how often would you say often ?
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Wisdom of the ages
you know, no matter how much one says it and no matter how cliched it might sound "enjoy the little things"
Life is a fleeting presence that we tend to take too seriously, sometimes that small event can just cheer you up to a massive degree.
The company of a friend, no matter how short it might be (even five minutes) can cause immense satisfaction and happiness. That pee after holding it in for 3 hours. That meal after being hungry for a while. Those two kilos you lost last week. Those pants that fit you again. That joke you remebered. That chocolate you were practically dreaming of and couldn't find in 5 supermarkets.
All these tiny moments should be highly cherished because they fill our existence (be it miserable or otherwse) with cheer, and that notion that everything will be allright.
Ps this has nothing to do with me watching zombieland again this morning but rather this feeling I got while sitting in a street restaurant (right now) while waiting for a dear friend and a good meal, and I felt this immense rush of satisfied happiness...
Sent from my BlackBerry® wireless handheld
Life is a fleeting presence that we tend to take too seriously, sometimes that small event can just cheer you up to a massive degree.
The company of a friend, no matter how short it might be (even five minutes) can cause immense satisfaction and happiness. That pee after holding it in for 3 hours. That meal after being hungry for a while. Those two kilos you lost last week. Those pants that fit you again. That joke you remebered. That chocolate you were practically dreaming of and couldn't find in 5 supermarkets.
All these tiny moments should be highly cherished because they fill our existence (be it miserable or otherwse) with cheer, and that notion that everything will be allright.
Ps this has nothing to do with me watching zombieland again this morning but rather this feeling I got while sitting in a street restaurant (right now) while waiting for a dear friend and a good meal, and I felt this immense rush of satisfied happiness...
Sent from my BlackBerry® wireless handheld
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Never give up. Never surrender (bloody fist)
So egyptian action movies have been famous with subpar action scenes that could only be described as a good attempt, with the exception of a couple of good ones.
On the other hand comedy is usually where we excel, yes there are fiascos that still happen to be funny but overall egyptian sense of humor is pretty much epic.
Now the mixing of both has always been a tricky situation, either you get the serious action hero with the comedic sidekick that has lame jokes that could be potentially funny (ala ahmed el sakka movies) or the suae charming action hero that has a couple of lines that are funny. And then there are comedy movies that throw in an action scene in the end just to serve a paper thin plot. And there's always mamdouh farag's masterpiece (not) 3al2et moot.
Now in comes ahmed mekki, a creator and an actor that has had hits over the past couple of years that are unrivalled in humor.
He approaches the action comedy genre in a different manner, rather than taking himself too seriously with a plot that would otherwise be described as cliched and overused he emphasizes that point starting with the movie title itself and keeps poking fun at the script itself and the actors overact in some parts just to make sure you don't take them that seriously (and I assumed that was intentional because I know they CAN act)
The movie has a simple plot government agency wants to capture a druglord his right hand man dies, the police find a doppleganger to plant within the organization, throw in a love interest and you got a story going. Now make the doppleganger a funny accent and mannerisms and you have katkoot a failed mohamed saad movie from 4 years ago (which they mention in the movie btw along with a couple of the plethora of movies that used that theme) but add in mekki and co's acting and ingenuity and you have a great movie.
In touch with modern day pop culture and blending it in with the movie perfectly (as they are famous for) as well as a very cleverly funny script.
The movie falls into the trap of being divided into the funny part and the action part but other than that it stays fresh with the comedy though, the first half of the film is nonstop laughter that is so loud the ground will shake, the action is still subpar yet there are some impressive feats, key word impressive not awestruckingly micheal bay but then again production value here is low anyway.
An enjoyable movie overall and it has a ninja, so that's always good. Hilariously funny and a great take on the cliche that kills it to death. An avid movie goer will love the the references to older movies and type cast actors in egyptian cinema (ala tarantino name dropping)
I enjoyed it immensly. Another point of view from a friend that was with me was that he found it hard to follow the lead due to the selected accent and voice, which made it hard for him to identify. So be on the look out for being alienated for some of the references unless you are really up to date with all the egyptian pop culture.
