we fear the dark

My companion and I walked down to the beach and sat on the plastic chairs. It was night. The sound of the waves breaking was loud. It was poetry. It was night but it was not totally dark. We were silhouetted by a big beam of light shining behind us from the beach house. The light cast shadows on the sand beneath our feet, and it made the ground look like the surface of the moon.

My companion could not keep quiet. She repeated in wonder: the weather is beautiful!

It was cool down by the beach and the wind blowing was refreshing. Not chilly yet. Just stimulating the senses. The word is invigorating.

My companion repeated: listen to the waves!

It was a succession of blessings, wonderment, and repeated commands to look! See! Isn’t it amazing?

I smiled mostly. At intervals, I murmured an agreement.

I could not get into a meditative mood. My companion, though enthralled with the view, could not settle down enough to absorb it.

She was like an excited child.

Soon, I started off on a tangent just like that out of the blue. That is what the sea does to me. It stirs memories. Out of a big murky cauldron, come figments of my life. I started to talk. My companion was silent long enough to listen to my storytelling.

She then turned to the sea and started to exalt again.

I picked up my camera and took a few shots of her profile. She was so excited at the results, she immediately posted to Twitter. She had to share with the rest of the world where she was, and the glory of the view.

I gazed up at the stars and thought about how minute we are in this vast universe. A trite and tired thought but no less wondrous no matter how many times we contemplate the insignificance of matters in the whole scheme of things.

The roar of the breakers increased and we decided to walk. My feet squished into the damp sand, enjoying the feel of the wet grains between my toes. My companion chose to keep her shoes on. I wanted to urge her to shed them, to touch Mother Earth. I kept quiet.

There was no moon. But the lights from the beach houses shone brightly as ten moons.

We went back up to the beach house.

 

Big Bad Wolf

I guess I have to cheer myself up since no one else will do it for me.

 

Until my creative flowers return, I guess I have to recycle material already out there.

 

 

lightbulb

there was a glowing bulb

within

but

it glowed itself

out,

or it was turned

on and off

on and off

so many times,

it eventually

went out

for good

pouff!!!

in for a shock

I wrote this draft back in November 2010. I welcome any additions to this raw piece.

 

They were in for a shock. All of them. Not just the Kuwaitis with the starched white qutras that crowned their male heads. Not just the Kuwaiti ladies with their massive peacock hijabs and bulky handbags. Not just the kids who pounded away at iPhones and Blackberries like they were born doing that, while their Asian nannies lugged designer school backpacks for them back to the cars.

Things had changed when Sufian took over parliament.

He imposed taxes. On everything.

Overnight, congestion at peak hours improved, as though half the people normally out and about had stayed home. Or had left the country. Cars were left abandoned after foreigners could find no one to sell them to. Those who were lucky enough sold the spare parts and whatever was recyclable.

And riding the bus seemed so much more efficient and cost-effective since gasoline prices had doubled and there were rumours that it was going to triple very soon.

Within 18 months, a subway transport system had been instituted that would run 65% by solar energy.

The new Smart Identification Card drove everyone crazy at first. You couldn’t do anything without it. You punched in at work with it. You rode the bus with it. You paid the taxi driver with it. You paid road tax with it. You paid for your groceries with it – even if it was just a packet of cigarettes and an energy drink from the local baqqala. The system was in place and there was no escaping Big Brother.

Sufian’s government knows everything about you and your family whether you are Kuwaiti or expatriate; long-term or short-term expatriate; Bidoon or dual citizen: everything was recorded in the Qibliyyah school – home of Al-Ain Al-Sahera – the Information Bank .

Gradually, children did not go to school but attended virtual classrooms in the auditoriums of the local Co-Operative societies. In higher density areas, the lessons were held in apartment complexes.   They had  interactive sessions with the lecturers and teachers.  Parents chose the curriculum that they wanted their children to follow in cyberschooling.  They did everything at the Cyberschools.

Recycling of human rubbish became strictly implemented. No longer did the garbage collectors come by to collect the refuse.  Domestic refuse had to be sorted. Any biodegradable waste was collected by each household and dumped at a central composting location in every district. If the household wished to keep its own compost heap, they were encouraged to do so. All other waste was to be sorted and disposed of in the central recycling bins in each neighbourhood Cooperative society.

