The Self-Help

To get rid of arrogance:

Read the following. Repeat 5 times. Flush out arrogance from system, as it apparently serves no purpose.

I am the language you never learned

I am the clique you are excluded from

I am the shutter speed, the ISO

I am that little smile from across the room

I am the twinkle in the eye

I am the future contemplated

I am the preoccupation

I am the wide unknown

I am the sunshine through the window

And then I am the tiny little nothings that float around in that sunlight

I am the "sleight of hand"

I am the "strong elixir"

I am the alternate ending

I am that snapshot of you mid-laugh

I am the bookends

I am the tilt of head sideways

I am the flip of hair

I am that wave you missed

I am the karate chop

I am the monochrome

I am the "lighter to the cigarette"

I am the mother's superior

I am the preposition of place

I am every man woman child you never met

I am the sixth degree of separation

I am the shindig: you can't stop, you're addicted

I am the right place, the right time

I am the manifestation the infiltration the self-validation

I am Billie Jean, and the kid IS his son

I am the pop culture

I am the shit, shit, rebel, rebel

I am the moments before you drift off to sleep

I am the heartfelt laughter, the hahahaha

I am the soup Nazi

I am the new unread message

I am the sound of light

I am The Great White Hope

I am all the books you never read

I am the lyrics

I am the song that nobody knows

I am the baby's smile

I am the wine glass

I am the killing blow

I am the subject and I am the object

I am the new car smell the fresh laundry the Crabtree & Evelyn

You know what? I am The Body Shop.

I am the "nonsense that exercises your brain"

I am the before and I am the after

I am the sunrise and the sunset and the fear of commitment

I am the attitude

I am The Beatle

I am the velvet rope

I am the supercalifra-

I am the dream that came true

I am the original high



You got nothing on me

Who the f*ck are you?

How To Be A Photographer

~




Like most everything else, there's the long way, and then there's the short, easy way. If you're smart, you listen to me.

Here are the top ten short, easy ways to be a photographer. Pencils ready, ladies.

1. Nikon VS Canon.

Pick a side. With Canon, You Can. With Nikon, You Can And You WILL. It's a war, people.

2. Express yourself.

Insert the sentence "I'm a photographer myself" in your conversations every chance you get. There's no point if nobody else knows it but you.

3. Network, network, network.

Make fast friends with photographers. Join an organization. Hopefully, their photography jargon will rub off on you.

4. Show it off.

Use the jargon you learned on non-photographers. Speak photographese to them . Deliberately make comments they won't understand, like "Well, this is an excellent picture, but it lacks composition. Also, the exposure level could've been adjusted to highlight the foreground, you know what I mean?" Then quickly walk away.

5. Don't say picture, say photograph.

They are two very different things.

6. Philosophize.

Take random photos of ordinary things and elaborate on their profundity. For example, take a photo of the edge of a table, and title it "The Edge of Reason".

7. Accessorize!

Buy equipment you don't know how to use. Buy books on photography and don't read them. But make sure to display them.

8. The joke is on you.

Tell jokes that end with, "... it's the white balance that's the problem, not your eyesight! Hahaha! Get it? White balance! Hahaha!" Smack the person for effect.

9. Cuss like a photographer.

Train yourself to drip with ISO sarcasm. Condemn your enemies to the hellfires of camera-settings ignorance.

10. Give advice.

It's time to give back to society. Help other aspiring photographers. Write an article. Lead a workshop. Open a Photographers Anonymous forum. Extol on the virtues of the Nikon.

And don't forget to be condescending.

Previously, on "The World Revolves Around Nessreen"...

~

I'D LIKE TO GIVE TITLES to each of my blog entries, in the tradition of all these new TV shows. I'd like the titles to be titles of songs. Even though my life isn't nearly half as eventful as even the most boring episode of these TV shows. I can hear myself narrate the events as they happen in my own personal Meredith Grey voice.

I'D LIKE TO TELL A story in each entry, to have a cohesive beginning and ending, to have a moral lesson, and to have a vague little one-liner at the end.

IN EVERY EPISODE, I'D LIKE that guy with the deep voice to refresh my readers' memories with his usual line: Previously, on Nessreen's Highly-Anticipated and Followed Life..., followed by little flashbacks of my theatrics and histrionics of the past week.

AS A SPECIAL TREAT FOR my loyal readers, my TV-like blog would be linked to a YouTube video clip of a gag reel of my bloopers. Little mistakes here and there where I would, together with my co-stars, burst out laughing, or make funny faces and sounds, or mispronounce a word, or say "f*ck" and have it bleeped.

IT WOULD ALSO HAVE A behind-the-scenes commentary special blog entry. Watch me talk about myself for a good half hour. Fun stuff.

Now how about that.

Do Not Valentine!

In their attempt to put out the infidel flames of Valentine celebrations, the "authorities" have successfully, albeit inadvertently, made people more aware of Valentine’s Day than they ever were. Take for instance the story of a man who just happened to be wearing his red shirt that day. He was apprehended, lectured, reprimanded and sent home to change his red-shirt-wearing ways. The man head-scratchingly goes home, marks his calendar for next year: VALENTINE’S DAY, MUST ABSTAIN FROM RED, and proceeds to tell everyone in his circle about what happened to him.

8 out of 10 people he told had either forgotten, not known or simply not cared about Valentine’s Day. Those 8 people went home to THEIR calendars and marked them correspondingly, and also proceeded to tell THEIR circle of friends. 8 out of 10 people each of those 8 people told had either forgotten, not known, so on and so forth, you get the picture. It’s a little like Pay It Forward, or the Six Degrees of Separation theory, or, ultimately, like Facebook. They might as well have their own group or application on Facebook. Or wait, they actually might already have one.

February 14 in Jeddah is now like February 14 in any Valentine-celebrating city, except people are trying harder to inform everyone else about the alleged insignificance of this wildly popular and uncelebrated celebrated holiday.

