tell me a little bit

I see this blog as a Big Box in the middle of an Urban Street.

This Box is medium-sized, and its color is subject to the whims of its Keeper [Me]. It has a slot at the top.

Some people stop to look at this Box in the middle of the way while others move on after a brief look.

Some people take a slip of paper and scribble a note or a comment and insert it through the slot at the top of the odd shaped box that is sometimes plain and at other times colourful.

Sometimes this street is empty.  At other times it is crowded.

There are times when it is pleasant to take a stroll, and perhaps nod at others along the way, although this does not occur too often in an urban environment where there are many people from a variety of backgrounds.

The flow of human minds over Web cyber waves may lead to interesting meetings, sometimes cursory, at other times more meaningful. Whatever the result, something or nothing, you have walked by this Box.

Leave your mark.

Tell me a little bit about your day.

What are you having for lunch? What are you reading? What is the weather like there?

What are you listening to? What is on your mind? What would you like to do?

Anything that crosses your mind. Pool your thoughts. Lets see how similar or inspiring we are to each other.

Selection: Like a Tree

Bothayna Al-Essa is a Kuwaiti writer with several books that have gained her critical acclaim.

In today’s issue of Al-Qabas daily newspaper, a selection of “Very short stories” by Bothayna Al-Essa were published. I chose one of them to translate and share with non-Arabic readers. I liked this vignette because the mother is portrayed as a positive, nurturing energy. Existence is not finite, even though the story is marked by the sad theme of death. Love is a formidable force that transcends the boundaries of the human concept of time and space and can be embraced through the spirits of living things around us.

Like a tree

Her mother’s waist was very wide, and her hair was so wild and frizzy that when she sketched her standing in the garden, she resembled a tree.

When she showed her the drawing, her mother laughed heartily and told her that she was a very lucky child because she had thousands of mothers, in every home, in every garden, in every city, in every country, and in every place of exile…thousands of mothers. Her mother could be an oak tree, or a walnut tree, an olive tree, a fig tree, or even an apple tree…she could be anything that she wanted to be!

When autumn arrived, the mother suddenly dried up and no longer spoke. The elders said that her mother had died but the child did not understand this and began to shout and cry, stomping the ground and beating the walls with grief until suddenly she heard strange knocks on the window pane.

The child peered out and saw that all the trees were waving to her.

Anteater Love

I am a lonely anteater

moping about

in a slovenly sway,

searching,

thrusting my snout

deep into the  crevices

on my solo way,

pining

for your cuddly caresses

and your clumsy

kisses,

wistful half-smiles

at your

jokey wishes.

You’re gone

that’s it,

banished the mood

and like an anteater

starving for food

I gobble up crumbs

of love

you left along the way

and head back to

the stern

where we stood

that fine day

seeking union

finding freedom

and a comfy place

to bury my

muzzle.

My furry Captain

it’s no puzzle:

Your lonely anteater

misses you

and that’s the trouble.

The Fifth Pound

The Fifth Pound (2005)  الجنيه الخامس is the first film for Egyptian producer Ahmad Khaled. It is a short film, about 14 minutes long that tells the story of a young man and a young woman who meet every Friday at the bus stop to ride the airconditioned CTA bus around Cairo.

The young couple choose seats towards the back of the bus where they will share intimate moments, hoping they will go unnoticed.

The man and woman take turns caressing and fondling each other. The bus driver however seems to know what is going on in the back seats and keeps glancing back at them.

As the woman caresses her lover, the bus driver looks on and  fantasizes he is making love to the young woman himself. He finds release at the same time the young man next to the young woman.

When the bus reaches the final destination, the couple get up to leave, both with a serious look on their faces. The young man turns around and silently hands the bus driver some money, the extra pound, in exchange for his silence.

The film is controversial for a number of reasons and has only had limited screenings.

It can be watched here:

فيلم الجنيه الخامس The Fifth Pound

=====================

Ahmed Khaled’s “The Fifth Pound” A Bus Named Desire

The Fifth Pound

Ride My Bicycle



Protégez-vous

Use a condom.

more about “AIDS – French Animation“, posted with vodpod

Rashed and the second wife

According to the storyteller, Muneera was such a devoted wife. She would do anything for her husband, Rashed. They bought a house together and to pay off the debt, rented it out and lived in an apartment with their three kids. Rashed wanted to do a bit of renovation for the house, and Muneera borrowed 10,000 KD from the bank so they could have enough funds.

