She lay, crinkled and weathered and light, on the top of the heap.
Her new home: the dirt mound...
...guarded by two twisted olive trees, taller than assumed, for juthoorhom originated in cracked seeds centuries below the surface.
Il wara2a folded-in her right corner, an origami wind-breaker to guard the diagonal from the gust of hawa that blew furiously over and through the hilltop; the sister-breeze was the one who brought her here, and she didn't want the brother to take her away.
She bore the marks of a lack of direction, tattooed with pencil and scarred with eraser.
But it wasn't her fault.
She was born crisp and clean and proud, bleached with boundlessness and starched with purpose.
She was il wara2a, a canvas for creation.
And the olive trees smiled at her, lovingly and somberly, for they knew asilha and they teared at her fate. And they vowed to protect her, so long as she remained on the earth at the base of their trunks.
The sun beamed her brightest, and il wara2a caught her glow within the folds that held the holes the opened to folds below.
And the sun penetrated and bleached her white whiter with golden hue and heat.
But it hurt. It hurt as a salt-rub against raw pulp, where roots were still stringy and organic and moist with earth, and not yet bonded and jaded and dry.
The hawa blew and the trees bowed and shaded il wara2a from the harsh sun.
And she sighed paper-tossing-across-earth with relief. But forgetting is a blessing bestowed upon humans, not upon trees and their progeny, so the scent of the singe of new freckles would remain with her forever.
3adee--she was accustomed to abuse.
Il wara2a stretched out her corners with voracity, and "chehhhhhh"ed forcefully to undo what had been done to her by man and time and sun.
And she ripped her own right corner off, now forever undone,
and without an origami sheath to shield her from impending winds.
With sullen glance she peaked out through her ink blots and saw the majestic and mature olive trees ranks above. She stretched a bit more, but gentler now, as a still-sleeping newborn cradled in the arms of her mother--not aware of her motion but proceeding because of organic necessity.
And she stared at the familiar strangers, creating a two-tree canopy of leaf and zaytoon above.
She felt protected, and stripped of abuse.
She felt rejuvenated and relaxed and calmly confused.
The right shajara bowed her head to catch a leaf between the rock and 2aneenat cola that lay next to il wara2a. She pulled back with might, plucking out a piece of her life...
...so that the wara2a would know hers.
The hawa downshifted to naseem, and tip-tapped the leaf to il wara2a, so she could embrace her kin, her past.
The wara2a wrinkled with remembrance--she knew 3ala tool the patterns of veins, and could trace them even before they tickled her top sheet.
Then, she relaxed and embraced her long-lost ancestor. She folded her remaining three corners and her right stub onto herself, and held the leaf in--a hug between missing relatives who had just found each other.
And it began to rain.
The shitta dropped in dollops, and hole-punched the reinforced wara2a, still holding her leaf. The harder the pound, the stronger the bond.
She held on as she began to bleed blue ink, and slowly and chemically began to change state.
drip, drip, drip, drop
The four corners had dissolved into her center, and the leaf was now her new spine.
Il wara2a withstood and felt and could not tanish any bead of water that beat her deeper into the mound of dirt.
Il shajar did their bests to interlock their leaves, layering a canopy above il wara2a, but the leaves of the zaytoon trees are slender and could not provide enough coverage.
They watched as il wara2a dissolved into shreds of awra2 that melted away exposing the leaf-spine. The shreds dissolved into confetti that freckled the dirt wet-white...
...until finally, il wara2a, il awra2, by the beat of the rain, had returned to asilha, and drained centuries down the dirt, riding the juthoor, to the cracked seed...
...filling each half with herself and mache-ing the parts back to whole. Il wara2a was in the earth at the base of their trunks--and there she'd remain, protected.
The rain stopped, the sun glistened off the beads on the zaytoon leaves, and the hawa blew the shajar dry...
...and blew another sheet off the spiral daftar and onto the dirt mound.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Staircase summer
It was circa 6 AM, Palestine Shari3 Al Khala time.
I tied my shoelaces, and lifted off my temporary twin bed. I grabbed my billaphone and my iPhone, and made my way out the door and around the left to the kitchen.
I figured "Sitti" would be in there, shuffling through yesterday's groceries in the refrigerator or washing dishes. And she was.
She figured I would be up soon to go "tarid". And I was.