Here’s how it is purposely not celebrated in Jeddah. We have any number of urban legends and freak stories about it. Men in long beards and long cloaks allegedly roam the streets in search of people wearing or carrying – and in the process, promoting - the color red. The following items are absolute profanities: red shirts, red caps, red shoes, and if you’re wearing red pants and your name ain’t Michael Jackson, you really deserve to be in prison. Heart shapes and flowers are deeply discouraged, red or otherwise, and flower shops are known to be surrounded by cops and maybe a couple of idiots who haven’t heard of my story of the man in the red shirt and are therefore still trying to buy flowers for their 12-year-old girlfriends. If we are patient, within a few seconds, the idiots will hopefully be shot to death. Restaurants are earmarked in case more of these idiots survived the flower shop drama and are now in the middle of dates with said girlfriends. For the ladies, it has been said that red nail polish and hot red lipstick attract attention you don’t want on this day. In supermarkets, malls and shops, any product remotely related to hearts, flowers, red, love and Michael Jackson are pulled off the shelves. So far, I’ve only heard jokes about red cars, and apparently, only the shimag [red-and-white checked headdress for men] can pull off the color red on this highly-charged day.

So what exactly happens when someone is caught not not-celebrating Valentine’s Day? More urban legends. Supposedly, there is a camp on the outskirts of Jeddah where these violators are thrown and imprisoned for an unknown length of time. As punishment, they are forced to listen to Tamer Hosni love songs all day and all night. To make it even worse, everytime “love” is mentioned in the song, they bleep it out. Ah, the agony.

Valentine’s Day was never a part of Saudi culture or religion. People should start respecting law, culture, and more importantly, religion. I mean, let’s talk open-minded here.

Aren’t we always the first to volunteer the fact that we are open-minded? What constitutes open-mindedness? Respect for another individual’s opinions and beliefs. The power to, in the words of The Beatles, Let It Be. To be able to listen to someone talk about their culture and not mock, or in any way offend them. When the National Association Of People Who Make Up And Release Cliche Sayings And Proverbs (NAPWMURCSP for short) said: “When in Rome, do as the Romans do,” they really meant: “When in INSERT NAME OF COUNTRY, do as the INSERT NATIONALITY OF PEOPLE FROM SAID COUNTRY do.” Trust me, I was an honorary member of the organization.

So how about, for now, let’s respect? No more crazy talk about the Day of Love, at least until next year. Mark your calendars, errbody. And stay away from Michael Jackson.

Pride

There is a part of us, some section of our brain that communicates to us that there is, somewhere in our hearts, compassion for the human race. We feel the injustice, we are enveloped in that sadness, that empathetic helplessness when someone is being grossly maltreated. We feel in ourselves that desire to better our person, to avoid being one of those people who dole out prejudice and bias, that urge to erase those people off completely.

I do not have black skin, I am not of African descent. Whatever discrimination and antagonism I get from other people where my race is concerned isn’t even half of what others get. But I feel. I empathize. I strive to make others feel as minimally pre-judged as possible.

I do resent the fact that films like Pride sensationalize something that some people have worked so hard to wipe out. Now that the Afro-Americans have it better going than ever before, these films relight that fire, that anger, that resentment. People have different reactions to success stories like these. Some might withdraw from a certain level of socializing with those that caused so much pain to their forebears, while others, as what the producers directors writers probably initially envisioned, use it positively: as a means to value their fortunate predicaments, their current status, to remember what they have fought for and not take it all for granted.

Still, I respect. I understand. Or at least I try. It can’t be easy.

I get a small taste of this pain every time I have to deny my nationality and state my fake Americanism. It’s all ok, only a means to an end, until I start believing the lies. It gets dangerous when I do forget who I really am and get sucked into a lifestyle, an entity that is really not mine.

I love all the undertones and overtones of this film. I especially love the feelings of determination and eventual success that it inspires. I feel like I can do anything. I feel like I can apply these things to my daily activities, to my job, to my health, to my family life. I love the splash of water as the swimmers dive into the pool, that perceptible muting of sound as soon as they are submerged, and the fight they fight as they swim for the win. It’s all very metaphoric.

I love the photography. I love noticing the subtle and the significant differences between still photography and movement. I love acknowledging and appreciating the fact that it took a lot of motivation, a lot of hard work to finish a piece of artful storytelling and showing such as this film.

I love watching Terrence Howard and that held-back aggression he possesses, the one that radiates from his oddly coloured eyes, from the set of his mouth, and his unsteady but no less strong voice. He was noticeably more fit in this film, and absolutely hotter than ever. I love his posture, and his walk, and his shoulders, his unrefined hands, his laugh. It’s amazing how much respect he inspires, just by being such a multi-faceted actor, a dynamic talent. He has so many faces, so many angles to his character: he can be a thug and a highly-educated black man at the exact same time.

This film moved me.

The Thobe Identity

A couple of nights back, some friends and I decided to hang out by the Corniche. We drove along the long stretch of seaside looking for a spot to sit and have our dinner and meaningless conversations. We would check the people already sitting to gauge the safety of the spot of our choice. Finally, we decided to sit some distance from a group of guys that looked harmless. They weren't loud, they weren't playing music, they weren't monkeying around, and they didn't seem to be wearing thobes.

As we unpacked and got ready to settle down, one of the guys from that group stood up. He was, in fact, wearing a thobe. There was an undeniable pause and an audible gasp from our group. Crap. We just might get harassed after all.

We ended up staying anyway, and the guys left us alone. We weren't assaulted.

***

"You don't change the city; the city changes you."

This city suffers from acute racism. Discrimination, stereotyping, prejudice, bias, judgment, typecasting, labeling, you name it whatever politically incorrect *gasp* scandalous term you want, it's here. It's such a commonplace thing to do that it has become a valid justification.

