Saturday, February 27, 2010


Thank you Ryam Idriss. Very good film, but then again – this post is obviously not about it, but once upon a Camel ™ or two ... here we go.

You see, I don’t get what people still don’t get about relationships with other people. I am not a pro, so technically I know nothing, but the things in my head – still in their majority unpracticed – are worth sharing, walla. We are not meant for each other. There is no significant other, nor an ever after – hence, a happy permanence does not exist. We change, each in different rates. Yet still, we skip into trots of naiveté ..into assemblies with others, matrimonies they call them, holy – oh yes, we must gullibly decide to compromise ourselves to the duality of nature, and bite our/each others’ lips for comfort.

If we must make sense out of all of this, I would be more prone to go with the school of temporary indulgence. This, online, would be called swinging. This is not what I am talking about. I am talking of intersections, the ones that don’t have to be thought of – the ones that happen, and make you smile involuntarily at the situation, internally blushing at how childish it feels – how helpless – the ones that happen for a while, because they can’t unhappen – not because they ought to. As we fuck, we learn; as we look at each other, we’ll learn some more. We could talk, we could sing and throw dinner parties – to cook, to feed other people what we think we made up.. tastes of sours and chocolates.. that we know amuse us. We both know, that we would get bored. But we would not think it, yet when it happens, we would have sufficed, we would have learned, we could want other things ..then we would kiss and our bodies would part. But you would always be me and me you. I don’t know why we treat books differently. Or, better said, I don’t know why we treat each other any different than how we treat our books. I mean, you never forgot what you felt when Nietzsche told you what Zarathustra spoke… or when. You still remember the seven dwarfs, the three musketeers, Leila and her wolf. You are not constantly cumming over every page then, looking into their letters waiting for them to prove to you that you ARE the best lover ever ever ever.. ever, please please – oh, no you don’t beg, but in your head – you do. So why will we break up, ever. Why don’t we just walk each other past things, constantly act negligent so we would discover more. I am not punctuating this, because this is not a question, and you will not answer. Because I think we are past that, me and you, we are in this point now, where we are supposed to just smile and wave… smile and waive our rights to smile and kiss, for no reason. It’s sad.

Disassociated Leitmotif(s) Press © 2010


I am a coward. It’s easier typed than admitted, but I am one. The title of this post sums it all. It is a glittery thing, that would have been amazing if it had content behind it, but it means nothing. I am not saying that I am nothing, on the contrary, I’m inducing the application of the possibility of something, that might be me.
So now I’m not sure if this is a real post, or a Freudian slip-tack-toe from my hypothetical diary – but I feel like thinking ‘out loud’.
I am an architect that has been told by other architects for a while, that what I do is not architecture. In principle, my ego is bloat-worthy, but something happened. I graduated. I became alone. What came natural was looking for a job, and I just couldn’t. I am afraid of being an architect with other architects. I don’t know why. At the core of it, the most basic analyst would say that I have a fear of being judged or rejected.. the fear of failure or whatever – but I don’t know. I don’t know, to the extent that I settled for a job that puts my brain to sleep and taps on my corporate shoulder, the one I didn’t know existed. It has been three months, numb, it has been three months. I want out. I am shit-scared.
I am a coward. It’s easier typed than admitted. I am a coward because I don’t do what my self tells me to do. You see, I am a coward, because I am not fed by my raging desire to experiment. I preach, but I do not do. I love, but I do not touch. I know what I want, but act like I don’t. I buy time with unlimited credit lines, buy smiles with cheques that will silently bounce. I know what I want, but I am a coward.
And I just might do something about it, I just might.


I cannot understand people who don’t listen to music. Sometimes I tend to flap my feathers off the edge of their respect – and slowly I murmur bad things about them.. in my head. But, I think, ‘we all get it in the end’, so I don’t mind their existence; their loss anyways. So here it goes. No one is special, because we are all different, but I’ve been having these confrontational vibes with the cult-of-norm.. have you heard of them? Well, everyone rubs groins with that at least once in a lifetime.. and they seem to have an awkward attraction towards me. Ok, I’m attractive, but still – case not so closed, you see.. “like oh-ma-gad! You’re abnormal.” is not something nice to say/hear. Ok – so I’m basing this post to that. Wuhu- hang on there soldiers.

When you say something is something, you miss out on everything else that it is – a lot of somethings that would or would not have made sense. Now, I don’t know if I got the message through, but that’s not very out of the ordinary.

So now I’m going to pull off a Chinx, and quote myself –

“…He told me that he was polysexual. I didn’t understand. For some reason, it was important for him that I would understand. He needed someone to talk to. He wanted to talk to me. He wanted to make love to me. He told me he was polysexual, I didn’t understand, but I believed him.

He came closer to her, with his fingers, grabbed the tip of her nose, where it sank into her forehead, and lightly, but with a tight grip, moved her closer towards him. He kissed her eyes. Left eye first. Then he looked at me,..”

-Conversations With Your Naked (unfinished, yes … I know-)

Now, I don’t know if I got the message through, again, but that’s not very out of the ordinary. But do you get my point? Now really, do you?

