalities, the personality of the emotionally oppressed, which might be part of a series of other kinds of oppression; political, social..etc, or the personality of the emotional dictator, which might be the only way we can really be "in control"..funny enough though, both alternate roles as days go by and neither is aware of the other's existence, but they both feed our collective feelings of defeat.

"يوميات واحد مش فاضي "فيكشن

الساعة ستة ونص الصبح: بتقوم من النوم غصبن عنك عشان تروح عالشغل غصبن عنك

الساعة ستة ونص وتلت دقايق: بترجع تنام خمس دقايق بتصحى بعدها بتلت ارباع الساعة زي المجنون اللي طلعلو الجن الأزرق وبتنط بالشاور (لإنك بتحب النضافة) ولإنو المي بتصحي القرود، بتحلق وبتلبس اللي عالحبل وبوجهك عالدوام

الساعة تسعة وعشرة بتفوت عالشغل زحف عشان ما حدا يعرف إنك متأخر (زي كل

يوم) بس (زي كل يوم) بيشوفوك

عالكاميرا وبيخبّروا عنك وبيخصموا من راتبك وإنته زي السطل مفكر حالك ذيب

الساعة طنعش بتبلش معدتك تتظاهر لإنك (زي كل يوم) ما بتفطر ببيتكم فبتصير تدور بالجوارير على أي إشي تسلي فيه حنكك، بتلاقي حبة شكلاطة بس لإنك جنتلمان (زي ما قلنا القصة فيكشن) بتعطيها لزميلتك اللي بتشبه فلونة، بس اللي ما بتعرفو حضرة جنابك هو إنو زميلتك فلونة بتحكي إنك بتشبه عبسي فهيك بتطلعوا خالصين

الساعة وحدة بتهرّ من الجوع و بيزغللو عيونك وبتصير تتفلّت عشان تطلع تتسمم

الساعة وحدة ونص بترجع عالدوام (طبعاً زحف زي الصبح) و كأنه أبو زيد خالك لإنك ضحكت على المجتمع الدولي وطلعت أكلت..مش بس هيك..وشربت كوكتيل كمان

الساعة وحدة ونص و خمسة بتصفرن وبتوقع عالأرض وبيحملوك عالمستشفى وبتطلع متسمم من الشاورما اللي تسممتها

الساعة تلاتة وتلت بييجي مسؤول يزورك وبيصوروه بالتلفزيون وهو بيطمّن على

حضرة جنابك و إنته منسدح بالتخت

الساعة ستة ونص بييجي مديرك وزملاءك يزوروك وبيبشرك مديرك إنهم قرروا يزيدوا راتبك ويرَفعوك ويعطوك إجازة أسبوع نقاهة

الساعة سبعة بييجوا أهلك زي المصاريع بعد ما شافتك جارتكم

عالتلفزيون وفضحت سماك بالحارة لإنك كنت توبلس ومادين منك برابيش

الساعة سبعة ونص بيسمحلك الدكتور تروّح مع أهلك وبيعطيك دوا للتسمم

الساعة تمنية بتطلع مرة تانية عالتلفزيون والمسؤول عم بيزورك..وبيقرروا إنك طلعت مش متسمم و إنما معك مرض مزمن و إنته ما معك خبر...مبروك