Here's a snippet of a typical conversation:

"Oh, that's horrible! Why do you think that happened?"

"What do you expect? He is *insert nationality after changing tone to one of disgust*."

"Ah." *insert bright background beam of enlightenment*

Yeah, what a shame, since there are people from all kinds of countries and cultures residing here. We are the ultimate cliché of a melting pot.

There are layers of discrimination, too. It's very organized-crime-ish.

People here are divided into two:

1. The locals, i.e. Saudis
2. The foreigners, i.e. expatriates

The locals are further subdivided into:

1. The Bedouins. People that are so backward-thinking that they slam against their own backs. They buy techie gadgets and sacreligiously misuse them. They are blind followers of ancient cultural norms; they stink of the sand from the deserts and the tents from whence they come. They wear unflattering sacks they call clothes and even though they have kept up with fashion trends, they're still 10 years behind. They drink their coffee, and talk their talk, and dance their dance, and sing their music, all of them painfully old-fashioned and out-of-date.
2. The New Age Saudis. You see them cruising around with their expensive cars and their trendy thobes and gilded abayas, speaking their English, drinking their franchise-café lattes. They shop in high-end boutiques and they smell of French perfume. They tell stories of summer vacations in Europe and they live for big family matches and milkahs and weddings. They are "open-minded", they are Western, they are upper middle upper-middle class. The young men with their raging hormones chasing after the young women at malls. The young women inviting harassment from their male counterparts with their coy glances and painted nails. Some of them are wildly educated, quoting literary icons and asserting their political views and their distaste of the mainstream pop culture. They are the bohemian bourgeoisie.
3. The Hybrids. The half-Saudi, half-something else. The ones with the western accents, the mixture of features, the confused where-am-I-from rhetoric , the identity crises. They are outsiders through and through, too foreign to the Saudis and too Saudi to the foreigners.

Which brings us to the foreigners. They could have lived their whole lives in this city, learned the language, absorbed the standards of behavior and the points of view. Or they could have just moved to the city from their home countries, staying for work, or staying with their working parents. They are subdivided into the following major categories:

1. Zee Arabs. The Lebanese, the Syrians, the Egyptians, the Morroccans, the Jordanians, the Palestinians, the Turks, the Tunisians, the Iranians, who cares what continent sub-continent they come from - they look Arab, they sound Arab. Them with their food, and their men and women, and their wild hair, their music and their dancing, their morals, and why can't they speak with proper Arabic accents, and why are they influencing the youth?
2. The Asians. The little people. Indonesians and Filipinos. Excellent kitchen people. They clean your house, raise your kids, steal your jewelry, seduce your husbands, cast spells on your family. You have to squint your eyes to understand what they're saying when they swallow the consonants and the crucial vowels and they bastardize your language. Third world people who corrupt societies with their DBDs DBDs, buy-the-latest-DBD-sadik, and their homosexuals bisexuals multisexualities.
3. The South Asians. Indians, Pakistanis, Bengalis, Sri Lankans. The rolling tongue accents and the beads on their foreheads and on their clothes and on their hands and their bellies, and their saris, and that slicked-back hair, and the onions and spices, and the ignorance, the deceit.
4. The Africans. The thievery, the conning, that dark dark skin, always suspect. Oh, they bring in drugs and prostitution and HIV, they deal in their little adobes and they walk around with their deep baritones and the white eyes.
5. The Westerners. Australians, Americans, British, Europeans. They knock the culture of this city off its feet and replace it with blond hair and blue eyes. They push people out of the box of chastity and humility and set them free into a world of underground booze and partying and mixing-of-the-sexes.

That's right, GASP. Be SHOCKED. This is a fine form of discrimination staring you in the face. Can you handle it's unadulterated consistency? Are you mad, furious, because you can make fun of your own race and other people shouldn't, that you can throw racial slurs if you're from the same race but that no one else should? Does it infuriate you that you have every right to criticize your own culture but others shouldn't, and yet they do?

Nobody has earned that right. Nobody is entitled to any kind of judgment or prejudice. Not anybody, and certainly not you, you Arab Asian Western infidel uneducated outcast leper ugly beggar skank whore son-of-a-nobody.

And yet..

History revolves around the same axis, it orbits around the same nucleus of hatred and looking-down-on-other-people.

Culture is beautiful. Songs have been sung about them, poems recited, books written, worlds fused. But to this city, there exists a fine line between the appreciation of beauty in culture, and the overdose of it.

Hate begets hate. The chicken begot the egg. The egg begot the chicken. Potatoe potah-toe. Same banana.

Are you a discriminator, or are you discriminated against?

The first step to solving a problem is to acknowledge that there IS a problem.

Hi. My name is Nessreen and I am a racist.

The Diarization Process

I’m doing a very bad job if I want to be a diarist. I’m always thinking of the honesty factor: Should I be shamelessly honest in my entries, or should I manipulate them according to my audience? Am I really going to allow access to my personal “journals”?

Anyhoo, while the ideas above are left to cook, let’s try the diarization process, shall we?

***

Friends should be excused from pleasantries. The whole how-are-you routine is wasted on friends. It doesn’t really serve a purpose in our relationships; we always know it’s coming, and we always know the answer to it. “Hey, how are you?” “I’m good, yourself?” “I’m good.” That’s about 10 seconds wasted. We know what’s coming next, too. There’s nothing else to follow that except, “How’s your family? Boyfriend? Work?” And the answer is the same. “All good”. Which is about 20 more seconds wasted. This leads to about 5 more seconds of time wastage when there is a very short, awkward silence while friends try to figure out the best way to segue into what’s really happening in their lives.

***

I’ve been spending most of my time watching Desperate Housewives. I have only good things to say about it. It seemed pretty superficial and mundane to me at first, just mindless entertainment and pure soap opera of the telenovela kind. And yet, there is profundity in all its simple glory. I am all the characters of this TV series, every man, woman, child.