"Kont bidee asa7eekee bes fakrt, 'khaleeha tnaam.'" She always said that.
I kissed her "deeree balik," and headed out the kitchen door, dodging the hanging, drying laundry; and un-noseily floating passed the awakening windows of the neighbors' living room; climbing up the broken stairs, passed the "shajar-house" and shajrt il lemon.
At the border of the street corner, I started to prepare myself for my inaugural "daraj" run, and used that focus to lose focus of the drive-by starers who simultaneously wonder and figure that this redhead girl must be a Palestinian visiting from Amreeka, and coming from dar il Shamali. And I continued up, toward il Mutala3.
I left Samear sleeping: ***Let him sleep. Those boys have been staying up pretty late, and this is his vacation. Let him stay sunk into takhto, ta7t il Falasteenee farsha wl i7ram, u bayn a7lam that now likely include Palestinian girls and land and trees and "shajar-houses."***
This was my run anyway--the daraj were mine--this sunrise is mine--a wakening At-Tur is me.
I arrived.
The daraj had left.
I stood, stunned on the former first/sixtieth stair, and stared.
I looked beyond at the Israeli flag that marked the Israeli company that was based at the bottom of the staircase. I looked beyond at Falasteen, at the highway to the right of me, and the Golden Dome shimmering in the now-risen sun and beckoning pilgrims, tourists, innocents, and evils toward her city.
Standing, I stared. Seated, I stared.
I attempted to start a make-shift, new-formed daraj run, but to no avail. Even if the first 10 were there, the subsequent sets were not. And this was not a roll-in-the-dirt exercise. I was there to descend and climb.
My heart sunk: "Yakhsara."
I turned around, sideswiping the parked cars and tourist bus that were still sleeping in the parking lot. I walked up with heavy step passed the lion insignia and toward the bend, staring at the forests and lands before me as I shifted toward the right. I greeted the lamp poles with a swing, as I treaded on the narrow side pocket which held dirt and rocks and trash and settlements of grass.
I was at il Mutala3, and I started down the hill, exchanging smiles with some of the women and girls, now awake, and going somewhere. I kept focus off the drive-by starers who had seen me before and still wondered. I cut the corner by Duko's store, and hop-walked down the white sidewalk on the right side of the street. I descended the stairs passed Aunti Layla's house and the lemon trees and the "shajar-house" and the make-shift playground, and the single step that caught those unfamiliar and unfamilial off-guard. I walked passed the stirring salon and the mostly-dried laundry, and I opened the screen door to an empty kitchen. Well, almost empty--the jelly was there waiting for me to put it away.
"Meeeeeeeen?!?!?!" I didn't respond. "MEEEEEEEEEEN 3al bab?!"
"Ana, ana."
"Ya3?! Taradti, khalasti?"
"La. Hadoo il daraj. Daraji ra7. Ishee bikhzee."
"U laysh?"
"Ba3rfsh, shikilhom bidhom ybano daraj jdeed."
And there my annoyances and I plopped, next to il Shamaleeya, who was counting the beads on her masba7a and saying quick prayers on every one, interrupting herself to tell me a story or to ask me about Samear or to tell me to eat kirshela or notifying me again about the secret ma3mol basket in the stand-alone closet in her room or telling me, "kaman shway, immik, Majeeeeda b ttsl."
And I stared out from il shubak 3a Shari3 il Khala: I frowned that my Palestine summers would never be the same.
I looked back at il Shamaleeya, lit by the 7 AM sun, and I smiled that my Palestine summers were staring back at me and, in between beaded prayers, sneakily winking and spiriting, "the less the staircases, the more of you for me." Her eyes hugged me with laughter on the left and history on the right, and whispered, "you'll be alright."
"Roo7ee fay2ee Samear, khalee yakol." She always said that.
***Allah yir7amik ya 7abibtna ya mukhtara ya sayf Falasteen, ya Shamaleeya***
I tied my shoelaces, and lifted off my temporary twin bed. I grabbed my billaphone and my iPhone, and made my way out the door and around the left to the kitchen.
I figured "Sitti" would be in there, shuffling through yesterday's groceries in the refrigerator or washing dishes. And she was.
She figured I would be up soon to go "tarid". And I was.
"Kont bidee asa7eekee bes fakrt, 'khaleeha tnaam.'" She always said that.