Rashed was a conservative man, said the storyteller, making a gesture below her chin to depict the presence of a pious beard. But he met a woman whom he fell in love with through Chat and suddenly, Rashed presented Muneera with wife number 2, paid for with the borrowed money.

Muneera, aghast, decided to confront wife number 2 with a phone call.

“He’s virtually penniless! What do you want with him?” She told the woman.

Wife number two shrugged her off with:”That’s alright. At least he’s got a house. And I am a married woman.”

So Cheeky!

Video: Wardrobe malfunction for Gillian Cooke

Moral of the story: Always be prepared to be inadvertently exposed.

Talk about wardrobe malfunctions. What if you were the guys behind British bobsleigh slider Gillian Cooke who split her lycra body suit at a critical moment only to reveal a well-presented ass and a cheeky black g-string?

With typical British humour, one of the Eurosport commentators said: “Gill Cooke’s going to need a new race suit after the weekend I think – it’s going to be a bit chilly there!”

Some of the amusing comments on the video:

looks like a rear ender

what a bummer !!!!

Lets get cracking, girls!!! SPLIT for a record time!!

brings a “hole ” new meaning to­ “split” second timing he he he

what a pro she still carried on despite freezing her­ best assets

It’s a viewers’ bonus.

5,4,3,2,1 and she’s THONG her way:)

What a cheek.

More here

Guardian of the Constitution

You know what he looks like. His eyebrows are arched. It gives him a look of continual disdain. Nothing you can do will gain his approval. But his eyes gleam with satisfaction and he strokes his scraggly beard  triumphantly when he senses a potential scandal. He does all he can to warp the imagination of his Constituency until they believe the picture he paints – no, not that for he abhors the arts. Let’s say he stokes the skewed thought processes in a way that makes listeners aghast at the rampant corruption and the degenerate activities of both the plebeian and the elite masses.

News travels fast these days especially through degenerate vehicles (can we mention them? Blackberries, iPhones, and the assortment of cellular communication devices).  Juicy, scandalous news seeps into the homes of all unsuspecting owners of such devices.

And the man with the arched eyebrows, forever raised in disapproval, tugs at his beard again as he calls the Guards.

He alerts them: Go, brothers! In the land of South Surrealea, a host of gay and lesbian fornicators are having a wild bash! Go good Guards and arrest them!

And so spake the Guardian of the Constitution for he is also the protector of the People who have elected him to his Post.

At the Grand Hall in Surrealea one splendid night, the women wore fanciful dresses and were regaling in an evening of music and dance when suddenly, the dark Guards appeared at the all-female function, demanding to know what kind of Evil was taking place.

The Hostess glared. The guests were furious. How dare they? Who has sent the Guards? And what dark rumours were circulating about the place they were in?

The women gathered their silk mantles around their shiny sequined gowns and left for fear of being branded a Degenerate.

The humiliated hostess vowed she would fight the scraggly bearded Guardian of the Constitution and make him pay for ruining her evening of frivolity.

And the GoC or Guardian of the Constitution, smirked as he lay on his satin sheets and turned off the lights.

Come back because I am nameless now

Love knows no boundaries

no space in time,

Grey inches of snow

Speeding through space at the speed of light cherry red

Pink gums solid hopeful sinful

Creamy mocha skin

Trying to catch some eezzee zees

Pigeons flying about in the desert.. homeless

Homeless

why don’t you work woman

Black,

Inferior sage,

Tokyo girl,

Magic mountain queues,

Ramses the second,

Turkish coffee,

Long lashes Turkish delight

Soft

Chabdat al faras

Debate on communist Russia,

You think you know everything don’t you when you’re 18..

Take a dope take a drop take a droio ket ne drio ket ne gi diwb ket ne skeeo fakkk ubti tge rabuut gike

Take a drop take a drop let me fall into the rabbit hole,

Search for fair white clouds

Dive into bright blue skies,

And don’t you feel like a fool reading this…

On the pier

There is  a white gate

Tan skin

We wait

Golden hair

Golden eyes.