 

ricochet

I still have my sandals on in the house. This is  unusual. I always take off my footwear before entering our living quarters unless I don’t mean to stay for very long. Actually, sometimes I leave my shoes on because I am too lazy. I also think it is because I feel a bit rebellious against myself. Leave my shoes on and rebel against the orderliness.

Very little thanks goes to my Little Big Feet.  I hereby express my gratitude to you Little Big Feet  for carrying me, bearing with me, and transporting me – weary as you are from the load of years. You try to send messengers to Regal Brain, telling it to ease up on you. But Regal Brain is bipolar. At times she is a slave driver, standing on her Chariot, whipping out orders, and all you do Little Big Feet, is obey, despite your creaking joints. But when Regal Brain wants things done, all must obey regardless of the state of the Nation. Sometimes though, I believe Regal Brain gives herself a break and this is when her bipolar side emerges. She rests Little Big Feet on plump cushions. Lovely ladies groom and preen aching plump toes, reviving them.

I still have my sandals on. I need to go out that’s why.

I wish someone would invent a pair of sturdy wings. I would readily invest in such a project. I want sturdy, durable, jet-propelled wings.  Could I have green solar-operated wings with jet propulsion? I want to fly places instead of drive.

This morning as I waited in heavy traffic, a handsome neatly dressed pedestrian walked my way. As he approached me, our eyes locked. I was not sure if he could see my eyes through the sunglasses. Still, I was too shy and looked down and away until I could ascertain that he had passed my car. Had he not been good-looking, would I have still reacted in the same way or would I have stared him down?

That piece of eye candy however made the congestion a bit less stressful for the next few moments. I sat back and listened to the ramblings of the radio presenters and was soon on my way again. The sense of bliss was inevitably brief as a big truck wedged its way forcefully into the meter and a half space between my car and the next. The driver saw my exasperated expression and the irritated signs I made with my hands – all civil mind you. So instead of remaining in the lane, he immediately decided to vacate and infuriate me further by looking out his window and motioning for me to pass. Shudder. Not only disgust but humiliation in a space of two minutes. My mood was shattered for the remainder of the drive.

She always drove to work on the Arabian Gulf Road,  or as they called it the Blajaat. The sea twinkled blue and the sun was warm and beckoning. One day, she packed her breakfast and a thermos of fresh coffee and headed out half an hour earlier. She parked her car, slipped down to the beach, took off her dress, and ran into the sea. The water was cold and invigorating. She swam a few laps and the salty water stung her eyes. The sound of the gulls nearby enveloped her in calm.

She didn’t spend long in the water. She dried off quickly, and slipped her dress over her damp bathing suit, washed off her feet with a bottle of water as she dangled them out the car. She groomed her short hair quickly, and pouring out the coffee, sat back in her SUV and ate her tomato and halloumi grilled sandwich.

I’m still wearing my sandals. I should get on my way. Enough day-dreaming.

pandemonium

Lockdown, protests.

Even I have started to drink coffee in the morning instead of chai. I spread crunchy peanut butter deep into a hot, toasted piece of pita bread and the ooozing sweetness sickens me. Immediately I think of thick-sliced, soft American white bread that is sturdy enough to spread the peanut butter across and refreshing in its room temperature state.

There are a range of options. We must learn to grow our own food. Do I want to live in a world that has no futuristic technological comforts? Do I want to live in a world where there are no toilets that flush waste miraculously down some magical hole? Oh the joy now of those automated flushing toilets when as soon as you rise out of your squatting position,  a loud “tak-shush” rids you of your recently shedded waste without even having to touch anything. And then out into the wash room, where a mere wand like motion turns on the water and it pours effortlessly from a shiny silver tap.

I want to live in such a world. I don’t want to wash in the sea like grandma did. I don’t want to wash in well water, pulled up in buckets, brackish and shared with an assortment of bugs. No. I want that clean, filtered water to gush out of my taps. I want to walk into power showers and be cleansed immediately with hot or cold water; to polish my skin with scented scrubs and massage strap loofahs.

I don’t want to give up the wizardry of modern hair styling techniques – to twist, smooth, and shape my locks by electrical gadgets in minutes simply by plugging into a wall.

