“Good stuff,” he said, not looking at anyone in particular. “All I want is good stuff. Nothing more, nothing less. I want my little bit of sweet, and to have it more than the bitter. Way more.” Jeffrey Mistlethorpe had not yet realized the calamity of the situation he was in. It was the sort of calamity that takes time to dawn on its victim. A calamity of proportions so great that only its shadow was seen by Jeffrey.

Make believe cover your eyes and count to ten Make believe open your eyes and look at me Show me what you think I’ll show you what I think We’ll see each other in a land of make believe So many happy happenings to find, to have, to be For make believe is what we believe in

They asked what love is I asked what life is We looked at each other like children in a playground asking questions we couldn’t answer We giggled we loved we lived That is all we did that is all we needed that is all That is all

Once, there was a moment that surrendered to eternity. Like all moments before it, this particular moment was not made to last. At least that’s what everyone thought at first. In a medley of love and hate, defeat and triumph, lies and retribution; the moment came about. It looked at the blue sky patched with fluffy white clouds and asked, “what is it that makes me so…so momentous?” The sky of course, being a sky, didn’t answer.

It’s funny how when asked about their view of the world, some people will take a rather sardonic and cynical view. “The world is in shambles…mankind’s end is nigh…there’s more trouble than peace…we’ll all kill each other,” and so on, they would say. The truth is, the world is a wonderful place. This is what I believe. This is what I see. This is what I know. There are so many good things in this world; too many to simply reduce to a few examples here.

Ladby Larabee (which some of you mistakenly read as Lady Larabee) was an ordinary man as far as ordinary men went: he was not dashingly handsome in any sense, nor was he hard to look at; he was not talented in any way, nor was he an idiot. Ladby Larabee was simply average. His outlook on life, though, was not average to say the least. In the morning, Larabee woke up his soul with a prayer and his body with a shower.

I’ve had these thoughts running through my head for some time now. Thought I’d let them out before they got too worked up… What is silence but that moment in which one’s heart beats intently, screaming to be heard? While some matters in life make immediate sense, other matters require time to seep into the mind, heart and soul until meaning arises from them. Bearing the passage of that time entails faith.

The winds of change will shift the sands of time but will never, ever blow out the candles of love Sleepless, I lay in bed wishing upon a white ceiling to have you set free and for my heart to capture you Set sail to the stars let your ego drown let your hope surface let your humility take charge Without light a heart is dark and in disarray Let me take you

Jim Masri decided that today was a good day to die. There was nothing better than having a clear blue sky, or a starry night, on one’s day of death. “It’s better than watching television. I’ll watch the sky. That’s what I’ll do. Might as well get ready for up there,” he said to Melissa, the day nurse. “Enough of such talk, Mr. Masri. This morbidity of yours will not get you any better,” she said.

Marwan stretched across a couch in the lunchroom of the Al-Wasat daily, pen and notepad in hand. On that day following the Eid holiday, there seemed nothing more serene than the silent rush of traffic as observed from a double-glazed window. The setting sun poured down its golden light in bucket loads across the road to Budaiya. I began writing my column in this daily with the idea that I could say something that might, or might not change the world, he wrote_.

Cleaning up my bedroom yesterday, I came across something I wrote a couple of years ago, tossed deep down in the under-bed archives_…_ At various points in their lives, some people realize the need to forge ahead new selves, to attempt to claim some identity as if they never had one to begin with. They’re preoccupied with the things they are yet to do, yet to achieve, with the things they must do to be.

“The degradation of an individual does not encompass the certainty by which that individual sees himself. For one to see himself in true light requires both certitude and verity. It is only with a lack of levity in character that one rises above the trifles of day to day life to obtain light. Sometimes–no, most of the time, we need each other to obtain light,” Dr. Emmerich said. His words slightly echoed in the lecture hall.