***

James Bond lives in an unreal world of (get ready for a series of keywords) luxury, cars, tailored suits, European women, five-star hotels, expensive gadgets, betrayal, sex, and travel. That’s a lot of money in one sentence. I enjoyed the last one only because I’m so used to the Bond culture; I grew up with men idolizing him. The new Bond actor (Craig something or other, I think) is sexy enough. He’s got the body, and his face, however comical, has its own uncultured charm, lent to it by the role he is playing. His looks are very cruel, though, and his eyes... not mischievous, that’s too cute a word, maybe a little sinister, and the set of his mouth stubborn. There’s nothing else to discuss about this movie, it’s not exactly profound. Besides, the main character is bigger than the movie.

The Size of Asia

Asia is the largest continent in the world. According to Microsoft Encarta, it covers an estimated 44,391,000 sq km (17,139,000 sq mi), or about 30 percent of the world’s total land area. Its peoples account for three-fifths of the world’s population.

I have thoughts in my head the size of Asia. They come rushing through my brain and I struggle to keep them organized into countries, cities, little islands. I think of every little detail, of every little gesture and all its tiny, tiny implications.

My Asia is bounded on the north by the great waters of my Ambition. I long to be the best, to be looked up on, to be envied. On the east, my relationships with my family and their extended family, on the South by the vast sea of people I meet and make friends out of. On the west lies my long stream of weaknesses, a stream that continues along the mountains of insecurities and on to a huge waterfall of failure that I am frightened of and yet am unable to avoid.

Because of its vast size and diverse character, my Asia is divided into five realms: 1) who I am when nobody is watching, 2) who I am with my friends, 3) who I am with my siblings, 4) who I am when everybody else is listening, 5) and who my parents would like me to be.

I have excess baggage the size of Asia. They come in many forms. For instance, the shoes that I hoard and never wear. I have boxes and boxes of stilletoes, pumps, peep-toes, boots, round-toes, kitten heels, sandals, slip-ons, flip-flops that gather dust under the hung clothes. I have tons of paper and books that are piled on top of each other, dangerously teetering. I have notes I've written down throughout the years, sitting, waiting to be published.

I have ambitions the size of Asia. I want to be a doctor, a lawyer, an interior designer, a marketing manager, a creative director, a businesswoman, a lyricist, an actor.

I have identity issues the size of Asia. My patriotic pride lies under thick layers of embarrassment, of apologetic remarks that defend my people's behaviour, under layers of American accents and deep denial. I am Asian.

I have obsessions the size of Asia.

I have dreams the size of Asia.

The size of Asia moves me.

A Photographic Lie

I've been a bad, bad photographer today. I took overexposed pictures, I didn't change my ISO and white balance as necessary, I didn't carry my camera in its bag, and ultimately, I took a picture of a policeman's motorcycle and lied profusely about it.

So, what happened was, I went to the hospital earlier today with my friends to visit Sheri who gave birth to the most precious baby girl. After much fussing over baby, we went downstairs to the baqalah next door to buy some stuff. Right outside the store, Sharifa and I, caught up in a photographer's frenzy, noticed this beautiful golden door that had lots of potential. In a burst of misplaced bravado, I bullied her into taking pictures of it with me.



Before you proceed on murdering this photo with your comments, let me assure you that wasn't the worst part.

Across this door was a small police station. It had windows that were tinted and closed. Parked outside it was a motorcycle with the cop radio on, so that I knew the policeman was somewhere nearby. But because I'm such a hippo, I proceeded to take pictures of the motorcycle. They were nice pictures, taken with excellent settings, at a very profound angle. They would have garnered lots of photo comments and smiley faces on my deviantart.

As I was getting ready to run, however, the window opened and out came the policeman's head. He attacked me with an onslaught of brisk Arabic accusations, pointing wildly at my camera. I shook my head in feign miscomprehension. Let me tell you something, that delete button? It has never been pressed as fast as I did when I was deleting the pictures I took of his motorcycle. I am actually proud of myself, for at least mastering the art of deleting pictures. So I walk over to him to prove that I am a good liar, and that Wallahi, no pictures of motorcycle in my camera, only baby and Filipino nurses. I had to go through 200 pictures with him, clutching my camera like mad (I think I left a few scratches on screen, I was clutching it like a maniac) because he wanted to take it and look through it himself. My short life as a photographer flashed before my eyes, and I could see the JUArtists shaking their heads in disdain and disapproval. With renewed determination, I clutched some more, and lied some even more. Idiot was pressing all kinds of buttons on my camera, saying I hid the pictures somewhere, and in the process, changed all my settings. After he got tired of looking at the pictures of nurses, he let go of the camera, and warned me that I could be under investigation for taking pictures. I think I also heard him say that my pictures were overexposed, but I can’t be too sure, I was too shaken to look through my English-Arabic Dictionary.

As I walked away, my friends soothing me and assuring me he had no right to do that and that my pictures were perfectly exposed, I couldn’t help but think of how much we suffer for art. What price beauty? What price profound angles? Mokhtar once said that photographers in Saudi Arabia are so restricted and constrained, but it only makes them more creative and more aware of the little things, little details that they ARE allowed to photograph. It took today for me to realize how true that is. We are the oppressed. We are the muted voices. We are the social pariahs.

I suffered for art.

I am shaken, but not quite stirred. Because at least, I was able to share Mikayla Angelina Soares’ baby pictures to that po-po, and he was given the golden opportunity to look at a baby so beautiful, so full of life, that I’m sure as he rode that ugly motorcycle, he pondered the splendour of existence and the true meaning of humanity. Idiot. I hope he buys a camera and never learns how to adjust his settings.

