خلخال

سنة تانية هتخلص و   إنتِ زي ما إنتِ, زي ما بحبِك. أنا مرقصتش مع حد قد ما رقصت معاكي.  إحنا رقصنا ف كل حتة و مع ناس مختلفة و ناس نعرفها و ناس منعرفهاش. و دايماً كنا بنرقص لحد ما نعيط من الضحك و نروح ننام و نصحى نضحك تاني. بفتكر مارس إللي قبل إللي فات و بفتكر أول مرة شفتِك فيها. كنتِ بترقصي على "فكروني" في إسكندرية و أنا كنت مبهورة. كانت أخر حاجة متوقعاها إني أشوف سولو رقص شرقي على واحدة من أكتر الأغاني إللي بحبها. بعدها ع القهوة كنتِ بتاكلي سندوتشات كبده و أنا قمت و أكلت سندوتشين زيك بالضبط. شيء جميل إن الواحدة يكون ف حياتها واحدة زيك تقلدها. بفتكر لما كنت أنا إللي بعلمك الرقص و بعمل خطواتي الفظيعة و كنتِ إنتِ بترقصي ورايا كأني عارفة أنا بعمل إيه. و فاكرة في حنة ليلى؟ أنا إتخضيت بجد. حسيت إني بشوفك تاني لأول مرة و بعرفِك من جديد و إحنا واقفين كلنا شوية ببدل رقص و شوية منغير و إنتِ كنتِ أجمل حاجة أنا شفتها ف حياتي بردو يومها كنتِ لابسة فستان بمبة زي إللي كنتِ لابساه ف إسكندرية, إحنا بقالنا سنتين بنقول نفس الكلام ع...

attempt at poem jealousy has a smell that has lived for two days on the tips of my forefingers and my three thumbs it doesn’t smell like me nor does it have my eyes but it has inherited my obsession over little things its still there between my toes hiding because jealous women are un desirable jealous women are irrational and they never have never will have that thing you want this jealousy of mine smells like garlic and it is worse than a mothers jealousy of her little girls budding life it is so much worse because it leaves this insecure hole of mine gapping like a rape victim and no matter how much soap i use my fingers still smell of garlic so i try to feel better by rubbing them unto the wood of my pencil as i write this p.s. hey you inta yes, im speaking to you with no love i just wanted to tell you that i am no longer nice nice women do not dance with the moon nice ...

In the late, late hours of the night, those which belong to a woman who blessed my days with sun light, I remember that tiny ribbon. And just like a single thread that comes loose and with one gentle tug unravels into a much longer and seemingly never ending existence, this ribbon has come loose in my mind as the night was counting down the hours to leave as I lay curled under the light, floral quilt mommie gave me. I do not know where it is now. I have no recollection of losing it. Yet its loss is a certainty I have no proof against. Like this game I like playing, trailing a shred of thought to know what it was born of, I follow the ribbon backwards. I tiptoe in the darkness around my memories to try to remember where I might have left it. But it is here that the game is different. I don't need to know where it came from. The memory of her palms – which make miracles out of paper and glue – holding out my little book which she had just bathed in love, tied up in t...

اليوم تحدثنا عن نادين لبكي و كم هي جميلة و هل نقول أنها جميلة أم أتراكتيف. شيء محير: كيف تصنف نادين لبكي على مقياس الجمال  الذي نحاول خلقه أنا و أختي التي تكبرني بعام و أختنا التي تصغرنا بعدة. لم يشاهد أحد منا فيلمها الأول "سكر البنات" غيري. شاهدته من يومين في هذه الحالة التعيسة التي تجعلني قعيدة الكنبة بقماشها الجديد أشاهد أفلام و أجلس فقط دون فعل أي شيء غير النظر للشاشة.  أبديت اليوم رأئي إنه "مش عبقري". و أن نادين لبكي أتراكتيف و ليست جميلة لأسباب غير مقنعة لأختي الصغرى. و عبرت الأخت الأكبر عن تمانياتها لمشاهدة "هلأ لوين؟" و هي تجلس على الكنبة الأكبر من كنبتي. و اليوم يوم عادي جداً من هذا النوع الجديد من الأيام: الأيام الخالية اشياء عدة. اليوم شاهدت فيلم "اميلي بولان". لأول مرة. أول مرة أشاهده. أنتهى أخر مشهد و كان قد إرتفع داخلي شعور بأن كل شيء على ما يرام و أنني بخير و أننا كلنا بخير و أنا الحياة تبتسم إبتسامة أودري توتو. و رقصت قليلاً على صوت إيلا فيتزجيرالد و غنيت قليلاً ل "أخيراً" و جلست على الكنبة: كنبة الأيام الجدي...

