EDCU

I come across people who underestimate my field daily.

I don’t mind it really, but there was this one time when one of those ignorant people claimed that anyone can ace such a field. It truly made me angry. I wasn’t even trying to hide my anger. I made sure its visible actually because that person has no clue what he is talking about. Its practically impossible for everyone to ace in one thing so I’m not sure how he made that assumption. I’m not even sure how he concluded that he, himself, would be good while studying what we study at EDCU. Out of my experience, its impossible for such a character to “ace” at EDCU.

EDCU is the abbreviation for English Department at Cairo University. English major yes… many people think its worthless.

I don’t care what many people think, but for the few who care to explore other fields than those that provide practical life investments, then I want to elaborate a point.

First off everyone should watch Dead Poets Society because it shortens my lengthy argument of why art is radical to every life.

I tend to be extreme, but wanting to transcend beyond the basic needs in life isn’t too much to ask for. I eat, drink, sleep and that’s basic, and then I watch, admire, feel, and that’s not basic. Until it is embedded in my everyday life, that’s when it turns into life’s crux, therefore, I should start looking for new non-basics.

I succumb to art not because its breathtaking and mind-dazzling. I bow down to art because it overflows my senses with indulgent emotions. I surrender to art because it cultivates my every singular brain cell with a stimulating buzz that keeps on humming in my ear eternally. It is impossible to escape it once your eyes are opened to it. As cliché as it sounds, it is ground real.

I speak for myself and everyone else who suffer from being ostracized for studying literature and not medicine or engineering. I know the claim that has been made by me makes the issue more real, and that ignoring it is better, but I will only refer to how I feel, not as a comeback to those who offend us, but as a sort of elaboration of why it is important to have humanities in our lives.

Life is dull. That is a fact only when you look at life as a submarine that has to keep on working properly, or else everyone will drown. Well life is in fact a submarine, but as those who are working on fixing it get to do that- keeping in mind that their work is important and very much needed and gratitude is essential here- they tend to ignore the internal mechanics of the miraculous beings that live on the submarine. The submarine will not drown if one gives in to passion during his non-constructing-the-goddamn-submarine hours.

Passion, yes; the main theme. Poetry melts passion and practicality into one room. Paintings blend passion and originality into one bed. The sheets are stained with the intensity of what philosophy does to a human brain. The garments are torn after giving one look at psychology. Passion explodes, flows, overflows, erupts through art.

Targeting a double life, art clicks on the tongue of those who lead a practical life in the broad day light, yet seek to devour the passions of life at night.

A sane mind is not easily pursued while having art as a background of your life.

Sanity is overrated.

I pursue art, hence I elevate. I educate. I cultivate and I culminate.

I learn about life. I learn about humans. I learn about meanings. I learn about history. I learn about mistakes. I learn about connections. I learn about flaws. I learn about styles. I learn about acceptance. I learn about differences. I learn about religions. I learn about the world. And you tell me anyone can ace that? You tell me its worthless, even pointless? You tell me I cannot add to the world?

I tell you, read a book.

My climax is not through achieving material success. That’s just an incentive. My climax is achieving art through art. Your stimulus is money, mine is a good walk through a garden; a copy of the One. Yours is the competition, mine is the knowledge. Yours is the building, mine is the beauty.

I’m not saying money is not important because it is. But it cannot be my life.

Life’s intoxicating scent fills my nostrils and I shiver.  I hear her groan, then I ignite.

Tell me one more time that humanities and art are not useful and I will well acknowledge how ignorant you are.

Stages of Dying

What is death? You’ve never died before so you don’t really know. I had it all figured out in Ramadan because of fasting. We don’t eat. We don’t drink. We don’t sleep well. We have no energy to do anything. Is this how dying feels like? Is fasting so close to dying that it teaches you something?

This is only a theory of course. But do you remember how fasting makes you feel? It makes you feel like you’re floating. Floating and dizzy. It makes you feel tired. Is floating the first step of dying?

The other day I was reading the book Inferno which is written by Dan Brown and he was speaking about a concept called Agathusia. Agathusia is basically when you kill yourself for the greater good. For example, there is a man who has no money. If he dies, the government will give his family insurance money. So the man ends up killing himself to secure his bloody family. That’s agathusia. And it reminds me that there are some kinds of deaths that are worth dying. Its only one stage.