Sunday, February 21, 2010

a lot of things

so here we go - it's been a while since i had a real weekend..not that i had one this weekend.. but we're getting there. <im still in my bubble, don't get any ideas.. but i think i have a door now>. so this saturday i left beirut to tripoli CONNEXion to get a haircut because only one man can cut my hair and sustain my ego, his name is mohamad , smokes gitanes lights and owns Salon Amer lil rijal. I never asked him why. after that, i crossed the street to one of my favourite people in tripoli.. Mr.Zawdeh - the owner of studio Zawdeh and the trustee of my much-fetished-posessions.. my 36ers. i gave him a film to develop, and being groomed and all that jazz.. i took a passport picture, put your right leg a bit higher..and your shoulders up up..up, your face..look at me, yes - no, like that- now twist, ok - chik chik - pass by on monday.. not fun.. i don't think i'll model anytime soon.

ok - so that night ZeidandTheWings [] were on at EMchill..and i promised Yasmeen, so - back to beirut QOTOB, aboard which i got acquainted with what i would like to call syrian softcore porn.. but not quite.. starring 'the syrian girl next door' accompanied by a drummer or two and a drooling crowd. amazing shit.
so i got to Charles Helou got my hands on some Marlboro reds, and a black lighter.. a la DW5.. :) and walked up the highway to get to EMchill.. a lamely remodeled ex-after-party place. i love highways.. i love them at night..and i love that i can sing at night, on highways.. whatever i want_ ideoteque - KidA - radiohead _ []

beirut, i dearly clearly love you - anyways..a 10$ entrance for crappy crappy beer.. Almaza, when did you go out of fashion? they didnt have Almaza.. we had watery beer.. and a sort of lame warmup.. but ZeidandTheWings were worth it.. LOLA LOLA LOLA LOOOLA.. and Yasmeen, you rocked and no you didn't ruin castles.. you made it yay!

after that.. behind the green door. i out-of-the-cupboardly-hate-this-place.. (i got kicked out for wearing shorts once).. anyways..we went there.. men women and children pole-dancing just made everything better.. and do you wanna be my fuckin' boyfriend, cuz i wanna see ya POP CHAMPAGNE said richie.. so yea - fun, but it welted at around two.. since now we are working class (wtf, when did that happen) - so i said bye bye to the mirrors and the oggling twins - and walked out stealing a Zamlouti off the wall.. to go back to tripoli

yazu spoke to me of breaking monkeys, monkey tattoos and 50$ monkeys.. the imaginary roger and 6am opportunities.. and delightfully, bussed me i left beirut at around 3am TE7MEELEH ..looping _skip divided - The Eraser - Thom Yorke_ [ ] in half waking state..

tripoli, 4am - a man, collecting other men.. towards his car - called me to come over, so i went over "dafra iza betreed" .. he wanted help push his car forward.. so yeah - happened - and we parted.

goodmorning sunday -a slow good day - hello teta, hello arguileh - hello cinamon tea with flower blossom, hello melancholy regardless of reason or authenticity.. today was nice.. and i met a little white cat that lives on the trunk of my dad's car.. this little white cat that doesnt mind driving around cruising on the trunk as long as its genitals are warm and vibrating.. and tomorow, beirut..

so why am i telling you this, i'm not sure - but somehow.. you are not here - somehow i think it's okay, but other times i want you to know.. regardless of reasons..regardless - completely regardless.. irrelative.completely of anything - the thrill comes from things i don't know - and, well - ok, i don't know -

take care

Saturday, February 13, 2010


The age of being born, is dead. Talent is dead. Prophets are boring to negligence, dismissed upon their attempts of communicating Nirvana. We are no longer born gifted, we are made. You still don’t like Haifa though.

The peacock-nosed-born-ingeniously altered feast is the new Leila. Haifa has become a household exclamation mark, question mark, comma and full stop, and still is riveted with the connotation of Arab deterioration. People, it’s all about Darwin. In a world where the Opera House in which Oum Kolthoum fluttered was burnt to make parking space for illiterate drivers may not and cannot criticize this product. It is invalid.

Haifa is not here to replace Oum Kolthoum, if anything, she is of the lineage of Souad Hosni. So, Khalli Balak Min Zouzou, and give me a break. I do not understand the acceptance of this, not that. Most of the arguments I get would be, “but Hosni was an actress, so it wasn’t necessary for her to have a good voice”. *beep* Haifa is an actress, now what?
Ok, seriously.. now what? Is that it? Nomenclature. Well, ok – then Feiruz is the diva of the reminiscent dull – we still like her – Dalida is the tacky glitter and broken Arabic – we still like her – Egyptian black-and-whites have the most luscious extravagantly erotic belly-dancing, and five-year-olds are allowed to watch. What is this all about? Cleavage? Drugs? Sex?
Look around, thank you.