The ball is being kicked from room to room it bounces off walls in unison

I scream but the world doesn’t stop.

I holler in silence

But no one is by

no one

Says I hear you

No one stops,

The louder I scream the more aloof

Everyone is,

Help me

Help me mistress aida and the 3 wolves

Is, are coming

Walking down the path

Wolves golden eyes

and white fangs snarling

Wolfies

You love me don’t you..

Oh god am tired I need a shot,

Put me down in a white bed

A floral bed or a bed of mint

So that I can breathe,

How cruel

She frowns that girl without creases they disappear

They become like little insect trails on her face

The trails of years of torment many years of struggling to understand

And then understanding when it is too late to make amends.

I sit here hot water bottle across my chest floating into nothing,

Floating into many things

Floating into being

Once again

But with whom I don’t know.

Why do I need this importance..

Why do I need to prove  green is beautiful..

Green is bubbles

And full of buoyancy

Ha ha, ho ho

No beyonce.

There is no you there is only me

I am like the 9 limbed octopus

Odd

Shy

Clingy

Reclusive

But once you

Know me

I never let you go,

Suck you suffocate you into my tentacles

There is no release or respite from the harsh truth is there?

Oh why do people lie…

And why do people think they know or pretend to know…

Don’t make assumptions,

You had better not make assumptions

Or take advantage of my weakness,

Oh god where are you why don’t you make me well

Am I slipping away again? Hands

Fingers

Slippery on the rungs of that ladder

Scraping against the rim of that lifeboat

Oh god help me

Am I a hypocrite…..

to hell with me and my pain

To hell with anything I feel

It will be over soon

It shall be over in no time,

They prevail over us

Always.

Am tired.

The sound of rain

Shsshsshshshhshsshs

Against the wet wheels of cars

Street lights shimmer

I dance

But only in spirit

I see you in the black taxi

Hand on your cheek

Black eyes pensive

You feel the humid

Pellets

Against your skin

Although the window is shut

In the cab

And you are suffocating now

I need air you scream

And the cab driver screeches to a halt and

Gives you a look of disgust

Get the fuck out of my cab

Now

And nothing seems better at this moment than to walk

Barefoot

In the rain

Toes skimming the surface of wet pavement

Coat unbuttoned

Peeled off

And slowly mops up the rain

The meters behind you and it getting larger

And then the shirt

Just a cotton shirt

Or was it a burgundy silk one?

I forgot

But you unbuttoned it

And left a trail along the street pavement

Just you

In your camisole

And your trousers

You stop in front of the dark man with thick lips

And you ask him to

Remove your trousers

He takes the long scissors from your weak pale hands

And makes rapid slits up the front of your trouser legs

The tip of the scissors makes a slight red gash on the thickest part of your left thigh and he stops

Looks at you and continues to cut them off

The trousers that is

And you are slowly finding release

As you trample through shiny streets

Under quickening rain

That leaves iridescent trails along the front of your chest

And your exposed arms

The woman in front of you has ginger hair

She stops

The color is like ginger cotton candy

She doesn’t smile but rips off your bodice

God she looks like Elizabeth

Am I ?

No, no just go on

And I look down and see that I am naked but formless

Unclothed

But asexual

Flat

Neither woman

Nor man

Just a being

Of sorts

Floating through time

Elizabeth kisses me but how I don’t know do I have lips?

Can I feel?

There I go passing through her now

Gaining speed in my unclothed body

I am running down streets

At the speed of light

Making zig zags

Making monstrous circles around

People who walk with heads bowed

People who don’t see me

People who don’t understand me

I get into the black taxi and sit next to….

Where will this disease take me

How will I find my way back if I lose my clothing

My sense of direction

I can only go forward

I get into a black cab

And sit next to Fusha or is it Misha

One of them and the girl has a blonde pony tail in the middle of the top of her head

And just looks

She knows about you and why you left and just sits beside me

And holds my hand

I cannot sleep

I cannot sob

I cannot think

Only go forward

My only way out is the black taxi

Who can make turns

Who can go back

Who can take me back

Who can bring me back

But I don’t want to

There they go again

Misha, Fusha whispering in their high pitched voices again

Turning on lights

Making noise

When I need silence

I need to absorb

And reconnect

I can think?