On the other hand comedy is usually where we excel, yes there are fiascos that still happen to be funny but overall egyptian sense of humor is pretty much epic.
Now the mixing of both has always been a tricky situation, either you get the serious action hero with the comedic sidekick that has lame jokes that could be potentially funny (ala ahmed el sakka movies) or the suae charming action hero that has a couple of lines that are funny. And then there are comedy movies that throw in an action scene in the end just to serve a paper thin plot. And there's always mamdouh farag's masterpiece (not) 3al2et moot.
Now in comes ahmed mekki, a creator and an actor that has had hits over the past couple of years that are unrivalled in humor.
He approaches the action comedy genre in a different manner, rather than taking himself too seriously with a plot that would otherwise be described as cliched and overused he emphasizes that point starting with the movie title itself and keeps poking fun at the script itself and the actors overact in some parts just to make sure you don't take them that seriously (and I assumed that was intentional because I know they CAN act)
The movie has a simple plot government agency wants to capture a druglord his right hand man dies, the police find a doppleganger to plant within the organization, throw in a love interest and you got a story going. Now make the doppleganger a funny accent and mannerisms and you have katkoot a failed mohamed saad movie from 4 years ago (which they mention in the movie btw along with a couple of the plethora of movies that used that theme) but add in mekki and co's acting and ingenuity and you have a great movie.
In touch with modern day pop culture and blending it in with the movie perfectly (as they are famous for) as well as a very cleverly funny script.
The movie falls into the trap of being divided into the funny part and the action part but other than that it stays fresh with the comedy though, the first half of the film is nonstop laughter that is so loud the ground will shake, the action is still subpar yet there are some impressive feats, key word impressive not awestruckingly micheal bay but then again production value here is low anyway.
An enjoyable movie overall and it has a ninja, so that's always good. Hilariously funny and a great take on the cliche that kills it to death. An avid movie goer will love the the references to older movies and type cast actors in egyptian cinema (ala tarantino name dropping)
I enjoyed it immensly. Another point of view from a friend that was with me was that he found it hard to follow the lead due to the selected accent and voice, which made it hard for him to identify. So be on the look out for being alienated for some of the references unless you are really up to date with all the egyptian pop culture.
A must see nontheless, it is probably the best comedy hit this summer from the looks of it.
Sent from my BlackBerry® wireless handheld
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Another Trophy
He smirked as he saw the crimson liquid flow down onto his hands. The knife now deep within her chest, the warm blood flowed out of her. There is something about the color that amuses him. The warmth sends a tingling pleasure across his spine. The smirk extends to a grimace, and he lets out a small chuckle. Her screams have died out; now it is only the silence of death.
He was following her for while, the brunette with eyes as blue as the sea, and are even deeper. Her skin so soft, he wants nothing but to run his hands across it. Her ample bosom heaving with every step she takes, his heart follows its rhythm. A week since he first saw her; he knew then she was to be his next one. He would claim her like he claimed the others; after all he always got what he wanted.
He followed her home; she didn’t notice him. He now knows where she lives. It doesn’t take much time to plan. In fact he usually doesn’t plan. It’s instinctive. He waits not to plan, but merely lets it linger to increase the thrill of the hunt. The pleasure lies not in the capture, though that is a large part of it, but the true pleasure lies in the act of the hunt itself. The tracking, the anticipation, the hiding in the shadows following the prey’s every move. That is all they are to him, prey, trophies to be collected.
Then the fateful day comes, he gets bored of following her; now he wants her, and he will have her. He goes to her house and waits. She comes out, and the chase begins. Like a lioness stretched in the savannah his senses sharpen. The sun sets, signaling that the chase will nearly come to an end. Darkness always provided him with cover. He hides in the shadows now following her every step. Once it is dark enough he announces his presence by stepping into the light behind her and pacing in her direction. This is when they run; he smiles, he loves it when they run.