Mr. Crippin had a deservedly wicked name. He walked into class with calculated, military-precision steps that he himself never faltered to observe every morning. He’d focus on his own brown leather shoes as he walked in front of the whiteboard. “Children,” he said, raising his head, “the homework tray seems to be filled up nicely today. I expect each and everyone of you to have done a job that would not have me furious this time tomorrow.

See and be seen know and be known It’s the game of society we play Run like a champ avoid the chimps A few tips for sounding intelligent When someone says something, nod ever so slightly, as if you’re agreeing, then stop as if you’re disagreeing. A subtle frown might add to the effect. When someone mentions the “government,” look distressed and say “1984.” Quote Oscar Wilde whenever someone talks about literature.

Rise and shine, everyone. This is Mental Melvin on 96.9, the sunshine station, with another brand new day of utter and total annoyance from yours truly. If you’ve got your own music, I’d suggest you play it instead of listening to not so funny me!

Mental Melvin didn’t say that exactly. But I think he should’ve. Why would I want to listen to a two bit DJ that’s pretending to be funny? Give me the news. Give me the weather, traffic report–anything but Mental Melvin. Give me silence. I turn off the radio.

Consolidated Flour Mills, reads the sign in glorious neon. Hello work.

“Philosophy melosophy.” Yousif picks up his teacup, “I don’t care what you make of life, as long as you make something out,”

“of it,” I interject.

“No, out of yourself. I don’t care what you think about all of this,” Yousif says, sweeping his hand. “Philosophies are a dime a dozen. In fact, how about this one right here,” he says, holding an Oreo, “life’s a cookie,” and takes a bite. He looks at it with reverence.

“Life’s not a cookie. It’s not like that, Yousif. Besides, an Oreo is way too complicated to be called a cookie.”

“No it isn’t, it’s a cookie. Looks like one, says so on the pack too.”

“Look at that Oreo. It’s a damn cake compared to a cookie.”

“It’s a cookie, Ameer,” he says.

“No, Yousif, it’s a philosophy,” I say, not looking at him, rather at steam rising from my coffee.

Yousif’s my colleague. He sits in a coveted vubicle, a cubicle next to a window. He has every right to be gung-ho. He has every right to call an Oreo a cookie. Or a philosophy.

There once was a little boy with a very big heart.

“I’m afraid your son has a rare congenital heart defect called Vendler’s Cavity. It’s an extreme case of malformed semilunar valves and a larger-than-normal heart size,” said the doctor. “I’m sorry, but your son is not expected to live long.”

The little boy was taken from doctor to doctor, his parents trying in vain to have someone say to them he will live forever. All they heard was that he will die sooner than later.

Alas, the years passed and the little boy was no longer little nor a boy, for he was a man.

With whatever time he had, the man decided that he would help people and commit to charitable causes rather than to worry about his future.

He traveled the world, saw places and met people from cultures far and apart. He also met a girl. She was a charity worker that pulled the strings of his large heart in ways never before known to him.

He ran as fast as he could. He took a new jogging route. Instead of the usual coastal front, he decided to head towards the village center. The sun poured down its light like melted gold, silhouetting the vehicles, lampposts, trees and structures. The air was still–there was no humidity nor breeze. He made a trail of dust on the unpaved roadside as his cross trainers struck ground. The village was smaller than he had originally anticipated.

If the page does not display correctly, click here. I stood on the edge of a road bustling with people and cars. “Awas!” read a sign in Malay. The roads in Kuala Lumpur were, as in most cities, littered with signs that cautioned drivers of impending doom should they heed no warning as they zipped past roadworks and construction sites. “Awas,” was for all intents and purposes, _attention, hazard, achtung–_call it what you will, in Malay.

“Hope can make you lose sight, kid,” Rutherford said, “it can blind you from the truth, it can take your mettle and turn it into that which is worse than nothingness. You can falter and fall far quicker than you thought possible.” The frail, old man said those words as though he lived them, as though his being felt every nuance of hope’s danger during his eighty-odd years of living.