I want to stay assured that my money is safe in the bank; than no bandits will run off with it virtually across the fields of cyberspace. I want to be able to trust the bankers. I want my money in actual gold coins  – non-destructable, and physically present, not in some hypothtical bank account in the clouds.

Many years ago, the government distributed free housing to the Bedouins to encourage them to settle down in one place. The common conception was for them to keep their goats and sheep in the house and they would remain in tents in the hosh or the outer area of the compound. Their spirits were too free to be tied down for long.   Now though, Bedouin family homes tower 3 to 4 storeys high. When I pass by, I wonder if each storey is allocated to separate wives and their children.

I am struck by the assumptions I have made in the last paragraph. How do I even know? Have I ever seen this with my own eyes? No. Do I actually know for certain that those multiple storied houses are owned by Bedouin families? And if so, do I know that they are actually for extra wives and children or something else entirely.

My skewed assumptions are a reflection of my warped environment.
Last weekend the Hunter’s moon rose red out of the sea. Red and bloodied. Full and golden as it rose further. Things sometimes look better from a distance. When you get up close and personal, the picture takes on a different perspective. Depending on your humour, you may accept, like or embrace the new image and what it represents. You may also despise and reject what appears before you. So, don’t be like the moon, beautiful from a distance, but cold, bare, and unpredictable  the closer you get.

I have heard it said that cats are our masters. That cats dictate to us the kind of relationship we will have and not vice versa. A cat will not obey. It will calculate your moves, anticipate your likes and dislikes, and in that way determine how it will approach you. It may not approach you at all as a matter of fact until the pangs of hunger turn it into a docile loving creature.

Is it that way with fickle loving women and men, then? Once their passion is satiated, they sit aloof at a distance, like that cat, and flick their tail to and fro and their ears twitch back and forth listening to all sounds except your pleas to come closer, come back, come hither.

The coffee dries out my throat. It parches the lining of my mouth. Instead of invigorating me, I lapse into a semi-conscious trance.  I want to emerge but it pulls me down into it. It is is bigger than me and I can no longer keep my feet down.

Stampede of feet. People rushing with the crowds. Running to some unknown destiny and I don’t know if I want to be a survivor in this aftermath. Perhaps my spirit will rise into space and float amongst the stars. What a glorified fairy tale view. It is more likely that my spirit, like the other billions of spirits, all roam this earth on another plane, still trapped, still unable to understand why, or the reason they exist.

If I booked a ticket into outer space, and died as I was ejected into the deep black beyond, would my spirit finally be free? Would my soul finally  be rid of all earthly bounds? And would I be happy? Or sad that I was free, yet entirely on my own?

lover’s caught

 

 

 

 

 

 

‘Lovers’ caught: The Jleeb Al-Shuyoukh police have arrested an unidentified Asian couple — driver and a maid — for indulging in immoral activities, reports Al-Rai daily.
According to reports the suspects were caught in the act by the sponsor of the maid when he accidentally heard noises coming from the maid’s room. A case has been registered against the suspects.

Is it immoral to have sex?  The driver and the maid were engaging in natural human action.

It seems to me immoral to keep two people unnaturally in such a situation without adequate mental and bodily gratification for endless periods. We see these types of reports almost on a daily basis in local papers. Doesn’t it mean something?

It seems stranger to me to have the maid’s sponsor lurking outside her bedroom .  (Accidentally, my foot)

It seems very odd  to me that we recruit complete strangers from alien cultures, and have them live with us in our homes and interact with us on a very personal yet impersonal basis and yet not expect them to have any desires. Do we know the backgrounds of the people we employ as domestic helper, who have almost complete access to our entire personal lives – yet we don’t know much about them?

That in my opinion is what is immoral.

 

 

Balk

My fingers are stubborn,

my heart unmoved

my brain on a different plane,

and I refuse

to disembark.

 

My fingers balk

like the feral cat that walks into my kitchen

and plops itself down

on the cool ceramic tile

and refuses to

budge.

It bears its weight down

and resists being

shushed out

into the scorching

heat beyond.

 

My fingers balk

like the horse

that refuses to go forward

to take that leap,

despite having done it

a thousand times before.

 

My heart is not empty,

but it is also not bursting with the stories I

had to tell.

My fingers are not paralyzed

but perplexed

about the direction to take.

My brain is not numb,

but it blew a big fuse

sometime when I was somewhere

and not listening,

not looking.