She looks behind her and sees a dark figure approaches fast. An ominous feeling swells in her stomach and she starts moving faster, he follows likewise. She is running now. He is excited, adrenaline now flowing through his blood he runs after her, allowing her to get a little ahead just to have her think she could get away; he knows she won’t, but that way it’s more exciting. His smile widens now showing his teeth. He can’t help it and starts laughing manically after her. She screams, oh how he loves it when they scream. He laughs harder, pulls out his knife that glistens brightly in the moonlit street. She scream louder, she’s desperate, and he’s closing in. her screams send chills across his body, he is excited now, but he won’t move in for the kill yet; he has to revel in this pleasure. She screams louder; he laughs harder.
She sees an exit to the left and runs into it, she’s not familiar with this neighborhood and the fear has overtaken her mind; she can’t think straight. He knows it’s a dead end, they always run into a dead end. It demeans his hunting skills, but he doesn’t care this is when the climax happens. She runs in only to face a wall. He slows down, walking in behind her. She turns around and screams, he joins her screaming with a howling laugh and walks slowly towards her with the biggest smile on his face. This moment he torments her walking as slowly as possible towards her knife drawn, shimmering as if death is signaling her from the dark. Her horror now is paramount; his eyes widen, it is time.
He won’t rape her. The only pleasure he gets is in the hunt itself, and now it’s time to end it. He closes in; she falls backwards, looks up to him and screams. He grabs her breast with his right hand and stabs with his left, into her heart. He feels her ribs collapsing under the force of his blade, he never misses the heart, not anymore; he’s been practicing, this one will be his masterpiece. He pushes the knife in deeper, his other hand squeezing in unbelievable ecstasy. This is his moment; he lays her down slowly, pushing the knife in till the end. The blood starts to flow; this is why he likes to stab the heart, the blood flows instantly; a warm, gleaming, crimson stream flowing through his fingers. Her soft white skin is now smeared with a deeper shade of burgundy that reflects the moonlight into his eyes, now wide with madness. There is a reason they call it lunacy, the moon just enhances the entire experience; he knows it, he loves the moonlight it just makes his work more poetic.
The struggle stops, it is done. But to him it is not over yet. It is never over till he licks the blade. He pulls out the blood drenched knife from what was once a chest full of life and pleasure; Raises it up in the bright moonlight, turning it to either side admiring the warm blood on the cold steel. He lets out another howling laugh and sticks out his tongue, scarred and hideous; it is a marker of his work. Every time he hunts he has to lick the blade leaving another mark on his tongue. He has a favorite scar, the one going straight down the middle of his tongue, nearly splitting it in two, like the viper he is. He draws the knife closer to his face, eyes widening mixed with a deranged smile. He turns the blade to face his tongue and licks it from bottom to top. His tongue bleeds mixing with her blood now drying on the blade. This union of blood is why he does all this; now she’s part of him, and he is satisfied. He looks down on the body; still beautiful, her dead blue eyes like diamonds glowing in the moonlight. He looks up to the sky and send out a laugh that sounds more like a screech of a thousand cats being killed. He runs off into the darkness tongue sticking out, knife still in hand, and disappears.
The next morning she leaves her house to work. It’s warm outside she’s wearing shorts; her legs seem endless, tanned to a perfect shade of bronze and smooth as fine Chinese silk. There is a bounce in her step, a childlike skip, she loves these sunny days. She crosses the street, bumping into this tall man who seems oddly distracted. She stops and looks up to him, her blonde hair flowing away from her face to show her hazel brown eyes. She smiles politely and apologizes in a hypnotically melodic voice. He seems remote, yet he nods slowly. She walks away, off to work. He turns and looks at her, her feet barely touching the ground, her legs rising to a perfectly shaped behind. His lips curve sideways into a smirk. “let the games begin”
Into the Light
It’s dark backstage. The audience seems promising today. He has checked them out. They are receptive, in a good mood, perfect audience. He tries to listen to his predecessor; his ears are so full of adrenaline he can’t make out a word. He hears the bustling of the audience. He is doing well. He’s not nervous. He won’t get nervous yet, he’s too excited at this point. He starts getting pumped up. He has done this a billion times before; he has rehearsed it so much he knows it back and forth and sideways. He is ready, as ready as he possibly can.