I kissed her "deeree balik," and headed out the kitchen door, dodging the hanging, drying laundry; and un-noseily floating passed the awakening windows of the neighbors' living room; climbing up the broken stairs, passed the "shajar-house" and shajrt il lemon.
At the border of the street corner, I started to prepare myself for my inaugural "daraj" run, and used that focus to lose focus of the drive-by starers who simultaneously wonder and figure that this redhead girl must be a Palestinian visiting from Amreeka, and coming from dar il Shamali. And I continued up, toward il Mutala3.
I left Samear sleeping: ***Let him sleep. Those boys have been staying up pretty late, and this is his vacation. Let him stay sunk into takhto, ta7t il Falasteenee farsha wl i7ram, u bayn a7lam that now likely include Palestinian girls and land and trees and "shajar-houses."***
This was my run anyway--the daraj were mine--this sunrise is mine--a wakening At-Tur is me.
I arrived.
The daraj had left.
I stood, stunned on the former first/sixtieth stair, and stared.
I looked beyond at the Israeli flag that marked the Israeli company that was based at the bottom of the staircase. I looked beyond at Falasteen, at the highway to the right of me, and the Golden Dome shimmering in the now-risen sun and beckoning pilgrims, tourists, innocents, and evils toward her city.
Standing, I stared. Seated, I stared.
I attempted to start a make-shift, new-formed daraj run, but to no avail. Even if the first 10 were there, the subsequent sets were not. And this was not a roll-in-the-dirt exercise. I was there to descend and climb.
My heart sunk: "Yakhsara."
I turned around, sideswiping the parked cars and tourist bus that were still sleeping in the parking lot. I walked up with heavy step passed the lion insignia and toward the bend, staring at the forests and lands before me as I shifted toward the right. I greeted the lamp poles with a swing, as I treaded on the narrow side pocket which held dirt and rocks and trash and settlements of grass.
I was at il Mutala3, and I started down the hill, exchanging smiles with some of the women and girls, now awake, and going somewhere. I kept focus off the drive-by starers who had seen me before and still wondered. I cut the corner by Duko's store, and hop-walked down the white sidewalk on the right side of the street. I descended the stairs passed Aunti Layla's house and the lemon trees and the "shajar-house" and the make-shift playground, and the single step that caught those unfamiliar and unfamilial off-guard. I walked passed the stirring salon and the mostly-dried laundry, and I opened the screen door to an empty kitchen. Well, almost empty--the jelly was there waiting for me to put it away.
"Meeeeeeeen?!?!?!" I didn't respond. "MEEEEEEEEEEN 3al bab?!"
"Ana, ana."
"Ya3?! Taradti, khalasti?"
"La. Hadoo il daraj. Daraji ra7. Ishee bikhzee."
"U laysh?"
"Ba3rfsh, shikilhom bidhom ybano daraj jdeed."
And there my annoyances and I plopped, next to il Shamaleeya, who was counting the beads on her masba7a and saying quick prayers on every one, interrupting herself to tell me a story or to ask me about Samear or to tell me to eat kirshela or notifying me again about the secret ma3mol basket in the stand-alone closet in her room or telling me, "kaman shway, immik, Majeeeeda b ttsl."
And I stared out from il shubak 3a Shari3 il Khala: I frowned that my Palestine summers would never be the same.
I looked back at il Shamaleeya, lit by the 7 AM sun, and I smiled that my Palestine summers were staring back at me and, in between beaded prayers, sneakily winking and spiriting, "the less the staircases, the more of you for me." Her eyes hugged me with laughter on the left and history on the right, and whispered, "you'll be alright."
"Roo7ee fay2ee Samear, khalee yakol." She always said that.
***Allah yir7amik ya 7abibtna ya mukhtara ya sayf Falasteen, ya Shamaleeya***
Toyota First-Aid Kit
I was to take her this morning because I wouldn't be able to pick her up this evening...
I gave Betty my words and my heart, "You're OK, just relax and breathe. You're OK, just take a deep breath. You're OK. You're going to be OK."
...because I have a meeting.
Increments of 10, the trio sat and stared and sanctified the sentiments of a poet--new to us but familiar in his emotion. He expressed us, and reaffirmed us in 10 to 12 minute clips three times over.