A song, untitled about a star goes like this A fallen angel her wings of fame were now of shame Cocooned by her wings she wept her worry with no hurry A corpse of fame past lifeless, like roadkill A life, untitled carried away by carrion crows

The doors open the seats are soiled the faces are sullen I touch the cold, steel bar I hold on to it The doors close the train moves every shudder travels up my arm Faces unknown to me or to one another show nothing hide everything The train stops the doors open Faces move some towards the light far above others to another train deep down below

Scribbles on a McDonald’s napkin thoughts so far and so near from McArabia to McGreek and Big Macamericana as well Carbs proteins fats minerals and vitamins These things of life will not be so if not for water So here’s a Coke for it’s got water Have a nice day, now _Note: I haven’t sold out to corporates. In fact, if anything, I’d encourage a healthy, balanced diet of coffee and chocolate.

Happiness he sought into a dream he slipped A dream so fanciful and all like clouds so high up Skies upon skies A trance of faith and hope and courage embraced his being By divine mirth his ego was no more for he was one with all Higher, he rose ergo, he saw further below The good amongst the scum, he saw the strong amongst the weary the saints amongst the sinners

Last night I, along with bloggers Ayesha Saldanhaand Deonna Kelli Sayed, was invited to participate in a special Elhamevent regarding the role of blogging in cultural development, with particular emphasis on the literary aspect of online writing. I read several of my posts and answered some very interesting questions from the attendees. This was my second Elham participation (I participated in the first Elham gathering in November of last year.) As usual, Deonna Kelli Sayed, Phoebe Boswell,Al Riwaq Galleryand of course Ali Al Saeed(who unfortunately couldn’t make it as he was abroad,) did a wonderful job of organizing it.

In her mortal cage she scurried from one end to another She read it all left none well alone trying, hoping to find a raison d’être I am to be, she said as I am forever perhaps for a day perhaps Until one day the bars of her cage were no more Until one day she was on the other side

In the garden of life we met Hello, we said In a summer of love we came set aflame we were In the garden of life love we found Happy, happy together happy to have met each other Click on the image above for a larger version. Original image (19/03/2007, Bahrain): __ __Camera: Sony Alpha 100 DSLR

To dream is to be, to foresee the possible, the potential. A dreamer perchance, a hopeless romantic perhaps. Dream and devour the world as if it’s your own canvas. Freely draw your brush against its landscape. You’ll be right sometimes, you’ll be wrong sometimes. Some of the time, you wouldn’t know if you’re right or wrong. You’ll just be yourself unabashedly reckoning with the triad of life, the universe and everything else; looking for truth.

Infomania Nymphomania? No, no! INFO-mania Oh, I see what is it then? Blackberry push email get through push me out of sleep out of hours and days out of life Sacrifice all for some crack- berry Answer quick always on but switched off Neither here nor there Always trying to make one last check until the end of days when nothing crosses the ether When signals are no more when all’s gone forever

Honey and dew a glass for each one pours into the other Drink! They say Drink! From life and to life vessels of success are close drink, dear friend, drink! And so she drinks it all lives it all day and night night and day I live, she says not by my own word but by that of others of whimsical fancy and of delinquent disdain Half full or half empty

“Fact of fiction,” the man with the funny red polka dots hat says, “fact of fiction is what it is!” “Fact or fiction?” I say, correcting him. “Fact of fiction!” He giggles and interjects nonsensical sounds into his speech. “Eeh, hee, wee-yoo! Fact of fiction! Eee-yoooo!” “Right, so, fact of fiction? What does it mean?” “Oh, so many things, so many little things, so many big things,” he says. His hands stretch in all directions, spiraling upwards and downwards.

life. take. death. instant. tea. garbage. feeling. alive. hope. danger. run. fight. live. be. welcome to the human condition. Poetry? Why not. Smallcaps? Understatements. Periods? Fullstops. Are we done yet? We’re just getting started.