The performer before him walks in with a cheer booming behind her. He pats her on the back “great job” he doesn’t even know what she said, he knows one thing the audience is happy. The announcer walks out on stage. This is when he gets nervous. For a split second his already pounding heart starts pumping a little more intensely. The excitement is too much though; he uses it to shake off his nervousness. Like the climb at the beginning of a roller coaster, this is the calm before the storm. “I would like to introduce my next comedian…” the announcer dishes out the same introduction every night. If it’s not broken why fix it. He likes his introduction; it’s personal, funny, and over.
The audience starts a wave of applause and cheer; he is pulled in by its tide onto the stage. He steps into the spot light, ears now completely deafened by the sound of a hailing audience; for a second there he is alive. All the senses in his body disappear in his background; there is only one thing, his act. The rush on stage is so big, he doesn’t remember seeing anyone or doing anything. He is just there; this ephemeral presence in the light is all he wants. He draws energy from the cheer, and greets them loudly. He doesn’t want the feedback to die; he doesn’t want the audience to stop; it is his job now to keep them alive.
He starts off, simple at first; short and sweet to grab their attention. He tries to have them identify with him. The all sense something of them within him, he is successful; now they would be eating from his hands. He throws at them another joke, the laughter says it all, now the energy is up there, strong and pulsating. He uses this energy, draws it into himself and sends back another one. More laughter, the game is on; this is tennis, he serves up a good joke and they follow through with a response. They love him and he loves it. For the entire time he is on stage their eyes are fixated on him. He wouldn’t have it any other way. He was born to be in the light, he wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. The eyes intensely following his every move. The ears sharply tuned to his voice amplified by that ever so familiar microphone that is under his grasp. They give him more energy, he eats it all up. He feeds off the crowd, and now he’s happy.
The act is nearly over, he doesn’t remember how it began, or where he is, he’s just doing it. It is a blur of laughter and words; all he remembers is the light, that bright light that blinds him, that bright light that brings him to life. He finishes the set and thanks the audience, the high is over yet one last applause fills him with enough energy to leave, content. He bows and places the microphone on the stand. He walks out, and steps back into the darkness. It is dark backstage, but he is now happy.
The performer before him walks in with a cheer booming behind her. He pats her on the back “great job” he doesn’t even know what she said, he knows one thing the audience is happy. The announcer walks out on stage. This is when he gets nervous. For a split second his already pounding heart starts pumping a little more intensely. The excitement is too much though; he uses it to shake off his nervousness. Like the climb at the beginning of a roller coaster, this is the calm before the storm. “I would like to introduce my next comedian…” the announcer dishes out the same introduction every night. If it’s not broken why fix it. He likes his introduction; it’s personal, funny, and over.
The audience starts a wave of applause and cheer; he is pulled in by its tide onto the stage. He steps into the spot light, ears now completely deafened by the sound of a hailing audience; for a second there he is alive. All the senses in his body disappear in his background; there is only one thing, his act. The rush on stage is so big, he doesn’t remember seeing anyone or doing anything. He is just there; this ephemeral presence in the light is all he wants. He draws energy from the cheer, and greets them loudly. He doesn’t want the feedback to die; he doesn’t want the audience to stop; it is his job now to keep them alive.
He starts off, simple at first; short and sweet to grab their attention. He tries to have them identify with him. The all sense something of them within him, he is successful; now they would be eating from his hands. He throws at them another joke, the laughter says it all, now the energy is up there, strong and pulsating. He uses this energy, draws it into himself and sends back another one. More laughter, the game is on; this is tennis, he serves up a good joke and they follow through with a response. They love him and he loves it. For the entire time he is on stage their eyes are fixated on him. He wouldn’t have it any other way. He was born to be in the light, he wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. The eyes intensely following his every move. The ears sharply tuned to his voice amplified by that ever so familiar microphone that is under his grasp. They give him more energy, he eats it all up. He feeds off the crowd, and now he’s happy.