The link has been severed now

There is no connection to the others is there?

I am there

A spacesuit

Floating in the inky expanse of space

Left to roam

Although I am without will

Without direction

And without control

All contact has been severed now

The spacesuit succumbs to resignation

To thinking about

Times when love was active

So fiery

It almost consumed itself

But the fireman

The jolly fireman

Came with his big red extinguisher

And put it out

Once and for all

Once and for all

Hell is when you cannot sleep

Eternal purgatory is when your soul knows no

Rest

But continuous discomfort

Everlasting pain

And lack of direction

Floating

And no one calls your name.

Thrill seekers

Nasr Al-Neyadi and Omar Al-Hegelan do an approved Base-jump from the new Burj Khalifa in Dubai.

And below, an Englishman and a Frenchman a few months ago ascending the Burj for more than one hour up the stairs and hiding till dawn when one of them jumped off – illegally.

A good son

“My mother is my inspiration. She always said to be honest and work hard.”

Bangladeshi cabbie returns cash left in taxi

This is the kind of heartwarming, positive news we should be reading more about everyday to restore our faith in humanity.

Environmental Issues in Kuwait

I was really pleased to hear an interview early this morning on KTV1 with a member of the Kuwait Dive Team (I think it was Waleed Al-Fadhel) who spoke at length about the recent clean up operation in the Niqa’at Shamlan or the docking area near Souq Sharq market which is evidently full of sunken boats and tons of rubbish and discarded fishing. The Kuwait Dive Team member spoke about the massive effort in coordination with the Kuwait Ports Authority to clean up the area from all the rubbish.

The sad part is that he said even after all that effort, only half of the whole dumped rubbish and sunken vessels were removed.

He appealed to fishermen (who are more often than not non-Kuwaitis) to respect the environment especially as they are making a living off the sea. He even suggested implementing more stringent anti-dumping laws and perhaps camera surveillance to track those fishermen who dumpr waste into the Niq’aa or bay area.

Here is a link to an article on the news bit: Kuwait Diving Team lifts 60 tons of discarded nets

And the Kuwait Dive Team FLICKR site shows a photo set of the big clean up effort a few days ago.

Great job guys.

New Kuwait private sector labor laws proposed

Sounds reasonable.

From the Arab Times site:

New Kuwait private sector labor law detailed Following is the full text of the Kuwait Labor Law for the private sector which was passed by the National Assembly recently. The law has still to be approved by the Kuwait Cabinet before it is sent to HH the Amir for his endorsement. It will then be published in the Kuwait Gazette and only after that it becomes effective.
.

.

.

Employing women
Article 22: It is prohibited to employ women at night – from 10:00 pm to 7:00 am. This excludes hospitals, sanatoriums, other private treatment homes and establishments for which the minister of social affairs and labor will issue a decision. The work site should comply with all the conditions mentioned in this article by ensuring the security of women and providing them with means of transportation to and from the workplace. Work hours during Ramadan are excluded from the rules of this article.

Article 23: It is prohibited to employ women in hazardous jobs or those that are harmful to their health. It is also prohibited to let them engage in jobs that defy the morality code and exploit their womanhood. They should not work in institutions which provide services exclusive for men.
A decision to determine such jobs will be issued by the minister of social affairs and labor after consulting the Consultative Committee for Labor Affairs and the concerned organization

Article 24: A pregnant woman will get a 70-day paid leave, not included in her other leaves, for delivery on the condition that she gives birth within this period.
After completing the maternity leave, the employer can grant a working woman, based on her request, leave of not more than four months without pay to care for the baby.

The employer should not terminate a working woman while she is on such leaves or if she took sick leave due to an illness caused by pregnancy or delivery as per a medical report issued by her attending physician.

Article 25: Working women are entitled to a two-hour break during work hours to nurse their babies in accordance with the conditions stipulated in the ministry’s decision. The employer must establish a nursery for children below four years old if he has more than 50 female workers or not more than 200 men.
.Article 26: A working woman deserves a similar wage granted to men if she is engaged in the same job.

Milking the Sallow Cow

Member of parliament Hayef Al-Mutairi expressed his astonishment that his “pro-women” proposal was turned down by women MP’s in a parliamentary committee.