Minutes passed as I tossed words with my dad about inconveniences and obligations...
...I assured him, I would take her.
Moments passed as I went to get ready, and paused to pass memories and warmth with a friend who needed an ear and needed a heart...
...I assured him, I was there for him. And then, he left.
And so I got dressed--not pausing as I responded to my mom's calls of "yallah!"
"Ok, ok, Im coming." I was making her late, but I was right on time on God's watch.
"Ok, ok, Im coming." I was making her late, but I was right on time on God's watch.
"Do you still want to go 3al o2boor?"
She huffed, mostly annoyed but also loving, "I can't now. I'm already late."
She huffed, mostly annoyed but also loving, "I can't now. I'm already late."
Minutes passed as the Toyota hummed 495 in unison with AbdelBasset. Al Qur'an Al Kareem 3a roo7 il Shamaleeya, and the third day of the mourning period passed minute-by-minute.
"You don't need to speed to get me there," she mumbled so as not to out-sound the recitation of Surat Al Ba2ara.
"I'm not speeding," I mumbled as I eased my foot off the gas, and eased from 70 to 65 before I breathed the last syllable of "speeding."
"I'm not speeding," I mumbled as I eased my foot off the gas, and eased from 70 to 65 before I breathed the last syllable of "speeding."
Seconds passed as I watched her walk toward the door of Khalti's house to began her Sunday chores, and I wavered between trails.
I chose Fletcher's Cove because God chose it for me.
I drove.
I arrived.
I reversed to park.
I switched from CD to Tape, and plugged in my iPhone.
I called Dar il Shamali because I hadn't yet. I spoke.
I almost finished the call twice before, but Samira kept me reminiscing, kept me comforting, kept me giving an ear and a heart. "Il Shamaleeya 2a3da bt7adirlna il wara2 dawalee!," she beat me by miliseconds to that joke, and I told her so. We laughed and finally finished on the third goodbye. I had anticipated this would be a longer conversation, and that my run would be delayed, and I loved it as I love il Shamaleeya.
And I was right on time on God's clock.
And I was right on time on God's clock.
I ran.
My left knee was killing me. While "Sitti" was still here, it was the right. Now that she had left, it was the left.
Fifty minutes passed as I ran through it.
I paused along the railing to stretch out my calves, and to update my status: "DO so that you may forget how to utter the phrase, 'ya rayt.'"
I had been thinking of that during at least 5 of the 50 minutes because I had said it to Samira, and I had to write it now or else it would be lost.
I walked to my backed-up car, opened the door, put the iPhone and the earbuds on the seat.
"HELP!!"
"HELP!!"
I looked around to see where it was coming from and if it was sincere--I'm a skeptic, OF EVERYTHING.
I saw nothing.
"HELP!!!"
I ran.
Others did too.
Betty was older and frail and weighed down. She had fallen as she had tried to leave the portable restroom, and caught one leg out while most of her was still in. She was embarrassed and hurt, and Fred-Robert was unable to lift her on his own.
I gave Betty my words and my heart, "You're OK, just relax and breathe. You're OK, just take a deep breath. You're OK. You're going to be OK."
Some of us kept the "jon" stable while others lifted Betty.
"No, we do not need an ambulance. We can do this."
"No, we do not need an ambulance. We can do this."
The men left after she was propped up to sit and relax, to get her senses about her, to breathe, and to calm the shaking.
Tammy and I stayed with Betty and Fred-Robert; we all waited for her to stabilize.
Betty was embarrassed, and I assured her, "Nothing is weird in Washington, so don't worry."
Fred-Robert responded, "Well, we're from LA, so we know about that. But we thank you so much. In LA, if people heard, 'HELP!', they'd just run away faster. Thank you."
And then he continued, "Man, you two must be nurses or mothers or something."
"I'm neither," I smiled. "Really?!," said Fred-Robert. "I'm a mother," said Tammy.
Moments and words passed before we discovered the expanding bruise on Betty's right ankle and the cut that had formed.
"I think I have a band-aid in the car."
I ran.
I had left the left door open, but kept close eye on it while keeping close eye on Betty. I closed it and opened the trunk, and I remembered: Toyota First-Aid Kit.