The act is nearly over, he doesn’t remember how it began, or where he is, he’s just doing it. It is a blur of laughter and words; all he remembers is the light, that bright light that blinds him, that bright light that brings him to life. He finishes the set and thanks the audience, the high is over yet one last applause fills him with enough energy to leave, content. He bows and places the microphone on the stand. He walks out, and steps back into the darkness. It is dark backstage, but he is now happy.
Tiny Imperfections
To say beauty is in the eye of the beholder is to claim that everything is essentially beautiful; it just has to been seen through the right eyes, within the proper context. A picture of a dead dog could be horrific to people, but that picture would be a beautiful piece of photojournalism had been a picture of a dog that died due to drug testing on animals in Singapore; context, it governs us.
Personally I find beauty in tiny imperfections. That line that just went astray in a painting, that bass line that just deviates away from the beat for a second to do a 2 second solo. Life is filled with these little things that fill it with beauty. What I like most about these imperfections is that they almost always go unnoticed, making finding them more rewarding; appreciating them even more. That was all before I saw her.
The events leading up to that instant are now irrelevant. Clichéd as they may be, I ended up in one end of a smoky room discussing the mating habits of the seahorse with a guy that barely seems remotely interested in any marine creature, and a girl dangling around his neck more focused on which would be the best way to bite his earlobe. The dimly lit room was full of these clusters of pseudo-intelligent conversations. I could have sworn someone was talking about politics somewhere until I heard them say “So seriously, who’d win in a fight? The Queen of England or Dr. Stephen Strange?”
Small talk, a tiny imperfection of our human existence that has taken an ugly turn up the shit stream we call society. The entire purpose of the so called social life is to maintain pretentious relationships with people you don’t even care about just to get what you want in the end. This was networking at its best, and I’m good at it, the best. I also come out with the occasional one night stand or maybe relationship, win-win I think, perpetually optimistic as usual. All this came to an abrupt and screeching halt as soon as that room’s door opened.
She walked in, and it was as if my mind went into slow motion. The couple in front of me went out of focus so fast the motion blur lingered in my retina for a second. As I regained control of my sight there was only one focal point, her. To say time stood still would be an understatement, but then again I wasn’t looking at my watch. I was looking at her. Her deep orange hair was gleaming in the dimly lit room, radiating a shimmering glow of red light. Accentuating that long, wild, uncontrollable mane flowing around her head, were her eyes. I first saw them as she removed a stray lock of hair from over her face; they had a magical deep green hue mixed with a yellow that gave the color a taste of mint with a hint of lemon. She looked up with those viridian jewels into my humble pupils, I felt my heart drop two stories below me, my stomach joined in the plummet as I noticed her face, her pale skin glistening in the fiery refraction of light through her hair. This is when I noticed the tiny imperfections, freckles, all over her face like little kisses from the sun. Her face was almost completely covered with these randomly spread spots. I don’t know what it is about freckles that just make the face more beautiful to me; I think it’s the tiny imperfections thing. I appreciate the beauty of that “imperfection”.
Her small rounded nose was also covered in them. The only part that was spared was those lips, full and ripe, like the forbidden fruit, because to kiss such perfect lips would be so good it would only make sense that it would be a sin. Yet on the lower lip one freckle presided on the left side, as if beckoning for someone to approach and embrace those lips with another, in a gentle yet loving embrace; an embrace that would be immortalized in song and lore.
Her hair led me to her neck slender and long. She wore a necklace with a small turquoise pendant hanging from it. I could have sworn it was her neck that made the necklace look good. The pendant rested on the nave of her neck leading my eyes to her bare shoulders, also covered in freckles. My heart sank a little more, I think the neighbors below would complain now as to why my heart was hanging in the middle of their living room.