Ode to My Family

When we were younger, one of my father's template sermons was the one about studying hard and striving to be successful so as not to grow up to be "servants" of much wealthier uncles, aunts, and/or cousins. This was something we scoffed at; nonsense, we said. I now see the wisdom behind this motivational technique (one that, in my opinion, didn't work). By "servant" I mean "errand boy", someone who is asked to do any number of menial jobs around the house, a social pariah, useless, therefore, pushed around. As a result of the stigma my father has put on this particular kind of servitude to relatives, I fear it above all. I resent all my relatives who ask favours of me, be it something as simple as handing over something, to bigger favours. I’m always fuming inside, indignant, “do they think I am some kind of a slave?”

Is it arrogance on my part?

***

My cousin Kaka Cody passed away Eid morning at about 7am, Jeddah time. I felt a momentary shock, as per usual, but the moment passed so quickly it was almost not worth acknowledging. This could be an indication that I handle shock very well, or it could be a warning sign that sometime in the future, I will break down mightily and... I don’t know, lose it big-time.

I never knew Kaka Cody very well. He was, to me, one of our many well-off relatives. When we were younger, we would go to Riyadh and visit him in his home. We loved his IKEA furniture and his surround sound system. He was, like most of our relatives from our father’s family, an articulate man, always conversing with us as if we were adults. He was a chain-smoker, too, I remember, he was never without a cigarette. He was always very casual, an approachable adult, very rare. We knew he and my father were inseparable when they were growing up, even though they were cousin and uncle.

My father was devastated. He stayed in bed most of the day. I can only imagine how he must've felt. It must be a complete shock for him, and quite scary as well, because he and Kaka Cody are exactly the same age. I imagine he must’ve thought he would still see him sometime in the future, perhaps when they’re both much, much older, retired maybe, reminiscing the past, playing chess. He must’ve been thinking how much he wants to do for him and his family now that he has passed on, the way we all do when we think of our very close friends. It must crush him the thought that he isn’t capable of doing anything, being so far away from HIS own family, being financially unstable, and being so disconnected from everyone else who knew Kaka Cody as well as he did.

It’s sad, and at the same time, quite fortunate that it takes death to reunite a family. People are suddenly very forgiving of each other, and reminiscing better times has always softened people towards one another. We spent our Eid morning, as did all our Tamano relatives, in collective mourning, sitting solemnly in my Mom’s living room. We had a quiet breakfast, after which we sat around in groups, teenagers together, 20-somethings together, in-laws together, listening to my father tell stories of our cousin, who was well-loved, who was a very kind soul. In some ways, it was a celebration – of family ties that bind us together, of a decent man / father / son / brother’s passing, and ultimately, of life.

Pilgrimage

Having had about 15 years of experience performing Umrah, I have made some observations.

** Never underestimate the strength of old lady pilgrims. They have big, calloused hands, the better to push you with. Encountering one, which is a huge possibility, constitutes an 80-year-old lady manhandling and roughhousing you, and you not being able to do anything about it.

** Wear extra thick socks to cushion the blow of stepping on date cores/seeds, especially if you're going to perform your Umrah around Maghreb time.

** No, it is NOT a mosh pit, NOT an extreme sport, and NOT Amazing Race, no matter how much you have convinced yourself that it kinda is. So concentrate on praying, not winning or yelling "Unbelievable!" at rude people.

** I'm a Bring-Your-Own-Scissors kind of girl, so it always annoys me when I reach the end of my Umrah - and I'm this close to finally sitting down and resting my over-flexed calves - and I can't get a move on because my scissors are being passed on from one family to the next, cutting hair by the fistfuls. It's extremely humbling to be reminded of patience and generosity. What's the harm in lending scissors? We tend to forget.

** We tend to forget that we're there for: worship. So let's keep the cussing at zero. Don't cuss out the female security who always shove you in attempts to keep the crowding at a minimum. They're just doing their job. I repeat, resist the urge to cuss. Not even in spelling. (Oooh, that bee-eye-tee-see-etch!)

** The biggest fear of all pilgrims is to get lost, to break away from their group never to be found again. This is where the Universal Green Light comes in. Everyone goes to the green light if they're lost. Can't find your way? Green Light. Looking for someone? Green Light. Not sure where to start your Tawaf? Green Light.

** Get that tune out of your head! Sometimes, the whole experience of Umrah is so exhilarating that one wants to break into song. Make Du'a instead; pray.

Outside of these observations...

I am humbled by the magnificence of Al-Haram, by the unity of the Muslim Ummah in prayer.

I am amazed by the extent of human generosity.

I am overwhelmed by the power of faith and prayer.

I am humbled by Allah's might.

*****

It's good when a group of friends party and have fun together. Even better when they pray together.

May Allah accept our prayers, may He bless us, and guide us to the right path.

Ameen!

Ramadan Kareem, errbody!

On Art

I've always had a love-hate relationship with photography. I love it because it captures profundity and beauty in the most mundane of things, it exudes emotion, it changes views, it inspires action. I resent it because it intrudes, it trespasses the thin, fragile lines of privacy.

By getting myself a camera, I am nurturing this relationship. I want to dip into that vast ocean of profoundness found on both sides of the lens, or, in true klutz fashion, slosh through it. I want to conquer this fear of truth, of honesty, of being open and straightforward.

Maybe I'm a little too dramatic. Maybe I won’t do any of those things, maybe I'll stick to taking ordinary photographs of random things: the corner of a table, a glass of water, a mug of pencils, "the curve of a woman's hip", to quote Winona Ryder's character in Autumn In New York.

Maybe I'll just take pictures of my friends: posing with their hands in a collective Peace Sign, smiling at the camera with a calculated and practiced pose, or caught mid-sentence in an unflattering angle.

Maybe I'll remain mundane.