Minutes of "thank-you"s from Fred-Robert and Betty to Tammy and me. Cleaned and bandaged and relaxed, Betty was ready to take the two steps into their car. I placed the Toyota First-Aid Kit on the hood so I could help stabilize the "jon" as she stabilized herself and leaned on Tammy and Fred-Robert so that she could depend less upon her bad left leg.
She was in: "See, you're safe and secure now."
The four of us said our good-byes: "Have a safe rest of your day in Washington."
Tammy and I walked back to our cars, and I noticed her license plate: she was a Maryland driver. I kept my mouth and mind shut ;)
I returned the Toyota First-Aid Kit to the trunk.
I opened the left door, and got in.
I switched from Tape to CD, so AbdelBasset could pick-up Surat Al Ba2ara where I left it.
"Al 7amdulilah," I said as the Toyota hummed gravel-under-tire.
Minutes later, I was home--late and punctual, as God had intended.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
love.fight
I'm not a lover.
I'm a fighter...
...I crave Nescafes and towash.
...I embody that red-head fury that all want to assign to me
...I have it, and in between punches and knees to the head, I love it.
But I'm not a lover.
except for today...
...I had been anti-everything in mind, spirit, and stride
...I had made my annoyance apparent on my face, and I didn't care who liked it or didn't
...I had been a body of fury, and I smiled at it
And, then, he made me smile.
and I smiled again, and several times more.
...I am post-kneed in the heart
...I am love-punched in the crescent of my smile's crescendo
...I am knocked out
Five times today, five times this night
...I am blacked and blued, and vessel-broken
...I am swollen-eyed, and sliver shut
...I am lip-cracked, and bridge-bowed, and I love it
And I'm in love with it
because I didn't see it coming, and I had no reason nor chance to fight it.
...I was caught, guards-down
...I was caught, right chin
...I was caught
For he impressed me, the unimpressed
as he impressed upon me what it was to see
...despite the blacked and blued eye
as he impressed upon me what it is like to speak and smell
...despite cracked lips and a nose with fallen bridge
as he let me press and sink my senses into his bullet wound
I'm not his lover,
but I am his fighter
...I've loved him since that day
...I've known him just today
...I've been KO-ed with a simple share that hit the right spot.
But he won't know...
I love to fight him, and I fight to love him.
I'm a fighter...
...I crave Nescafes and towash.
...I embody that red-head fury that all want to assign to me
...I have it, and in between punches and knees to the head, I love it.
But I'm not a lover.
except for today...
...I had been anti-everything in mind, spirit, and stride
...I had made my annoyance apparent on my face, and I didn't care who liked it or didn't
...I had been a body of fury, and I smiled at it
And, then, he made me smile.
and I smiled again, and several times more.
...I am post-kneed in the heart
...I am love-punched in the crescent of my smile's crescendo
...I am knocked out
Five times today, five times this night
...I am blacked and blued, and vessel-broken
...I am swollen-eyed, and sliver shut
...I am lip-cracked, and bridge-bowed, and I love it
And I'm in love with it
because I didn't see it coming, and I had no reason nor chance to fight it.
...I was caught, guards-down
...I was caught, right chin
...I was caught
For he impressed me, the unimpressed
as he impressed upon me what it was to see
...despite the blacked and blued eye
as he impressed upon me what it is like to speak and smell
...despite cracked lips and a nose with fallen bridge
as he let me press and sink my senses into his bullet wound
I'm not his lover,
but I am his fighter
...I've loved him since that day
...I've known him just today
...I've been KO-ed with a simple share that hit the right spot.
But he won't know...
I love to fight him, and I fight to love him.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Security blanket
I'm so comfortable right now, and I don't want the feeling to end.
I'm pushing away the nagging of an impending Monday morning; I haven't let go of Al Jazeera English yet, but I'm trying to relegate only the periphery of my left eye and my left ear to scan bites for major developments. Most of it, I've seen before.
I'm so warm; it's so soft; I don't want to leave this place or position.
I pull the fleece under my arm to hug my left side; to make me feel something soft; to remind me what tenderness and innocence feel like.
I've forgotten what they feel like. I've been fogged by farce and skepticism and cynicism, and I'm enraged and have temper. I do my best to keep the heat inside, and breeze on the facade. I am always ruffled though.
The fleece keeps the heat on the inside.
Right now, in my comfort, I'm calmed. I long for being calm. I long for being able to slide my finger across emotions, catching slivers in the etchings. My fingers don't sense anymore, unless forced to focus and feel.