The turquoise strapless dress she was wearing was simple as it was elegant. It curved at the right places and flowed at the others. I would lie if I didn’t say my eyes strayed back to the center to meet with that freckle spangled cleavage, just slightly showing as to tease the on looker but only enough to be also respectful and classy. The dress curved down to hug her hips and then flowed to end up in a slanted ruffle near her knees. The legs that followed seemed to flow endlessly till they met with those shoes. Now as a guy I claim no intimate knowledge of female shoes, but something told me those were the shoes girls would kill for.
She walks within the crowd as elegant as a specter floating through unnoticed. I was mesmerized I barely noticed I was the only one in the room fixated on her, also that my mouth was now a gaping void that was about to fill with saliva. She extends a hand to the buffet picking up a glass and pouring herself a drink. She looks back in my direction; she knows I see her, yet looks away dismissively. I try to gather whatever courage I could muster and start walking towards her.
At this point a tribe of African natives decide to drum the beat of a thousand drums within my chest cavity. With palpitations resonating in my throat I try to lift my leg to start walking. My brain is trying to protect me, I don’t need protection, I need a spine. I drag my feet through the room. The distance between us within this small apartment was barely a couple of steps, yet it felt like I would have been better off with a plane ticket, if that doesn’t prove relativity I don’t know what would.
I get closer, and closer. I stand right in front of her and suddenly my brain ceases to function. Any form of eloquent speech, or random trivia related to marine animals mating habits have disappeared in a puff of smoke that has joined the cloud of nicotine drenched smog circulating near the ceiling. I slowly open my mouth hoping that by the end of that action some words would come out from in there. A grunt and a mumble, I am surprised I was able to get any sound at all out of my throat. That is what I was reduced to, a grunt and a mumble, caveman conversation all that was left was for me to yell out “me tarzan, you pretty”.
“Excuse me ?” she says, slightly un-amused yet as polite as she could be.
“Er... hi” I reply
“Hello”
“Um… I haven’t seen you around here before”
“ Yes, I don’t usually come to this, but Liz dragged me to this one”
“Oh you know Liz?”
“Who doesn’t ?”
“Touché!”
Small talk, yet another tiny imperfection that just shows how simple human beings are. The spark of a conversation that flows between two people ignites this bond between them. It is the basis of human connectivity, a simple hi and a wave. Millions of years of evolution and still the way to get to know someone would always fall down to communication. Be it in physical form or digital form. The smoky room I was in has been replicated so much over the internet it is not even needed for one to go through the effort of physically having to be at a social gathering. It is still done as a form of tradition to prove that one still has that elusive thing we call a “life”.
But what now, do I just keep talking? Do I ask for her number? Ask her out maybe? That stunning creature radiating in the midst of a faded existence, how will I proceed from here? Small talk is all fine and dandy and then we all go home. I decide to take her number after the conversation concluded somewhere around the discussion of the resilience of the African dung beetle and how that inspired the sun cycle in ancient Egyptian mythology. She wrote her number on a napkin and gave it to me with a playful smile from those succulent lips.
It has been a week since that night, the napkin lays there by my phone, both gathering dust. My brain is conjuring up scenarios of rejection and what ifs. My brain is trying to protect me, but I don’t need a brain right now, I need a spine.
Personally I find beauty in tiny imperfections. That line that just went astray in a painting, that bass line that just deviates away from the beat for a second to do a 2 second solo. Life is filled with these little things that fill it with beauty. What I like most about these imperfections is that they almost always go unnoticed, making finding them more rewarding; appreciating them even more. That was all before I saw her.
The events leading up to that instant are now irrelevant. Clichéd as they may be, I ended up in one end of a smoky room discussing the mating habits of the seahorse with a guy that barely seems remotely interested in any marine creature, and a girl dangling around his neck more focused on which would be the best way to bite his earlobe. The dimly lit room was full of these clusters of pseudo-intelligent conversations. I could have sworn someone was talking about politics somewhere until I heard them say “So seriously, who’d win in a fight? The Queen of England or Dr. Stephen Strange?”