It is a quiet morning in August. It is not cool but cooler than yesterday. It is a calm morning that began with the tears which I can't stop at certain moments. I wonder at the weather. Perhaps God has listened to the prayers of all us suffocating in the heat, melting in the drops of the endless sweat that are racing each other on human skin. It is a beautiful morning. No it is pleasant. It is pleasant and as usual you are still here as you have been at times, hesitating, aloof, a step or two behind. You with everything that you are which I have no energy to think of and to list. I can imagine the look on your face if you see me now. I look like I have not seen the sun for a while. Even though its summer I have been avoiding her. At these times, her anger parallels mine; it's just too much. I can see the look you will give me when you see me now sunless and I will remember the toasts you gave to someone else's halo when mine had been put out. I remember the m...

Dear Suheir, It is the first of July. I don't know where you are now. I don't know you Suheir, but July brought you to me. You and July and Darwish and all the poems are entangled together in this intricate complex system of a month ending and another one beginning. A month that marks a fair division, a month of heat and restlessness. I think I wanted to spend the first of July in bed. I remembered your poem yesterday and I listen to it. I listen to the softness of the sheets and the rhythm of your words and I try to recall the beat of past days. I listen to your voice and I feel the weight of the 7 th month of this holy year: it has arrived. And I think, Suheir, I wanted to spend it in bed reading Darwish. I'm not as humanitarian as you are. I'm a bit more self-centered than that. A piece of the world is falling at the moment I am writing this, and another piece will fall at the moment I will post this to the universe and yet I can't see bey...

We're Still Here             Thought. I don't think we have ever celebrated your birthday. It's a shame really. Do you think it's too late to start? We could celebrate it there, if they aren't killing some more people next December.             Memory. I still remember you with your banner, and your red polo shirt telling me to meet you by KFC. I don't think it was there that we became so close, maybe earlier. I don't remember.             Desire. I don't want this to be just rambling, I want it to be a "beautiful text" like you say. But the more I think of how beautiful I want it, the more difficult it gets. So I will just write your own testimony, I don't have one of my own. My only testimony is that I'm still breathing – but that's human biology. Tahrir November 2011 Your phone call wake...

Why do I write? I remember the first story I wrote; it was called Butterfly and it was so dramatic – I was a drama queen from an early age. The story that followed it was also dramatic. Conclusion: I am a drama queen par excellence – or however you say. I enjoy telling stories. I love it. It is my favorite part of a social gathering: telling this story and animating it and doing all the voices. These were probably early signs of my love for acting. I just only recently realized that my passion is theater. But before that, writing took up my world. It still does, but in different manners. I'm talking about this because I'm trying to understand why I write. I enjoy telling stories. However, it is not only that. After all my energy has been thrown all over the place, after I've laughed, cried, loved, and done everything in a period of 48 hours, I retreat to myself. I realize that I have to sit with me. I don't really like doing that. Me i...

Place: Coffee shop in Cairo                                                    Time: 5 pm Cairo 2011 z: I  called you randomly. I was close to where I knew you have been living for the past 5 years. a: I didn't pick up z: I called you twice a: I don't even remember what I was doing Cairo 2005 z: I took them to that place where they make great burgers a: I love that place z: you got me addicted a: I didn't even recognize you  that day z: you had started smoking a: You didn't look like the you I know Cairo 2007 z: we added each other on facebook a: " Mabrouk " z: I didn't answer a: I thought you had been offended z: I think I was Cairo 2002 a: we weren't even 12 z: I don't think we h...