Welcome to our city of dreams of temptations and mastications and fabrications of fornications Nothing but emptiness it might seem Judge not for big it is small it is and all it is too All will be clear Laid out on the streets of our city truth is never lost lies are clear as day Fakery and trickery concrete and glass all the better in a city of dreams High-rise and low-rise

Layal took small steps. She looked across a field of rubble, befallen houses and distressed foliage. “In that house, in that house,” she said, pointing with her arm outstretched at what remained of Uncle Sharif’s two storey mansion, “in that house my uncle, my three cousins, his wife and mother stayed. “The enemy jets flew past, not missing a single house in their onslaught. The roof caved in in the attack, crushing them as they scrambled for safety…by daybreak the rescue teams retrieved the bodies…and I…I saw…” she almost collapsed if not for Hassan, an aid worker, by her side.

There once was a boy who was constantly told how to be, how to do and how to grow up. On television, MTV told him to wear lose parachute pants, spike up his hair and lyricise suggestive words. In the theater, movies told him to act suave and to accept everything and anything as the truth. In bookshops, supermarket bestsellers told him to acknowledge the absurd. On the street, drivers rushed passed him, showing him that life had no time for quiet solitude.

It came to be that I would participate in the 2006-2007 Hajj, the Islamic pilgrimage. For about a week I was part of three million or so Muslims going through the duties of the Hajj. Each sacred duty is outwardly symbolic and inwardly revealing. Whether it was changing into a simple; unstitched white garment, circling the Ka’ba, retracing Hajar’s (Hagar) search for water for infant Ismail (Ishmail,) camping at Mount Arafat, gathering pebbles and stoning the jamarat, or leaving Mina, each of these tasks has either reinforced preexisting notions or has led me to new truths.

Emily died. Suddenly. Unexpectedly. In a rather terrifying manner involving a slippery staircase, a glass pane and high heeled Jimmy Choos. At first, Steve wanted her back. If that wasn’t possible, then he was going to join her. Still, he never felt death reach out with its claws to grapple that soul of his. Which made him wonder whether his soul fled, never to be caught, or whether he was yet to see what was to become of him.

Do we love to love or do we love to live? To feel that which is part life part eternity A certain escape of the self that is both nothing and infinite Our own little parade in the vastness of the universe Yet we remain as we are one and many many and one Only to be taken once again into the depths of the universe

And so she is. Some countries are not unlike a bashful debutante. It seems that in the midst of a technological storm that’s bridging people, cultures and countries; some governments are all frets over people discussing, opinionating, debating, and shredding to bits the actions (including follies) of politicians and the like. You could almost hear certain quarters of governments say, “Oh, why would anyone want to speak in a popular and benevolent manner of such matters as rights, freedoms, conspiracies and other such fancies?

What better way to pass a lazy Friday afternoon than Photoshopping some old travel photos? The basis for the image above is a snap I took while crossing from Dubai to the Omani border a couple of years ago. The cars, falconer, camels, jets, coffee stain, grocery list and note scribble, folds and other effects are all Photoshop magic! The original base image is this: What in the world is Wunderistan?

_Listen to podcast: _ [audio:lfdpc1.mp3] Transcript: While research suggests that people are connected to one another within six degrees of separation worldwide, one of the charms of a small island country like ours is that everyone on it seems to be connected within a degree or two at the most. Such closeness of relation in large cities or countries provides for happy coincedences, perhaps even serendipitous encounters. Yet in Bahrain finding out that for instance a certain stranger in a restaurant happens to be a friend of a friend does not call for celebration.

Last year at Caesars Atlantic City I met three girls: Chance, Fate and Faith. We played poker. Chance said, “sometimes life doesn’t give us what we want. We just have to take what we get. This doesn’t mean we’ve got no choice in our dealings. We can always take things with a pinch of salt, with reluctance or with outright contempt.” Fate said, “we might fail to see the significance of the hand being dealt to us.

Everybody thought Jeb Morton committed suicide. Yet no one wanted to believe Jeb Morton committed suicide. Jeb would never do such a thing! The poor bastard, he had so much going for him. What? Suicide? But why? Disbelief aside, Jeb knew the day was coming. The day when he would finally have the courage to control his own destiny. I’m packing up and leaving, ma! Old Man Redder used to say that we’re dying the minute we’re born.