It seems to me that, in herself – in her essence, Haifa is not the issue. The problem lies in a social chunk – the middle east – that is potty trained to live in the past, to not-do instead of do, to think instead of to execute, and get married instead of buying contraception. Fuck you. Yes you, fuck you – and not the nice fuck you.. the one that you moan to, the one that you like.. no the Fuck you.. the rape fuck you – the one that’ll screw your psych till you fucking drop fuck you; this Fuck you.

Let’s keep Allah off Melody Hits and the likes, this will not be tagged “haram”. If anything should be taken into a juridical dimension, let’s take Haifa, the product and test it. If it works, you shut up.

_woops, it’s already done..Haifa works. And no, it’s not because sex sells, although it does, but a lot more erotica was put into ‘projects’ that died after their first pilots. Ehm, Najla? So shut up.
Now for the readers that are unzipping to AbdelHalim and Asmahan, please do not let me interrupt you – and as a mitigation to “heads off” me – this is not at all about music. Haifa is not about music. She is not about the tick-tack-toe of melody, nor the conservatoire reps, nor the breakthroughs in goose-bump production. Haifa is a cultural product, parallel to any other cultural produce with its own set of rules and regulations that it is liable to.

If we want to blow this out of proportion, Haifa is one of the few of our products that actually worked, besides the shisha. What have we done, as Arabs, since our Golden Age? I’ll tell you. We
A. exported everyone intelligent
B. threw stones at people that felt like thinking
C. put titles on each other so we would know who to kiss and who to shoot
D. made more lines on our atlas to know just exactly where we end and where we begin
E. called onto people beyond the oceans to teach us how to shit
F. made more mosques, more sheikhs to tell us bad things about America the devil
G. are running out of petrol, with nothing else in mind
H. etc. is an understatement

So yes, my lovelies, it is not about Haifa, it is about this ridiculous phobia of the unfamiliar, of the unpracticed, the unattained and the failure to launch into a system that is not supported by gossip and contacts. It is this, the Kulhaifathum Obstruction, the haphazard orientations to invalid references to camouflage a lack of analytical or production capability, that kept us is keeping us and will keep us from ever doing anything. Fuck y*some text missing*


Any copyright infringement suspicions are welcome, this is a (No Suggestions) sabotage of Right Said Fred’s [I’m Too sexy], but I had to do it. People need to walk more…and I’m too sexy for your copyrights.

I’m too sexy for my love
I’m too sexy for my love, love’s going to leave me

I’m too sexy for my shirt
Too sexy for my shirt, so sexy it hurts
I’m too sexy for Milan, too sexy for Milan,
New York and Japan

I’m too sexy for your petrol
Too sexy for your petrol, this way you see I’m WALKING

I’m a WALKER, you know what I mean
And I do my little turn on the sidewalk
Yea on the sidewalk – yea on the sidewalk
And I do my little turn on the sidewalk..

I’m too sexy for my car
Too sexy for my car, too sexy by far
I’m too sexy for your cab
Too sexy for your cab, what’you think about that?

I’m a walker, you know what I mean
And I do my little turn on the sidewalk
Yea on the sidewalk – yea on the sidewalk
And I shake my ‘little’ toosh on the sidewalk..

Too sexy for their gas
Too sexy for their gas

I’m a walker, you know what I mean
And I do my little turn on the sidewalk
On the sidewalk – yea on the sidewalk
And I shake my ‘little’ toosh on the sidewalk..

I’m too sexy for their jets
Too sexy for their jets – for fuming ..for fuming jets
I’m too sexy for my love, so
If I’m too sexy for Beirut, Beirut’s going to leave me

I’m too sexy for this song.

Saturday, February 6, 2010


I have this habit of writing titles that spring up in my head – about things in my head – wordless, for me to remember to talk to – later. Every once in a while, I forget what the title was intended to entitle, so I re-intend and re-crown my beloved titles to other actors and other scripts. This is one of those cases. I am not so sure what exactly about anonymity that turned me on. I am not sure anymore, why I wanted to fuck it. But I wrote a new script, and called on some nice words to play and together, we made this – in an attempt to reclaim unachieved glories. Enjoy or don’t, just read for now.

Screw ghosts. Screw avatars. Screw screen-names. Screw pen-names. Screw attempting to be someone else. Screw the need to attempt to be someone else. Screw the fact that sometimes we do not accept that we are more than one. Screw everything that claims being real. Screw it not because it’s lying, but because it’s too screwed up to notice that there is nothing to it, really. Screw it.

Now stop.

Little regrets of everyday, but it’s okay. It can be nothing else. Blunt is boring, but blunt is there, and people understand it. So it comes to this: do I want it understood?

Now stop.

Is the future anonymous, or just unknown? I mean – I don’t know it, and it’s not like it will ever show itself to me. It becomes the present, and then maybe I would smell it – but the future, never. Seriously, and I must believe in tomorrow? And tomorrow never dies? But tomorrow is dead to me – now, yesterday is more alive – for I have seen it, made it – parts of it - thank god.. and god? Sorry?

Now stop.

See, I also have this other habit, unfinished business… constant lack of closure, and for that – I’ll shut up now. Screw shutting up.