Small talk, a tiny imperfection of our human existence that has taken an ugly turn up the shit stream we call society. The entire purpose of the so called social life is to maintain pretentious relationships with people you don’t even care about just to get what you want in the end. This was networking at its best, and I’m good at it, the best. I also come out with the occasional one night stand or maybe relationship, win-win I think, perpetually optimistic as usual. All this came to an abrupt and screeching halt as soon as that room’s door opened.
She walked in, and it was as if my mind went into slow motion. The couple in front of me went out of focus so fast the motion blur lingered in my retina for a second. As I regained control of my sight there was only one focal point, her. To say time stood still would be an understatement, but then again I wasn’t looking at my watch. I was looking at her. Her deep orange hair was gleaming in the dimly lit room, radiating a shimmering glow of red light. Accentuating that long, wild, uncontrollable mane flowing around her head, were her eyes. I first saw them as she removed a stray lock of hair from over her face; they had a magical deep green hue mixed with a yellow that gave the color a taste of mint with a hint of lemon. She looked up with those viridian jewels into my humble pupils, I felt my heart drop two stories below me, my stomach joined in the plummet as I noticed her face, her pale skin glistening in the fiery refraction of light through her hair. This is when I noticed the tiny imperfections, freckles, all over her face like little kisses from the sun. Her face was almost completely covered with these randomly spread spots. I don’t know what it is about freckles that just make the face more beautiful to me; I think it’s the tiny imperfections thing. I appreciate the beauty of that “imperfection”.
Her small rounded nose was also covered in them. The only part that was spared was those lips, full and ripe, like the forbidden fruit, because to kiss such perfect lips would be so good it would only make sense that it would be a sin. Yet on the lower lip one freckle presided on the left side, as if beckoning for someone to approach and embrace those lips with another, in a gentle yet loving embrace; an embrace that would be immortalized in song and lore.
Her hair led me to her neck slender and long. She wore a necklace with a small turquoise pendant hanging from it. I could have sworn it was her neck that made the necklace look good. The pendant rested on the nave of her neck leading my eyes to her bare shoulders, also covered in freckles. My heart sank a little more, I think the neighbors below would complain now as to why my heart was hanging in the middle of their living room.
The turquoise strapless dress she was wearing was simple as it was elegant. It curved at the right places and flowed at the others. I would lie if I didn’t say my eyes strayed back to the center to meet with that freckle spangled cleavage, just slightly showing as to tease the on looker but only enough to be also respectful and classy. The dress curved down to hug her hips and then flowed to end up in a slanted ruffle near her knees. The legs that followed seemed to flow endlessly till they met with those shoes. Now as a guy I claim no intimate knowledge of female shoes, but something told me those were the shoes girls would kill for.
She walks within the crowd as elegant as a specter floating through unnoticed. I was mesmerized I barely noticed I was the only one in the room fixated on her, also that my mouth was now a gaping void that was about to fill with saliva. She extends a hand to the buffet picking up a glass and pouring herself a drink. She looks back in my direction; she knows I see her, yet looks away dismissively. I try to gather whatever courage I could muster and start walking towards her.
At this point a tribe of African natives decide to drum the beat of a thousand drums within my chest cavity. With palpitations resonating in my throat I try to lift my leg to start walking. My brain is trying to protect me, I don’t need protection, I need a spine. I drag my feet through the room. The distance between us within this small apartment was barely a couple of steps, yet it felt like I would have been better off with a plane ticket, if that doesn’t prove relativity I don’t know what would.
I get closer, and closer. I stand right in front of her and suddenly my brain ceases to function. Any form of eloquent speech, or random trivia related to marine animals mating habits have disappeared in a puff of smoke that has joined the cloud of nicotine drenched smog circulating near the ceiling. I slowly open my mouth hoping that by the end of that action some words would come out from in there. A grunt and a mumble, I am surprised I was able to get any sound at all out of my throat. That is what I was reduced to, a grunt and a mumble, caveman conversation all that was left was for me to yell out “me tarzan, you pretty”.