Some coffee, a lot of computer geekery and a sprinkling of Wikipedia… It’s a blue screen of death, a guru meditationor perhaps a bomb. Merrily on our way to acquire new information, we are suddenly struck by nothingness: an invalid instruction or an illegal memory access. Here be dragons, it is written. Here be dragons indeed, for what is lack of knowledge but the root of all superstition and prejudice.

Blurb Derivitive? Blatantly. Contrived? For sure. Fun? I think so. Have a read if you will. I began writing this while surrounded by a cacophony of text message notifications and cellphone chatter… “Books?” the young man of ten said, looking at his uncle. “Why would anyone use them when you can use a cortexbox?” “You don’t use books, Kamal. You read them,” Uncle Sharif said. “Read them? You mean like word after word, like in the old days?

Sometimes life throws you a curveball. Sometimes you have to become an oddball of sorts to tackle life, not minding what other people think. Live life, not merely get through it. Own it. Own your life. It’s just you and that great big pitcher of life on the field. Bat it out!

Somewhere along the cosmic lines of truth and drama, where Patrick Mooremeets Days of our Lives, a voice is heard… “I might be small, I might have been demoted, but I will never, ever forget that I am what I am. That I am part of the universe as much as the suns and stars are. That I’m as large in heart as Mars is in mass. That I will persist, I will remain as I am, steadfast, in orbit, for as long as I am.

For some it seems that life is more about conspiring rather than inspiring. It’s more about the see and be seen. To them life is about everything and nothing. It is do all and be none. Such people are quick to dismiss one thing for another. Lemmings in their ways, they follow each other, gesticulating, masticating and fornicating according to the edicts of OK! “The stars have no meaning, no meaning at all to those people,” the sage said.

_The following vignette is fiction, including the quotation. _ I looked out the window on this cool spring day, thinking of how mother used to enjoy days like this. I remembered Fridays at our villa. Mother would take the opportunity of unusually good weather to walk in the garden. “Our villa’s garden,” she would say, “go out there and enjoy it people, go enjoy the garden that’s right there waiting for you.

“Ask your mom, ask her about the birds and the bees,” I said. “They’re different species!” my nephew said. I returned to tackling my Rocket Double burger. A few seconds later, I noticed he’s still staring, bewlidered at the fact that I mentioned birds and bees in one sentence. “I don’t know, that’s what I heard others say to their kids. ‘The birds, and the bees!’ Don’t look at me, I didn’t make it up,” I said, dipping some fries in ketchup.

Many of us have come across individuals that distance themselves from the truth so much so that it seems quite absurd. I wrote the following after encountering such an individual a few years ago. It was a bit long-winded, so I’ve revised it and cut it short. Read it if you will. As always, comments welcome. A most strange occurrence in societies treading the almost always painful path to freedom and self-determination is the constant presence of the reductionist.

The wind is warm, yet the overcast foretells of inevitable drizzle. Not rain, mind you. Just drizzle, the sort of rain that announces itself longer than the time it takes it to come down and be done with. Rejoice, car wash men, for sandy drops of water; mischievous as they are, will splatter on all, leaving no vehicle; however fancy and gemlike, unsoiled. And fall they do, for about half an hour.

No matter how far we have come, we always remember the first time. The only time at the time. The reason of being there and nowhere else. “Bring me happiness,” she says. “Bring me the glory of days gone by, the love we shared and the friends we had. Where have all those days gone? Are they forever no more, but to lay in our memories?” People, places and objects perish.

Ever curious, people have brewed and smoked almost everything that protrudes in one form or another from the earth and then some. Coffee is, without a doubt, the most popular of these experiments.

The perfect brew follows the perfect roast. It’s a delightful play on our senses that begins with smell before sight. The smell primes us for an encounter with a dark, rich liquid. A liquid that promises to wake up our other senses as well as our body and mind. And that, it surely does.