His  proposal would  entitle women who chose to stay at home and be homemakers to a monthly salary of 250 KD. In other words, a woman who stayed at home to look after her husband and children would earn a monthly salary from the government. No questions asked.

In a televisions interview, Hayef expressed his disbelief that female MP’s would stand against the best interest of their “sisters” and went on a long tirade about how women always stand against women’s own good. I believe some of the MP’s that stood against this proposal were Rola Dashti, Aseel Al-Awadhi, and Massouma Mubarak although I don’t have accurate sources as of yet.

Passing such a law, in my opinion, would not make women spend more quality family time. Rather, it makes us as a citizens of this country more dependent than we already are on government handouts.

Yabn El Halal

Haifa Wehbe oozes sexy. I enjoyed this video all the way till almost the end. I found it a bit disturbing the way she walked off with the young boy.

more about “Yabn El Halal“, posted with vodpod

Ingredient: Passion (IV)

You shared salty, cold egg sandwiches with me that your mama made from the free range hens that scurried about in the hosh of your home. I was hesitant at first but finally agreed upon your insistence on sharing your breakfast although at the time I was not particularly partial to cold fried omelette-like eggs that were a touch too oily and somewhat salty. In addition, I had never eaten eggs produced in someone’s home and eating them felt very personal but I quickly learned to like them and I thought then as I do now about the things we do for love and the things we accept in the name of love and what sacrifice means. I don’t mean the sacrificial eggs although I could ponder that for a moment I suppose but I mean the way in which we sacrifice our ideals and abolish our preconceptions (which are often ill-founded anyway) when we share passion with a person especially at the beginning of a relationship when we are ready to blast away at all our prejudices and demote our hoity toity fancy shmancy attitudes to a more down to earth, bare naked reality. You wolfed down your share of the omelette-like egg in pitta bread and I ate small bites while stealing  sideways glances at you hoping you were not staring at the way my mouth worked sensuously over the pieces of food as they were churned about in my mouth and imagining the way my tongue would taste swirling against your own as we sat two and a half meters away from each other eating the other half of your mama’s egg sandwich. In retrospect, I could say it was the time you started your epicurean seduction of my taste buds and opened my eyes to the ignoble delights of your eggs.

Ingredient: Passion (III)

“I’m pregnant.”

Joy permeates the space between us. Our bodies fuse together and when we kiss, we become a triangle of love.

You strip me of my clothing and I bare your desires to the infinite Spirit. Do you understand the lust between Adam and Eve? You and I are its embodiment.

The bedsheets are twisted beneath us and the slick passion between our skins creates infinite bonds of love.

When we are done, we ravish  plump aromatic mangoes waiting on the bedside table, their yellow skins taut against the juicy flesh. We each grab a mango and gnash into it hungrily, spilling the sweet, sticky juices onto our hands, and I watch it trickle down the length of your upraised arm.

Our fast is broken. Our bond is sealed.

Ingredient: Passion (II)

Perhaps I am mistaken.

The first seduction was the mug, my personal mug, offered to you full of a medicinal brew (vitamin C). My first offering to seduce your sick body.  My steps into the pyre of your then unknown passion.

Your fingerprints on the mug  irradiated heat. Your lips marked your new territory. You breathed your flu germs into my cup and I made them my own. I would bear everything with you.

Ingredient: Passion (I)

It was seduction on my part. My feminine ways. Instinct. I don’t believe I was aware of what I was doing. But the woman within me did.

I was seducing you with food offerings.

I placed a fork and a small rectangular tupperware container on your desk. My manner was outwardly friendly. You accepted and thanked me cordially with a smile.

My heartbeats quickened, singing unfamiliar songs at the thought of sharing my breakfast with you.

When you had eaten your share, you brought the container back to my cubicle and set it on the desk quietly.

I looked down at the remaining deep orange yellow slices of mango, soft and moist. The fork that had just passed between your lips, lays unwashed, on the side.

I was not hungry for the sweet slices of soft mangoes but it was some mad desire to be close to you. I was trembling as I picked up the fork, and dipped into the mango wedges, and brought them to my mouth.

I was tasting you for the first time.