The fleece helps me feel...even as I phase out. Even my fingers are feeling--the outsides of one set softly stroke the insides of the other, and all of my sensors rush to and pulse there...sakhsakht. I don't care that my sleep will be rudely disrupted by the Monday morning; I don't care about Al Jazeera and all of the world's ills; I certainly don't give a shit about the Superbowl or that the Packers won; screw it all and leave me alone.
Leave me to the comfort of my fleece blanket; leave me comfortable and secure.
I'm pushing away the nagging of an impending Monday morning; I haven't let go of Al Jazeera English yet, but I'm trying to relegate only the periphery of my left eye and my left ear to scan bites for major developments. Most of it, I've seen before.
I'm so warm; it's so soft; I don't want to leave this place or position.
I pull the fleece under my arm to hug my left side; to make me feel something soft; to remind me what tenderness and innocence feel like.
I've forgotten what they feel like. I've been fogged by farce and skepticism and cynicism, and I'm enraged and have temper. I do my best to keep the heat inside, and breeze on the facade. I am always ruffled though.
The fleece keeps the heat on the inside.
Right now, in my comfort, I'm calmed. I long for being calm. I long for being able to slide my finger across emotions, catching slivers in the etchings. My fingers don't sense anymore, unless forced to focus and feel.
The fleece helps me feel...even as I phase out. Even my fingers are feeling--the outsides of one set softly stroke the insides of the other, and all of my sensors rush to and pulse there...sakhsakht. I don't care that my sleep will be rudely disrupted by the Monday morning; I don't care about Al Jazeera and all of the world's ills; I certainly don't give a shit about the Superbowl or that the Packers won; screw it all and leave me alone.
Leave me to the comfort of my fleece blanket; leave me comfortable and secure.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
The 13th day
I've been sedentary for as long as they've been mobilized.
I've been captivated by a movement that left me still.
It's been 12 days that they've been chanting, marching, fist-pumping, fighting, singing, and cheering.
It's been 12-1 days since I've exercised; tomorrow, the 13th day (the 12+1), I will work out,
and, I pray, he will be out-worked.
I have never paid so much attention for such an amount of time: at home, at work, on line | anxious when I'm away from access for too long. A smoker out of money and down to my last drag: I cringe at the uncertainty of when my next fix will come.
I'm unable to get bored enough to change the channel--even if the Al Jazeera broadcast is being repeated. And, yes, Al Jazeera, or Al Jaz (as I've been calling it these past 12 days) and I have cultivated a relationship: born out of necessity and longing for raw truth; driven to the point of obsession and fatal attraction. I've announced our status loudly--on FB, at work. The CEO of my company knows->I'll be found typing and listening, and, sometimes, just listening. The article will get written, and I'll remain comfortably in-the-know.
For 12 days, I've looked at Cairo/Al Cahira and Alexandria/Askandaria more than I ever have--including the semesters of Art History that made me learn the stories behind and beyond and within the wondrous and iconic pyramids: boxes of index cards to date the hieroglyphics and identify the pharaohs busts. I appreciated the art and the history, but I left it alone as often as I could. I can't leave alone Egypt now.
I've heard Egypt more than I ever have in these 12 days--and for anyone familiar with popular Arab culture, that is saying a lot: generations have quieted before Om Kalthoum's microphone or Abdel Halim's serenade--their melodies and love-drenched lyrics pipe up instantly at the first breath of the name "Masr." But even they have been hushed. "Ir7al, ir7al, ir7al!"--that is the verse reverberating now at the volume of 1,000,000 decibels. The people's song is loud and lovely.
A lovely 12 days ::: In 12 days, Egyptians became the champions of their nation, overshadowing the pharaohs and the kings and queens of song and stage. Egyptians became the champions of our nations. The people have given other people the rush and have garnered respect that no art history book or concert could inspire. Their spirit has been remarkable.
A deadly 12 days ::: In 12 days, Egyptians have sacrificed much: warmth, food, water, facilities, life. Intermittent civil standoffs have pitted the spirit of good against that of greed on the ground and in the government. Egyptians gave to receive; they are still giving, and waiting.
It is 5 hours into the 13th day there now. Al Jaz is still visible over this laptop's top, and it's audible in surround-sound. Egypt is streaming through the screen and my sedentary soul. I've been sitting, and staring, and praying psalms.