The first sip quickly crescendos into the blend’s unique character. A rapid cascade follows. Traces of continents and countries and herdsmen amongst plantations meet, greet and dissipate. From Yemen to Brazil, and from Ethiopia to Sumatra, your everyday blend coffee is truly a multicultural experience in its own right. If you will pardon deficient nation labelling, coffee is developing countries in a cup.

Text or graphic, perhaps the subtelities of writing should not be sabotaged by blatant smile symbols. For what purpose does it serve other than to undermine finely crafted textual utterances? If the meaning of a sentence lends itself to a smile, is it necessary? The graphic smile is a pet peeve of mine (particularly when software writers assume that you would want all your textual smiles substituted automatically.) The text version; however, is something that harkens back to the early days of networks.

This infamousJapanese to English translation, or Engrish,from an early nineties video game might be synctactally challenged, yet it rings true of the frustration and befuddlement that an aggressor would possess. Unfortunately, a frustrated IDF means 1,000 Lebanese dead, most of whom are civilians. Israel? 157 soldiers and civilians by last count. Lebanon the country might be engaged in what seems like endless turmoil. Lebanon the spirit, the people; however, can never be denied.

It seems that in this day and age of fleeting electrons and words written at the speed of light everyone is a writer of sorts. From scribbles on McDonald’s napkins to short text messages, unceremonious writing is part and parcel of modern human nature. Published or not, paperback or napkin, fiction or non-fiction, good writing needs no ceremony as long as it rings true. Be it a blog, one of Grisham’stomes, a treatiseon the Fertile Crescent region or even the ubiquitous smiley 🙂 writing has and will remain our purest, most visceral form of expression.

Riffaz had more crap on his face than a city pavement. “I didn’t know you could pierce your eyelids,” I said. Anything’s possible,” Riffaz said. His eyeballs almost dislodged from their sockets as he spoke. “Yes,” I said. Yes. That’s all. Yes, and nothing more. I didn’t know whether Riffaz realized the humor of this situation. In my ever so innocence, I have faltered to identify myself with my new acquaintance.

“It’s all about sex, you know,” said Salman as he watched the news. “What’s sex got to do with it?” Khaled said. “Y Neurons fired across the ridges, troughs and peaks of his mind’s landscape. “What the…” he said. He looked at the mirror, at his bleeding nose, bloodshot eyes and his tired face. What happened to me, he thought. Kyler Torsen could not recall where he was

The fifty-something couple had a subtle sweetness of familiar passion about them. You could see it from a mile. They’d walk together, not always hand in hand, but you knew that their heart was one. They were mom and dad. They were Mr. and Mrs. Murad. “I met her at work,” dad once said, “she was the most graceful person to walk between the cubicles.” He loved retelling the first few months of knowing mom.

Today’s the fifth anniversary of 9/11. Today is when we remember the 3,000 who lost their lives. Today is also the day we remember when politics took a turn for the fictional. Not crackpot conspiracy theories mind you, just the formula story dichotomy of us vs. them, of good vs. evil. Like writers sometimes, Bushseems to have trouble finding that sweet spot to tie in Al-Qaeda to everything else that’s happening in the world.

While Arab, and in particular Islamic countries, face an uncertain future in terms of defining their own presence in the global arena and developing a hegemony of sorts that will help them shape their own destinies, it is worth examining the underlying roots and foundations of Western, and in particular, US hegemony. The Renaissance called for reason, it called for a revival of the human spirit through science, discovery and the arts.

I don’t know how or where it’s coming from, but as I walk, as I tread upon this earth, I look towards myself, my inner consciousness. I ask myself “where am I?” and “who am I?”. Do I look at the stars and see wondrous creation, behold the truth of the Almighty? Or do I feel doubt, fear and misunderstanding? I look at the world around me and I see nature: A breeze, the chirp of the birds, the rustle of the leaves and the smell of dust and pollen in the air.

Twice as nice for half the price Why, is it? Go ahead, son, have some!