“Excuse me ?” she says, slightly un-amused yet as polite as she could be.
“Er... hi” I reply
“Hello”
“Um… I haven’t seen you around here before”
“ Yes, I don’t usually come to this, but Liz dragged me to this one”
“Oh you know Liz?”
“Who doesn’t ?”
“Touché!”
Small talk, yet another tiny imperfection that just shows how simple human beings are. The spark of a conversation that flows between two people ignites this bond between them. It is the basis of human connectivity, a simple hi and a wave. Millions of years of evolution and still the way to get to know someone would always fall down to communication. Be it in physical form or digital form. The smoky room I was in has been replicated so much over the internet it is not even needed for one to go through the effort of physically having to be at a social gathering. It is still done as a form of tradition to prove that one still has that elusive thing we call a “life”.
But what now, do I just keep talking? Do I ask for her number? Ask her out maybe? That stunning creature radiating in the midst of a faded existence, how will I proceed from here? Small talk is all fine and dandy and then we all go home. I decide to take her number after the conversation concluded somewhere around the discussion of the resilience of the African dung beetle and how that inspired the sun cycle in ancient Egyptian mythology. She wrote her number on a napkin and gave it to me with a playful smile from those succulent lips.
It has been a week since that night, the napkin lays there by my phone, both gathering dust. My brain is conjuring up scenarios of rejection and what ifs. My brain is trying to protect me, but I don’t need a brain right now, I need a spine.
Le Papier
She spends the day cleaning after them; a glorious job that receive little if any gratitude. Sure the pay is lousy, it’s not like she was offered a better job. She readjusts her headscarf. At least she is keeping with the teachings of her culture, or so she tells herself as she puts the mop back in its place. Every time a man walks out, she has to mop the floor. Every time a woman walks out, she has to check if there is a bloody tampon that missed its destination.
It is near the end of her shift, one more hour and the mall closes; she would leave these bathrooms to the comfort of her own homes. The apron she is wearing is gathering up a stench she’s grown used to. “ce la vie” she needs the job, the money to send back to her family.
She finishes wiping the floor of the first stall, and is followed by a young man. “Pardon ?” he says “ er.. toilet paper ?” he can’t speak the language, she ignores and retorts “papier ?” “oui, merci” he smiles, she picks up a large roll of toilet paper and leads the way. She goes into the bathroom and looks at the stalls, then at him, there is this inherent sadness in her eyes that is mixed with habitual indifference. He points at the third stall following his gesture with another extending three fingers indicating the number of the stall.
She goes to the stall; someone is inside. She knocks at the door “monsieur, le papier”. No reply, she can’t even get recognition from a fellow human, one in need of her service at this very instant. “monsieur, le papier”, no reply she looks at the young man perplexed “what is wrong with this guy inside” she thinks. She tries to slide the roll underneath the stall door “le papier”, fails. Tries the top of the stall “monsieur ?”, still no reply. Accidentally the roll drops in the stall. She gives up, give the young man a look that could only mean “ah well at least it is inside now”. A grey haired man walks out of the stall looking slightly confused and discomforted. The young man over looks him and walks in the bathroom. She walks out resuming her usual work.
The mall is nearly closing, 8 pm finally. She drags the caged door down, blocking the way in towards the bathrooms. She waits for the last tenants of the bathrooms to leave. The young man walks out; confused he looks at the way out now caged. She explains to him how to get out, he nods. “he didn’t understand a thing” she thinks, and it’s true he went straight when he was supposed to head left. “monsieur ! monsieur !” she tells him to go left. He does yelling a polite “merci !” before he disappears behind the corner. “incroyable !” a woman behind him mutters.
The day is over, every single one of these pissers and shitters is gone. Finally she can take of this stinking apron, and get on the metro home. She takes the apron off, changes out of her camoflauge outfit; she wears this to work, it is more comfortable and doesn’t stink as much. She puts on regular clothes, clean ones. Locks up the mops and buckets and heads out.
As she is getting on the metro she reminds herself “when I go home I need to buy more toilet paper”
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