***
My father was the happiest with my purchase. His delight encouraged me; maybe someday I'll become as good as he is. I listened to him talk about apertures, exposure, lenses, shutter speed; listened not to what he was saying, but to his words and the animation that lit up his older face. "Ah," he said, "but my eyes are so bad now, I miss the beauty in things. I don't see anymore."

Maybe it's wrong to allow my father's interests to take control of mine. Maybe I should do this for myself. Maybe. Maybe not.

Right now, this moment, I don't know where I'm going.

I can't say I completely dislike the feeling.

***


Take Control of Life

An Awesome Birthday

My friends have outdone themselves this year. There is a LOT to be thankful for, the foremost being my friends for trying their best not to slip up and say something that would give away the *gasp* super secret surprise party for Linzi and myself, the two spoiled brats who always get properly shocked every September. So let's begin the slideshow, shall we?

We got off work and came down the building to find this sleek, black Limo awaiting our Royal Bratness. In the humidity, it looked like this:



But in real life, it really looked like this: (notice the trademark)



We were driven around the city, of course on major streets to garner as much attention as possible, by the very skilled driver Mr Fahad. Inside, of course, a raging party ensued, where every man, woman, and child sweated like camels while dancing to random music, notably, Madonna's Music.

Afterwards, we had some cake at Friday's, as is traditional, and then we hied off to the Eyd Residence, where we had more surprises.

I'd like to thank all of my friends who facilitated the smooth occurrence of The Big Surprise, and for the lovely gifts I received. I wish it were my birthday all day, every day, every damn day. *chicken-dancing*

These are a few of my favorite things:

From Sara Mini: (thank you SO MUCH, you know what I like, and most importantly, you know what I would, and COULD wear, LOL)



From Kholoud, resident Glamorous Naughty Girl:



From Ozzy Sinni, Kebdi, Keliyati.



From Souma and Doha, my gorgeous friends:



From My B-Girl Suzi Yoshi:



And from my lovely, lovely friends, who know that deep within my soul, I am a Britney Spears, waiting to make it to the top. I'm loving it!!





Big bastard hugs all around.

The List

Yeah. I AM getting older. For one thing, I am slowly, very slowly realizing that there IS such a thing as too much television. You know, the old I-Need-To-Stop-Watching-And-Start-Living-eroo.

For another thing, my birthday is coming up. I’ll be 24 in about 4 days’ time. Wow. When I was younger, I thought by the age of 21, I’d have my own house, my own car, and be fiercely independent and career-oriented. Like I said, too much television, especially considering I had always envisioned myself living in Jeddah for the rest of my very debatable life. Of course now I am about 3 years older than my hitherto imagined self, I still live in Jeddah at my parents’ house, women still aren’t allowed to drive, and I am not only fiercely dependent on everybody else including the hobo that lives on the street next to our house, I am also very career-confused and very lame-jokey.

A-hey-ny-way-hey. Here it is, my wishlist for the annual celebration of my mediocrity, which is organized into categories:

The Radical

-A vanity set with a huge mirror with dressing-room lights around the frame

-An iMac, any color

-2 months worth of sessions with a psychiatrist (so I could, of course, talk about nothing but myself – an elitist alternative to this tedious blogging business)

-3 bottles of Smirnoff Mules, alcoholic

-A Nokia N95

-Weight loss. Or okay, a gym membership. Ha ha ha.

The Super

-A lens upgrade for my Nikon

-A guitar signed by a real (performing) guitarist/s

-Jewelry (I’m allergic to silver and I prefer white gold)

-A 30gb iPod, white

-BOSE headphones

The Fabulous-o

-Music CDs (John Legend, India Arie, Marvin Gaye, Eryka Badu, et al.)

-A bottle of Chanel Chance perfume, the green one

-Mascara, Max Factor (in the spirit of elitism, and because I’m allergic to all other brands)

-A T-Shirt that says Nessreen in the front, and “I don’t have friends, they all call me Master” in the back

-A watch

-Books, books, books!! *evil, greedy laugh* For a list of the books I already own, please go here

-A photo-shoot of all my friends with me as the photographer

-The Sopranos DVD set

Disclaimers

- You are under no obligation to get me anything for my birthday, as I never celebrated my birthday up until last year, and I’m not used to receiving birthday presents, hence the audacity. Except if you’re reading this. THEN, you really MUST get me something out of courtesy. I mean, in my country... so on and so forth.

The Gray Anatomy

"Nobody knows where we might end up.. Nobody knows..
Suppose we never know?"

Grey’s Anatomy moves me. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m me, and I live vicariously through the movies and the TV shows that I love to watch. Or if it’s because this one inspires me to be better at my job, pushes me to do my best and make a difference in people’s lives, pushes me to love and respect what I do. Or if it’s because it makes me realize that I AM an important member of this community that is behind the success of one company. Or if it just makes me sad to think that if I’d done better in school, if I’d made better decisions, that I’d be so much more than I am right now. Maybe I would’ve been a good doctor, maybe a great lawyer. I know this is just me, the slave to society, speaking. How bad is it to be a teacher, an excellent teacher, if it means I’m helping my family at the same time I’m supporting a company – two things that are bigger than myself? Why do I have to be a cliché?

Why can’t I be content with what good I’m getting from my current situation – considering my achievements or lack thereof?

Why is it so hard to accept the fact that maybe, just maybe, this is what I was always meant to do?

Why does it feel like I’m always just settling for second best? All the friggin time? And why am I stuck in a rut when I should be flourishing at this age, when I should be pushing myself to my greatest potential? What IS my greatest potential? I never had the chance to find out. I don’t know if I ever will.

“Waking is better than sleeping.”

And yet, every day at work, when I go out with my friends, when I get home, I can’t wait to sleep. I might have mastered the art of time suckage without even knowing it.

“Why do I keep hitting my head with a sledgehammer? Because it feels SO GOOD when I stop.”