This concept is beyond humanistic on so many levels. Dying here is a form of art. That person’s art is a sacrifice.

I’m guessing stage one of dying is living. No actually stage one is thinking that you are immortal. I keep reminding myself that there are beautiful things that need to be appreciated in this world. But you know when you’re suddenly thrown into being a “grownup” and you have to accept that one day your life will simply be like everyone else, and there will be no kind of remorse in it? That’s when you think about dying. Why am I enduring all of this? By all of this I mean why am I educating my brain? Why am I working? Why am I studying so hard? Why am I reading? Why am I laughing? Why do I love the things I love? Why do I care so much?

Actually to make it more obvious…

Why am I living?

Dear Grandma,

Dear Grandma,

I have been avoiding writing about your death because i don’t want to remember all of this. I can’t avoid it anymore. I must tell you that it pains me to write such a letter.

What pains me even more is the fact that I know you’re in a better place yet I can’t seem to let you go. I wish we could go back to 2012 or something when you still had five years left of your life. I honestly wouldn’t change a thing. I know I was mean sometimes, and i know you expressed your love in the weirdest way ever, but i would never change one thing about my life with you.

I’m so glad i said goodbye. You were lying on your bed, and we were gathered beside you. I was in so much pain and i was crying but Mayar, my sister, told me to come and sit with you. Mum asked you if you need anything and you said no, and then you asked us if we need anything, and i cried even harder. We didn’t need anything, teta. we needed you to be okay. We got an exclusive prayer that day. Just for us, the three of us.

It’s weird how God broke your leg to give you your wish. You asked God for mercy and you asked him to allow you to join the land of the martyrs. In the weirdest way possible, God gave you a gift. I kept telling myself how absurd your wish is because how on earth will you join martyrs?? Turns out that people who die incapable of moving, in fact join the martyrs.

I don’t know how a soul that inhabited a body for eighty seven years simply decides to leave? You stupid soul. Don’t you have any feelings for your family? what about us? what about me?

Today was the first day for me to leave the house with no one in it. I didn’t want to be the first one arriving home because I knew i wouldn’t find you there. You were always sitting on your bed, or heading towards the bathroom. You were always asking us to do stuff that made no sense but i don’t mind. I really don’t. I want you back. But i know i shouldn’t. I know you’re happier, but i miss you.

The house feels empty.

Yesterday I slept beside you. Mayar and I, that is. We both slept in one corner of the bed and we left your space for you.  It was not scary or creepy or whatever. I don’t know why people think its scary… I mean you would never hurt me…

I will keep living on the hope that your scent will never leave your clothes, and that your beautiful eyes will never leave my mind. I see you everywhere to be honest. I see you in the stupid tea I drink because you always asked me to fix you some, in the stupid dolls in our room because you always wanted to take one, or in the dog we may buy because you hate anything with four legs…

I’m glad I lived with you for nineteen years.

Take care of us and be fine,

Yours,

Yara.

رب ارحمها و اغفر لها ذنوبها.

Dream Within a Dream

I’m mentally ill in all my writings.

I don’t know why, but I usually write the most depressing thoughts on paper and when I read them later on in my life I begin to question my sanity.

As a person, if you happen to know me, i’m very cheerful and enthusiastic most of the time. However, my writing says otherwise.

I haven’t written here in three months, and i haven’t written anywhere in two weeks. When I stop writing for more than one week my mind begins to crumble, and all the unsanitary thoughts in my head overwhelm my “cheerful” persona. I end up miserably lamenting life’s greatest losses… (my Criticism doctor, who is a bit theatrical, is affecting my writing skills. God I hate this woman)

Anyway, it was practically impossible to write in the past few months because of all the quizzes and the assignments and the stupid fucked up chores. I can’t deny that I have the time to write, but I don’t have the will… I made about a hundred draft for so many things I want to write about, but i can’t find the will in me to actually start writing them. I’m becoming one of those humans who would rather “sleep” instead.

This sounds terrible but the fact that I manage to make up gruesome sentences about life and sardonic comments about death in my head, makes everything little less terrible. I don’t even know why am I writing this now, but I thought its about time to end this stupid hibernation of mine.