When my 13th day comes in, I'll meet it with a work out. I hope Egypt will meet one too.
I've been captivated by a movement that left me still.
It's been 12 days that they've been chanting, marching, fist-pumping, fighting, singing, and cheering.
It's been 12-1 days since I've exercised; tomorrow, the 13th day (the 12+1), I will work out,
and, I pray, he will be out-worked.
I have never paid so much attention for such an amount of time: at home, at work, on line | anxious when I'm away from access for too long. A smoker out of money and down to my last drag: I cringe at the uncertainty of when my next fix will come.
I'm unable to get bored enough to change the channel--even if the Al Jazeera broadcast is being repeated. And, yes, Al Jazeera, or Al Jaz (as I've been calling it these past 12 days) and I have cultivated a relationship: born out of necessity and longing for raw truth; driven to the point of obsession and fatal attraction. I've announced our status loudly--on FB, at work. The CEO of my company knows->I'll be found typing and listening, and, sometimes, just listening. The article will get written, and I'll remain comfortably in-the-know.
For 12 days, I've looked at Cairo/Al Cahira and Alexandria/Askandaria more than I ever have--including the semesters of Art History that made me learn the stories behind and beyond and within the wondrous and iconic pyramids: boxes of index cards to date the hieroglyphics and identify the pharaohs busts. I appreciated the art and the history, but I left it alone as often as I could. I can't leave alone Egypt now.
I've heard Egypt more than I ever have in these 12 days--and for anyone familiar with popular Arab culture, that is saying a lot: generations have quieted before Om Kalthoum's microphone or Abdel Halim's serenade--their melodies and love-drenched lyrics pipe up instantly at the first breath of the name "Masr." But even they have been hushed. "Ir7al, ir7al, ir7al!"--that is the verse reverberating now at the volume of 1,000,000 decibels. The people's song is loud and lovely.
A lovely 12 days ::: In 12 days, Egyptians became the champions of their nation, overshadowing the pharaohs and the kings and queens of song and stage. Egyptians became the champions of our nations. The people have given other people the rush and have garnered respect that no art history book or concert could inspire. Their spirit has been remarkable.
A deadly 12 days ::: In 12 days, Egyptians have sacrificed much: warmth, food, water, facilities, life. Intermittent civil standoffs have pitted the spirit of good against that of greed on the ground and in the government. Egyptians gave to receive; they are still giving, and waiting.
It is 5 hours into the 13th day there now. Al Jaz is still visible over this laptop's top, and it's audible in surround-sound. Egypt is streaming through the screen and my sedentary soul. I've been sitting, and staring, and praying psalms.
When my 13th day comes in, I'll meet it with a work out. I hope Egypt will meet one too.
I've and you've
I've had to hold myself back--multiple times in these multiple days.
I've had to keep from lashing out at you--who once held my respect in the crevices of hands' lines.
You've dropped--from my hands, and now from my eyes,
and soon from my heart.
I've loved you with a love that not even I was aware existed within the veins within me.
I've loved you--and I still do, but
You've withered--out of the heartbeat pulsing my state of "in love," and there is a formidable line between "love" and "in love."
I've stopped liking you--and while you may not care, you will feel that change.
I've stopped respecting you--and with that, you can never again feel the crevices of my hands' lines holding you tight or up or with care.
You've given me an opportunity to say and mean "never."
I've realized that you don't deserve my restraint--nor do you deserve my fury.
I've realized that you are who you've said you are--an asshole--and I've remained a lady.
I've had to keep from lashing out at you--who once held my respect in the crevices of hands' lines.
You've dropped--from my hands, and now from my eyes,
and soon from my heart.
I've loved you with a love that not even I was aware existed within the veins within me.
I've loved you--and I still do, but
You've withered--out of the heartbeat pulsing my state of "in love," and there is a formidable line between "love" and "in love."
I've stopped liking you--and while you may not care, you will feel that change.
I've stopped respecting you--and with that, you can never again feel the crevices of my hands' lines holding you tight or up or with care.
You've given me an opportunity to say and mean "never."
I've realized that you don't deserve my restraint--nor do you deserve my fury.
I've realized that you are who you've said you are--an asshole--and I've remained a lady.
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