***

Dr Grey reminds me so much of Jehanifah. The straight hair & that fringe, the scrubs, the shirt-sleeves underneath the scrub, the eyes that look like she's just woken up. Why was I even surprised when I found out that she watches this show? I so know she would be attached to it as much as I am. We are both suckers for hard work, excellence, and prestige disguised as profundity, indifference, and good-quality sweaters. Yes, this has always been our bond. Cold weather coupled with warm comforts like cigarettes, cups of coffee, epiphanies, and cashmere. And that’s what I think of when I watch Dr Grey. I don’t even like her character. She is too... fluid. She doesn’t have clear lines, she is all fuzzy. I can’t tell where she begins and where she ends. She is a mishmash of too many personalities.

Stay Tuned

The thing about TV shows that are narrated in the first person is that it is far from real life. Think Grey’s Anatomy, Scrubs, Sex and the City. Each episode usually starts off with the main character telling the story of the day, and then ends with some epiphany or other. It wouldn’t bother me so much if the epiphanies weren’t as vague or redundant or slightly stupid as they usually are most days.

“I made my way home and that’s when I realized, we HAVE to be who we are.”

Or “It suddenly struck me that people do the things they do for a reason.”

Gimme a break.

The thing of it is that we watch these people stumble through their daily lives, their jobs, and then ultimately idolize them. We find ourselves the following day waking up and acting like there’s a whole crew of people videotaping our lives. Then we make our way home and start realizing equally meaningless things. I do it more and more each day. Only last night, I was in the car on the way home when I realized, people ARE different from each other, even if they’re all the same.

It’s funny, isn’t it. People started making movies to imitate real life. But now, people live their lives in imitation of movies. (See what I mean about epiphanies?)

Of course, before these TV shows, there was MTV. I still remember when I was in my early teens, when my friends and I lived our lives like it was a drawn-out music video. If you’re a bastard child of the 80s, you know what I’m talking about. The Slow-Mo Syndrome, we call it. If you had a problem, you sit prettily by the edge of your bed, cry theatrical tears, have flashbacks of happier times in slow motion, and pretend you were a teen pop star singing a ballad. The flashbacks were the best part. They usually involve a group of pretty young things with their heads thrown back in laughter, spraying each other with water. Slow motion is key.

In real life, of course, flashbacks aren’t that vivid or detailed. In real life, there are no epiphanies, except if you’ve had too much to drink. In real life, there isn’t always a story to tell, there isn’t always a moral lesson.

As I wrap up this entry, I realize that life isn’t always what it’s supposed to be. At the end of the day, we are who we are. People go on with their lives, and most of the time, so do I.

LISTEN

As soon as we hit our 20s, we get sucked into that void between adulthood and... adulthood. This is the time when we think we've transcended adolescence. But in reality, we haven't. We've just gotten more eloquent and impassioned in phrasing our complaints.

What was once "I hate my life" has now become "I'm having an existential dilemma."

It used to be "I hate my parents", now it's "They're manipulating my life so they can live out their faded dreams through mine."

Yep, same difference.

This is also the time when we ponder and write articulate blogs about how unsure we are with the paths our lives are taking. We never know what to do, never know what we want, never satisfied. We are always chasing dreams. As a result, the complaints consume us and we can't even start to think about living these dreams.

I'm proud of some people I know who pushed themselves into doing what they want to do. They stopped the complaining (or at least kept it at a minimum), and slaved on until they got to the starting point. Yes, JUST the starting point. It's a long way, but at least they're somewhere.

So everytime I hear Beyonce singing in that movie Dream Girls, I can't help but feel some of her triumph. This song is for my sister Jehan, for achieving her goals, for getting her degree finally, and for taking control of her life; and for Shari, who also finally took a step forward, inching closer and closer towards success.

Now, close your eyes, and imagine me screaming at the top of my lungs, Beyonce-style, singing this song.

Listen
To the song here in my heart
A melody I start
but can't complete

Listen
To the sound from deep within
It's only beginning to find release

The time has come
For my dreams to be heard
They will not be pushed aside and turned
Into your own,
all 'cause you won't listen

Listen
I am alone at a crossroads
I'm not at home in my own home
And I've tried and tried
To say what's on my mind
You should have known...

Now I'm done believing you
You don't know what I'm feeling
I'm more than what you made of me
I've followed the voice you gave to me
But now I've got to find my own...

You should have listened...

Listen
To the song here in my heart
A melody I start
but I will complete...

Gift-ed

Gifts are perpetually embarrassing, giving or receiving them. When someone's birthday comes along, you always think, "Will she like this?". Then you end up spending tons of money on something you're only half-sure she likes, only to slap yourself on the forehead later, thinking what other cooler things you could've gotten for her. Or him.

THEN you hand over the present, and the fervent thanks-giving ensues. "Oh, you shouldn't have!" and you're obligated to respond, "Oh, you deserve much, much more!" *red face*

I always die a little when people give me presents. It's always surprising, always flattering, and I never know how to respond. I usually smile from ear-to-ear, crack some lame joke, and then quickly make a list of things I can give the person back. "She got me a book, love it, love it, LOVE it; now I'll have to get her a gold watch." Yes, I was always bad at calculation.

So when one of my students, a real-life princess, gave me an expensive mobile phone as a thank-you gift, I did the only two things I knew to do:

a) Got so red-faced you could hardly see me in that big red abyss that was my face.
b) Showed it off to every single living person I knew.

For the sake of discussion, because we all know it is just next to impossible, what kind of gift can I give her back? What does one give a person who cannot possibly want or need something I can ever afford?

No, abstract ideas like freedom and loyalty and kindness do not count.

Anyway, I really appreciated the gesture; she was the best kind of princess I ever met, and even though I was utterly embarrassed by the present, the showing-off-afterwards was all worth it.

What was the best gift YOU have ever given or received?

The Secret Lives of Children and Friends

My mother told me that she had rung Rosie yesterday.