To recap the past few months, it was basically studying, presentations, and student activity. Studying is, as usual, suspiciously all over the place. Presentations are great. Student activity is okay. I had more expectations to be honest, but i was satisfied when people complimented my presentation skills (because i’m a PR member this year).

I haven’t been in an adventure since forever and i think i’m losing the lust to go on one.

Here is something I want to remember but no one else will understand: I wrote about you indeed and I’m glad I’m finally allowing myself to do so.

I’m an expert when it comes to writing about ghastly, dreadful subjects, but I never wrote about, say for instance, love. It doesn’t feel right writing about such things and I need to fix it. It’s like i’m fixing my emotional traumas one by one and I think its about time to get over myself and write about it.

I’m getting better, but like i said, i’m mentally ill in most of my writings. I speak of worms, wars, asylums, societal dilemmas, rape, and alternative universes, but I never speak of love in my writing. It’s usually a sub theme though, but I find it hard to explain my actual, real feelings (non-fiction) in my writings.

I hope I find the right way to express this, and I hope i find the will to write every day or every week more than once. I’m terribly tired and I lack energy nowadays, but i’m going to start again. I’m going to start abusing my system and check most of the things off my “to do” list.

(Next month i’m joining Choreography workshop. I hope this makes a difference to my hibernation.)

Arabic, My Mother Tongue

I’m a living proof of westernization.

Yesterday I was reading an Arabic book, and like I always do, I imagine myself reviewing the book at hand. I started picturing myself reviewing this Arabic book and guess what?

I was mentally reviewing it in English. So I stopped for a moment and realized my mistake. Oh hell no… I won’t review this in English and only God knows how terrible my Arabic is.

I think even if I can review this book in Arabic, I probably won’t…. That’s how insecure I am about my Arabic.

I’m against westernization and personally, there is a western colony living in my head. I read, write, communicate (most of the time) in English. You know what’s even worse? I actually think in English. It’s not just that…

I am deeply, mentally colonized. My lifestyle is westernized and i’m not the only one here in Egypt who suffers from the same problematic predicament.

Westernization is a widely acknowledged dilemma. Most countries are losing the essence of who they truly are and what their original culture stands for. It’s all being erased for the sake of some modern thinking upheaval Youth are into these days.

Nevertheless, I rarely appreciate Egypt, but that doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate Arabic. Arabic is by far the most eloquent, expressive, beautiful language I ever heard. There are hundreds of Arabic words that can be put together forming magnificent lines that would make people shiver slightly at their beauty.

I’m reminded of Sir Derek Walcott’s poem, A Far Cry from Africa, when he says,

The drunken officer of British rule, how choose

Between this Africa and the English tongue I love?

Betray them both, or give back what they give?

You can read the full poem Here.

I know the poet’s problem is way rougher than my own but I understand his ambivalent feelings. I do love the English tongue so much, but I hate feeling like someone invaded my brain with their culture, ideology, and notions.

Arabic is my mother tongue, but does it help me manifest my thoughts into words?

Mentally Blocked

I’m not the first one to write about writer’s block. I won’t be the last. The things I’ll say are rather a call of desperation than a call for action.

I am mentally blocked. There you go. I said it out loud. Out loud for the world to hear it and out loud for everyone to know. If you’ve read The Secret and those self help books, you probably know that saying things out loud only makes them real and makes “the universe conspire” to get you that thing. Or in my case, conspire against you.

I say fuck this shit. I’m mentally fucking blocked, no universe can help me or stop me from facing this.

A dilemma. One of my favorite words. The sound of the word makes me happy… rather satisfied. The fact that I have a dilemma in my life, makes my life so much more interesting. I believe that life without problems or in other words my words  without a war, is terribly boring. Boring is a dreaded disease.

Dilemma. Major dilemma.

Not knowing what to write when you know you should write is a horrible war. Knowing what to write but not writing it because you’re too busy or too lazy is another terrible horrible war.

So many wars the writer must face. Let me remind you, i’m not here to offer solutions. I’m here to talk it out and let the world hear me.

Let the bitching world know that i’m going through war and that i’m going to fucking get over it. I’m going to fucking win this battle. I’m going to write everyday. I will write everyday.

This is it.

I will write everyday.