"How did she sound?" I said.

My mother's face broke into a big smile and she said, "Oh, she's fantastic. She's doing incredibly well. She's almost finished her dissertation and she's going out with a lovely boy called Simon. She needed £200 to buy a new printer for her computer so that she can print her dissertation out."

How little our parents know about us. Do my children lie to me?

- Adrian Mole and the Weapons of Mass Destruction, Sue Townsend


The secret lives of children. My parents, for instance, don't know the demons I wrestle with, the intensity of my tooth problems, the extent of my smoking habit, my relationships with my friends and family. For sure, it's better that they know nothing of it. The question is, do they REALLY want to know? Do they, somehow, somewhere deep within their subconscious, not want to know? Do they want us to forever stay little children? I don't want their noses in my business, at the same time I want them to know how I turned out.

The secret lives of friends. How much do we know of our dear, dear friends? Outside of projected habits, of expressions and recycled jokes, outside of the hanging-out-in-cafes, how much do we really know?

The secret lives of parents. What did they have to give up? All we know of our parents start from the day we were born. Anything before that is just a story they tell us. How much of it is true? How much is held back? Do we want to know?

*****

I've been trying for the past hour to divert the attention from my toothache elsewhere. Nothing's working. Everything triggers a throb of pain: the light from the lamp, the ticking of the alarm clock, the tapping of the keyboard, the hum of the air conditioner downstairs, the blinking stand-by light of the sub-woofer, the computer screen, the creaking of the bed, the colors of my room, the darkness behind my closed eyes. The pain is driving me to madness. I imagine if I had a gun right now, I wouldn't even think twice about using it: aim it at my temple and pull the trigger. Blow my fucking brains out.

My teeth problems started when I took up smoking. I remember a time when people complimented my teeth, when I was encouraged to audition for toothpaste commercials and advertisements. All this before I was a smoker.

I remember my brothers' friend Sujie, how miserable he would be when I squirmed with my toothaches. He would run out to the Mercury Drug Store on Tandang Sora Avenue, the closest one that's open, at 3 or 4 a.m. and get me some painkillers. I don't remember which brand I popped back then. Ponstan, maybe. He would offer me a lit cigarette for instant and momentary relief. The gestures touched me. He was like an older brother to me.

*****

I look at windows in apartments, and as I watch people's curtains sway with the soft breeze, I wonder mightily about their lives, about their furniture, about their troubles and their luxuries. I wonder if they have it going better than I do, or if they have it worse. I wonder. I remember Khadija, and how we shared this little pastime. It's strongest when I'm in a moving vehicle, and I'm looking out the window.

*****

Jet Lag is the kind of movie that I don't want to end, and yet, drives me crazy from wanting to know what the ending will be. It's not very original; I know I've seen better foreign films, better romantic comedies. But Juliette Binoche, and Jean Reno, and that old French charm makes a world of difference. I notice little things, like Rose's man Sergio's lines, how they were written so that he sounds more cruel than he probably is, to turn the audience off. Or how the whole plot revolved around two people, how unrealistic it was that the people around them didn't seem so important, but that they were constantly on the phone with them. Or those little signs of Change: the decision to forgo make-up 'just this one time', or the description of the dream house. Little things. I like to think that I've evolved from a movie buff to a proper film critic.

*****

The story of Freckles, have I mentioned it? I lost her last month. My cousins were over for a night of movies and karaoke, and the boys were sent out to buy food. Of course, them being valedictorians, one of them “forgot” to close our front door, a door that never shuts. Next thing we know, My Cat Formerly Known As Freckles And Now Just Miming was gone.

She is, in human years, about 21 years old. She is a university student now. She's out there somewhere, hanging out with alley-cats, discovering the outside world, getting drunk on dirty water, getting high on catnip, discussing cat-literature with her bohemian kitty-crew.

I am a bad cat owner.

Psychoanalyze Yourself

Fill in your answers and then scroll for the meaning behind it. Don't mess up the fun, do the answers first.

1. You are not alone. You are walking in the woods. Who are you walking with?
- My sister Jehanie.

2. You are walking in the woods. You see an animal. What kind of animal is it?
- A huge, mutated beast of the fantasy-novel kind.

3. What interaction takes place between you and the animal?
- A psy-war or a physical power struggle.

4.You walk deeper in the woods. You enter a clearing with your dream home that looks like...
- A small wooden house by a river.

5. Is your dream house surroundedby a fence?
- No.

6.You enter the house. You walk in to the dining room and see..
- A wooden table with writing tools and a book (possibly a thesaurus). Yawn.

7. You exit the house through the back door. Lying in the grass is a cup. What material is the cup made of?
- Glass. It's a champagne flute.

8.What do you do with the cup?
- I step around it and leave it there.

9. You walk to the edge of the property where you find yourself standing at the edge of a body of water. What type of body of water is it?
- A river.

10. How will you cross the water?
- I will wade through it.

*****
What the answers mean:

1. The person who you are walking in the woods with is the most important person/s in your life.

2. The size of the animal is representative of your perception of the size of your problems in your life.

3. The severity of the interaction you have with the animal is representative of how you deal with your problems.

4. The size of your dream home is representative of the size of your ambition to solve your problems.

5. NO fence is indicative of an open personality. People are welcome at all times. The presence of a fence indicates a closed personality. You'd prefer people not drop by unannounced.

6. If your answer did NOT include food, flowers, or people, then you are generally unhappy.

7. the durabililty of the material with the cup is made of is representative of the perceived durability of your relationship with the person you named in #1.

8. Your disposition of the cup is representative of your attitude toward person in #1.

9. The size of the body of water is representative of the size of your sexual desire.

10. How wet you get in crossing the water is indicative of the relative importance of your sex life.

*****
I'm tagging YOU. Send me your link so I can read your answers. =)